Bitter Sweet

by Mason N. Forbes

  We wrote down a list of massage parlours to visit and decided to check out a few street corners on the way. That was a mistake. The track was of a niveau I’d never encountered. We were told to fuck off, we were spat at and even had a beer bottle land on the roof of the car.

  It was an eerie feeling walking into a massage parlour. And before I could even open my mouth, we were asked if we were looking for work. Talk about a narrow minded reaction. I described Martha to the middle aged Madam at the desk with the impression that she was only listening because she knew who I was from the newspapers.

  Two more parlours followed – it was like a film stuck in a loop, except that in the second one the madam offered us an instant start.

  I dropped Ivonne off at her place and we agreed to give the outlying nightclubs a try the next evening. As to massage parlours, reluctance topped off with one-sided logic got the better of us and we decided to give them a miss.

  37

  That night it took me ages to fall asleep and at seven I was awake, consumed with a feeling of desperation. The sand was rushing inexorably through the hourglass and I had no clue as to how I could refute the prosecution’s evidence.

  A cup of tea, breakfast and the superb views across the city from the penthouse apartment did not alleviate the overwhelming urge to spend every minute trawling through my memory in the hope of discovering something which I had overlooked.

  I showered, changed and then paced up and down, in frustration. Today was Saturday, twelve hours of inactivity beckoned before Ivonne and I resumed the search for Martha. That wasn’t good enough.

  A silly idea took hold. At least the idea might seem silly to Oscar, but in my anguish to unearth a clue, any clue, I took the idea seriously. In the kitchen I found a phonebook and opened it at A for Alexander. There were five entries under D. Alexander.

  Google maps provided their geographical spread across the city and the suburbs.

  I put on flat shoes, baggy jeans, a hoody and sunglasses, scraped my hair back severely and tied it into a tight ponytail. The baseball cap went on, back to front, and I looked in the mirror – it was the best I could do to hide my figure.

  The first Alexander on the route I had traced out, took me past Ivonne’s place. I decided to call in and see if she would keep me company. With no one to talk to, inactivity would cause to my fingernails to suffer.

  After the fourth ring, a sleepy voice answered; ‘Hello?’

  ‘Are you up?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes you are, let me in.’

  It was a difficult job disguising Ivonne’s height and her 34Ds, only jogging trousers and a cheap plastic rain jacket eased the predicament. The hair remained a problem, cured with a nylon bucket hat – at least it was overcast – purchased at a local shop.

  The first D. Alexander on the list was of the granddad generation. The next one we dismissed as being highly unlikely – a Crown Prosecutor doesn’t live in a council estate. The third address looked promising; it was a modest detached house in a nice suburb to the south of the city.

  We drove past the house; there were two cars in the driveway; an Audi A4 and a Mercedes SLK.

  I did a U-turn and we went past the house a second time.

  ‘Husband and wife,’ Ivonne said, ‘by the look of the cars.’

  ‘Whose is whose?’ I asked, having already decided.

  ‘Obvious, the Merc is hers.’

  ‘Ah ah, I’ll bet the next round of coffee it’s his.’

  ‘Nah,’ Ivonne said, shaking her head. ‘The Audi is a man’s car and a Merc SLK is a wifey car.’ She grinned at me and patted the dashboard. ‘Out here in the suburbs this car of yours would also be classed as a wifey car.’

  I curled my lip. ‘Let’s wait and see.’ I found a parking spot, a couple of hundred metres up from the Alexander house amongst some parked cars.

  We chatted for half an hour before anything happened.

  ‘Next round of coffee?’ I asked, as the front door opened.

  ‘Did you bring any money?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Very nice,’ I muttered, as a pretty blond wife gave Dougal a peck on the cheek. The hazard lights of the SLK flashed twice. ‘Hah, see, I told you.’

  ‘Duh.’

  ‘I hope he’s not going to play golf,’ I said, starting the engine. ‘In these clothes we’ll look daft if we go anywhere near a golf club.’

