Pinpoint

by Sheila Mary Taylor

  He still didn’t turn, but shook his head slowly. ‘Good friends, but second best to Paul bloody Moxon.’

  Julia snatched her hand away, sympathy turning to anger. ‘Just exactly what the hell is that supposed to mean?’ she demanded.

  ‘I’ve seen the signs,’ he said, his voice strangely flat. 'I know you. Taking one copper with another, you wouldn’t trust them as a breed, and you’re even convinced they live by a code in which cops can do no wrong and everyone else is dog shit unless proven otherwise. But not Paul bloody Moxon. Drinks at the Addy, presents for Nicky, and I wonder what bloody else.’

  Julia turned and stormed into the kitchen. ‘Night-night, Ben. Time for home.’ She burst through the door and into the spacious hallway, snatched Ben’s keys from the Regency table and rattled them vigorously. ‘What you don’t know about you shouldn’t cross examine. You told me that. And you know nothing.’

  Ben followed her into the hallway and grabbed the keys from her outstretched hand.

  ‘On Monday,’ she said, her upper lip trembling, ‘we will be business partners running a busy criminal firm and we will treat each other as though none of this happened.’ She opened the front door for Ben. He paused and turned to her and his mouth twitched as if he was struggling to form a sentence worth saying. Then he stepped out into the night.

  She slammed the door and leaned her back against it, as if to prevent any attempt by Ben to change her mind. Her skin prickled as she imagined him grabbing her from behind, overpowering her with soft sickly kisses and words that made her cringe, knowing it was ridiculous and that Ben would never harm her, but feeling it already . . .

  his weight, his hairy hands, his rough skin rasping, his tobacco breath . . . it’s our secret, Julia . . . don’t tell anyone . . . the chocolate’s are just for you . . .

  She closed her eyes tightly until she heard Ben’s BMW roar down the driveway.

  At last she opened her eyes, shivering and hugging her arms as the loneliness crept over her.

  ‘Paul. Oh, Paul,’ she said, not knowing from whence the words had come.

  SATURDAY

  - 18 -

  Sam Smith squinted at the luminous dial of his watch.

  ‘Jeez,’ he mouthed silently. ‘Five past bloody twelve. Saturday! My first full day of freedom.’

  He looked up the steep slope towards the house. He had a clear view of the vast back garden, more like a fucking park than a garden. Crouched behind the fence, limbs stiff, every sense alert, he had waited hours for the right moment to make his move. Earlier he had heard the occasional chatter, seen the outside lights and the faint flicker of flames, smelled the wood smoke. Later a door had slammed and a car had sped down the long curved driveway.

  It was the smell of wood smoke and the towering beech trees that reminded him of the caravan, evoking a vivid memory of Ada. He felt as though a bright, intrusive image of her had imprinted itself on his retinas, obscuring his night vision. He blinked repeatedly to erase her mocking face.

  Good thing he had cased the joint before darkness fell. The unmarked police car may as well have been in full livery, blue light flashing. Unmistakable, parked on the road like a sore thumb. No way could he have left his heap anywhere on that street, but hopefully it would still be sitting in the King William car park. If not he could ditch it for something faster and not such a sickly colour. Nobody had even glanced at him as he’d walked from the pub, past the church where the road bends towards the river, then into the park where he instantly became just another person taking in the fresh air. He had guessed he might have to wait until after midnight, and what better place than in the shadows of the park.

  The dog could be a problem, but nothing he couldn’t handle. If he hadn’t seen it running with Julia Grant and her daughter along the lane behind the houses, his final plan for getting into the house would have been quite different. Not even Joe Sagoe had suggested it. Or warned him about the dog.

  He peered through the gap. His eyes had grown accustomed to the dark and everything stood out clearly. He had seen at least two ─ maybe three or four ─ silhouetted figures steal backwards and forwards past the front gate. He’d be stupid not to realise they’d be here. He could kick himself now for his flare-up in the court. The words had just come out, but what the hell. What’s done is done. And it might even help to make her scared enough to comply with his demands.

