Powering up his workstation, he noticed that some of the icons had been moved around on his desktop. It was not unusual for other people to use his workstation as hot-desking was a common and necessary practice, but it annoyed him when somebody messed with the settings…his settings. He was surprised to see ‘no new messages’ flash up when he clicked open his Western Mail & Echo e-mail account and typed in his password. Surprise turned to anger when he checked the inbox to find several messages, mostly from public relations companies with press releases attached, had arrived since he left the office on Friday night. Perhaps he had left the e-mail window open and Menna couldn’t resist being nosey. Perhaps Jerry…
“Shit!” Steven suddenly realised that the JPEG files of his photographs were no longer among the icons on his desktop. After checking his virtual wastebasket he ran a quick ‘find’. They were no longer on his system. Somebody had wiped them. He glanced around. The idiot box was on Menna’s desk…or rather the desk Menna had been using on Friday night as she was currently counted among the newsroom’s hot-deskers. Opening its protective case, panic rising, he switched it on and read the display. ‘Available memory – 100%’ “Shit! Shit! Shit!” Somebody had cleared the camera’s disc. He logged on to the staff contacts list and found Jerry’s home number. Those pictures were vital evidence.
“Jerry, did you wipe those pix from my workstation on Friday, the ones of the crash victims?” Jerry looked momentarily baffled.
“No. You in the office? Come up with something good?” Steven’s mind was racing. Wiping the camera disc was not out of the ordinary. It could have been any one of the Saturday morning staff. Having his desktop rearranged was also, annoyingly, not unusual.
“Someone’s wiped those pix off my desktop…and the camera disc has been erased.”
Who opened his e-mail? Who deleted the pictures? Why? “They’ve gone!” The picture desk would have a copy of the one used in yesterday’s edition, but that was no use.
“Calm down, Steve. They’ll turn up. Nobody would have…” Two sets of poor quality printouts, one of which Giles was sure to have misplaced and the other was crumpled in his coat pocket. “…I can’t believe anyone would have deleted them. How’s the story shaping up, anyway? Sounds like…”
“Gotta go. Call you later.” Jerry vanished into a dark pinhole at the centre of the vidiphone screen. Steven ran through the list for Menna’s number, his mood blackening. It was all perfectly innocent, he told himself, just one of those things…a simple cock-up. He still had the medal. Menna’s number rang and rang. He gave up. Giles had warned him to be careful…or had he just said ‘take care’? It was hard to remember. Had Giles been reluctant to help him in the end? Or was that Giles just being Giles? Giles had spoken to Elton, or whatever his name was. What if…get a grip! He remembered the black motorbike, its faceless rider. Was it the same bike he had glimpsed turning into the side street by the hospital? Did despatch riders work on Sundays? Steven’s heart was pounding. Of course they did. This is just paranoia. If Elton had raised the alarm, if Gwynfor had contacted the police, or Heggie, they would come by car, a squad car, perhaps an unmarked car. What was the worst they could do? Invite him to the police station to answer a few questions, find out how much he knew? He didn’t yet know enough. He still had time. How much time?
“Eleanor Gusso,” he said aloud. He had to find her. He had to find her fast.
By the time Steven reached the Taff Embankment he was breathless, soaked to the skin and half way through his second packet of cigarettes since Saturday night’s relapse. He had decided to walk, despite the rain, hoping it would help to clear his head. Every step of the way he had fought the contradictions of his uncertainties, trying to keep control of his imagination. Continually glancing around at the traffic, expecting to catch sight of the motorcyclist, his journey had been an arduous battle against a growing fear that he was out of his depth. The city around him seemed oppressive, closing him in, watching him. But why? He had done nothing wrong, except take a few unsavoury photographs and pick up a medal that did not belong to him.
Those were not real crimes. He had nothing to be afraid of. He was a journalist in search of the truth. This was his job. They were in the wrong…whoever had tried to cover up the identities of…
Steven stopped. He was stood outside number 24, the address he had for Eleanor Gusso, Corporal Eleanor Gusso, 22nd Regiment Special Air Service, as Heggie had revealed what felt like an age ago. It was a shabby three-story block, its brickwork streaked with grime, wooden window frames and doors chipped and peeling, its front wall crumbling and sprouting weeds. He remembered the woman on the roadside, her bloodied breast exposed through her ripped blazer and blouse but an elegantly attired woman nonetheless. This ragged old property did not seem a likely home for such a woman, for a heroic commando of the SAS. He pressed the buzzer then, unsure if it had sounded, knocked three times against the grubby door. There was movement from inside. Steven braced himself for another dead end.
“Hello?” Unlike Eleanor Gusso, the face that appeared from behind the door and peered out at him was not out of place here, he thought. “What do you want?” The words seemed to slur into each other. The eyes were weak and watery. Steven noticed the man had no teeth. His lips were severely chapped and his skin was red and blotchy. He wore a dark suit, its material worn and stained with an oily, or greasy sheen. His shoulders were speckled with flakes of dandruff.
“I’m looking for Eleanor Russo.” Steven feared the worse. This man was of a different generation to the woman he had seen on the roadside, and of a different class. There could be no connection. “I was told she lives here.”
