Clock Face of Ills

by Paige Elizabeth Turner

  McMaster clambers up the ladder, replaces the cover and table and chairs and rushes outside for fresh air. It makes no difference. He can’t undo what he’s seen; he can’t brush off death’s scent. But he can undo the potential problem that will rope him into a murder enquiry. It will take little effort to conceal Angelo in a small dog-leg in the catacombs of his mine. Concrete and clay – the eternal preservative. That is a matter for consideration. For now, someone has dumped Angelo on his property and he urgently needs to find out who.

  He paces back to the house, suspends events of the past half-hour, and defers to his drawing room. A tumbler of Dewar’s provides divine intervention. The Saviour. With clear head, he concludes that twenty-four hours will buy time enough to learn who has set him up. That’s exactly what it is. A set-up. A turncoat tipping him in for Angelo Caruso’s murder. The trap is set, but the lid is yet to be sealed.

  His throwaway mobile phone – the phone used for illicit dealings and anything he doesn’t want traced, which in McMaster’s case is all outgoing calls – is in the study. He creaks from the Chesterfield and hobbles along the hallway. Grabs the phone. Presses a pre-dial number. Waits. Voicemail.

  ‘Hi. Sorry about last night. Change of plans. Come ’round as soon as you can. Urgent business.’

  He jabs ‘end call’ and thumbs in another pre-dial.

  XXXII

  Gillian turns into the driveway, rear wheels sliding, stones tumbling across the grassy verge. She abandons the vehicle and rushes straight into McMaster’s enfolding arms.

  ‘Your wife home?’

  ‘Don’t worry about her. This is business, and it’s none of hers.’

  ‘What’s got into you? Been demoted or something?’

  ‘Will be if I don’t resolve a problem. Now tell me; what’s the deal? You’ve been coming on to me as if you want something. What’s the go?’

  ‘I beg your pardon? Yes, I find you appealing. And yes, I find you interesting. I’ve been hoping we can get together, especially after you told me your wife’s out of the picture. That’s not the first time I’ve been fed that line, but if you’re going to chastise me like a little kid, you can stick our friendship and forget you ever met me.’

  McMaster retreats. ‘Calm down. I’m sorry. It’s the job. Sometimes I feel as if you’re scrutinising me.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Mac. You summon me here and you claim you’re under scrutiny? Fuck me. What about the trips to your boudoir – were they initiated by me? No way. How can you say that? You think I’m some spying bitch from MI5? Think your wife’s paying me to tell her what you really get up to?’

  Whack.

  The slap whips across her cheek. Sends her to the ground. Gillian’s mixed it with the best in fights, but never has she copped a startling blow like McMaster’s open-hander. The element of surprise. Always more powerful than the actual strike.

  She rises. Heads for the door.

  ‘No you don’t. You’re here for a reason. Come with me.’

  ‘Fuck you. I’m going. Period.’

  ‘Gill, I’m sorry. I lost it. This is very important.’

  ‘Don’t think you can treat me like one of your criminal pieces of shit. Five minutes. That’s all you get.’

  McMaster leads her to the shed.

  Gillian dallies. Apprehensive. ‘What you going to do, lock me up and have another go? You fancy some disciplinary action today?’

  ‘Shut up and follow.’ He opens the side door. The pair enter. McMaster closes the door. Locks it. Drags the table from the pit-cover. Throws the chairs aside.

  Gillian’s fascinated. ‘So what’s this? Another tantrum?’

  ‘I’ll show you tantrum in a moment, right?’ He draws in a lungful of air before kicking back the pit-cover.

  The whiff hits her with the same ferocity as had McMaster’s slap. ‘What the hell’s that?’

  McMaster grabs the torch and shines it down the shaft. ‘It’s who the hell’s that? You know anything about this?’

  ‘How would I? I’ve never been in here. It’s always straight to the bedroom, as if you don’t remember. So who is it?’

  ‘My fuckin’ neighbour, that’s who. And I reckon you know something.’

  Gillian blushes. Out of character. Ordinarily, nothing fazes her. ‘So, Mr Detective. How would I know anything?’

  ‘Because you have a habit of popping up in the right places at the wrong times – or right times, depending on your point of view.’

