Death on a Dirty Afternoon (The Terry Bell Mysteries Book 1)

by Colin Garrow

  Carol was quiet for a moment then her eyes lit up. 'Hang on - Ken was reading an article about him in the News Post the other day. I'm sure there was a picture of this Sven bloke.'

  'Great! Have you got a copy?'

  She shook her head. 'Not here, but I know where we can get one.'

  Ordinarily, I'd consider it a bit daft to go out in the middle of the night looking for a newspaper, but I needed to know what this bloke looked like, then at least I'd recognise him if we ever bumped into each other. In any case, it was Monday and Mondays were like Tuesdays, and Tuesdays were about as exciting as a wet weekend in Blyth.

  It was gone two o'clock when we got to the office. Carol let us in, but left the lights off in case some nosy copper thought the place was being burglarised. I closed the door and followed her up the stairs.

  With only the orangey glow of the streetlight on the corner to light up the room, the place had an eeriness to it that didn't sit well with me - especially given the events of the past few days. Carol wasn't worried, though, and started rummaging through the files and papers on the counter. Meanwhile, I looked through the magazines and newspapers Ken supplied for the delight of the punters.

  The News Post was a weekly broadsheet that had held onto its format through several changes of ownership. It was the place to go for local gossip and political shenanigans, but if you wanted hard facts it was best avoided. There were a few old copies on the coffee table, but Carol reckoned the one we wanted was the issue from the previous week, and naturally, that's the one that was missing.

  'I think we've had it.' Carol straightened up and sighed. 'It was worth a shot.'

  'Hang on,' I said. There was still another possibility. I tried the door to Ken's office. It opened and I pushed it wide. The place had been trashed and there were files and ledgers all over the floor, but it was the man sitting in the boss's chair with a knife in his chest that drew my attention.

  Behind me, Carol let out a low moan. 'Aw, ye're fuckin jokin.'

  Chapter 5

  Sitting in the back of the police car wasn't a new experience for me, but it freaked the hell out of Carol. She gripped my arm and didn't let go while we sat there watching the cop circus invade the street. Forty minutes after my call, Charis arrived and climbed into the front passenger seat.

  'You're beginning to piss me off, Terry,' she said, with only a smidgen of humour. She glanced at Carol and I could see her making assumptions. 'And I suppose,' she went on, 'neither of you have any idea who he is?'

  We shook our heads.

  'Course not, that would be too easy. Well, at least he isn't dead. Yet.'

  Carol was trembling. 'D'you think he'll be alright?'

  The inspector shrugged. 'Touch and go, as they say in the movies.' She glanced up at the taxi office. The men in white suits were still inside doing their thing. 'Don't usually get a lot of excitement on a Monday night, though I'd have been just as happy to stay in my bed.'

  'What's goin to happen to us?' Carol's voice sounded small and helpless. I put my hand on hers and gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile.

  'I'll need statements from ye's at some point, but ye might as well go home just now.' She hesitated. 'Although, given what's just happened, might be an idea to find somewhere else to stay.' She raised an eyebrow at me and, unfortunately, I knew exactly what she meant.

  To say Jessie was not best pleased, wouldn't be over-egging the custard. She stood in the kitchen doorway wearing an extra-large Snoopy t-shirt and a pair of slippers I'd've thought were way too fluffy even for her.

  'You do know David's got to be up at six?'

  I took a sip of my hot chocolate. 'It wasn't my idea to come here.'

  'Maybe not, but you still came.' She sounded angry, even if her face betrayed a softer side. Not much softer, mind, but it gave me a nice warm feeling to know she was probably quite worried about me. Deep down. Nevertheless, she maintained a severe exterior.

  'I'm away back to bed. And ye's can make your own fuckin breakfast.' She turned and endeavoured to make a decisive exit, but her slippers caught on the hall carpet and she very nearly fell flat on her face. I didn't laugh until she was out of sight.

  'We should've gone to a hotel.' Carol looked up at me, her face less drained than earlier. 'I haven't even got a toothbrush.'

  'It's fine. My sister's prepared for any eventuality.'

  Upstairs, I showed Carol where she'd be sleeping. There was a toothbrush next to the bed. I pointed to the door along the hall. 'Give us a knock if ye need anything.'

