by mark mctighe
Ziggy waited for the room to empty, “fancy a beer Leo?”
“Yes, Windsor Castle in 10” Leo nodded his appreciation, “and make mine an IPA”.
The Windsor Castle was a police pub. Leo nodded and raised a hand to a couple of tables. Ziggy sat in a corner nursing his pint of Murphy’s; his pale bony hands skeletal against the black glass.
“Thanks Zigs, I needed one of these.”
“It’s not for you it’s for me. Fourteen straight hours... The shooting last night and then your lift shaft bloke; knackered, and if I don’t have one of these I’ll never sleep.” He raised the now half empty pint glass. “Look I’ve been thinking whilst I was waiting for you...... It’s not easy you know...... Not easy to manoeuvre a locker that size. We know it was a two wheeled trolley, well that’s fucking difficult; seriously, you try it; all the weight at the front, someone chucking themselves around inside. They’d have to be bloody strong or incredibly well practiced.”
“So someone used to moving heavy objects...” Leo pulled out his book and scribbled a note to himself.
“Are you still together?” Ziggy questioned.
“Sort of” Leo grimaced; “unsatisfactory really, think it’s probably run its course; can’t get over the living in different countries thing.”
“It’s a bastard”. They both sat and drank. “That secretary of Whittaker’s looks pretty fit. I’d take her in for a debriefing if I were you.” Ziggy chuckled as usual at his crass lame joke.
7. Wake.
Leads had been run down, finger prints cross checked; the body scoured for clues, signs. The only physical evidence of note was the blood sample and Ziggy thought it was a nose bleed; circular, sufficient volume to form a droplet. There was no indication from Whittaker’s hands that the perpetrator had been struck bare fisted; no objects to hand that formed natural weapons, so the bleed was highly likely to have come from the physical exertion or mental pressure of the moment.
The locker had been on the premises, the storeroom alongside the car parks, sub basement level; metal filings, it had been adapted, prepared in the building. Leo was being pushed two ways; towards a colleague, someone who knew Whittaker, knew their way around the building, the security. Or a professional hit; someone who had prepared meticulously, but that option gave him a problem with the nosebleed.
Two weeks and four days and the family had been given permission to proceed with the burial. Leo had met Katy Whittaker a couple of times now; vulnerable is how he thought of her; sheepish almost meek. Poles apart from the brutal business man Oscar Whittaker of Whittaker’s Tower. How did a relationship of such opposites work? Perhaps there had been too much comfort and similarity in his relationship with Simone? Both obsessive, ‘perhaps both too self centred?’ He thought, ‘Is that why Fran divorced me? Too much me?’ He pushed the thoughts of his personal relationships out and concentrated on the congregation, sitting down on the hard narrow pew. The church filled to capacity; perhaps 300, ‘yes eight to a bench and twenty each side, four eights are 32, 300ish’ Leo calculated. He recognised some faces from the office; Katy and her two small pale sons. It was always the funerals that brought reality to his work; where bodies became people, where the value of life multiplied and those left behind were faced with picking up the pieces and soldiering on. ‘Very little to go forward with Jack’ Leo had said, ‘hoping to get another angle, perspective on who Whittaker was, where his path might have crossed with his murderer.’
The service was simple and considering the brash nature of the man, sensitive and understated. It was the influence of his wife, sombre and tasteful. No bouquets of flowers shaped into the word ‘Dad’ or ‘Love’, no gold trimmings on the coffin; everyone without exception in black. No brown country brogues or sparkling jewellery on show, pure and plain.
The Saxon church of St Mark was a short walk from the Whittaker’s house; the service complete; the box buried in the graveyard and a good half of the congregation piled into a marquee erected alongside the Whittaker’s sitting room. Leo was just observing, looking for something, a sign, inspiration, anything really. The remnants of the congregation had broken into three distinct groups; work, village and family; Leo moved and listened, sitting on the periphery of each group, gleaning what he could. Perhaps it had been a worthless visit after all. He nodded recognition as he pushed gently past the immaculate figure of Whittaker’s secretary, Victoria Sharpe. ‘Ziggy’s right’ he thought. She smiled back and held eye contact for a moment longer than was comfortable. Leo stepped away and tried to look busy; stepping onto a man’s foot, a brown brogue, he hadn’t spotted that. He was even wearing a tweed jacket.
