I’m not surprised that someone might want to rough up Angelo but I’m not going to give that sort of lead to Street, for fear of compromising my own case. ‘I believe Angelo was working with Mac; he was assisting his mother with the sale of the family property.’
Street remains deadpan. ‘So, what do you reckon of the mother? Angling for full settlement of the property?’
‘You’ve got to be joking. You met her, have you? You’re not thinking she’s done the husband and the son, are you? For goodness sake, she can hardly pick up a bag of groceries, let alone chuck a 100 kilo guy down a mine shaft.’
‘Just a thought. Can’t close any lines until they’re completely ruled out.’
‘Well, I reckon you can obliterate that. Where’s the motive? Maria Caruso had nothing to gain by killing her son. What’s got into you? The scenario’s preposterous. Now, what’s for dessert?’
I shift the conversation off topic. My head is full of McMasters and Carusos and Mains.
He offers coffee and ice cream. I fall asleep before the kettle boils.
XXXVIII
I wake beneath a thick duvet, head propped by a slab of pillow. Don’t know how he did it; I usually wake at the slightest movement. I crane my head, embarrassed to have fallen asleep, but thankfully did so on the couch rather than in his bed.
I delve into my bag, grab the phone and check the time. 5.25. Double check. Morning. Reach back in and pull out a pen. Scrawl on a serviette: Thanks for the evening and the duvet. Didn’t want to wake you, had to go. I’ll phone. I slither out of his home with the same tenacity as I slither into homes.
I hadn’t minded DS Street until he pressed me with the “I’ll do you for withholding information” jibe. If ever I was short of a motivational source, Street had dangled the carrot.
I’ve been marinated with ambition to exceed in my chosen fields, whether they be sport, hobby or employment. I can’t attribute the trait to generational DNA, because I inherited it through my step-father, a homely man who advanced through the ranks of the constabulary to inspector. “Success lies behind the face of adversity” was another of his lifelong quotes. I adopted the notion and applied it to my career in lieu of marrying at eighteen and bearing six children in a council flat before my twenty-fifth birthday, as was the custom, and, some might say, still is the custom.
It therefore makes sense to follow that ideal. I add to my responsibility of tailing Gillian and monitoring McMaster, a personal pledge to beat Street in his quest to identify Angelo Caruso’s killer. My ace is that I have an exceedingly good head start. The suspicious circumstances of Angelo’s unlocked flat coupled with the files I retrieved from his under stair study complements the material I’d ‘obtained’ from Gillian’s flat. I enjoy the ever-reliable gut feeling that I’ll learn more from pursuing Gillian than I’ll gain from speaking with her.
She’s already flagged her involvement by revealing goings-on between McMaster and Main, and has been privy to conversations discussing Angelo’s surprise appearance in McMaster’s shed. That swings me to Main, so I reassemble the shredded business card. I shelve the idea of phoning, and head straight to his Worcester office. Some enjoy hanging up on me, but try to eject me from an office and you’re dealing with a whole new demon.
The office complex occupies a whole floor of the prestigious Allied Finance building. After a verbal scrap with a receptionist, I am granted a ten minute concession. Jeff Main closely resembles an overweight taxi driver who’s struggled into an eight-year-old charity shop suit. One should see a solicitor as a figurehead of society, sharing a pedestal with politicians. Woops, they are both respected and reviled. Perhaps I don’t fit the part of a private investigator – but I do blend in with the public.
I open with an assumption: ‘I believe you’re acting for Gloria and Phillip McMaster in the matter of a property transaction.’
‘That’s privileged. What’s your interest?’
‘The death of two Carusos, but more particularly the suspicious death of Angelo Caruso.’
‘Don’t know anything about Angelo, though I am aware of his father’s passing. Heart attack, wasn’t it?’
Main acts extremely coy, like a Crown prosecutor yielding little while reaping heaps in return. When I first started in the constabulary, I felt so far removed from those professionals who’d spent upwards of seven years studying how to manipulate accused and witnesses into saying exactly what they want to hear as opposed to what the accused or witness actually wanted to say. Today, I pitch myself on par with adversaries, and accordingly articulate my words in such manner to catch my opponent napping. My head lolls: ‘So how did you know Angelo was Giuseppe’s son?’
