by Peter Boland
“What’s her name?”
“Jenny Hopkins. I think you need to pull over and look at her picture.”
Savage turned the wheel hard without indicating and mounted the pavement, screeching to an abrupt stop. A truck passed by, beeping, the driver shaking his fist.
Tannaz turned the screen to face Savage, showing a story that only took up a single column inch. A primitively typeset headline announced: Assistant accuses amateur magician. Below was the same grainy picture of Wellington when he’d won young magician of the year. Standing next to him was the attractive woman dressed in a Las Vegas showgirl outfit—his assistant, Jenny Hopkins.
“We need to talk to her,” Savage said.
“She’s right here in Southampton. Lives in Heatherlands Nursing Home in a place called Chilworth, wherever that is.”
Savage punched the address into the satnav and eased back into the traffic.
Up until then, every suburb of Southampton they had visited had either been rundown residential areas or bleak and industrial, or both. Chilworth was neither of the two and was altogether a far more genteel prospect of wide tree-lined avenues and sweeping driveways that led up to handsome properties. A desirable area populated with financially secure families. Husbands that sailed at the weekend, wives that lunched and children who would be successful.
Tannaz gave a long whistle. “Now this is more like it.”
Every house they passed was beautiful.
The satnav piped up and politely told Savage that he’d arrived at his destination. In front of them a large sign announced ‘Heatherlands Nursing Home’. Set in a large swath of green grass with a generous veranda that ran the length of the building, held up by a procession of columns, Heatherlands Nursing Home looked more like a posh golf clubhouse.
“Savage,” said Tannaz. “When I start needing help going to the toilet, promise me you’ll put me in a place like this.”
“I think it’ll be you putting me in a place like this, won’t it?”
They got out of the van and walked into a generous reception area that resembled the lobby of a five-star hotel. A coffee machine sat purring in the corner, filling the lobby with the aroma of premium roasted beans.
A pretty nurse with glossy black hair slicked back into a ponytail sat behind a substantial curved oak desk. The name badge pinned to her well-laundered white uniform introduced her as Maria Garcia. She smiled warmly. “Can I help you?” she said in a strong Latino accent.
“We’ve come to see Jenny Hopkins,” said Tannaz.
“Are you family?” asked Maria.
“No, friends,” said Savage.
“Can I take your names please?”
They gave their names and the nurse looked doubtful. “I’m sorry, you’re not on her list of approved visitors.”
“How do we get on the list of approved visitors?” asked Savage.
She retrieved a form from under the desk and slid it across to Savage. “Please fill in this form, we’ll submit it for security approval, takes about three days, then you can go on Jenny’s list of approved visitors, and see her whenever you like. Jenny does like having visitors.”
There was no way Tannaz or Savage would make it onto that list. At least the security was good in this place, but that didn’t help them at this precise moment.
“That’s a lovely accent you have there,” said Savage. “Where are you from, Maria?”
Maria looked surprised by the unexpected question. Throwing her for a moment or two, she then said, “Madrid in Spain.”
“Ah,” said Savage. “That would explain the lovely rhythm your voice has. I’m told people from Madrid have the purest form of Spanish.”
Maria blushed. “Gracias.”
“I’m sorry,” said Savage. “I’ve embarrassed you. I apologise.”
“No, it’s okay,” said Maria, smiling broadly. “I don’t mind.”
“Well, your accent is very beautiful. Look, we only need to see Jenny for a couple of minutes. You could come with us if you like. Keep an eye on her. Tell us when we need to go. We’ll only be two minutes.”
The Spanish nurse eyed up Savage and Tannaz, judging whether they were genuine or not. Finally, she said picking up the phone, “Okay, let me just get someone to cover reception.”
They turned away while the nurse was on the phone. Tannaz spoke quietly in Savage’s ear. “Savage, you old dog. I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“Neither did I,” Savage whispered back. “But she’s not from Spain, her accent is South American. Notice how she said ‘gracias’ like a Brit abroad—grass-ius. If she was from Madrid she’d have said it with a ‘th’ sound, grath-ius. That T-H sound never made it to the new world. So why is she lying about where she’s from?”
