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

by Colin Garrow

  'Darling, say hello to Terry and Carol.' Elise turned and waved a hand as if we might be expected to perform some ritual dance.

  'Hi.' It sounded lame in the context of the rich timbre of Sven's vocal talents, but it was the best I could do.

  Carol squeaked a hello.

  The blond hunk went back to his phallic pastime, but kept his gaze on us. 'Good to meet you at last, Terry. You like lamb?'

  I coughed. 'Aye. I mean, yes, I like it fine.' If that was his way of inviting us to stay for dinner, it was a little too subtle. I decided to shut up and see what happened.

  Elise slipped an arm around him and kissed his neck. 'My husband is the king of sausages, aren't you darling?'

  I wondered if she was making saucy suggestions.

  Thankfully, we didn't have to stand there watching Big Sven create his dick-sausages. Elise led us through to another room where a selection of leather sofas and low coffee tables suggested this was where they did their entertaining. She put on some music and I was surprised when it turned out to be Rachmaninoff's something or other in C minor. It wouldn't have been my choice of background music, but as it turned out, it fitted the bill rather well.

  Carol and I perched on the edge of one of the sofas and I forced myself to concentrate while Elise poured drinks. She handed us each a glass of wine, then took another one through to the kitchen. When she returned, she leaned on the windowsill.

  'Sven will be only a moment.' She smiled and picked up a magazine and started flicking through as if she were waiting for a dental appointment.

  'Right.' I looked at Carol. This was beginning to feel like some sort of bizarre interview where our answers to their questions might have deadly repercussions.

  'Still here, then?' The Swedish chef strolled in a few minutes later, sipping his wine. He crossed the room and turned the volume down a little on the hi-fi. He leaned against the cabinet, nestling his glass between his hands. 'Now, Terry. Carol.'

  I coughed. Carol sniffed.

  'Clearly, my dear wife did not invite you in so that we might entertain you.'

  'No.' I coughed again, an irritating tickle at the back of my throat.

  'You've been asking questions.'

  I glanced at Elise. 'A bit more than that, actually.'

  He smiled in a way that reminded me of Anthony Hopkins in Silence of the Lambs. I was glad we weren't drinking Chianti.

  'Yes, you have, and while I may be prepared to overlook mere inquisitiveness, I would not wish you to dwell on a theory that is, shall we say, misguided.'

  I decided to throw caution to the proverbials. 'Really? So you didn't kill Ronnie?' Carol let out gasp and grabbed my hand, but I'd started and I was going to finish. 'Cos from where we are it looks like you guys are running a brothel, providing sex slaves for your business cronies and knocking off anybody that gets in the way.' I glared at him. 'Is that about right?'

  Sven took a sip of wine. 'A brothel, sex slaves, and yes, even the getting rid of those individuals who are in the way, yes. That is about right. However, in identifying myself and Elise as the ah...protagonists in this matter, you are most definitely wrong.' He glanced at Elise who was looking remarkably calm. 'Darling, I think perhaps our guests might not wish to stay for dinner after all.'

  I moved my hand to where I'd stuffed the gravel into my pocket. Our Swedish friend didn't appear to be toting a gun, but that didn't mean he didn't have one stashed away nearby.

  Sven sat on the sofa opposite and rubbed the bridge of his nose. 'Okay, let us be Frank.' He laughed softly. 'You see what I did there? Frank?' He laughed again. 'Tell me Mr Bell, what do think is the connection between your friend Frank and myself, or indeed, with Elise?'

  I waved a hand at the window. 'His fuckin car's outside for a start.'

  He nodded. 'Yes. Where he left it when he delivered a certain something to our house.'

  'Really?' I became aware the tremor had come back into my voice and it wasn't going to go away.

  He reached up and rubbed a hand over his head, then gazed at me with an expression that seemed caught between amusement and concern. When he spoke again, his voice was low and I found myself lulled into a strange sort of tranquillity. 'Frank and I met when he picked me up one night from the Hexagon. A few months ago now. I liked him, his attitude and his honesty were refreshing. He talked about his wife and her infidelities, his health problems and the lack of joy in his life. I thought we could help each other. So we came to an arrangement and he carried out a series of private jobs for us, which I know did not go through the books. Maybe that brought him into conflict with Ronnie.'

