by Toni Parks
“OK, two: you do think it’s your baby, don’t you? And three, we’ll be OK for money to buy somewhere else as I’ve got, well Jess and I have got lots of it. In fact so much that I never spend it, what with spending yours instead.”
“Yes, that was actually my other point, well two now you’re mentioned the baby,” he said caressing her tummy lovingly. “One again, I know this baby’s mine because you’ve said before that you’ve always been careful with punters and the timing’s right. And two again, that was another point, I’ve enquired about a disability payoff and my pension. So I’ll know in a few days what that’s worth and also when they’re going to hold my presentation.”
“Well, Tel. It’s all coming good for us, isn’t it? But I can’t help thinking about poor Jess, stuck there all alone with no one to look out for her, no one to care about her and we’re sipping coffee like two lovebirds. You know she told me not to see you again, don’t you?”
“Well I’ve a good idea why, haven’t you? But in a funny way I think she’s a decent person really. Fit as a butcher’s dog too, if you don’t mind me saying. But there are only so many women I can allow into my inner circle at any one time …,” by now he had cupped his hand to her ear and was whispering, and she had no idea what was still to come, “… that have tried to kill me. And you know now, I don’t kill easy.” She roared with laughter, knocking his hand away and play-punched him on the shoulder.
“Is that always going to be our claim to fame?”
“Well, to infamy, yes it is. But in a good way.” Now it was his turn to laugh, but at the end of it he got serious. “Oh, bloody hell, I nearly forgot. It’s with you mentioning Jess, I should start writing things down, or get one of those organizer things or maybe an App for my phone.”
“Get on with it! What about Jess?”
“Well, I saw ‘bull in a china shop’ Blister, yesterday. Well he saw me really and good thing too. He could hardly remember your name and he’s there talking about me getting better.”
“Terry!”
“Sorry. Yes, he said that he’s going to call in at your flat, well Jessica’s flat, at the moment. He’s going to collect all her running gear because he thinks that she may have had to move about quickly when doing her alleged murders and, what better mode of transport than her feet. I don’t know myself, can you remember what she was wearing?”
“Black.” “Black.”
“Ski mask.” “Ski mask.”
They both could remember and they both blurted it out at the same time. “Well he didn’t say he was looking for a ski mask, so you better find up all her stuff and give it a good washing, if Jessica’s not already done so. Knowing her methodical brain, I’m sure she’ll have beaten everyone to it.”
“Well, she might and she might not. She’d just come back from a run, when they came for her originally. I’ve since washed that lot anyway as it was already in the laundry basket. So you’re probably right about the other stuff. If he calls I’ll dig it out and put it in a polythene bag, don’t think they’ll find anything incriminating after it’s had the No. 9 programme wash and spin treatment, do you?”
“No, but forewarned is forearmed.”
With that, their mood lightened and they left the coffee shop hand in hand, purposefully heading for the shops until Terry came up with a start. Emma looked concerned as if to say, ‘now what?’ as he said instead, “Another job to do,” and marched her into The Bank Hotel. Here, a vaguely familiar face met him; but the familiarity was not accorded. Although the name badge ‘Peter Phelps’ did ring a bell.
“Mm, mm,” he started. “My girlfriend and I, correction my fiancée and I stayed here overnight some weeks ago. Maybe just before Easter Sunday? Well I say overnight, that’s a bit of a misnomer, as we never actually slept here. The reason I’m telling you this is that as well as that strange happenstance, we also left without paying. There was an accident, you see and well, it’s a long story. Could you just check your computer and see if it shows up as a problem, or whatever it would show up as …,” he said before petering out. “Just before Easter you say?” as he ran his finger down the screen denoting that particular period. “No, I don’t seem to have anything. Oh, just a mo. Yes, here it is. Two evening meals, coffee, a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, and a bed for the night. And you’re quite correct, according to the room staff, it was not slept in.”
“Yes, that will be it. Like I said there was an accident. How much?”
“£127.00 please, Sir. And may I say I wish all our customers were as honest.”
