Jack wanted to tell the man … no worries. It would all turn out fine.
And he’d soon be walking his daughter up the aisle.
But, in his heart, Jack didn’t believe that.
Not yet.
*
Sarah had to hurry. Jack needed that information.
And never had her fingers moved faster on a phone, quickly scrolling through dozens of records of a Pam … Pammy … Pamela … Draper — eliminating them at lightning speed.
Until — she found one that fit.
Police record. A long one, drug use, arrests, bit of dealing. Right age, a mug shot that — squinting a bit — could easily be the bright-eyed hippy from Ibiza, decades ago.
Has to be her, Sarah thought.
And an address. Cheltenham. Not a town Sarah knew well.
But no time to waste, she phoned Jack.
“Jack, I found her. Got a pen?”
“Shoot.”
Sarah gave what seemed the most current address, 17 Sturbridge Way.
Based on Pam’s history, Sarah doubted it was one of the smarter areas of Cheltenham. Though the town was a bit of a tourist trap, she also knew there were areas that visitors never saw.
Then she told him about meeting Maria … and who she looked like.
“Wait a minute. You’re kidding me? I mean, you’re sure? Looks just like Grace?”
“Yes,” said Sarah, keeping her voice down and her eyes on the door to Tony’s office. “And no, not a hundred percent sure. But, I mean, even Tony’s face showed surprise, and he’s only met Grace a few times.”
“I can’t believe it. She’s here to face her mother’s murderer … not knowing that she may be looking at her own father?”
“I know.”
“Which means that what we’re doing, is even more important.”
“Absolutely.”
Then she listened as Jack told her what Len had revealed.
“God,” she said. “So all this time he’s carried that guilt with him?”
“Would seem so,” said Jack. “Tell you one thing, Sarah, the more we do, the more my every instinct is telling me Len Taylor is innocent. He told me everything, and I just don’t see him as a killer, drugged up, fighting with Sally.”
“God. We have to fix this.”
“We will,” said Jack. “Just getting in the car now. Next stop Cheltenham.”
Thinking of Pam Draper’s record, Sarah felt some concern about this.
“I should come with you.”
“Think, with the time we have, really important for you to dig into Maria Jimenez’s past. If it’s true that Len’s her dad — I mean — that could be important.”
“I know, but would she even want to know that? If she believes Len is guilty?”
“So — we prove he’s innocent — today. I’ll let you know how things go down at — what’s the address? — yes … 17 Sturbridge Way.”
“Be careful, Jack.”
“Ha. I guess I say that to you a lot too, Sarah Edwards?”
“Yes. You do indeed.” A breath. “Take care.”
“You got it. Later.”
With that Jack was gone.
And after the briefest of moments, sitting there, thinking of what might await Jack — a dead end, a breakthrough? — hoping against hope for the latter, she put her phone away and stood up.
Time to get Maria settled back at her place.
14. 17 Sturbridge Way
Driving from Banbury to Cheltenham, the skies steadily darkened, and then, just outside the town, the clouds opened, and a thick, pelting rain started to fall.
And, of course, with all the racing around, Jack had no umbrella in his MG.
As he let the Maps app guide him to the address where — supposedly — Pam Draper lived, he took in the drab lines of identical houses, one or two with boarded-up front windows, the street crowded with an assortment of dilapidated cars in different states of disarray.
Not unlike some tough blocks in Bedford-Stuyvesant, back in the day, Jack thought.
“Be careful,” Sarah had said.
Good advice, thought Jack. If only I had time to take it.
He actually didn’t want to park his car here — his shiny sports car would stand out like a jewel on a cracked pavement.
But at least the heavy rain had chased anyone inside who might have noticed him parking, yards away from what purportedly was 17 Sturbridge Way.
There was no number on the house. Flaked green paint exposed raw wood, sections of roof tiles were missing, and a metal fence in front bent back and forth, as if too many bodies had been thrown against it.
As he stopped the car — removed the keys, ignition killed — he braced himself.
He popped open the door, and the heavy rain took only seconds to soak him.
*
God knows what goes on in here, he thought.
He assumed whoever were the dilapidated building’s residents would want the door locked.
But it wasn’t.
There was — in fact — no lock mechanism at all attached to the useless door handle.
He stepped in, glad at least to be out of the downpour.
Then the smells hit him. A weird — but for Jack not unfamiliar — mash-up of odours.
Human bodies, unwashed. Rotting food left around as if the concept of garbage collection just didn’t exist.
And drugs. The heavy stench of marijuana in the air, nearly replacing breathable air. And other smells that made Jack’s eyes blink. The sweet tinge of crack cocaine. The harsher smell of crystal meth.
Sometimes, having walked through such scenes, Jack marvelled that he also didn’t walk out of these places with a high just from the air he breathed.
To the right, he saw what had once been a living room, but now, with a stained mattress, and bodies sprawled, all stoned out, looked more like a holding pen in Riker’s Island prison.
Jack saw one woman look up. Maybe someone was expected? The Domino’s guy? Or a dealer with fresh supplies for the troops?
