Whispers of the Dead (Tom Gabriel #2)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I don’t like you, Gabriel.’

  ‘I think you’ve made that fairly obvious.’

  ‘Sergeant Connelly is worth two of you.’

  ‘You’ll get no arguments from me.’

  ‘And you should stop coming in here asking her to do stuff for you. It’s been five years since you left. Apart from the Sergeant – nobody even remembers you. As far as anybody here is concerned, you’re just a has-been, a guy who couldn’t cut it as a police officer. And you keep coming in here and using Sergeant Connelly as if she owed you something. Well, I’m here to tell you that she doesn’t owe you a damned thing. If anything, you owe her for putting up with your shit for so long. I read about your “gift” . . .’ He mimed the double-quotes with his fingers. ‘Does anybody believe that crap anymore? Well, I can tell you I don’t. Nobody can see, speak to or hear the dead – not possible, not now, not ever. So, have I made myself clear?’

  ‘I guess so. Don’t come to the station, don’t ask Mona for any favours, and stay away from you – is that it?’

  ‘You got it. Now let’s get that statement, so that we’re not wasting your valuable time.’

  He filled out a statement of what happened, signed it and handed it to Gubner. ‘That do you?’

  ‘I’m sure,’ he said without looking at it.

  ‘My gun?’

  ‘Another two days maybe.’

  ‘Two days? What am I supposed to do in the meantime?’

  ‘Duck.’

  ‘Thanks for nothing.’

  ‘You’re welcome. And remember, that’s what you’ll get if you come here begging for handouts.’

  He made his way out. Was Gubner speaking for Mona? Where was she? Had she made herself scarce on purpose? He didn’t like to admit it, but Gubner was right – he did use Mona. Maybe, now that he’d employed Mary Lou, he wouldn’t have to go begging Mona for “handouts” whenever he needed information.

  ***

  Trying to sneak up to his suite without alerting Allegre was never going to work. He may as well have arrived with a full complement of musicians, jugglers, sword-swallowers, acrobats and fireworks.

  ‘You must think old Allegre was born yesterday, Mister-stupid-Gabriel. I have spies all over this town. I knew you was on your way here before you did.’

  Rattlesnake was hissing and spitting at him

  ‘I’ve just come back for a shower and a change of clothes, and then I’m going back to the hospital to check on Rae.’

  ‘You getting too old for all this dangerous goings on and such like let me tell you, Mister-mad-hatter-Gabriel. My advice to you is to stop running round like a crazy old fool and enjoy your retirement while you still got some sense. A private investigator indeed! I never heard of anything so . . .’

  ‘Is there something I can do for you, Allegre? Only . . .’

  ‘Do for me? You can bring back Manuel is what you can do for me, Mister-shoot-‘em-up-Gabriel.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry about Manuel. He was a good man and a good friend.’

  ‘Why’d those men pick on my hotel?’

  ‘I wish I knew.’

  ‘If I thought it had anything to do with you and your private investigations, I’d throw you out on the street and Rattlesnake would spit on your shadow.’

  ‘As far as I’m aware, it had nothing to do with anything I’ve been working on.’

  She mimicked him. ‘You just better make sure you don’t bring any more trouble to Allegre’s door. I’m watching you Mister-trouble-maker-Gabriel.’

  He closed the door behind her.

  Just as he thought.

  Hopefully, she wouldn’t connect the dots.

  He took a shower. Thankfully, there were no more messages from Mabel on the steamed-up mirror.

  ‘Thanks for the cryptic message, Mabel,’ he said to her while he was getting dressed in fresh clothes. ‘And don’t think I’m not grateful, but slightly more information to point me in the right direction would be useful in future.’

  She ignored him, as she did most of the time.

  When he went into the living room, Sally Stackhouse was sitting on his breakfast bar.

  ‘Hi, Mister.’

  ‘Hello, Sally. To what do I owe the pleasure.’

