Clock Face of Ills

by Paige Elizabeth Turner

  Gillian diverts her attention to silence the dog.

  Benjamin is the least of her problems. She doesn’t see my arm spring from the floor. Doesn’t see my pointed fingers plunge into her neck. And I mean into. I feel flesh up to my second knuckle. My finger nails, not long but daintily manicured, pierce her bacon. Blood spurts. Instant tracheotomy. Her torso rises as if pushed up by the San Andreas Fault. She clutches her neck. I push up and heave sideways, tipping her to the floor. Benjamin is frenetic. Stuff the dog. Gillian partially recovers and rises from the floor. I kick her in the stomach with enough force to wind her and send her crumpling back to the floor. (I’m ashamed of that because it’s far from flattering to kick another woman – especially in the stomach. This was my only means of ‘disabling the threat’ as we’d learnt in the constabulary.)

  I race to the front door and pause on the step – for the benefit of the neighbours – as if I’m waving goodbye to a most cordial afternoon. I hasten along to the next street and sprint to my car. I don my huge ‘bug eye’ sunglasses and drive off, cruising slowly past Grosvenor Street to see Gillian standing on the pavement, head swivelling.

  I remove the iPad. The screen is shattered. A job for Hamilton.

  XXVI

  Gillian bristles with anger. Looks right and left along Grosvenor Street. Returns to the bathroom. Props in front of the mirror. Dabs blood from her throat.

  She rights the upturned couch and restores the lounge room. In the bedroom, a drawer of jewellery and family mementos are untouched. The intruder had nothing in her hands when she sprung from behind the couch. And that presents a problem. Gillian dwells on the question of what had attracted the intruder to her home: I’ve nothing worth stealing. With no prospect of valuables being the target, she considers an alternative motive: I’ve got something somebody wants?

  She hobbles to the kitchen. Benjamin curls in a corner, content, as if he’s had an enjoyable afternoon. Gillian returns to the lounge room with a cup of double-strength black coffee. Five sugars mask the sharp aroma. She pushes aside the assorted USBs and computer peripherals, plugs in her laptop, opens the ‘Current’ file, and types a report of the break-in. A strict believer in regular back-ups, she grabs the red memory stick – which duplicates ‘Current’ – and presses it into the slot. A menu flashes onto the screen. Several files flag access within the past hour.

  She scrolls through menus of the accompanying memory sticks and time stamps of recent activity. So who’s checking on me? Two names hover: Thornton. McMaster. Thornton making sure I’m on the level. That’d be his form – check on the outsider, make sure she’s legit. Surely Mac wouldn’t have arranged this? He’s in bloody hospital. Then it hits her. That’s what’s driving this. He thinks I’ve got something to do with the accident.

  A phone screeches. She snatches it from the bench: ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hi. I’m home. Change of plans. Got discharged. What you up to?’

  ‘I only left you two hours ago! You said you’d be out next week. What happened?’

  ‘Bed shortage. They say I’ll be okay. Gonna treat me as an outpatient. Just bandage redressing, well, except for this piece of plastic shit around my waist, and, um, the plaster around my leg. So, how are you, my sweet? Think you’ll be up to having a visitor?’

  ‘Strange you mention that. Already had one. Someone in my flat when I got home, hiding behind the couch. Friggin’ bitch – yeah, it was a fuckin’ woman. Think I beat her to the punch. Didn’t take anything, though.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Local scum looking for cash. You wanna know about break-ins? Barely one in twenty are solved – and then only after someone’s recognised their prized DVD player or circular saw in a pawn shop. You’d best beef up your security. You home this evening?’

  ‘Yes. What about your wife?’

  ‘Can’t bring her. Sorry.’

  ‘Smart arse. Phone me after six. I’m going to tidy up here. And be prepared. I’ll have important news for you.’

  ‘I hope that’s not all you got.’ McMaster’s grin trickles through the phone.

  Gillian dawdles to the toilet. Fuckin’ bitch. Dangling from the wall glares a piece of window frame and the damaged winder.

  She phones Thornton. ‘I think we’re onto something. Mac’s out of hospital and he’s asked me over. No idea what for – have to phone back after six.’ She stifles a small chuckle. ‘Not a problem for me. Must’ve played the flirt to perfection.’

