Clock Face of Ills

by Paige Elizabeth Turner

  An orange-haired Orangutan flashes onto my phone screen. ‘Hi Hamo. What you been doing.’

  ‘Nothing as exciting as being with you, Liv.’

  Here we go again. Hamilton’s harmless, yet no matter how long the break between contact, he always lets go with sickly come-ons, similar to the pickup lines I reject in pubs and clubs. I once made the fateful mistake of following through and acceding to one of his invitations. Yuk. Never again. We had agreed to keep everything professional.

  ‘Yeah, right. First up, how’d you go with that little installation in Cheltenham?’

  ‘Not a problem. Did it the next morning. Your girl should be happy now. Tell me, what’s the occasion?’

  ‘I’m stuck. I’ve got an iPad that’s thinner than the factory specs; cracked screen but the body’s intact – bit like myself.’

  ‘Come on, Liv. Nothing a bit of rejuvenation won’t fix.’

  ‘Let’s focus on my iPad, and don’t call me Liv.’

  ‘Right. Don’t mess with it. Don’t turn it on. We might be okay. Has it been wet?’

  ‘Nup. Just squashed. I was doing a job, turned rough and, well, I’ll tell you when I see you. Can I meet you somewhere? Half way?’

  Hamilton changes address every three months. He once explained that he gets bored in the same premises, but I suspect it has more to do with evading detection or keeping MI5 officers at bay. Last I knew, he was settled in a swanky Birmingham city apartment.

  ‘Lunch, Liv. My place. And I’ll fix it on the spot.’

  ‘Swanky’ understates the premises. An area marked ‘Visitors Only’ requires a Key Card, thereby preventing my access. I surmise that ‘visitors’ need approval for privileged parking. I venture to a nearby street to misappropriate a resident’s spot. With none available, I roll into a ginormous Tesco. To legitimise my right to its car park, I grab a bag of groceries before returning to the apartment block.

  The front is more secure than 10 Downing Street – without the police protection. There is no tenants’/owners’ listing, and no intercom. My kind of place. No hassles from door-to-door salespeople.

  I circumvent further stress by phoning him. ‘I’m here.’

  ‘Sorry Liv. I should’a told you about the rear entry. It’s a ploy designed to deter intruders. Guess it worked. Just walk around the back and I’ll meet you.’

  I hedge around the corner and see Hamilton standing next to the rear electronic doors, glowing like a just-extinguished matchstick. A panel of apartment numbers and buzzers shine beside him. I disguise my ineptitude: ‘I would have found this but I didn’t want to keep you waiting.’

  Hamilton smirks. ‘Yeah sure.’

  A stainless steel and mirrored lift propels us to the fifth floor. ‘Probably the only lift in Birmingham that isn’t graffitied.’

  We walk into his apartment. I freeze, open-mouthed. ‘You got a maid or something?’ I’ve seen Hamilton’s previous apartments; the stereotyped unkempt, chaotic and unlivable bachelor’s space.

  ‘No. I’ve turned the corner. There comes a day when everyone finds their true self. I was hiding behind a facade of immaturity; I cared nothing for neatness and order – except within my work. Now, it’s my lifestyle.’

  I can’t believe him. Won’t. It would be like Russell Brand cutting his hair and shaving. Some things don’t change. I don’t give up: ‘You haven’t turned the corner and joined the gay brigade have you?’

  ‘You gotta to be having a laugh. I can’t even score a plain Jane, let alone a guy who’s flamboyant, outgoing and particular. I’m still hanging for you, Liv.’

  ‘You’ll be hanging a long time. And please stop calling me Liv!’

  ‘All right already. Let’s get this show on the road. Hand over the goods, Olivia. What you got in there?’

  I pass the iPad from my bag and detail the circumstances leading to its demise. I stress the importance of the stored information, and confide my inability to regain it with similar ease.

  Hamilton lays the unit on a rubber mat and fixes a strap to his wrist.

  ‘What the— What’s that? You a gay fashion icon now?’

  Hamilton grimaces. ‘What’s the sudden fascination with gayness? It’s an electrostatic strap. Prevents static destroying capacitors and insulators and stuff. Bit technical; it’s just a precaution. I bet you’d be into precautions?’

