by Joe McNally
All that waited was an answer-phone message from Mac saying that when the police reached Beckman’s place, he’d gone. The shed I’d been held captive in was a heap of ashes. They had alerted other forces to be on the lookout for Beckman.
Delving into my dwindling stock of packet meals, we ate dinner and shared a bottle of wine then settled down by the fire to plan the next day’s moves. Lisa called the hospital. Susan remained under sedation.
I remembered Sparky’s and got the number out again.
‘Sparky’s.’
‘Can I speak to Mister Ruger, please?’ I asked.
A few seconds’ silence then, ‘You winding me up?’
‘Not intentionally.’
‘Mister Ruger?’
‘That’s who I was told to ask for.’
‘Somebody’s winding you up then.’
‘How come?’
‘Ruger is a make of gun.’
Just to make sure he hadn’t misheard me, I said, ‘Different from a Luger?’
‘Completely different.’
‘Oh, well, I guess Claude Beckman was pulling my leg.’
‘That’d be a first.’
I hesitated, wondering how far to push my luck. ‘Oh, he finds his sense of humour sometimes.’
‘I’ll take your word for it. Listen, are you going to be seeing Mister Beckman soon?’
‘I hope so.’
‘Tell him the gun’s arrived, will you, and we’ve paid for it up front.’
‘That’ll be the Ruger?’
‘The Ruger Blackhawk.’
‘Will do, thanks.’
Although the puzzle pieces seemed to be coming together, the picture wasn’t getting any clearer. I rang McCarthy. He said he’d let Kavanagh know about the gun club, then told me he’d dug up some stuff on Beckman.
‘Two different sources are saying the same thing but can’t support it with any evidence. I’m trying to get verification,’ he said.
‘What is it?’
‘Beckman studied law at Oxford for three years, then dropped out to take a job as a management consultant in London. After a year in the UK, he moved into international management consultancy which turned out, according to my sources, to be a cover for what do you think?’
‘I don’t know. Drug running?’
‘Try gun running. He was an arms dealer.’
‘Hardly looks the type, does he? Anyway, that’s not illegal, is it?’
‘Depends. If you get proper end-user certificates and export-import licences, then you’re okay. It seems Beckman stuck to the shady side, forging certificates, bribing officials; he’s supposed to have made a few quid and got out. Bought his mother a couple of racehorses, got himself a boat, took a respectable job with The Jockey Club.’
‘Didn’t your people check him out?’
‘Of course. Rock solid. Impeccable references.’
‘Probably wrote them himself. How long was he gun-running then?’
‘Maybe as long as seven years.’
‘Was he involved in Ireland?’
Mac hesitated. ‘Do you think he had something to do with the deaths of Gilmour and Donachy?’
I sighed. ‘I don’t know what to think. If Beckman’s the killer, why didn’t he shoot me when he had me locked up? To beat me the way he did he must have hated my guts but not badly enough to kill me. How could he have killed the others?’
We kicked it around a while longer and Mac said he’d see what else he could find out.
A lamp glowed in the corner of the big room and the fire roared like a small furnace. Lisa sat on the rug; I lay on my front, the heat warming away the ache on my right side. Lisa sipped wine. I had whiskey and balanced my chin on the rim of the glass.
Lisa said, ‘That’ll break and you’ll have more scars.’
‘Hmmm.’
We were silent for a while, staring at the flames. Lisa said, ‘When I was a kid, I always dreamed of living in a place like this, big and old in the middle of nowhere, a roaring fire in a dark room, making toast with a long golden fork and drinking hot chocolate... listening to the wind and rain rattling the outside, making me feel cosy.’
Chin still on glass I mumbled, ‘Bit short on golden forks, I’m afraid.’
‘You’re not overflowing with hot chocolate or bread either,’ she said.
I smiled.
‘What did you want to be when you were a kid?’ She asked.
‘A jockey.’
‘Always?’
