A Year Less a Day

by James Hawkins

  “Wife? What are you talking about? What wife?”

  “She came the other day with Sergeant Phillips from Vancouver.”

  “I thought she was his wife ...” he starts, then spits, “Oh, shit!” and shouts through to the apartment. “Liam. Get in here and tape her up before I forget my manners and kick her teeth in.”

  “Sure, boss,” says Liam, and the lord of the manor heads for the phone.

  “Mort,” he calls as soon as the Vancouverite answers. “We’ve got a huge problem.” But Mort has his own problems with his little cousin and yells, “I’ll call you back,” as he slams the phone down.

  “So what d’ye want?” Maxwell says, turning on Ruth’s husband.

  “You owe me,” says Jackson. “If my mother hadn’t taken you in you would’ve been in an orphanage.”

  “Your f’kin mother—the old witch,” spits Maxwell. “She treated me like scum from the day I got here. Just ’cos my dad shot my mum then topped himself. I didn’t ask him to do it.”

  “It wasn’t my fault,” complains Jackson, but Maxwell turns on his younger cousin, mimicking with a sneer. “It weren’t my fault ... Nuvvin was ever your fault, was it? Oh, no. I got blamed for everything, didn’t I? You made sure of that, didn’t you? You were just like a snitchin’ little brother, always dropping me in it—and how come you always got everything and I didn’t, eh?”

  “You oughta be grateful she put a roof over your head after what your dad did to her sister.”

  “Grateful for what? Grateful she didn’t kill me? She wanted to. I could see it in her eyes when she was belting me ... Here’s another one for my big sister.”

  “She wasn’t that bad.”

  “You don’t know the half of it. You were still shitting in your diapers when she was beating the crap out of me every night, just so I wouldn’t forget what my old man did. When did she ever smack you around, eh?”

  “She did, sometimes.”

  “Yeah, right. What’d’ye want anyway?”

  “I wanna come back.”

  “You can’t. Jordan Jackson is in England. We can’t have two Jordan Jacksons running around. Someone might get suspicious.”

  “You sold my passport?” says Jackson in surprise.

  “Well you didn’t f’kin pay for Healy’s did ya? I have costs Jordan: the apartment, drugs, doctors, undertakers, cremation ... Ten grand for a clean ID is a poxin’ bargain, but you gave me my own money.”

  “That was Tom’s fault.”

  “Yeah, well, he won’t be doin’ it again, that’s for sure,” snaps back Mort with meaning as he attempts to lead Jackson to the door, saying, “You’ll just have to get used to being Healy.”

  But Jackson digs in his heels. “Aren’t you forgetting something, Jeremy?”

  “What, Jordan?” spits Maxwell menacingly.

  “I know what you’re doing. How many people are running around with fake IDs, Jeremy? What’s the going rate for a ton of pot? Who’s been wasting hookers? I could go to the cops and spill everything. I haven’t done anything illegal. Changing names and going on holiday for a few months ain’t a crime. They can’t touch me.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting something as well?” responds Mort as his hand goes into his pocket.

  “What’s that, Jeremy?”

  Mort pulls out a handgun, saying, “I think you forgot that you’re supposed to be dead, Jordan.”

  The hidden microphone in the wall of Mort’s office picks up the crack of the gunshot that chokes off Jordan’s final shriek, and transmits it to the digital recorder built into Vern McLeod’s camera. McLeod isn’t there to hear it, but he will later, when he shows up for work.

  Jeremy Maxwell’s phone starts ringing again and he steps over Jackson’s body to answer it. “What now?” he screams, recognizing the English number.

  “We’ve caught some old granny snooping,” says Waghorn worriedly.

  “So?”

  “She’s figured out that I’m not the rightful heir.”

  “God! Do I have to do everything? Just get rid of her then—know what I mean?”

  Waghorn’s reluctance to eliminate Daphne comes through in his hesitation and Maxwell questions, “Is that a problem?”

  “She’s, like, a hundred and fifty.”

  “Who the hell is she?”

  “I dunno. Daphne somebody-or-other.”

  “Not Daphne Lovelace?” queries Mort.

  “What did she call herself?” muses the man in the manor. “Auntie Daffodil or something like that.”

  The silence could be a break in the transatlantic service and, fearing that he’s been disconnected, Waghorn queries, “Are you still there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “D’ye know her?”