  I ignore the oblique question.

  I watch over his shoulder; an apprentice studying her master’s craft. He separates the iPad into two parts, leaving the inner circuitry upturned on the mat. I see that two silver caps – and I don’t know whether they are diodes or capacitors or chipsets or even a CPU – are bent. That alarms me. Hamilton pulls a data cable from the back of his laptop and clips the other end to a peg inside the iPad. I smile. The menu pops up on Hamilton’s laptop. He selects ‘All Files’ from a program I’ve never heard of, clicks ‘copy/transfer’, and within moments my files, including my treasured photos and music, swim like sperm into Hamilton’s computer.

  He delves into a box beneath his bench and pulls out an iPad casing. I hope he isn’t going to do what I think he’s going to do, because I don’t want a white iPad.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I query.

  ‘Restoring your iPad. Updating.’

  He does do what I didn’t want him to do. I peck his cheek. My work is reinstated and I’m about to own a remodeled iPad. ‘Where’d you get the case?’

  ‘eBay. Probably hot. No identifiers though.’

  I do the eye roll. ‘Great.’

  Hamilton smiles. Fires up the unit. Icons flood the screen. ‘Okay Liv. Job done. Now, we’ll have coffee and make love… ly use of these files, shall we?’

  He doesn’t give up. I hadn’t banked on sharing the information with Hamilton, but it won’t cause any harm. He might even be able to help.

  There’s something endearing about a man in control. Perhaps it’s power, or maybe over-confidence. I’m not sure. But Hamilton bypasses the coffee making and goes straight to the ‘Current’ file. A list of twenty-odd Word documents paginate. Gillian is certainly methodical. Every filename is preceded by the day’s date, which makes it easier to locate an item referenced to time than by name. I vow to adopt her system.

  The most recent entries are time sheets, probably for Thornton’s invoices. I click on a video icon I’d missed while rummaging through the menu at Gillian’s home. Turns out to be excellent footage of McMaster and Main in the Knight’s Arms. Sound is next to non-existent, but Gillian has excelled by including accompanying notes: 18/4 Screws on JM. 20/4 Knight’s Arms. 2pm meeting with suit. Later identified as solicitor. Details in confidence relate to land transaction. 23/4 Tree down.

  Hamilton twists his neck from the screen. ‘You know what all this is about?’

  ‘Not all, but I’ll figure it pretty quick. I know the Knight’s Arms. That’s where Trotter, Gillian, whose info this is, works part-time. She’s an undercover op’ for Thornton. Remember the Super?’

  ‘Thorns? ’course I remember him. But how the hell do you know that?’

  ‘Because I’m also working for him.’

  Hamilton stares. ‘You’re having a laugh. You’re both on the same job?’

  ‘No Hamo. This is big. I wouldn’t tell anyone but you. Thorns thinks Trotter’s bent. I’m tailing her while she’s tailing Phillip McMaster, an inspector from way back. He’s supposed to be pocketing goodies on the side. Thorns believes Trotter’s tipping off Mac. I tend to agree. Some strange shit going down. I’ve got a side lead on McMaster which might be supported by whatever’s in the ‘H’ file.’

  ‘Be buggered. Now I’m making coffee. Come and check out the bedroom, woops sorry, the kitchen.’

  ‘You wish.’ I follow him into the kitchen where a huge black and chrome coffee machine holds a bench top to ransom. ‘You working for MI5 or so
mething? How’d you afford this?’

  ‘Talent, Olivia. I’m a man rewarded for my talents. I help people who figure I should be adequately recompensed.’

  ‘Yeah, right. If I see any bulletins about stolen cappuccino machines, well, mum’s the word.’ I stand beside the wheezing, hissing, emphysemic machine while Hamilton withdraws two mugs from an overhead cupboard. I study the gold leaf double ‘H’ adorning the cups. ‘Shit Hamo. You must have won Lotto.’

  ‘Come on Liv. Credit where credit’s due. Self-gratuitous identification. What if they get stolen? At least they’ll be traced to me.’

  ‘Only if they’re found.’