Having caught the woman’s eye, Jack walked over.
She was reclining on the floor as if someone had punched her hard to the ground, eyes rolling in her head like the tumblers of a slot machine.
Lips cracked. Skin yellowish, even in this dim light.
And, Jack guessed, not more than a kid herself.
The whole thing so sad.
But he had work to do.
Jack crouched down.
“Hiya,” he said, smiling. But even with his voice low, Jack saw a bearded man, with long brown hair that clumped together like an oversized bird’s nest, look over.
A flicker of interest.
Maybe concern.
Then the man shut his eyes again.
But the woman with the googly-eyes kept looking at Jack.
“I’m looking for someone,” Jack said.
The googly-eyes tried to steady and focus.
“She lives here. So say the police reports.”
Jack hoped that — despite his New York accent — the word “police” would keep the woman’s attention.
“Named Pam Draper. Know where I might find her?”
A dry cracked tongue snaked out of the girl’s mouth.
Mouth opening. But first, an attempt at clearing her throat.
“You …”
Talking hard for her.
Another rumble from her throat.
“You mean, Pammy? Think … maybe her name is … Draper? Something, yeah, something like that.”
Jack smiled, nodded.
Then the girl seems to suddenly think she had an advantage here.
“You got something for me? Could use, you know, something?”
Jack smiled.
“She’s here? If so, you better tell me where.”
The girl looked as if she might still attempt to get “something” from Jack. Money, drugs. Was there a difference for this crowd?
But instead …
�
�She’s upstairs, with the others. In the big room. She’s always there.” The girl grinned, her brain still slightly able to summon up a bit of humour. “Except when she’s not …”
And Jack nodded as he stood up.
Yeah. He’d help the girl, but not by giving her cash, just to feed her disease.
Later. A call to the local social services. This house, a true drug den, long overdue for a raid.
And maybe some help for these poor people.
Jack turned left the living room, and climbed the stairs.
*
Back at her house by the river, Sarah introduced Maria Jimenez to Chloe.
She had already phoned ahead to warn her daughter that if she noticed any resemblance to a certain someone …
Say nada!
And Chloe, with a warm and plucky grin, immediately got the young woman from Spain sorted with a bedroom, while Sarah made her a quick omelette and salad to eat.
Meanwhile, Sarah knew that Tony was on the case to get Maria a time to see — from behind an observation mirror — the man she believed had killed her mother.
While Chloe and Maria chatted easily together, as if they were already old friends, Sarah stepped into her home office, wondering if maybe there was some kind of database she could access that would answer the question.
Was Maria Len’s daughter?
But every instinct in her body told her that was no business of hers — either to find out — or to know.
And the more she thought about Jack, in Cheltenham, on his own, the more she felt she should be with him.
Some alarm bell ringing deep within her.
A warning, that she’d never felt so strongly before.
She looked down at her car keys on the desk. Then listened again to the chatter coming from the kitchen.
It was a no-brainer, as Jack would have said.
She picked up the keys and headed out to her car.
*
At the top of the stairs, the air a foggy mist, Jack turned to the left, towards a pair of rooms, doors open.
Passing the first door, he peered in. And though the room revealed a pair of mattresses on the floor, stuffing and springs sprouting at odd spots, it was empty.
Onto the second, and Jack heard people coughing, then mumbles as he got closer.
But when he went to go in ….
A man with no shirt, scraggly hair, and a few days of random growth of a beard, slid into the space of the doorway like a human spider.
“Yeah?” the man said.
Jack nodded. Just past the man, he saw someone inside, lying on yet another mattress — a woman.
“I’m here to see someone. Pam Draper.”
At that, he saw the shape behind the man move.
“No Pam Draper here. Now get the hell out while you still can.”
Okay, Jack thought, guess this is how things are going to go.
No time for any long explanation to this self-appointed gatekeeper.
Jack brought his left arm up and caught the bleary-eyed man unawares, his forearm pinning the guy’s neck to spin him back inside the room. Equally as fast — he performed a quick rabbit punch to the man’s midsection.
The man gasped for air — impossible due to the placement of Jack’s arm at the man’s windpipe.
Wouldn’t knock him out, but enough to send him sliding down to the floor, where he could wheeze his way back to breathing.
Jack walked over to the woman.
*
Jack saw a wooden chair by a filmy window, and dragged it close.
Still the woman didn’t stir, but Jack saw that she had her eyes on him.
A scattering of glass pipes, tin foil, matchbooks, clothes and bottles were on the floor … and, well, who knew what else.
Jack sat down. The woman perhaps alarmed but probably too high to do anything.
Jack said, as gently as he could, “Pam Draper?” The woman didn’t respond. So he leaned down a bit. “Are you Pam Draper?”
The woman blinked, then the smallest of nods.
Jack smiled. “Good, ’cause I need to ask you something. About what happened. Ibiza. About thirty years ago.” Jack took a breath. “I need you to tell me the truth, understand? Then I’ll go away. Won’t bother you. You got that? All you got to do is tell me what happened … with Micky Hooke, Tigz, you … and how Sally Hayes got murdered.”