  ‘I work in a pub. I pull beers. And you. That’s it.’

  ‘All right. Yes, I am Mr Detective. You tell me just how you were on the scene within minutes of that tree crushing my car. Go on. You weren’t pulling beers then.’

  ‘I— I was coming to visit you.’ She looks to the pit. ‘Cover this up. He fucking stinks.’

  McMaster replaces the plywood sheet. Grabs a bag of Blood and Bone fertilizer and sprinkles it around the floor. Absorbs one odour; introduces another. He glares at Gillian: ‘You were saying?’

  ‘I told you. I fancy you. I came to visit.’

  ‘Yeah, right. Point One, Miss Suspect. You hadn’t been here before, so there’s no way you knew where I lived. Point Two. If you had come to visit, you would have followed me into the drive. I never saw lights behind me until the ambos. Shame for you, because I was conscious all the time. Even saw my neighbour. Point Three. I wasn’t followed. Occupational obsession – always watch your back. Point Four, and this is the big one; the only reason you were here is because someone gave you my address. Now what I reckon is that you’d better come clean or you might find yourself joining your buddy down there.’

  ‘Don’t you threaten me. I don’t recognise the guy and I haven’t a clue how he got there. You’re the copper. You ever thought about how many might want you taken out? Reckon someone might be setting you up? The way you’re acting, I’d say they’d have very good reason.’

  ‘If I was being set up, I’d have been snaffled by now. He’s been there a while.’

  ‘All right. So get back to basics. Have you had a run-in with him?’

  ‘In more ways than one. He tried to shaft me.’

  ‘But you wouldn’t kill him, would you,’ Gillian enunciates as a statement.

  ‘Christ woman. If I’m going to waste someone, I’m not going to toss the stiff in my own fucking backyard. Look what I got over there. About five grand of choof, right? Perhaps I was wrong. You are too stupid to have anything to do with it. Let’s get out of here.’

  ‘But I’m not too stupid to hang around. I don’t want your wife seeing me. That might be one of her lovers she’s wasted just to get back at you. You thought about that, eh?’

  What the hell else can go wrong, McMaster mumbles as he pours a scotch. Makes another call: ‘Onions, it’s me. What’s the go with my deal?’

  ‘Erm, had to shop around to get the best price. Sure you understand. I seen a trader, a good one. Coincidence, he just rang back.’

  Onions started scamming as a twelve-year-old. One of his first enterprises was to sell his school’s fundraising chocolate at a huge profit. Any kid can sell the product and keep the money. That’s for simpletons. You’ll be sprung. Inevitable. The parents pay the shortfall to the school and the thieving child suffers disciplinary action from both the school and the parent. Not so for Onions. He purchased small chocolates and Freddos from Tesco, swapped them with the larger fundraising confectionary and then palmed them off for the same price. Result? He handed the correct money to the school, and then scoffed and on-sold the couple of dozen larger chocolates for a handsome profit. His certificate of success was not the end profit, but receiving the headmaster’s praises in school assembly for his devotion to fundraising. Refining his ‘trade’ over ensuing years sees no one capable of outwitting Onions.

  Now, after receiving Lowenstein’s advice about Main also tend
ering a gold sample for a price, Onions is cautious: ‘My host’s set up a meeting for Tuesday. Two o’clock. You want me there, or will you leave it with your solicitor?’

  ‘What do you mean my fuckin’ solicitor? I got no fuckin’ solicitor on this, right? You’re doing the deal; that’s why I gave you a few hundred quid’s worth of rock to shop around. We’re not selling a crotchety old granny’s nine karat wedding ring. So what the fuck are you on about?’

  ‘Shit Mac. You don’t have to crank off at me. Just passing on what the dealer, Lowenstein’s his name, told me. I don’t know what you got going with this, do I?’

  ‘So you got a name of this fuckin’ lawyer?’

  ‘Main, he said. Someone Main.’

  ‘Fuck me. I been scammed before by that prick. If he’s going me again I’ll fuckin’ do him. Give me the address. I’ll be there. You hang low. I don’t want you getting caught up in this, although there’s nothing wrong with getting a price from a reputable jeweller.’

  ‘Fair enough. Sure you don’t want back up? I got contacts.’