  We carry our royal mugs back to the sweeping lounge which is so much more than a room. Hamilton reinstalls himself in front of the computer. I prop jealously beside. He closes the ‘Current’ file and clicks onto ‘H’. Again, a menu of Word documents bursts onto the screen, but this time numbered, not dated. I ask Hamilton to open number one. Spanish Angel with spirit. Eager to please. Couple of Dewies.

  ‘Crap code,’ I laugh. I’ve met the girl, Rose. Spanish, I think. The angel with spirit relates to where she works – Heavenly Spirits bottle shop; not too sure about ‘eager to please’ because I’m on the fence over what she has to do with Mac. The ‘Dewies’ is Dewar’s Scotch. He’s bribing her over a minor traffic incident, or so Rose says. Open three.’

  Hamilton complies. Meeting at brother’s. Ordered more Dewies.

  ‘Can we search ‘McMaster’?’ If he’s got a brother, he’s definitely not in the job. The only other ‘Mac’ I know is McDonald’s – my second home. I wonder, give us a look: ‘meeting at brother’s’. Mac’s? He held a meeting at Maccas?’

  ‘That’s workable.’

  ‘All right. What we got in the ‘Mac’ file?’

  Fifty files fill the screen. A sub-folder marked ‘Blackshaws’ lies at the bottom of the reverse-alphabet listing. I ask him to open it.

  The menu throws up three documents, each of ten pages. With the benefit of the ‘Current’ file detail, we confirm that McMaster is trying to buy Blackshaw’s Mill. Nothing untoward there, except that the guy’s on a DI’s salary. And then the name Jeff Main jumps out – the same Jeff Main Gillian had spied with McMaster at the Knight’s Arms. ‘Something fishy here,’ I say. ‘Too coincidental. Solicitor/client meeting in a pub where money and envelopes change hands.

  ‘Hamo,’ I drool in my I-want-something-from-you-smile. ‘Do you reckon you could get me the goods on Main? I’ll do the Land Registry and suss the property and check local agents for valuations.’

  ‘Leave it with me. Think I’ll get my plates gold-leafed for this.’

  ‘Not bloody likely. But I will owe you.’

  ‘That’s what I’m talkin’ about. A negotiable debt. Okay, Olivia, I’ll get on to it.’

  I click through folders while Hamo goofs off. It gets to the stage where I neglect his rambling because I am so immersed in a peculiar printout. The format is the same as court transcripts, but amateurishly laid out in the old-fashioned ‘I said/he said’ police format. It changes my whole perception of McMaster, for I now believe he’s masterminding much more than minor scams.

  I read through the preliminaries, the hellos, the how’s things, and the hope your family’s all right waffle before I begin my own mining:

  PM

  ‘We had a little win yesterday.’

  JM

  ‘What do you mean “we”?’

  PM

  ‘Our old man had a heart attack. The sale should now be a breeze.’

  JM

  ‘Don’t bet your bollocks on that. It could delay the whole process because of probate.’

  PM

  ‘I’ve got my man, Angelo, onto it. She’ll be smooth sailing.’

  JM

  ‘You sure it was a heart attack? You didn’t put too much pressure on the old codger, did you? Like you tried with me?’

  PM

  ‘Come now. You think I’m the kind of guy who’d do something like that?’

  From what I’ve seen and learned, he most certainly is. As I’d earlier suspected, there is far more than coincidence surrounding the untimely demise of Giuseppe Caruso. That leaves me with an interesting proposition. Hand this over to Thornton, or first check its authenticity. I adopt for the latter. I also want to know if Trotter has passed on this information. Whilst I care nothing for her, I don’t particularly want to jeopardise her investigation.

  I thank Hamilton for his afternoon’s work and for my new white iPad before heading home to read every word of my restored files. On the way, I break another law by using my mobile to arrange another meeting with Thornton.

  * * *

  When I hand over the photos of Gillian and McMaster, Thornton nearly falls off his chair. He flings back his hands, thumps himself in the forehead and lets out a huge, ‘Fuck me. How the fuck could she get roped in by that bastard?’

  ‘Works both ways,’ I venture.