  'Frank came here?' I said.

  Sven nodded. 'Many times. He also helped us to infiltrate the set-up at Nugent Crescent, though only in a rather unsophisticated way. He accompanied Elise to several of Ahmed's parties in a bid to discover exactly what it was they were doing.'

  'That doesn't explain why his car's in your back garden.'

  Sven took a deep breath and let it out in a long slow sigh. 'Of course. You want proof. Very well.' He looked at Elise. 'Would you mind?'

  She seemed to consider this for a moment, then said, 'If you're sure?'

  He nodded. 'I do not think our friends will leave until they are satisfied.'

  Carol nudged me and gave me a you-okay? look. I gave her a quick nod.

  Elise shook her head resignedly and went out. We heard her footsteps going up the stairs, shoes slapping the bare treads up to the top and along the landing. There was a short silence, then the slapping came back, this time accompanied by another set of footsteps.

  I listened to the descending feet, trying to work out if the newcomer was male or female. When Elise came back into the room, a dark-skinned, slim woman followed her in. I looked up as they walked across to join Sven on the sofa.

  When they'd sat down, Sven continued.

  'This is Trudy. She speaks English, but not enough to explain the intricacies of her situation, therefore I will do the honours. Trudy lived with four other girls in a squat in Tynemouth while waitressing at the Hexagon. Elise and I dined there one particular evening when I'd asked Frank to pick us up. Trudy had served us during our meal. She had been attentive and charming, and as she was shortly to finish her shift, we offered to drop her off on our way home. Frank, being a gentleman, insisted on walking her to the door. The state of the flat appalled him. On the drive back here, he talked of nothing else, wanted to do something for her, to help her in some way. Unfortunately, Trudy had also been spotted by another customer at the Hexagon that night - Ronnie Thompson.' He half-smiled. 'Not a nice fellow.'

  I shook my head and looked at Carol. She'd gone very pale.

  Sven went on. 'It seems that Ronnie offered the girl a job waitressing at a party where Ahmed was one of the guests. Ahmed liked what he saw and handed over a large sum of money to Ronnie in exchange for delivering Trudy to Nugent Crescent, where she would be offered to one of their regular clients and then kept at some secret location as a sex slave.' His voice was matter of fact now, starkly unemotional. 'If Ronnie had done the job himself, we might never have heard of her again. His one mistake was to ask Frank to pick Trudy up and drive her to Nugent Crescent on the pretext of another waitressing job.'

  'And that was last Friday?' I said.

  He nodded solemnly. 'Frank was suspicious, but drove her to the house as planned. Leaving Trudy in the car, he spoke to one of Ahmed's henchmen who pointed out the client she was to spend the night with. Frank realised what was going on and, pretending to fetch the girl, drove her to his own house instead. Of course, he knew by taking her there he'd simply placed them both in danger. These people are not the kind to throw money away.'

  'Frank wasn't stupid,' I said. 'He'd have gone to the police.'

  'As you say, he wasn't stupid, which is why he did not go to the police.' He turned and smiled at Trudy. She smiled back. 'You see,' he went on, 'Trudy is an illegal immigrant. Frank knew this. He also knew she could suffer considerable abus
e, even death, if she were forced to return to her own country.' He shrugged. 'So he brought her here.'

  For a moment, I didn't know what to say. It all sounded plausible, though there were still plenty of unanswered questions. Eventually, I said, 'Go on.'

  He nodded and took a sip of wine. 'He turned up about eleven o'clock that night in a state of great anxiety. By the time he'd told us what he'd done, the stress of it all became too much and he suffered a massive heart attack. He was dead before he hit the floor.'