  ‘You well might have, but they’ll be not a patch on mine. I’ll get back to you.’

  XXXIII

  Ever since my twelfth birthday I’ve insisted people not call me ‘Liv’. It’s not that I dislike the contraction; I just want to preserve – in the nicest way – the nickname my step-father gave me. It’s to his honour that I reject its use by other people, and that includes colleagues – close or otherwise.

  When I pick up Thornton’s call – ‘Liv, the pig’s off to Mac’s right now’ – I’ve only just joined the A435 after leaving Rose to lock her shop and head home. I hurry to Ashton Hill.

  Wary of Gillian’s impending arrival, I hope to have at least a five-minute advantage. There is no way I’ll prop in the lay-by again, just in case Gillian decides to dump her car and race cross-country to her beau. With McMaster’s wife sitting at home, possibly spying on comings and goings from her upstairs window, I assume that Gillian won’t brazenly waltz up to the front door.

  I call on my knowledge of the narrow dirt lane – a service track that hasn’t seen a grader for years – that runs alongside Ashton Hill. Partly concealed, it is used only by locals, because its bone-rattling surface discourages through traffic. I shudder at the wicked thought of riding my bicycle over its rhythmic ruts for an out-of-body experience.

  I inch beyond McMaster’s end boundary and park beneath a shady clump of oaks. I absorb the magnificent stand of trees, now separated by a void like a five-millimetre gap between a pair of bucky front teeth. The vista turns industrial when I set eyes on the huge shed.

  It is mammoth; a galvanised shed that could double as an aircraft hangar. The query flashes before me: What does he want with that? Inquisitiveness compels me to find out, but I can’t do that with McMaster at home. Or can I? A superficial scan reveals insufficient cover for me to creep around the side or rear of the construction. But no one will see me tonight. I reverse into a narrow space between two trees and wind back my seat. The driveway’s entry point is out of view, but rattling stones will signal her arrival.

  And they do.

  The couple must have enjoyed a welcome reunion because it is ten minutes before they trek across the garden to the shed. I can’t snoop on activities unfolding inside the giant steel structure. Perhaps I don’t want to. It isn’t the sort of retreat I’d fancy for a quickie, but each to their own. When they do emerge, it is not with a fatigued and dishevelled demeanour; it is with reserve and concern. I capture the moment with a few Samsung snaps. More evidence. I dispatch them straight to Thornton, partly to validate my efficiency; and partly to pump his ego for his spot-on assessment of Gillian.

  As they return to the house, I claw the opportunity to dart to the shed. I huddle against the steel wall and press up to a blacked-out window. Plastic bin liner. The DIY method of concealing illicit activities from the public. A wrinkled edge permits me a pinhead view of a rear corner where rows of suspended lights hang over a flourishing crop of rich, green foliage. I don’t need a botanist to tell me the plants’ genus.

  Thornton will be interested in that, and that Gillian must have seen it. My position is that if Gillian fails to tell Thornton about the crop, a cloud of suspicion must strangle her perceived integrity. What else then, is she concealing? For that reason, I must procure specific evidence to confirm my findings and photos. I skirt the wall to a small door. Locked. That’d be right. I sneak a moment to decide whether to break in or continue pursuing Gillian. As the marijuana isn’t going anywhere, I opt for the latter. I hustle back to my car. Await her next move. Will she stay the night?

  At 2.00 a.m. I reverse count sheep to stay awake. So too, I suppose, does Gillian. As she proceeds along the driveway I start my car, hoping the crunchy gravel will drown the whir of my Focus’s starter motor. I am disadvantaged by having to crawl along the rutted lane without headlights. By the time I reach the road, her taillights are two distant fireflies. I make ground fast, gratified that we are heading toward Cheltenham. If she is going home – and where else would she be going at 2.00 a.m? – I do not need to travel so close. I plan my tack: what will I do if I approach her? Ask about Mac? She’ll tell me he’s a boyfriend or colleague and I’d have to cop it sweet. Technically, I have nothing on her. I decide to wait and find out what she off-loads to Thornton.

