by Peter Boland
Endless evenings spent playing albums over and over again, until he knew every chord and key change off by heart. Studying the sleeve artwork with religious adoration. The wave of nostalgia overwhelmed him. Savage only wished he had a record player to put it on. Of course, he could have used his phone to go on the Internet and download the album. But it wouldn’t be the same.
For the next few days, Savage hung around Tivoli Gardens, being like all the other tenants. Doing nothing, apart from existing. Although strictly speaking, he was working. In between trying to make sense of the numbers he’d found in Dave Mosely’s Harrington and making soup with Dink, he observed the comings and goings of the inhabitants of Tivoli Gardens. The people that everyone else would rather brush under the carpet and forget about, all except Simon Wellington, who had found a use for them. A sadistic use if the rumours were to be believed. Whatever use it was didn’t materialise in those days. Of course, the house was a hotbed of unsociability; arguments broke out, things got broken never to be repaired, music got played too loud, and Truck and Vlad came round demanding money and booze off people who didn’t really have it to give. Just business as usual at Tivoli Gardens.
A note slid under the door.
A handwritten note from Archie, which read.
Wanna whiskey?
Savage folded up the note, stuffed it in his back pocket. Yes, he would like a whisky, thank you very much. He opened the door. Archie stood there grinning, bottle in hand, two plastic cups in the other. The sticking plaster was still attached to his forehead.
“Come on in,” said Savage.
Archie immediately noticed the album on the bed. “Hey, guy who used to live here had an album just like that.” Archie poured a drink and shoved it in Savage’s hand.
Savage thought quickly. Could be a chance to find out some information about Dave, if he was careful.
“Really? What, the guy who lived here was into The Jam?”
“Oh yeah. Had loads of records and that. All lined up on the floor. He had all The Jam stuff.”
“Oh, wow. That’s my favourite band. Shame I don’t have a record player to put it on.”
“Yeah, Dave had a record player,” Archie said, picking up the album and examining the album sleeve. That was the thing about vinyl record albums, they were compelling objects, creating an irresistible urge to pick them up and scrutinise them.
“Did that annoy you, him playing his music all the time?” Savage asked.
Archie waved away the remark. “Nah, Dave was a quiet sort, considerate type. Used to use his earphones and that.”
Savage thought it was safe to push it, ask a few questions without raising any eyebrows. “Those guys, Truck and Vlad, you know they said he’d killed himself. Is that true or were they just trying to put the frighteners on me?”
Archie’s default cheerful face darkened. He took a long slug of whisky. “True, I’m sorry to say.”
“That’s horrible, poor guy. I wonder what drove him to it?”
Archie exhaled heavily. Savage got a waft of alcoholic breath over him. “Who knows what’s going on in a person’s mind?” Archie said.
“Guess it must have been a shock when you heard he’d killed himself.”
“Not really. I know that’s not a nice thing to say, he seemed the type. Quiet. Bland sort of guy. Whenever I tried to talk to him he always seemed awkward. You know, like he was wearing them smart trousers your parents would make you wear when you were little that would itch like asbestos. Always looked uncomfortable. Like I said, I wasn’t surprised. People end up here ’cos they’re on the skids. It’s no surprise. People die in Simon Wellington properties all the time. Course, it’s mostly unintended, you know, OD-ing and that. Not trekking half way across the New Forest to kill yourself up a tree.”
“Someone told me his son had died in the same place.”
“Terrible tragedy. Like father, like son. I guess it runs in the family.”
A silence grew between them. Not an awkward one, more respectful.
“Can I ask you something, Archie?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
Savage had to take care with his line of questioning. Had to couch it in the right way so it seemed like he wasn’t prying. “This is purely out of self-preservation and fear I suppose…”
“Go on, spit it out.”
Savage paused and then said, “Nobody here had anything to do with it, did they? I mean, are there any nutcases living here?”
Archie laughed. “We’re all nutcases and that. And yes there are people who you should be careful around, especially Truck. Bit of advice, always look interested when he talks about his time on Gladiators. He likes to talk about it.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” said Savage. They both grinned.
“To answer your question, did anyone in this building kill Dave? I’d say no to that. I think it’s just a case of a guy at the end of his tether, hit rock bottom and couldn’t come back up. Only way out for him was to end it all. I mean, I’ve thought about it once or twice.”
“What, suicide?”
“Yeah, never had the balls to go through with it. Not like poor old Dave. We all have our cross to bear.”
“What’s your cross, Archie?” asked Savage.
Archie went quiet, chewed his bottom lip.
Savage held his hands up. “Oh, Archie, it’s okay, if you don’t want to talk about it.”
“No, it’s fine. Reason I drink,” he said, taking another slug of whisky. “I was happy once. Very happy. Had a wife, a job. Not a great one, cleaning the trains. Enough to keep a roof over me family’s head.”
“You had a family?”
