by Colin Garrow
Watching her through the window, I couldn't imagine Sheila Carver as a crime boss, but I wouldn't bet money on it - I've lost out to women before and I reckoned if they put me up against her, I'd be the one walking home without my shirt.
My hairless friend came to the door and curled a finger at me. I got out the car and followed him into the small house. He stood by the door and waved me towards his leader. I had to admit the place was pretty impressive. There was a walnut cabinet on one side next to a bookcase stuffed with classic crime thrillers. Sheila lounged in a leather chair. From the look of it, several rare animals had contributed their hides to its creation. Two sour-faced younger guys sat on one of the fitted sofas behind her. From their ages and familial features, I guessed they were the sons.
Everyone was looking at me.
'Ralph tells me you've been helping us out?'
For a woman in her seventies, she sounded as sexy as someone at least three years younger.
'Ralph?' I looked at the sons assuming she meant one of them.
She waved a finger at Cue Ball.
'Oh, aye.' I forced a smile for my new friend. I wasn't sure what she meant by 'helping out', but I definitely didn't appreciate all this attention. If something bad was going to happen, I was in the right place.
'We were all really sorry to hear about Ronnie.'
From her expression, I judged she was either totally sincere or a bloody good liar.
'Aye, me too.'
'He was a good friend to us - especially to my Billy.' She patted a leather pouffe beside her. 'Why don't you sit down?' She clicked her fingers and one of the sons got up and poured drinks.
I lowered myself onto the seat, aware that I was now looking up at Mrs Carver. If it was a deliberate move to put me in a position of vulnerability, it worked - I felt like a kid at primary school, waiting for a spoonful of whatever the equivalent of cod liver oil was at the Carver residence.
The son passed me what looked like a whisky tumbler, but the faint odour wasn't alcoholic.
Sheila grinned and took a sip from her own glass. 'Ginger beer. Never touch booze these days. Not after what it did to my Billy.' She paused and gazed down at me as if deciding what fate to dish up. 'They say Ronnie died in your flat.'
I nodded and glanced at the others. They were all staring at me, though their expressions were too neutral to guess what might be going on in their heads.
She gave me a sly wink. 'I'm assuming it wasn't you?'
'Course it wasn't. What ye think I am?' There was an edge to my voice I hadn't intended, but it seemed to please her.
'Fair enough, and how well d'you know Sven Andersson?'
'I don't.'
'Never met him?'
'No.'
'But you know his...' She hesitated. 'His woman?'
'Only cos I picked her up the other night. I don't know her.' I glanced up at Ralph, but he was gazing out the window.
Sheila shuffled herself round so she was leaning on the arm of the chair. Her face was barely twelve inches from mine and there was a hint of Embassy Regal on her breath.
'Look, Terry...' A purple fingernail reached out and stroked the back of my hand in an Ernst Blofeld sort of way. 'I want to know who killed Ronnie and I think you can help me find out.'
My head was shaking before I could stop it. 'You need to be speakin to the cops. This is nowt to do with me.'
'Oh, but it is to do with you, Terry.' She smiled as if explaining something to a simpleton. 'I have friends in the police force - good friends, but they're not telling me anything and I think it's because they don't know anything. And when the police don't know anything, we have to look elsewhere for answers, wouldn't you agree? Now, you're involved whether you like it or not and whoever killed Ronnie and old Frankie is still out there, and they're looking for something.'
I sat up straight. 'You think Frank was murdered?'
'Don't you think so?'
I shook my head. Shrugged. 'I don't know.'
She leaned back and made a small gesture with her hand. Ralph reached into an inside pocket and produced a bundle of money. He counted out five notes and handed them to me.
I took the cash and looked at Sheila. 'What's this for?'
'Your fare, obviously.'
'There's too much here,' I said, holding the money out to her.
She pushed my hand back. 'Call it a decent tip, Terry. Anyway, we'll be using you again, now we know you're on side.' She smiled in a kindly-grandma way.
