Clock Face of Ills

by Paige Elizabeth Turner

  ‘Hope so. She’s done fuck all so far, pardon my French. So where is The Pig?’

  ‘Getting her head together. She’ll call soon, I’m sure. She’s on a downer.’

  ‘She’ll be more than down once I’ve finished with her. Be down and out on the end of a bloody Job Seekers queue for she’ll not want to set foot near a nick. Ever!’

  I won’t join in lambasting the wayward investigator, but I do reinforce one of her claims. ‘Trotter’s certain that Mac did Angelo, because he’s the only one with a key to the shed.’

  ‘Not a very reliable deduction.’

  ‘There’s another player I can’t get a handle on. Woman called Jill. Main told me “Phil’s got a Russian bird”. Keeps his hands clean. I’ve spoken to her, but after I dropped Mac’s name she hung up. Hasn’t switched on her phone since yesterday. I’m hoping you’ve got resources through telecommunications investigators.’

  ‘Leave that with me, too.’

  ‘There’s an alternative path we can take. Back streets are often easier than the direct route.’ I play the video of Mac assaulting Rose Hernandez. ‘I accompanied this girl to Worcester CID where she made a formal statement to DS Street. I’m not sure of the final outcome, but Street indicated he won’t have a bar of writing up a fellow officer.’

  ‘We’ll see about that.’

  My kind of guy.

  XLV

  At 1.00 p.m. a task force files through the Gold Guild’s doors. Officers commandeer Lowenstein’s security room; one observes a door monitor and two watch the shop floor. Olivia eyes three computer screens, ready to capture Main and McMaster’s arrival. The playback reminds her of Hamilton’s installations. ‘Can this record direct onto a USB stick?’ she asks.

  ‘Not a prob,’ replies Lowenstein.

  Olivia pulls one from her bag. Looks at it as if she’s picked up the wrong brand of nail polish in a chemist. Lowenstein plugs it in.

  A menu flashes onto the screen: ‘Mac’ followed by a list of files. ‘What the hell’s this?’ gruffs Thornton. He reads the file:

  PM

  ‘We had a little win yesterday.’

  JM

  ‘What do you mean “we”?’

  PM

  ‘Our old man had a heart attack. The sale should now be a breeze.’

  JM

  ‘Don’t bet your bollocks on that. It could delay the whole process because of probate.’

  PM

  ‘I’ve got my man, Angelo, onto it. She’ll be smooth sailing.’

  JM

  ‘You sure it was a heart attack? You didn’t put too much pressure on the old codger, did you? Like you tried with me?’

  PM

  ‘Come now. You think I’m the kind of guy who’d do something like that?’

  ‘Shit,’ says Olivia. ‘I’m not supposed to have that. I thought I put them all back.’

  ‘Put what back? Where?’

  ‘Memory sticks. Trotter’s place, during my investigation.’

  ‘Rip it out,’ Thornton directs to Lowenstein. ‘Got another one?’

  Olivia sinks a shaking hand into her bag. ‘Just happen to.’

  ‘We’ll discuss this later. For now, get your mind back to the intercept.’ Thornton smiles and walks to the front window just as Main enters the building.

  ‘Mr Main, welcome,’ Lowenstein greets. ‘Here, sit, sit. I get you coffee.’ He calls his daughter: ‘Danika, coffee for our customer, please.’

  Thornton, posing as a customer, eyes a jewellery display cabinet, while his team monitors proceedings from the security room.

  Main stands, ‘I only came for a price. I’m not yet sure if I’m selling,’ he directs to Lowenstein.

  ‘Mr Main. We treat all customers important. If now you decide to not sell, maybe another day you’ll remember me and return. Business flows not over one day, but over a lifetime.’

  Thornton glances to a ceiling-mounted camera and tips his head.

  The front door opens. McMaster. Lowenstein approaches: ‘Mac, Mac. How are you? We have a good deal today, no? Come, sit with your lawyer.’

  McMaster glances across the shop. ‘Main? What the fuck. Alby?’

  And then to Main: ‘What the… what are you doing?’

