Clock Face of Ills

by Paige Elizabeth Turner

  Best guess is Maria Caruso’s missing paddle. I won’t leap to conclusions. The stakes are far too high. I snap a photo in situ, wrap a Glad Bag around one end, and jam it under my arm.

  I exit with shaking hands. Hunched over like a trooper carrying a rifle, I run back to my car. Momentarily break down. Me, not the car. It’s one thing attending a scene when we know what to expect. We prepare ourselves for shock, distress, and almost any eventuality. But in taking a midnight snoop (albeit six hours’ late) for the purpose of snaffling marijuana stems, and to then find a corpse that McMaster and Trotter must surely know about, does test one’s resilience. I delay waking Thornton while I race home to download the shed images into my laptop. Sleep must wait. I am pleased to have learnt the source of the mineshaft photos found in McMaster’s camera, but disappointed to have not identified the body. Blame inadequate light or my reluctance to get down amongst it. I’m an investigator, not a hero.

  Time: 6.30 a.m. I have to make the call. Whether to phone Thornton or Street is subject to a coin toss. Either way, I could alienate myself from a vital working relationship. Contacting Street in the first instance is the correct procedure, because the deceased lies in his jurisdiction. However, doing so will raise Thornton’s ire for my not first reporting to him. Phoning DS Street is also fraught with danger. He will question my relationship with Thornton, and by deduction consider me the enemy. Result? Lost information source.

  Loyalty wins over gut instinct. I detail my observations of the past few hours to Thornton and email photos of McMaster’s shed and contents. I’m sure I hear his heart rate soaring – to the verge of shutdown, the self-preservation mode of the confronted: I knew something was going on. Why didn’t I act sooner? First, Mac’s under a tree and now there’s a body under his property.

  He is either mulling over the gravity of my report or examining the digital photos. I query his last contact with Gillian and hear about her call from McMaster. I continue with an account of the hours Gillian has shared with him, and imagine Thornton’s eyes when I mention her 2.00 a.m. departure.

  His voice competes with a police radio crackling in the background: ‘Any unit available to attend Gatcomb Industrial Estate for a suspected vehicle on fire?’

  ‘Papa lima 408 receiving. Three minutes off. Mark us down…’

  And then I send him beyond boiling point with news of the marijuana crop.

  ‘Papa lima 408 to control.’

  ‘Go ahead 408.’

  ‘Vehicle’s burning. Interior only. We’ve got the extinguisher on it. It’s a black sedan, Audi. No plates, but got a VIN for you: WAUZZZ8K6AA103083.’

  I jump at the words ‘Audi’ and ‘black’ as I continue with an overview of the McMaster/Caruso property transaction together with my take on Angelo’s underhanded dealings. I don’t reveal my source – and he wouldn’t want to know – but I do reinforce that Gillian definitely knows every bit of information I’ve just relayed. I continue that if Gillian were on the level she should have already relayed the vital information about the body in McMaster’s shed. There is no excuse for her not having done so. I move on to the timber paddle. He arranges for a car to collect it from my home.

  ‘Papa lima 408. Your VIN comes up not recorded as stolen. Belongs to an Angelo Caruso, 63 Canning Road, Worcester.’

  ‘Bloody hell. You hear to that? Caruso’s car. I tried to see him at his flat. Wasn’t there. I don’t like the sound of this.’

  ‘I’ll get forensics onto it. Probably the local scum with nothing better to do.’

  ‘It’s more than that. This isn’t a bunch of scroats joy riding and then torching the bloody thing. You’ll find this is more, and since it’s Caruso’s car, I’m talking paybacks. And the ringleader’ll be McMaster.’

  Thornton placates me with one of his clichéd lines: ‘Let’s just wait and see what happens. In the meantime, I’ll see what Trotter has to say for herself. Call me after five.’

  His response is understandable: listen to both sides. Then he baffles me: ‘What do we do now?’

  I feel uneasy about offering my thoughts to a super, but I have to remember my charter – I am paid to provide information. My addendum is that I’m not paid to suggest direction. Never one for shirking the opportunity of promoting my viewpoint, I prepare both barrels. ‘With respect sir—’

  Any announcement or viewpoint prefaced with those three words grants the speaker immunity. I could call the Chief Constable a fat bastard, so long as I preface it with, ‘With respect, sir.’