  Ten minutes later, the SLK indicated and entered the grounds of a swanky-looking sports club. I waited a couple of moments and followed.

  ‘I wonder,’ I said, ‘if they sell coffee to go?’

  ‘I’m sure they do,’ Ivonne said straight-faced. ‘But in an hour’s time you’ll need to go in there and use the toilets.’

  I made a face.

  The cloud cover broke, the sun came out and the temperature inside the car rose. Even with the fan on, the heat wouldn’t dissipate. Sitting in the far corner of the car park with the engine constantly running might arouse someone’s curiosity, so I restricted myself to, now and again, switching the engine on to allow the air-conditioning to do its job.

  Two sweaty hours later Dougal came out of the club.

  ‘A sharp-dressed-man,’ Ivonne said.

  ‘Oh that he is, you should see him in a suit.’

  ‘Going home to cut the grass?’

  ‘Somehow, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Nor do I,’ Ivonne said tapping her fingers on the dashboard. ‘Lunch somewhere and then what?’

  Ivonne was correct about the somewhere and the then what.

  Dougal headed into the city and indicated to turn into the car park of the Ramada hotel – strange. However, the hotel did have a popular restaurant overlooking a man-made lake with various water fountains.

  Cautiously I followed the SLK into the car park and took the first available spot. Dougal chose to park nearer the door.

  ‘Why here?’ I said. ‘Why come all the way into town? I’m going in.’

  ‘Slowly,’ Ivonne said, gripping my arm, ‘let me go first, he doesn’t know me.’

  ‘Have you got your phone?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ivonne said, getting out off the car.

  She hurried after Dougal. I locked the car and checked that my phone was on. Entering the lobby, I just caught a glimpse of Ivonne as the elevator doors closed.

  My phone beeped; an SMS from Ivonne – go to four.

  I walked briskly through the lobby and when I reached the stairs, I raced up them two treads at a time.

  Reaching the fourth floor, I heard the elevator ping. I chanced a quick look along the corridor and ducked back fast; Dougal was headed my way.

  Shit, where to hide. Shit, can’t hide. I wanted to know where he’s going. I backed into the corner of the stairwell. Soft footsteps coming towards me.

  I put the phone on to film mode. Now I could smell Dougal – Amouage aftershave. I crouched down just as he passed the stairwell. Holding the phone in one hand, I eased it around the corner.

  I heard him knock on a door. The phone’s screen showed him only metres away. Oh God, he turned and looked back along the corridor whilst smoothing his hair. I heard the door handle turning. Dougal faced the door. It opened.

  Omigod, I know you.

  Jeez, I almost dropped the phone.

  Oh lovely, a big smile and she took Dougal by the arm, leading him into the room.

  Cute stockings, darling.

  I stood up, checked that I’d caught it all on film and phoned Ivonne.

  ‘You won’t believe it,’ I said. ‘Dougal is visiting an escort. And, I know who she is.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Sophie.’

  ‘I know her, she’s from Poland.’

  ‘I know.’

  Sophie and the film on my phone opened up a sneaky option. Left with no alternatives, would I?

  ‘Tina,’ Ivonne said, ‘I’ll buy you that coffee now.’

  38

  Just over an hour later Dougal left
the hotel and then of all things spent a couple of hours in the CPS offices. After that, he went home and we decided to do the same and get ready for the clubbing, although I was tempted to lay another bet with Ivonne on Dougal having tickets for the theatre and that he’d attend church in the morning.

  Somewhat dispirited around eleven o’clock on Saturday evening, we entered a nightclub well out of the city centre. The club was full and it took a bit of effort to work our way to the bar. When I asked one of the girls serving if I could speak to the owner, she immediately told me there were no jobs available.

  Assumptions and job offers dealt with, the girl finished making a cocktail and went out the back. A tall well-built man, dressed in black – Johnny Cash instantly popped to mind, except that this guy had prematurely silver hair – came out and led us to an upstairs room.