“Yeah, a little girl. Prettiest thing you’ve ever seen. Made me the happiest man in the land. Then one day I persuades the wife to go out with her friends and that. She hadn’t been out since we’d had Lily—that was my little girl’s name. She was two and my wife never wanted to leave her side. So I tells my wife to have a night out, see your friends and that. She didn’t want to. I think she needed it. I told her not to worry. I’ll feed and put Lily to bed. So she goes out and when I’m sure Lily’s asleep in her cot, I run myself a hot bath, because I’d been run off me feet at work. Doorbell rings and there’s some guy at the door giving me the hard sell about double glazing and that. I said there was no way we can afford double glazing, not on a cleaner’s wages. This guy won’t shut up, keeps giving it a load of verbal and that. By the time I get rid of him, I run back upstairs and…”
Archie’s face became a mask of frozen horror.
“It’s okay, you don’t need to tell me,” said Savage.
“I do,” he said. “Lily’d climbed out of the cot. Must have thought it was bath time and fell in. Died, she did, in the scalding hot water.” Archie poured a huge glass of whisky and swallowed it whole. “I killed my daughter.”
“No, that was an accident.”
“Everyone says that.” Archie fixed him with bloodshot eyes. “But I know. I killed her. I should’ve been watching her. I have to live with it every day, and I would’ve killed myself but I was lying when I said I didn’t have the balls. Suicide is too easy. Let’s me off, don’t it? I need to be punished. Need to stay alive so I can suffer, remembering what I done to my little girl.”
A flood of tears fell from Archie’s eyes, the sobs coming heavy and fast. Savage put his arm around the little man. There wasn’t much else he could do. Savage knew how it felt to be responsible for the death of another human being. A life of pain is all that it offered.
Savage’s phone buzzed. A text from Tannaz. Savage glanced at the screen while holding Archie’s small, quivering frame.
The text read:
Sylvia Sanchez is dead.
Chapter 29
Back in the retro tearoom, Vera Lynn was belting out ‘We’ll Meet Again’. The waitresses were j
oining in and a few of the customers too. All part of the theatrical Blitz-spirit experience. Who would’ve have thought nostalgia would be the future of casual dining? In uncertain times, the past was always a reassuring refuge, even if the reality was that millions of homes were destroyed and thousands of people died in the Blitz, in the most horrific ways.
The hopeful mood of the tearoom seemed at odds with Savage’s. The tang of Tannaz’s smoke-infused breath drifted across the table. She’d been stressed out and chain smoking, nipping outside in between necking black coffees. Her whole body jittered.
“We have to stop this investigation,” she said shakily.
“Why?” asked Savage.
Tannaz swore loudly. A few customers nearby swivelled round at her outburst, bringing them out of their reminiscent fog. “Why? You have to ask why?”
“Keep it down and try to stay calm.”
Tannaz lowered her voice. “Whenever we talk to anyone, they wind up dead. It keeps happening.” Even though she whispered, her words were laced with rage and fear. “Luke Mosely, dead. Jenny Hopkins, dead. Sylvia Sanchez, dead. Wellington is on to us. He’s killing them. Silencing them.”
“That’s not true.”
“Course it is, we need to back off before someone else dies.”
“Firstly, we still don’t know it’s Wellington doing this—”
“I think it’s pretty damn obvious—”
Savage held up a hand to silence her. “Let me finish. Everything is pointing in that direction, I agree. However, we still need to be sure. There are too many unknowns. We haven’t got enough on him. Let’s just assume that it’s him behind all this. Do you think Simon Wellington has a problem killing people who get in his way?”
“No, not at all.”
“Then if he knows we’re onto him, why not just kill us? Surely that would be easier.”
Tannaz’s mouthed formed an O then closed, as she struggled to find a response.
“There is a pattern emerging, and it’s not to do with us. If he is killing people, he’s killing them systematically. There’s a logic to it. We’re not sure why Dave Mosely died, probably suicide. Same with Luke, maybe, maybe not. However, it’s reasonable to assume Jenny Hopkins died because she was getting more vocal about Wellington. Once Jenny was out of the way, there was no need for Sylvia Sanchez keeping an eye on her. Wellington was tying up a loose end. With hindsight we should’ve seen that coming. Warned Sylvia to get the hell out of Dodge. Wellington didn’t have any use for her and didn’t want to leave behind a witness, and we know she didn’t warn Wellington about us. So that leaves us with the only logical conclusion that it’s just coincidence that we talked to these people before they got killed. If he knew about us, we’d be dead now.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in coincidences.”
“I don’t. This time I think it’s valid because the reasons behind the killings make sense.”
“That’s not quite correct.”
“What do you mean?”
Tannaz fingered the screen of her smart phone, pulled up a news story and held it up for Savage to read.
He quickly scanned the article. His face dropped.
“Sylvia Sanchez was found hanging from a tree in Dead Maids?”
“Yep,” said Tannaz. “Same nonsense as Luke’s death. And we’re back to the same question as before, the same one we’ve been trying to answer all along. If Wellington had wanted her out of the way, why go to all the trouble of making it look like a suicide? Why not just dump her body in the sea between here and the Isle of Wight with a few bricks to weigh her down? And she was an illegal immigrant. Nobody was going to miss her, poor thing.”
Savage read the article from Tannaz’s phone again. “Says here a note found on her body said she couldn’t live with the pain of Jenny Hopkins dying on her shift.”