“She did.” It was like a surge of electricity from the pit of his stomach. Steven’s mouth gaped. “Until yesterday. She died. But who are you?” The eyes searched him up and down, the blotchy face scowled. “You don’t look like police.” Steven searched for his press card.
“No. No I’m a reporter with the Echo. I…we know about the car crash and…”
“Car crash?” The man frowned. It dawned on Steven that he displayed surprisingly little emotion at the very recent loss of his wife or partner…or sister…or daughter.
“Yes, she was killed in a car crash on Friday. Didn’t the police…”
“You must be mistaken. The police said it was a heart attack. They came yesterday and took all her stuff away, so there’s nothing left here now for you to be poking your nose around.”
The door began to close again.
“No, wait!” Steven fumbled in his pocket for the medal. “We wanted to do a story…a tribute piece.” He waved the medal in the gap between the door and its frame. “About her bravery at Abamae. Surely as her husband you’d want to see her properly honoured for…”
The door stopped. Steven heard a hoarse chuckle, then it opened again and the face peered up at him. “Husband. I like that. Husband indeed.” He chuckled again.
“Sorry, I assumed that you…” If not husband, then what? At least Steven had bought a few moments longer to talk his way inside. “Forgive me. So Eleanor was your…” he was about to say ‘daughter’.
“Tenant. Eleanor was my tenant.” Steven found this even harder to believe but tried not to let it show. Why on earth would a woman like Eleanor Gusso rent a place like this? “I’ve a few tenants. I couldn’t afford the upkeep without them.” Upkeep was stretching it somewhat, Steven thought to himself.
“How long had she been a…tenant here?” Steven tucked the medal away and produced his notebook. “If you don’t mind me asking.” The man, Eleanor’s landlord, stroked his chin, loosening a shower of fresh flakes of dried skin. “It’s just that I need a few details for my tribute piece…what she was like, the people she lived with…you know.”
“Well…” Steven could detect a softening of tone and began scribbling on a rain-soaked sheet of paper. “…I guess it wouldn’t do any harm. You’d better come in out of the rain for a minute.” Steven smiled. It never cease
d to amaze him how many ordinary people were unable to resist the lure of having their names in print.
“Thanks. That’s very kind of you.” The door opened fully and Steven stepped inside. There was a hint of whisky and stale tobacco as he held out his hand to his host. “Steven, Steven Elan.” Then his nostrils caught the deeply unpleasant stench of damp.
“John.” His grip was returned and Steven detected a slight tremble. He guessed at the onset of Parkinson’s disease, or perhaps it was alcoholism. “John Griffiths. This way.”
Steven was led along a long dark hallway and into an equally gloomy lounge. The floorboards creaked beneath a threadbare paisley patterned carpet and his eyes were immediately drawn to the large patches of mould eating away at the wallpaper in each corner. John gestured to an ancient looking armchair, the least worn of a matching pair. Steven tried not to inspect the arms and cushions too closely as he sat. In the nearest corner an old electric lamp struggled against the gloom, its shade was moth-eaten and its decorative tassels frayed. A settee, part of the same suite as the armchairs, crouched against the bay window. There was a large blackened fire place, cluttered with ash and cigarette ends, and above it a mantelpiece labouring beneath a host of painted porcelain figurines – the ugly type he so often saw in pensioners’ homes – and a handful of ornately framed photographs. There was an overflowing bookcase and a clock, the old fashioned kind with a face, numerals and hands. Steven was instantly taken by its hypnotic ticking. It seemed to be the only sound in the house.
“This was my brother’s place.” John gazed around, as if surveying the room for the first time. “It’s pretty much as he left it. Even if I’d wanted to I couldn’t really afford to do the place up on my pension. That’s why I take in lodgers…tenants…just to keep up the mortgage payments.” Steven wondered where the tenants could be. There was no sign nor sound of them.
“How long ago did he pass away?” John looked perplexed. “Your brother?”
“My brother? No, he didn’t pass away. He signed the deeds over to me nearly a year ago, before he went bankrupt. Liked to gamble, did Jack. Surprised he managed to hold onto this place as long as he did.” John sighed. “Cup of tea?”
“No…thanks.” Goodness knows what state the kitchen was in. “So where does he live now? Your brother?”
“Who knows?” John smiled and sat in the other armchair. “He’s an exile now…a…what do you newspaper men call them?”
“Waste dweller?” Steven was shocked. How could he allow his own brother to live a life on the wastes? Surely they could have sold the house? Perhaps the debts were too large.
“Aye…waste dweller. Jack was first to admit he was a waster, so I guess it’s appropriate. I’m just glad dad wasn’t around to see it happen.” John fumbled with the lid of his cigarette packet, the tremble in his hand more pronounced. “Would have sent him to his grave. You don’t mind me smoking?”
“No! Of course not. It’s your house. Here…” Steven offered his own packet, growing impatient with John’s struggling efforts. “…have one of mine.”
“Thanks.” It took another minute, and a little help from Steven, before John’s cigarette was lit and the room billowed with blue smoke. Steven lit his own. “Not many of us left, now.”