  She gave a mischievous grin. ‘You talk real proper sometimes.’

  ‘Only sometimes?’

  ‘I got something else for you.’

  ‘I could certainly do with a bit of help. Not that Joseph Fowler wasn’t helpful – he was, but now I have many more questions than answers.’

  ‘You always had those.’

  ‘That’s true. How are they treating you over there?’

  ‘I’m okay. They keep trying to put a ring through my nose like they do with hogs. They don’t like me running round and gettin’ into trouble all the time. Well, I told ‘em – I ain’t no hog. If I want to get into trouble then ain’t nobody gonna stop me. One time, me and Jimmy and Rebekah got into trouble. We skipped lessons, and we was gonna go to the carnival that had come to town, but we never got there.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Oh! Is right, Mister. We hid in the store cupboard until everyone had gone into classes, but guess what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You ain’t a very good guesser, Mister.’

  ‘You got yourselves locked in.’

  ‘Have I told you this story before?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well, you was right, Mister. The teacher came along and locked the door. We was in there all night and had to pee on the floor. All three of us got into terrible trouble because a thousand people were out all night searching for us. Yeah, I never was much good at not getting into trouble.’

  ‘So, what have you got for me, Sally?’

  ‘I been told to tell you that you got to go to Cadiz.’

  ‘Cadiz? That’s in Spain, isn’t it?’

  ‘I ain’t never been any good at knowing where places are.’

  ‘Geography.’

  ‘If you say so, Mister. Anyway, I gotta go now.’

  And she disappeared.

  Another cryptic message. Spain! There was no way he was going to Cadiz in Spain.

  He made himself a coffee, took three long swallows and headed back to the hospital.

  ***

  Rae was awake when he reached the hospital. She looked pale, her eyes were droopy and a waterproof dressing covered the gash on her forehead.

  As soon as she saw him she burst into tears.

  He held her tight.

  ‘They won’t tell me what happened,’ she said between sobs.

  ‘That’s because they don’t know what happened.’

  ‘You tell me then.’

  ‘I don’t know either.’

  ‘Was I . . . you know?’

  ‘The doctor said no, but they’ve taken samples for analysis. Can’t you remember anything?’

  ‘Nothing. I was at home in bed, and now I’m here.’

  He sat down in the chair by the bed. ‘This is what I know: Somebody broke into your apartment, they drugged you, turned your apartment upside down looking for something, took you somewhere . . .’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘If we knew that we’d know who took you. They’ve been injecting you with a drug called Rohypnol that affects your memory.’

  ‘What did they want?’

  He shrugged. ‘I think it was a warning.’

  ‘A warning! From who?’

  ‘That’s a good question.’ He told her what had happened at the hotel restaurant.

  ‘And they killed Manuel?’

  ‘Sadly.’

  ‘That’s terrible.’

  ‘Neither of the men can be identified and the labels have been removed from all their clothes.’

  ‘Oh my God. What’s happening, Tom?’

  ‘I wish I knew, but I think it’s all connected: John Doe, Roger Harrison and the missing children.’

  ‘But . . .�
�

  He told her about what he’d found in Staten Island, about ex-Police Sergeant Neville van Dalen and the crash report, and about Blanche Rainey and Bruce Effron.

  ‘We need to . . .’

  ‘No, you need to rest.’

  ‘You think I’m going to let those fucking bastards get away with what they’ve done to me? Have you brought my tablet?’

  ‘I think they took it.’

  ‘What about my cell?’

  ‘Gone.’

  ‘Oh God! They know what we know, don’t they?’

  ‘I would imagine so.’

  ‘And they also know everything about me.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Shit!’ She threw the covers back and began getting out of bed. ‘I have to . . .’

  He gripped her ankles and pushed them back. ‘I don’t think so, young lady. That drug stays in your system for at least a month and affects your balance.’

  ‘I have to contact Lillian Taylor.’

  ‘You don’t have to do anything. I’ll do it.’