“Illegal immigrant,” Tannaz proposed.
“Maybe,” said Savage.
A minute later a male nurse came and took over from Maria on reception. Savage and Tannaz signed the visitors’ book. Savage quickly scanned up the lines of signatures and flipped back a few pages. He subtly nudged Tannaz, who glanced down at the book. The cramped, scratchy signature of Ben Wellington, the son of Simon Wellington sat in a column beside the name Jenny Hopkins. He chanced flipping back a few more pages and there was another visit by him. Then again a week before that. Ben Wellington was a regular visitor to Jenny Hopkins.
The fake Spanish nurse showed Savage and Tannaz into a bright and airy day room full of soft pastel sofas and low coffee tables strewn with upmarket magazines, from Horse and Hound to Tatler and Yachting Monthly. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across the entire space, giving a panoramic view over the palatial grounds at the rear. With fountains and woodlands, they looked as if they went on forever.
At the far end of the room, sat a lady in a peach dressing gown in a wheelchair, with thinning wispy white hair, smiling warmly at a flat-screen TV. Maria pointed to her. “That is Jenny. I must warn you her mind is going.” Then she looked at Tannaz. “She thinks every woman who visits her is her daughter Jackie.”
“Really?” said Tannaz.
“Yes, so just play along. Her daughter died when she was a little girl, and she has these conspiracy theories about how she died. Just ignore them or agree. Otherwise she gets upset.”
Maria ushered them to where Jenny sat, watching a movie with the sound turned down, one of the Mission Impossible franchise but Savage couldn’t tell which one.
“Jenny,” said the nurse, gently. “Jenny, you have some visitors. Can they join you?”
Without taking her eyes off the screen, Jenny nodded.
“Let her watch her movie to the end, then she’ll talk to you,” said Maria. “I’ll be over there if you need me.” The nurse walked to the back of the room, keeping within earshot. She began clearing empty coffee cups and plates of half-eaten biscuits in front of an elderly man who’d dozed off.
Savage and Tannaz pulled up a chair and sat down. They sat in silence watching the fast-paced action movie with its blisteringly quick jump cuts designed for short attention spans. Without the sound up, the cast seemed to be running around like headless chickens with massive anxiety issues.
Eventually Jenny said, “Is that Tom Cruise?” Her voice sounded quiet and brittle like it could crumble at any moment.
“Yes,” said Savage. “I believe it is Tom Cruise.”
Jenny thought for a while and then said, “He’s looking old isn’t he?”
“Well, I suppose he is in his late fifties now.”
Jenny didn’t answer, just continued to be enthralled by the onscreen antics.
After a few minutes Jenny said, “And is that Alec Baldwin?”
“Yes,” said Savage. “I believe it is.”
Jenny considered this and then said, “He’s looking old isn’t he?”
Savage decided not say anything, seeing that he
was probably about the same age, and Alec Baldwin seemed to be aging far better than he was.
“And is that Simon Pegg?” she asked.
In the film, Simon Pegg sat on a chair, attempting to pass a lie-detector test with Alec Baldwin looming over him.
“Yes, that’s definitely Simon Pegg,” Savage replied.
“He doesn’t change, does he?” Jenny said.
They sat like this for over an hour, Jenny never once looking away from the screen, commenting on every actor she recognised and how old they looked. Apart from Simon Pegg, who seemed to be the Dorian Gray of action cinema.
When the movie ended, Jenny switched off the TV with the remote and slowly swivelled around in her wheelchair to appraise her visitors. She smiled at Savage and then she looked at Tannaz and her smile grew larger and brighter. “Jackie,” she said to her. “Jackie, you’ve come to see me. How wonderful.”
“Hello… Mum,” said Tannaz, going along with the charade of being her long-dead daughter.
“Jackie, you’re so beautiful. Isn’t she beautiful?” she said to Savage.