  Slowly he scanned the full width of the garden.

  Now. Time to move.

  Just as he clambered up the high spiked fence the moon appeared above the clouds. Damn. The filth had better not see him perched up here like a bloody performing monkey. With a quick look around he jumped, landing in a pile of leaves behind a beech tree. He felt a stab of pain. Fuck. Trouser leg torn. He licked his finger and pressed it against the gash on his shin. At this rate the clothes Joe had brought him would soon be in rags. Have to be more careful.

  He lay still, waiting to see if he had attracted any unwanted attention. After a minute he stood up, flattening himself against a tree trunk as a sudden breeze brought another blast of wood-smoke to his nostrils. Inching his way across the large garden from one tall beech tree to another, he tried hard not to breathe in any more of the smoke drifting across the lawn, but he was too late. Without warning his head reeled. His body swayed. A flock of flashing dots floated across the sky towards him. And over the whine of the wind came Ada’s piercing voice.

  ‘You get your fucking arse back up here or I’ll tan the hide off of you,’ she yells.

  And then she is dragging him by one arm back to the caravan, stabbing her lighted cigarette into every part of his flesh she can reach.

  Stifling his cries of pain he scrambles to his feet and flings his arms around her leg. She yanks him up. Burying his face in her scrawny body, he clings to her, fighting the panic, smelling the cheap brandy, hiding his burnt and tear-streaked face in her long greasy blonde hair. Slowly he takes the cord out of his pocket. He coils it round her neck, pulling tighter and tighter until her frail body slumps to the ground. He looks down at her, smiles, then slides the knife from his pocket . . .

  He blinked as the last of the downstairs lights went off. A moment later a light went on upstairs. His limbs ached. It could be a long wait. But it would be worth it.

  He tensed at the faint sound of distant conversation and the steady clip of metal heeled boots coming from the ornate gates at the end of the long driveway. Amateur pillocks, he thought, and smiled to himself. No matter how well they staked out this goddam place they could not be everywhere at the same time. And it wouldn’t be long before they got bored, tired and cold. They would go back to their car for a sly snooze before they went for another stroll and a fag.

  From his jacket pocket he took out the cutting from the Manchester Evening News Joe had given him. He could just make out the outline of his bearded face. He smiled. VERDICT TODAY the front-page headline said. He folded it and put it carefully in his pocket. ‘I’ll show these bastards,’ he hissed under his breath.

  You think you’re so clever, Julia fucking Grant. But I’ll show you I can do anything I want. Get anything I want. Just like you. You think you’re secure, but you’re not. And tonight is just the start.

  He patted the cold hard bulge under his jacket. Felt the knife in his pocket. Fished for his gloves. Good old Joe.

  There was no sign of the dog.

  The moon went behind the clouds.

  He didn’t mind the waiting.

  The light upstairs went off.

  - 19 -

  Julia hated it when something disturbed the dream.

  Never before had it seemed so real. ‘Julia. This way,’ he called, over and over again. If only she could keep the dream alive, just long enough to see his face, but Duke’s insistent barking penetrated too deeply.

  She kept her eyes tightly closed. She was determined to hang on for one more fleeting second.

  I see the jagged rocks, the steep path winding up the mountain, his b
are back, the pale skin glistening with patches of blood. Then the mountain spinning, the mist clearing, my hands clawing, slipping, my own voice yelling Wait. Wait! and his faint answer, I’ll look after you, Julia. You can’t stay here. Hurry . . . Come with me . . .

  I could try again in tomorrow night’s dream, she thought. Keep on trying forever, until I find him. Until I see his face. Will it be anything like mine, she wondered. Sometimes, if I stare at myself in the mirror, I can squeeze a kind of double image on the side of my face so that for one ephemeral, tantalising moment he is next to me.

  She sat up with a start as reality took hold. Duke only barked like that for two reasons: if he heard an unfamiliar sound, or he badly needed to go out.

  Through half opened eyes she switched on her bedside lamp and peered at her watch.

  ‘Five past two. Oh, Duke . . .’