  “Yeah. She kinda killed my parents. Christ, I thought she’d have been dead years ago.”

  “What do you mean, ‘killed your parents’?”

  “Long story. I should hate her I s’pose, but I don’t. She was a damn sight better than the woman who brought me up.”

  “Oh, Christ. Well, what d’ye want me to do with her?”

  “What does she know?”

  “Everything. She may be a hundred and fifty but she’s got all her marbles. I reckon she’d cottoned on that I wasn’t you the moment she saw me, then she found Jackson’s passport and just kept coming back until she figured out the rest.”

  Maxwell takes a glance down at his cousin’s spread-eagle body, before saying, “Sometimes we just have to say goodbye to the ones we love—know what I mean, John? Just do me a favour ... make it quick—nothing messy, OK?”

  chapter twenty

  By nightfall, David Bliss is beginning to despair at ever seeing his sprightly old friend again. Minnie has re-colonized Daphne’s domain and is putting the finishing touches to a shepherd’s pie, telling Bliss that he has to keep up his strength. For what? he wonders, as he switches on the light and listlessly puts a match to the fire. The extent of his powerlessness is wearing, and he questions whether or not he has missed an obvious clue. He has driven past Thraxton Manor a dozen times—pausing to scour the fields and buildings through his binoculars; he has walked the High Street quizzing every little old lady he could get to stop; he’s checked the hospital twice; and he’s pored over Daphne’s wardrobe trying to work out what she might have been wearing.

  “I don’t know what else I can do,” he deliberates, more to himself than Minnie, but she puts her head around the kitchen door, saying, “Stop getting yourself in a tizzy, Dave. She’ll be back.” Then, just as she goes on to say, “I made an extra big pie because Mr. Donaldson is coming over,” the superintendent’s car rolls up.

  “We’ve sent those prints to Sergeant Phillips,” Donaldson affirms, before Bliss has a chance to ask.

  “Great,” says Bliss, then checks his watch. “It’s about a ten hour flight—then he’ll have to get home. It’ll be midnight here at the earliest before he gets them.”

  “I could’ve gone through official channels, but it would’ve taken a week,” explains Donaldson, adding, “Do I smell shepherd’s pie?”

  It’s lunchtime in Vancouver, and Trina is back on Jordan’s trail as she seeks out the crematorium where the benefactor of his new persona was fired. Even in her calmest of moments there would have been a good chance that she may have taken the wrong entrance—it’s clearly marked, “Undertakers’ vehicles only,” but in her haste, she flies up the service road, skids around a corner of the building, and bumps solidly into the back of Mort Maxwell’s BMW as his two henchman wait to make a very special double delivery.

  “Oy. Stupid bitch,” yells Dingo as he steams out of the car and heads for Trina.

  “Oops. Sorry,” laughs Trina, leaning out of the Jetta’s window. “It’s probably only a scratch.”

  Then a look of recognition comes over Dingo’s face, and he spins and slinks back with his head down.

  “I said I was sorry,” calls Trina, climbing out to inspect the damage, but Ding
o is already in the front passenger seat and the car is driving away.

  “I need your name for the insurance,” she yells after the departing BMW, just as a white-coated attendant appears at the unloading bay with a gurney.

  “They’ve gone,” says Trina, and she sees a look of fright on the man’s face.

  “Oh ... Right,” he says, and races back inside.

  “What’s going on ...” starts Trina, then the final cog drops into place and she dashes back to her car with the BMW’s license plate number on her lips.

  “Mort,” yells Dingo into his cellphone as he and Joshua drive away. “That Button bitch showed up just as we were making the delivery.”

  “Shit! Did she see anything?”

  “Don’t think so, but she’s smacked the car.”

  “She’s gotta go, Dingo. She’s worked out the whole deal. But for chrissake be discreet—know what I mean?”

  “Mort, the effin trunk is already full. What do you expect us to with another one?”

  “Just do it.”

  Trina spots Maxwell’s car the moment she hits the main road, but her plan to follow it takes an immediate twist when the BMW detours through a corner gas station and comes out behind her.

  “Two can play at that game,” she mutters, and she does a sudden double U-turn in the face of oncoming traffic, ending up on their tail again.

  “What the ...” howls Joshua, as Trina sticks to his rear bumper like a wasp on a child.

