Nervous about the time, I bound down the stairs. Curiosity propels me to a small alcove where a study desk cowers beneath the stairs. A high-tech laser copier dwarfs an old computer, whose CRT monitor hangs over the desktop edge. Newspapers, a Visa statement, and invoices for council tax and local services lie nearby. A manila folder peeps from the pile – a blight on its surroundings as is the London Eye to Westminster.
Also like the London Eye, the file attracts my curiosity. Inside, I find contracts of sale bearing the names Giuseppe and Maria Caruso and Phillip and Gloria McMaster. Tiny black dots and a grey streak along the left margin expose the documents as photocopies. It matters not whether they are copies or originals, for I have just learnt more about the relationship between the neighbouring owners. Only hours earlier, Hamilton’s repair work helped me access the files I’d misappropriated from Gillian’s home, and they clearly detailed the Carusos and McMasters as parties to negotiations. Main represents McMaster, and Angelo’s role, as I’d learnt from his mother, was, or is, no more than a delivery boy.
I study each page in the folder and wonder why there are so many copies – until I detect two different sets showing a disparity of ninety thousand pounds. If Angelo has played an amateurish hand of forgery, it is no wonder others want to ‘fix the prat’ – to steal their words. And then I succumb to speculation: if they want to fix Angelo, had they already fixed his father?
McMaster is clearly implicated in an unsavoury transaction – formidable fodder for Thornton.
On leaving, I’m curious about the unlocked front door. I’ve been inside for half an hour. Add to that the two hours I’d spent waiting, my first inclination of Angelo running laps or tripping to the shops is baseless.
I had reason to dislike Angelo from the moment we met, although that’s not the best attitude to guide an investigator through an open-minded investigation. His arrogance towards me at his mother’s home was disconcerting. The logical extension could be that he harboured similar contempt towards his mother and father. Perhaps humanity in general. Might he have had a disagreement with his father? One of sufficient intensity to cause a heart attack?
To discover Angelo’s movements on the day his father died, I decide to question police who had attended the original callout. On phoning Worcester CID, an officer pays me little regard. ‘Drop in, someone might be able to help you.’ The off-hand invitation usually yields little. Different story when they want information from me.
At the CID office, a WPC shows me to the senior investigator’s room. Along the way, I pass uniform and CID members who once knew me as DS Watts. Their revulsion burns into me. To offset the discomfort – for both officers and myself – I fix my eyes on the auburn pony tail swishing in front of me.
DS Roy Street sits in a partitioned cubicle. Looks as if he’s stepped off H.G. Wells’ Time Machine. Could almost pass for a live promotional poster of the 1960 film. He stands with a slight stoop. I think he’s checking his shoe laces, but then realise he is afflicted with a natural – hereditary maybe – gene carried by many tall people. Scoliosis: curvature of the spine. I feel embarrassed for him and ashamed of my mute chuckle.
Perhaps it is his peculiarity; his uniqueness that draws me to him. Not with the quick rush of blood that attracts lovers at first sight, but a calmer sort of blending of characteristics. He eyes me with a hint of recognition. I don’t know why, because I’ve never met him. I would remember had I have done so. He wasn’t around during my tenure at Worcester. I assume him to be one of the replacements for DI Marchant and two of his cronies who departed in protest.
I introduce myself, and then fall silent as if a giant full stop has been banged after me. How can I justify seeing him? I am carrying out an investigation on behalf of the MET and can’t possibly let on anything that might align me with McMaster.
He races to the point by quizzing my interest in Giuseppe Caruso’s death. I burble that I am assisting Maria Caruso with matters related to her husband’s life insurance policy.
Street reveals little. ‘We’re too early in the investigation,’ he says. I know he is holding back because SOCO would have examined the Caruso home with the scrutiny of a homeless drunk scanning the footpath outside Harrods.
I conjure my seductive tone: ‘My only interest is who was at the home at the time of Mr Caruso’s death.’
‘We’re yet to fully determine that, but there’s no harm in saying that both his wife and son, Angelo, were present during the course of the morning.’
