Pinpoint

by Sheila Mary Taylor

  The nurses sending her home at three in the morning. The phone ringing minutes later to say he’s had a massive haemorrhage and will not last the night. Rushing back to the hospital, the baby in the carry cot, tearing through the rain-drenched streets at ninety miles an hour, blinded by tears, screeching at the top of her voice No No No until she almost collapses at the wheel ─

  Julia pushed the memory from her mind. Now was what mattered. The present, not the past. The money Smith was demanding was probably more than the bank would lend her, but she had to try. If that failed she’d be forced to ask Ben to help since he was the only other trustee.

  But after Friday night she was hardly in a position to ask Ben for any personal favours. From now on their partnership would continue on a strictly business basis. Besides, there’d be too many questions and she couldn’t risk getting trapped into telling him why she needed the money.

  For a moment she stood outside Nicky’s room, her teeth tightly clenched. She would have to work out which was the greater risk: not paying the money and risking an attack on Nicky, with the added risk of life-shattering, career-ending media headlines . . . or confiding in Ben. Getting the money, but running the risk of him telling the police she was being blackmailed. Which would amount to the same thing.

  It was ludicrous to even ask herself the question.

  She could do neither.

  But somehow she had to get the money.

  Tip-toeing into Nicky’s room, her eyes lingered on her daughter. She would die if anything happened to her. The thick lined curtains were closed and although the night light was still on she could see no sign of Duchess. Gingerly she lifted the sheet, and there she was a snowy white bundle moulded in the space between Nicky’s chest and arm.

  The puppy had been a stroke of genius. Nicky had adored Duke but his muddy paws and slobbering jowls had not exactly fed the child’s need for make-believe motherhood and cuddly companionship. Whereas already Duchess was filling the roles of playmate, baby doll, sister and anything else for which Nicky felt a burning hunger, and had miraculously dulled the pain of losing Duke.

  The abandoned tutu and the pink ballet shoes lay on the chair next to the bed. The Swan Lake CD was on the pillow. She touched her daughter’s cheek, then gently prised the warm, floppy puppy from its nest. For a moment she held it close, breathing in its puppy smell. She closed her eyes as she stroked its fluffy coat. No wonder Nicky loved it.

  She carried it to the basket in the kitchen and covered it up. Then she changed her mind. She picked it up again, pulled out a chair and sat down at the old oak table with the puppy on her lap. With Nicky in bed so early, the house seemed outlandishly large. In the window she could see its silence and its loneliness stretching down a long bare tunnel to nowhere. She cradled the puppy in both her hands. She was desperate to tell someone, to share her ordeal with some other human being. Maybe if I do, she thought, it would help to sort it out, help me to decide what to do.

  But there was no one she could tell.

  Before going to bed she thought she really should return Paul’s phone calls. But Paul was the most perceptive man she knew and might detect in her voice guilty traces of this afternoon’s escapade. He would ask where she’d been and why. Better to wait till tomorrow. By tomorrow she will at least have become more used to the ghoulishness of having roamed around Moss Side on her own looking for ammunition, and would be better able to tell the necessary lie.

  Gently she lowered the puppy into Duke’s basket, then dragged herself upstairs. Half an hour after getting into bed she sat up with a start, her book across her chest, the bedside light still on. She could hear Nicky’s voice but not what she was saying, and there was another sound.

  A scraping scratching sound. Something being scraped against metal.

  She got out of bed and stood at the window. A cool breeze sent a shiver down her back. What does an old Volvo sound like in the middle of the night, she wondered. Would I recognise it in this eerie yellow light, or would it look like all the other cars that pass this way?

  She ran to Nicky’s room. The light from the passage threw a beam across the bed.

  ‘I’m cold, Mummy,’ Nicky said when she saw Julia. ‘Where’s Duchess?’

  The scraping noise was louder here.

  ‘She’s tucked up in her basket, darling.’

  She walked to the window. She pulled the curtain back and held her breath as she scanned the garden. The breeze rustled the trees. And then she saw it, an overhanging branch scraping the metal gutter.

