by N. M. Brown
Hale on the other hand, had walked out after the interview with Echo, nostril’s flaring, shoulders hunched and with a look that could kill. He stormed away and straight to the crappy side gym they had in the station. McQueen had dared not follow. Instead he spent his time finding the address for Mrs. Farrows as well as anything in the family’s finances that might suggest any other avenue they could follow. Time however, was more than happy to keep on ticking by, so he almost cried with joy when he spotted Two trotting over. He might have even sent a pray of thanks to his Lord.
“Two!” He smiled. “Tell me you have something?” McQueen asked with pathetic pleading eyes.
“McQueen…?” The lad pursed through his lips, slowing his steps slightly, before continuing. “Yer, right, sorry. I’ve been lost in cyber space for a little too long.” The lad plonked down the chair next to McQueen's desk and gave him a look over. “Well, sure-… ok.” He said cryptically, making McQueen feel uncomfortable for the briefest on moments. It didn’t help that he seemed to be checking McQueen out, which was not something he was against, but he wasn’t into men. At all. “I guess you’ll do.” Two said, slouching further in his chair.
“I’m sorry? I’ll do what?” McQueen asked thoroughly confused. Now out of the rain, he could see the guy properly. Two was wire thin wearing a rock t-shirt that hung off his frame, baggy jeans and chunky skater boots. McQueen wouldn’t consider it work attire, but it wasn’t his job to chase that. There was something though, that he couldn’t put his finger on it, but his gut - that helped with more than one case - told him something was up. The blatant staring… and the over confidence…
“Tell me it’s something good?” McQueen pleaded, pushing the feeling away. Maybe Two didn’t like field work, or blood. There had been a lot. Being out of one’s comfort zone could easily change someone.
“Well, after I caught myself up to speed on this case-, I mean to say, all the progress you’d made, I did some digging around.” Two smiled, flapping the piece of paper in front of his face. “But tell me, have you considered moving in with my brother and I?”
McQueen blinked. “I-, haven’t had a moment to think about it honestly.”
“Of course, of course.” Two smiled. “Lots to think about. I mean, weare a part of the same station, the two of us being gay. You, a Christian.”
Suddenly McQueen’s gut went cold. Well of course Two had been acting weirdly. “Actually, I’m Catholic, but that doesn’t mean-…I don’t care if you’re- you know, gay.” McQueen blurted, feeling stupid as he did.
Two raised an eyebrow. “You don’t?”
“No-, I mean, yes I’m religious and I believe the bible-,”
“So, you think I’ll burn in Hell.” Two interjected coldly.
“No, I don’t -… I mean.” McQueen flapped. He really couldn’t start making enemies now, not with something he really didn’t have a problem with. “I believe in the words of the Bible.” McQueen stated, not taking a breath before forging on, making sure he was heard correctly. “But not everyone does and not everyone thinks’ as I do. They are free to live how they choose, with who they choose. If they want guidance from the Lord and me, then I can help, but otherwise its none of my business.”
McQueen released a breath. May his Nana be ever with him. She, out of all his family had never been callous to anyone, of any race, religion, background or sexuality. Nothing had scared him like the time she’d caught him using the word ‘faggot’.
He’d been a teen, angry at the past, feeling lost and alone in the present and didn’t see a future. His Ma’s new man was very devout and would often belittle and crucify many people at the dinner table. Over at his Nana’s, as he did every weekend, McQueen had said ‘faggot’ in a passing comment.
Never had the unholy fear of Hell rained down on him as much as it had that day when his Nana laid into him. What was scary was she didn’t once yell, tell him off or even tell him he was wrong. She’d simply asked him, “And, so? Why does that matter to you? Why is it something you must pass judgment on? Is that your job, or the job of our Lord?” After one too many dead-end answers McQueen saw a better light than the bitterness his to-be-step-dad lived in.
In that moment, sat in the Police Station, he’d never felt more thankful or relieved.
Not once, however while McQueen had been talking had the suspicious glare moved on from Two’s face. That was until an uncomfortable silence fell between them and McQueen felt the need to rush to his own defence again was starting to become over whelming. “Good to know.” Suddenly Two was a different person; chipper. “Well, now that’s cleared up, you should move in soon. It’s a nice place. And who knows,” Two gave McQueen another once over and this time there was no questioning its intention. “Maybe we’ll all get along like best friends.”
“I’m not-… I have no problem with it-… I can’t, I’m not…”
“Relax pumpkin. I thought you were hell-a cute, but your too… you know.” Two gestured wildly at McQueen. “Holy-art-thou. No offence to those who believe, but I’m not down for all that praying. I prefer other activities on my knees.” Two winked. “Though, don’t doubt that I’ll try and convert you.”
“Right,” McQueen rolled his eyes and saw an opportunity, “Well, tit-for-tat on the conversions.” He joked. Two’s snort was the reaction McQueen had been hoping for and he felt himself settle just that bit more with ease. “Now, before I draw out my pocket Bible…,”
“Right, right,” Two smiled, “You want to know what I have found.”