I remember the safe speak. “Present during the course…” Means they were there at some time, but not necessarily at the time of Caruso’s supposed heart attack. That implies he possesses material he is unable, or unwilling, to divulge. I use the ‘we can work on this together’ strategy, a generally successful tack, but it backfires.
‘What can you bring to the table?’
‘Nothing yet,’ I say, with the emphasis on ‘yet’. I slip in: ‘Doesn’t it strike you as odd that Giuseppe Caruso’s death and the attack on his neighbour occurred within only days of each other?’
Street gawks. He’s missed the point of my question. ‘Are you suggesting that Caruso rose from the dead, docked a tree on to McMaster’s car and then high-tailed it back to the morgue?’
What peeves me is that he doesn’t even smile. He is dead serious and not willing to accept that the two incidents might be related. ‘No. I’m suggesting no such thing. What I am suggesting is that there might have been a motive behind the sudden casualties of the two neighbours.’
Street lifts his eyes as if my proposition is meritless. ‘I assure you we will consider a range of factors within the investigation. I can’t help you any further.’
‘All right. Just one final question: Mrs Caruso is anxious to have the seized items returned. Will they be released or are they potential exhibits?’
‘That’s the rolling pin and wooden jar or whatever you want to call it? Yeah, she can have them. She’ll have to sign a release.’
‘What about the paddle?’
‘What fuckin’ paddle. We took two items. Fat lot of good they were; can’t blame the boys of course. Just doing their job.’
I have no reason to doubt Maria’s account of the missing paddle. ‘Sergeant. Mrs Caruso is emphatic that a paddle was taken from a utility room.’
‘News to me. I’m telling you, the old lady’s senile. The boys took two kitchen items. End of story. If you think otherwise, you’re paddling up the wrong creek.’
I take the sarcasm as my cue to leave.
* * *
The law of coincidence sets off my mobile. How I’d love to shut it down and divert all calls to voice mail. I switch to speaker mode.
‘Olivia? It’s Rose. He’s just been in.’
Whoa. Settle down. Hold up a minute. Surprise, surprise…
It has been nearly two weeks since Hamilton installed the hidden camera. I expected to hear from Rose much sooner, but quickly grasp that with McMaster in hospital, he could not have attended Heavenly Spirits or anywhere else. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes. I hope it’s all recorded. He really went overboard. I’m going to report him no matter what.’ Agitation rattles the phone.
‘It’s okay, Rose. Calm down. When did he leave?’
‘Just now, couple of minutes ago. Took your money and said it’s not good enough. Wants me to sell more stuff. Says he has an unlimited supply and that I can make more than I ever could working here.’
‘I’m sure you could, but for how long?’ Could you deal with the prospect of a jail sentence hanging over your head?’
‘I wouldn’t do it anyway.’
‘Good. Sit tight. I’ll race over and grab the SD card, see what’s on there and then we’ll decide what to do.’
Rose restores tear-streaked make-up as I enter the shop. I lay my arm across her shoulder. Compassion and prof
essionalism make bad partners. Despite the cosmetic restoration, she wears a distressed face. I wonder if McMaster had beaten her.
‘Rose. What is it?’
‘He’s threatened to tell my family.’
‘I thought you were on your own. He wouldn’t even know them.’
She pulls a tissue from beneath the counter. ‘Says he has “resources”. You’d know what he means, wouldn’t you?’
I do. Criminal Record checks, licence checks, registration checks, information sharing through HM Revenue and Customs, access to electoral rolls, and the good old Google Search and Facebook can find just about anyone, anywhere. I play it down: ‘Strict guidelines control access to information. Police have to justify their request with evidence of a legitimate enquiry. Anyone trenching for info without authorisation would face disciplinary action. He’s just trying to scare you.’
‘I… I… I have to tell you something. He touched me. Said I’m a cute girl and that he could make me really happy.’
Shit! How do I handle this? ‘Are you all right?’ Idiot! Stupid question in the circumstances. In all my years of policing, I’ve never dealt with such an accusation right out of the blue. I haven’t served in sexual offence units, so I am ill-equipped to assist Rose. I’m not a good consoler. Give me the tomboy jobs any day: the truck drivers, labourers, builders and the brash entrepreneurs.
