Whispers of the Dead (Tom Gabriel #2)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘Don’t worry it’s locked, and I’m not expecting anyone.’

  She hesitated because she hadn’t bothered with a bra this morning.

  ‘I haven’t got all day, you know.’

  Was this the type of sacrifice she had to make to get a story? She quickly took her top off to reveal a variety of tattoos down both arms, a winged dragon on the left side of her neck, and a large red butterfly across her stomach.

  ‘Nice melons.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And tats.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘A butterfly huh?’

  ‘My name.’

  ‘Strange name.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Come closer.’

  Rae took a step forward.

  Pidgley reached out a hand and cupped Rae’s left breast. ‘You wanna go in the back?’

  Rae jerked back and put her top back on. ‘Thanks for the offer, but no thanks.’

  ‘Just a thought. Okay, fifty bucks and I’ll tell you what you want to know.’

  Rae gave the woman two twenties and a ten.

  The money disappeared inside the red tie-dyed bra. ‘There were two drivers on last Thursday – Marge Knowles and Sharon Harvey.’

  Rae wrote the names down in her notebook.

  ‘Sharon is driving the route today, and she’ll be pulling in for a break in twenty minutes. Marge is on a day off – rents a place out at Westhighland – 2115 Laurel Street, Zip: 32178.’

  ‘Got a telephone number? I don’t want to go all that way and find she’s not in.’

  ‘Sure.’ She pulled out a battered address book from under the counter, found the name and read out the number: 684 3267.’

  ‘Thanks a lot.’

  ‘No problem. Sure you don’t want to go in the back?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘If you’re not into women, I could call a couple of the guys.’

  ‘It’s a tempting offer, but no thanks. Have a good day, Mandie.’

  ‘And you, babe.’

  Rae unlocked the door and made her escape. It wasn’t that she hadn’t been with a woman before – she had, but Mandie Pidgley wasn’t her type – not her type at all.

  There was a cafe at the train station. She decided to have a coffee there while she waited for Sharon Knowles to arrive.

  Once she was sitting down, her mind drifted back to what had just happened in the bus depot. What was she prepared to do for a story? Would she have sex with someone – male or female – to get the scoop? No, she didn’t think she would. How far was she prepared to go? Would she put her life in danger? Maybe, but it depended on the story. Another dead reporter wouldn’t benefit anybody.

  She half-smiled. At least Mandie had complimented her on her breasts – and why not? She had nice breasts. She shivered when she thought about Mandie’s hairy pomegranates, and hoped she never had two of those.

  The bus arrived. After the passengers had alighted, she spotted Sharon Knowles park and lock up the bus. Rae was about to go out and approach her when she saw the woman heading for the cafe.

  ‘Let me buy those,’ Rae offered, as she stood behind Sharon Knowles at the counter. She was a foot shorter than Rae and shaped like a diamond. Her head was small, shoulders sloped and slightly larger, a wide fat arse, thighs that began bevelling inwards to thin small feet. Rae guessed the fat arse was an occupational hazard.

  The woman turned and looked her up and down. ‘Oh?’

  She showed her press badge. ‘My name’s Butterfly Raeburn. I’m an investigative reporter with the St Augustine Record. I’d like to talk to you, if that’s all right?’ Every time she said, “I’m an investigative reporter” it made her want to dance a jig.

  ‘About the dead guy on Porpoise Point?’

  Rae gave her the hint of a smile and nodded. ‘Word travels fast.’

  ‘Jeanne Hignett – one of the drivers who was on yesterday – said a man accosted her about the guy. What’s happened to him?’

  ‘He’s working on something else today.’

  Rae paid for Sharon’s tea and cake, and they sat down.

  ‘What do you want to know?’ Sharon said, stuffing a cream cake into her mouth.

  Rae produced John Doe’s picture. ‘I’m trying to find out if he travelled by bus or taxi to Porpoise Point.’

