So he’s holding out on his wife, too. Can’t say I blame him. He runs figures through his mind: the cost of a new apartment in Canary Wharf; his own practice on a lower floor; a Mercedes AMG…
He replaces the plywood cover, leaves the shed, locks the door, climbs into his car, and sails out of the driveway toward a new life.
Main acts on impatience with characteristic sensibility. He pulls to the side of the road, delves into his pocket for his mobile, swipes ‘internet’, and Googles Gold Guild, the obvious starting point for preliminary enquiries about the commodity’s quality and price. Saves the number into his directory. Makes an appointment. Considers it research for a client. He’ll bill McMaster for the pleasure. At all costs.
He drives straight to Frederick Street in Birmingham, a nest of silversmiths, gem traders and diamond merchants. ‘The Gold Guild’ shines in gold leaf on double doors protected by a bulky black bullion-looking guard. ‘Mr Lowenstein’s expecting me.’
The doorman points him inside.
‘Jeffrey Main.’ (He formalises his given name only in situations requiring elevated status.) ‘I’m representing a client with a potential high-yield mine. I’d be obliged if you would assess and value this sample.’ Main removes the folded notepaper and tips its contents into a stainless steel tray.
‘Your client will hardly get rich on that.’
‘This is a sample. I’m hardly going to cart ’round 32 ounce nuggets, am I?’ replies Main, compromising his professionalism with sarcasm.
‘Leave it with me. And your card. One of my staff will contact you.’
XXV
The venue is an ostentatious Parisienne sidewalk café boasting a red and white chequered frontage with bold blue French windows. The two ‘P’s of the business name, artistically Photoshopped from two Eiffel Towers, soar above the front windows. Inside, the theme continues: red and white chequered tablecloths, blue placemats, an enormous chalkboard menu boasting croissants and baguettes, French toast, French onion soup and French vanilla slices. I spot a young couple French kissing. Assorted letters cover their table. Not French. I am Frenched out before I even sit. The theme ends when I hear the proprietor – presumably Pierre – speak English without a hint of French accent.
Thornton walks directly to the police table, so named because of its location in the back corner. Like a true gentleman, he withdraws me a seat.
I fold into a nervous posture and glance at the menu. Thornton studies me instead of the fare. I select Chicken Parmigiana, with a cappuccino up front. Thornton nods a Superglued smile to a waitress and doubles the order.
‘Well, Olivia. How’s that report? I thought you’d have got back to me by now.’
I stall, still not able to call him Jack. Most people who contract my services do so on a casual-cum-business relationship. This is different. I preserve formalities: ‘Sir, I’ve been flat out from location to location. After I phoned you yesterday, I headed straight to Worcester General to find out Mac’s condition. Er, I’ll give you a quick rundown and later formalise it in writing.
‘I was working on Trotter, tailing her. We’d pulled up in a lay-by 100 metres south of McMaster’s home, Ashton Hill—’
‘Yes, yes. I know where he lives.’
I hate being cut short, so hasten the pace: ‘Sorry. Obviously, I didn’t know what she was up to. While trying to fathom her reason for being there, I heard a crack, which I thought was thunder until I recognised it as splitting timber. A loud thud followed. Some of the next events are blurred but I’ll correct the chronology on paper. Gillian withdrew from her car and looked along the lay-by toward a white van – which meant nothing to me at the time – before racing across the road and glaring at McMaster’s home.
‘Only after she was clear, did I too dash across the road to monitor her movements. I saw a tree lying over Mac’s car. Gillian spoke to Mac, but I don’t know if he replied or was even coherent; she made a call from her mobile, and shortly after conversed with a woman I later identified as McMaster’s neighbour, Mrs Maria Caruso.
‘At that stage I raced back to my car to phone you. Your phone was engaged. Anyway, while I was waiting, I spotted a white glove on the ground nearby where the white van had been parked.’ I remove the Glad Bag from my handbag and pass it across the table. ‘It’s bloody whiffy, but you’ll get good DNA. The van’s registered keeper is Ray’s Rentals. Plate number KH07 WMX. We should get a positive ID from the glove or the van. Doesn’t mean the van’s got anything to do with it, but the driver should be regarded as a person of interest, if only for his presence.’