  She half-laughed, and then gripped the left side of her ribcage with a grimace. ‘You won’t be able to do it.’

  ‘I’m not a complete idiot.’

  ‘Where technology is concerned you are. Ask one of the nurses to see if I can borrow a tablet from somewhere.’

  ‘Okay, but you stay in bed.’

  She pulled the covers up. ‘All right.’

  He wasn’t convinced.

  ‘If you even think about getting out of bed, I’ll put you over my knee.’

  ‘You wouldn’t.’

  ‘I think you know I would.’

  He found a nurse and acquired a tablet on loan, but when he returned to the room with it Rae was asleep again. He sat next to the bed and held her hand. She was right, he had no idea what to do with the tablet. What was Lillian Taylor’s email address? What was Rae’s email address? He had the technological knowledge of a dinosaur – nothing.

  One thing he could do was buy her a cell. He wandered down to the shop in the hospital and bought a cheap one, put fifty dollars of credit on it and then took it back to the room.

  She was still asleep.

  The doctor stuck his head in, nodded and said, ‘That’s what she needs right now – sleep. It’ll be a while before the drug reaches the levels where she can stay awake for any length of time.’

  He hid the tablet and phone under the covers next to her hand, kissed her on the cheek and left. Sitting there waiting for her to wake up was not a productive use of his time – he had somewhere else to go.

  ***

  It was time to speak to Rosalind Winter. If she was going to destroy him, then that was just the way it had to be. She certainly had the money and power to destroy him.

  Everything seemed to lead back to her. John Doe had her unlisted number in his book; the dry-cleaning tags probably came from a shop owned by Maurice Stern; Maurice Stern owned a warehouse that had packing crates full of children inside; John Doe had a stencilling brush used on packing crates; Roger Harrison had the original crash report from 1984 written out by Police Sergeant Neville van Dalen, and was using a piece of paper with the dead Blanche Rainey’s telephone number on as a bookmark; Blanche Rainey’s son – Bruce Effron – was killed by a young Rosalind Winter.

  He didn’t know about the book of airport codes yet; or the safe deposit box in the Schweizerische Eidgenössische Bank in Lausanne; or who had owned the ornate gold magnifying glass; or what had been in the envelope passed between cars to Roger Harrison, but he was sure of one thing – Rosalind Winter was involved.

  There was a black SUV with smoked windows following him. He moved in slightly, so that it could pass.

  Once it had passed, it began to slow down.

  What was going on?

  He looked in the rear-view mirror, and saw a second black SUV with smoked windows nearly parked on his tailgate. He moved out to pass the SUV in front, but it moved out as well. In the end, he had no choice but pull over.

  Was this where they killed him?

  And he had no gun.

  Two people – a man and a woman dressed in dark suits – got out of the SUV in front and walked back to his Nitro. He lowered the window, and the warm air rushed in.

  The woman produced a gun and pointed it at him. ‘Leave the engine running and climb out of the vehicle, Mr Gabriel.’

  They were being very polite for killers, he thought. ‘What’s this all about?’

  She pushed the gun into his back. ‘Move.’

  He was bundled into the black SUV. There was a male driver in the front.

  ‘What about my Nitro?’ he asked.

  ‘We’d be doing you a favour by leaving it here,’ the woman said.

  They hadn’t covered his eyes. If they didn’t care that he knew where he was going, then they were probably going to kill him after they’d found out what he knew.

  The second man was driving his Nitro, and behind that was the other black SUV.

  Where were they taking him?

  The question was answered within a few minutes as they turned into an estate called The Cadiz Winery on the corner of Bravo Lane and Charlotte Street. Sally’s words came back to him: “You got to go to Cadiz”. Was this what she meant? Was this where he’d find the answers he was looking for?

  They reached a sprawling white stucco building with bunches of grapes in relief hanging from the walls, elaborately crafted metal balcony railings and terracotta tiles on the roof. The SUV – followed by the other two vehicles – went through an archway and parked up in a courtyard.