  I’ve achieved nothing concrete over the eight-hour drag. The few photos, sighting a small drug crop, and witnessing two people together who should not have been, is subject to further enquiry. Negative vibes gush through me as if I’ve let down Thornton. I continue to my flat, carrying with me the tensions of my vast and unpredictable workplace.

  As a police officer, I’d often commiserated with employees of powerful organisations returning home to their loved ones where they suppress traumas of their daily grind. Even the self-employed take home similar dramas. We keep them to ourselves until they boil out of our pores, whether by the stillness of a lavender-scented bath, or the ferocity of smashing a stack of plates, Greek style, upon the floor, or kicking the cat – colloquially speaking of course. I’ve always envied the self-employed and the entrepreneurs, who, in charge of their own destiny, return home to their daily fold, excited, imbued with fresh ideas for the morrow, with not an ounce of troubles in their attaché case or smart phone, and not one smidgen of stress coursing through their body.

  What a fool. I now carry home more stress than I ever did. I worry about the following day – how can I piece together loose ends?; how can I insulate myself from the loose cannons who had set out to neutralise McMaster?; and, will I ever see an eight-hour shift as a self-employed person? I pull myself from the doldrums, veer into a twenty-four-hour servo, and buy a one litre tub of Ben & Jerry’s Cookies ‘n’ Cream and two 200 gram blocks of Cadbury’s Fruit and Nut.

  It is 3.00 a.m. when I slide between my sheets. I sure will have sweet dreams.

  XXXIV

  They last only two hours before I wake with the need to revisit McMaster’s shed. His interest in the monstrosity, coupled with the fact he’s now toured Gillian through the enormous space, propels my belief – and mounting evidence – that they are in cahoots over something, and that something has to be illegal.

  I approach the locked door. This time I am prepared with my set of masters, a gift from a grateful former client. Some may recall my working for Newquay lawyer, Alexander Beecham, for whom I investigated his mother’s suspicious death. Through the most unfortunate circumstances, his sister, Roslyn, who was a local real estate agent, was murdered in her office. Alexander, on receiving his sister’s possessions, regarded me – if you don’t mind my bragging – as a worthy recipient of her master keys which she’d accumulated for emergency access to rental properties.

  After a clean entry, the first thing to hit me is the magnitude of the Olympic size equine centre. Smells worse though; a musty, botanic pong fighting the od
our of death. I offer that not only as professional recognition – but also from history. As a six-year-old I bawled my eyes out after finding my poor ‘Tiggy’ in a matted entanglement of stripped fur and fly-blown intestines. Subsequent scents of death assault my nostrils in much the same manner as mum’s oven-baked chocolate cake – if you’ll excuse the disparate comparison.

  I check the marijuana plants, strip a few leaves and crowns and stuff them into a small Glad Bag. Evidence for Thornton. All right, I know, I know: paper bags for produce – but I’m not in the fruit and veg market now.

  Curiosity leads me across the earthen floor, past small piles of sifted earth which rise from the ground like castings of a mole invasion. I cross a wobbly board supporting an outdoor setting. My footsteps drum a hollow thud. I prod and tap around the board as Gene Kelly, minus the rain and umbrella. Curiosity wins. I scamper to the window. Clear. I race back, slide the table and chairs aside and flip over the plywood sheet just like I’d done with Gillian’s settee. Shit! Could well be, because the stench is unbearable. I can’t see into the depths, so chance my luck on finding matches or a torch nearby. A small LED flashlight strapped to a safety helmet grabs my attention. I unclip the light and train it into the pit. A body shines back. Enough. The waft of decomposition tells me the person is beyond resuscitation. Instead, and it might seem a tad ghoulish, I haul a few shots into my Samsung. More evidence.

  The situation requires urgent police attendance. In my former role, I’d call control and secure the scene. Here, as a trespasser, the scene is not so straightforward. I can’t waste time, but I do have to get moving – my own well-being depends on it. I drag the board back over the pit and redecorate, before snapping off a few more shots of the locale. I clip the light back onto the helmet, which I’ve worked out is a crudely fabricated miner’s cap, and return it to the tool bench. Further along the bench, a piece of polished timber lies among tools and cleaning rags. It’s clearly out of place – unmasked by its dust-free sheen. Well, almost. A small blotch attracts me. And I recognise the blackened smudge of congealed blood.