  She shuffled into the passage. She hoped Duke’s barking hadn’t wakened Nicky. She was tempted to peep into her room but if she didn’t let Duke out soon the kitchen floor would be a disaster.

  Halfway down the thickly carpeted stairs she felt a draught on her neck and up her legs. She hugged herself. She should have put on her dressing gown and slippers, but never mind, she could let Duke out and would be back in bed in no time.

  The draught again. It puzzled her. She glanced over her shoulder but couldn’t work out where it was coming from. It was also strange that Duke would want to go out now, having had the run of the garden until just after Ben had left. Perhaps the wind had rattled something in the kitchen courtyard. Or against her wishes one of the police on patrol had come into the garden.

  She squared her shoulders and hurried across the hall. The moment she opened the kitchen door Duke stopped barking. She snapped on the light and there he was with his nose glued to the outside door.

  ‘Oh, you poor darling. You must be desperate.’

  He shoved his wet brown nose against her hand and wagged his tail, banging it against the door as she turned the key.

  ‘Shh. You’ll wake Nicky. Now you be a good boy and come back quickly.’

  He flew past Julia and disappeared into the darkness of the night. Perhaps he heard something after all, she thought. An owl. A cat. The wind in the trees. Or the police officers out on the road, waiting in vain for Sam Smith to appear.

  She wandered over to the polished oak table in the centre of the kitchen. In the wide curtainless window her reflection moved towards her. Wendy had left this week’s Woman’s Weekly on the table. As she flipped through it, she became aware again of her movements in the window.

  She looked up. There was the Aga behind her. There were the rows of oak fittings where Natalie’s gleaming white china was still displayed. The whole kitchen was mirrored in the window, completely blotting out her view of the garden.

  Yet if anyone were out there they would see me quite clearly, she thought. And suddenly she felt insecure.

  She walked towards the window. Her image walked to meet her. She glanced behind her, then spun her head back to the mirror image.

  Idiot. Everything is perfectly normal. What on earth did you expect?

  She wished Duke would hurry up. Maybe he did hear something. Maybe it was . . .

  Sam Smith?

  No. Impossible. There’s no way he’d get past the police. And he wouldn’t be such a fool to try. And even if he did, would he really want to harm her? Those threatening words were merely words of anger and frustration . . . Help me, Julia, you’re the only person I can trust, he had once told her . . .

  She opened the door and peered into the darkness. Get a hold on yourself, Julia. See? There’s no one out there. No sign of Duke either, though.

  And apart from the rustle of the wind in the trees and the faint gurgle of the river, there wasn’t a sound to be heard.

  ‘Duke,’ she called lightly. ‘Du-uke.’ If she called any louder she might wake Nicky.

  She looked up at the dark clouds that had been building up all evening, just in time to see the moon cruise from behind them, silvering the garden as it maintained a steady course across a choppy sky. She shivered as the breeze ruffled her hair and lifted the hem of her nightgown.

  ‘Du-uke . . .’

  To get a better view she stepped down onto the paving stones. The moon flicked in and out of the clouds, casting on the walls giant shadows that were there one moment and gone the next. She hugged her arms to fend off the chilly night breeze, feeling self conscious, as though there were a hundred pairs of prying eyes out there. This is crazy, she thought. I could be standing out here all night waiting for Duke.

  She looked down at her flimsy attire. She whipped her head around. There was no one there, of course. But what if there had been? There wasn’t even a garden broom she could use to defend herself.

  Once more the moon rushed behind the clouds, plunging the garden into darkness. A gust of wind. A sudden bang. The door.

  She leapt up the step and yanked it open and threw herself inside, her flimsy night-gown billowing behind her.

  She stood at the table, breathing deeply as she flipped over the pages of the Woman’s Weekly. ‘Where the hell are you, Duke?’

  On page twelve she saw a recipe for a cherry cake. Four easy steps. Paul loved cherry cake. If she got up early enough she could make it tomorrow.

  Idiot. You can’t cook.

  She flung the magazine down, went close up to the window and peered out.