“Sorry, just stumbled there” Leo put his hands up in mock surrender. “Leo Dix”, he put his hand out.
“Peter Sasse and this is Jamie.”
“Jamie Horsham” James Horsham added. “We’re the old school mates; only the two of us here, everyone else seems to be family, village or work, which are you?” Jamie’s words were almost slurred, intelligible but a verbal slurry of sorts.
“Police..... I didn’t know Mr Whittaker; I’m the investigator and I’m trying to build a better picture of the man.”
“I’ll tell you about the bastard” Peter began, “won’t we Jamie, anything to help you catch the fucker who orphaned those children and took away our best fucking mate.” It was conversation fuelled by grief and alcohol; they remembered and Leo listened.
“We go black” Jamie began.
“Back” Peter corrected.
“That’s what I said, we go black such a long way, prep fucking school, eight years old, we’re fifty this year; that makes.......”
“Forty two years” Peter completed the calculation.
“Exactly” Jamie pointed his finger with force at the audience of two. He looked blank; he’d lost his train of thought. With one giant effort Jamie lent forward again and began; “we’ve been great mates, best mates for all this time. Solid bloke, intellectually powerful, funny; we always made time for one another; important to each other, brothers.” Leo nodded encouragingly, a sympathetic grimacing smile of sorrow and understanding etched on his face. He didn’t want to push; he just wanted the information to drip out but Jamie was spent, he slumped back into the chair, the duck feather cushions consuming his frame, sucking the life out of him; his unfocused eyes still open.
“We were a gang of three, if that constitutes a gang” Peter chipped in. “Kicked about together; went our separate ways at Uni but straight back in there three years later; went to his wedding; Jamie was his best man although why you got that job I’ll never know, speech was crap, I’d have done a better job although I say so myself.” Jamie looked at Peter but remained unable to contribute further, unable to rouse himself from the comfort of the man trap he’d fallen in to. “Looks like he’s been taken by a Venus fly trap” Peter chuckled to himself.
“How often did you get together?” Leo probed.
“We’d meet up at least once a quarter, we’re all busy but those dates were sacrosanct. We’re all members of the same club, the ‘In and Out Club’. The formula was always the same; meal, snooker and booze; stay the night; big fried breakfast then back to our offices to breathe alcohol over everyone; a couple of months later we’d repeat the formula...... Best fucking nights of the year and yes you can quote me on that.” It didn’t look like Leo was going to get anything else. Peter had now joined Jamie in a head nodding trance; the grief and mortality of the moment debilitating, draining, enervating.
Leo tried one more push, “I’d heard him described as a brutal man”. It was an inappropriate statement at the man’s funeral but Leo needed to restart the conversation, kick some life back into the old school friends. There was very little on offer in the room; these two and Victoria Sharpe were his best chance of moving the investigation forward.
“Hey, now hold on a moment” Peter Sasse frowned. Jamie tried to sit forward but soon gave in. “Brutal.... Not true at all, funny, and yes he was dr
iven, used to getting his own way. No, funny, great to be around, I think....... Well certainly not brutal; competitive yes.” Leo kept quiet and nodded encouragingly. “I guess you’re implying that he must have had enemies, well haven’t we all but come on disliking someone and pushing them down a lift shaft, that’s one hell of a leap.”
“Wass” Jamie muttered as he attempted to sit up straight; his face flushed as the duck feathers closed around him creating a pocket of extreme heat.
“Yes exactly Jamie, he was a great BOSS” Peter corrected. “Just ask Victoria. He knew how to look out for his staff; incredible loyalty at Whittaker’s.” The staccato conversation stopped abruptly.
“Why so loyal?” Leo prodded.