  She hurried to Nicky’s bedside as though someone was right behind her. On a sudden impulse she pulled back the bedclothes and slipped in beside her daughter. ‘Go back to sleep, my love. You’ll see Duchess in the morning.’

  ‘I wish you would always sleep with me, Mummy.’

  It’s strange having another human being so close to me, Julia thought as memories of long ago snaked into her consciousness.

  My brother’s arms. His warmth. His voice soft and soothing. The accusations. The separate rooms. The cold and the crying. And then the creaking floor, the chink of light, the sickly smell of chocolates, switching on the lamp, the weight on the bed . . . the hands . . .

  A little whimpering sound jolted her from the jagged memories. Nicky was crying. ‘What is it, my darling?’

  ‘I want Duke, Mummy.’

  Slowly, inch by inch, she placed her arm around her daughter. She snuggled closer. Soon the crying stopped. Why have I never done this before, she wondered, letting the warmth flow between them, listening to the slow, even breathing.

  And to the scraping noise outside.

  Would Smith try breaking in a second time? Could he pull it off again with the house across the road bulging with armed police, their instruments of detection beamed on every corner of this house?

  Goose pimples stole across her arms and without rationalising her thoughts she made up her mind.

  She kissed Nicky’s forehead, then crept out of bed.

  She peered at her watch.

  Ten o’clock.

  The timing was perfect.

  Half an hour to get Wendy installed over here.

  Half an hour to drive to Moss Side. And meet Charlie at Sweet Cherry.

  - 30 -

  Julia drove slowly down the dimly lit street, her eyes flicking left to right, watching for anything suspicious. Lights flashed behind her and the next moment a black Audi came alongside her and hooted. Hardly breathing, she pulled into the curb.

  ‘Think you own the joint, eh?’ the driver yelled, then moved on with a look that epitomised the futility of mindless road rage, but nevertheless sent Julia’s pulse racing.

  Sweet Cherry was in the basement of an old Victorian house set back from the road about fifty yards away. That much she knew. It would be sensible to walk from here rather than leave her car in full view of patrons who might be anyone from clients to police. She got out and locked the car.

  Walking past a graffiti-covered house, its walls flush with the pavement, she heard a woman scream. She looked up at the chinks of light in the boarded-up building. There was absolutely nothing she could do to help. She walked on, feeling the agony of abandoning someone in need.

  The twisted blackened wreck of a burnt-out car lay half across the pavement. Fumes of smouldering rubber stung her nostrils. A group of Rastas with long matted hair and bubble hats stood laughing and gloating and puffing at their cigarettes. As she walked past the wreck, their eyes glinted like chips of black ice.

  She quickened her pace. A minute later she was outside Sweet Cherry.

  As she stepped through the door, Paul’s words flashed into her mind. ‘When I was an inspector I often had to go into shady third-rate clubs,’ he’d told her once, ‘and they’d say, Hello boss. Wanna a piece o’ chicken? But I tell you what, you had to watch yourself or you’d get a knife in your back. I’ve been in there and my hair has curled up at the ends.’ All right for you, Paul Moxon, Julia thought. You’re six
foot tall and rippling with muscle, trained for the job.

  Cautiously she ventured down the dark, uncarpeted stairs. A smell of mould and rot took her breath away. A group of leather jackets leaned on the crumbling banisters. Three or four wolf whistles pierced her ears.

  ‘Show us ya legs, lady. Right ta the top.’

  She pressed her shoulder blades together and carried on.

  Beyond the door the beat of Reggae throbbed. She lifted her chin and walked in. She had to look as though she was used to doing this.

  She made her way across the threadbare carpet embedded with years of food and drink and heaven knows what else. It felt as though her shoes had Bluetack on the soles.

  Here the smell was worse. Stale beer. Bodies. Tobacco. And the heavy unmistakable aroma of cannabis.

  Everyone in the room stopped talking. She looked around. No Charlie Kuma. She glanced at her watch. Five to eleven. There was one empty table near the bar.

  The barman’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. Whispering something to two women slouched over the bar counter, he slowly took the cigarette from his lips.

  ‘What’ll ya have?’

  Gingerly she sat down. The chairs were filthy too. ‘I’m waiting for a friend,’

  ‘Chicken patty? Pasty?’

