Clock Face of Ills

by Paige Elizabeth Turner

  My own logic fails me as I search for the silver car. As I ascend from level to level, the vehicle density diminishes because every shopper and employee wants to park as close as possible to their favourite shop or workplace. I poke my head from the stairwell door and see that the fifth level holds only a cluster of white vans and shop fitters’ gear spread across two parking bays.

  I trudge up the concrete stairs, paying the price for my declining fitness. I’ve done nothing but run around after Gillian and McMaster for the past fortnight, and that running isn’t conducive to elevating my cardiovascular capacity. My legs falter, which surprises me because many guys compliment my strong thighs, notwithstanding that some will say anything to heap praise on a woman. I puff my way to the sixth level door – or the purple floor, for the numerically challenged – and just as I open the door a car whizzes past. McMaster. And then Main springs from nowhere, smack bang into the doorway. He faces me like a boozed-up rogue about to give his wife a hiding. For once I am lost for words. But he isn’t.

  ‘Well, well. Lookee here. What’s happening?’ He grins an evil snigger, proud of his own joke.

  I’ve had the line thrown at me a thousand times. Old news. Dream up something new if you want to mock my business name. He stands rigid, awaiting my reply. I blurt: ‘Just doing a spot of shopping.’

  Crack! He crunches me open-handed across the face, pushes me into the stairwell and pulls the door closed. ‘Shopping bullshit. What is it with you? You’re one piece of work, you know that? And not too good at it either. Nothing too private about the way you operate.’

  I pull my hands up to caress my burning cheek. He charges his fist into my shoulder. That disables me and tells me I’m not going to get out of this lightly – if I don’t defend myself. But I hold the advantage because he’s leaned in to me. I execute the perfect knee-lift into his groin. He buckles over as if kowtowing to a Chinese emperor. Perfect. I clasp my hands together and crunch the back of his neck. He drops to the ground, but in doing so grabs the hem of my jacket and pulls me onto him. In a different situation, I would savour the initiative.

  He rolls over, trapping me beneath him. This is nothing like Gillian straddling me. No. Main’s eyes enlarge. Tears stream down his cheeks. I must have really hurt him. The tables are turned.

  ‘Got a problem with me?’ I ask. ‘You’ll suffer a bigger one after I report this.’ I regret my bravado as soon as the words leave my mouth.

  ‘You won’t convince anyone a reputable solicitor attacked a woman in a car park,’ he replies. ‘Besides, I was with DI McMaster discussing business.’

  ‘Yes, you were,’ I agree. ‘The problem you’ve got is that my attendance at your office will be verified by your receptionist. She knows you created a reason to leave the office shortly after I left, but she doesn’t know, just as you obviously don’t, that McMaster’s car will be logged entering and exiting here. With a little luck, and you don’t seem to have much going for you at the moment, there’ll be CCTV of that entry and exit; one with you in the car and the other without.’

  He grabs the front of my jacket, lifts me from the ground and slams me onto the concrete. I try to keep my head raised, but not high enough to prevent the back of my skull bouncing off the floor. The impact feels as if I’ve been whacked over the head with a brick – which I suppose is what happened, except in reverse. I am in severe trouble. Given the events of recent weeks, the guy could be capable of murder. The spark of self-preservation ignites renewed vigour. I clutch my head. Warm blood oozes onto my palm and trickles along my arm. I slide my hand to my side, glancing against his pants leg as I do so. He looks at the smear of blood. With his balance unsettled I thrust my hips upwards, toppling the oaf from me. I stagger to my feet in time to kick him to the back of the head. I thrust my foot into his back, sending him thumping down six steps to a small landing. Grey concrete dusts his designer suit, blood streaks his face, and his left arm juts out at a reverse right-angle to his elbow. I retrieve his phone from the ground.

  I don’t offer the conciliatory Are you all right? Instead, I phone DS Street, describe the attack, and ask if he can attend forthwith. I have a particular reason for asking. I know Main is merely immobilised – albeit painfully. I don’t want to give him thinking time in the back of an ambulance.

