The Magpie Trap: A Novel

by AJ Kirby

  Had he done that? Had he really drunk all of that? Pulling himself up by gripping onto the table leg, he staggered back through the French windows and into the suite, looking for the bathroom for water to soothe his shredded throat.

  He passed the beautifully carved wooden table and then stopped. Right in the middle of the table was the packet which had contained the rest of the sleeping tablets which he’d not taken on the flight.

  A terrible realisation started to dawn on him; he thumbed open the packet and saw straight away that it was empty. There must have been at least ten left….

  And then the shock of his second realisation hit him. The room was completely deserted; neither Chris nor Danny’s bags were there. Mark had left the bag full of his money under the mahogany table. Knowing already what he would see, he crouched down to confirm his suspicions. There was nothing there.

  Steve Elton

  Jim Hunter easily found out where Steve Elton resided; he was known to just about everybody as the man who could get hold of anything. The problem was, the things he got hold of were generally cheap, poor quality and tended to break down after one or two uses, be it a plasma screen TV or a transit van. A lot of people had grievances against the chancer, and were therefore only too happy to pass on the information to Jim.

  Steve lived and worked from a house in the small former industrial town of Morley, which was close enough to the centre of Leeds to provide him with his entertainment needs, but also far enough away that he could afford to buy a large sandstone townhouse - Yorkshire stone, no less - which was set close to the town’s splendid Victorian park. The house was set back from the quiet roadway, in a leafy, sculpted garden. A speedy two-seater sports car of some description was sparkling in the drive.

  Jim pulled up in his on-its-last-legs Volvo and considered that crime had certainly paid this young man; with dividends. His car shook to a halt, as though taking its last, whimpering breath - Don had offered to take a look at it for him, but Jim had been too busy - and he carefully applied the crook lock to the steering wheel. The locks on the doors had long since stopped working effectively and Jim had often considered buying a new car, but simply could not be bothered. Why should you have to buy a whole new car simply because the locks were knackered or it breathed a bit funny? Besides, cars simply bored him; they were modes of transport, and that was it. He could not understand the psychological significance which some people attached to their vehicles.

  Hunter creaked open the front gate and stepped down the front path, picking his way through an invasion of slugs which had appeared to bask in the morning’s damp from the previous night’s rainfall. He doubted whether Steve Elton had even got out of bed yet; it was still very early and there were no signs of life from within the shut-eye windows of the house. He fished his old ID badge from his trouser pocket and briskly rapped on the door’s lion-head door knocker, once, twice, three times. He stepped back from the front doorstep, arms folded, waiting.

  Steve Elton’s bed-head hair gradually slunk out of a small gap which opened in the front door. His hair was covered in a slimily thick, white residue, almost like one of the slug trails on his front path. It was probably leftover hair gel, hardened overnight. Hunter seized the initiative and pushed the door inwards.

  ‘What is this?’ cried Steve, alarmed quivers creeping into his voice, despite the fact that he tried to pitch it somewhere between hard-man and gangster. ‘Surely no door-to-door sales-jockey would be rude enough to do that. What the fuck do you want?’

  ‘I want you, Mr. Elton,’ Hunter replied, ominously.

  Suddenly, another voice cut into the conversation. Hunter turned to see one of Steve’s neighbours leaning over the garden wall, his face a picture of concern.

  ‘You alright Steve? Who’s that? Want me to call the police?’

  Hunter realised that his shoulder was still pressed up against the front door, as though he was trying to force his way in.

  ‘We can either do this here, on your doorstep, or I can come inside, Steve. Which is it to be?’ he snarled, managing to flash his ID badge in front of Steve’s face.

  Steve stepped forward onto his doorstep; he was wearing some kind of old-style smoking jacket for a dressing gown. He shouted over to his neighbour that everything was okay, and then whispered to Jim: ‘You’d better come in then…’

  Steve led Hunter through a spartan hallway and into his living room. Again, there was virtually no furniture, just a low-slung white leather sofa and a tiger-skin rug. Hunter chose to keep standing, while Steve slumped down onto the sofa, the leather creaking and cracking painfully against his bare legs.