  ‘With respect sir, I suggest you allow me to call DS Street, who is the officer in charge of the tree incident. I’ve already struck up a low-profile relationship. If I give the impression I have confided this discovery to him, it could cement my place as a confidant and reward me with ongoing information.’

  Thornton’s mind churns. ‘How would you explain my involvement?’

  ‘Easy. You might have read a report or been referred to the Mac incident; you’d conveyed your best wishes to the hospital and as a follow-up you phone Worcester CI to discover what is being done to protect its officers. By that time, DS Street would have my information. He might seek accolades by offering you ‘breaking news’ of the body found in Mac’s premises.’ I hold my breath in time with the pause on the phone.

  ‘Very good. Shows why Stafford recommended you. We’ll go with that. Keep me informed.’

  ‘One more thing, sir. I have a complainant who claims McMaster has been extorting merchandise from her shop. Your Gillian should have mentioned it; she’s known about it for a while. Got her own photos of an incident.’

  I admit that slandering Gillian is sleazy – even by my own standards. But if I’m doing the job, and she’s not, well, I’ll do my utmost to set up future engagements.

  ‘News to me.’

  ‘I also have a photo of him threatening her. Haven’t got complainant’s permission to make this official, but can do so fairly quickly.’

  ‘Get it. We need it. Good work Watts.’

  I end the call. I am in.

  I restore my serious disposition and phone DS Street. He sounds edgy: ‘Can’t talk. Got a job on. A big one.’

  Many detectives will claim a minor bout of shoplifting as a big one. Bragging rights around the office: the small Gucci purse becomes a whole set of Louis Vuitton travel gear.

  ‘This is bigger,’ I pronounce. ‘I’ve got a body for you.’

  ‘You know something I don’t? We’ve just had a call from DI McMaster panicking over a stiff he’s found in his shed.’

  ‘I think I know plenty you don’t. About this I mean. That’s exactly why I’m calling. Don’t get me wrong on this, but I can assure you there’s something suss about anything involving McMaster.’

  ‘You’d better be careful. You’re talking about a respected, long-serving inspector. I’ll approach this as I do everything else: with an open mind. Thanks for your concern. Gotta go.’

  The phone clunks dead. Sounded like one of those old black Bakelite handsets crashing down onto the two silver pins. I didn’t even get the chance to ask if I could tag along. Not a problem. I hold the trump card because I can positively ID McMaster entering the shed with Gillian. What I can’t swear to is whether they had actually seen the deceased. With what Street has just told me, McMaster had. That, however, isn’t my present concern. Getting to McMaster’s property is.

  I sit my Samsung on the table. I’ve done my civic duty. If all hell breaks loose, I’ll feel consoled that I’ve acted professionally and am protected under Superintendent Thornton’s wing.

  I’ll not add to my two hours’ sleep, so I duck under the shower. My short GI hair allows me to sacrifice shampoo and conditioner. I pull on a black skirt, white chiffon blouse and tailored black jacket. The jacket is pure business; buttoned when speaking to women, floating free when eliciting information from males. The seductive
appeal of a black bra beneath white chiffon reduces males to trance-like obedience, thereby enhancing the information-gathering process. A splash of an old Christmas cologne, and I am on my way.

  XXXV

  At five minutes after one o’clock, Thornton reads a list of McMaster’s visitors during his confinement at Worcester General. Paces his office. Feels betrayed. Trotter’s activities have not only insulted him, but are a blatant betrayal of trust.

  The straightforward request elevated his temper after a nurse caustically replied: ‘we don’t log every visitor into the wards.’ Worse followed: ‘What do you think we are, a booking agency?’

  Thornton wouldn’t accept the young upstart’s fob offs, nor consider that she might have worked a full night shift followed by four hours’ overtime. He persisted: ‘Can I speak to someone who might help with descriptions of his visitors?’

  ‘I suppose you can,’ sighed the disinterested respondent, complete with exclamatory huff of breath.

