Clock Face of Ills

by Paige Elizabeth Turner

  ‘Got it in one, Jeff. Yes. But I have to know you’re with me on this. Peace of mind, you know.’ Phillip pulls a tenner from his wallet and slides it under Main’s glass. ‘My shout. By the way, I’m not here in official capacity, so whatever we discuss stays here, right?’

  ‘Goes without saying.’

  Main returns with another pint of lemon squash, a pint of Guinness and two bags of cashews. A waitress follows with a crab-pot shaped Fisherman’s Basket chock-full of crumbed Haddock, scallops, prawns, crab sticks and steaming chips.

  ‘Go ahead,’ Phillip gestures to his newly-indentured partner. ‘As I was saying, now that we’re in this together, Jeff, if the document is legal we will proceed with the sale. There could be interference by this whacko, Angelo. Not to worry though – the guy’s an idiot. With me so far?’

  ‘I guess so, but he won’t be happy losing ninety grand.’

  ‘Got it in one! I’ve already dealt with him – in a fashion. As it stands, he hasn’t got a clue what’s going on. He’ll be on edge because I left him an open-ended threat. He’ll be swivelling his neck like one of those sideshow clowns that gulp table tennis balls, expecting me to crop up out of nowhere. But he’s a pussy. He’ll be more concerned about the vendor finding out what sort of a person he really is.’

  Main picks his way through the basket, singling out the prawns and scallops, leaving McMaster to grind an over-battered piece of fish and a few crinkled chips.

  ‘I’d better be getting back, Phil. Steve’ll be wondering what’s going on.’

  ‘Not a problem.’ McMaster whisks his mobile from his pocket and jabs a speed dial number. ‘Steve. Hi there. Phil McMaster. Sorry about hijacking young Jeff. I’ve got another deal coming up. Wanted to discuss it with you, but since you’d delegated the current file to Jeff, I thought it more appropriate to brief him. We’re over the road, be back in fifteen.’ He flashes Main an agreeing smile and slides the phone back into his pocket. ‘Now where was I? Yes, the subject property could have a fortune lying beneath it. There’s evidence of untapped natural resources on my land with the prospect of it extending into the adjacent property. Where you come in is to brief me on mining rights and relevant applications. I want to keep this legal.’

  Main returns a curious frown. ‘How’d we get from a dubious contract to mining applications?’

  ‘More on that later. First up, we’ve got to seal that contract. There’s a lot more at stake than an argument over ninety grand.’

  They part with the wariness of a developing romance: rejoicing in the euphoric high of their union and forming dreams of the future, while simultaneously insulating themselves from the emotional distress of incompatibility.

  Main returns to his office. Only four years out of university, he’s had the fortune to begin in a mid-level practice; the misfortune of inheriting a file of dubious merit; and now, the shock of being drafted into his client’s confidence to undertake research totally unrelated to his area of expertise. Fear of deceiving his employer perches in the forefront of his mind like the cuckoo waiting to pounce on the hour’s strike. On the positive side, he warms to a heightened level of excitement and enthusiasm.

  He retreats to the practice’s library.

  * * *

  Rose Hernandez sits at a fibreglass table watching children whiz, slide and swing in Hamburglar’s activity area. She has no children of her own and no inclination to change that. Thoughts of sleepless nights, nappy changing, expanded hips and sagging breasts convinced her that other people’s kids satisfy both her maternal instincts and personal vanity.

  She hasn’t dated for ten months, after an ill-fated blind date turned to disaster. Shuddering at the thought of meeting the twenty years’ older McMaster, she clamps her blouse’s top press studs and zips her jacket to the collar.

  McMaster bounds into the restaurant like a child attending his first Ronald McDonald birthday bash. He scans the dining area and fixes upon Rose’s blonde hair shining like the miraculous star guiding the Three Wise Men to Bethlehem.

  ‘Hello,’ McMaster gleams as he glides into the bench seat. Drops his eyes to her jacket.

  Rose folds her arms across her chest. ‘I’ve got what you asked for.’ She kicks a canvas bag toward McMaster’s feet.