  Lowenstein answers for him: ‘He brought in your sample, Mac. All’s well, I have the price, but you know, it’s subject to daily fluctuations.’

  ‘And where did you get gold from?’ McMaster asks Main. ‘Fuckin’ my place, I bet, because I told you, didn’t I? Check up on mining rights I said, and you take it as a cue to help yourself. How’d you get in? Checking a few measurements, I heard? Took time out to dump a stiff in my pit too, did you?’

  ‘Please, no language or arguments in the shop,’ Lowenstein pleads.

  Thornton edges to a diamond display, nearer to the quarrelling pair.

  ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Main replies. ‘I provide a service. You want details on mining, I have to first confirm the quality of the product. And a stiff in a pit? You’re crazy.’

  ‘Fuckin’ bullshit. You knocked Angelo, broke into my shed and tried to frame me, you arsehole.’

  ‘No need to break in. Your wife gave me a key.’ Main plucks the side door key from his pocket. ‘Here, have the bloody thing.’

  McMaster swings his fist into Main’s jaw. Main flinches, drops the key, and then, like a raging bull, charges his head into his antagonist’s midriff, sending them both crashing through a display cabinet.

  Lowenstein frets: ‘My shop. My shop.’

  Thornton, now joined by officers from the back room, rushes to separate Main and McMaster. He introduces himself and colleagues. ‘Better tell me what’s going on here, inspector.’

  McMaster looks to Thornton. ‘You know me?’

  ‘Certainly do. Had you under obs for three weeks. Think we’ll be talking for a while, don’t you?’

  McMaster grins. ‘Not bloody likely. I’m here under invitation of Mr Lowenstein here, right? I had a chap deliver a speck of gold for an evaluation and I’ve been invited back for the price. Nothing of interest to you. On the other hand, Mr Main here, my legal representative, supposedly representing my interests in a land purchase, suddenly fronts in this establishment to get a price on material stolen from – stolen, I stress – from my property. So, if anyone’s going to be doing any talking I think it should be between you and this crook. Now what’s this shit about being under observation for three weeks? You got something you want to ask me?’

  ‘Yes, but not here. I’ll invite you to my office to save embarrassment, but if you decline, I will have to act formally.’

  ‘Act formally? You mean you’ll arrest me, a long-standing detective inspector of police? Well, since you’ve shown your hand, I’ll not give you the glory. I’m more than happy to trot along to your office and chat over coffee and croissants.’

  ‘You’ll be lucky to get a glass of water. Wait here while I tidy up.’

  Main shakes plastic and glass fragments from his jacket. ‘I’ll be getting along then; I’ll contact you later Mr Lowenstein.’

  ‘Not so fast, Mr Main,’ Thornton interjects. ‘You’ll be accompanying us too.’

  ‘No, I’ll be right thanks. I won’t prefer charges against Mr McMaster. He seems to be under duress. I’ll catch up with him later for a drink.’ And then to McMaster: ‘That suit you, Mac? By the way, the contracts are done. Got them in my car. Would’ve brought them in except I didn’t expect to see you here. Perhaps Mr Lowenstein might care to explain that?’

  ‘Mr Lowenstein will explain n
othing,’ chips in Thornton. ‘But you’ll be explaining your relationship with Angelo Caruso. Seems you’ve been practising a little conflict of interest.’

  ‘Easily fixed. I’ll help however I can. Mr McMaster will vouch for my ability to help in any capacity, won’t you Phil?’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  Olivia jumps. She doesn’t expect the reaction, thinking instead that each would cover each other. A police officer confronted with ill-doing will engage self-preservation mode, even if it means sinking everyone around him.

  Thornton pulls the memory stick from the computer. ‘Job well done, Watts. So far. Gotta crucify these bastards now. I’ve got a feeling it won’t be easy. I could do with you sitting in a spare room in case I need a quick statement or memory prompt. Think I’ll prop you in a see-through; give you the gist of how smart these two are at distancing themselves from trouble.’