I’ll do my best, woman to woman. ‘Rose. I’m here if you want to talk. We should speak to a female police officer. I can arrange that if you like.’
Rose wipes away a tear. ‘Thank you, but I’ve dealt with much worse in my life. I only mentioned it so you know what we’re dealing with.’
‘I think I know exactly what we’re dealing with. Just a moment.’ I scan the shelves for Hamilton’s camera, looking in all the obvious places: behind display stands and advertising posters and along a refrigerator’s top moulding. The geek’s good. I can’t find a lens or even a telltale wire. I resort to the embarrassing step of phoning him. After his laughing subsides he suggests I look in the ceiling for a non-functioning LED light. The supposed burnt out globe is the camera lens; the camera itself hiding above the ceiling.
‘I could have shown you that,’ says Rose.
Shit. Made a complete fool of myself. Got carried away and clean forgot that Hamilton would have shown Rose the camera’s location so she could change the SD cards. I pull a ladder from the wall, climb up to the ceiling, shift a panel, and remove the camera. The compact digital is familiar, so replaying the images is not a problem. But it is a problem when I see DI McMaster leaning over the counter clutching Rose’s shoulder.
XXXI
Phillip McMaster could not have risen through the constabulary’s ranks to detective inspector – while simultaneously running scams – without owning a shrewd awareness of the criminal element, their motives and peculiarities.
During his flat-out respite in hospital, he’d struggled to pinpoint the perpetrator of the attack upon him. Colleagues reviewed recent convictions after confirming the falling tree was no accident. McMaster knew as much.
When quizzed about potential enemies, he countered: ‘Why would I have enemies?’ The list unfurling in his mind totalled ten. For starters.
The uniformed officer replied: ‘Put it down to the job, sir. Probably arrested a few and aggrieved a few in your time. Mull over a few recent cases. Anyone come to mind?’
McMaster knew exactly who came to mind, and it wasn’t a name he was about to present to colleagues. Since he’d had no high-profile cases during the previous three years, he knew his problems emanated from his own backyard – and his neighbour’s. The run-in with Angelo pitched him as top pick.
Elevated to equal top was Jeff Main. On first impressions, Main presents as a fresh-faced schoolboy who would not even clench a fist. Beware of the quiet ones – a lesson from the past, origins unknown.
Numbers three to nine were out of the frame. They have neither the ability nor the nous to drop a firecracker through his letter flap. Likewise, number ten – the beloved Gloria.
McMaster dismissed the young constable: ‘I’ll think about it and get back to you.’ He had often dealt the same fob-off. His immediate reaction was to visit the Caruso property to sound out Maria. Whilst she would not deliberately implicate her son in any wrongdoings (and nor would she believe Angelo was involved) McMaster would need little effort to discover Angelo Caruso’s whereabouts on the tragic evening.
* * *
Free of nurses and matrons, blood pressure and heart-rate checks, pressing and prodding, and regimented showering and eating, McMaster craves a stroll through his gardens to his shed. Brick and stone paths brew exhilaration far above the wheelchair excusions along shiny vinyl corridors.
Rural residents relish the joy of mid-morning walks in mist-laden valleys. McMaster’s limping stroll reignites the passion for his precious Ashton Hill. Sadly, the manicured gardens bear symptoms of neglect; the lawns mimic a 1970s punk rocker’s patchy haircut; the fountain base glows with green algae; and the small orchard – trees united by matted spider webs – awaits pruning. In contrast, deer on a distant hill prance and frolic on acres of glistening dew.
As he nears the shed, he concedes its monstrous proportions should have been rejected by council. Little wonder the Carusos objected. Thank you Dennis Stonebridge for your pliable greed. He opens the door. The huge interior swallows him. As does the engulfing reek of the maturing marijuana crop. He flops into one of the plastic chairs and absorbs the bare, galvanised walls. He’s missed the evening operations and is anxious to return to the pit, despite the prognosis of a collapsed lung incapacitating him in the enclosed, stale environment ten metres below ground. The anxiety of prospecting just a little more, to pick out a few kilos of rock from the jagged wall, and to taste the dank odour of subterranean mustiness draws him to his underground vault.
