Whispers of the Dead (Tom Gabriel #2)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘You’ve got it looking nice in here,’ Rae said as she followed the woman into the small living room. There was a strange smell to the place that she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

  ‘The place is a shithole. Beer?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘I’d offer you tea or coffee, but I don’t have any. I like to think of my body as a temple.’

  Rae offered an appreciative smile. ‘Yeah, I can see.’

  Marge was a small squat woman. She had bottle-black shoulder-length hair that had been cut into a fringe an inch above her eyebrows, which appeared far too straight and made her look as though she was wearing a wig. Her hair was matched with a pair of thick-rimmed black glasses and a black sleeveless jumper that tried to hide the rolls of fat around her midriff.

  ‘Get to it then. As you can see, I’m extremely busy.’

  Rae showed her the photograph of John Doe. ‘I’m trying to find out if he caught the bus to Porpoise Point sometime on Thursday.’

  ‘You’ve spoken to Sharon Harvey?’

  ‘Yes. He didn’t catch her bus.’

  Marge sat down in a chair, changed her glasses and took the picture.

  ‘He would have been wearing a double-breasted suit with an overcoat.’

  ‘In this weather?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She shook her head. ‘I would have remembered something like that. He might have slipped under the radar with just a suit on, but an overcoat . . . not a chance. The oddballs always stick in your memory. I’m sure Sharon would have told you – most are a blur, but we remember the weird and crazy ones. Sometimes, in my living nightmare, I think I’m driving people to hell. That’s what it feels like, you know. I think I’ve been hand-picked to take people from this world to purgatory, and Palatka train station is the boarding point. The capsules my therapist gave me don’t seem to help much anymore. Is that it then?’

  Rae took the photograph back. ‘I suppose so. Are you going to be all right?’

  ‘Yeah, don’t take any notice of me. I’m in a bad place at the moment. Here I am, on a day off and nothing. I have no friends, no family, no hobbies – nothing and no one. What’s it all for? Why have we been put on this earth? I have no idea. Do you know?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I go to work, drive the bus to hell and back, come home, take the pills and get drunk. The next day I do it all again. What’s it all for, huh? I should go and see my therapist. We talk, I think about how I’d like to see him naked, he convinces me it’s all in my head and that I’m just a normal person. I pay him fifty dollars, come home, pop the pills, get drunk and it starts all over again.’ She burst into tears.

  Rae stood up and tried to comfort her. ‘I’m sure if . . .’

  ‘You can go.’

  ‘Can I . . . ?’

  ‘Get out. You’ve got what you came for – now go. All people want to do is take. Nobody wants to give anymore. Why are you standing there? Go.’

  ‘Will you be . . . ?’

  ‘What difference would it make to you . . . or anyone else for that matter?’

  Marge stood up and pushed Rae towards the front door. ‘Go, I’ll be all right.’

  ‘If you’re sure?’

  ‘Sure? Who can be sure of anything these days? The only certainty is that I’ll be driving that bus to hell tomorrow.’

  Rae opened the door and stepped outside. She turned, but the door slammed in her face.

  ‘Go,’ filtered through the cracks.

  What else could she do, but leave? She’d heard about clinical depression. In fact, her own mother had suffered from depression before her father had murdered her. Thankfully, it was not something that had been passed on to her.

  She walked back to her car, but she knew she couldn’t leave the woman like that. She found the number for the bus depot on her tablet and called it.

  ‘Sunshine Buses at Palatka. How . . . ?’

  ‘It’s Butterfly Raeburn.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The reporter you showed your breasts to.’

  Rae heard a laugh. ‘I show my breasts to a lot of people, lady.’

  ‘I showed you mine as well. I had a butterfly on my stomach.’

  ‘I remember – nice tits?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ve changed your mind about a session with me and the boys?’

  ‘No. I’m outside Marge Knowles’ house.’

  ‘Don’t go inside.’

  ‘I’ve already been inside and spoken to her, and she pushed me out. She’s seriously depressed.’

  ‘And what do you want me to do about it?’

  ‘Isn’t there someone who could come and sit with her?’

  She heard a grunt. ‘Then you’d have two depressed people to worry about. I should’ve told you that Marge spreads depression like confetti wherever she goes. Take no notice of her – she’ll be right as rain tomorrow.’

  ‘Are you sure? She seemed . . .’

  ‘I’m sure. Get out while you can. Otherwise you’ll have to listen to how nobody loves her, how she has no relatives, no boyfriend and no friends . . . are you still there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Drive away. Don’t look back. You heard about Lot’s wife?’

  ‘Who’s Lot?’

  ‘I thought you reporters were meant to be intelligent. Lot’s wife looked back when God was raining fire and brimstone down on Sodom and she was turned into a pillar of salt. That’s what’ll happen to you if you don’t get your skinny arse out of there now, and . . .’

  ‘. . . Don’t look back?’

  ‘You got it.’

  The call ended.

  She’d tried. Nobody could ever say she hadn’t tried. Maybe Marge would be okay. She turned the engine of her Beetle on and drove away without looking back.