Sliding a plane boring file over the desk, McQueen tried not to visibly deflate at the thinness of it. That wasn’t to say there wouldn’t be good information in there, but a pond would hold more fish that a bucket. “This is- it?” McQueen asked, trying his upmost to be polite.
“Hay man,” Two placed a hand on McQueen shoulder as he stood, pity in his eyes. “It’s just your first big case which means there is a lot of eyes on you. Don’t stress. The information is there, you’ve just got to find it.” McQueen nodded, but his heart wasn’t in it. Two must have seen it, because he gave McQueen a gentle squeeze beneath his palm. “Plus, if you ever want to wind down with a fun, care free Tech guy; no strings attached, I left my number on the other piece of paper.” Two stood, dimples showing and walked off, swing his hips suggestively.
Watching the lad walk away, McQueen smiled to himself. “Care-free indeed.” He muttered. Looking back, once again McQueen was pleased, he never took his step-fathers’ teachings to heart.
Taking the top sheet and slipping the folded note and mobile number into his pocket, McQueen read over the information Two had dropped off, skimming it first, before giving it another, deeper once over.
“What’s that?”
McQueen jumped as a dark shadow fell over his desk. Hair still damp, Hale bared over him. It seemed his mood had only lightened slightly. His shirt was still off while his body cooled, and he looked as intimidating as ever. He wore a basic undershirt, the bright white contrasting against his dark skin. McQueen had only ever seen him in dark colours. Dark shirts with dark ties and black shoes. Nothing festive and nothing bright.
“Two dropped it off.” He explained. “Hay, you wouldn’t happen to know his real name, would you?” He asked as Hale sat down.
“No. The kid wants to be called by a stupid number, that’s what I’ll call him. What does the report say?” Hale clearly hadn’t punched out all his anger, there was still a heavy grumble in his tone. More grumble than usual anyway.
“It’s a financial report of a bank account in Mrs. Farrow’s name. Her husband also deposited money into it, but for the most part it looks to be a trust fund or something that’s been stashed away. I hadn’t read all of it yet, but Two made some highlights for us. There were some cash withdrawals made over the course of about three months. Four withdrawals; nine thousand each, creating a total of thirty-six thousand.” McQueen whistled through his teeth.
“That’s a lot of cash.”
“It is.” McQueen agreed. “But what’s strange is her spending habits didn’t change during or after the withdrawals. She was still buying stuff with her card which means she either wasn’t using the cash, or all the cash went to pay for something big; something untraceable.”
“Both are possibilities. If it’s something she wants untraceable, she’s not going to tell us if we ask.” Cooled off enough, Hale slipped on his dark shirt and made himself presentable again. “The right kind of questions could get us a little more information; any restorations going forth? Any debts needed to be paid off? Three months is a long time to be withdrawing money though.” Sighing, Hale, stood, grabbing is jacket. “Guess we’d better go pay a visit. We’d better hope she’s home.”
“She will be.” McQueen answered, having flipped to the second set of tabbed sheets Two had given him. The print out was of one of Mrs. Farrows social media sites and it wasn’t hard to spot the key information. “It seems our wife doesn’t wait around. Our widowed ‘Miss Fiona Farrows’ is holding a wake today. Food is required.” McQueen shook his head, his detective senses picking up something hinky. “We only told Mrs. Farrows about her husband’s death, what, … a day and a half ago. She’s moving pretty quickly for a hysterical widow who didn’t believe her husband was dead.”
Hales eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Very quick.” Shuffling through the piles of files on his desk, Hale found the right one and flicked it open. “It says here the officers weren’t invited inside. Kept on the porch, Mrs. Farrows cried hysterically, and was quick to deny the whole thing. It says here Mrs. Farrows refused to give a statement and wanted to be left alone.” Hale flicked between a few pages before nodding, having found what he wanted. “She didn’t ask how her husband died: if it was murder or an accident. She doesn’t ask anything really. That’s… concerning.”
“Sounds to me like someone knew something was about to happen.” McQueen mused.
“I’m tempted to agree…” Hale trailed off. Slamming the folder shut he looked at the time on his watch before slinging his jacket on. “What time do you think the local bakery closes for lunch?”
Grabbing his own jacket, McQueen followed Hale out. “Do you think she’s a cupcake gal, or a cookies kind of lady?”
✽ ✽ ✽
The drive to Mrs. Farrows home took almost an hour as the sun peeked through the grey sky. The radio quickly became the only source of noise. Neither man felt the need to chat. Instead McQueen watched the little town of Rippling fly by, then into the farmland and winding country roads. They weren’t far out from the middle of town, but this was an area were the rich stayed rich and prided themselves on living in grand, antique homes, as well as gated communities.
“Farrows’ worked as a phone operator, right?” Hale asked, eyes scanning the growing houses and gated front drives. Their beat-up car, an old land cruiser didn’t fit in at all. It had been salvaged from a chop-shop to be used again. The serial number had been filed off and the hub caps had been scratched, but as property of the police, it was theirs to use. It ran well enough, but it was coughing coal smoke on all the fancy Porcha’s and chauffer cars.
