I now regret having not parked closer to her vehicle. I was narrow-minded: focusing on Trotter instead of the surrounds. Why didn’t I question her presence? There was no silver Vauxhall sparkling in the distant parking bay, meaning that McMaster was not then at home.
If someone had targeted McMaster – and nothing convinces me otherwise – Gillian was close enough to identify the perpetrator. Her presence in the Knight’s Arms empowered her with knowledge of exactly when McMaster wasn’t home AND his most likely arrival time after leaving the pub. Accepting that, I added Gillian to my list of people from whom to squeeze information about McMaster’s injuries. I don’t see her as wholly responsible, but I sincerely believe she can push me toward whoever is. My gut feeling shouts either Main or Angelo. I haven’t excluded Gloria McMaster, although she’s buried at the bottom of the list – for one reason only. Heaven knows how many marriages have been annulled by the murder of, or by, a spouse, an aggrieved boyfriend, or a lover possessed of perfectly sane mind who flips at emotional rejection and turns to stalking. But I don’t see Gloria McMaster as one who’ll fell a forest to kill a termite. Least of all by her own hand.
When I trace back to the starting point, I arrive at two common denominators: the Knight’s Arms and Phillip McMaster, with the meeting between McMaster and Main as the spark that detonated their tempers.
My advantage of police methodology sets me on a trail towards Angelo. There is no way I’ll gain from McMaster or Main information that will implicate them in illegal activity. For that, I will need evidence more watertight than the National Marine Aquarium.
Angelo, although having exhibited an aggressive disposition towards me, might inadvertently let slip why someone would want rid of him. I must also consider that he might not even be aware of the arrangement. Perhaps I can tip him off. I fancy myself as a Good Samaritan – the angel of saving grace. Abandon that. Angelo would reject me on sight.
I see Blackshaw’s Mill as a repository of family history; a place where I can flesh out detail from the trusting Maria Caruso. She’ll remember my assisting her home, so I’m sure she’ll not hold back when I offer to help her son.
I first attend the Knight’s Arms to verify Gillian is on shift. She preens herself behind the bar, oblivious to my presence. I raise my hand in one of those sorry-I-can’t-see-who-I’m-looking-for motions, retreat through the front door and rush to the rear car park. I locate Gillian’s rusty, pale blue Fiat. Ideal undercover transport.
A trail of local youth mill about the parking lot, so I crane my head as if looking for my car, a legacy of shopping centre and hospital car mazes. I return to Gillian’s vehicle, unscrew the front tyre valve cap, and soften the escaping hiss as my nail depresses the valve. The front tyre choice is not random. A driver can easily limp to a repair garage with a flat rear tyre. Try it with a front and you’ll snap your forearms trying to steer the wretched thing.
Vandalism accomplished, I set off for Grosvenor Street in Cheltenham where I cruise a nearby street for a parking bay. I look to God, drop my head and fluke a spot adjacent to the access lane that services Gillian’s and nearby properties. I grab my blue clipboard to imitate wanderers tasked to survey home owners or sell an electricity company’s latest budget plan. I check the rear of the property; give the gate a passing nudge. Locked. I continue along the lane and wind back to Grosvenor Street. Stride up to the front door of number seventeen. No answer. Bonus.
I do not know Gillian’s living arrangements. Flatmate or partner? Nup. I peg her as a one-night-stander – six nights a week. She’d thank the Lord for the Sabbath. I don’t hang around the front door. Mr and Mrs Nosey Parker could be logging my movements; one snapping a redundant disposable camera, the other reading the Neighbourhood Watch Procedure Sheet.
I’d determined my entry point from the earlier visit, so I saunter along the lane, avoiding piles of refuse along the way. I leap over the gate in a clumsy Fosbury Flop, and fall into the chaotic back yard. Now I’m sure Gillian doesn’t own the property. The state of disorganisation screams ‘rental’: clumps of weeds and thistles erupt from once pristine lawns. A furrowed path is defined by a marathon-running dog; unpruned geraniums swell into frenzied shrubs; a clothes line imitates the Leaning Tower of Pisa; rear fence panels crave paint and alignment; and a former outhouse bulges with garbage bags, flattened cardboard boxes and empty bottles.