  ‘So, what’s this all about? Dawn raids? I’ve got nothing here, you can see that…’

  Despite his bravado exterior, Hunter spied a telltale tremble in the young man’s hands. He was shitting himself.

  ‘Trying to do a runner? Are you moving away, Mr. Elton?’

  Hunter didn’t want to give anything away about the reasons for his visit. He also didn’t want to be forced to lie any more than he had to about his still being in the police force.

  ‘No, I was just waiting to decorate the place, that’s why I’ve got nothing here. I’ve only just bought the house.’

  Steve rubbed the sleeve of his smoking-jacket across his nose, leaving a trail of slime slicked across it. This young man is a toad, thought Hunter; he immediately knew that he’d be able to break him.

  ‘How did you manage to pay for it?’ Hunter asked, a wry smile crossing his face.

  ‘I work… I have my own internet business; old guys like you can’t understand that, can you?’ snapped Steve Elton. His mean little eyes blinked away what could have been his first tear.

  ‘What I can’t understand,’ Hunter snapped back, ‘is how you get away with selling stolen goods over your internet site. That’s what this old guy can’t understand.’

  Steve Elton looked shocked, and was silent for a while, perhaps thinking of how he could possibly slime his way out of this one. Then, that little twitch in his right eye started up again, and suddenly he was crying, full heavy tears. Globules of snot ran down his face. Hunter dug out a tissue and flung it at him.

  ‘Clean yourself up! You are disgusting; look at yourself! Now, don’t worry Steve; all I need today is information. You’ll be able to go back to driving about your little cock-extension sports car later today. As long as you tell me what I want to hear, you snivelling piece of shit.’

  Hunter had slipped into auto-pilot interrogation mode, but to Steve Elton, his show was a powerhouse performance.

  ‘Yes sir. What do you want to know?’

  ‘All I want to know today, Steve, is about a certain van. It was involved in a robbery. I can’t tell you any more information than that. What I can tell you is that a man identifying himself as Steve Elton took it in for a re-spray job at a garage in Wortley, and at the moment, that’s the only clue the police have. So, what you’re looking at if you don’t tell me everything you know, is an armed-robbery charge.’

  Steve had started wailing like a child now, ‘I don’t know anything about no robbery! All I ever do is sell on the stuff… I promise. Sir, sir?’

  ‘Shut up, Steve. Now, I never even told you about the registration number of the van, or any of the other details the garage kindly provided… Now, to jog your memory, how’s this; the van was a large transit van with a diesel generator in the back. The generator was probably once used to power a refrigeration unit.’

  Steve suddenly stopped crying and sat bolt upright. ‘I know that van, sir. But I don’t know what you’re talking about with paint-jobs or armed robberies. I only had it a couple of days, before I realised where it’d been stolen from… I just wanted rid, sir.’

  ‘I don’t know whether to believe you. Convince me,’ said Hunter. He was now playing the good-cop part of his schizophrenic routine, and had taken the seat next to Steve, putting his arm around him.

  ‘I… I sold it to a man called Mark. Mark Beech
, I think he’s called, or maybe Mark Branch. Something to do with trees…’

  Something in Jim’s head which had been waiting to click into place, suddenly, almost audibly, snapped home.

  ‘Mark Birch?’ he cried, as though he were shouting ‘Eureka!’ He shook Steve Elton and shouted the name again, ‘Mark Birch?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s him…’ Steve muttered his reply, fear returning to his eyes. ‘Used to work for a security company believe it or not…’

  Jim Hunter finished his sentence for him, ‘EyeSpy Security. That’s who he worked for isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, but he’s gone abroad now, the other day, with Chris and Danny…’ Steve clamped his hand over his mouth, realizing that he had said too much.

  ‘Keep talking, Mr. Elton; you are doing very well. Talking yourself out of the nick at this rate.’