  His gawk lingers on Rose’s chest. ‘Perhaps you’ve got something I haven’t yet asked for?’

  She blushes. ‘Are we going to eat?’

  McMaster peers inside the bag. ‘You’ve excelled yourself. I hope you didn’t find it too difficult.’

  ‘I’ve only done this to help myself.’

  ‘Don’t be so harsh. You’ve got everything to gain.’

  Rose draws on her tiny reserve of courage. ‘I’m sorry I was speeding. I’ve done all you asked. Can’t you leave me alone now? I promise I’ll never speed again.’

  McMaster smirks. By his charter, everyone has a purpose in life. McMaster proclaims that his purpose is to help those tangled in trouble. He has helped Rose evade a breach of probation penalty, so justifies that with the rationale that he is entitled to a little recompense.

  Although Rose had braved theft charges through to court proceedings, she has no real grasp of police protocol. She is not convinced McMaster will overlook the minor offence and cannot risk the prospect of a prison term, or the humility of working under a Community Order. Either way, having already squirmed to McMaster’s requests, she would lose her job together with further career opportunities.

  McMaster continues: ‘I don’t care if you speed. It’s none of my business, right? I’m more interested in seeing our little arrangement continue. I’m not here to take advantage of you or make your life a misery. Quite the opposite in fact. I think I can help you more than you realise. But I won’t discuss it now. I’ve got to be off.’

  Relieved of further demands, Rose bolts to the counter. Eases her tension with a cup of tea. Her father’s words ring in her head: Never trust a copper.

  She sips McMaster’s menacing threat: I’d just like to see our little arrangement continue.

  IX

  Gillian Trotter’s first shift at the Knight’s Arms had introduced her to Phillip McMaster’s smooth-talk: ‘Hi sweetie. Dewar’s Malt. Double, no ice.’

  Gillian, keen to allay the accommodating persona of over-friendly bar staff, quickly wrong-footed McMaster: ‘It’s not sweetie, it’s Gill with a hard ‘G’, as in ‘gherkin’ – because I’m a hard woman.’ With a forceful glare, she pushed the tumbler across the bar. ‘Drink’s on the house.’

  ‘Thanks Gill. My profuse apologies. But I can’t accept your kind generosity.’ He folded £20 into her hand: ‘Buy yourself something nice. You don’t look too hard to me.’

  Gillian Trotter commenced a private investigator’s course after dropping out of the Cambridge School of Visual and Performing Arts. She had no particular credentials for undercover work other than inheriting her mother’s lifelong trait of sticking her nose into other people’s business, and her own desire to assume the role of other characters as a vehicle for demonstrating her acting ability. Her goal had been to join the cast of a local soap, believing she could springboard to EastEnders or Coronation Street. After weeks of cold calling studios and agencies, Gillian realised that fluttered black eyelashes and exposed valleys of cleavage did not lead to stardom.

  She celebrated her Diploma of Private Investigation on her twenty-first birthday. Devotees of the industry would belittle the achievement as a ‘Mickey Mouse’ diploma, claiming that no one could learn private investigation from college and online tutorials. Only after many miles of ‘hard yards’ could a candidate come close to adapting to the demanding and often dangerous industry.

  Proving the old adage of being in the right place at the right time, Gillian’s social media and networking skills rewarded her with an assignment just three days after qualifying. She accepted a position with a local agenc
y contracted by the Education Department, to identify leaders of a drug ring infiltrating West Birmingham Comprehensive School. Gillian’s innocence enhanced her suitability, and her youthful appearance afforded entry to select grunge groups. She carried a smooth, pre-pubescent unblemished complexion, contrasted by rabid unmanageable tawny-brown hair which fell in clumps over deep brown eyes. A hint of Pacific Islands’ olive-skinned ancestry, which, combined with her heavy stature, posed the threat of a British Bulldog.

  Her charter was to mingle with students, collate information and pass it to a fellow agent planted in the student services office. Three weeks was all it took. The first to identify sources; the second, to form relationships and flirtatious dependencies on traders; and the third to secure video and audio recordings of transactions where tiny packages and money exchanged hands either direct or from pickup points beneath trees, in the school canteen, and in one instance under the wheel arch of a teacher’s car.