  The woman examined the photograph.

  ‘He might have been wearing a double-breasted suit and an overcoat.’

  ‘In this weather? No, I think I’d have remembered him.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Definitely. I remember the odd ones. Most people are just a blur, but some stand out for various reasons. Dressed like you said, he would have stood out. I’d have classified him as a loony tune. Take today, there was a woman with hairy armpits. And I’m not just talking about that she forgot to shave. She had longer hair under her arms than she had on her head.’

  ‘How awful.’

  ‘You can say that again. People were staring at her for goodness sake. It was on a par with the bearded lady walking down the street without a care in the world. Now, I know there’s a groundswell of thought that women only shave their body hair to please men, but I mean . . . My Alfie would never . . . you know – if I started looking like a yeti.’

  ‘Thanks for taking the time to look at the picture anyway,’ Rae said.

  ‘Thanks for paying for the tea and cake.’ She grinned. ‘I’ll be able to buy a pack of razors now. That’ll please Alfie, and please me as well, if you know what I mean?’

  ‘Good luck with the shaving.’

  ‘You bet.’

  Rae left Sharon Knowles finishing off her tea and cream cake.

  As she walked across the car park, her cell jangled.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Butterfly?’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Ronnie – Ronnie Paterson.’

  ‘I don’t recall giving you my number.’

  ‘You gave your card to my mum.’

  ‘So what are you doing with it?’

  ‘I’ve got something you might find interesting.’

  ‘You’re a good-looking boy Ronnie, but . . .’

  ‘And you’re a hot chick, but that’s not it.’

  ‘Haven’t you been grounded until you’re ninety-nine years old?’

  ‘My mum’s all talk.’

  ‘So what is it that I might find interesting?’

  ‘There was a bunch of flowers left on the beach this morning at the exact spot where I found that dead guy on Friday.’

  ‘Probably somebody local.’

  ‘I don’t know. I just thought I’d let you know.’

  ‘Thanks, Ronnie. If anything else happens, you’ll call me?’

  ‘Yeah. What about the knife?’

  ‘You can have it.’

  ‘That’s great – when?’

  ‘When I have time to drive over there.’

  ‘And any chance of . . . ?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘I had to ask.’

  She ended the call. That was one dirty little boy. Were all boys like that?

  Chapter Ten

  As he reached the car, his cell jangled. He hated the annoying tune that came with the thing. Maybe he could change it for something more suited to his musical taste – he’d have to ask Rae how to do it.

  ‘Tom Gabriel.’

  ‘It’s Laura.’

  ‘Hello, Laura.’

  ‘We’ve got the DNA results.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘The shaving equipment definitely belongs to John Doe.’

  ‘At least now we know.’

  ‘We also discovered scalp hairs belonging to Mr Doe on the dressing gown and pubic hairs in the pyjamas bottoms, and his fingerprints were a match for those found on the screwdriver, the knife and the bottle of old spice.’

  ‘What about the slippers?’

  ‘I’m glad you asked me about those. We scanned everything that was in the suitcase in
the same way as we did when John first arrived at the mortuary.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing . . .’

  ‘That’s disappointing.’

  ‘. . . Except the slippers.’

  ‘You found something in the slippers?’

  ‘A secret compartment in each heel.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘Each one had been cut out to fit two pieces of a small elaborately engraved gold magnifying glass.’

  ‘A magnifying glass?’

  ‘Yes. In the left heel was the magnifying glass itself. In the right heel was the gold handle, which screws into the gold frame of the glass. The handle has a small ring on its base, which looks as though it hung from a neck chain – a gold neck chain presumably.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘That’s my guess. It definitely looks like an antique magnifying glass, but we’re trying to trace its provenance.’

  ‘What was he doing with an antique gold magnifying glass?’

  ‘I have no idea. Do you want me to send you a photograph of it?

  ‘Can you send it to Rae?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I think I’ve got her number.’