  Hunter could barely avoid the excitement in his voice. He was so close, he could almost feel it. This sounded like a crew which had the audacity, as well as the technological know-how, to have undertaken the heist at Edison’s Printer’s. How had he not worked it out straight away? The fuss about the Intertel Shift, Martin Thomas’s evasive answers, the precision with which they had set up the dummy network; it all pointed in only one direction. Hell, Callum Burr had told him that Mark Birch had been on site the day before Hunter had started the job. And that had been when they’d discovered that the Precisioner printer had been tampered with. He racked his brain to try to remember if he’d seen Mark Birch’s face in the Image Book which held images of all of the people that attended site. For the moment he couldn’t, but he knew that it would come to him.

  ‘They went to Mauritius. Set up some charity or something. Only flew out about a week ago,’ Steve continued. He clearly wasn’t noticeably distraught at grassing up his friends. ‘I don’t have any contact details, but that’s definitely where they were going.’

  Jim Hunter had felt like this before, when all of the pieces of the puzzle suddenly click into place. He knew exactly what he had to do now. He had to follow them. To the ends of the earth if needs be, but certainly to Mauritius.

  ‘Can I just use your toilet before I go?’ Hunter asked, standing again.

  Suddenly the shifty look returned to Steve’s face. ‘Erm, yes, but remember what you said; there’s no way I’m going down today, is there?’

  Hunter leapt up the stairs two at a time, thinking that maybe, just maybe, some of the stolen money from the Edison’s Printers raid was hidden up there, but no, all that was there was a selection of expensive computer equipment, clearly stolen. Hunter used the toilet, and returned downstairs to confront the toad for a second time, but then thought better of it.

  ‘Just get rid of it, Mr. Elton, and I can turn a blind eye,’ Jim advised, thinking, that’s why the little snake was so keen to give up his mates. He was trying to cover his own back.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ grovelled Steve, ‘Are you sure your mates down the station will know about our little arrangement?’

  ‘Arrangement? Mates down the station?’ Hunter flashed him a vicious smile, his old confidence returning in spades. ‘Whoever told you I was a policeman? That ID I showed you was a fucking security guard’s permit you stupid idiot!’

  Rose Hill

  Chris and Danny ran away from the Midas Hotel like excited schoolboys. They careered through the streets, pulling their bags behind them, panting and laughing. Danny was amazed that he felt no guilt at their treatment of Mark Birch, but instead saw it as a necessary evil. He told himself that they were taking advantage of the opportunities presented to them; they were now real outlaws, living outside society’s rules.

  As Danny continued to run at full pelt down a steep hill towards the harbour, he was carried by a heady adrenaline rush at the Wild West lawlessness of their actions; he could feel the bubbles from two bottles of champagne racing around inside his veins, driving him on. But as the road levelled out, and then began its incline towards the financial district, the chokehold of the two Cuban cigars he’d smoked began clawing at his throat. He always inhaled cigars; what was the point of smoking them if you didn’t inhale? It wasn’t doing him any good now though, as he bloatedly slowed to a trot, leaning against the wall of a row of small shops for support.

  ‘I have to stop,’ he wheezed to Chris, who was still maintaining an excellent pace.

  Chris, who had jogged back to him, began to laugh, ‘I was wondering how long it would take you… Come on, we’ll get a beer in that bar there, and I’ll call our favourite taxi-driver; he gave me his business card.’

  Chris obviously suspected that Danny’s nose for alcohol had led him straight to a bar, but Danny was so exhausted and drunk that a beer was the furthest thing from his mind. They smartened themselves up a little, taking advantage of the mirrored frontage of what was obviously a Sex Shop and then stepped through the swinging saloon-style doors into a bar next door which was thick with Wild West atmosphere to suit their mood. A girl on a small stage in the corner was just finishing some kind of stripping routine which involved cavorting with a live snake, and the audience descended into whoops of appreciation.

  ‘Yeeeehaww,’ laughed Chris, approaching the bar.

  Small groups of customers were gathered around round tables, and now the entertainment had finished they had resumed their lightning fast games of dominos. All went quiet; all the little clicking sounds of the dominoes being clipped together stopped; the brief snippets of conversation ceased, as the two foreigners walked towards the bar. An unwelcoming gloom descended; this was clearly not a standard tourist bar, it was more like a secret haven for the locals.