The rear door is double-latched. A security conscious landlord wants no one breaking into his property. The kitchen window is of the modern variety that winds open and shut. It is tightly closed, its frame offering no means of exploitation. Give me the old sash window any day. The next window along the back wall is small. Exceedingly small. A toilet window. Thank goodness, because I’m used to finding toilet windows upstairs. The good thing with toilet windows is that most people leave them open a smidge – for obvious reasons. They consider the tiny window non-negotiable. Wrong. I will squeeze into an attaché case if need be. Erm, make that a suitcase.
This window is a modern wind in, wind out type. It offers no challenge to a skilled illegal entry practitioner like me. I pull on a pair of latex gloves, grab a wicker laundry basket from beneath the clothes line, place it under the window and step on. I distribute my weight at its outer edge – but not carefully enough. My 52 kilograms crumples the basket, and me, to the concrete footpath. Okay, not so skilled.
From the junk-filled outhouse I grab an old milk crate stamped ‘Property of Eastern Dairies’ and invert it under the window. Remove a pair of pliers from my back pocket. Yes, I am prepared. I’ve learnt that a good break and enter can be achieved with one of three implements: a knife; a credit card, which I use for releasing latches and unsnibbed deadlocks; and the pliers, which are multi-functional, but today will twist and snap the window’s winding mechanism from its housing. And that’s exactly what I do.
With the window free on its hinges, I pull myself up from the ledge and manoeuvre my way inside. The word ‘manoeuvre’ might infer elegance. To the contrary. I cannot rotate within the window frame so I drop, head first with arms outstretched, to the floor. It isn’t a soft, dancer’s tumble but a thumping crunch. I reassemble myself and peep into a small hallway. Clear. My heavy landing has not alerted anyone – nor is a dog with open jaws sizing me up.
The kitchen is not dissimilar to the rear yard. Total disarray, and reason for eviction. It reminds me of kitchens showcased on reality shows that portray landlords’ losses from careless and disrespectful tenants. The sink overflows with unwashed plates and dishes; the servery is stacked with open food packets, jars and tins – some of which host partying flies and insects; McDonald’s wrappers litter the benchtop and abseil to the waste tidy; the microwave boasts an allergy to Spray n’ Wipe; and the floor looks like a fly-tipped section of country back road. All this from a woman who spends more time in front of a mirror than she does in charge of a bottle of Cillit Bang.
I perform the mandatory rummage through kitchen drawers and cupboards, not really expecting to find anything, but mindful that I’d once had a memory stick stolen from my own utility drawer. At that time, wise to the merit of multiple backups, I wasn’t overly concerned about the missing files. What did irk me was the fact that I’d been outwitted by a crook. Anyway, the kitchen cupboards are comparatively clean – and under stocked. The woman obviously lives on takeaway. I continue to a small lounge room. It also displays convenience living: scattered magazines and empty Diet Coke cans, a throw rug that validates its description by having been sloppily ‘thrown’ over a couch, a small television with inbuilt DVD, and a table on which stands a computer keyboard, matt black speakers, wireless mouse and other hi-tech paraphernalia. But there is no computer. The set-up mirrors a method I’d once used when, to hasten my typing speed, I’d plugged in a proper keyboard to my laptop.
I now face a real predicament. Several USB memory sticks of various colours, together with a portable hard drive, sit on the ta
ble for my taking. I grab the sticks and drop them into my bag.
Stupid bitch, I chastise. Ridiculous move. I plunge into the bag, retrieve the tiny plastic stubs and restore them to the table. If I take them now, Gillian will realise that whoever had broken in had entered with a specific purpose. She would then beef up security, making it difficult, although not impossible, to regain entry.
On the other hand, I could abort today’s mission, consider it research, and return better equipped with my small tablet into which I could transfer all the goodies lying around the desk. I elect to continue my exploration. A concertina folder contains wads of services’ bills, credit card statements, extended warranties for a toaster and kettle – which I consider superfluous because the toaster is unused – and a few pages of notes, doodles and hieroglyphics. I pay little heed to the papers until the word ‘Knight’s Arms’ jumps from a page.