  With Main’s phone in one hand and my own in the other I activate Bluetooth and transfer his directory to my phone. How I love technology. I return my phone to my pocket and recite to Main his meaningful contacts: McMaster, that doesn’t surprise me; Caruso, G&M, obviously the farm; and Gill, that does surprise me – in fact it overwhelms me. So why does he have her number?

  A door creaks from below. Footsteps. Two sets. One echoes the unmistakable click-clack of women’s heels. Plumpton’s rhythmic tapping precedes Street’s head emerging above the stairwell railing. I choke as I imagine her clicking away with Riverdance or Celtic Thunder troupes.

  Main remains mute while I speak to Street. His glazed eyes tell of a first round defeat and haze of recovery after a Floyd Mayweather championship bout. For Street’s benefit, I lean over Main and whisper: ‘You’ll be seen to in a moment.’

  ‘You’ll go for this, bitch.’ Slurred sounds and spittle spill from his swollen lower lip.

  ‘You all right apart from your arm?’

  He doesn’t answer.

  I don’t care. No problem to me. I respect silence.

  With Plumpton standing obediently behind, Street introduces himself to Main, who protests: ‘She stole my phone.’

  Such is the outcry of most street offenders I’ve apprehended since my early days of pacing beats in Worcester. They strike like a python. Their criminal philosophy manual preaches first in best dressed – as if credibility is a by-product of urgency. The offender will invariably blame someone else or offer an implausible related circumstance that renders him a suspect of theft, bashing, indecent behaviour, or one of any number of crimes they’ve committed since they were ten-years-old. Deflect blame. Exactly as Main has done. But I am awake to him. If we’re talking streetwise, I wrote the book. Compiled the maps. I glare at Main, wink, and turn to Street. ‘Sergeant, his phone’s right here. I picked it up after poor Mr Main tripped down this stairwell. I was about to hand it to him when I heard you coming up the stairs. Here, please take it. Check it’s not damaged. I’d hate to think Mr Main might make a claim against me. I’ve never had a lot of trust in lawyers.’

  I offer Street a wry grin. Plumpton cringes. I’d bet she thinks I am after her partner. Not a chance. As I pass Street the phone, I activate the screen with Caruso’s name and number, knowing full well the name will draw his attention.

  He flicks through the menu: ‘Looks okay to me,’ and then turns to Plumpton and asks her to take my statement.

  I think Plumpton has as much desire to interview me as I have to give her information. I recall her pretentious “And you are?”, and her put-down personality. She quotes from a laminated prompt card: ‘Miss Watts, I’m going to ask you some questions about an assault. You are not obliged to say anything—’

  ‘Hang on. What the heck? Why the hell are you administering me a caution? Am I a suspect? What for?’ I walk straight to Street, who’s already overheard my outburst. He saves me from losing it. ‘Laurel, she’s a witness. Just take a statement.’

  The bitch is dumb. She’d been told to take a statement. We walk a half flight down the stairwell and bail out at level five. I remind her of my on-going enquiry, and continue that I’d been walking through the car park when Main attacked me. I mention my having information important for her sergeant and that I would prefer to speak to him.

  She retains her school prefect manner: ‘Please wait here a moment.’

  Moments later, Street approaches: ‘I’ll be a while. Mr Main’s made serious allegations. I’m getting the ambos to look over him and then I’ll take him to the station. You’re coming too, so wa
it with DC Plumpton. She’s arranging transport.’

  I look at him blank-faced. ‘Not so fast. What’s he saying I’ve done?’

  ‘We’ll discuss it at the station. You can either come voluntarily or, well… let’s not go there.’

  ‘You can’t be serious. I’m on the level and have already discussed this with you. You know I’ll come willingly, but you’ll want a bloody good reason for threatening me with arrest.’

  ‘As you wish.’ He turns and walks to Main, now under paramedics’ care.

  XLI

  Plumpton clutches the back of my pants and directs me into the station. Her actions are absurd, given my willing attendance. Brandishing a hapless suspect through the police station must be her career highlight.