“Yes, but his wife came from old money. Some great Auntie twice removed died with no heirs, so the money fell back to her parents. They spent most of it, and the last trickles were put in savings accounts.” McQueen read from the file they’d collected on their first victim. Mrs. Farrows was a smart woman. She had put her money into different savings accounts allowing it to collect the interest. She’d then used another chunk on the stock market. They weren’t well off, not compared to some of the tofts that lived in London. However, they had more than McQueen would ever earn in ten years.
“That’s the place,” McQueen pointed out, seeing the rows of car’s piling on the drive and the street starting to fill. Hale swung onto an empty patch of grass on the side of the road, throwing the car into parked. No doubt tearing up the grass was a big no-no, but Hale didn’t seem inclined to care. “Shall we go give our condolences?”
“Let’s.” Hale smiled. Following the parade of people up the drive, McQueen felt a warmth spread in his chest. When his Nana had died, everyone in the community had shown up bringing food and flowers and words of encouragement for them. It made McQueen feel safe and loved despite having lost his Nana. He liked funerals and wakes, for the simple reason it showed which people cared, bringing people together. The clothing choice however wasn’t something he enjoyed. Black was a very dead colour to him. Everyone at this wake was dressed in the traditional black, some wearingveils or had large, wide brimmed hats. He hadn’t liked it at home in Ireland, and he didn’t like it here. As they approached, each guest in turn looked at Hale and McQueen with scorn and distaste. They hadn’t joined with the dress code; for shame. Browns and creams were far to cheery.
Walking up the steps, McQueen recognize Mrs. Farrows from her profile picture. Her auburn hair was swept away from her face and her dark freckles dotted her skin. You could only just see them under the layers of make-up though. Even from a distance though, he could see the black trails that ran from her eyes down her cheeks. She clutched at a tissue as well, wringing it between her hand and dabbing her face now and again. “Mrs. Farrows?” Hale asked, jumping the queue of well-wishers and mourners.
“Yes?” She sniffed, a handkerchief in hand. Her eyes darted to the line of guests who tutted and whispered behind Hales’ back. The British didn’t push in line and hosts didn’t condone it. For more shame. “Can I help you? And please, call me Fiona. Were you friends of my Marty?”
“No Mrs. Farrows. I’m Detective Hale and this is Detective McQueen. We’d like to speak with you if we may?”
“Oh.” She stiffened, before her face crumpled and hands began to shake. “I’m sorry I-, … I’d hoped today I could hold it together.” She hiccupped. A concerned friend wrapped her arms around the sobbing widow. Drawing her close, the friend scolded Hale with a glare. “Do we have to do it now?” Mrs. Farrows asked, stiffening her upper lip. “I have guests and Marty was so dear to so many…” A mourner squeezed in front of Hale with a scowl, moving the queue along again and pulling Mrs. Farrows back into her hostess roll. Hands reaching out to shake or to wrap in a hug, Fiona continued to welcome them, her body on auto pilot.
“Yes, Mrs. Farrows. Now will have to do or we can take you to the station.” They couldn’t arrest the poor widow, they had nothing to charge her with, but if they insisted to speak at the station, they could. Being carted off in the back of a detective’s run-down jeep instead of holding up social graces seemed to scare sense into the woman.
“Right, yes… well of course, yes. We can go to the study, it was Marty’s…” Mrs. Farrows let out a sob, “But he won’t mind us using it.”
Asking the concerned friend to continue welcoming the guests, Fiona Farrows lead the Detectives into a compact room stocked high with papers, folders and files. The desk was clear, apart from a picture of Fiona and their children, two boys. “Well, please sit.” Mrs. Farrows gestured to a sofa that was squashed in one corner, while she perched on the desk. The tight black dress that showed off her curves didn’t allow her to bend. It was a little too luxurious for a dress of morning in McQueen’s eyes, but at such short notice, maybe she didn’t have anything else. Then again, image was everything in high society, “How can I help you Detectives?”
First, we must offer our condolences, Mrs. Farrows.” McQueen jumped in. It was always best to butter them up. “We can see your loss has been hard on you.”
Mrs. Farrows sniffed again, nodding in thanks. “The children took it badly. They’ve gone to stay with my mother in the Yorkshire Moors. They like it up there. Marty hated my mother, never hid that fact, so when we did go it was always a treat.” She dabbed her nose. “The nights here are hard. I expect him to come home at any moment, late as ever and cursing work.”
“It can be hard, loosing someone close to you.” McQueen empathised.
But Mrs. Farrows simp
ly nodded and gave a tight smile. “Yes. It is.”
“Firstly, could you tell us where you were the night your husband’s body was found?” McQueen asked.
“Well,” Fiona began, looking down at the handkerchief wrapped tightly around her fingers. “It was any other Friday night; Marty was working late; the children had done their homework and I was watching some late-night television. Honestly there was nothing peculiar about it.”
“So, you weren’t expecting your husband to come home that night?” McQueen clarified.
“No, I wasn’t. He works late now and again; won’t get in until two, three in the morning.”