I stood up. 'I'm not on anybody's side.' But I knew it didn't matter what I said - I was in the gang and that's all there was to it.
She nodded. 'Don't call us, we'll call you.'
Ralph produced a mobile phone and passed it to me. 'Hot line. Divvent leave it lying around.'
Mrs Carver was grinning. 'Like I said, we'll call you.'
As I climbed back into the car, I heard Carol's voice demanding that I call in. I clicked the mic.
'Car ten clear, Carver's Caravans.'
There was a burst of static then a Carol-type sigh. 'What you doin down there, Terry?'
'Tell ye later.' I glanced back at the caravan. Shiny-head Ralph was standing at the window, watching.
Chapter 6
When I got back to the taxi office, Lizzy was waiting for me.
'Can we talk?'
Feeling a sigh slipping out, I coughed and rubbed my face. 'Sure, why not.' I glanced at Carol, who gave me one of her 'aye, right' looks.
'I'll be back in a minute,' I said.
Lizzy followed me down the stairs and across the road. I walked over to one of the benches the Council provided for old folk and tourists. The sun had warmed the wood enough to take the chill off. I sat down and slid out of my coat, placing it next to me on the bench so Lizzy wouldn't be tempted to sit too close. The tide was coming in and there was a seaweedy smell in the air.
She plonked herself down with a sniff. 'So ye're back on the cars?'
'Aye, well, Ken asked me.'
She gave an almost imperceptible nod. 'I heard about Ronnie.'
'Guessed ye wouldn't have come up to the office if he was still around.' I glanced sideways at her. She looked tired. 'How are you?'
A noncommittal shrug. 'How d'you think?'
'The police been to see you?'
She nodded. 'They're not releasing Frank's body. Not yet.'
I wanted to ask if they were suspicious, but couldn't work out how to frame that sort of question without it sounding like I was accusing her of something. 'D'you know what you're going to do? I mean, afterwards?'
She took a breath and let it out slowly. 'I didn't think it would be like this, you know? Thought I'd be able to cope, an that.' She turned towards me and blinked rapidly, the tears ready to stream down her face.
'I know.' My hand was on hers before I could stop myself. She gripped my fingers and I felt a tremor in her arm.
'Anything I can do?' I said. There it was again - Terry the Shoulder, lean on me and I will give you succour. Or whatever. 'Our Jess was asking after ye.' This wasn't strictly true - my sister's only reference to Lizzy had been something along the lines of 'I suppose that fuckin bitch'll get Frank's house?' I had a vague recollection of the happy couple's reception when an acutely pissed Frank had told me he'd only married Lizzy so she'd always have somewhere to live. At the time I'd thought it was the lager talking, but a few months later, in a more serious moment, he revealed a little more than I wanted to hear.
'No,' she said. 'I'll be fine. Just need to get through it, ye know?'
She was quiet for a minute, then, 'D'you know what happened?'
'How d'you mean?'
'That Friday. Did ye see him at all?'
Perhaps this was Lizzy finally showing her true feelings, wanting to know the details of her husband's final hours, trying to put right what could now never be put right. Or maybe she just didn't want to be implicated in whatever it was Frank had got himself into, if in fact he'd got himself into anything. On t
hat score, I was a long way from sure.
'No,' I said. 'I hadn't seen him for a few days.' It wasn't quite the truth, but it would do for now. If I ever found out the whole story maybe I'd tell her. Then again, maybe I wouldn't.
We sat in silence for a few minutes, then she fastened her coat and stood up. 'I'm going. If ye find out anythin..?'
I nodded . As I watched her walk away, I couldn't help feeling she hadn't said what she'd meant to say.
Carol was standing by the window when I got back to the office.
'What's she got to say for hersel, then?'
'Not a lot, as it happens.' I sat on the counter and turned one of the job sheets round. 'Much happening?'
She sat down. 'That's what I was goin ter ask you.' She inclined her head to one side and gave me a look that told me she wasn't happy. 'What the fuck went on with that job? Supposed to be going to the airport.'