  Street enters the interview room with the grace of a statesman pending knighthood. Pompous git showing off to the debutante. ‘Mr Main has indicated his preference for laying a complaint which I advise might result in your being charged with assault —’

  I don’t let him finish. The nerve of the guy. Sweet Laurel hasn’t even taken a word from me and here is Street babbling charges before even considering my testimony. One night I’m having dinner with him and calling him ‘Roy’; the next day he’s preparing to charge me? Not a chance. ‘Sergeant Street. I would like to speak to Mr Main privately. Mr Main is aware of my holding information that could implicate him in a crime far greater than a car park dustup. This assault crap’ll go nowhere. We’ll both instruct barristers who’ll plea our behaviour as ‘wholly out of character’; we’ll be freed without conviction on our entering into a good behaviour bond for twelve months; and if we have the misfortune to stand beneath a tough magistrate, worst-case scenario would be our ending up with 100 hours’ community work. Might as well save yourself the paperwork.’

  Street maintains solemnity. ‘You were in the job. You know I can’t do that. I can’t put a complainant and a victim together in one room.’

  I conjure my special occasion seductive pout: ‘You can if neither of us object. Call it mediation.’

  Street leaves the room defeated. He returns seconds’ later to sit me opposite Main. ‘No funny business. There’s a camera up there,’ he says, pointing to a small convex lens.

  ‘Does it record sound?’ Main beats me by milliseconds.

  ‘No,’ Street answers. ‘But I wish it would.’

  Neither Main nor I speak. Street accepts that as his departure hint.

  I open the ledger: ‘I suppose you see this as an unorthodox request.’

  ‘What is it with you? You one of those do-gooder crusaders?’

  Good start. ‘You should recall that I introduced myself in your office, shortly before you had Jade evict me.’ I’m proud of my ability to retain names. Think word association – Jade looked like granite. ‘I was enquiring about your client Phillip McMaster. I respect your profession as a lawyer, but I ask that you respect mine as a private investigator with seven years’ police experience. For the sake of this discussion I won’t say anything directly against your client. However, I’ve been engaged in a task over the past three weeks that has exposed your association with Detective Inspector McMaster. Information includes compelling evidence of threats against a person now deceased, and knowingly attempting to facilitate a property transaction with fraudulent documents.’

  ‘I’ll not be commenting on any of that. For a start, I don’t make threats against people. Secondly, I conveyed only documentation provided by the purchaser.’

  ‘Have it your way. I’m merely trying to short-circuit what you might later find a very trying situation. Let me throw in a name: Lowenstein. Albert Lowenstein.’

  In a former romantic interlude, I viewed an autumn sunset wash over an alabaster-white rendered cottage. Main’s face replicates the blushing colour change of pink to orange to red and then to a pallid grey that signals curtain fall.

  ‘What about Lowenstein?’

  ‘As you’re not saying much, nor am I.’ This is a battle of wits. I’m not a card player, but the expression ‘poker face’ is part of my repertoire. I don’t throw in chips until I see my opponent’s hand. I continue: ‘You’ve placed a gold sample with him. Now, do you think McMaster would be interested?’

  ‘So what’s your interest? What’s with the observation?’

  ‘Privileged, as you’d say. Rest assured it’s sanctioned and administered by police command. If you’re up to accepting advice, mine is to distance yourself from McMaster. I also recommend you help my enquiry. Doing so will ensure your remaining in the legal profession.’

  ‘Don’t think you can bluff me. Let’s say I do co-operate, what guarantee do I get? Do you really know McMaster?’

  ‘I’ve seen enough and learned enough over the past fortnight to know you’re in deep. Take your own advice: those who co-operate gain concessions.’

  Street knocks and enters. ‘Everything okay in here?’

  ‘Fine,’ we reply in unison.

  I return to Main. ‘I have details of your meeting with Lowenstein. He phoned me.’

  ‘Jesus. That’s some network you’ve got going.’

  ‘You’ve not heard the half of it. I’ll lay it on the table. We, and I mean myself and the police, can link you to an arrangement to fix Angelo Caruso. What can you tell me about that?’

  ‘We discussed pressuring him to hasten a land deal. Phil desperately wants Angelo’s parents’ property. Started out a routine conveyance. I later heard, or was told, that gold might lie beneath both properties. After that, everything changed.’