“What?” Steven rested his notepad against the arm of the chair and pulled a battered old tin ash tray in the corner nearer. “Not many of…”
“Smokers,” coughed John. “We’re slowly being outlawed.” He smiled toothlessly. “Anyway, you wanted to know about Eleanor.” Steven was delighted he had not been the first to return to his reason for being here. John was surely at ease now.
“Yes. The problem is we don’t know an awful lot about her, just that she was a corporal in the SAS…that’s the Special Air Service…and…”
“I knew it!” John burst, suddenly stretching forward, his chest wheezing loudly. “I never asked, too polite to, but I knew she was SAS. All she’d say was Army.” He coughed several times and caught his breath. “I was Navy. Signalman. I saw action in the Gulf, first time round, against the Iraqis. I knew she was SAS. Always the quiet ones.”
“So she never talked about what she did, in the SAS?” Steven began to wonder how enlightening John would prove to be.
“No.” John was shaking his head. “They don’t, you see. Ex SAS never talk about the regiment. It’s an unwritten rule, one of the conditions of membership. Eleanor didn’t talk about much at all. Kept to herself, mostly. Went out quite early, came back in the evening, fixed herself some tea and usually straight upstairs to her room. Never really mixed with the others.”
“So she worked?” This could provide a crucial new lead.
“Well…in a manner of speaking. She said she did voluntary stuff in one of those charity shops in town. I can’t remember which one.” This was getting frustrating. “She was retired, officially, medical grounds. Never said what the problem was but she did walk with a limp.”
“How old was she?” John raised an eyebrow.
“You should know you never ask a lady that…well not our generation, anyway.” He flashed his gums again. “Forty, at a guess. Maybe even mid forties. She was a fine looking woman. Such a shame. Car crash you said?”
“That’s right. The car she was in collided with a bus on Western Avenue. Friday evening.” Steven searched John’s expression, daring him to refute the truth. “I was there, at the scene,” he added, and in case further evidence was needed: “I saw her body.”
“No, I believe you. I do.” John assured, stubbing out his cigarette. “The policeman must have got her mixed up with someone else. Difficult job they do, telling friends and family and all.” John stared into the carpet and the only sound for a moment or two was the ticking of the old clock. “The funny thing is I got the impression she didn’t want to go.” Steven’s heart leapt.
“Go where?” He could not hide the anticipation in his voice.
“To London. She was going to London on Friday. She must have been on her way home when it happened. Maybe she had a premonition. Maybe that’s why she didn’t want to go.”
“What was she doing in London? Did she say?” Steven leaned forward expectantly.
“No. She never said.” Steven’s shoulders sagged with disappointment. He stubbed out his cigarette. “She never said much at all. I only knew about it because she was doing some washing in the machine, out in the back room, on Wednesday night. She always did her washing on a Sunday. I poked my nose in, asked her about the break in routine, and she said she was off to London on Friday. Didn’t sound at all excited. Just said she had to get her smart blouse clean and dried in time. She was leaving early. I didn’t ask any more. Guess I wouldn’t make much of a reporter, eh?”
“It’s not rocket science,” Steven quoted Jerry. “What time did she leave?”
“Early. I get up around seven and she’d gone by then. Last time I saw her was Thursday night. She took a call in the television room…we’ve only the one phone. She popped her head round here, said goodnight and that was the last I saw of her.” John shook his head, shedding more skin. “Next thing, the police call on Friday night to tell me she’s dead, heart attack.” He sighed heavily, his lungs whistling. “They came again on Saturday to pick up her things. Said they’d pass them on to her next of kin. I asked about the funeral arrangements and they said they’d let me know. I don’t suppose she had many friends. Nobody ever seemed to pop by and see her and she never went out much. Surprising, a woman like her.”
Steven ran it through his head, then ran it through again. He had learned a little more at each stage and was edging, step-by-step, closer to the truth. In his heart he knew his progress was too slow. He was running out of time. He knew the identity of one of the three victims – Corporal Eleanor Gusso, a former SAS commando. He knew she had been to London on Friday, assuming she had told John the truth, and he guessed it was something to do with the medal, perhaps an official presentation, maybe even by Elton, or a senior
minister. He knew that the car carrying Eleanor and one other passenger had crashed on its return to Cardiff and that someone, perhaps the police or, more likely, the military or British Eurostate Defence Department, had tried to conceal the fact. What he did not know was why. What was the big secret? Abamae? He felt sure that was the key. But how could he find out?
“How long had she lived here?” he asked, aware of the silence. He could check the city’s charity shops, one by one. Perhaps she was more talkative to her work colleagues.
“Six months, roughly. Maybe seven.” It would take a whole day to track down the right shop. There must be dozens spread across Cardiff. Perhaps one of the other lodgers knew her better. John was, after all, a little on the creepy side. “I could check if it’s important.”
“No, that doesn’t matter. Do you know where she lived before?” It was a long shot and could be equally frustrating.
“I think she lived at a pub, somewhere in Canton. The something Arms…” Heggie, of course. The connection, they were both in the SAS. Was Heggie involved in Abamae too? If so, why wasn’t he in the car? Heggie had suffered a stroke.
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