  In the years following that assignment, Gillian infiltrated criminal operations. High profile successes included apprehending a family operation specialising in retail goods theft, through to cracking a cartel of British-Euro car thieves who ‘remanufactured’ vehicles with new serial and identification numbers. She had twice assisted MET Police to penetrate operations where the constabulary sought to not risk the identity of their own members.

  Her contact is Superintendent Jack Thornton, a seasoned officer of forty years’ experience and a thorn-in-the-side to both the criminal element and police members. He earned the obvious tag of ‘Thorns’ from school, where he was regarded as a pain-in-the-ass. After treading on toes along the police promotional route, the nickname gradually morphed to ‘Prickle’ and ultimately to ‘Prick’. Minor etymological contraction; major perceptional difference.

  Thornton derives no satisfaction from investigating fellow officers. He is prepared to overlook minor complaints; often founded on vexatious retribution over traffic fines or domestic dispute warnings; he’s overlooked or quelled complaints from female officers of sexual innuendo or unwelcome advances; and he’s put down theft of property from secure evidence rooms to ineffective chain of possession documentation. The brotherhood.

  One subject he won’t overlook is the repetitive blather of DI Phillip McMaster operating beyond the fair boundary of policing. He authorised Gillian’s installation in the Knight’s Arms after learning of McMaster’s not so secret meetings with city lesser-lifes. His decision to inject Gillian into the seedy pub was made after McMaster’s unaccounted for absence from the officers’ favoured after shift rendezvous. McMaster is believed to avoid the regular venue because of his aversion to being captured by new CCTV coverage. A flow of resignations and prosecutions evidence the merit of bugs now grazing in police watering holes. McMaster had either inside information about their existence, or God-given blessings in the form of a timely change of venue.

  As McMaster motioned Jeff Main to his table, Gillian compiled a bullet-point description of Main: Height, a smidgen under two metres; Weight, 80 kilograms; Hair, black; Eyes, green; distinguishing features; an unusually square head. She trained a miniature security camera in their direction and tracked the conversation – a routine conveyancing matter. She recalled her briefing: nothing about McMaster is ‘routine’. So why convene a legal meeting in a pub, and why would McMaster insist on Main paying the bill and ‘fixing’ Angelo. The latter is open to conjecture, but when a police inspector is under investigation, a conversation embracing an expression to fix someone must be treated with vigilance. The penny dropped after McMaster named a person up to the task. Gillian seized the words like an invitation to a premiere fashion launch.

  Who is Angelo? Fix him for what? The gravity of the assignment took on greater weight as the enigma swelled into a larger picture: Should I report this straight away or would my over-reaction convey an impression that I’m incapable of the assignment? She resolved to pluck further information before painting a detailed mural of McMaster’s activities.

  From another snatch of McMaster’s conversation, part of which she knew could not be official, she heard of a drug crop he was trying to establish. Those snippets satisfied her that Thornton’s assumptions were correct: McMaster is a crook.

  Ordinarily, Gillian would maintain considerable distance between herself and nominated targets, for both safety and discretion. No matter how high her confidence, she could never fulfil the Bond-girl role with bedroom rendezvous guaranteed to extract sacred information. However, during her third shift behind the bar, she accepted McMaster’s syrupy invitation to dinner: ‘Purely professional, I need a woman’s perspective on some matters.’ Many times she’d been propositioned – an occupational hazard founded upon her being thrust into testosterone-driven criminal activity. She’d filed away ambitious suitors’ feeble excuses for trying to get a bit extra on the side. Women worldwide retch over the same drivel: ‘our marriage isn’t working’; ‘we don’t get on’; ‘the marriage has been dead for years’; and untold other forms of denouncing the happy marriage to which the eager guy would return after an evening’s illicit entertainment.

  Gillian feigned surprise at the invitation: ‘I’d be glad to help. I have no ties, so I’m free anytime.’ She paused. ‘I won’t go to a pub because landlords talk and they’ll think of me as easy meat, and I can’t have a late night because I’m on earlies this week.’ She blushed away her enthusiasm; no girl should sound too eager to help a stranger, more so to date one.