Main’s quick. ‘I had dealings with him; he was a, er, messenger between my client and the vendor.’
Good answer from someone who, only two minutes’ earlier, didn’t know anything about Angelo.
Maria had mentioned Angelo handling the contracts, but I have no inkling whether those dealings meant getting together with Main. Because of his legal connexion to McMaster, professionalism should have precluded such a meeting.
‘Strange,’ I say, ‘because Maria Caruso was, and still is, the vendor.’
Main reclines. If my vision exceeded twenty/twenty, I would see the halo glowing above his head. ‘Well?’ he says. ‘Doesn’t really concern me.’
‘Mr Main. I’ll be totally frank with you. I am aware of highly incriminating information supporting a meeting with Mr Phillip McMaster in which was discussed an agreement to get rid of Angelo – a “prat”. You might recall the expression?’
Main jabs an intercom: ‘Jade. Come and show Miss Watts out will you?’
I’ve dealt the big one too early. I don’t move: ‘Hit a nerve, did I? I’m not the only one with this information.’ I turn to Jade who impersonates a trainee air hostess with extended arm ready to push me from the emergency exit.
I offer a beaming ‘thank you’ as Main reaches for the phone.
XXXIX
‘Hello. McMaster. What is it?’ Main’s number glows in the display.
‘You know an Olivia Watts?’
‘Yeah. Ex copper. Used to work in my nick. Trouble maker. Why?’
‘Just been to see me. Kicked her out after she let loose about one of our meetings and spot on quoted what we said about Angelo.’
‘Fuck! Don’t say another word. Meet me out front of yours in thirty.’
Main can’t afford to waste the next half hour. He has tracks to cover. With haste. Phones Jill. Come on, come on. Voice mail. Leaves a message: ‘Hi. We need to speak. Concerns a motivational session. Call me.’
Panic brews. He ends the call with a shaking hand.
In a down-market backpacker’s hostel tucked away in London’s East End, Jill stares at her phone. She’s been expecting the call for a fortnight and is astounded it has taken Main so long to make contact.
She’d struggled with her decision to take the £1,000 and run. Since going into hiding, she’s spent only forty-five of the one thousand paid. Sure, she’d tailed Angelo and devised a plan, finally settling on knocking him from his Harley as the most effective means of delivering Main’s message.
For the past ten days, she’s cringed to each call – before flicking it to voice mail – expecting serious consequences of not performing her part of the deal. Sooner or later a new crisis will unfold. And she’ll be the victim. She swipes the screen and waits.
‘Yeah,’ McMaster whispers into his throwaway phone.
‘Sorry to call you. It’s Jill. I’m sorry about everything. You’ve got that Main guy on me. Can we fix this? I was going to do it; I had the time and place lined up, waited and waited and the guy never fronted. Maybe I should have called you earlier.’
‘What the fuck are you on about, woman? You trying to weasel out of something ’cause you’ve gone too far? You got something
to do with the stiff in my shed, ’cause if you have, don’t come running to me for help, right? What the hell did Main tell you to do? A little hurry on was what I wanted; think the word I used was “encouragement”. Fuck me, woman, you’d better make yourself scarce, and quick.’
Jill pieces together McMaster’s barrage. ‘Listen, will you. I haven’t done anything. I don’t know about your shed and I don’t know what’s in there. I’ve called you because Main’s hassling me every hour. So who’s the body in your shed? Whoever it is, it’s got nothing to do with me!’
McMaster jumps in. ‘Got news for you. It has. It’s Angelo. And you were the last one to have anything to do with him. Don’t try putting one over me – it’ll be the last thing you do. How the hell did you think you’d get away with this? You think it’s funny? A warped payback? You know my line of work. It won’t take me long to sort this, so don’t give me the innocence crap. I’ve heard it, and broken it, too many times before. Now fuck off of my phone.’