  ***

  Ricky’s Seafood House was triangular in shape, painted white with large windows and red canopies above them. He didn’t mind the occasional shrimp or lobster, but seafood wasn’t really his preferred poison.

  As soon as he walked into the restaurant Johnny Betcher waved him over to a booth by a window.

  ‘You look like crap, Johnny,’ he said as he slid into the red plastic seat opposite.

  ‘Compliments of the Russians. What the fuck are they doing in our country anyway?’

  A waiter appeared. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Can I get you a menu?’

  ‘Not for me, thanks I’ve already eaten,’ he said. ‘What about you, Johnny?’

  ‘On you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’ll have a plate of fresh oysters and the fish tacos, please.’

  The waiter left.

  ‘You weren’t followed?’ Johnny asked, peering out of the window like a hunted man.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Next time they catch me, they’ll kill me.’

  ‘Haven’t you paid them their two hundred dollars yet?’

  ‘Fuck ‘em. For every day I was late they added a hundred bucks. I was in hospital six weeks for Christ’s sake. Shit! I probably owe the bastards ten grand by now.’

  ‘Let’s hope they don’t catch you then.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  The waiter returned with Johnny’s plate of oysters. ‘Bon appétit.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He shovelled a scallop of oysters into his mouth and wiped the slime from his lips with the back of his hand. ‘When you’re ready, Mr Gabriel.’

  Tom slid the key across the table.

  Johnny glanced at it, but didn’t pick it up. Instead, he helped himself to another scallop of oysters and then said, ‘I thought so.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Kaba Holdings AG. They used to be called Bauer AG, which was founded in 1862 in Zurich by a Swiss locksmith called Franz Bauer who sold the company to a guy called Leo Bodmer in 1915. In 1919, an inventor at the company called Fritz Schori patented – number CH91497 – a locking mechanism that prevented removal of the lock even w
hen the door was open unless you had a special “Director’s Key”, which operated a secret bolt inside the lock. These locking mechanisms were taken up by Swiss banks and installed on their safe deposit boxes. This key belongs to one such box.’

  ‘This is a director’s key?’

  ‘No. This is a client key.’ He pointed to the number “376” on one of the bits. ‘That number is the number of the safe deposit door. Each moving part of the door was hand-stamped with that number to make a matching set – eleven markings in all.’

  ‘What about the other number?’

  ‘The safe-deposit box number.’

  ‘I thought 376 was the box number.’

  ‘No. Each door on each safe deposit box is unique and has a unique number – the maker’s number. That key will only fit that door. However, each bank has their own safe deposit box numbering system. The second number – 1894 – is the safe deposit box number.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And now you want to know the name of the bank where safe deposit box number 1894 is located, don’t you?’

  ‘Do you know?’

  ‘I have an idea, but it won’t do you any good.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You need a password.’

  ‘A password?’

  ‘Yes. Otherwise, whoever had the key could open the safe deposit box.’

  ‘Isn’t that the point?’

  ‘No. There are three layers of security – the client key, the bank key and the password. The password gets you into the safe deposit box room, but you’ll be accompanied by a bank employee with the bank key. The bank key is different from the client key. Together, those two keys will open the box.’

  ‘But without the password . . . ?’

  ‘If you turned up at the bank with just the key you’d be locked up yourself.’

  ‘Any idea what the password might be?’

  ‘It could be anything.’

  He thought about Blanch Rainey’s telephone number. ‘I suppose that if you went to the bank with the wrong password . . . ?’

  ‘. . . You’d get locked up.’

  ‘Mmmm.’

  The waiter swapped Johnny’s empty plate for a full one of fish tacos with tomato salsa, and sour crème and chive dips.

  What was Roger Harrison doing with a client key to a safe deposit box in Switzerland? He already had a box in his own bank, why would he need another one? Was Harrison a victim, or was there something else going on?

  ‘What’s the name of the bank – just in case I get the urge to spend the rest of my life in a prison cell in Switzerland?’

  ‘I hear the cheese is nice over there.’

  ‘They make cuckoo clocks as well.’

  ‘Yeah, they’re good with mechanical things. The bank is called the Schweizerische Eidgenössische Bank in Lausanne. It has two underground floors. The first level occupies the bank’s own vault, the second level has the client safe deposit boxes.’

  ‘You seem to be well-informed, Johnny’

  ‘I had ideas beyond my reach at one time,’ Johnny said with a wry smile.

  Tom took the client key back and returned it to the zip-up pocket of his cargoes. Then he slid his wallet out and put a hundred bucks on the table. ‘You’ve been a great help, Johnny.’

  ‘A hundred bucks?’

  ‘You want more?’

  ‘No, I was thinking it was too much.’

  ‘What you’ve told me is worth a hundred.’

  ‘If you say so, Mr Gabriel.’ The hundred disappeared.

  ‘Keep your head down, Johnny.’

  ‘That’s the plan, Mr Gabriel.’

  He paid for Johnny’s food on the way out.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Flagler Community Center. Gwenda Fox. How may I help?’

  ‘Yes, hello, Mrs Fox.’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘My name’s Butterfly Raeburn, I’m a reporter with the St Augustine Record.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I understand you’re running computer training courses for the over-50s?’

