by David Barry
‘Well?’ Michelle demanded.
I realised she wanted me to make a snap decision, pick up the phone and call the police. But I wasn’t ready for that yet, not with Rick’s murder hanging over me. And then I had an idea, a way to put off involving the police for a while.
‘You say Olivia deleted those threatening emails, and you deleted the last one...’ I began.
Michelle interrupted me to say, ‘Yeah, they were horrible. So I cleaned them out of the Trash folder as well.’
I was torn between relief and anger. ‘How could you do such a stupid thing?’
‘I was desperate. I wanted them gone. I was just trying to protect our daughter.’
I watched as tears ran down her cheeks. Not wanting to cause her any more distress, I placed a hand over hers and lowered my voice, injecting sympathy into my tone.
‘I know you were, sweetheart. But now we’ve got nothing to show the police. No evidence. The crime scene’s been wiped clean.’
She sniffed and brushed the tears away with the back of her hand, leaving dark smears from her eye-liner. ‘They can do all kinds of things now. The police can investigate people’s computer hard drives.’
‘I’m sorry to say this, Michelle, but Olivia’s been threatened. No crime has been committed. I’m just guessing, but I would have thought the technology needed to retrieve details from a hard drive is time consuming and costly, so I think the police might be reluctant to go down that route.’
‘But I’m scared, Freddie. We’ve got to do something. We can’t just sit here hoping this’ll go away.’ A sudden intake of breath as she remembered something. ‘What about this American bloke, down the Isle of Sheppey? What did he say?’
The moment I’d been dreading. Confessing to her that I’d not been to see him yet. She stared at me, her eyes piercing, waiting for my explanation.
‘I didn’t get to see him.’
‘What?’
‘I left around half-five tonight and got as far as Southwark, then Rick sent me a text saying he needed to see me, and he might have got somewhere in identifying this troll. I arranged to meet him in a pub near where he lives, but he never showed up.’
‘Why not?’
Avoiding her eyes, I stared into my brandy. ‘I haven’t a clue. I know he was waiting for his wife to come home, so maybe she was delayed. I tried to ring him but I never got a reply.’
I took a sip of brandy then renewed eye contact with her again.
‘But this is important, Freddie,’ she urged. ‘It could be a matter of life and death for Christ’s sake. You’ve got to get in touch with him right away. Ring him now. If he’s got some idea, some clue who this bastard is, he ought to tell us.’
‘You’re right, sweetheart.’ I took out my mobile and dialled Rick’s number, knowing damn well there would be no reply. I waited. Listening. Michelle staring at me, her eyes glistening from her recent sobbing.
I shook my head and hung up. ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘No voice mail. No tone. Nothing.’
‘Jesus Christ, Freddie! What are we going to do?’.
‘First thing tomorrow morning,’ I told her, ‘I’ll head for Sheppey and find this American geezer. He’s the one, according to that ex-vicar, who can give us some answers. And then, if we find out who this bastard is, we can get the law onto him. And if they can’t do anything, I’ll make certain he won’t be in a fit state to bother any children ever again.’
Michelle leaned forward, took my hand and squeezed. ‘For once, Freddie, I’m with you one-hundred per cent.’
‘Thanks, sweetheart. Try not to worry. If this Brad Shapiro’s as good as they all reckon he is, we might be in with a chance to get this sorted.’
Michelle stared at the Courvoisier bottle and took her hand away from mine. I saw the way she longed to reach out for the bottle but held herself in check. Eventually, she accepted the urge to pour herself another, grabbed the bottle and unscrewed the top.
‘Shit!’ she exclaimed. ‘I think I’m getting a taste for this stuff.’
Chapter 12
Wednesday 25 September 2013
As I spooned the last of my breakfast porridge into my mouth I began to feel queasy as the Today programme on Radio 4 neared news time. My stomach muscles rippled nervously as I waited for the pips to signal the start of the eight o’clock news, wondering if Rick’s murder was the main story this morning.