* * *
McMaster rushes to his crystal decanter. Pours a tumbler of Dewar’s. No ice. Tips it down his throat like emptying a mop bucket into a drain. Sits. Scratches his head: If Jill didn’t, who did? And why dump the bastard here? Who knows about my shed? Better still, who knows about the pit? Friggin’ no one because the whole show’s a secret.
He brushes his teeth and crams half a dozen mints into his mouth. Heads to Main’s office. Five minutes before the hour he leans on the horn. Main whirls through a glass turnstile and leaps into Master’s car. ‘’bout time,’ says McMaster.
‘What’s the go?’
‘More than you can imagine.’ McMaster screeches away from the kerb and heads to a multi-level car park where he nudges into a corner bay on the second-top level. Turns off the engine. Removes the key. Throws his arms across Main’s chest, pulls open his jacket and rifles the pockets. ‘Where’s your phone?’
Main leans back, hands up. ‘What’s that for? It’s in my pocket. Here. Bloody hell.’
McMaster checks the menu. ‘You’re not recording this?’
‘Why the fuck would I record anything we talk about? Nothing we do is above board. I’m hardly going to record it.’
‘Well, you’re all about arse covering. Now what’s going on with that Watts bitch? Tell her nothin’ you hear. What makes you think she’s got word on the Angelo deal?’
Main gulps. ‘Look, she just fronted my office. No appointment or anything. Conned her way in —’
‘Don’t think I care for your administrative obstacles.’
‘All right. Said she had “highly incriminating” information. Seems to be our conversations about fixing Angelo have been taped. That can only have come from the pub because the topic has not been anywhere else. I thought I’d better let you know, because we now have to protect ourselves.’
‘You might. I don’t. I’ve done nothing wrong. We discussed a contract which was my property deal. Anyone who might have overheard anything could construe a conversation in one of many ways. If Watts wants to make a deal of overheard snippets that might have sounded something like what she claims, my response would be that she’s mistaken. I recommend you ponder likewise. She’s got nothing. Now where’s my fucking contract?’
‘They’ve taken a back seat with all this going down. I have been assured they’re being couriered to my office this afternoon, so for all intents and purposes it’s a done deal.’
McMaster smiles. ‘Intents and purposes, bullshit. Nothing’s done ’til I’ve got the paperwork. For now, though, close enough is nearly good enough.’
Main settles back; his obligation to McMaster almost complete. But he doesn’t grasp McMaster’s manoeuvring him into dropping his guard.
‘So tell me how Jill went with the job.’
Main grins. ‘Done and dusted. Ages ago. Days, anyway. Hasn’t collected the final instalment yet; I guess she’s waiting for the heat to fizzle.’
‘So what did she do? You verified it? You spoke to Angelo, right; to find out how receptive he is to co-operating?’
Main straightens his tie. ‘I thought it best to hang back a while. Keep our association quiet. She phoned, told me the job’s done, and hung up. Next thing, his mother’s solicitor’s telling me the documents have been executed, and they’ll be in my office within 48 hours. There was a minor hiccup, but all’s resolved now.’
‘Would it surprise you that I’ve recently spoken to Jill?’
‘Wouldn’t surprise me at all, Phil. You’re thorough with everything you do.’
A car revs around the corner, squealing its way to the uppermost deck. The sting of molten rubber wafts into McMaster’s car. The distraction throws him off course. Allows thinking time before he thrusts his face into Main’s: ‘Now listen good, right? Jill tells me she hasn’t done the job. You know what? I’m inclined to believe her. She’s a good operator, but she can’t lie. You’re a bad operator, but you can lie. See the predicament I’m in?’
‘She has done it. I got the call, and it made sense how everything fell into place after she’d seen him.’
‘So tell me what she did. You did check, didn’t you? Satisfied yourself how well she’d earned her money? Made sure the final instalment was genuinely deserved?’
‘I took her word for it. No reason to question a professional operator.’