  By now I had my story off pat. The man knew who I was and listened to my short spiel. Finished, he shook his head. Something told me to persist. Maybe it was because he avoided looking at me when I described Martha. Anyway, getting up to leave, I took a card out of my pocket. ‘That’s my number,’ I said, offering him the card. ‘If you know something, anything, please . . .’

  He took the card. ‘She doesn’t mean anything to me, but I’ll ask around.’

  ‘Much appreciated.’

  We visited two more nightclubs. By that time of the night they were full and the owners merely listened perfunctorily.

  On Sunday morning I was up early and decided, for the hell of it, to see if Dougal Alexander went to church. He did indeed – an exemplary Crown Prosecutor on his way up the career ladder, if it wasn’t for his adulterous penchant for visiting escorts.

  Afterwards I paced about in the apartment, waiting, hoping for a phone call. I was convinced, or had convinced myself, that the silver-haired Johnny Cash look-a-like knew something.

  No phone call came. I was full of nervous energy and decided to go to the fitness studio. I worked out until every muscle in my body was shaking with fatigue. That night I slept well.

  Monday and Tuesday came and went. There were no phone calls. Oscar had provided me with copies of the statements and the evidence in the prosecutor’s possession. I went over every detail for the umpteenth time and could find no new angle to prove my innocence. Only working out at the studio on both days, despite knowing that in between I should let my body rest and recover, helped me to maintain a semblance of mental stability.

  39

  On Wednesday I finally relented to Mike’s pestering to meet up for a cup of coffee. Somehow he knew that I was withdrawing into myself. I didn’t really want to go; I’d have to talk about Friday’s meeting with Oscar and talking about the trial in a week’s time would make it more real.

  We met up in a place near to Mike’s offices just after lunchtime. I was dispirited, having so fervently hoped I could find Martha and that she might be able to provide something, anything, to show up Driscoll’s corrupt dealings.

  I showed Mike the film of Dougal Alexander visiting Sophie. He immediately grasped what was haunting me, but dismissed the film as it did not prove adultery. That helped as I had been torturing myself with something I would not do.

  Just as we were about to leave, my phone rang. The number on the display meant nothing. I answered with a hesitant, ‘Hello?’

  ‘Martha.’

  ‘Omigod, I’m so glad to hear your voice.’

  ‘I’d have phoned earlier, I was visiting my sister in Dorset.’

  ‘I need to talk to you.’

  There was a pause before she answered. ‘I don’t think I can help you, but if you want to talk that’s okay. When?’

  ‘Now, where can I meet you?’

  She gave me her address. I said I was already on my way. I jumped up, gave Mike a big kiss and sped out the door.

  40

  I told Martha the whole story leading up to my arrest, the lack of witnesses and how Driscoll had twisted the evidence to implicate me in trafficking.

  ‘When is the trial?’ Martha asked.

  ‘A week today.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I know, which isn’t much.’ Martha laid her hands on the kitchen table. ‘Erjon came to me as a client. I opened the door and took one look at him – no way I was letting him in. Asked him straight out what he wanted. He told me he wanted the apartment. Just like that, no small talk, no manners. I didn’t bother with the what if questions. I knew he’d make trouble.’

  She clasped her hands. ‘I’d been thinking of quitting. I suppose we’re always planning on quitting. My sister had just taken over a restaurant and had asked if I would come in with her. Erjon’s visit answered that.

  ‘I’ve found a place near to my sister. I’m only back here to sell up.’

  I smiled. ‘Good for you.’

  Martha reached over and laid a hand on mine. ‘I’m sorry, maybe I should have given you and Ivonne more of a warning.’

  ‘You did warn us, but it all happened so quickly.’

  ‘As to Driscoll,’ Martha said, and sat back in her seat. ‘There is nothing I can tell you. He always took a few quid to smooth matters out – nothing big. He’s coming up to retirement and my guess is he saw a chance to put something away by doing Erjon a few favours. Bitten off more than he can chew – serves him right.’