Michelle was making another cafetiére of coffee and was distracted and distant, probably still worrying about the internet threats to Olivia. I had phoned Bill earlier and spoken to him, asked him to hold the fort while I drove down to Kent, and suggested he and Nicky might research anyone by the name of Peter Chapmays at the records office. He told me Nicky had checked her office emails, and there was one from Alice, saying she would like a meeting at our office at lunchtime. I told him I didn’t think it would be a problem, as I hoped to be back from darkest Kent by then.
The Today programme broke off suddenly and I heard the BBC pips heralding the news. First the headlines prior to the details. Top story was about parliament voting against David Cameron’s decision to give armed support to the rebels in Syria. Next item was about a vicious knifing in Finchley, a man murdered for the sixty pounds he had in his wallet.
I didn’t hear the rest of the headlines, I was too absorbed with the brief report of Rick’s murder, knowing there was more to come a few minutes later. As the newsreader gave a detailed report about the situation in Syria, I thought about Rick’s murder. Whoever had slaughtered him wanted it to look like a violent robbery and had stolen his wallet. And probably took his mobile phone as well, which explained why I couldn’t get a tone of any sort. The killer probably destroyed it along with the SIM card. Unless, of course, it was a genuine robbery, a random attack by someone desperate enough to kill for money. No. There was no way I could believe that. Meeting me to provide information about Eclipse, and being murdered before we met, was just too much of a coincidence.
I watched Michelle closely as she poured hot water into the cafetiére. She was still deep in thought, oblivious to the news bulletin. If she didn’t react to the news about Rick when it came, I wondered what the best way to play it was. I had already told her I was going to meet him and he never showed up. She might then suggest I go to the police to tell them about our meeting, which was the last thing I wanted; at least not until I’d sorted out the business about protecting our daughter, using the help of Trev the Rev’s ex-prison contact.
Suddenly, it was like a cold hand gripping my throat as the newsreader read the story of Rick’s murder.
‘In Finchley, a quiet suburb of London last night, a vicious knife attack was carried out resulting in murder. Police suspect the motive was robbery. The victim, Ricky Lee Bishop, thirty-three, was married...’
I gasped and exclaimed loudly, ‘Jesus!’ Which got Michelle’s attention as she looked towards me open-mouthed.
‘What’s wrong?’
I raised a hand to silence her, making it obvious we needed to listen to the rest of the news report.
‘...and his wife telephoned the police when he didn’t come home,’ the newsreader went on. ‘She said he had gone to the local pub, a short walk from his home, as he often did to unwind of an evening. Mr Bishop was a computer programmer and worked from home. His wallet was missing, as was his mobile phone. His wife told the police that he didn’t usually carry more than sixty pounds in his wallet. Mr Bishop, father of a four-year-old son, was only thirty-three. Both he and his wife were prominent members of the local Baptist church.’
Michelle looked at me and shrugged, indicating she didn’t understand my concern with the news item. I realised she hadn’t been listening to the start of the bulletin, and she didn’t know Rick’s surname was Bishop.
‘That was him,’ I said as the newsreader continued wi
th the rest of the news. ‘Rick. The bloke I was supposed to meet last night. No wonder he never showed up. He was robbed and killed on his way to meet me.’
Michelle gasped, and her eyes widened with horror. ‘God! That’s awful. Terrible.’
‘Some evil bastard killed him for sixty fucking quid,’ I ranted, piling it on, because I suspected I was the reason for his death. ‘Sixty fucking quid. Can you believe it?’
Hands shaking, Michelle topped up our coffee mugs. ‘His poor family. He had a young son they said. And his poor wife. Oh, God! How can people...?’ She slumped into a seat and stared across the room, sinking into a weakened state.
I slurped the coffee too hurriedly and burnt my mouth. ‘Shit!’
I startled Michelle out of her decline, and saw her mind latching on to questions, frowning as she concentrated on working something out.
‘You don’t suppose - ’ she began.
‘What?’ I replied, uneasy about where this might lead.
‘You arranged to meet him. You don’t suppose it had something to do with what he was going to talk to you about.’