‘Well after hearing the shattering news, when I was about three, that I couldn’t be the king.’ I raised my elbows now to prop up my chin and looked at Lisa. I said, ‘I’ll always remember that, the first time anyone had ever asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. It struck me that kings and queens had a pretty fine life of it, and that’s what I’d set my heart on. My mother laughed and said it was impossible, you had to be born into the proper family. It was the first time I can recall feeling a sense of injustice.’
‘At three?’
‘Around then...maybe five or six.’
‘You don’t get much more precocious than that.’
‘Nah, first signs of an incurable romantic, that was all.’
‘What about family?’ she asked and waited in open-faced anticipation for the start of my life history. I thought about changing the subject but ploughed on reluctantly.
‘My parents are still alive and I’ve got a sister somewhere, but I don’t see any of them.’
I wasn’t looking at her. She hesitated and then said, ‘Family feud?’
‘Sort of.’
She saw I was uneasy. ‘You’d rather not talk about it?’
‘Not tonight.’
We were quiet for a while then she said quietly, ‘Do you want to talk about today?’
I knew what she meant, but tried to dodge it. ‘Which particular part?’
‘When you opened that shed.’
I felt a lump rise in my throat and took a drink to disguise the swallow I had to make. ‘I don’t know what I felt.’
Lisa stayed silent.
‘It was a bad mixture of fear and…shame. Rage. Humiliation. A gut need for revenge. Anger at myself for letting anybody do that to me, especially Beckman who thinks he’s better than me anyway. Fucking bastard.’
She watched, intense but silent, studying me.
‘If he’d been in that shed when I opened it, armed or not, I’d have torn his fucking head off. I’d have bit him and butted him, smashed his bones and stood on his face…jumped on his face, kicked it, raged and howled at him, battered him and when he was dead I’d have pissed all over his body.’
Still she was silent. She didn’t say, “Feel better now?” No platitudes. I was grateful. After a minute, she raised her glass. ‘Here’s to quick healing,’ she said.
36
Next morning at seven, Jack Cooper’s call woke me. He was looking for news of his son. I mentioned he’d been seen with Beckman, though I decided not to tell him Beckman had disappeared.
I didn’t think Beckman had the boy or he’d have been locked up on his property somewhere. And Cooper senior would go into meltdown at the inference of a homosexual relationship.
‘So you haven’t really got anywhere?’
‘I suppose not.’
His language made me glad he wasn’t employing me direct.
‘Did David have his own place?’ I asked him.
‘I bought him a nice flat in Sutton Coldfield.’
‘I’d like to see it.’
‘Fine. Pick the keys up at my office.’
‘You carry a set?’
‘Why not? It was my money that bought it!’
‘Only asking. You been there since he disappeared?’
‘I was there yesterday.’
‘Was all his gear still there, clothes, shoes, passport, stuff like that?’
‘How would I know?’
‘I thought you might have looked. Why did you go there?’
&n
bsp; ‘To see if he left a note or something.’
‘And did he?’
‘Don’t be so bloody silly! I haven’t got time for this. Come and pick up the keys, they’ll be with my secretary. Let me know what’s happening.’
He hung up.
Lisa was impressed with David’s flat. She assured me the décor was straight from Vogue. There was a narrow floor-to-ceiling bookcase with few spaces, and watercolours above big pot plants.
Lisa said, ‘Well there’s your answer about the girlfriend, he’s got one.’
‘You think so?’
‘Definitely. This is a woman’s house.’
‘So all men have bad taste in decor?’
‘Maybe not bad, but not as good as this. Look at the lighting arrangement, the plants.’
‘Interior designer?’
‘Possibly. A female.’
I shook my head. ‘I’m going to have a wander round.’
Young Cooper had always dressed well, and if he’d gone of his own accord, he’d left plenty of stuff behind; his wardrobe was full.