  McMaster and Main shuffle into Birmingham CID. Thornton processes Main first, predicting he will implicate McMaster in both Giuseppe and Angelo Caruso’s deaths.From an adjacent window, Olivia watches Thornton and a female detective activate the recording equipment. Thornton eases into the interview: ‘Jeffrey, tell me about your business relationship with Phillip McMaster.’

  ‘I am acting for him in respect of a property purchase. I should say ‘acted’ as in past tense; the final documents are in my car.’

  ‘And who is the vendor of the subject property?’

  ‘His neighbours, Giuseppe and Maria Caruso.’

  ‘All right. How did that transaction proceed?’

  Main selects his words. ‘The mechanics of a sale are generally completed prior to an offer being made. Mrs Caruso formalised the sale, supported by her son, Angelo.’

  ‘Had you met with Angelo?’

  ‘No. Had no need. He was not a party to the contract.’

  Thornton senses a defensive edge. ‘Did a situation arise where it became necessary to hasten the progress of the transaction?’

  ‘I was not briefed of any matters that might have encumbered the sale’s momentum. Parties to contracts experience differing levels of anxiety over a purchase. There might be financial obligations or deadlines to meet; there might be problems co-ordinating removalists; and there might be cumulative matters of terminating phone, electricity and gas services. In Mr McMaster’s case, he, er, I’ll be frank with you here, he suspected gold deposits lay beneath both his and the Caruso property. I therefore took his interest in the Caruso property as one of securing rights to those deposits.’

  Thornton remains deadpan. ‘So it is correct to say there was urgency in expediting the transaction?’

  ‘In a fashion. I had attended meetings with Mr McMaster in which he asked me to accelerate the conveyance. I learnt the young Caruso was helping his mother. I could not establish whether a perceived delay emanated from the vendor’s son or the conveyance process itself.’

  Thornton ups the tempo: ‘Was it during one of those meetings you were asked to “fix that Angelo prat”?

  Main’s face drains. ‘Seems you’ve had words with that Watts woman. Quite obviously, I’m not privy to her reasons for snooping around. Nor will I comment on an unsupported allegation of a hearsay conversation, if such occurred at all. Having made that point, I will add that Mr McMaster’s methods of communication could be construed as ‘persuasive’.’

  Olivia shoots a glare through the window: Watts woman? Snooping around?

  ‘So, as a result of that conversation, “if such occurred”, did you, in fact, persuade Angelo Caruso to hustle his mother or her solicitor?’

  ‘No. I told you. I’ve never met Angelo. Never spoken to him.’

  ‘I wonder then, if you could explain, Mr Main, why your DNA has been recovered from inside his black Audi?’

  ‘Whose Audi? I think Mac may have—’

  A knock on the door stops Main short. A detective enters: ‘Terribly sorry, sir. There’s a call. Gloucester CI. Says it’s extremely urgent.’

  ‘Can’t you see I’m in the middle of a fucking interview?’

  ‘Sorry, sir, I told him. It’s a Chief Inspector Harvey. Told me to get you no matter what.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks. I’ll be right there.’

  Thornton suspends the interview.

  Olivia fires a surprised look through the window.

  XLVI

  ‘Wayne. What’s so bloody important to interrupt me in the middle of a murder interrogation?’

  ‘Sorry Jack. I wouldn’t break in without good reason. We’ve got a situation down here. Started off as a routine response to a call over a yapping dog. “Bloody thing’s been cranking off for hours” was the report. My boys attended the scene – only an hour ago – and got no answer at the door or windows. They radioed for permission to enter, and once inside, found a woman flat out on the floor. Strangled. I hesitate to say this sir, but the boys found your card on a table near a computer. Had a couple of private numbers on the back—’

  ‘Fuck no. You got a name? Trotter? Gillian?’

  ‘No formal ID yet, but yes, I’d say so, based on a Drivers’ Licence and PI ticket.’

  ‘Listen Wayne. This is vital. Go over the place with a fine-toothed comb. We might have a suspect. Trotter was working for me on a MET contract. She was shadowing a target for an internal investigation, so you can bet your bollocks this’ll be a sensitive issue. Could be related to my current file. Put your best team on it and keep me posted. I’ll get back to you later this afternoon.’