‘Why would it?’
‘Because it might have had something to do with this Eclipse.’
I laughed gravely. ‘How could it? No one knew about our meeting. He sent me a text. I don’t think anyone could have read the text he sent me.’
‘This Eclipse, whoever it is, seems to be capable of invading anyone’s space. Why not your mobile?’
‘No, come off it, Michelle, you heard the news. He was robbed. The fact that he was meeting me just happens to be a coincidence. I hardly knew the guy.’ Time to change the subject, I thought. ‘It’s this American bloke I need to speak to - urgently. My priority is to get this Eclipse bastard to leave Olivia alone. I won’t be happy until that happens.’
I could see this had done the trick. Michelle glanced at the kitchen clock and said, ‘Hurry up and finish your coffee. The sooner you get there to see if he can help, the happier I’ll be. Fingers crossed he can do something to help.’
‘Even if he can just find out who this bastard is,’ I said, blowing on my coffee, ‘that’ll be good enough for me. And if he is in Poland, I shall get him, if I have to fly out there.’ And as I said it, I had little idea how true those words were at the time. If I had know then... as they say.
Chapter 13
I drove south east and crossed the Thames at the Dartford Crossing. Most of the traffic was going into London and I made good time as far as the toll bridge. There was the usual crawl over the crossing, but nothing too daunting, and the drive down the M2 towards the Medway towns was steady and uneventful.
I’d switched my mobile to silent, and on the journey it vibrated several times indicating either a text message or a call which would go to voice mail. I ignored them, knowing one of them was probably Nicky ringing with news of Rick’s murder, and I wondered how she was taking it. I decided I would speak to the American first, see what he could do to help, and then contact her.
I’d never been to the Isle of Sheppey before, although I’d been warned what to expect. But I wasn’t prepared for the degree of neglect I saw as I crossed over the bridge onto the island. Boarded up shops and decaying buildings everywhere. It seemed to be an island that time had forgotten, and many houses and pubs had an austere 1950s look about them.
Back in the 1970s I was in the 9th Para Engineers, I prided myself on my map reading and stubbornly refuse to buy a satnav, in spite of my family moaning at me for being so obstinate. Maybe they had a point, I thought, swearing as I took a wrong turning towards Sheerness, the main town on the island, going left instead of right, following the coast around on the north western side. I passed a large dirty white building, featureless and sombre, with paint flaking and an old sign above padlocked double doors which read: SHEPPEY NITE CLUB. On waste ground next to the building was the skeleton of a rusting Ford Mondeo, long grass growing all around it, sprouting through the concrete cracks as nature attempted to reclaim the land. As a man who spends a great deal of time in clubs, because I supply bouncers to many West End night spots, the decaying club was like a hyena laugh as I thought about the rats and vermin which now occupied the forbidding empty space, dank, dirty and cold.
I drove through Sheerness town centre, glimpsing the usual fast food outlets and shops that sold nothing above a pound or 99p, before heading towards my destination. Brad Shapiro’s address was equidistant between the main town and Minster and I wondered why the hell this American had chosen to live on the Isle of Sheppey after his release from prison. And if Trev the Rev was to be believed, the young man was a computing genius, yet he had decided to settle in what looked like one of the most down-at-heel areas in the United Kingdom. Maybe his prison sentence meant he was unable to secure gainful employment. Even so, I thought as I drove past another shuttered shop at the edge of a housing estate, with his skills surely he would have had better options than this.
Perhaps it was because houses were cheap in this area. And his was an unexceptional house, probably built around the 1930s, although there was a hint of art deco about it, in the rounded bay windows with metal frames. But that was where any style ended. It was a detached house, although the neighbouring houses were only separated by a small alley leading to a back garden on one side, and a gap of about a foot on the other. The house was two-storeys high and, although the outside plaster was painted in sunshine yellow, there was something dark and sinister about the building. Maybe it had something to do with the way it deliberately kept out natural light. Every window had black venetian blinds, all closed tight, keeping daylight from intruding. I suspected I would be meeting someone who valued complete privacy or anonymity.