The woman looked away then — for just a second — before she actually moved, struggled to a sitting position.
And only croaked, “Knew someone would come. Want the story. What happened.”
Jack nodded.
“You’re right. Sooner, later, someone was going to come. And I really have only one question, Pam. What happened that night?”
“They told me. If someone comes. Say nothing.”
Jack answered quietly. “Well you know, that’s just not going to work …”
Pam nodded, and maybe after seeing the man who attempted to guard the room still hacking, she answered Jack’s question. Her voice quiet, shaky.
But the words came out.
*
Midway, Jack had pulled out his phone and hit record, grabbing every detail Pam gave him, nodding, even saying at one point, “You’re doing good, Pammy. The right thing.”
And when she finished, Jack was almost unable to believe what she had described.
Should he and Sarah have seen all this somehow? How it really happened?
But no, it had been — considering how young and stoned everyone was — a remarkable plan.
But Pam had finished.
And Jack said, “Pam. Going to ask around. See if I can get you some help.”
Pam shook her head. “No, no — I don’t need no one. I don’t—”
And Jack, touched by the wretched state of the woman, as if she was a wounded animal hiding in the forest, reached out. Brushed some scraggly hair off her forehead.
“I’ll do what I can. Get you some help. Things can be better.”
At that, Jack heard voices from below, then steps coming up. Steady, hard steps on the worn wooden staircase.
Company? Jack thought.
And he stood up.
15. It Ends Here
And when Jack looked at the doorway, he saw two men walk in.
One, Micky Hooke and the other — someone Jack didn’t know.
But he could guess who it was.
After what Pam had said, it could really only be one person. Tigz.
“Couldn’t give it up, detective, hmm? Just had to keep digging and nosing the hell around?”
Jack saw that they had guns out, pointed right at him. Not for the first time since coming to England did Jack wish he still had his Smith and Wesson.38 revolver.
Now, he was just a sitting duck. Or, in this case, standing.
In the dim light, he noticed another thing: the guns — Glocks — each with a silencer.
Serious stuff. These guys not fooling around.
“Digging, Hooke? Yeah, enough to learn how you set Len up that night. Spiking his drink to totally knock him out. Taking the money from Sally. And, of course, when she realised there was no deal, that it was all just a sham to get Len’s cash, and she started to fight back — you finished her off, didn’t you? More money for you and Tigz.”
“That right? Says who?”
Jack nodded at Pammy. “Didn’t want me speaking to her, now did you? And she didn’t think that night you were going to kill Sally. But that had to happen, right? If you were going to get all that money.”
Jack waited.
Buying time … which was all he could do.
“And what did you do? Set Len up with that knife? Get his fingerprints on it somehow? Just in case, of course. Years go by, body pops up, well the police would have their killer, nice and neat, wouldn’t they? An innocent man.”
“What the hell—”
Tigz started to say, but Hooke raised a hand to him.
Jack looked to where the young man without a s
hirt had been squatting. But he had scurried away.
What was about to happen up here, nobody would see.
And it won’t just be me, Jack thought. Pam too. They won’t want her to survive.
Jack tried to think of options, things done in similar situations, but the only time he had been in such a position, was way back in New York, a lifetime ago.
And one important thing: back then, he wasn’t unarmed.
“Yeah, poor Len,” Jack went on. “Telling the police that Sally had disappeared. Not knowing what had really happened. Done in by his so-called friends. You — now flush with all that cash. Helped you build your nightclub empire, eh Hooke? And you Tigz? Crystals, peace and love, all built on that cash—”
TIgz took a step forward. An impulsive move.
Does it give me enough of a chance? Jack thought.
But Hooke reached out and grabbed his fellow killer.
“Easy, Tigz. By the way, Brennan … that phone? You can hand that over. Now. Want to delete Pammy’s babble. Just to make sure no one ever hears it.”
And Jack nodded.
He kept his eyes on Tigz though. The man’s nerves so tight. His gun even wavering a bit.
So, Jack quickly decided on his move.
His one move, he guessed. Either it would work or …
And he reached up to his shirt pocket, and removed the phone. Looked at it for a moment, and as if throwing the baseball pitch of his lifetime, Jack flung it straight at Tigz.
Right at the man’s face.
As Jack hoped, it made Tigz flinch — though he wasn’t spooked enough to pull the trigger.
Micky Hooke turned to see where that phone hit Tigz, where it would fall. An important bit of evidence that had to be recovered, destroyed.
At that moment, Jack rushed Hooke.
In seconds, the two men were locked in a full-on wrestle, Hooke’s gun still firmly grasped, but with Jack on him, the gun uselessly jutting out, unable to find a target.
Jack then quickly started moving Hooke like a human battering ram, into the shaky Tigz, who also didn’t have a shot, with the two bodies colliding, spinning.
But Hooke was no pushover.
Big arms, strong legs, Jack could tell.
Damn it, Jack thought, younger than me.
Haven’t done this in a long time.
Using Hooke, Jack again rammed Tigz against the wall, and the man dropped his gun.
Cherringham--Murder under the Sun Page 9