by David Evans
He got out of the Fiesta, zipped up his anorak and dodged down the alleyway behind his terrace. Once in the house, he started packing the essentials into a couple of suitcases. His passport was a must, along with a couple of photos of his mother. He sifted through drawers containing the other detritus of decades of continual flux between rented properties. He paused when his hand came into contact with a novelty cigarette lighter he had acquired many years ago. It was in the form of a World War Two Luger pistol. Intrigued, he wondered if it still worked. He pulled a packet of Rothmans from his jacket pocket, selected a cigarette and tried to obtain a flame from the lighter.
He jumped, as a sudden knock at the door shot his heart rate off the scale.
Souter was beginning to doubt the wisdom of his surveillance operation. Only the entertainment of an old woman conducting a conversation with what appeared to be an even older dog she was walking kept total boredom from setting in. Finally, he spotted the red nose of the Ford Fiesta drawing slowly to a halt by the alleyway on Albert Street. The driver unclipped his seat belt and cast nervous glances all round. At first, it was difficult to identify the man but once he stepped out of the car, Souter was in no doubt that Alan Montgomery had returned. He watched him quickly slip down the back ginnel.
His pulse quickened as he realised he could be within reach of his goal of interviewing this man before the police. It was a risky strategy but one he felt worth following. He was hoping they wouldn’t have considered the possibility of Montgomery parking on a different street and making his way into the house from the rear. He’d give it a couple of minutes, not only to let Montgomery settle down to whatever it was he’d come back for, but just to make sure the police hadn’t spotted their quarry.
At last, he decided it was time to make his move. He got out and carefully locked the car before strolling across the road towards the house. Keeping his head down, he could see in his peripheral vision at least two men sitting in a Ford Focus parked further up the street on the opposite side.
One last deep breath and he knocked on the door.
Strong parked his car at the top of the street and wandered down towards his colleagues sitting in the Focus. Kirkland was in the driver’s seat with Darby alongside. He opened the rear door and climbed into the back.
“Anything?” he enquired, leaning forward, forearms on the back of the front seats.
“Quiet as the grave, guv,” Kirkland offered.
“Apart from her.” Darby nodded towards the elderly woman chuntering away to an old poodle. The dog was carrying one of his mistress’s gloves in its mouth. “Do you know,” he continued, with more than a hint of irony, “sometimes I feel just like that dog.”
“What are you on about?” Kirkland asked.
“You know, performing no useful function other than being allowed to feel useful.”
“Is that what it’s like with this new bird of yours, then?”
“Oh no, I get to carry more than her glove in my mouth.” Darby smirked.
“Go on then, John,” Strong joined in. “Who is she? Do we know her?”
“I’m not letting you lot anywhere near her.”
“At least give us a name,” Kirkland implored.
“All right, if only to shut you up. She’s called Jean, and that’s as much as I’m saying.”
“So what does she do, this Jean?” Kirkland persisted.
“How old do you think that dog is?” Darby asked.
Strong took pity on him. “Oh, I don’t know, twelve, maybe fourteen.”
“Of course your dog died just recently, didn’t he, guv? How old was he?”
“Old Jasper … he was fifteen.”
“It’s funny, you know,” Kirkland pondered, “they reckon dogs are quite intelligent but I’ve had mine for five years and you’d think by now that when I go to take him for a walk, he’d remember that the front door opens inwards.”
Strong and Darby smiled.
“Every bloody time he goes right up to it and I’ve got to bugger about pulling him back so’s I can get the door open!”
“Have you ever noticed with dogs as well,” Darby said, “every time the doorbell goes, they always think it’s for them.”
“Hey!” Kirkland exclaimed, bringing the sounds of hilarity to an abrupt end. “Who’s that?”
“Jesus Christ!” Strong said between clenched teeth. “What’s he doing here?”
“That’s not him, is it?” Darby asked.
“That,” Strong informed the pair, “is Robert Souter, journalist for the Post.”
Kirkland turned round. “Not the pratt who wrote about Summers the other day?”
“The very same. Bloody Hell, how did he know about this?” Strong paused for a second as a sudden realisation swept through him. “This new woman in your life, John? Jean, you said. She’s not about five eight with short cropped blonde hair? Husband Trevor pissed off with his secretary last year?”
Darby turned to face Strong, looking puzzled. “How the f…?”
“Oh, Hell, John. Tell me it’s not.” He shook his head. “Because she’s Jean Taylor, nee Souter. And that’s her brother.”
“Shit!” Darby covered his face with both hands.
“Shit indeed. How much have you told her?”
Darby turned ashen.
Montgomery squinted through the net curtain of the front room window to see who was at the door. All he could see was a tall man in a casual jacket standing, as far as he could tell, on his own. He opened the door a crack. “Yes?”
“It’s Alan, isn’t it?” Souter asked.
“Who are you? What do you want?”
“I’m Robert Souter. I’m a journalist with the Post.” He passed him his card. “I’d like a little chat. I think I could help you.”