I check the document and read a summary of Jack Thornton’s instructions. I am not surprised – I already know Trotter’s role is to report on McMaster’s activities. But what does surprise me is the detail she’s acquired: his address (which I’d been told was out-of-bounds) and phone numbers and associates names, most of which mean nothing to me. Nonetheless, I copy them onto a scrap of paper: Angelo. Main. Hernandez. That’s some serious tailing. The name ‘Hernandez’ grabs me. Surely it can’t be. Not Rose. The distinct possibility of her being under Trotter’s nose means I have another loose end to seal. I then flick over a file tab headed ‘Worcester General Hospital’. Inside are McMaster’s phone and ward numbers.
I proceed to the bedroom and bathroom and find nothing of interest. I slump on to Gillian’s toilet and do my business. Crane my neck to the window. Shit. By twisting off the winding mechanism I’d shattered a small section of window frame. I climb onto the toilet bowl, clamp my pliers onto the winder and try to return the winder to its former shape. Fat chance. I push the mounting back into the frame. It looks original. Save for the splintered timber.
I’ve previously exalted my ability to think on my feet: when the going gets tough… I race back to the kitchen. Scan the cupboards, again. Remove a bottle of soy sauce and a jar of peanut butter. The peanut butter resembles a rocky chasm of the Grand Canyon. But I’m not here to eat. I take a dirty teaspoon from the sink, scoop out a half spoon of peanut butter, add a few drops of soy and stir it into a smooth brown paste. Thankfully, the peanut butter is of the smooth variety. Smells like crap, and looks like it too. I race back to the toilet, take a dollop of the goo and press it into the splintered wood. The best wood putty ever seen. As added security, I rip off a couple of sheets of toilet paper, fold them into a small square and wedge the wad between the window and frame to secure the window in its original position.
I find the rear door and study the night latch. I unsnib the old Yale, open the door and slide out. I clamber over the rear gate and dance back to my car knowing that next time will be heck of a lot easier.
The real work starts on return to my office. I launch Google and type in Main. Bloody hell. Pages and pages of businesses, main men, Main Course by the Bee Gees, Main Street Auto Wreckers, and thousands upon thousands of people named ‘Main’. With no first name it is a futile exercise. The same for ‘Angelo’, which could be either a given name or surname.
Hernandez is a different story. There are no fewer than fifty names listed under the cross-section of businesses and the Hispanic community. I play my gut instinct and scroll direct to blogger Rose Hernandez, whose activities comprise condensed drivel over pages of worthless comment and information. I wonder why she invests in seemingly useless trivialities. And then I am glad she does.
Everything happens at once when I’m on a computer. My objective is to unmask the names Gillian had collected. With Main and Angelo, I’ve struck out, so I hang my hopes on the Hernandez girl having posted another clue. Whilst her unfortunate harassment by a police member distresses me, I’m still perplexed as to the reason her photo was on McMaster’s camera. Nothing fits. I can’t fathom how, or why, Gillian has Rose’s name – unless she is the subject of another theft enquiry, or, heaven forbid, an accessory to McMaster’s rorts. Hernandez’s cries of helplessness are shaping up to be a case of the boy crying wolf. With that filling my mind it is only by chance I notice the flashing email icon. I open the ‘Urgent’ message: ‘Please phone me. Thorns.’ I smile at the irony of an important matter being softened by the Superintendent’s nickname.
‘At your service,’ I smile into the phone.
‘Olivia. We have a situation. You up to speed on what’s been happening?’
My smile shrinks. ‘Yeah. So much that I haven’t been able to get back to you.’ I press his silence against my ear: Thornton wondering whether I’m on the level.
‘We’ve got to get together. Today. How about lunch at an out-of-the-way café, say Pierre’s Pastries in Cheltenham?’
‘Yeah. I know it. One o’clock?’
‘Twelve.’
‘Shit. A girl’s got to get ready. Make herself look appealing.’
‘You’re already appealing, Olivia. This isn’t a date. It’s a crisis. Twelve.’
I suspend my research and jump in the shower.