  ‘I’m paying you for information. How you get it is your own business.’ Thornton bangs down the phone.

  He picks it up just as quick. Jabs a pre-dial: ‘Olivia. Glad you’re there. The Pig’s had a call from Mac. Apparently, he’s been released and wants to see her. Something in her voice that smacks of arse covering. She suspects something’s going on, but I trust her like—’

  ‘Okay. I’m prepared. Can head over now. You know I might be restricted. It’s a difficult location to eavesdrop without being seen, especially during daylight.’

  ‘Might be premature for a full-on obbo. Nothing’s happening until after six, so don’t drop everything. Just tread carefully, Liv. You have my total support. Call me when you’ve got something.’

  Liv. Why do they keep calling me that?

  XXVII

  At 2:30 a.m. creaking timber stirs Angelo from his sleep. He fluffs his pillow and dismisses the interruption as yawns of the aging four-level timber-framed stairway. He rolls over to snare another four hours’ sleep.

  An arm drops across his neck. Wrestler’s sleeper hold. A momentary struggle defers unconsciousness. He submits. Plays dead. Works miracles. In theory. Save yourself for a surprise counter. He cannot identify the person pumping a syringe into his thigh. Doesn’t wince as a second 100 ml shot of Deca Durabolin mixed with sodium thiopental seeps into the muscle.

  ‘Deca’ is Angelo’s favoured bodybuilding steroid. He’s made no secret around gym cronies of his obsession with the internet-sourced drug to help him gain muscular weight and size. It is intended to mask the sodium thiopental – commonly dispensed as Pentothal – a mild anaesthetic formulated for intravenous administration.

  Angelo succumbs to the concoction.

  Arms grasp him and hoist him over a shoulder. Strong. Heavy-set. Body odour.

  Moving.

  Out of the doorway.

  Head crashes against the architrave. Bounce, bounce, bounce. Synchronised with descending steps.

  The front door opens. Night’s chill rushes his nostrils. Freshness stings. But fails to revive.

  A car door unlocks. Remote controlled.

  Powerless to brace himself.

  Bashes his head. Metal.

  Crashes onto a seat. Face down. Not bucket seats. A bench seat. The rear.

  Recognises the scent. Leather?

  Familiar smell.

  Touches his tongue to the seat. Neat’s-foot oil. Best leather preservative ever. Few know about it. Fewer use it.

  Fuck. This is my fucking car!

  The car starts.

  Don’t rev the shit out of my car.

  Drives off.

  Take it easy for fuck sake.

  Sways from side to side. Can’t discern the direction. Lost.

  How long? Twenty minutes? Thirty?

  Crunching. A gravel driveway.

  What the fuck?

  The car stops. Rear door opens.

  Don’t pull me by the fucking legs.

  Crashes onto the ground. Chest first. Then face.

  Fuck! Not heard.

  Up and over the shoulder.

  Not again.

  Bounce, bounce, bounce. A door opens. Metallic. Ankles whack the doorway.

  More bouncing. Halts.

  Scraping.

  Chairs in an empty hall?

  Whop. A whoosh of air and a soft thump.

&
nbsp; Fuuuucckk!

  Falling. Head and limbs crash and tumble. Feels like a lift shaft. No cables. Solid walls. Slam from side to side. Somersault. Descending.

  Where the fuck am I?

  Thud, bang, wallop, thwack. Crash. Earth. Can’t move. Can’t speak.

  Feel nothing. Blood trickles down my neck.

  Scraping. Darkness.

  A faint creak. Closing door.

  The car drives off.

  Silence.

  * * *

  Twelve hours’ later, weighing McMaster’s and Caruso’s threats, Jeff Main pores over the Blackshaw’s Mill contracts. Under threat of the approaching deadline, he ponders which of the two contracts to execute. Either way, horrific consequences loom. He favours McMaster because his contract is legal, and, he would retain his dress circle seat overlooking his client’s forecast riches. Angelo’s deal – returning the vendor ninety thousand pounds short of McMaster’s offer – will render him liable to a malpractice suit.