“Help me? Why, what makes you think I need your help?”
“Well, if you take a quick glance over my right shoulder, you’ll see a Ford Focus with some men in it. I think it’s a fair bet they’re CID officers.”
“And why would the police be over the road?”
“Same as me … waiting for you to return.”
“Right,” Montgomery sniggered, “And they’d let you walk straight up to the door?"
“They weren’t as smart as me. They didn’t think to watch for you coming in the back way.”
Montgomery slowly assimilated the facts; a newspaper journalist on his front doorstep and a car full of detectives over the road.
“Well? Can I come in?”
After a little hesitation, Montgomery opened the door to allow Souter to pass. He couldn’t help taking half a step outside to check on the parked up Focus. Turning back inside, he swiftly closed the door behind him.
“Bloody hell!” Kirkland exclaimed. He was watching events unfold on Montgomery’s doorstep as Strong and Darby conducted an in-depth post-mortem into the leak of sensitive information from the investigation team. “He’s not only in there, he’s got a fucking gun!”
“What! You’re joking,” Strong responded.
“Didn’t you see it? He’s just let that hack in. He had a gun in his hand.”
“You sure?”
Kirkland turned round in his seat to face his DI. “Guv, I’m telling you. Now I know I’ve never been face to face with one in my career, but I’ve seen enough war films to recognise a Luger when I see it. You know, one of those with the magazine loaded in the handle.”
“Shit!” Strong began to punch numbers into his mobile phone. “This changes things a bit.” He paused while his call was answered. “Sir, it’s Colin. There’s been a development. We’ve got a situation down here.”
Souter turned to Montgomery as the front door closed and saw, for the first time, what he held in his hand.
Montgomery grinned, cigarette still in his mouth, and cast a quick glance at the lighter now aimed at his visitor.
Souter put up both hands waist high. “Hey … now look … I … I
only came here to help you.” He could feel himself turn pale, his legs almost giving way.
“You keep saying that.” He gestured towards the threadbare sofa. “Fucking sit down before you fall down then.”
He flopped onto the settee.
Montgomery pulled a conventional lighter from his pocket, finally lit his cigarette and blew out smoke.
“Do you mind if I smoke as well?” Souter slowly moved his hand towards his jacket pocket where his own lighter and cigarettes were.
Montgomery perched himself on the arm of a well-worn easy chair facing him. “I can hardly refuse.”
As he exhaled the first draw of his cigarette, Souter composed himself and took in the suitcases in the middle of the room and the passport and photos on the table. “Moving on then, Alan?”
“There’s nothing much to stay for, is there? Anyway,” Montgomery looked serious, “what the fuck’s it got to do with you?”
Another long drag on his cigarette and Souter felt calmer, despite nervously glancing at the gun. “The way I see it, you can do with all the help you can get.”
“Oh, and why’s that?”
“I know your father died last week and I’m sorry about that.”
Montgomery merely grunted.
“Then there’s the tragic events of yesterday with that shocking attack on his girlfriend.”
A look of disgust fell over Montgomery’s face. “Girlfriend? Huh! She was just some old has-been slapper that leeched onto him. And not for the first time either. I wouldn’t waste any sympathy on her.”
“You didn’t like her then?”
“She probably got all she deserved.”
That type of comment was beginning to grate on Souter. “Was that personal or did you just feel that she was intruding into your father’s life as well as your relationship with him?” Souter slowly took a small tape recorder from his jacket pocket as he spoke, placing it on the old wooden coffee table in front of him.
Montgomery immediately leapt up and grabbed it. “Hey, no! No tapes,” he shouted, opening the machine, removing the cassette and throwing it against the wall. “What are you trying to do anyway, psycho-analyse me or what?”
The violent action shocked Souter. “Sorry, Alan, I just thought that if I understood what’s gone on and if there was some record of it, then it might be beneficial later.”
“No. No tapes.” Montgomery resumed his position on the chair arm. “There’s been enough trouble caused by people keeping hold of things they shouldn’t.”
Souter took a breath and wondered how far he could push this madman with a gun. “I take it you’re talking about your trophy case.”
Montgomery looked puzzled. “How the …? What trophy case?”
“The one discovered in Williams’ flat.”
“Bastard.”
“Come on, you know what I’m talking about.”
“So how come you think you know so much?”
Souter’s confidence recovered. “I know what was in it for a start and I’ve got a fair idea where they all came from. But I’d like to hear the story from you.”
“And why should I do that?”
“Because when they arrest you, and they will, they’ll twist everything you say to suit their own purposes.”
“And you being a journalist won’t?”
Souter shrugged.
Montgomery drew long and hard on his cigarette, exhaling smoke as he spoke, “Besides, arrest me for what?”
“I think you know why.”
Montgomery pounded the butt into the ashtray on the coffee table. “Well, it’s been nice talking to you but I really must get on.” He stood and waved the novelty lighter at him. “You can finish your fag outside.”