  She nodded and closed the door.

  Back in what I was now thinking of as 'my' room, I noticed Jessie had changed the sheets as well as the towels. I got ready for bed then switched off the light, but before snuggling down, I crossed to the window. Parting the curtains just enough to peek out, I took in the solitary presence at the end of the driveway. Charis had left one of her plods on guard, but whether he was there to stop us getting out, or to discourage would-be murderers, was anybody's guess.

  David and Jessie had already left by the time me and Carol got round to having breakfast. After several cups of coffee, we were ready to face the world, though exactly what it was we'd be facing wasn't clear. Since the police had brought us here, we had no transport. I rang one of our competitors, Coastal Cars. The guy on the desk offered his condolences regarding Frank and Ronnie, though he clearly thought it was hilarious that one of Ronnie's drivers needed a taxi. I told him what had happened the night before and he stopped laughing.

  I gathered my things together in the hope we wouldn't have to come back again. Jessie had made it clear we were always welcome, in a not-very-welcoming sort of way. Nevertheless, I still wasn't happy about going back to my flat. Or Carol's, for that matter.

  The solitary copper had disappeared by the time we walked down the drive to meet the car. The sleek white Rover made a nice change from Ronnie's unluxurious Nissans, and I wondered if Coastal's made any more money than our drivers. I got the guy to drop us a block away from the office, so's no-one would see us using a rival firm. Thankfully, my car was still parked where I'd left it round the corner, and there were no other cabbies in sight, which indicated those on shift were already on the rank. In any case, they wouldn't have known anything about last night's calamity until they turned up for work. I chucked my gear in the back of the car and we headed for the office.

  When we got upstairs, Ken was sitting at the desk with the headphones on, staring into space. His face looked like someone else had slept in it.

  'How ye doin?'

  His head swivelled towards us and he nodded slowly. 'Been better. You two alright?'

  Carol took off her coat and laid it on top of a filing cabinet. 'Never mind us, what about you? You been here all night?' She patted his shoulder.

  'Yous must've just left when I arrived. Bloody cops were here til four, buggering about with stuff. Thought I might as well stay.'

  I glanced through at the office. 'Did they find out who that bloke was?'

  He shook his head. 'Some drunk. They reckon someone must've been up here snoopin about and he came in looking for a cab. One of those wrong place, wrong time whatsits.'

  'How did they get in?'

  He shrugged. 'Cops reckon they must've picked the lock and left the door open.'

  'Did they take anything?'

  'Made a fuckin mess, that's for sure. But no, I don't think so.'

  It wouldn't have done any good to increase Ken's anxiety level, so I didn't mention that I thought it more likely they hadn't found what they were looking for and would probably come back at some point. Or put another way, it was just another piece of the puzzle that didn't make sense.

  He was quiet for a moment, then, 'You okay to work today?'

  I nodded. 'So they think he was just unlucky?'

  Ken stared at me. 'Unlucky? How the fuck should I know?' He grunted. 'Just one thing after another, isn't it?' He sighed and stood up. 'There you are luv, but if ye need to go h
ome, just say so, alright?'

  Carol did her best to smile. 'Course.' She rearranged the magnetic cards on the whiteboard showing who was working and who wasn't, then started going through the booking list.

  'Right, looks like Fat Barry and Joe are heading out of town...Jimmy's droppin at Sangster's.' She looked up at me. 'You'd better do this airport run, Terry - it's due in ten minutes.' She scribbled the details on a post-it note and passed it over. 'It was one of Ronnie's bookings, but...'

  I glanced at the pickup address. 'Giz a ring if anything happens.'

  'What about tonight?'

  'I dunno. Maybe you should go an stay with your mam?'

  'In friggin Darlington? What about me job?'

  I glanced across at Ken, who was watching me closely. 'Think you'd be safer there.' He nodded in agreement.

  Carol shook her head. 'Me mam'd drive iz up the wall. I'm better off where I am.'

  'Okay. I'll pick you up later. We'll make a decision then.'