“Money, great bonus, a successful business, dynamic, exciting and growing so fast although what’ll happen now...... God knows. You get individuals that make a business. Oscar was one of those. People with that kind of drive and passion don’t grow on trees.” Peter looked across at Jamie for an approving nod but he’d gone. Gone into an upright sweaty sleep.
“Who will take over?” Leo asked.
“They’ll have to bring someone in from the outside; but yes that’s the problem, a big problem. Investors are a nervous bunch and if a couple start to jump ship well it could be curtains for Oscar’s business. Fast........ They’ll have to move quick and pay through the nose for it.
Leo pulled out two cards and gave them to Peter Sasse. “If you have any thoughts about who could have done this or why he was killed in this manner, call.... Anytime.” He moved away, needed time to think. He grabbed a water and wandered out into the garden. Something was nagging him, a feeling that they’d said something important. He’d get their club checked out. He scribbled ‘In and Out Club’ into his pad; ‘strange name’ he thought; ‘let them sober up then interview them one on one, there’s something there’.
Twenty yards out from the marquee and Leo turned to take in his surroundings. Whittaker had done well for himself. A sunken Japanese garden, tennis court, pool; the manor house was probably Edwardian and the lawn. He’d never stood on such a perfect grass surface. Lawns were supposed to look ragged at this time of year but there was not a weed to be seen; blade upon blade of perfect grass and all cut to a length of a couple of millimetres. It was cool, the hum of distant voices rose and fell as Leo leant against the tangled bark of an old oak tree and thought; recounted events and thought. A figure slipped out of the marquee and looked around. Her sensible shoes carried her across the perfect lawns and towards Leo quickly. Her smile revealed her perfect teeth; her lipstick recently applied.
“I’ve only had the chance to meet Mikey, I’m Victoria Sharpe but I think you already know that.” She held out her freezing cold hand and shook.
“You’re freezing” Leo stated the obvious.
“Couldn’t stand another second in that marquee; I hate funerals; and anyway since when has anyone been able to properly heat a marquee in the middle of March?” Leo’s mind flashed back to the picture of a steaming James Horsham, enveloped in cushions and sweaty. “I just wanted to ask you”, Victoria began, “how? If, well, do.... Do you have any idea why it happened or who’s responsible?” The perfect facade was starting to slip; her large brown eyes watered. “Look that’s not the real reason..... Can you take me back to London? I can’t stand another minute here and I idiotically got a lift with David. Actually he told me I was getting a lift with him and I can’t stand the man. Ah” she exhaled in frustration.
“Yes, of course” Leo’s voice was calming. “Do you need to get a coat or say goodbye or anything?”
“No I’m all here. I’ll text David from the car. Thank you so much, I hope I’m not being an imposition.” Leo smiled to himself. Her presence was intoxicating and he was certain she knew it.
“I wanted to talk to you anyway. We can chat on the drive in.” Leo felt strangely nervous, ‘get a grip man it’s just the victim’s secretary’. As Victoria stumbled Leo grabbed her arm and held her upright.
“Thanks” she smiled, “and to think I put these granny shoes on to prevent just that from happening.”
“I like the shoes” Leo said. “They remind me of my mother.” He didn’t know what else to say.
“You’re not supposed to agree with me, they’re Jimmy Choo.” The fashion reference flew 10000ft over Leo’s head.
“I didn’t know you’d be taking me back in an agricultural vehicle” Victoria said as she climbed up into the Defender, the rubber floor mats full of rainwater from the previous day.
“Sorry about the water in the foot well, it takes a couple of days to dry out after a rainstorm.” Leo hadn’t been expecting to drive anyone back. “Ah and let me move that banana skin” he cringed. “I’ve got a couple of bin bags in the back if you need to cover those shoes.”
“No you can keep the bin bags for the banana skins.”
Leo rubbed the back of his neck, she was sharp this Victoria Sharpe.
The diesel engine caught; a puff of black smoke and they were moving slowly down a country lane.
“Do you ever get the feeling that you’re just about to be overtaken by a combine harvester?” She glanced in the rear view mirror whilst keeping a deadly serious face.