  ‘That’s it, boy. You can damn well stay out. I’m going back to bed.’

  - 20 -

  Apart from one slight mistake, Sam Smith was pleased with his night’s work, but it wouldn’t do to hang around a second longer than necessary. Crouching behind the garage, he waited until he was certain that all was quiet before making his getaway.

  After one final look, he crept back down to the bottom of the garden, stopped at the fence, waited again, listened, scrambled over and landed softly in the tree-lined lane. Chuckling quietly to himself he sauntered to his car at the King William.

  The streets of Wilmslow were mercifully quiet. So was the road past Styal Prison and the airport. And even the roads to Joe Sagoe’s house in Moss Side were all but deserted, so quiet that any patrol car would take notice of just about anything moving and he was glad of his new cloned number plates.

  Wherever he could he used minor roads and eventually reached the rows of grim, two-up-two-down houses off Claremont Road. He stopped three streets away from Joe’s road, where the houses were derelict, windows and doors gaped darkly, plastic bags flapped and abandoned beds, broken chairs and every other kind of litter lay strewn on the narrow pavements.

  He glanced at his watch. Ten past three. Shit. Right now he should be celebrating, not farting around Moss Side. But he knew what his priorities were. He’d already taken care of number one. Now it was time to see Joe for the vital things he’d realised he still needed.

  He sat for a moment longer and looked all around him. He must be crazy going there at all. In spite of the nylon stocking over Joe’s head, eyewitnesses would have described his friend’s enormous size. The filth might have put two and two together. Might at this very moment be watching the house.

  Normally he wouldn’t risk it. He didn’t want to show his face to an increasing number of people; it would only be a matter of time before some smartarse phoned Crimestoppers. But Sagoe had things he needed ─ more clothes, money, extra ammo in case things got really hot. All essential for his plans.

  He closed the car door softly. Turned up the collar of his jacket and put his hands in his pockets. His fingers curled around the cold metal of the gun.

  With his eyes skinned he began walking towards Joe’s house. Jeez, the whole of Moss Side must be able to hear him. He tried walking softly, putting his toes down before his heels. Just as he reached the bollards at the end of Joe’s road, a bicycle shot past into the overgrown back alley to his left, almost knocking him over. His fingers tightened on the gun.

  ‘Hey, watch it, y
ou scum,’ he rasped, then almost bit off his tongue because the last thing he wanted was to draw attention to himself. But the drug-crazed lad on the bike didn’t even look back. He shook his head. You never knew what you’d find around the next corner in this shit hole. A man must be ready for anything.

  His foot hit an empty beer tin, sending it clattering down the road. Christ. What the fuck was he doing here when all the filth in Manchester would be out looking for him tonight? He should get out now, while the going was good ─

  Money. Fags. Clothes. Slugs . . .

  He scanned the row of terraced houses. Joe’s peacock-blue door and window frames were more than enough to distinguish his house from all the others, even without the skull and crossbones painted in black. And there it was. Holy mother of Jesus. Plain as daylight, even from this distance. A dim light shone through the curtains. But this didn’t mean Joe was home.

  He looked over his shoulder. He was a sitting duck if the house was under surveillance. Julia Grant’s place was, so this might be too. He stopped. Not a soul in sight, but he’d soon attract attention if he tried to get in at the front door and found it was locked.

  He wondered again whether he should be risking it at all. But the coast looked clear. If the cops were down here he was sure he would know. There would be dogs barking, curtains twitching. Surely there’d be at least one idiot prepared to risk arrest by shouting a warning as he approached.

  But there was nothing.

  Flattening himself against a wall some fifty yards from the house, on the opposite side of the road, he waited. He wasn’t going to blunder in. Must be quite sure no one was about. No suspicious vehicles. No movement of any kind. No Dibble. He wasn’t called Smart Sam for nothing.

  And then, from nowhere, the thought of Joe’s West African stew simmering on the Primus filled his mouth with saliva. Until now the surge of adrenaline had kept hunger at bay. He hadn’t eaten for more than twenty-four hours and suddenly he couldn’t wait another minute.