  ‘I’ll ring her and let her know it’s on its way.’

  ‘If we find anything useful about its provenance I’ll ring you.’

  ‘Thanks, Laura.’

  The call ended.

  Next, he rang Rae.

  ‘You found the “On” button then?’

  ‘Very funny. Why haven’t you called me?’

  ‘I’ve been showing a Hell’s Angel mama my breasts.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say to that.’

  ‘I’ll tell you about it later. Anyway, why are you ringing me?’

  ‘To check you’re all right.’

  ‘I am. Well, it was great talking to you . . .’

  ‘And to tell you to expect a photograph from Laura.’

  ‘Oh?’

  He told her about the DNA and fingerprint evidence confirming that the suitcase belonged to John Doe, and about the small antique gold magnifying glass.

  ‘The gold chain with the knife and left luggage locker key on it?’ Rae said.

  ‘That’s my guess.’

  ‘Why would he have an antique magnifying glass?’

  ‘That’s a good question. Another one would be: Why would he need to hide said magnifying glass in a pair of slippers that didn’t fit him?’

  ‘It’s a bit baffling, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’d say it was a lot baffling. What are you doing now?’

  ‘I’ve spoken to one of the bus drivers. The woman didn’t remember Mr Doe getting on the bus. The other driver is on a day off, but I have her address. I also still need to visit the Yellow Cab Company.’

  ‘Be careful.’

  ‘Why do you keep saying that?’

  ‘Because I’m not with you.’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’ve just had lunch.’

  ‘You’re working hard to earn your three hundred dollars a day then?’

  ‘A man’s got to eat. And anyway, before that . . .’ He told her about the CCTV recording showing Harrison being passed an envelope by a woman in a Chrysler 300.

  ‘A woman?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s strange, and it doesn’t sound like the type of thing a bank manager should be doing.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They should be squeaky clean. I’m glad that my money isn’t in that bank.’

  ‘You haven’t got any money.’

  ‘Well, if I did . . . Where are you going now?’

  ‘To see a man about a key.’

  ‘What key?’

  ‘A key I found lying around.’

  ‘You’re being secretive again.’

  ‘So, you’ll ring me later?’

  ‘I will?’

  ‘To tell me know you’re all right.’

  ‘You’re being paranoid.’

  ‘Which is the secret of my longevity, so you should listen to me.’

  ‘I’ll ring you . . . And don’t forget to buy a copy of the Record.’

  ‘Why would I want to do that?’

  He smiled to himself, and ended the call.

  ***

  Johnny Betcher’s last known address was 1795 Wildwood Drive in St Augustine Shores. The timber-framed house had been seriously neglected and was in dire need of some tender loving care.

  He knocked on the wooden door.

  There was no response, and from the hollow sound of the knock, he wondered if the house was empty of carpets and furniture. He looked through the small window on the left of the door, which revealed a sparsely furnished living room. He wandered round the back of the property and found a door that – with a little encouragement – opened into the kitchen. He flicked the light switch, but the light didn’t come on. There were dirty pots in the sink, and it was clear they’d been there for some time. There was black mold on the inside of the fridge, and something green and shrivelled sitting on a shelf. The kitchen cupboards were empty. He wandered through the rest of the house, but there were no signs of life – or death.

  There was a stack of mail behind the front door. He scooped it up and shuffled through the envelopes, papers and leaflets, but none of it helped him to identify where Betcher might be. He threw it all back on the floor and wandered into the living room. A dead woman was wringing her hands on the sofa and muttering under her breath. She didn’t even look at him as he walked in, but as he made his way out she whispered, ‘Be careful.’

  He turned to ask her what she meant, but she’d already gone.

  Yes, he was becoming paranoid. “Be careful!” Be careful of what? All these warnings were making him nervous. And if there was one thing he knew for sure, the dead didn’t lie. But without specific information, all he could do was carry on with his life. He was careful. Careful was a part of who he had been and who he was now. Surely, if it was his time, Cassie would come and guide him in.