  The airport pickup was from The Ferryboat Inn, a nice quiet pub on a weekday, though it got a bit rowdy at weekends. Its clientele was more local than touristy and being stuck on the edge of a Council estate, it wasn't the easiest place to find. Being hidden away suited the regulars since most of them favoured a less than honest means of making a living. Also, it wasn't the most obvious place to start from if you had a plane to catch, but I knew the landlord did occasional overnight stays for some of his 'special' customers, so I assumed it was one of those.

  The tiny car park was empty and I pulled up at the front entrance. Before I had a chance to open my door, a tall shiny-headed bloke emerged carrying a holdall. He climbed in the back and threw the bag on the seat beside him.

  'Alright marra?'

  'Aye, canny.' I forced myself to drag my eyes away from the rear-view mirror before he noticed I was staring at him. 'To the airport, yeah?'

  'That's right bonny lad.' He turned and looked out of the window and I took another quick look at his face. It was him alright - the man who'd welcomed Elise Andersson into the house on Nugent Crescent the night before. Or Mister Crazy Horse, as my recent acquaintance had called him. I pushed the memory out of my mind and tried to come up with a new name for my passenger - one I could associate with a less intimidating image.

  I keyed the mic and confirmed I'd picked up. As we pulled away, my passenger tapped me on the shoulder.

  'Ronnie not on today?'

  I swallowed hard. 'Ahm, no. He's...off sick.'

  His eyes narrowed. 'Really? I heard some fucker caved his head in.'

  'Oh, aye,' I said, as if I'd just remembered. I cleared my throat, fighting to keep my attention on the road. 'I thought...' Whatever I thought was never going to make it into actual words, so I shut up.

  My passenger was staring at me. 'Have we met before?'

  'Don't think so.' I took another right and headed towards Sainsbury's and the quickest route out of town.

  'So you're not Terry Bell, then?'

  The car squealed to a halt and I waved an apology at the young mother whose kid had almost become minced child. 'Ahm, yes.'

  He nodded in a not very reassuring way. 'Aye. That's right - you're the one that dropped Elise off at Ahmed's last night, aren't you?'

  I eased the car forward and wondered if there were any friendly policemen in the area. Not that it would've made any difference - if the man in the back of my car was a killer, he was hardly likely to own up to it.

  From The Ferryboat, the most direct route took in a few of the back roads that would've made a pleasant drive on any other day. If this guy was planning to bump me off, it also afforded plenty of out-the-way places to do it. Nice quiet woods and fields where a body could be dumped and nobody any the wiser.

  'Did ye hear what I said, bonny lad?'

  I gulped loudly. 'Oh, aye. Sorry. I was concentrating. Yes, I believe it was me that dropped off...ahm...'

  'Elise Andersson.'

  'That's right. Elise.' I kept my eyes on the road but I could see his grinning face in my peripheral vision.

  'Tell you what...' He leaned forward and rested his humongous arms on the back of my seat. 'Change of plan. I need to pick somethin up at a mate's place.'

  'Oh?'

  'Aye.' He stretched an arm past my head and I could smell the polish on his leather coat. A well-manicured finger pointed to a house up ahead. 'See that redbrick place? Turn in there and follow the lane.' He sat back. 'It's not far.' That grinning face again.

  I pulled a left where he said, hoping it wouldn't turn out to be a dead end - in every sense of the word. We followed a narrow winding road that led past several houses and a farm. Then Shiny Head leaned forward again.

  'Pull in here.'

  There was a sort of lay-by ahead, with a gravel track leading up to a grotty-looking house. I brought the car to a halt and waited nervously for further instructions. But my passenger was already heaving his large frame out the door and heading off up the track. For a moment I thought it must be a trick, that he was going to turn around, demand I get out the car then blow me away without further ado. Instead, he strode up to the house and I watched as the door opened and he stepped inside.

  The sensible thing to do would be to simply drive away, but if this guy really was involved in Ronnie's death and thought I suspected him, why would he leave me sitting here with an obvious escape route?

  So I sat and waited.

  Of course, I could be completely wrong. Maybe he'd found himself sans murder weapon and had stopped to pick up a gun/lethal injection/great big fuck-off knife? But if he was a killer, surely he'd have had the great big fuck-off knife in his bag? Which reminded me - it was still there on the seat where he'd left it. I glanced back up at the house. There was no sign of life and even if he did suddenly appear, it'd take him half a minute or so to get back to the car. Plenty time to root through his luggage and find that magical piece of incriminating evidence to back up my theory.