  He leaned forward, his face creased up, and for the first time, I saw something approaching sorrow take hold of his features. 'There was nothing we could do. Even if there had been, we could not have brought ambulances and doctors here since that would prompt questions, which in turn would necessitate the truth of Trudy's situation being made public, and that is something we could not allow to happen. So Elise and I made a decision. Perhaps it was not the right one, but we made it all the same. We drove to Frank's house in his car, placed his body on the table and made him as comfortable as possible. Then we came home and did our best to erase all links to Trudy that might lead anyone to this house in search of her.'

  The five of us sat in silence for a long moment, then Carol leaned forward. 'Sorry, I'm confused. Who killed Ronnie?'

  Sven looked at me and raised an eyebrow. 'Perhaps you would like to continue, Terry? I'm sure you have your own theories?'

  'Right.' I took a breath. 'Ronnie came looking for me because he thought Frank might have told me about Trudy.' I glanced at Sven and he nodded. 'Which he had, as it happens, just not the entire truth.' I hesitated, getting my thoughts in order. 'Ahmed, or Ahmed's men must have been watching Ronnie and they thought, I dunno, he'd double-crossed them. And presumably Ahmed also thought we knew where Trudy was.'

  Sven nodded again. 'That is the most likely explanation, though I doubt if Mr Ahmed will ever confess to such a thing.'

  'So,' put in Carol, 'it was Ahmed's lot that torched our caravan and broke into the flat and left the notes?'

  'I know nothing of any notes or break-ins but, yes, I would say so.'

  It made sense, but there were a couple of things that didn't sit right. 'What about Ralph? I know he came here cos I brought him here. So he knows you.'

  Sven allowed himself a smile. 'Ah, yes. But again, I suspect you already know the answer yourself?'

  I stared at him.

  He nodded. 'Think about it.'

  I cast my mind back to how I'd first met Ralph, how I'd thought he was the man called Horse at Nugent Crescent and that he knew Elise and... I nodded. Of course. 'He works for you.'

  'For me and for Mrs Carver, though please don't tell her I told you. Also, you would do well not to berate him for not being completely honest. After all, you might not be here if it were not for his actions.'

  I sat back and looked at him. 'Why's Frank's car here?'

  'Our own car would be more likely to be remembered, so we drove the Nissan to Frank's house and then back here.' He made a vague gesture. 'Sometimes more rational choices are obvious only in retrospect. At the time, we thought it might give us an advantage if the car was missing. In any case, after his body had been found, we could hardly put it back, could we?' He shrugged.

  'I suppose not,' I said. My head was buzzing with all this new information. I tried to focus on the things I still didn't know. 'What about the industrial unit where me and Ralph were locked up? That was one of yours.'

  He shook his head. 'We run a security firm which monitors a number of units for several clients, one of which is Sanjay Ahmed. It was his property you were confined in, not ours.'

  Carol waved a hand. 'Hang on, you're sayin you and Ahmed are mates?'

  Again, he shook his head. 'We had legitimate dealings with his construction supply company and that would have continued had we not suspected there was something more sinister going on. We had taken part in a handful of planning meetings believing Ahmed intended offering us a partnership. However, some of the other individuals at one of those meetings were quite obviously not interested in construction.' He glanced at Elise. 'My wife is something of an amateur sleuth, which is why she accepted invitations to a number of parties in an effort to learn the truth. Frank was her driver and acted as a party guest in a bid to discover where the women were being held, if indeed, there were any women. Ralph monitored things from a house across the street, but we had no idea there was a second house. In that respect, it seems you aided us to the winning post.' He smiled.

  'And David? He says you paid him to scare us off.'

  His face creased in a frown and he shook his head sadly. 'I suspect David will say what he has to in order to avoid blame. When Frank took Trudy to Nugent Crescent, he discovered she'd been chosen for a specific client, one who has a penchant for a particular type of sexual abuse. That client was your brother-in-law, David Seaton.'

  Chapter 18

  Frank's funeral was the following Friday, exactly two weeks after his death. Lizzy was there of course, but apart from passing on my condolences, I kept out of her way. She'd already put the house up for sale and moved in with Dave from the arcade, but to be honest, I didn't care any more. The important thing was that Frank had found some happiness before he died, albeit briefly.