‘Life’s lesson number one. Trust no one – which is why I don’t trust you. Any idea where Angelo is now? Bet you haven’t. Been dumped in my place. Removed on Monday morning – to the morgue. Someone’s trying to set me up. But you know what? I got the best alibi ever. I was in hospital. Hourly checks recorded on my charts; CCTV supporting my not leaving the building; and medical evidence showing I couldn’t have walked twenty metres. So my best advice is to get onto this Jill broad and tell her she’s gone too far. I wash my hands of it.’
‘You’re not going to dump me in it. All I’ve done is accept your instructions. I have a clear conscience. I’ll not be another pawn of your bullying tactics. I’ll give your file to Weston; you speak to him about the title documents. I’m out of it.’ Main flicks open the door, leaps from the vehicle, and strides toward a flickering exit sign.
McMaster boils. He’s not yet canvassed Main’s appointment with Lowenstein and he’s withheld his knowledge of Main attending his shed for measurements. So focused was he on the land contract – everything else will now have to wait.
He starts the car, draws alongside Main and yells through the window: ‘I’m not done with you, Main.’
XL
Female intuition drives me to probe deeper into Main’s role. On leaving his office, I retreat to a cold, stainless steel bench seat in a courtyard at the side of his building. I need time to gather my thoughts which are scattered like pigeon poo over Trafalgar Square. I’ve lost perspective amidst the multi-stranded threads of what started out as a simple tail and report. My plate is full with the death of Giuseppe Caruso – which I won’t accept as natural causes – and now his son, Angelo; there is the incident against McMaster; there is the confusing association of McMaster and Rose Hernandez, and to top that, I am overdue a call from Lowenstein.
At the core was a boundary issue that triggered the offer for Blackshaw’s Mill. In that respect, McMaster has a huge personal and financial interest. If my mining project theory is on the mark, it means McMaster has a vested interest in the property and a motive to kill. If I balance McMaster’s purchase proposal with Giuseppe’s refusal, I could interpret the rebuff as McMaster’s motive against his neighbour. Big call, I know, but the past few days have shown McMaster’s ruthlessness has no bounds.
What if Angelo was the stumbling block? Problem removed.
And then there is Gillian. I am unequivocally positive she has a role in this. No one can spend so much time in McMaster’s company, and during so many contentious issues, without having a vivid picture of those ev
ents, or a degree of complicit involvement. If she learns of my inclination to ‘leak’ information to Thornton, she might become mouldable putty. I don’t believe she has sufficient insight to deduce that I was the culprit who had rifled her flat. If that were the case, she would have reported her suspicion to the police. Too late now. I have my own cards to deal. And I hold the whole deck.
I boast more information about Gillian than she has about herself. The comprehensive folio provided by Thornton contains not only her personal details, but also a copy of her job application and curriculum vitae. I extract her mobile number from the résumé and log it into my phone. A car horn attracts my attention. Probably another aggrieved driver venting frustrations over a parking spot. But when Main rushes across the pavement and into the car, my awareness pricks. McMaster is the impatient driver. My attendance at Main’s office must have stirred them into damage limitation. It certainly stirs me into snapping off a series of photos.
Re-enacting a low-budget American gangster movie, I flag a taxi, clamber into the back and yell: ‘Follow that car,’ as I thrust my arm toward the silver Vauxhall.’ The driver probably thinks he’s being hijacked or that I am joking, because I am laughing at my own ridiculous instruction. I reinforce it with, ‘I’m serious, I’m working’. I leave it to him to determine what I am working as. To compound his confusion, two streets later I yell: ‘Stop. Right here.’ I pass over a tenner – which is double the fare – and rush toward a multi-storey car park. Damn. It will be like trying to find the proverbial needle in a haystack, given that by my reckoning, one in three British cars is silver.
If I were seeking a place to conduct illicit business I would not choose an empty level in a public car park. I’d use the local gym or pool where I’d mingle with women dropping gossip, calories and wayward husbands. But McMaster doesn’t think like a woman. Therefore, he doesn’t think with logic.
Clock Face of Ills Page 24