Souter put both hands up again but didn’t move. “Give me a minute.” He nodded towards the photos on the table. “Your mother?”
“What of it?”
“Nothing. Just wondered, that’s all.”
Montgomery’s expression softened as he lifted the picture. “That’s one thing I do regret.”
“What’s that?”
“Never mind. I might try and see her though.”
“Could be a bit difficult.”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?”
“I’m sorry, Alan, but you mother died three years ago.”
“No … but … how do you …?”
“Her sister, Mary.”
“That old bitch. But… Oh, shite.” Montgomery stood, tears welling up, then turned away. He slowly paced the room. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
Souter followed his progress.
Finally, Montgomery slumped into the body of the armchair and rubbed his eyes with his free hand. “This is just a complete fucking mess,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “None of this was meant to happen. It just got out of control.”
Souter studied him for a second, paying attention to the loosened grip on the gun. “You mean Williams?”
Montgomery took his hand away from his face and Souter could see the indignation. “That wanker,” he hissed. “If he hadn’t burgled this place, none of this would have happened.” Strangely, almost as suddenly as it had appeared, the anger subsided. “I had to get it back.” He looked to the ceiling as if seeking some divine forgiveness. “They were only keepsakes.”
“They were a bit more than that, though, weren’t they, Alan?”
“No. No, they were just little mementoes … just to remind me.”
“Remind you of what, though? I bet the girls wouldn’t see it that way.”
Montgomery’s demeanour altered again. “They were nothing,” he spat. “They were just teasers.”
“Deserved all they got?”
“Yes!”
They were quiet for a couple of seconds, Souter letting the hate contained within that single word answer dissipate. He pulled out his cigarettes once more and offered one to Montgomery. “The police have it, you know.”
Montgomery drew a cigarette from the packet, retrieved his other lighter and lit it. “I know. That little creep Hinchcliffe told me.”
“Was that just before he perished?”
He smirked. “Oh, is he dead too?” he said in mock surprise. “Fucking good riddance.”
Souter was alarmed. He was beginning to suspect events in the caravan were not as innocent as he first thought. “The police think you killed him.”
Montgomery blew out smoke with some force. “He was alive when I left him, if a bit pissed.”
“I believe you, I really do, but you’re going to have to tell me everything if I’m to be of any use.”
“I only wanted to talk to him, find out if he’d got my case. He was the only one who could tell me.”
“And that was because Williams was dead too. So, what happened with him?”
Montgomery looked to the floor for a couple of seconds then stared at the window. Souter could see the turmoil he was in. Inside, he was obviously processing his thoughts, deciding whether or not to say any more to this stranger. Finally, as the overpowering need to unburden won out, he began, “I tracked him down eventually. Told him Dad had given me his name. Said he might be able to help me find a decent video recorder, no questions asked. Once he let me in, I told him what I was really after. We were in the sitting room. He denied knowing what I was talking about. Told me to get out. I said I wasn’t leaving without it. The stupid bastard made a dash for the door. It was instinct, I suppose, but I just kicked his legs and he went down.” Montgomery laughed sardonically. “You know, the sort of tackle you’d only get a yellow card for at football.” He became serious again. “I don’t know … I think he must have been drinking but … anyway, I heard a crack as his face smacked against the base of the door. I couldn’t believe it. He just lay there. I mean, it was a total accident. I thought he’d just knocked himself out, so I took the opportunity to check the
place over, see if I could find what I’d come for.”
Souter knew that wasn’t the whole truth. “So you didn’t lose your temper and smash him in the face?”
His hand clenched into a fist for a second, an angry expression on his face. That softened to a look of puzzlement. “You say the police found it in his flat?”
“So I believe.”
“Where about? I went through that place like a dose of salts. It was a tip.”
“In the wardrobe, I think.”
“I looked through that but there were only a couple of televisions and some video recorders. Bastard. He must have had it well hidden.”
“I don’t know the details.”
Outside, the distant sounds of sirens drew closer. This was the second wave and it distracted Montgomery from relating events in Williams’ flat. “That’s nothing to do with us, is it?” He rose from his chair.
Souter let the use of ‘us’ pass by. “I don’t know, Alan. It might be.” He made to stand.
“Sit down!” he snapped, waving the gun lighter at him.
“Okay. Okay.”
“But they’re only watching the place from over there. Why would they …” The sentence faded away as he peered through the net curtain. Four men were grouped in discussion, occasionally glancing towards the house. The Focus was empty. The wailing sirens had grown loud then stopped, obviously close by.
“This can’t be happening.” He faced Souter. “I’m not that important, surely.” He stubbed out his cigarette and began to pace the room again. “Unless … the old bag’s dead and they’ve …”
“But there’s nothing to connect you with that, is there?”
“No, you’re right.” He turned one way then the other, increasingly agitated. “So it’s only this stupid artist’s impression thing. Then … why don’t they just come up and knock on the door?”
“Because I’m here, Alan.” Souter suspected they’d seen the gun, but he was determined to learn the full story. “That’s why I can help you.”