“Now you’re being cruel” Leo smiled, “It’s my Land Rover and I love it”.
“I wasn’t criticising the car, it was more to do with the driving style.” This time she smiled, “got you.”
Leo had completely misread Victoria Sharpe; her serious look; her everything pinned into place... Her control. That was just her image, she was actually humorous and great company, fun, easy to be with. She was..... He thought briefly about Simone, yes, it was definitely over.
The journey back to London was too short, Leo wanted to keep driving and keep talking.
“You can’t conduct an interview in here; I’ll lose my voice if I have to keep shouting over this engine....... Jesus it’s a bone rattler” as they drove over a speed bump. “Better if you just drop me off outside my chiropractor..... Haven’t Land Rover heard of the word suspension?” Leo put it all down to her relief after escaping the funeral. She’d been very fond of Oscar Whittaker. He’d treated her well; excellent money, working conditions, fun, exciting; ‘the best of jobs’. Yes he was intolerant; intolerant of failure, shoddy work; people who couldn’t get things done. He fired people on a regular basis but if you were good the rewards were there.
Leo dropped Victoria off outside her Fulham flat. He was slightly at a loss..... What to do next? Peck her on the cheek and say goodbye; shake her hand; set a follow up date. No, he was in the middle of a murder enquiry and she formed a part of the case. He’d have to park it for now, but that was easier said than done. He shook her hand.
8. Father.
A monk swimming.......Wass’s father couldn’t swim anymore, couldn’t really walk, couldn’t hold a polite conversation; just too old, too bitter. But he was more than capable of screaming, swearing, belittling, oh and the constant nagging. It was time for his monthly bath. It should have been more frequent; weekly; fortnightly at worst, but the bath had become such an ordeal for Wass that he couldn’t bring himself to carry it out any more frequently. He just put up with the smell. A rotting carcass, old sweat, kind of smell. He hung ‘All Office’ air scents everywhere. He even had one of those plug in devices which you filled up with ‘the scent of rose’s’ liquid once a week. It meant that the house smelt of air freshener and rotting meat; pockets of fake roses then halitosis. It reminded him of the outdoor swimming pool at school. The whole pool was painfully cold, then just at the half way point a pipe jetted hot water in. It left a warm vein of water across the middle which only emphasized how miserably cold the rest of the pool was; yes, the floral scents cast invisible lines of scent across the house. You just had to hope that when it was time to inhale you were in one.
Wass shook his head violently, ‘yes, time for the bath’, he steeled himself. Wass wasn’t planning on making it his father
’s last bath it just worked out that way.
“It’s too hot; give me my glasses; you’ve always been so stupid.” Wass ignored the torrent. “I sent you to that expensive Catholic school, boarding school, paid every penny myself and just look at you, you blithering idiot, imbecile.” Wass didn’t bother to answer, didn’t scream or shout, rant or rage; he knew it was time. A firm grip around the neck of the elderly man and he forced him under. His father’s arms flailed briefly then dropped. After two minutes Wass let go. He needed a cup of tea. ‘No, another couple of minutes just to be sure’ he thought; ‘then I’ll have the tea’. Wass’s hands wrinkled in the cooling water and after half an hour he got up and put the kettle on.
Wass finished his cup of tea, poured another one out of the stainless steel tea pot and lay back on the sofa. His mood had changed, he felt mellow, unperturbed, relaxed. Wass promptly fell asleep.
Wass was back at school; the torch light in his face, his hands pinned, his mouth gagged. They wore masks and school tracksuits, nothing to recognise, nothing to differentiate them. But Wass heard a voice, a name and he knew who it was. Tethered at the end of the school playing fields; no trousers, no pants, utter humiliation...... It was the morning runners that discovered him. Those pupils being punished for the things they’d done, things they shouldn’t have done during the previous week. Wass jolted awake; sat up; the sofa wet and warm. Wass went upstairs to change his trousers. Wass checked the time, 4.00am; that gave him precisely three hours to deal with his father before he’d have to leave for work. He never missed work, even if he was sick. ‘Rule one, never miss work’ he thought.