  Gold. The estate plans. The secret safe. The mining books. One objective.

  ‘I have your business card—. Let me start again. I have a shredded version of your business card, ripped up with a threatening message on the back. I found it at the rear boundary of the Caruso and McMaster properties.’

  Main looks surprised, or feigns incredibly well. ‘And?’

  ‘Just passing on info. Although it is compelling evidence when you’re linked to a business card and to the owners of both properties and to a deceased later found ten metres beneath McMaster’s shed.’

  ‘I had nothing to do with that.’

  ‘Do you know about Phil paying someone to do his dirty work?’ This from Main. ‘That’s how he keeps his hands clean. He’s in with a Russian bird – goes by the name of Jill.’

  ‘So what did she do?’

  ‘Don’t have a clue. That’s Phil’s business. I steered well clear of it.’

  ‘So what’s the deal with the gold? The sample you’ve left with Lowenstein?’

  ‘No need for that. Where’s this going? I’m here because you assaulted me. Dislocated shoulder. And look at my suit.’

  The nerve of the bastard. ‘You had no reason to assault me. But that’s not the issue. I’m not going for charges, although Street’s offsider’s CCTV footage would help my case. Think of the words ‘other’, ‘fish’ and ‘fry’. You keeping your appointment tomorrow?’

  ‘Got no reason not to. If Phil gets wind of this, he might think the worst. I intend to keep my appointment to honour my instructions of researching matters associated with mining. The sample I’ve left with the Guild is part of my obligation to my client.’

  A complete change sweeps over Main like a restaurant transforming the casual lunch setting into the evening’s starched linen tablecloths and accompanying silverware. I gauge that between the questions and answers he’d allocated time enough to assess his position, preserve his integrity and shift any burden to others – just as he’s done with McMaster and Jill. His revised demeanour suits me. I have plans, and they do not include the possibility of Main tipping off McMaster with details of my involvement. I gamble: ‘If we’re agreed that no charges arise from this, I’ll leave it at that and sign a statement of no complaint. I trust you’ll do the same.’

  Main looks surprised.
But nowhere near surprised as he will be tomorrow afternoon.

  I’m still wary of DS Street stealing my thunder. I have one chance to beat the storm. Gillian. I rip out my phone, scan the directory, and swipe ‘Gill’.

  It answers on the first ring: ‘Hello. I’m not putting up with your shit anymore.’

  I don’t recognise the voice. ‘Excuse me, what shit?’

  ‘Sorry. I thought it was someone else. Who’s this?’

  ‘Olivia. Olivia Watts. Thought I was calling Gillian.’

  ‘You are, but it’s Jill. I never call myself Gillian.’

  I recheck the phone. ‘GILL’. I never type in caps. And then it clicks. Bloody Main. This was in his phone when I did the Bluetooth transfer. Trust a guy to not be able to spell a girl’s name. ‘Sorry, I got your number from Jeff Main, the solicitor.’

  ‘That bastard? Bad news.’

  She disconnects.

  I won’t let that go. I swipe her number over the afternoon, stopping only for blistered fingers.

  At last. She’s a night girl. ‘Jill, please don’t hang up. It’s Olivia, we spoke earlier.’

  ‘You’re calling me at nearly midnight because I was a wrong number?’

  ‘No. This is really important. You told me to watch out for Jeff Main. He’s already thumped me. I need your help. Please. Tell me how you know him.’

  ‘Personal. I don’t want to talk about it. He has a police inspector on side. Do you want me to call him and tell him you’re harassing me?’

  I persist: ‘You know McMaster as well?’

  CLUNK.

  XLII

  To the tune of Elvis’s famous song, it’s now or never. I scrunch my hand into a fist and rap an authoritive knock on Trotter’s door.

  Her viper eyes bore into me. She won’t recognise me, because for the first time in months I’ve smothered myself in make-up, not necessarily to disguise, but to mask the yellowing bruise creeping across my jaw. Poor effort though, because I look like a ten-year-old let loose with her first make-up kit.