  Thornton returns to the interview. Scratches his head. Feigns indecision. ‘Mr Main. We were talking about Angelo Caruso, and you stated you’d never met him. Correct?’

  ‘Yes. Correct.’

  ‘And then I asked if you could explain why your DNA was inside his black Audi?’

  Main looks as if he’s fronted an ATM to find life savings flushed from his account. He stands. ‘Sorry, I’m feeling ill. Haven’t eaten for a while. Could you spare a glass of water?’

  Olivia watches with interlocked fingers. Victory stretches across her face. This is one occasion she wishes she were still in the job and able to gloat in the glory of Main’s discomfort. Three weeks of observation, pain and injury roll to fruition. Nail him now. Block all exits.

  With a plastic cup of water centred on the table, Main continues: ‘Sorry. Yes. There was a black car. All I did was open the door for McMaster.’

  ‘And why would you do that?’

  ‘We were going to relocate the car. As a warning.’

  ‘A warning to who? You just told me you didn’t know whose car it was.’

  ‘I didn’t. It, er, didn’t matter to me. I was simply doing McMaster a favour. A gentleman’s gesture of holding open a door.’

  ‘So, did you relocate it?’

  ‘Yes. No. Not personally. He did. No idea where he took it.’

  ‘Where who took it?’

  ‘McMaster, of course.’

  ‘Mr Main. You’ve probably sat in that chair a thousand times, cautioning clients, listening to their cock and bull stories and wishing they’d just ’fess up and tell the truth. You’ve heard buckets of crap just as I have. What you’ve just told me is from the same bucket. For a start, McMaster’s prints are not inside Caruso’s vehicle, and believe me, we’ve crawled over it like an Arab seeking water in the Sahara. Next, we lifted your prints from the steering wheel, not just a dainty finger here and there, but all over the damn thing. Forensic evidence shows you drove the vehicle – we’d start at thirty minutes, which, coincidentally, is about the travel time from Angelo’s flat to McMaster’s shed. Also, DNA from Angelo Caruso’s scalp was scraped from the rear door catch. So you can see we’re in a position to allege you drove Caruso to McMaster’s shed and dumped him. What do you say to that?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘I put it to you that did, in fact, occur.�
��

  ‘Do you know McMaster? Do you know about his “after hours” activities; his association with underworld figures who dip their fingers in more pies than Little Jack fuckin’ Horner ever did? The bastard coerced and threatened me until I had nowhere to turn. I’ve never had problems in my life before I met him. I’m an upstanding citizen and career lawyer. The guy put me in fear of my life.’

  ‘Did he kill Angelo?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know. I only sedated him. Ask McMaster.’

  Thornton shakes his head and suspends the interview.

  Thornton hands Olivia a coffee. ‘What do you reckon my dear?’

  ‘Flat white? Sorry. Going okay. I thought you struggled for a while. He knows his stuff. I half expected a no comment interview.’

  ‘He’s too wise for that. Knows where his bread’s buttered.’

  ‘You said nothing about the key. That in case he says he didn’t enter the shed?’

  ‘Well read. I’ve got big sleeves. Always keep a few goodies up there. I might exploit them for our friend Mac. Get ready for the climax.’

  ‘Gladly. What’s with the toilet break in the middle of the interview? You would have crucified me for that.’

  ‘Urgent call. Official business. They track me down wherever I am.’

  He withholds the information about Trotter. The recent interview with Gillian automatically slots Olivia on the suspect list. Thornton turns with an afterthought: ‘By the way, I couldn’t get anything on that number you gave me. Jill, wasn’t it? Pay as you go? You could call yourself Santa Claus and get a dozen of those SIM cards. Unless someone tips her in, she won’t be found. Right. Time for the big one. Let’s crack Mac.’

  McMaster, uncharacteristically gracing the opposite side of an interview desk, composes his defence.

  ‘Detective Inspector Phillip McMaster, I’m going to ask questions in relation to the deaths of Giuseppe Caruso and Angelo Caruso. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something you may later rely on in court. Do you understand?’