  “Shake her off,” yells Dingo, but they’re boxed in with traffic.

  Trina is enjoying the ride as she nudges the rear of the BMW, while yelling excitedly to her husband on the phone. “Rick. Don’t argue. Just get the kids out of the house.” Then she calls back in a panic, shrieking, “Don’t forget to take the guinea pig.”

  “Inspector Wilson, please,” Trina hollers into the phone next, driving one-handed as she repeatedly taps the BMW’s rear.

  “Get rid of her,” shouts Dingo as the little Volkswagen slams into their trunk again and again.

  “It’s Trina Button,” she yells, when Wilson answers. “Granville Street Bridge. There’s going to be an accident.”

  “What?”

  “Hang on,” she shrieks, as the BMW suddenly lurches to a halt and she is slammed into its rear by the car behind her. The trunk of the BMW pops open on impact and, if Trina’s airbag had deployed as it should have, she wouldn’t have seen the scrunched bodies of Jordan and Tom, nor would she have seen Dingo and Joshua furiously advancing on her.

  “They’re packing heat,” Trina yells into the phone, hoping that she’s got the correct lingo, as Dingo shoots-out her side window, while Joshua tries to slam his trunk.

  “Get out,” screams Dingo. “Get out.” But a dozen cellphones are calling 911 as stalled motorists stare agog at the bodies in the trunk, and Joshua panics.

  “Dingo, Dingo,” he yells, leaving the trunk open, jumping back into the driver’s seat, and starting to drive away.

  “Hey! Wait for me ...” bellows Dingo, racing after him.

  “Too late again,” Trina tells Wilson as she shakes glass out of hair and picks up her phone, “I’m surprised you ever catch anyone.” Then, just as he’s readying to boil, she gives him a description of Maxwell’s musclemen, the BMW’s plate number, and details of its gruesome cargo.

  Dinner at Daphne’s was a solemn affair. Bliss had hardly touched the shepherd’s pie, though Donaldson had thought it only polite to clean out the dish, and Minnie had admitted that she was beginning to feel concerned.

  “It’s the not knowing that’s the worst,” bemoans Minnie as she pours three large scotches.

  “I’m going back to the manor,” asserts Bliss as it nears ten o’clock, his tone dissuading Donaldson from protesting. “I’m bloody sure she’s there.”

  “I can’t stop you, Dave,” says the senior officer, though he’s grateful that he’s not Bliss’s superior and won’t be responsible if the quest goes to hell. “Just don’t let Maxwell catch you trespassing, for God’s sake.”

  “He can’t do anything about it though, can he,” explains Bliss. “Since when is simple trespass a crime?”

  “I’m not worried about him prosecuting. I’m more worried about his heavies. Anyway, how do you propose getting past the cameras and security?”

  “I’ll hitch a ride with a mate of mine first thing in the morning, if you’ll help—though I’ll need some sleep first.”

  Sleep is the last thing on John Waghorn’s mind at Thraxton Manor, as he paces in front of his goons, yelling, “Call yourselves security? She’s a hundred an’ fifty years old, for chrissakes. And that stinking dog of yours. What was he doing when she got in—licking his balls?”

  “Sorry John,” says Liam, the Irishman. “He kinda got attached to the old biddy.”

  Waghorn snorts in disbelief. “Some guard dog ... So what happens now? What’s the deal with the cops? They obviously think she’s here. Do they need warrants or what? Can we buy off a judge?”

  “Maybe in London, but not here, John. I reckon it’ll be a dawn raid,” says Marky, Liam’s cockney partner. “I reckon they’ll turn up mob-handed with the artillery, hoping to catch us in our pits.”

  “Well, what the hell are we gonna do with her?” yells Waghorn.

  “I dunno for Jesus’ sake,” sighs Liam. “The ground’s too bloody soggy to dig.”

  “The floor in the barn still ain’t finished,” suggests Marky, but Waghorn rounds on him, “You think they won’t notice a big patch of wet concrete?”

  “They ain’t gonna be happy ’til they’ve found her,” moans Liam.

  “Let’s give her to ’em then,” says Marky with an idea.

  “Oh, yeah. So she can drop us all in it?”