“Well it’s not everyday one proposes, so I’m tying up loose ends at the same time. But I’ll bet most of your honest customers are more prompt!” as he handed over his debit card. “Yes, Sir. You’re probably right there. And let me say we do have a honeymoon suite, should you wish to consider us, for the happy day?”
“I’ll give it some thought, although I’ve mixed impressions of my stay or non-stay, what with the accident!” With that he pocketed his card, thanked the desk clerk and walked out arm-in-arm with his nemesis of a future wife; leaving Mr Phelps with a puzzled look as he was trying to place all his ducks in a row; but too late, two ducks had flown. Retail therapy was just what she needed and as neither knew the sex of the baby, both colours were bought to cover all bases. The fact there was a proposal in the air made it a happy day, although the dichotomy of having to nearly kill Terry to catch him, was nearly killing her too. But nothing had ever been easy in her life; so no change there then.
After a couple of hours, they returned to his bed-sit, which even in that short space of time seemed to have turned into a particularly small square footage of space. Emma accepted his offer of a cup of tea but turned down the offer of looking at his etchings. “We’re both tired Terry, and we’ve both got a lot to think about and I need to get home and spread out,” she gestured as she tried to span the width of his living area with her outstretched arms. “Awe, don’t look so glum. I’ll come back soon. But I can’t have my husband-to-be playing with all his toys at once, he might quickly get bored.” Terry understood and believe it or not he was tired too. ‘A night in with the Premiership won’t do me any harm,’ he thought. It beat Emma’s anticipated visit from DC Blister, anyway.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN Two days followed, where nothing much ensued. Duvet days, where our characters should have been resting but where, in fact, requests were still being made and snippets of information leaked out, thus taking us forever onward.
DC Blister called annoyingly on Emma and was begrudgingly given Jessica’s running clothes, neatly folded in a clear polythene bag and all snugly fitting into Jessica’s usual sports holdall. Jessica herself, was taken back down to Nottinghamshire to spend her awaiting months at Rampton Secure Hospital, as extra evidence was sought to stack up against her. Eduardo, locked heads with his compatriots, looking at new opportunities to spring Jessica from her plight. DI Barbour, not appreciating that new murders were rather Spartan at the moment, still fretted over unsolved ones as bodies were continually being pulled from the recently collapsed building. Alonzo Lucisano came home to an empty home and mill complex, where he now sat staring at the unfriendly, cold marble walls of his ostentatious office. Calum McLaughlin took the two days off to relax as his work was done. Seth Macleod set too with teaching his new apprentice the rudiments of his craft, whilst allowing his son, Joe to go for a bike ride in ‘company time’. Elspeth Macleod, cleared out the waste bin in her brain, re-established her District Depute’ credentials and refocused her ambitions on making Advocate Depute. And Terry Barnham, the former DI, watched his team, Newcastle United lose again. More than just three points rested on that result as Barnham gambled a loss as a definite resignation and a win as possible continuance in the job, a draw was never a consideration. So, Newcastle’s loss was now Police Scotland’s too. Resignation it was to be, which would trigger a presentation two days’ hence.
Detective Super Tommy Munroe even agreed to do the honours. So c
ometh the time, cameth the man as he stepped forward to be presented with the ubiquitous carriage clock as in time honoured fashion. His words were touching and commendable and he finished with, “It’s never been more true than that the former DI has probably forgotten more than most of us know, and all in the line of duty. For that reason alone he deserves a happy and fulfilling retirement.”
This led to an expectant reply for the gathering as they clapped, cheered and looked to Barnham to say a few words, funny words hopefully. He started with, “Thank you, Sir. I am overwhelmed at this turnout, although I haven’t a clue as to who most of you are. But I am touched by all your kind thoughts and this lovely …,” here he stopped as if thinking.
“Clock,” someone shouted helpfully. “No, I was looking for the word ‘timepiece’, and I’ve found it. It will take pride of place in my house when I move.”
“Where are you off to, Barmy?” shouted a voice.