  He made his way out of the back door and walked round the side of the house to leave.

  ‘Hey?’

  Across the overgrown garden was an old man’s head peering through the hedge as if he was part of the vegetation. He had more lines on his face than Tom, and wisps of grey hair sticking out above his ears like a mad professor.

  ‘Hey yourself.’

  ‘You looking for Johnny?’

  ‘I certainly am, but . . .’

  ‘No, he don’t live there anymore. Four months ago a bunch of crazies came looking for him, found him all right, dragged him out in front of the house and beat the crap out of him.’

  ‘I hope they didn’t kill him?’

  ‘Near enough. Ambulance took him away. He left after that. Said he was going to go somewhere that no one could ever find him again.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you know where that somewhere is, do you?’

  ‘Who’re you?’

  ‘Tom Gabriel. Used to be a detective in the police force. Arrested Johnny a few times – he’ll remember me.’

  He walked to the sidewalk and the old man came out of his property to meet him.

  ‘What you doing now then, Mister Gabriel?’

  Tom passed the man his business card. ‘Retired. I’m a PI now, and I’d like Johnny’s help with something.’

  ‘Well, he don’t come round here anymore, and I never hear from him, but if I do happen to see him I’ll let him know you called round.’

  ‘Very kind of you.’

  He climbed back into his Nitro and waited for Johnny’s phone call.

  His phone jangled.

  ‘Tom Gabriel.’

  ‘I thought you were dead, Mr Gabriel.’

  ‘Hello, Johnny. Wife died. Had a couple of desperate years.’

  ‘Know what you mean. Ben told you what happened?’

  ‘The old guy?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Said a few guys came round and beat you up.’

  ‘Y
ou could say that. I couldn’t pay them the two hundred dollars I owed them, so they broke my shoulder, my arm and my leg. I walk with a limp now, and when it gets cold I ache something terrible.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Johnny.’

  ‘You could say that it was my own fault. I knew what the Russians were like when I took their money. Anyway, it’s not worth dwelling on. Ben says you need my help?’

  ‘I have a key, and I’d like to know what you think about it.’

  ‘A key’s a key, Mr Gabriel.’

  ‘This is a two-inch long heavy double-bit key with two numbers on it: 1894 and 376.’

  ‘I suppose I’d better take a look.’

  ‘I’m happy to pay for your time.’

  ‘And I’m happy to take your money.’

  ‘You always were happy to take other people’s money, Johnny.’

  ‘Not so much now. Spiderman has been stomped on one too many times.’

  ‘Where do you want to meet?’

  ‘You know Ricky’s Seafood House off Rambla Street?’

  ‘Near Fort Mose Park?’

  ‘That’s it. I’ll be there in about half an hour.’

  ‘I’ll see you there, Johnny, and thanks.’

  ‘Make sure you’re not followed, Mr Gabriel – those Russians never give up.’

  He ended the call.

  ***

  Marge Knowles lived at 2115 Laurel Street, in Westhighland. It was a one-storey wooden house with a porch and carport. The sparsely populated garden was surrounded by a wire mesh fence. Although the woodwork had been painted brilliant white and powder blue it couldn’t hide the fact that the house was a small drab prison.

  Rae walked up the steps and knocked on the door.

  ‘Coming,’ filtered from inside. The inside door opened. ‘Yes?’

  Rae brandished her press ID card as if it was a magic key. ‘Marge Knowles?’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Butterfly Raeburn from the St Augustine Record. I’d like to talk to you for a couple of minutes, if I may?’

  ‘About?’

  ‘I’m trying to find out about a man who might have been a passenger on your bus.’

  She pushed open the screen door. ‘How’d you get my address?’

  ‘Mandie . . .’

  ‘That bitch. She knows damn fucking well that she’s not supposed to give out employees addresses to strangers.’