Thornton glares: ‘Yes, Olivia. I think I know the way it works.’
My cheeks flush. ‘Sorry. Got carried away. After I phoned you I headed back to the scene and accompanied Mrs Caruso to her home. That’s where I had the unfortunate displeasure of meeting her delightful son, Angelo – more on him later.
‘There’s multiple issues here. McMaster has tentacles wrapped around the whole country.’
I pull out the second Glad Bag. ‘You’ll find this to be medium to high grade marijuana. I’ve taken it from a girl who claims Mac’s asked her to sell it.’ I push over a brief report of the Hernandez events. ‘I’ll elaborate later. He’s definitely collecting enemies. Do you want me to keep on this while he’s in hospital?’
‘Yes. You might learn more while he’s laid up. You might also probe further into his association with Trotter. If there’s more to that than professionalism, heads are going to fly.’
I am relieved to have his confidence. ‘I’m actually pursuing that right now. Would be premature to discuss too much, but I’ll soon have goodies that I’ll share in person. Initially at least.’
‘You’ve got concerns?’
‘As I say, early days. Best to not speculate on this one.’
‘Fair enough. Appreciate your honesty. Another coffee?’
‘Yes thanks. They make a good vanilla slice here.’
Thornton takes the hint and orders two cappuccinos and two vanilla slices. We ease into informal banter: life after the constabulary; my old mentor DI Stafford, and then his surprise revelation that the local council is pursuing an employee by the name of Stonebridge for unauthorised dealings with Phillip McMaster.
Confused over the week’s events, I leave the patisserie and ruminate over having sat in my car while a former colleague drove into a death trap.
I rewind to Thornton’s original request: ‘The situation is, Olivia, we have an officer, an inspector at that, who might be compromising the ethics of the constabulary… There is a loose cannon somewhere in the office.’
Taking into account the limited information I’ve acquired, I conclude that something of greater magnitude is unravelling. It would take much more than a copper’s underhanded shenanigans to incite someone to kill him. I prioritise doing over Gillian’s home. This time I’ll be properly equipped.
* * *
‘Olivia. Albert Lowenstein. You’re going to love this. I’ve just had another guy come in to request a gold sample appraisal. Wants quality and price, which is interesting, because most amateurs are after quick cash. How’s this? He’s a Worcester-based solicitor. Jeffrey Main. I shouldn’t put two and two together, but as you know, I’ve already got a sample from one of my Worcester cohorts and now here’s another. That’d be like Halley’s Comet reappearing during its 76-year cycle. But here’s the crunch: both samples are of the same composition.’
‘So why call me?’
‘Because when a solicitor peddles the same merchandise as a street con and that merchandise ties in McMaster, warning flags flap. I don’t care what you do; I’m being a good, upstanding citizen reporting an activity I believe is contrary to public interest.’
Bloody hell. Old Alby’s after a spot in the Queen’s birthday honours list. ‘Okay, leave it with me. I’ll give you a call. This could be too big for me –
but you have my word you’ll share in the final glory.’
This puts McMaster on a new stage. I have no reason to doubt Lowenstein; I’ve seen McMaster’s stash of mining books and related paraphernalia. What disturbs me is that my charter is to report on Gillian. And then I wonder. Is she part of this? I wallow in indecision: a loose end dangling from a cable of severed nerves twitching about after a workplace amputation. No purpose, and no hope of recovery without professional help.
Forcing conclusions has countless drawbacks. Losing focus on the main objective is one. Maybe I should redefine my objectives. Perhaps I still think like a copper instead of a private investigator. I can no longer introduce myself as Detective Sergeant Olivia Watts, and expect an instant confession or privileged information. No. The rules have changed. Now, when I introduce myself as Olivia Watts, private investigator, I’m snubbed like a satellite TV salesperson. Is it no wonder I conduct business under the radar?