  ‘No thanks,’ she said. They only sold food to get a licence to stay open late. It could be a week old for all she knew.

  She peered around the room. Two bare light bulbs hung at each end on greasy strands of flex, lighting up the peeling walls stained yellow with nicotine.

  At the next table a short, thickset man sat drinking beer from a can, tapping his foot in time to the music. He moved his chair closer to hers. Flicking his ash on the floor his eyes moved slowly down her body.

  ‘Not seen you in here before.’

  She crossed her legs. These were the people of the night, a different breed of people, the dregs of the community. They would stay here till daybreak. Take whatever they could. Whenever they could. However they could.

  She edged her chair away. ‘It’s my first time,’ she said, looking pointedly at her watch. Charlie’s wife had not really known he would be here. She’d give him another five minutes, and then she’d go.

  ‘Stood you up, has he?’

  Julia shook her head, but said nothing. She turned her back to the man and faced the bar.

  The two women pointed at her and laughed, their hips swinging to the beat of the music. The taller one stepped towards her, put one hand on her hip and cocked her head sideways. ‘What business you got here?’

  Everyone was staring at her now. One man stood up and pushed through the tables towards her. His fingers curled around a thick gold chain hanging over his embossed satin jacket. ‘Looking for somethin’?’

  Julia looked at her watch again. ‘I’m waiting for a friend.’

  ‘Oh, yeah.’ Gold Chain took another step towards her. Someone turned down the music. ‘What you doin’ in here?’ he said.

  The man at the next table moved closer too. ‘You heard him. Why you here?’

  And then she saw him, walking to the bar with that mop of wild, woolly hair.

  ‘Charlie.’

  He swung round. ‘Julia! Hey man, it is you. What you doing here?’

  Gold Chain quickly slunk away.

  She gulped with relief, hardly able to speak because of the fear in her throat. ‘Looking for you, of course.’

  ‘I ain’t done nothin’.’

  ‘I know.’ She liked to think the hours she’d spent counselling him had something to do with that, though she wasn’t naive enough to think he’d never go down the same road again. She flashed him what she thought would look like a smile of approval. ‘I just want to talk to you.’ He pulled out a chair and sat down next to her.

  ‘How d’ya know where to find me?’

  ‘I went to your house. Your wife said you’d be here.’

  ‘She’s not my wife no more. Them kids ain’t even mine.’

  ‘I’m here to ask a favour.’

  He looked at her with screwed-up eyes and lips flattened in a line. ‘You in some trouble then?’

  ‘Yes. But I’m hoping you can help me.’

  ‘Tables turned, eh, Julia?’ His eyes burned with curiosity. ‘I’ll help you. If I can.’

  Charlie was one of those criminals she suspected only did what he was doing because he knew no other way to make a living. Not a breath of viciousness in him. A bit like Joe Sagoe. A rogue. A criminal, yes. But in a strange way, charming with it.

  ‘Can we go somewhere private?’ she asked. ‘Everyone’s looking at me.’

  ‘No wonder, Julia. You stand out. You’re different. Your skin, your hair, your clothes.’ He looked approvingly at her cream jeans and sweatshirt. ‘And they’re curious, this lot. They wanna know why you’re here.’ He lifted his eyebrows. ‘But don’t let ‘em bother you. They won’t do nothin’. How can I help?’

  Just then someone turned the music up. Just as well, considering what she was about to ask him.

  She leaned towards him. ‘I need ammunition.’

  He sucked his lower lip. His eyes flicked away from her, then flicked back again, and in that moment she saw a ray of hope.

  ‘D’you know where I can get some?’

  He stared vacantly across the room.

  ‘You must know, Charlie. All your friends have guns.’ And so did he, she was sure.

  His eyes darted back to her, then down to the floor. Staccato movements, following the beat of the music.

  ‘Charlie? Please. I’m not going to kill anyone, I promise, but I need to have it.’

  His jaw moved sideways as he ground his teeth together. She saw the shifty look she’d seen before in scores of criminals’ eyes. I’m mad to throw myself on his mercy, she told herself.