Thinking on his feet and now wary of divulging privileged information, he relied, “Oh you know some retirement home or other, perhaps on a golf course. Yes, that’s it, I’ll take up golf.”
“As if!” came a reply.
“Yes, maybe as if, but I’m sure I’ll find something to fill in the time,” holding the clock up whilst picturing in his mind the reality of constant nappy changing. “It’s a good leveller is time. I don’t envy any of you. Without my loss of memory I may have still ended up a wreck, in time burnt out at a desk; at least this way I’ll be able to burn out on a beach instead. And more time gives me the freedom to drink and not worry about what affect the next hangover has on my decision-making. But then I’m kind of special, as with memory loss you don’t have many decisions to make anyway.”
“Lucky bastard,” came back at him.
“Yes, and this lucky bastard’s going to shut up now so we can all get a drink.” With that he stepped aside and accepted handshakes and backslaps from those he knew, those he should have known, and strangers who had joined the teams since his disappearance. Looking over the sea of faces he now became saddened at his loss but gladdened at what he would be gaining too. He had a chance to spar with his old path lab gambling partner, Jamie Scott, who himself was looking retirement in the face, too. And several of the old team milled around him to ask after his health and try to glean a little more about his future plans. The only person missing out was Paul Tranter, he was stuck at his counter, outside the evidence room.
Barnham strolled down to put that to rights. Sure enough he found him there, updating the computer with new evidence materials, dates, times, who brought what in, where it was stored and suchlike. “Hi DI Barnham, sorry Terry, old habits and all that. Big day, eh. I heard it was your presentation, and I’m stuck here. Talk about short straw.”
“That’s why I’m here, Paul my boy,” he replied, as by sleight of left hand a hipflask from his inside jacket pocket magically appeared, and was first offered to his former colleague. He shook his head, knowing a more senior officer was present. Then Barnham said, “Go on, have a pull. I count for nothing now. I’m just a man in the street. Have a celebratory drink with me.” PC Tranter took a thankful swig and rasped as it burnt the back of his throat. Barnham took the flask and knocked back a gulp himself; only unbeknownst to Paul he had the inside of his thumb over the flask neck. They talked for a minute and the PC was offered a second drink, which he took greedily having looked all around him for any prying eyes.
The conversation continued until Paul wriggled and squirmed uncomfortably and looked at Barnham, saying, “Bloody hell, I’m desperate! I’ve gotta go. Can you call Gough so I can be relieved.”
“It’s OK Paul, if you’re that desperate you better go now, I’ll stand guard. By the looks of you it could take too long to find PC Gough, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” squealed the PC as he meandered off towards the loos, both pincy-toed and knock-kneed, if that were possible. Barnham released his gloved right hand from his pocket and turned the terminal to face him. He had practised the procedure on the terminal he had been using, and it was a computer request he had made innumerable times before, but without the present added pressure. He found the case and within the case he found the evidence. He double clicked that and found its location. Forty five seconds in and he was moving into the room behind the counter. Rack after rack awaited his attention. ‘Rack F: box: 6’, his mind told him ad nauseam. Another minute he found the box and on opening, the sealed poly bag containing the handkerchief, too, which surprisingly enough he recognised. He felt he probably had another minute at the most to find the demagnetiser so that he could neutralise the security chip. He presumed that would be under the counter and located it there just as PC Tranter began walking uncomfortably back down the corridor. Keeping one eye on each: the polybag and the PC, he swept the demagnetiser in what he thought was the right direction. Then returned it to its location on the shelf and pocketed the spoils. His next movement would verify whether he had been successful.
“Sorry about that, Terry. I was just d-e-s-p-e-r-a-t-e. And when you gotta go, well? Any action here?”
“No, nothing. I just had another swig whilst I was waiting, but maybe you’ve had enough if you’ve got a ‘dicky’ tummy?”
“Yes, maybe you’re right.”