  “No, John. Once they’ve got a body they’ll stop looking. All we gotta do is ditch the old crumbly on the road somewhere, then run her over with the Range Rover a couple of times. That thing weighs a bloody ton. She’ll hardly feel it, and the filth will put it down to a drunk driver and back off.”

  “Hey, that just might work,” muses Waghorn, brightening. “Though you’d have to make sure she’s properly waxed. One peep out of her and we’re screwed.”

  “Yeah. Of course.”

  “Hang on,” says Waghorn while he plays the idea through his mind, checking for flaws, before pronouncing, “OK. It’s a go. Just be damn sure that you don’t leave a trace. Make sure that she’s got her bag and everything, and for chrissakes remember to take the stuff off her hands and mouth.”

  “Of course, John.”

  “And don’t damage the f’kin Rover, and wash it off properly before you bring it back. I don’t want them finding her blood and guts all over the place. And make sure there aren’t any of her prints anywhere either.”

  Five minutes later, the floodlight over the manor’s entranceway bursts into life, the gates slowly open, and the Range Rover drives out. The two men in the front are pros, and are equipped with ski masks, surgical gloves, and treadless shoes, while a selection of weapons are at hand, concealed on clips under the dashboard for ease of access. Behind the vehicle’s rear seat, bundled under a blanket, and still securely tied, is Daphne Lovelace, OBE.

  Ruth and Mike Phillips arrive back at the sergeant’s hotel minutes before four in the afternoon—nearly midnight in England—and find Trina pacing the foyer with Sergeant Brougham.

  “I’ve got to talk to you right away,” bubbles Trina as she escorts them toward the elevator while handing Phillips an opened envelope. “It’s a message from Dave Bliss,” she carries on chattily. “He says ‘Hi,’ and says you’ve got to check your email as soon as you get in ... Oh, and he says Daphne’s gone again.”

  “You opened my mail?” Phillips queries in astonishment, taking out the receptionist’s hand-written message.

  “Of course I did. It might’ve been important ... Oh, nearly forgot—Dave says ‘Hi’ to Ruth, as well.”

  “Thanks, Trina,” says Ruth with a sm
ile, though Phillips looks less pleased, stopping abruptly to ask, “Why is Sergeant Brougham here?”

  “Protection,” Trina boasts proudly. “The mob is trying to kill me.”

  “I’ll fill you in upstairs, Mike,” says Brougham.

  Mike Phillips fires up his computer the moment he hits his room, while Brougham outlines Trina’s escapades. Trina has taken Ruth to the hotel’s restaurant for tea, and has theatrically checked for mobsters around each corner and even under the table, elatedly explaining to Ruth, “There’s probably a price on my head,” before confiding to her friend that, after a spell as Mrs. Peter Healy, she is now finally a free woman.

  It only takes Phillips a few seconds to pull up the fingerprints from England and forward them to his detachment from his email. A couple of minutes later he is on the phone to Bliss in a serious panic.

  “Dave. You’ve got a real nasty situation ... the prints you sent—if it’s the man in the manor—he isn’t Maxwell. His name’s John Waghorn.”

  “And he is?” asks Bliss.

  Phillips takes a breath. “Keep this under your hat, Dave, but he’s the prime suspect in our serial killer case.”

  “What? Are you certain?”

  “Yeah. He slipped off our radar about four months ago, just about the time that Maxwell showed up at your end, I guess. We had an ‘all ports’ watch out for him, but no one reported him leaving the country.”

  “Because he was travelling as Jordan Jackson,” says Bliss, piecing the scenario together, and reaching the place where Daphne had been several weeks ago. “But why didn’t he use Maxwell’s name?”

  “He couldn’t. I checked Waghorn’s file. He’s a buddy of, wait for it, a nasty little shit-rat named Mort Maxwell. English, born 1958, a.k.a. Morty Maxwell. Real name—you guessed it—Jeremy Maxwell. I knew that I recognized the name. He’s seriously naughty—convictions going back to the seventies. Maxwell can’t move a muscle without it setting off an alarm.”

  So much for Daphne thinking he would turn out straight, thinks Bliss, asking, “What’s his form?”

  “Drugs, laundering, assault. His cover is a back-street porn studio. We’ve got a man in there. I’ll try to contact him before he goes in this evening—see what else we can get. And Trina has just spotted two of his goons riding around with a couple of stiffs in the trunk.”