I gave her the bones of the journey with Ralphy and my invitation into Sheila Carver's boudoir. I left out the bit about thinking I might get garrotted.
That familiar small crease worked its way down her forehead. 'Doesn't make sense. If they're involved with the Andersson lot, who the hell killed Ronnie?'
'Well, we don't know that they're actually involved with Andersson. I mean, it was Elise I took to the Nugent Crescent house. And she obviously wasn't meant to be going there, otherwise that would have been the job from the start.'
'So she changed it?'
I nodded.
'But it must've been her that asked for a taxi in the first place?'
I recalled what Ralph had said about not telling taxi drivers the truth. 'Not necessarily.' I swung my legs round to the other side of the counter so I was facing her. 'Anyway, we don't know who else was at the Hexagon that night.' I had a thought. 'Check the job sheets - maybe one of the guys picked up from there later on. Whoever else was there must have left eventually.'
'Yours was the only account job for Monday night.'
I pulled a face. 'Unless there was another job that wasn't on account.'
'Maybe...' She twisted round and picked up a sheaf of papers off the filing cabinet. Flicking through, she ran a finger down the list of jobs. 'No, nothing else here from the Hexagon.'
'Assuming whoever it was called it in...'
'Nah, it got busy after that and there wouldn't have been time for any of the guys to squeeze in extra jobs.'
I tapped a finger on the sheet. 'You're very trusting.'
She frowned. 'What'd ye mean, like?'
'I mean, if a driver delays calling in when he's picked up, he can also delay when he calls clear.'
She thought about this for a minute, then let out a yelp. 'What? Is that what you do?'
I grinned. 'Course not, but it's easy - provided the extra job is a short one.' I nodded towards Ken's office. 'Ronnie used to do it all the time.'
'Maybe he did, but it was his business. What about the rest of them?'
It was true I didn't feel the same sense of loyalty now as I had when I was a full time driver, but neither did I want to drop anyone in it. 'They all do it occasionally, but it'd make very little difference in terms of actual takings.' I shrugged. 'Chicken feed, really.'
'Might be chicken feed to you, but a percentage of that belongs to the company.'
'What, and you care about that?'
She laughed. 'No, I suppose not. Not really. S'long as I get paid.'
I stood up. 'I'm going back out. Pick you up later, alright?'
I pulled onto the rank behind Fat Barry. There weren't a lot of punters around so I got out and jumped in next to him.
'Ong ty noh see.' He was munching on a giant Mars Bar and there was a bottle of Coke jammed in-between the seats. If Barry's wife ever found out what he did with the sandwiches she made up for him, he'd be in a shitload of trouble.
'Did ye see Frank on Friday night?'
He shook his head, still munching.
'He must've been on the rank?'
Barry wiped his mouth. 'Course. Didn't talk to him, though.'
Frank had never been a chatterbox, but him and Barry often jumped in each other's cars when it was quiet. So either Frank had had something on his mind, or Barry was talking shite.
'What about Geoff? Wasn't there some hoo-ha down at the Ferryboat?'
'Certainly was - one of the bouncers chucked a couple of the regulars down the steps at the back. Didn't see it maself but Geoff reckoned one of the blokes was a right cockin mess. Needed stitches.'
'Since when have they had bouncers at the Ferryboat?'
'Only the last few weeks. Under new management, ye know? They have bands on at weekends now. Good crowd in there supposedly.' He stuffed the last of the Mars into his mouth.
I stared through the windscreen. There was nothing moving on the rank. 'What about the Hexagon? Ever pick up from there?'
'Nah.'
'What, never?'
He waved a hand evasively. 'I'm usually off by six.'
'D'you know if Frank ever picked up there?'
'Frank? Nah, don't think so.' He'd turned his head so I couldn't see his eyes. Liar, liar, pants on bloody fire. 'Hey up, we're movin.' He started the car and I climbed out, wondering if there was anyone left I could trust.