  ‘Out,’ the woman said.

  He was pointed towards a building directly ahead, through a door and then down a set of uneven steps. There was no handrail, and he had to press his hands against the wall to keep his balance. As he descended, the sweet smell of wine burrowed up his nostrils and seeped into his brain.

  At the bottom of the steps he turned right along a narrow arched corridor, which eventually opened out into a huge underground room with wooden barrels stacked one on top of the other five deep on the left, and a hive of human activity on the right. People were moving back and forth between maps, computers, a large table and . . .

  ‘Ah, Mr Gabriel, welcome,’ a man with cropped hair that was greying at the temples said. He had a neatly trimmed moustache, piercing eyes and uneven teeth. ‘I’m glad you could join us.’

  ‘I didn’t have much choice really, did I?’

  ‘No, I suppose not. Sorry about that. We had to stop you from causing us anymore trouble.’

  ‘Trouble? Me? I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Let me introduce myself. I’m Special Agent Nelson Brock from the Jacksonville FBI Field Office, and you’re bumbling around in my operation like an out-of-control automaton.’

  ‘Operation? What operation?’

  Chapter Twenty

  Brock walked him over to one of three maps each stuck on free-standing boards in front of the stone wall. ‘These are the routes Winter Trucking use through the US . . .’

  ‘Rosalind Winter! Everything seems to start and finish with her.’

  ‘She’s merely a player.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It all began with Clarence Winter and eleven other powerful men.’

  ‘Senator Raeburn?’

  Brock’s forehead creased up. ‘Yes, he was one of them. You and his daughter nearly ruined five years’ worth of work stumbling onto him.’

  ‘It was a bit more than stumbling.’

  ‘To be honest, we were surprised either of you made it out of that barn alive.’

  ‘I don’t understand. If you know all of this why haven’t you stopped them and arrested everybody?’

  ‘Going in prematurely won’t achieve anything. If we’re to shut the operation down, we have to do it permanently. That means cutting off the head.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We only know four of the eleven.’

  ‘Two are dead, aren
’t they?’

  ‘New recruitments replace those who die.’

  ‘Then why aren’t there still twelve.’

  ‘They call themselves: The Broken Circle – out of respect for the man who started it all – there’s only ever eleven in the group now.’

  ‘Is Rosalind Winter one of the eleven?’

  ‘No. Men only. And in a sense, she’s just another victim in all of this.’

  ‘How’s that? Isn’t she providing the trucks to transport these children all over the US?’

  ‘The world, Mr Gabriel. This is truly a global business, and make no mistake about it, a business is exactly what it is.’

  ‘So, how is Rosalind Winter a victim?’

  ‘Clarence – her grandfather – sexually abused her from the age of five. When she killed the pedestrian – Bruce Effron – in her sports car, and he paid off Sergeant van Dalen to forget about it, Clarence had the means to totally take control of her life. He forced her to become more and more involved in the business until she was as dirty as him. It also meant that he had someone to take over Winter Trucking when he died.’

  ‘When she was running the business she could have simply stopped transporting the children, couldn’t she?’

  ‘No. If she was ever going to face up to her crimes, it would have been a long time ago. She values her life over the lives of others – it’s that simple. The Broken Circle would have disposed of her in the blink of an eye. She may be the titular head of Winter Trucking, but it now belongs to The Broken Circle.’

  ‘Who are the four members you know about?’

  Brock moved along to the central board, which had photographs of four old men pinned to it, with their names and a lot of details written underneath each one.

  Tom tapped one photograph. ‘As soon as you began telling me about The Broken Circle, Maurice Stern jumped into my mind.’

  ‘Yes, we know about your exploits on Staten Island. I think they would have killed you if you’d stayed there much longer.’

  ‘They nearly did kill me in the Casablanca restaurant.’

  ‘That was a mistake. You weren’t meant to be there at that time.’