  And then she thought of Sam Smith. He would stop at nothing to get what he wanted.

  ‘Charlie? Where can I get some slugs?’

  ‘I dunno,’ he muttered, still looking at the floor.

  ‘Please,’ she said, watching every flicker of his eyelids. ‘I’m not trying to catch you out. Honest. You know you can trust me.’

  He shook his head. ‘Sorry, Julia.’

  ‘Someone is threatening my child, Charlie. I need it, just to scare him off.’

  He shrugged, and she wondered if he’d guessed who it was that needed scaring off.

  ‘Look, Charlie. I’ve helped you in the past and I’ll help you again.’ She could hear the desperation mounting in her voice and vowed to stay calm.

  He shook his head again.

  She breathed out and closed her eyes. What now? Just get up and walk out? Come on, you can do better than that. ‘Then just tell me who else I can ask,’ she said, hoping this would make him weaken.

  He glanced at her, looked down again.

  Oh God. He really isn’t going to help me . . .

  Then slowly he looked up. His chin sank onto his chest, and in that split second she knew she’d won him over.

  She moved her chair closer. If I have to, I’ll go down on my knees rather than lose him now. ‘Please, Charlie, it’s terribly important.’

  He put his head in his hands, baring his teeth. He’d always done that when he was struggling for the right words. Julia waited, not moving, listening to the drum beats inside her chest. Charlie glanced up at the ceiling and then raked his thick square hands through his hair.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll try. What’s the gun?’

  Quickly she opened her handbag. After one look he nodded. From her jeans pocket she took a bundle of tightly folded notes and pressed them into his hand. ‘I’d rather nobody else knew about this,’ she said.

  ‘No worries, Julia.’

  She looked at him and smiled. She put her hand in her pocket again, raised her eyebrows and kept her hand there until she was sure he’d seen the gesture.

  ‘Can’t promise,’ he said. ‘But be here same time tomorrow night. Okay?’

  M
onday was always a bad day and this week it would be extra bad, especially with the Longdale murder trial starting on Tuesday morning and so much preparation still to do. She thought of Nicky. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow night.’

  She took a tissue from her pocket. Charlie frowned. His hands reached out towards her and then quickly he withdrew them. That’s incredible, she thought, seeing Charlie’s eyes misting over. I do believe he would like to comfort me, if only he knew how.

  ‘Look, Julia. You done good for me. You want some sod killed, you tell me, okay?’

  ‘I don’t want anyone killed. And I would never get you involved.’ She smiled. ‘But thanks all the same.’

  ‘For Chrissake. I bet you don’t even know how to use that fucking gun.’

  ‘I told you, I don’t want to kill anyone. Just scare them off. But ─ ’ She clutched at the loose material of her sweatshirt. ‘Could you show me how to use it?’

  He stood up and walked her to the door. ‘I’ll show you tomorrow night,’ he said.

  Outside in the street Julia tilted her head backwards, letting the rain run down her face, letting it soak her hair and her clothes and mix with her tears.

  MONDAY

  - 31 -

  Leaving the Mini idling, Wendy leapt out and opened the gates to Hillside House, wincing as the metal scraped against the round polished cobbles. In the last few days ordinary sounds like this had made the nausea even worse, especially this early in the morning.

  As she ran up the front steps, Julia was at the door to greet her. ‘Would you mind closing the gates please, Wendy. I’ve got the kettle on.’

  That meant ─ I want to talk to you, Wendy thought as she hurried down the drive to do as she’d been asked. Something must be wrong. Usually Julia was happy to have the gates left open to drive her swish red Merc out once Wendy had arrived. And tea with Julia this early meant serious business. She wondered what she had done wrong. She felt part of this family, always had, right from when her mother had been housekeeper to old Mrs Grant. She couldn’t imagine being dismissed. Maybe Julia had just received the phone bill and seen the huge number of calls to Alan. She couldn’t know how much trouble she was having with him and that keeping in touch by phone was vital, especially when she was as desperate as she was now. It was time she bought a mobile phone but they were so expensive and she was saving all her spare money for the furniture, once Alan agreed to a house. If he ever did.