XXIV
Main sits at his desk, cold coffee at his side. Studies the contracts. Diverts his attention from the conflicting offers to the cross-hatched scale plan at the base of the document. It must be coal. Coal had been mined in Britain’s most remote, and most unlikely, regions. Main’s experience in land transfers constrained by covenants is limited, but he does recognise a familiar theme. Where a property sits atop or alongside mines or pits, the land is considered unstable and subject to cave-in. For that reason, title documents annotate the encumbrance in a variety of ways: ‘no building envelope’; ‘do not improve’; and ‘do not plough’ being three means of alerting prospective purchasers to the fact that the property might be subject to subsidence or similar catastrophic upheaval.
Main considers his position. Having been advised that McMaster’s land comprises ‘riches’, he strives to find out exactly what his client is withholding. With McMaster in hospital, he can further the enquiry. The earlier boundary discrepancy legitimises an on-site query. Gloria McMaster should offer no resistance. Some enquiries return more fruitful information from spouses and partners than they do from the actual client.
‘Jeff Main, Mrs McMaster. I’m sorry to hear about your husband. I saw him earlier today, and it’s on his instructions that I must verify measurements for your purchase.’
‘It’s Gloria. And it’s not my purchase. I don’t know what he’s up to. Look at the monstrosity he’s got there; noise all hours of the night. The only time I’ve had a moment’s peace is since he’s been in hospital. Never tells me what’s going on and I really don’t care. What measurements do you need?’
‘These “do not plough” areas marked on the plan. I’ll recommend insuring against any damage or injury that might occur within that defined area.’
Gloria looks unfazed. ‘Doesn’t worry me. I won’t be out there. He’s built that bloody shed over most of it. Can’t you tell?’
‘I was hoping you’d allow me to check inside – at the ground conditions.’
‘Can’t be too much ground in there. Carted it all out with the tractor. Bloody unsightly mess he’s left down the back. Got our own bleedin’ pyramid. Anyway, nothing in there apart from a few plants. I’ll let you in. For goodness sake don’t tell him you’ve been in there. I’m not supposed to have this key. Bastard tried to pull the wool over my eyes and tell me nothing’s in there, but I’ve got his measure. Have done for years. Snaffled it out of his study and got one cut, didn’t I. Need to keep tabs on his little ventures. You don’t know my Mac, and you probably wouldn’t want to.’
Don’t be so sure, lady.
Gloria presses the side door key into Main’s hand. ‘Take your time. You don’t need me. Just t
ap on the door when you’ve finished.’
Main grins at the ease with which he’s obtained the passport to McMaster’s emergent riches. He’d expected an abrupt: ‘You’ll have to wait until my husband’s home.’ He bounds down to the shed. Enters like a cinematographer capturing a 360-degree panoramic mural. After starting his career in small offices, and living the past four years in a two-bedroom flat, the enormity of the shed strikes him – as does the small tractor, a roof-truss mounted jib with block and tackle, and sundry piles of earth scattered about the ground. In a rear corner, rows of white troughs sprout plant life. Above them, wide-rimmed light shades hang like Asian farmers’ straw hats. He recognises the marijuana – he’s defended clients for cultivating that very product. He samples a strawberry. Walks to the centre where a plastic outdoor setting looks out of place, retailer’s stickers still glued to the back of the chairs. He sits, and takes in the surroundings. The unmistakable hollow echo, like the thump from his bathroom floorboards, rumble in his ear. He lifts the corner of the plywood sheet. Darkness. Looks at the soil piles. No hint of coal. He laughs. Old Mac’s flogging a dead horse.
He ambles to a small mound of sparkling flecks. If McMaster’s stumbled on gold deposits, is it no wonder he wants the adjacent property. ‘At all costs,’ he’d instructed. He’s been holding out while I’m doing all the dirty work and behind-the-scenes research for a scale fee and an envelope of cash under the table. We’ll see about that.
He takes a few grains of the sparkling ore and folds it into a page ripped from his notebook. Takes another look under the plywood and studies the formwork bracing. It all makes sense. Looks to the jib and dangling chain and a bucket lying alongside one of the piles. Reflects on Gloria’s words… nothing in there apart from a few plants.
Clock Face of Ills Page 15