In the bottom drawer were two padded envelopes, three feet by two, unsealed. I slipped them out and eased framed watercolours from the open flaps. Both were country scenes, very well done. And very similar in style to the ones on Beckman’s walls.
Why weren’t these on David’s walls? I looked closer. David Cooper’s signature was on both. I called Lisa through.
Returning to the living area, we checked the pictures on display: all David’s.
We nosed around a while longer but found nothing important; no passport, no wallet, no toiletries even, though that meant little. If he’d left on Monday with the intention of travelling to his mother’s house, he would have taken an overnight bag.
‘We’d better get moving,’ I said.
Lisa said, ‘Just let me finish the plants.’
She hurried through to the sitting room and picked up a half-full plastic jug. ‘You never know how long he’ll be gone, don’t want them to die of thirst.’
David’s flat was in a block of four. Hoping for a clue, we tried all the neighbours: nobody home.
On the drive back, I told Lisa how similar David’s paintings were to those in Beckman’s house. She said, ‘So their relationship could have been as simple as buyer and seller?’
‘Exactly.’
We wondered if Beckman had friends among the other members of his gun club, someone who, at least, might have been able to confirm where he’d got the watercolours. Failing that, I’d ask the police if we could go back to Beckman’s place for another look around.
‘What time does the gun club close?’ Lisa asked.
‘Ten.’
She looked at her watch. ‘We could be there for half eight if I drive.’
‘It’s a long way, Lisa.’
‘Are we doing anything else?’
‘I suppose not.’
The club, about fifteen miles from Beckman’s cottage, was a just a floodlit rifle range with a sort of log cabin attached as a clubhouse. As we approached the doors, two men came through them: Kavanagh and Miller.
At his syrupy best Kavanagh said, ‘Mister Malloy, what a small world!’
I tried to remember if he’d met Lisa before and hoped he hadn’t. I introduced her as a friend. Even Miller smiled.
‘Afraid we beat you to it tonight, Mister Malloy.’ Kavanagh said.
‘Looks like it,’ I said. ‘Find out anything useful?’
Kavanagh kept smiling, darting show-off glances at Lisa. ‘Plenty.’
‘But nothing you can talk about?’
‘Not to the, uh, general public.’
‘Fine. I’ll bear that in mind next time I have some information.’
‘Don’t be childish,’ Kavanagh said, ‘it doesn’t suit you.’
‘What about Beckman’s house?’ I asked, ‘you been there?’
‘Hours ago.’
‘Did you notice the watercolours hanging in the living room?’
‘Can’t say I did. Why, thinking of setting up as an art critic?’ He flashed a little aren’t-I-clever smile at Lisa.
‘Forget it,’ I said, and turned away.
Kavanagh said, ‘Goodnight, ma’am, nice meeting you.’
Suddenly remembering Beckman’s typewriter, which was still in my car, I called Kavanagh back and gave it to him.
‘Try not to lose it,’ I said, ‘you’ll probably find that my Cheltenham threat and the tip-off to Doctor Donnelly were typed on it.’
Kavanagh sneered. ‘How very clever of you.’
I ignored it. Lisa and I went inside.
We wasted half an hour talking to several people. No one there had known Beckman socially. He was a regular on the range but a loner. Nobody could remember him even having a drink in the club bar.
I said to Lisa, ‘We’ll get a break soon. We’re due one. You’ll see.’ I was trying to persuade myself rather than her.
Back late at the Lodge, fed and watered, wounds tended, sitting together again by the fire, I phoned McCarthy and told him about meeting Kavanagh and Miller at the gun club. ‘Heard anything from them?’ I asked.
‘Their boss rang me. Beckman was a long-term member there. He had a case full of guns.’
‘All kept at the club?’
‘Yep. Strictly legal.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Among his collection was a Model Ninety-two F Beretta, the same type that was used to kill Gilmour and Donachy.’
‘How significant is that? Statistics-wise, I mean.’