  Keeping half an eye on the house, I reached over and unzipped the holdall. Digging my hand in, I found something soft and clothing-like. Clothes, in fact. I slid my fingers around the sides, but there was nothing remotely hard and gun-like, sharp and pointy or even syringe-shaped - only more clothes.

  I fastened the bag back up. Then I noticed it was perched on the edge of the seat. That wasn't where he'd left it. I pushed it back and checked its position in my rear-view mirror. Is that where it had been? I reached over again and pushed it further along. There, maybe? It'd have to do - Head Case was on his way back.

  'Still here, then?' he said, getting into the car. 'Thought you might've buggered off.'

  'Don't be daft,' I said, trying to laugh, but it sounded unnatural. Looking over my shoulder, I couldn't help catch his eye as I reversed into the driveway and turned the car round. I hoped it was my imagination, but there seemed to be a Machiavellian glint in his eye that hadn't been there before. If Shiny had picked something up from the house, he wasn't carrying it, so whatever it was had to be small enough to go in his pocket. I tried to come up with a list of murder weapons that might fit the bill, but all I could think of was that scene in The Godfather where wife-beater Carlo Rizzi gets into the front seat of a car, only to be garrotted by Clemenza. It didn't make me feel any better.

  'Right. Head for St Mary's.'

  'What, the lighthouse?'

  'That's the one.'

  'We're not goin to the airport, then?'

  He let out a low laugh. 'No foolin you, is there bonny lad?' He winked. 'Never tell taxi drivers anything they divvent need to know - they're worse than bloody women for gossip.'

  He was right about that. 'So where are we goin, then?'

  'Just aim for St Mary's.'

  I did as I was told and headed up to the main road and back the way we'd come.

  I couldn't imagine why he'd want to go to a lighthouse, but as there'd likely be a few tourists around, it wasn't an obvious spot to commit murder. Or maybe it was a ruse so I would think
we were going somewhere safe, when in fact he was just waiting for an opportunity to slip that wire round my neck and drag me over the back, kicking and screaming. Literally.

  I kept to the speed limit, hoping a more logical solution would come to mind, but every time I dropped below 40, my passenger reminded me he hadn't got 'all fuckin day'.

  I was still worrying about possible murder techniques when we hit The Links road. Approaching the turn off to the lighthouse, I'd just flicked on the indicator when Glossy Bonce tapped me on the shoulder.

  'No, mate. Carry on round the corner.'

  I followed the road. On one side was the cemetery and on the other a caravan site. I didn't know which was worse.

  'Turn right here.'

  I eased the car under the welcoming arch.

  Carver Caravans was a sort of mini resort with its own bars and clubhouse as well as an overpriced and under-stocked shop and a down-at-heel arcade. If the punters wanted to, they needn't ever leave the site, though why anyone would come here in the first place was beyond me.

  'Round to the left.'

  I followed his instructions until we ended up at the far side of the site outside what I assumed was, in caravanning terms, a classic example of top-end accommodation. My experience of caravans was limited to those twenty-foot tin boxes my folks used to foist on me and Jessie every damn year when we spent a fortnight freezing our respective nuts off on the outskirts of Scarborough. This was a different can of crabs altogether - the thing was more like a small house than a touring caravan and it had more gleaming metal on it than a bunch of knights on a crusade.

  I stopped the car and Baldy got out. I watched him walk up onto the decking and knock on the door. After a moment, he disappeared inside and I saw him through the window talking to a grey-haired woman who seemed to be wearing a deck chair, or more likely, a gaudy-looking dress. She looked familiar and eventually I remembered who she was.

  When I'd first started driving for Ronnie's Taxis we used to get a lot of business down here, but it tailed off after Billy Carver suffered a massive heart attack in the middle of a talent competition. His wife had gamely carried on with the business and it soon transpired that she had a better head for finances than he'd ever had. She bought a minibus and hired a driver so punters wouldn't need to use taxis. Then she extended the clubhouse and added a restaurant to the seaward side, giving those lucky people even more reason to stay put. Though the place was still a bit of a dive, she'd finally got rid of the shittier side of Carver's Holiday Lets.