  ‘That’s right, but we’re calling each one a “Techy Tea Party” – we don’t want to frighten the old people away, do we?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘The old darlings will learn about technology over tea and biscuits – what could be better?’

  ‘I’m sure. Can I book someone in for a course?’

  ‘A “Party” you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Of course. We have a “Party” every afternoon for the next two weeks. We’re booked-up this week, but how about Monday afternoon next week?’

  ‘That will be fine.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Butterfly . . .’

  ‘No – of the old dear?’

  ‘Oh yes. Mister Thomas Gabriel.’

  ‘Will he be paying?’

  ‘How much is it?’

  ‘Fifty dollars. Half of which goes to charity – after expenses of course.’

  ‘Yes, he’ll be paying.’

  ‘I’ve added Mister Gabriel to Monday’s party guests.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She ended the call.

  Tom was going to hate it, and she wasn’t sure it was the right course for him, but he really did know nothing. Maybe it was a good place to start. Afterwards, they could look for something more challenging for him. And anyway, it would give him the opportunity to mix with people his own age.

  She called him.

  ‘Tom Gabriel.’

  ‘You’re meant to look at the display to see who’s calling you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You can then decide whether to accept the call or not.’

  ‘You mean I can decline to answer your calls?’

  ‘You could, but you wouldn’t.’

  ‘So, if I’m not going to decline your calls, why do I need to look at the display?’

  She was sure he was teasing her. ‘I’ve booked you a technology course at the Flagler Community Centre.’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’

  ‘It’s for next Monday from two until six.’

  ‘I think I’m really getting the hang of . . .’

  ‘No you’re not. And it’s not just about a cell phone. There’s a whole bucketful of gadgets to learn now.’

  ‘Okay. To make you happy, I suppose I could go along and see what it’s all about.’

  ‘It’s fifty dollars.’

  ‘Fifty dollars! I’ll have to go to the bank for a loan.’

  ‘You get tea and biscuits thrown in as well.’

  ‘I can’t wait. So, are you all right?’

  ‘I haven’t done anything since the last time you asked me that.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  She looked across the road at yellow-painted offices on West Bay Street in Palatka. ‘Sitting outside the Yellow Cab Company.’

  ‘Be careful.’

  ‘I’m going into a taxicab office not a war zone. Goodbye.’ She ended the call. Was he becoming a bit overprotective? She was quite capable of looking after herself. She’d got this far without him. In fact, it was only since meeting him that her life had ever been in danger.

  She climbed out of her Beetle, strolled across the road and went in through the glass and yellow door.

  ‘There’s a ten-minute wait for a cab, lady,’ the man behind the counter said. He had long wiry grey hair, rimless glasses and an enormous black moustache that could easily have been used as a floor brush.

  ‘I don’t want a cab.’

  ‘You want the kebab place next door then.’

  The phone rang.

  He answered it.

  ‘Where to? . . . About ten minutes.’ He picked up a radio microphone and spoke into it. ‘Mazhar – it’s George. You there?’

  ‘No,’ Rae heard over a crackling loudspeaker. ‘You’re there, I’m here.’

  George feigned laughter. ‘You want to try out for America’s Got Talent, you know.’

  ‘You re
ally think I have talent?’

  ‘A talent for winding me up. When you’ve finished your audition, you have a pick-up for the airport at 576 Eagle Street.’

  ‘Okay.’

  The man turned back to Rae. ‘You still here?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ She showed George her press ID card. ‘I’m trying to find out how a man travelled between Palatka train station and Porpoise Point on Thursday of last week.’ She passed him the photograph of John Doe.

  ‘Dead huh?’

  ‘Yes. He was found on the beach at Porpoise Point on Friday morning.’

  ‘Yeah, I recall reading about that in the papers.’

  ‘Is it possible I can talk to your cab drivers to see if any of them recognise . . . ?’

  ‘How do you propose to do that, lady?’

  ‘Well, if they all come in . . .’

  ‘They only come in here when they notify us that they’re coming on or going off shift. Otherwise, they’re out there picking up fares.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And the shifts are all over the place. Some of the drivers have been working here for years, but still have no idea who the other drivers are.’

  ‘You’re not being very helpful.’

  George laughed. ‘I’m just telling you how it is – no more, no less.’

  ‘Well, couldn’t I talk to them on the radio?’

  ‘Yes, you could do that, but there’s only ten of thirty-five drivers on at the moment. Not only that . . .’ He picked up the photograph of John Doe and waved it at her. ‘ . . . they wouldn’t get to see the picture.’

  ‘That’s true. Have you got any bright ideas?’

  ‘How about we put this picture up on the wall, you write the details on a piece of paper with your contact number on it that we stick underneath, and then when the drivers come on or go off shift I point it out to them?’

  ‘Okay, that might work.’

  ‘It’d work a lot faster if you offered a reward.’

  She pulled a face. ‘Rewards encourage liars who simply want the money.’

  ‘Tell them they have to offer proof. There must be something that only the driver who had actually picked up the guy would know.’

  ‘Mmmm – possibly.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Don’t do me any favours, lady.’

  She looked around the office. ‘Where are we going to put the photograph?’