“Yes, very beautiful,” he replied.
Jenny turned to Savage and gave him a once over, eyeing him up from head to foot. “And this must be your husband. He looks…” Jenny struggled to find a diplomatic word to describe Savage, “… sturdy.”
“Hello, Jenny,” said Savage. “I’m John. It’s very nice to meet you. Tan—I mean, Jackie has told me so much about you. Haven’t you, Jackie?” Tannaz nodded, looking unsure of what she was supposed to say.
“All good things, I hope,” said Jenny.
“Very good things,” Savage continued. “She tells me that you used to be a magician’s assistant.”
“That’s right, I was very glamourous back then.”
“You still are glamourous, Jenny,” Tannaz said.
“Oh, you’re so sweet.”
Savage cleared his throat. “Were you an assistant for Simon Wellington?”
The sweet smile and glinting eyes that had graced Jenny’s face suddenly fled, replaced by a hard, straight mouth and a contempt that turned her eyes small and dark. “That man is a bastard,” she said, her voice gaining strength. “Cruel, sadistic. I don’t care who knows. Everyone’s too frightened to say anything about him. There’s a conspiracy around him, a conspiracy of silence. I’m not scared of him. Not like I used to be. I’ll tell it like it is and to hell with it.”
“What happened?” asked Tannaz.
“You know what happened, Jackie. He tried to kill you.”
“Why did he do that?” asked Savage.
“Before he had his property empire we did a magic act in clubs and pubs, to make a bit of extra money. He really wanted to be an actor. Never got anywhere. Think it made him bitter and angry. He began to get sadistic. Would do things to frighten me. He’d lock me in cabinets when we were rehearsing, and then time how long it took me to start crying to be let out. He’d write the times down and compare them. Had a little notebook full of numbers he carried around with him. Liked collecting statistics, he did. He’d even make graphs and show me how I was performing. Show me patterns emerging. Like how I lasted longer at the beginning of the week and got worse as the week went on.” Jenny shivered.
“Wasn’t he doing it for the act, to see how long it took you to get out?”
Jenny looked at Savage as if he were Satan himself. “No, he was not. That’s just what the police said. They laughed at me. Said I needed a different job if I didn’t like being locked in cabinets. So I told the local paper, they wrote a little story but nobody cared. Wellington wasn’t the big shot he is today. Just a grubby little magician from Ireland with a sadistic side. But I knew what he was like. He knew it too. He did something to shut me up. Something terrible…”
Chapter 17
Jenny’s eyes darted at Tannaz, confused. With a deep sadness, she took one of Tannaz’s hands and gripped it hard as if she’d never let go, the thick veins standing across the back of her slender hand like scattered ropes. “He killed you, Jackie.”
Savage and Tannaz exchanged confused glances.
“Wellington told me to keep quiet or I’d regret it,” Jenny continued. “I refused, so he had you killed as a warning to me. A hit and run. You were just a child. Knocked you over in the middle of the street. You’d just been to the newsagent to buy sweets. Left you for dead. Said you were the first and he’d kill all my family if I didn’t shut up.” Jenny’s expression lightened as she gazed into Tannaz’s face. “I knew if I wished hard enough my little girl would come back. And here you are.”
Tannaz smiled sympathetically.
Then Jenny’s faced changed. A rage swept across it like she’d become possessed. “That Wellington will pay! I’ll kill him myself.”
“Jenny,” Savage said. “Were you ever at twenty-seven Sutton Gardens in Shirley with Wellington?”
“Never heard of it,” she said. “I tell you one thing for sure. I’ll throttle that Wellington for what he did! You’ll see. Make him pay!”
She shook and her bottom lip began to wobble, dribble escaping from her mouth. Savage feared she was having a seizure. “Nurse!” he called out.
In an instant Maria Garcia was at Jenny’s side, soothing her. “Okay, Jenny,” she said. “It’s okay, you’re safe here. It’s a safe place. We need to calm down, don’t we? Need to look after that heart of yours. Nice deep breaths now. Breathe out slowly.”