  He snatches the phone. ‘Main.’

  ‘Been waiting to hear from you.’

  ‘Yeah Phil. Had a bit going on. You’re on my list though.’

  McMaster has dealt with every form of excuse and delay tactic. From the near-extinct ‘cheque’s in the mail’ through to ‘the bank’s got a problem with my account.’ It is always someone else’s fault.

  ‘You must have a long list,’ he replies. ‘My conveyancing file through yet? Settlement’s due.’

  ‘Coupla hiccups Phil. Not a problem, though. Should be on the way now.’

  ‘So what are these hiccups? You should’ve told me. I can’t afford to lose this property.’

  ‘I know, Phil, and I’m sorry. As if I haven’t had enough problems trying to fix this. I’ve had to sign affidavits about one of those erroneous copies. Declared the offer was amended because chattels had been recalculated. On top of that, the vendor changed heart – spoke of passing the property to the son – but just as dramatically reverted back to normal. Seems I’ve forgotten what normal is. I’ve gotta go.’ Main slams down the phone.

  The receptionist’s voice crackles through the intercom: ‘Telephone call. Mr Main. Line two.’

  He grabs the phone again. ‘What now?’

  Silence.

  ‘Yes. Main here.’

  ‘Hello. Job’s done.’ The line clunks dead. Main struggles to identify the voice, the electronic disguise muffling the dialogue into an androgynous robotic mix. What job? He connects: Blackshaw’s Mill. What job’s done? Has dear Jill encouraged Angelo to withdraw from the sale?

  He’s expected the call since handing over the envelope of cash and instructions. Satisfied with the news, he switches to a routine matrimonial settlement but cannot concentrate. He flings the file from his desk, seizes his brief case, and rushes from office. ‘Migraine. Back in the morning,’ he grunts to reception.

  In the sanctity of his car, he ruminates over Lowenstein’s arrangement. He is not comfortable with unresolved matters fracturing his established routine. He also has little patience with those who make arrangements and fail to stand by them. Albert Lowenstein is one of those.

  Frustrated, he makes the call. Lowenstein apologises: ‘Sorry, Mr Main. I always try to respond with urgency to clients who show genuine interest in my business. I’m not sure if you understand my industry, but raw materials are sometimes harder to, shall we say, offload? No problem to discuss details. What about tomorrow at two o’clock? I’d say it would be in your interest.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’ Main smiles, rubs his hands and visualises serious debt clearance.

  Lowenstein flicks through his phone’s menu.

  ‘Onions. Listen up. Had delays. I’m set now. Got Mac’s solicitor coming in at two tomorrow. Shouldn’t need you both. It’s up to you.’

  ‘Comprendo. I was beginning to wonder what’s the go. Why’s a bloody lawyer on the case?’

  ‘You’d have to ask Mac. I’ve had no contact with him – only you and the lawyer. Goes by the name of Main. Know him?’

  ‘No. You trying to shop me or something?’

  ‘I’m an honourable trader. Honouring my agreement. Said I’d call you, which is what I am doing. I don’t know what Mac’s up to – I told you I haven’t spoken with him. All I know is that he deals through you. Doesn’t affect me. If he’s got someone else on a string, that’s between him and you.’

  ‘Yeah, my mother was honourable. Kicked me out at fourteen. Too right it’s between Mac and me. I’ll phone him.’

  Onions is determined to not lose out. Either way, he’ll get commission for striking a deal for McMaster’s sample, or he’ll be rewarded for tipping off Mac that his legal friend is about to scam him. He smiles, rubs his hands and visualises a new car – this time purchased off the showroom floor instead of stolen from a railway station park and ride.

  Lowenstein swipes his phone.

  ‘Hello Miss Watts. How lovely to speak with you again.’

  Olivia recognises the distinct voice. Returns similar falsity: ‘Mr Lowenstein. I’m equally delighted. How may I help?’

  ‘Serious business, Olivia. I’m only doing this as a favour for my old friend Marchant. Don’t know what good it will do, but I’ve tied up a deal for you.’

  Olivia knows the deals Marchant had orchestrated – she’d witnessed his shortcuts to convictions. ‘Told you I don’t do deals, Mr Lowenstein. You want to capitalise on that community spirit you were talking of?’