  ‘She’s invoicing me an exorbitant rate for professional services. I had no idea they extended to satisfying the whims of bloody McMaster. Now I can’t rely on anything she’s given me. Could be covering up a whole lot of mess here. I’ll have her arse.’

  Probably worn out by Mac.

  He makes no reference to gold or mining. My inclinations are that Gillian must know, especially since McMaster has let on the fact to Main. Gillian holds meticulous records of the McMaster/Main conversations in the Knight’s Arms and she has been close enough to McMaster to share out-of-hours activities. I consider the proposition that it is she who had contacted Lowenstein on McMaster’s behalf. Lowenstein would never tell me that – and I wouldn’t ask – but he might tell me if it were a man or a woman. Process of elimination.

  Thornton yanks a phone from his pocket. Switches demeanours. The guy’s a genius. Melts like toffee in the sunshine, eager to not telegraph the slightest hint of concern: ‘Hello Gill, how are you? Can I catch a few minutes with you for an update? Tomorrow? Say, one o’clock, my office? And bring all you got on PM.’

  I snigger, applying the reference to Theresa May rather than Phillip McMaster. I strain to hear the crap Gillian is dishing up, but fail.

  Thornton ends the call and turns to me: ‘She tried calling McMaster as arranged, but he hasn’t answered. Could have gone cold on her. I don’t know.’

  ‘Think it’d be the other way ’round if you ask me.’

  Thornton tramples my joviality. ‘I’ll get to the bottom of this. She’ll fry if she’s double-dealing. Now update me with the latest.’

  I chronologise my observations from the Knight’s Arms and the information I’d ‘acquired’ from her home; I detail her appearance at the fallen tree catastrophe, her closeness in the hospital, and McMaster’s incriminating photos.

  ‘For all the hours she’s spent around him, I haven’t got much in return,’ says Thornton.

  I won’t comment on her professionalism, or lack thereof, but I do seize on the opening to further my own prospects: ‘Now I’m familiar with all the players, I can take over.’

  I expect the ‘don’t jump the gun’ response and am pleasantly surprised when he says, without hesitation, ‘Goes without saying, Olivia. Carte-blanche. The whole shebang. I want this sewn up as soon as possible and I want that McMaster’s arse.’

  My confidence soars: ‘Gee sir, you’re wanting a lot of arse out of this.’

  ‘Remember who I am or I’ll be having yours.’

  You wish.

  XXIX

  I shift my attention to McMaster. When I accepted this job, I thought I might
drown in another contentious contest of criticising constabulary members. I’m happy to have upped my charter from the Gillian Trotter Activity Profile to a full shakedown of DI Phillip McMaster, who seems more a part of Trotter than she is of herself.

  Part of my armoury springs from the teachings of American psychology guru, Dale Carnegie (How to Win Friends and Influence People (1936): to solve a dilemma, evaluate each positive and negative point on its merit. There will be advantages and disadvantages, just as each will have features and benefits. I heed his advice as I try to gauge the McMaster/Trotter relationship.

  I understand Gillian’s charter is to log activities that compromise McMaster’s professional role, notwithstanding she has actually become one of those ‘activities’. I can’t pardon her behaviour at the hospital, all mushy-mushy and lovey-dovey in a billowing top, openly inviting McMaster’s eyes to roll out of their sockets.

  My concern is that she ‘just happened’ to be outside McMaster’s home when the tree fell. Given what I now know, I believe she was waiting for his secret signal – the coast is clear – to allay any fear of Gloria McMaster bisecting their dalliance. It therefore makes complete sense that Gillian would wait nearby, rather than drive straight into the property and risk confronting the opposition.

  I’ve encountered weird relationships in my time. In the mixed bag of human emotions, love and deception, I consider the possibility of Gloria either not knowing, or not caring, about her husband’s extramarital activities. I’m ashamed to imagine the alternative: participation in a writhing threesome.

  I must see Maria Caruso. Who better than a neighbour to diss Phillip McMaster?

  In head scarf and black mourning dress, Maria opens the door.

  ‘Hello Mrs Caruso. Remember me? Olivia. We spoke next door after the accident.’

  ‘Yes. I’m always help Mr Mac.’

  ‘He’s doing very well. I’ve just come from the hospital.’