Jenny’s quivering anger slowly subsided, and her ragged, uneven breathing slowed to a more sedate pace. The nurse gently dabbed the spittle from her mouth with a tissue. “That’s better, Jenny. Well done. You’re doing really well.”
Another nurse came over and wheeled Jenny away, back to her bedroom.
“I’m so sorry,” said Tannaz. “I think we might have upset her.”
“It’s okay,” said the nurse. “She does this quite often. Her mind’s gone. It’s a coping mechanism. She needs someone to blame.”
“Do you think it’s true? What she says about this Simon Wellington?” asked Savage.
“Who knows?”
“She seemed pretty convinced,” said Savage.
“Yes, but it changes each day,” the nurse replied. “Sometimes it’s Richard Branson, other times it’s Ricky Gervais. It changes. We have a guy upstairs thinks he’s Steven Spielberg, keeps directing everyone, calling action and cut. What goes on in these people’s minds is as real as you are. We just do our best to keep them comfortable.”
The nurse showed Savage and Tannaz out. Nice though she was, they had a feeling they wouldn’t be let back in again.
For several minutes they sat in the car park of Heatherlands Nursing Home.
“I know what you’re going to say,” said Savage. “And no we haven’t.”
“What?”
“Got enough evidence.”
“I know,” said Tannaz. “I feel so sorry for that poor woman, Jenny. And what she’s been through. But a lady with dementia is hardly going to be a reliable witness.”
“The galling thing is, I think I believe her.”
Tannaz flipped open her laptop and started typing. After a few minutes, she pulled up an obituary column from the same local newspaper that had run Jenny’s accusation against Wellington and said, “Well, Jenny’s story checks out, she did have a daughter called Jackie who did die in a hit and run, culprit was never caught, so we know that bit is true.”
“Well, if it was Wellington who was responsible, at least we’re getting a strong profile of his personality. It’s beginning to look like that junior drug dealer wasn’t exaggerating. Wellington is sadistic and cold-hearted. Who knows how many of those little dungeons he has hidden away. And those visitations by his son, that’s almost certainly to keep an eye on Jenny, make sure no one’s believing her story.”
“Funny she didn
’t mention him.”
“Could be the dementia, probably forgotten he visits her every week.”
The pair went quiet. Tannaz buzzed down the window and lit up a cigarette, smoking it with her head hanging out like a dog.
“A conspiracy of silence—that’s what Jenny said,” Savage remarked. “This is the problem. No one will talk because everyone’s too afraid, apart from poor Jenny in there. And nobody’s going to believe her. Plus, he’s got eyes and ears everywhere, Ben Wellington for example, keeping tabs on her.”
Tannaz flicked the ash off the end of her cigarette. “Well, we haven’t exactly tried to question anyone in his properties yet.”
“That wouldn’t be a good idea. At the moment, we’re still under Wellington’s radar. The second we start speaking to any of his tenants one of two things will happen. They’ll either clam up and the shutters will come down—the conspiracy of silence—or worse, one of them will tip off Wellington that someone’s been asking awkward questions.”
“So how do we get the evidence we need? Because at the moment, none of it is strong enough. No link back to Dave and Luke Mosely’s deaths.”
Savage sucked in a deep breath, then exhaled heavily. “I think we’ve been going about this all wrong.”
“How so?”
“At the moment we’re on the outside looking in, skirting around the edges of something and we can’t get any clarity. We need to be on the inside, so we can see it for ourselves. Experience it first-hand.”
“What have you got in mind?”
“Can you hack into the welfare system, get me on housing benefit? Then hack Wellington’s business and put me in one of his properties?”
Tannaz shook her head rapidly. “No way, Savage.”
“Why, isn’t it possible?”
“No it’s a piece of cake. I just don’t want you living in one of his hellholes.”
“It’s fine, I survived an Iraqi prison, this’ll be like the Ritz.”