  The phone clicked through: ‘J Ward. Jeremy speaking.’ In contrast, Jeremy was more proficient than an Identikit profiler. He painted perfect descriptions of Olivia Watts, Jeff Main, Gillian Trotter, other police colleagues, and an insurance salesman. Thornton smiled at the similarity between Main and Trotter as if they were both conceived from stem cells in a laboratory culture dish.

  ‘I’ll show you through,’ the desk sergeant smiles to Gillian.

  ‘Drop them on the table.’ Thornton points to Gillian’s laptop and carry bag. No hello. No greeting.

  He glances at his guest. She is good. Red blush on one cheek, but no sign of nerves as her eyes dart across certificates and children’s paintings Blu-Tacked to the walls. ‘Gillian. I’ve called you here today so we can catch up on the McMaster file.’

  ‘Sure. I’ve got it all here. I don’t mind if you call me Gill. I actually prefer it.’

  A habitual stickler for formality, Thornton relents, knowing that acceding to her wish will allow the meeting to go ahead informally, which, in turn, will guarantee her candour. ‘So Gill. How was your session with McMaster?’

  ‘Sorry I didn’t get to call you back. End of the line, I think. He’s a different beast since getting out of hospital. Might be the tranquillizers. Seems more interested in pursuing a career in farming. He’s spent buckets on doing up his property; put in a huge shed and the last I heard, started excavating. Whatever for, I haven’t a clue.’

  Thornton wheels out from behind his desk. Buckles his brow. ‘“From what I heard”, you say? From whom?’

  ‘Sorry, just a figure of speech. As you know, I’ve monitored his house and property from across the road. That’s where I was when the tree came down.’

  ‘And you saw him in hospital after that.’ Thornton forces the sentence into a statement rather than a question.

  Gillian stalls. Clicks through her memory, trying to recall whether she’s mentioned that. Can’t figure why she would have. ‘Yes, I was there. If ever I was going to learn anything about him, catching him at his most vulnerable was essential. He’d be out for vengeance and I felt I could learn who he’d be after and that would probably lead me to the core of his inner circle – or so I hoped. It transpired the only recent contact he’d made, that I saw, was with his solicitor – and that was all business.’

  ‘You think.’

  ‘If you put it like that. Yes. But I’m confident it wasn’t Main who did the tree. Different physique. Main’s quite, er unique.’

  ‘All right. Tell me about this shed.’

  ‘It’s massive. Mac, I mean McMaster, says he’s considering farming. That’s all I know. He doesn’t talk much about it.’

  ‘But you’ve been in there?’

  ‘I never got that close. As I mentioned, I went to his home and he told me all this lovey-dovey stuff about how he’s missed me and asked if he could see more of me. With our mutual interest of learning all we can about the inspector, I agreed. If we’re going to nail him, I’ll grab every break I can.’

  Thornton drags a file from a plastic In Tray. Removes a laminated A4 photo. ‘I can make this official.’ He slides over the photo. ‘Do you want to change your story?’

  Gillian’s face drops. Falls into silence as if caught cheating in a university exam. No way out. Considers a bribe. And then she turns to water: ‘He threatened me. I had to go. If he knew what I was doing he’d kill me. I’m sorry sir; I just didn’t know what to do. I still don’t. You’ve got to cover me.’

  Thornton receives the words as a poor attempt to deflect her lies. ‘And you didn’t think to inform me of the threat? We have a person under the microscope, and the very piece of information and evidence that would crucify him, you don’t think to phone or text? When did this happen? You didn’t seem too fussed when you walked in here, so it can’t have been too much of a threat.’

  ‘Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe I over-reacted. I don’t know. There’s been so much going on, and my home’s been broken into—’

  She stops dead as if her vocal chords snap. ‘Hang on. How’d you get that photo? It was only Mac and me. He’s in the photo so he couldn’t’ve taken it. It’s his wife, isn’t it? The elusive Mrs McMaster spying on her supposedly estranged husband to get enough goods to support a divorce action, or, to sink him once and for all. You’d better tell me what’s going on here.’