A few minutes later, I got a fare with a follow-on terminating at North Shields. The drop-off was on Tanners Bank and there was a bit of a snarl-up as I came back along the fish quay. It was then I noticed the car: a black Volvo saloon with tinted windows. It slid past me going in the opposite direction. I had the feeling I'd seen it before, but couldn't recall where or when. Instead of nipping up one of the side roads like I'd usually do, I continued on along to New Quay then up Borough Road. The Volvo must have done a quick U-turn for it appeared in my rear-view and followed me up towards the Metro station. I turned onto Rudyerd Street then put my foot down and did a few quick left and right-handers til I was back up on the Tynemouth Road.
The Volvo was nowhere to be seen. In any case, I was probably just being paranoid.
I took my time for the rest of the return journey, mentally listing the things I didn't know and those I might feasibly find out. It struck me I still hadn't seen a photo of Sven Andersson. It also occurred to me where I might get one.
Parking up on Royal Parade, I sat for a few minutes mulling things over. On a nice day, the view overlooking Tynemouth Beach was worth the effort. Today though, the sky was splodged with dark clouds and only a handful of dedicated individuals braved the chill wind in the execution of dog-walking duties.
I didn't bother getting a ticket from the machine - strictly speaking, taxis weren't allowed in public car parks, but there were never any traffic wardens round at this time of the afternoon, so I reckoned it'd be safe enough for half an hour.
The house was a two-minute walk. I rang the bell and walked in, finding my way by following the ever-present aroma of Eau de Vieille Femme.
The old woman in question could usually be found in the living room at the back of the house. As I pushed the door, she was sitting at the dining table by the window, facing away from me. In front of her a puzzle book lay open, her pen poised, face creased in concentration.
'Left your front door open again, Milly,' I said in a loud voice.
'Ooh, bloody hell.' She jumped visibly and dropped her book on the floor. Twisting round to face me, she waggled a finger. 'Terry, man, ye giv iz such a fright.' She giggled and flung her arms around me. 'Howay an sit yersel doon, lad.'
I took the chair by the fire and waited for her to settle herself again. 'I can put the kettle on if ye like, Auntie?'
'Why, d'ye want one?'
'No, you're alright - I thought you might.'
She shook her head vigorously. 'Maybe in a minute. Canna drink too much these days. Be running to the bloody lavvy every half hour. Now, what are ye up to? How's that nice young lady of yours?'
'She's not my nice young lady any more.'
'Oh, fer God's sake.' She dropped her head an
d stared at me over the top of her bifocals. 'Ye haven't been pokin someone else, have ye?'
'Not me.'
She pursed her lips and nodded. 'Ah. Oh well, plenty more kippers on the beach. So what are ye after? Ye've not just come to see me, have ye? Not at this time of day.'
'Actually, no. I was wondering if ye had last week's copy of the Post?'
'Last week? Bit out of date, aren't ye?' She pointed to a pile of newspapers in the coal bucket next to my chair. 'Be one of them, I expect. What ye looking for?'
I leaned down and picked up a handful. The one I wanted was on top. 'Just an article about a bloke I know.'
Unfolding the newspaper, I scanned it carefully and found the article on page five. The heading was A Wealth of Praise for Swedish Firm and the story told how businessman Sven Andersson had turned around a small northern company with a huge investment of capital. Apparently, he'd negotiated a deal with local councils for three new blocks of flats. The reporter blabbed on about how the 'handsome Swede' was working with small businesses in the northeast and as well as assisting the housing shortage, had committed to building a number of industrial units. On the right hand side of the story, a photo showed some po-faced councillor shaking hands with a tall blond bloke whose gaze was firmly fixed on the camera.
'Ye found it, pet?'
'Aye, that's it.' I looked at the image again. There was something else about it I couldn't figure out, but my head was too full of other stuff to think about it now. 'Mind if I keep this?'
'Course not, it'll only go on the fire.'
'Thanks Milly.' I tore the article out, folded it up and slipped it into my wallet. 'Now, how about that cup of tea?'
I passed her the Suduko book, then went through to the kitchen to put the kettle on. While I waited, I made a couple of phone calls.