  ‘This is big. I know about McMaster, but ask no questions. Thing is, he’s got a well-known fence and a solicitor brokering gold. I haven’t a clue where it’s from, other than there’s supposed to be an unlimited supply – quote, unquote. Point is, I need to re-establish credibility with the MET. Let’s say I had a licensing problem a while back and doing the Bill a favour will restore my good standing. You see where I’m coming from?’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t see where you’re going. Unless you’re sure this gold is stolen, there’s nothing wrong with someone trying to sell it.’

  ‘Then pray tell me why McMaster himself hasn’t graced my doorstep?’

  Olivia ponders the conundrum. If McMaster has found gold on his property, he will be obligated to the Crown. No owner of private property would make such an admission. To investigate him for that would be akin to charging a burglar with jay walking on departing a burglary. With the knowledge gleaned from McMaster’s sill safe, she now wonders whether McMaster might be complicit in Giuseppe’s passing.

  ‘All right, Alby. What’s the go?’

  ‘I can deliver McMaster and Main in one hit. You do what you like with them.’

  ‘I can’t do anything with them. I told you – I’m no longer a copper.’

  ‘Think about it, woman. The lawyer’s given me an envelope of dirt and grit. I was lucky to find a pinhead of gold. That suggests he’s acquired remnants, maybe from a slush pile. The fence guy – you don’t need his name – had a couple of tiny rocks. I reckon he’s doing Mac’s dirty work – has done for years. You want info on McMaster? Come and get it. Main’ll sell him out.’

  ‘Don’t be so sure,’ says Olivia. ‘Mac’s the biggest seller outerer ever.’

  ‘Main’ll spill his guts if he thinks the police are involved. The guy’ll back-pedal faster than a dyslexic speed-reader. I’ve let on to Mac’s fence that Main’s coming in; in fact, he should be onto Mac right now. Knowing Mac as I do, he’ll be pacing my floor at ten to two tomorrow. It’s up to you. Do a trade – their story for your glory.’

  ‘Can’t do that,’ says Olivia. ‘Nothing I can do will insulate them from what I believe they’ve done. I can’t offer immunity from prosecution – but I know someone who can.’ Cautious of Lowenstein’s motives, she offers no further.

  ‘If you bring the right artillery, no one’ll be threatening no one.’

 
‘Fair enough. I’ve got a contact who’ll be there with bells on. This is not cut and dried, you know. Main’ll recognise me. Plus, he’ll make a meal of anything that so much as whiffs of entrapment.’

  ‘Hey, there’s no entrapment. Main’s coming here for a price he requested, and I’ll bet my life that McMaster’ll be here under his own steam to sort out Main.’

  ‘Nup. Gotta do this straight down the line. I’ll try to beat Main to the punch. I’ve got until tomorrow to save his butt from McMaster and score a major win for myself.’ Olivia smiles and ends the call. Rubs her hands and pictures closing her enquiry with a substantial cheque and an offer of continued work.

  XXVIII

  Hamilton Holt is an easy person to forget – until a computer problem or electronics malfunction sparks the need for his expertise. That is my reason for messaging him.

  Hamilton is the archetypal nerd who presents as a modern-day Ginger Meggs. He’s cursed with wild ginger hair and blocky glasses so old they’ve encored as current designer fashion. A strip of blue, black and red pens adorns his jacket pocket. I would bet a crisp fifty he transfers them to his striped flannelette pyjamas each evening. For those not familiar with my earlier investigations, Hamilton is a former Police IT consultant who turned to his own consultancy. He is one of few in Britain able to acquire the tiniest scrap of information about anyone and anything.

  He’s also au fait with computer repairs, upgrades and tweaks one might not access from the regular High Street technician. I trust him with my soul and that’s why I’d called him with a request to extract information from my shattered iPad. I haven’t been game to turn it on since leaving Gillian’s, just in case I fuse it, fizz it out, or whatever happens after a £400 rectangle of electronic wizardry is compressed under the combined weight of a 100-kilo Biggest Loser candidate and a wispy excuse of a female.