Mac sighed. ‘That’s the trouble, forty per cent of their members have that gun and the club owner says that would be a fair reflection countrywide. But we’ll soon know. The police have Beckman’s gun and it’s being sent for tests.’
‘Does Inspector Sanders believe he killed Gilmour and Donachy?’ I asked.
‘He won’t commit, but I get the impression Beckman’s becoming chief suspect.’
‘I’ve a feeling Sanders will find himself on the wrong trail.’
I told Mac about the watercolours then asked if he minded me doing my own thing over the next couple of days, talking to Beckman’s colleagues and maybe a few of the stewards, sniffing around discreetly in high places.
‘What’s the point? You said you don’t think Beckman’s the killer?’
‘That’s right, but I’d still like to know why he bears me such a grudge. Anyway, he’s the only link I’ve got to David Cooper.’
‘Okay, just try to upset as few people as possible.’
When I hung up, Lisa said, ‘Have you still got that note with the gun club’s telephone number on it?’
I fished it out and showed her it.
‘What were the numbers on the note you got through the door, can you remember?’
‘Three, two, two three. They were chapter and verse numbers from the bible.’
‘Can you recall what the handwriting was like?’
‘Square, blocky, even, like typed characters only they were definitely written.’
‘See the two in this number.’ She handed me the piece of paper. ‘It’s curly, with that little looped ring on the foot of the two.’ She said.
She was right. These numbers were uneven, in a rounded hand with loops and twirls and a continental stroke through the figure seven. ‘Nice one.’ I said. I was conscious the note I’d got could have been deliberately disguised, but I was reluctant to say so. Lisa had done well to think of this and I didn’t want her to feel I was crabbing her.
She said, ‘Of course, we don’t know if Beckman wrote it. It might have been written for him.’
‘True.’
‘I can probably get hold of some of his handwriting from an Enquiry report,’ she said.
‘That would be a big help.’
‘I know it rules nothing in or out, but it might kind of change the odds a bit.’
I smiled at her. ‘You should set up workshops to train the likes of Kavanagh and Miller. You’re g
ood.’
‘Aww shucks!’ She said.
37
Saturday and Sunday were spent making appointments by phone and driving fast to keep them. I spoke to a number of Beckman’s acquaintances from racing, none of whom could help. We even traced a couple of David Cooper’s old school-friends, though we’d nothing to show for it.
Sunday evening found me dispirited, and my mood began seeping into Lisa. The combination of a lack of success and confusion, in my mind at least, about how we really felt about each other made me think we needed a break.
I suggested she might want to go home that night and take Monday off, then maybe we could both come back with a fresh approach. She seemed relieved, packed her things, kissed me lightly on the cheek and said to ring right away if anything came up.
Watching her drive off, I had mixed feelings. But when I closed the door, I knew I was glad to be on my own again. I’d been a loner most of my life, acutely so in the last six years. I didn’t believe I’d ever adjust to the idea of a regular partner. On this dreary Sunday, I didn’t much care.
At six-thirty next morning, the phone rang. I hurried downstairs cursing Jack Cooper and making a mental note to leave it off the hook at night.
It was McCarthy. I could feel the tension in his voice when he said my name.
‘What is it, Mac?’
‘Another corpse.’
‘David Cooper?’
‘Garfield Rowlands.’
I couldn’t place him.
‘Used to be a trainer,’ Mac said, ‘retired two years ago.’
‘He wasn’t Irish?’
‘English through and through. Retired to his home village near Barnsley.’
‘Shot?’
‘Centre of the forehead, shoulder broken this time rather than his leg.’
‘Bloody hell! Any note?’
‘Pinned through the flesh of his throat with a sharpened nail; usual chapter and verse numbers.’
‘Which translate to?’
‘“And I looked, and behold a pale horse; and the name that sat on him was death.”’
‘Was the same gun used?’
‘We don’t know yet. No whip weals, by the way, and no sign of a hood being used.’
‘They checked him for that? Kavanagh and Miller must be catching on.’