“I better get back to the party, or they’ll be thinking I’ve crashed out too.” With that, he took a deep breath and left the refuge of the counter. The silence was golden. Not a beep or a peep from either machine or officer, the latter seeming more worried anyway about the uncomfortable churning in his stomach than fielding any defence for the security of the evidence room.
Barnham now needed total control and to remain on his very best behaviour for the next two hours. A strange conundrum, trying to stay relatively sober at a party held on his behalf. A fact not lost on his former drinking-pals. But this was one party where he could not be caught with his trousers down, particularly as his pockets were stuffed with incriminating evidence. Critical DNA evidence from a live ongoing case and a hipflask of contaminated whisky, laced with a strong, ground, quick working laxative. But he need not have been concerned. He watched his tongue and watched the corridor for any sign of a commotion coming from the direction of the evidence room. But all passed off well and after further handshaking and congratulations on reaching this milestone in one piece, well almost, he left the station for what he hoped would be the last time, with timepiece in hand.
As the euphoria wore off his dilemma flourished. How to make best use of his thievery? He used that puzzle to chisel away at the minor headache he had been freely given by the lager and wine of the previous night. An amount after which he would have previously driven home, but as his drinking had been curbed somewhat with his accident he was now less able to handle volume. Still, he managed to focus and formulate some semblance of a plan, which hopefully would not lead directly back to his door, or indeed Emma’s door when she was unknowingly brought into play.
So now that Jessica was imprisoned in Rampton for the foreseeable future, Barnham subliminally sewed a question regarding the physical evidence into Emma’s mind, and then sewed again as to her next opportunity of paying her sister a visit. Which then begged the question of whether Amy Price was prepared to carry on representing Jessica at such a distance and what were her client’s realistic chances? Whether, the prosecution had a watertight case, as yet? Emma’s bright mood dimmed as she replaced the receiver. It had been good to hear from Terry and the fact that he had had a good leaving ‘do’, and not drunk too much. And the fact that he had managed to transport his clock home safely, was tantamount to his abstemious strong will. But when he mentioned Jessica, still facing innumerable problems, she had a guilty flush. Her own happiness had pushed Jessica to the back of her mind, so she had to put that to rights, and straightaway.
She rang Amy for information about the result of Jessica’s second court hearing and also about the possibility of visiting at Rampton. The call went to voicemail, so Emma le
ft the basic gist of what she expected to happen and whom she thought should bring it to fruition. Google came into its own, whilst she waited for the return call. She surfed various sites on Rampton Secure Hospital, so by the time Amy returned her call Emma had most of the answers at her fingertips. The solicitor updated her as to the Procurator Fiscal’s intention of ensuring Jessica was tried in the High Court of Justiciary, and as a defendant of sound mind. The only disappointment to come from the conversation was that Amy had no reason to visit her client at the moment. Jessica had spoken to her fleetingly at the most recent hearing and had not offered any new direction or positive comment. But the hospital welcomed visiting, although there needed to be a minimum of five days between them receiving the request by letter or telephone.
Emma was aware of this advance-booking requirement but thanked Amy anyway for her consideration and help.
Having checked the train timetable she took the bull by the horns; rang and booked a 10.00 slot for five days hence, which happened to be a Monday. As the train left Waverley at 5.48 in the morning, she planned to sleep at Terry’s the night before; and so had five days to work on him accompanying her on the journey. Another five days in which everyone’s lives revolved around their accustomed workloads, routines and future plans.
*
That was everyone excepting Alonzo Lucisano. He soon grasped that the building collapse and his missing son were linked. As the bodies were being pulled out and taken to the makeshift morgue, the identification process began. Fingerprints were taken off both attached and unattached limbs, likewise DNA to assist in the marrying up exercise to follow; and identity information from all mobiles and wallets was searched for and searched through. A picture began to build and affirm Alonzo’s worst nightmare, but a picture, which DI Barbour had only just comprehended. The identified bodies appeared on the surface to have nothing to do with the destroyed building, and therefore no reason for being there in the first place. In fact if her sources were correct the obverse should have been the case as they were at loggerheads with the owners and developers of the building in question.