  First score to Gillian. She seized the advantage by gaining a seat in the dress circle where the play to elicit prized information would soon begin.

  * * *

  Gillian Trotter had learnt during her briefing that McMaster is married, and had so been for ‘twelve unhappy years.’ The word ‘unhappy’ sprang from the dossier in fluorescent orange, presumably to warn Gillian that her target might be ‘emotionally pliable’.

  She accompanied McMaster to an Indian Curry House where the stinging aroma of hot curry and spices competed with heat radiating from beneath the table. McMaster, in true form, had extended the invitation by false pretences: his request for the female perspective queried a woman’s commitment to career when she would forego the job on the first pangs of maternal yearning. He shifted the discussion to their life stories; he gloating about his ‘exceptional’ arrest rate; she enthusing over the anticipated advent of a bit-part acting role, at which time McMaster proffered the sly innuendo: ‘If you’re looking for a leading man—’

  He stopped mid-sentence, as if expecting Gillian to jump at the opportunity. Instead, she deflected the try-on and cast out the line: ‘My type would be more adventurous. I’m sure you’re swamped with routines that compromise your private life.’

  McMaster grinned. ‘Nothing could be further from the truth. My private life is an escape from the drudgery of arrests, paperwork and court appearances, even though after accomplishing good in the name of the community, we have to justify our actions to some jumped-up civil libertarian do-gooder. Bah. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t want to escape from that shit.’

  He studied Gillian, his years of experience effecting a snap assessment. ‘Speaking of escapes, want a smoke?’ He flipped open a pack of Dunhill to reveal the familiar gold-ringed cigarettes. He pushed a few aside, and from a lower layer removed a roll-your-own.

  ‘Don’t smoke,’ Gillian replied.

  ‘You don’t need to for these.’ An out-of-control flame shot from his ebony lighter.

  Gillian panicked from the first whiff. ‘Not here. You’ll be sprung.’

  ‘Come on Gill. No one’ll smell this over that curry shit, right? And if they do,’ he patted his wallet, ‘I’ve got the ultimate immunity idol. But I see your point. What say we continue this wonderful evening at my place?’

  ‘I’d really love to,’ she lied, ‘but as I said, I’m on early tomorrow. A girl’s got to get her beauty sleep.’ She batted her eyela
shes, further arousing her suitor.

  ‘I love the way you do that,’ sleazed McMaster.

  ‘I’ll remember it for next time.’ She yanked her jacket from the back of a chair. ‘Thanks for a nice evening.’

  The following morning Gillian updated Thornton, first chuckling over her reintroduction to the drug scene before moving on to the serious business of McMaster arranging to ‘fix’ a person. She assured the superintendent that it wouldn’t take her long to uncover Angelo’s identity and connection.

  She concluded the briefing by detailing McMaster’s antics in Heavenly Spirits, and agreed to email time-stamped photos of his receiving bottles of spirit together with his placing the items in evidence bags and into his car.

  Thornton’s follow-up revealed that the bottles had not been logged in Worcester CID’s property book.

  X

  I’d met Lowenstein by chance just prior to my leaving Worcester CID. I was working under Detective Inspector Michael Marchant, who’d struck more deals with the criminal element than he had with the Crown Prosecution Service. I am not saying he was ‘bent’; he just had a manner that dovetailed him into the criminal element. Crooks stick with crooks and some crooks forever strike deals with a faithful detective who has taken them into his confidence. That’s how Albert Lowenstein became part of McMaster’s stable of informers. He loved to double-deal; loved to pad one pocket with profits of unlawful transactions, and the other with McMaster’s payoffs.

  I’d seen backpacks of jewellery and negotiable bonds pass through Lowenstein’s ‘wholesale’ operation. On the surface, he ran an esteemed retail business – ‘Jewellers to the Jewish community’. Beneath, backroom deals boosted his wealth and deprived HM Revenue and Customs six-figure annual returns.