  ‘Doesn’t work that way, Miss Trotter. You’re telling me what’s going on.’

  ‘Nothing. I’ve worked through days and nights on this. I’ve got stuff on him right here.’ Gillian produces photos of McMaster in Heavenly Spirits receiving a canvas bag.

  ‘They’re old news. You’ve already emailed them. Tell me what you were doing in McMaster’s shed. There’s a reason behind this, and I suspect you’re trying to evade it. We’re about two questions away from me ordering a Record of Interview.’

  ‘Mac called me. Sounded real urgent. I had to go because I thought I might capture something important.’

  ‘So why would he confide in you if you are discretely tailing him?’

  ‘I was doing it my way, okay? I made him feel as if he’d landed me as a date, when all the while I’m doing my job of plucking every ounce of information from him. It’s worked so far.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say a photo of a few bottles of possibly stolen plonk from a bottle shop constitutes working out okay. Let me spell it out. That shed which you’ve only just remembered being inside, is a crime scene from where a body is about to be retrieved. I’m pegging you’re up to your neck.’

  ‘All I know is, and I told you this a week ago, is that McMaster said something about having to fix someone. I later considered it just a figure of speech because he’s shown no aggression since he’s been under my observation.’

  ‘Your red cheek evidence of his “no aggression”?’

  ‘We were messing around.’

  ‘Sounds too close for comfort.’

  With Thornton’s eyes blazing into hers, Gillian tries to reconcile the best way to handle the matter. She has become too emotionally involved with her target and is now so immersed in McMaster’s activities that she truly fears the repercussions of telling all. And she knows whatever Thornton dishes out will be a breadcrumb compared to the loaf McMaster will serve.

  Thornton fidgets through a further forty minutes of Gillian’s diluted recitation. After sifting falsities from fact very little of the conversation will hook McMaster. Too little to justify the thousands of pounds shelled out on an undercover investigation that reveals only that DI Phillip McMaster is trying to buy a farm and might be receiving alcohol under false pretences.

  ‘We’re going to clean this up right now,’ Thornton instructs. ‘You’ve got fifteen minutes to load your files onto this.’ He hands her a USB memory stick. ‘Transfer everything and delete the material from your laptop. Make sure everything’s wiped because I’ll check it. Then, you can
head home and type me a report of everything that’s transpired with DI McMaster since I hired you. It’d better be complete, because by God I’ll know if it’s not.’

  XXXVI

  McMaster knocks on the door to his wife’s quarters. ‘Hi honey,’ he offers with transparent deceit. ‘Had a couple of strange events occur while I’ve been in hospital. You notice anything suspicious?’

  ‘No. I was too busy enjoying your absence. You all right now?’

  ‘As if you care. You weren’t even interested enough to phone, let alone visit.’

  Gloria smiles with tilted head and pouted lips. ‘Come on Philly, you know I can’t drive after a few drinks. One of your boys might arrest me. How embarrassing for you.’

  ‘Shit, Gloria. Give it a rest. There’ll be more than my boys here soon, right? There’s a fuckin’ body in my shed and I didn’t damn well put it there. So who did you have hopping ’round here while I was wrapped in bandages and Christ knows what else?’

  ‘If you told me what you were up to out there I could be more helpful. That lawyer of yours came here wanting to check measurements inside that monstrosity of yours. Goodness knows what for. I’m in the dark, aren’t I?’

  ‘Well he can’t check measurements if the fuckin’ joint’s locked, can he?’

  ‘Sure he can. I gave, er, I gave him permission. He had, er, a master key. Said he uses it in cases of clients not being available. No harm done. He only wanted to measure.’

  ‘Fuck woman. You know what he’s done, don’t you?’

  ‘No. Who needs to watch over a lawyer?’

  McMaster huffs off and slams the door.

  He removes all traces of the hydroponic set up and uproots forty harvest-ready plants. Bags the lot for quick removal. He’ll later recover seeds from the mature plants. Waste not, want not. He also removes a strip of lights to allay any perception of professional drug cultivation. The remaining rows of strawberries look impressive – surprising the grower who barely fits the image of commercial fruit producer.