I must complete my current priority, and that is to extract as much info as possible from Gillian’s flat. With McMaster in hospital, I expect Gillian to be glued to his bedside instead of pulling Guinness at the Knight’s Arms. Minutes before the 2.00 p.m. visitors’ exodus, I drift along the corridor past McMaster’s ward. Sure enough, there she is, sipping orange juice, affably chatting to the patient. The question of the year resurfaces: Why has she conjoined herself to McMaster?
I contemplate the conundrum on my way to Grosvenor Street. I dump my car and stride to Gillian’s front door like a meter reader hustling to complete his shift. Knock twice. No answer. A bright mid-winter sun warms me as I trek along the rear lane to the familiar gate. I climb into Gillian’s backyard. Having prepared my mode of entry, I grab the milk crate from the outhouse, place it beneath the toilet window, step up and pull open the window. The wad of toilet paper falls from the frame, followed by a glob of peanut butter and soy.
I haul myself through the portal and replicate my previous landing: painful and noisy. After brushing off dust and pubic hairs, I head to the lounge room where the items on the table appear undisturbed. Not so. The keyboard has been moved. I presume information has been updated and saved on portable storage devices.
I remove my iPad from my jacket, pick up the closest USB memory stick, push it into my Lightning connector and click through sources until two folders flash onto the screen: family history and personal correspondence. I flick through both to make sure no documents are hidden within snaps of granny celebrating her ninetieth birthday.
The second USB is more promising. The first folder, ‘Current’, lists Word documents logging times and attendances at both the Knight’s Arms and McMaster’s property, cross-referenced to time sheets and invoices. I download the lot into my iPad. Another folder marked ‘Legal’ holds files relating to Craggill, Weston and Rubenstein, which means nothing – until I see mention of a meeting between McMaster and J. Main. Aah, that’s the ‘Main’ I found in her handwritten notes. Download that also.
Another folder, ‘H’ details observations of McMaster at the Heavenly Spirits bottle shop. Holy shit! Trotter’s known about this all along and she just stood by?
McMaster is not my concern, but I begin to find – as I do in most investigations – that rarely is a crime solved by one or two pieces of evidence linking the perpetrator. An overlap invariably blurs other findings. I copy the ‘H’ folder.
I click open the remaining folder: ‘Mac’. At first glance it appears a duplicate because ‘Mac’ was prominent in the ‘Legal’ folder. But this collection of documents is a mixed bag; some clearly from police command – in particular, his service history and arrest record – which I’ll later find interesting, and others of a personal nature: records of bank and financial transactions and half-a-dozen Excel spreadsheets displaying assets and liabilities. There is too much sensitive detail to have been obtained by a single investigator – the material is an authentic reproduction from financial institutions and police administration archives. I am sure big money has passed under one or two tables to get the data, otherwise ‘information sharing’ has taken a mammoth illegal step forward.
I download the ‘Mac’ file and am about to plug in the portable hard drive when I hear the front door unlatch. Shit. I am two rooms from disaster. I plunge the data cable down the front of my top, grab hold of my iPad and look to the window. Pointless. There is no time to open it and escape. That leaves two choices: I can prop behind the lounge room door, or seek refuge behind a settee backed up against the wall. Either way, my options aren’t good. I choose the settee, knowing that I’ll at least be comfortable.
I’ve only just stretched out when I actually feel footsteps pound along the hallway to the rear of the house. There is no way I’ll chance my retreat on the presumption that she won’t return to the lounge room. That is a welcome instance of intuition – women’s of course – because moments later the footsteps creak into the lounge room. From under the couch I see steel-capped work boots, small enough to confirm their being worn by a woman. I can’t risk twisting my head beyond the sofa’s armrest, for obvious reasons. I confirm Gillian’s presence after inhaling a whiff of cheap perfume. Women of class will support me on this: budget perfumes have a decidedly ‘sickly’ scent. We know perfume is a concoction of chemicals complementing a base essential oil. Budget scents however, comprise only two to six percent perfume concentrate, with the remainder, I reckon, made up of water and saccharin and similar elements to hoodwink the purchaser into believing their fragrance replicates those of Chanel, Dior, and others. In reality, they don’t cut it.