  It felt like there were still a lot of loose ends to tie up, niggling things didn't make sense - like who had texted me from Ronnie's phone, and which of my taxi-driver mates had been dropping hints to Ahmed. And I was pretty sure Sven hadn't told me the whole truth either, but as the police didn't have much to say about it, there wasn't much point pursuing the matter.

  On the Ronnie front, I wasn't convinced Ken was innocent in the whole affair, but given that his wife and his son were dead, it didn't seem right to punish him any more, especially since I didn't actually know he'd done anything wrong. He also finally got around to paying me for the outstanding fares on the Sangster account and while he was in the mood for handing out cash, I suggested he give Carol a pay rise, which he did. He never mentioned the ten grand Frank owed Ronnie.

  Though I didn't get my phone or my wallet back, Mrs Carver sent round a Harrods hamper full of lovely grub, as well as a neat bundle of fifty-pound notes. The money paid for new lava lamps and some vintage travel posters, as well as a CD of that Rachmaninoff thing in C minor.

  Charis rang me for what she called a 'friendly chat', but when it came down to it, she didn't have much to say. I got the impression she was fishing for something on a personal level, but as far as that was concerned, I wasn't biting. However, she did confirm that David was still 'helping with enquiries' and that our Jessie had been arrested for 'assault with an empty bottle of Pinot Grigio', but apart from that it was a bit of a one-horse conversation.

  A few days after the funeral, when things had settled down and I'd agreed to do three days a week to help Ken out on the taxis, I pulled off the rank one morning to do a pickup from a phone box on the Esplanade. I was surprised to see Ralph leaning against the sea wall.

  'Thought I'd give yer a bit of time to get used to the idea,' he said, sliding in beside me.

  'What idea's that, Ralph?'

  'Oh you know, me not tellin you everything.'

  'Aye, well, I found out in the end, didn't I?'

  'Aye.'

  'So d'you want to go anywhere or is this just a sit-and-wait?'

  'Just a sit-and-wait.' He grinned. 'Might have a job for you, though.'

  I shook my head. 'Not workin with you again, ye lying fucker.'

  He laughed. 'You will though. But maybe not just yet, eh?' He punched me on the shoulder and climbed out the car. 'See ye round.'

  I watched him walk across the road and climb into a black Volvo with tinted windows. It was a new one. He'd obviously done something to deserve it.

  ###

  Author's Note

  Quarter of a century ago, I spent a bit of time driving a taxi in a nice, quiet seaside town on the east coast. I got to drive a new car, swan around during the summ
er months in shirt-sleeves and sunglasses and pick up a lot of young women. Trouble is, I also picked up drunks, pimps, villains and the occasional prostitute. It wasn't a glamorous lifestyle and I soon tired of it, but I saw a side to the town that intrigued me, so it was only a matter of time before the place made its way into one of my books.

  Having said that, when I did start writing about it, the seaside town that kept popping into my imagination was one much nearer home - on the northeast coast near Newcastle. Consequently, Terry Bell's stomping ground is a kind of fictitious mix of people and places, and while he does turn up in a few real-life locations, most of those mentioned in the town itself don't exist.

  Writing, as they say, is a solitary business and being an indie author is no different. However, indie authors are a supportive lot and I've been lucky in forging some great friendships among the online writing community over the last couple of years, as well as gaining a lot of useful tips and ideas about the technical and marketing sides of self-publishing.

  I'd like to say a big thank you to everyone on my Facebook Launch Team and to all my pals in the OSFARG and Book Connectors groups who've always been supportive and encouraging. Particular thanks go to my heroes Kathryn Bax, Shaun Griffiths and Diana Febry, who are regularly on hand with advice and common sense - you guys have helped me (and many others) keep the newbie mistakes to a minimum. In addition, special thanks to Joy Mutter for her editing skills and for pointing out the mistakes that should have been obvious, as well as the ones I'd never have noticed if I'd tripped over them in the street.

  Colin Garrow

  November 2016

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