Tannaz folded her arms. “I don’t believe that. Did she seem suicidal?”
“Not at all, but then neither did Luke.”
“Why kill two people and leave their bodies in plain sight? Why take that risk?”
“We’ve still got the same conundrum as before.”
“That’s what I just said,” Tannaz snapped. “Surely there’s a connection with Wellington Properties. Both Dave and Sylvia were tenants at one time or another.”
Savage shook his head. “No. Sylvia Sanchez lived in an HMO but it wasn’t one of Wellington’s, remember. He’s covered his tracks. Picked someone unconnected to keep an eye on Jenny. We do have the phone records from Sylvia’s phone to his henchman, this Bluetooth guy.”
“True,” said Tannaz. “But it was from a burner phone, no proof that she ever owned it. So therefore no connection to Wellington or anyone that worked for him. And I bet that burner phone has mysteriously disappeared.”
Savage lifted up the teapot to pour another cup. It was empty. “I need more tea. Do you want another coffee?”
“I need something with alcohol in it,” said Tannaz, defeated.
Savage grabbed the menu. Sifted through the list of drinks. There was only one thing alcoholic on the menu, right at the bottom it read: Irish Coffee—made with finest Irish Whiskey.
They’d spelt whisky wrong like Archie did. Savage glanced around the room. On the blackboard was written: Why not try our fig roll’s. English tea at it’s best.
Savage shook his head, disapprovingly.
“What’s up with you?” asked Tannaz.
“Cavalier use of apostrophes, as Alan Partridge would put it.”
“Where?”
He pointed out fig roll’s and it’s on the blackboard, and also the misspelling of whisky on the menu. “Did you know there’s a guy called the Grammar Vigilante? Goes round in the dead of night correcting apostrophes and spellings on signs. I think they need him in here.”
“Well, I’m with you on the apostrophe, but that’s not grammar is it? Surely that’s punctuation, and their spelling of ‘whisky’ in that context is correct.”
“Really, you sure?”
“Yep, in America and Ireland whisky is spelt with an ‘e’.”
“Well, I never,” said Savage. “Tannaz, English is your second language and you have a better grasp of it than I do.”
“Nah, not really. I just drink a lot of alcohol.”
They both gave a restrained laugh. Humour not really appropriate at this exact time.
“So do you want one? An Irish coffee?”
Tannaz shook her head. “No, I’m good. Actually I’ve got something else to show you. Completely forgot after hearing about Sylvia.”
“Go on.”
Tannaz heaved her laptop on the table and fired it up. “Managed to hack Wellington’s solicitor. Got a look at his will and guess what.”
“Go on.”
“Simon Wellington has left everything to his son only if he works for Wellington Properties for the rest of his life. If he leaves the company, he gets nothing. That’s how he can force him to work on low wages.”
“So Simon Wellington is holding his own son to ransom, making him live like a pauper?”
“Yep, and Ben Wellington was contributing to Jenny Hopkins’ care-home bills. Goodness knows how he made ends meet. Plus, we already know that the car he drives and the house he lives in is all owned by Simon Wellington. He basically can’t leave Wellington Properties or he gets nothing.”
“Jeez, his father is one cold-hearted bastard.”
“I know, right?”
Savage went silent. Started rubbing the bristles on his chin. He’d let his beard go for a few days. Usually, he shaved every day, like clockwork. A hangover from his army days. Being around the residents of Tivoli Gardens he thought a constant five o’clock shadow would be more appropriate. He gazed into the air in front of him.
“Savage, what are you thinking?”
; “Dunno. Might be something, might be nothing.”
“Spill the beans.”
“First I need to head back to Tivoli Gardens.”
Chapter 30
Savage pushed his key into the front door of Tivoli Gardens, gave it a shove with his shoulder. He did it out of force of habit now. Shaking off the cold from outside he caught sight of Rosie still fiddling with the screws of the strike plate of her door, the butter knife a clumsy substitute for a proper screwdriver. Though he desperately wanted to help her, and could never resist a bit of DIY, Savage ignored the overwhelming urge and made his way up the stairs.
“Excuse me,” she suddenly said.
Savage turned.
“Could you help me?” Rosie asked.
“Of course,” he said, walking back down. “What’s the problem?”
“The lock, it doesn’t reach across to the door frame. I don’t know what to do. I can’t lock my door at night.”
“And I suppose Wellington Properties won’t come out to fix it.”
Rosie snorted. “You’re kidding, aren’t you? As far as they’re concerned, we don’t exist.”
“Show me,” asked Savage.
Rosie closed the door and put the key in the lock, gave it a turn. The deadlock shot across the narrow gap between the door and the frame but never made it all the way, stopping short of the bolthole in the strike plate by about three millimetres.
“See what I mean, it’s not reaching across.”
“Well,” said Savage straightening up. “If the deadbolt won’t go into the strike plate, then the strike plate will have to go to the deadbolt.”
“What does that mean?”
“We can fix it.”
Dink’s door opened. The big man stood there for a second, staring at Rosie and Savage.
“Hello, Dink,” said Savage.
“Can we make some more soup?” he asked.