There were two small front gardens, divided by a path, although the garden on the left had been concreted over, the wall removed, and the area was now a car parking space. A black Volvo estate was parked there, which I assumed must belong to Brad Shapiro. As I walked up the path past the Volvo, I saw the back seats were folded down to make maximum room at the back to carry equipment about, although the space was empty.
I stepped inside a wide porch with an arched roof and rang the doorbell. I heard it chime somewhere deep inside this brightly-coloured mausoleum. I waited, listening for footsteps along the hall. Nothing. Silence. No sign of life at the morgue. I rang again and waited, staring at the solid-looking oak door. I felt I was being watched. It was a strange feeling, like being put under a microscope. And my instinct told me I was right. Most people like to display their CCTV cameras as a deterrent to burglary; but the one I spotted was minuscule, concealed in the eye of a sun figure in a circular carving on the porch wall to my right. The camera was so small, unless you stared at it closely it could easily be missed..
I rang the bell again. Still there was no sound from inside the house. The ex-vicar had told me the American rarely went out, and even if he did, he didn’t usually go very far. So I took out my notebook and scribbled on one of the sheets.
‘Dear Brad,’ I wrote. ‘Trevor Reagan said I could call on you for advice. Having problems with a computer troll. Will call back in a half hour. Freddie Weston.’
I pushed the note through the letter box and walked back to the car, intending to find somewhere to have a coffee, and planning to return in a little while. As I got back in the car, and glanced towards the house, I saw the door was open, and a tall figure was standing in the doorway with my note in his hand. He must have watched me on the CCTV, decided not to answer, but when he saw me scribbling the note and posting it through the letter box, he must have read it and decided to answer.
This man was clearly a loner and guarded his privacy scrupulously.
I walked back up the front path. As I got closer I saw he was a man in his early-thirties, with jet black, medium-length hair, large brown eyes, a smooth, pale complexion. Thin-faced and good-looking, he reminded me of m
any gamblers I’ve known, starved of vitamin D because they rarely see daylight.
As I reached him, he gave me a wide grin and offered me his outstretched hand. ‘Mr Weston? You don’t mind if I call you Freddie? And any friend of Trevor’s is most welcome. Sorry to be so cautious and to have kept you waiting, but I expect Trevor has told you how we met.’
His accent was soft, not a harsh American voice, and his grip was firm, dry and reassuring as we shook hands. My first impression was that I liked this man and felt confident that he might be able to help.
‘Yes, he did say something...’ I began, but he interrupted me, stood aside and gestured for me to enter his mysterious stronghold.
‘Please. Come in. Then you can tell me all about what troubles you. I expect it’s my services as a geek you want.’
He chuckled warmly and closed the door behind me. A long hallway, dark and bare, with a staircase on the left, and devoid of personality. There were no pictures on walls which were papered in seventies woodchip and painted a standard magnolia, and the stairs and hall were uncarpeted. The hallway lacked any character, as if nobody lived here, and I guessed it hadn’t changed since the day he moved in.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Brad Shapiro said, amusement in his tone. ‘How bare and lacking this hallway is. But I’m a practical person, and a hallway is merely a passage, a means of getting from A to B. But this here’s my pride and joy. Observe.’
He ushered me into a darkened room. As I stepped forward, discreet wall lights came on, and I found myself standing inside what looked like a vast control room, a space station or a set created by a film studio. There were computers and monitors, cameras, laptops, screens showing the CCTV images of the exterior of the house, and a large flat-screen TV dominating almost an entire wall. This was gadget world gone berserk and I half expected the bass opening of the Bond theme to start pounding,. I felt as if I was cut off from reality, not just because of the state-of-the-art high-tech surroundings, but because no natural light bled through the blinds. It was like being sealed in a vacuum, and I wondered if the room was soundproofed. I listened carefully for any sounds from the outside world, a dog barking or a car passing, but there was no discernible sound.