He pulls aside the chairs and table, removes the plywood cover, and staggers back. The stench of death. Unmistakeable. Occupational hazard. He has often responded to calls of odours emanating from properties. After the first couple of turnouts he knew what to expect. If he was lucky he’d find in a derelict house someone’s pet stoned to death by estate hoodlums. If he was unlucky, he’d break through a front door – with mask pressed to mouth and nostrils – and dry retch. He’d enter the next room to greet the maggot-ridden, fly-infested remains of someone’s grandmother or grandfather.
And that is what he now smells. He hopes a cat or a fox has met its demise, but reality tells him the hypothesis has little merit. He picks up a torch and steps down the ladder into the mine. On the lower rung, he sees the crisis. A body. He drops to the ground, hooks one foot under the corpse’s shoulder, and heaves, rolling the cadaver over as if it were a huge log. Its face is a platoon of predators, ceremonially marching into the mouth and wheeling from nostrils and eye sockets. Angelo’s.
McMaster gasps. Shock. Regrets his earlier harsh words. He didn’t want or expect this as an outcome, but he’d given the instructions and that puts him squarely in the frame. As soon as questions zip from one suspect to another, someone will surely nominate him as a contender for wanting Angelo out of the way.
That someone immediately springs to mind: Jeff Main.
First notions though, are rarely logic’s sibling. He ponders: Main is not beyond doing this. I’d told him to encourage Angelo. It’s not inconceivable that he went too far. He knows where I live. Then again, he was supposed to liaise with Jill. Would she have done this? A payback for some reason? What the hell’s she got to gain?
Nothing makes sense. In his world of crime and deceit, little does. First instinct is to report the find. Got sweet FA to do with me – I was in hospital. Beat that for an alibi. He rifles through Angelo’s pockets. Pulls out a business card: Jeffrey Main/Attorney at Law/Craggill, Weston and Rubenstein. On the flipside, he reads a scrawl: Ashton Hill, LHS A44, 1.6 miles f
rom Pinvin turnoff. It makes no sense. Angelo Caruso has no need for his neighbour’s address. It is a given – he’d known it for six years.
McMaster slips it into his pocket and scratches his head, a habit gained to buy time while interviewing suspects. Now, he doesn’t need time; he needs to determine why Angelo Caruso would have Main’s card. He considers the possibilities: his last conversation with Main commanded him to exert pressure on Angelo to ensure the Blackshaw’s Mill property contract was promptly executed. Hmm, it was the contract that was supposed to be executed, not the bloody client! A forced grin foreshadows a ridiculous thought: Main is hardly going to introduce himself to Angelo and hand him a business card before killing him. And then his honed investigative skills trump. Main, perhaps with an ulterior motive, had initiated contact with Angelo and used him as a pawn in the estate transaction as a means of influencing his mother to hasten the process. Under those or similar circumstances, the existence of the business card is easily explained. McMaster has ample evidence of Main’s propensity for double-dealing: once a crook, always a crook. If Main had convinced Angelo that a huge benefit glowed on the horizon – such as McMaster meeting a tragic accident – he has no doubt that Angelo would rise to the cause and become the proverbial putty in Main’s hands.
The card could also be superficial, a decoy; its presence deflecting the real identity of whoever had disposed of Angelo’s body on his property. Why should it matter? How could anybody link Angelo to me other than by our acquaintance as neighbours? He looks to his secondary career. What would a crim do? He’d do his utmost to conceal the crime. Period. He’d hoist the corpse up the ladder, wrap it in a blanket, drop it into the boot of his car – pre-laid with garbage bags or a blue plastic drop-sheet – drive to a quiet back street in the middle of the night, hurl the body over a railway bridge, and hope that by the time a dog walker or school boy discovered Angelo’s mashed body, only DNA would identify him.
Clock Face of Ills Page 20