  Martha had told me what I had, in my heart of hearts, expected, but hadn’t wanted to admit. I switched on my phone and brought up a picture of Dougal Alexander.

  ‘Ever seen this man?’ I asked, handing Martha the phone.

  ‘No, who is he?’

  ‘Dougal Alexander, Crown Prosecutor.’

  ‘Is he—’

  ‘He’s the man trying to put me behind bars.’

  I took the phone and started the film of Alexander meeting Sophie and handed it back to Martha.

  She watched the clip. ‘Is he married?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re not thinking of . . .’

  ‘Of course I’ve thought of it, but I won’t.’

  I told Martha about the first time I’d seen Alexander and how I’d instantly recognised him as a player. I told her everything I knew about him, how Ivonne and I had followed him and the shock of being proven right when he met Sophie.

  ‘Let me see that photo again?’

  I handed Martha the phone. She sat back and stared at the photo.

  ‘Tina,’ she said, handing me the phone. ‘I’ll ask around, don’t get your hopes up.’ She shook her head. ‘Maybe . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘No, no maybes. I’ll ask around.’

  I left Martha not sure what maybe meant. If there was something, obviously she didn’t know or couldn’t remember. Still, maybe wasn’t a no. Oh shit, she’d said no maybes.

  I knew Mike’s curiosity would be eating away at him; I phoned him and told him about my meeting with Martha.

  The maybe had made me restless and had sent hope soaring. With my confidence buoyed, I phoned Ivonne and suggested we eat out together. Talking would keep me from thinking too much.

  41

  No phone call came and I went to bed doing my best not to allow doubts to surface. A dream woke me early on Thursday morning. In it, I had missed Martha’s phone call. I plugged the phone into the charger, not that it needed charging. Then with a mug of tea, I sat staring at the view across the city. I was waiting. I was still waiting at nine o’clock when the phone rang.

  It was Martha and she told me to fetch her in an hour’s time and warned me again not to get my hopes up.

  I arrived ten minutes early – gone were the days of running late.

  Martha joined me in the car and told me to head towards the Sainsbury’s near the motorway. As I drove she explained that I was to meet a woman who’d retired from the business. She’d described Dougal Alexander over the phone to the woman, but obviously the woman couldn’t be sure until she’d seen a photo. Martha also stated that the woman wanted to see me alone. And that even if she recognised the man
in the photo, it did not mean she would tell me anything. At no stage did Martha mention the woman’s name.

  The secrecy made me edgy.

  At ten thirty, I entered the restaurant in Sainsbury’s, bought a coffee and took a table along the wall, as instructed. I scanned all the people in an effort to identify the person I was to meet. Casually, I eyed up a couple of possibilities.

  Ten minutes later, an attractive woman in her early thirties entered the restaurant, looked straight at me and took a seat at my table without any form of introduction.

  ‘Look love,’ she said. ‘I’m only seeing you ‘cause Martha told me you tried to help the girls and are now being framed. Where’s the photo?’

  I took my phone out of my pocket. The woman eyed it nervously.

  ‘The photo is on the phone.’

  I handed the phone over and the woman studied the photo.

  She looked up and then stared, hard, into my eyes. I knew if I broke the contact or if she saw something she didn’t like, she’d walk away.

  She placed the phone on the table. ‘I’m a married woman,’ she said. ‘My mum’s minding my little one.’ She patted her tummy. ‘Second one is on the way.’

  I smiled at her.

  ‘I’ll tell you what I know,’ she said, ‘but it didn’t come from me. I won’t testify. If you say anything about me, I’ll deny it all.’ She took a deep breath. ‘My husband is a good man, religious too. He’d be a good man without the religion. Be that as it may. He doesn’t know what I did before he met me, okay?’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘If he found out, he’d be shattered, his world would fall apart.’