  Danny felt uneasy and looked down at his shoes; Chris however, was obviously enjoying himself. Danny watched him mould himself into a cowboy stance at the bar; a slouching, cocksure, pistol-happy lean which implied that he was not to be messed with. The barman finally decided that he would deign to take their order.

  Danny could hardy resist a smile when Chris faked a John Wayne accent whilst ordering the beers. All Chris needed, thought Danny, was a Stetson hat to complete his look.

  The taxi driver arrived outside to spoil Chris’s fun, beeping his horn repeatedly until they came out from the bar. He smiled that same broken piano-key grin at them through the tinted windows and clicked open the lock to the back doors. Chris and Danny slithered into the four-by-four, hissing with anticipation.

  ‘We’d like to go to Rose Hill please mate?’ Chris asked, at once more talkative with the driver than on their last journey.

  ‘Where’s your friend?’ asked the chubby driver, still chewing on his lunch, which had a strong fishy smell.

  ‘He won’t be coming, he’s too drunk,’ Danny replied, winking at Chris. ‘He fell asleep on the balcony!’

  ‘Did you know, my friend, that Rose Hill is a wine in England?’ Chris joked.

  ‘Rose Hill is actually the third town of Mauritius,’ said the driver, not really understanding the joke. ‘It’s a big shopping centre- try the Arab Town; buy a present for your wives!”

  The sudden reminder of what he’d left behind calmed Danny down. He thought of Cheryl back in Leeds, perhaps learning about what he’d done. He thought of her waking up that morning at her sister’s house when he’d just walked out and left her there on the sofa. Already, their Mauritian adventure was turning into just another episode in his catalogue entitled Things I’ve done which I’m ashamed of; the only thing which kept him from feeling the full effect of this shame was to keep drinking.

  Chris, meanwhile, just didn’t seem to care at all. He was actually enjoying their haphazard progress, embracing the chaos, revelling in the ruin they were leaving behind. But, thought Danny, this wasn’t a Boy’s Own Adventure story; they were still on-the-run, and they were already one man down. And soon he’d have to meet that mysterious BBC-voiced caller that had started the whole thing in the first place.

  ‘Rose Hill was developed in the eighteenth century, when a malaria scare made the rich of
Port Louis run to the hills,’ said the driver. He was continuing his guided tour, unaware that Chris and Danny had both slipped into their own memories. ‘All of your colonists went there, and they built their houses. Beautiful towns, just too far from the sea for me…. Hello?… You listening, Mister?’

  ‘Sorry mate, but would you mind just driving,’ Chris snapped. The sweeping bends in the road as it ascended the hills towards the centre of the island were sloshing the drinks around in his belly and making him feel sick.

  They arrived in Rose Hill in the early evening. They were greeted by the blood-red, throbbing purple and golden streaked bruising of a stunning sunset. It was a sky full of warning, but which also suggested the sensual beauty of evil. A full moon was trying to bide her time before showing herself fully, peeking just over the highest of the mountains in the distance, casting a watchful eye over the night. Stars tried to hide their shimmering infirmity behind the bloated fried-egg power of their big brother, the setting sun.

  They were dropped off by the taxi as close to the town’s main square as it was possible to drive. Everywhere there were street entertainers, stalls and crowds of bustling people, who paid no attention to the taxi’s attempted progress. All around them was dripping in rich greenery, was bejewelled in fruits.

  Colour was everywhere. The whitewashed buildings at the edges of the road added depth to the images. Miniature candles adorned every tree lending the place a magical atmosphere. The light danced playfully, seductively, casting long irregular shadows into doorways and down secret passageways.

  The night’s atmosphere was sticky - clingy even - but luckily it was not as humid as in the lower altitude by the coast. Nevertheless, both Chris and Danny were covered in a thin film of sweat as they walked through the streets of Rose Hill, dodging the street sellers. They were walking with a purpose.

  ‘This is the place,’ whispered Chris, reverentially, as they walked through the town’s main square. ‘This is where we’ll live. We can be the new colonial kings.’