And then I gasp a whiff of something else. Dog. Fuck me. Sorry. I’m not usually so crass. This mangy spaniel-looking cross-breed pokes its wet snout around the back of the settee and right into my face. It just stays there like one of those stupid Irish or English Setters that identify their prey and stand frozen on the spot like a young child catching his first glimpse of a person suffering elephantiasis.
I extend my hand, hoping my own unthreatening scent might pacify Woofy or whatever its name is. It sniffs. And growls. But doesn’t bark.
Again, I offer my hand. And now it barks.
‘Calm down, Benjamin. I know you’re hungry.’ Gillian’s melodious voice.
I force myself to not snigger. ‘Benjamin’? Whatever. I wish for dear Benjamin to pad off to the kitchen.
But Benjamin doesn’t move. He growls. And barks some more.
‘Come on boy. What is it?’ Gillian’s sing-song voice irritates me. She must think of Benjamin as a two-year-old child.
Bloody hell. I am about to be sprung. Gillian’s footsteps approach. I have is the element of surprise, but Benjamin has compromised even that.
Here goes. I safeguard the iPad inside my top and zip up my jacket for added insurance. With both hands I grab the frame beneath the couch and spring up like a Jack-in-the-box, hoisting the couch with me. It rises and rotates through the air like an Olympic gymnast tumbling across the competition mat.
She screams – in surprise rather than fright – and Benjamin goes berserk. To avoid the flying settee Gillian steps back, but not quick enough. The couch crashes into her midriff, the impact propelling her rearward into the table upon which the computer equipment sits. She buckles to the floor.
I rush to the doorway, Benjamin snapping at my ankle. He clamps onto my jeans’ hem, causing me to shoot out a vigorous kick. The dog is wise, and retreats before I connect. That affords me time to bound out of the lounge and into the hallway. Bright light filters through the front door’s leadlight panes. Heaven beckons me. What I don’t see, or remember, is a hall runner – a ridiculous piece of carpet barely three feet wide; a sort of red carpet for poor VIPs (Very Insignificant People) or a budget means of dressing up a home for those who can’t afford real wall-to-wall carpet.
I step onto the runner and flounder like a person without skates walking across an ice rink. I crash to the ground, and ri
ght on cue, bloody Benjamin barks, pounces and jumps all over me.
‘Bitch.’ The word resonates from the other room.
I don’t need a PIs licence to know Gillian refers to me and not the dog. I jump up, gently kick Benjamin (‘gently’ meaning that no animals were injured during my escape) and start toward the doorway. The next moment I’m felled by a rugby tackle that sends me crashing to the floor – this time with my assailant landing on top of me. And it isn’t Benjamin. Gillian’s tackle would earn her a report in a World Cup match. She holds me around the waist while I heave for breath. I don’t care too much for myself, but I do fear for my iPad. If I lose the information I’ve so carefully extracted, the whole exercise will be wasted, and I’ll be bruised and battered for nothing.
Gillian is of substantial size. Without conveying discourtesy, I comprehend why she’s been coined ‘The Pig’ by Thornton – and it has nothing to do with trotters. But, as any boxer or martial arts exponent will attest, ‘big’ does not a winner make.
I have marginal martial arts experience – snubbed because I can’t apply myself to anything for longer than six months. I know I have to rely on the favoured ‘attack is the best form of defence’ strategy. With Gillian’s arms wrapped around my waist (the first time I’ve been held in months) I sense she’ll have difficulty removing them because our combined weight of 150 kilograms pins them to the floor. That places me in the fortunate, and advantageous, position of having my arms free.
In my predicament, there are few things a slight woman can achieve with free hands. I could elbow her in the stomach. She might wince, but her body mass would insulate her from real pain. I could punch her in the head, but my aim would have to be so well placed to cause real damage. I’d probably break my knuckles. Or, I could execute a precision poke to the larynx where I’d be assured of inflicting immediate discomfort. I twist my neck to the left. And then I do it. I fold my thumb under four fingers to form a prong of muscle and bone. I rotate my wrist.
Clock Face of Ills Page 16