by Gary Tulley
“Are fucking expensive, I hear you, but I worry about her. You know how it is?” Curtis wasn’t convinced and decided that Eastern was in a better position to argue his case.
“On your head be it my son, and if you’re looking for a best man, then I come cheap,” he jokingly replied.
They continued to talk shop for a while, and unanimously agreed that mutual contact was the best policy. Their conversation was curtailed. The impact arising from his decision to carry the case forward had now come home to roost. Maybe it was deemed that it would take the likes of an outsider such as Curtis to mark his card for him. If only merely as a gesture of exported confidence. The reality is, he was now on his own with everything to prove.
A cryptic smile crossed his face, and he grunted in exasperation as he released his thoughts once more. “What the ruddy hell have I let myself in for?” he questioned himself. Half an hour later, his would-be problems seemed to have disintegrated as the benefit deriving from a liquid lunch chose to leave its personal mark.
CHAPTER V…A lead in the right direction
Not that Eastern expected him to be there anyway, living or otherwise. As circumstance unfolded, his assumption became a lesson in elimination. In return a feeling of association with the elusive Mr X, nee Dowling. “A property can tell you an awful lot about its owner. Horses for courses” as you might say. “It’s all there. Personality, standards…you name it.”
Having obtained Dowling’s last known address via the local electoral roll (in this case three years earlier, it matched up with his late father’s, given at the time of his arrest). Eastern’s pursuit, now entailed a grass roots investigation, as a datum point. Two weeks had now lapsed since Joan had received the initial contact letter, threatening herself and her immediate family. If her estranged husband had held relevant information relative to the case, then he was keeping it close to his chest in her absence.
“At least it keeps you out of the limelight for the time being,” Eastern would remind her later, when in conversation. The all important address that he’d been trying to locate turned out to be a mid-terraced Victorian dwelling. Set on three floors, and leading off the Seven Dials area, adjacent to the rear of the Brighton main line station. From the sparse SP that he’d managed to glean, the records showed the residence in question (like the majority in the locale) could be found to be sub-divided into flats.
Eastern winced, and cursed under his breath. With six door bells to choose from, and no tenant title to aid him, left him giving way to utter frustration. “Just my poxy luck! Ah well, in it to win it.” Ramming his digit home on the bell of flat two, he twiddled his thumbs while waiting for a response, if any. Patience, as they say, is a virtue. In his case, and some five minutes later, found him rewriting the script. “Huh, that was a bleedin’ waste of time.” And he turned on his heel to leave.
As he did so, an alien voice drifted up from the basement area below, causing him to stop in his tracks. “Looking for anyone in particular?” the stranger enquired.
Eastern popped his head over the safety rail, and glanced down. He noted that the voice belonged to a scruffy middle aged individual, intent on sweeping the walkway.
“Yeah, I am as it happens,” Eastern replied cautiously. “Maybe you can help me?”
A quizzical look appeared on his face as the stranger fired back, “Are you the bloody police?”
Shaking his head resolutely, Eastern attempted to put the man at ease. “God no! But it seems that the person I’m trying to contact is obviously not in.”
“What did you say his name was?”
“I didn’t, although I was led to believe that a certain Mr Dowling rented flat two.” Crossing his fingers, he hoped that his bluff had paid of. Almost immediately the man’s eyes lit up.
“Huh! You’re wasting your time there guv, he pissed off over a month ago, and the flat’s been vacant ever since. I don’t suppose you’d know if he was still in the vicinity would you?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well it was common knowledge that the geezer was living on borrowed time, poor bleeder had the big C I think. Mind you, he never really got over the way that his old man died. Nasty old business that, it’s not every day that you get ‘banged up’ for life. No wonder he topped himself.”
“Well that bears out the facts in Dowling’s letter to Joan,” Eastern said to himself. And ignited his desire to continue their conversation. “Really? Suicide eh? I don’t suppose you would have a forwarding address to hand?” The stranger chuckled and shook his head, leaving Eastern to surmise that he was on a hiding to nothing.
“Is the Pope Jewish? No chance mate, here one minute, gone the next…know what I mean? Tell you what, you might want to try the pub on the corner for what it’s worth. That’s about as far as he usually went. Weird sort of bloke as I recall, what I call a mystery, know what I mean? You’d never get to the bottom of him.”
Eastern had heard enough by now and acknowledged the stranger’s assistance. “Thanks anyway, as you say, it’s worth a try…bye now.” Not feeling too overly disappointed, he turned on his heel and set off in the direction of the pub.
A couple of minutes later found a disenchanted Eastern seeking his first compulsive drink that morning.
“Yes sir, what’s it going to be?” the landlord enquired.
“Scotch and dry please, and hopefully you can mark my card at the same time. I’m trying to trace a regular punter of yours. He goes by the name of Dowling.” Eastern replied, in a somewhat patronising manner. Then continued in the same vein “Rumour has it, he’s moved on recently.”
“Yeah I can vouch for that,” the landlord readily sanctioned. “He certainly hasn’t been using the pub for the last two weeks, not that I’m grieved you understand.”
“Hum, that’s very interesting, why do you say that?” Eastern ventured.
“Truth is, he was getting to be a bloody nuisance…upsetting the regulars…mouthing off, that sort of thing. It’s just as well he’s gone, he wouldn’t have reigned here much longer. It was obvious that the guy had issues of some kind.”
“That bad eh, even more reason why I…”
“Tell you what,” the landlord intervened before Eastern could finish, and indicated a nearby table which was taken up by a voluptuous looking blonde. “For what it’s worth, it might pay you to have a word with the lovely Rita. She just happens to be on everyone’s case, if you know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I get your drift and thanks, I might just do that.” Picking up his Scotch from the bar, a cynical Eastern made his way across. “Rita, isn’t it?” he enquired delicately.
“Only to people who know me,” came back the curt reply. In anticipation, Eastern placed a £20 note between her ‘open plan’ heaving breasts.
“That says you know me well enough to hear me out. I happen to be short on certain information, and you happen to come recommended…right?” Stuffing the note into her handbag, she gestured to an empty seat facing her. Declining the offer, he was forced to command a sharp intake of breath due to the pungent odour, made possible by a two layer cocktail of perfume and BO that wafted up to greet him from the mask of foundation rouge and exuberant mascara. “God she must walk around like that for a bet” he told himself. Rita then brought him back to reality.
“So, you got through the interview darling, what do you want from me?”
“I’m looking for the whereabouts of a certain person, who used to frequent this pub. Does the name Andy Dowling mean anything to you?” Almost immediately, Eastern sensed her body language was in tune with his enquiry, as she opened up to remonstrate.
“If we are talking about the same sicko, then yes! You bet I do. And if you happen to catch up with him you can tell the lousy scumbag that he still owes me.”
“He’s not exactly flavour of the month, is he sweetheart? The problem is, I’m led to believe the guy has moved on, and I need to know where to start looking.”
She
then retained a more positive attitude in her approach. “You might want to try the Queens Park area of Brighton. That’s as good a place as any.”
“Yeah you seem pretty sure of yourself…how do you figure that one out?”
Before replying, her face distorted into a knowing smile, causing Eastern to choke on his Scotch. “Experience darling, it goes with the job. Over the years I’ve learnt that what the majority of men speak about when they’re asleep, they nearly always mean…trust me. I could write a book on the subject.”
It now became Eastern’s turn to smile, but in a benevolent way, as he turned to leave. “I appreciate the tip sweetheart, the next time I have a nightmare, I’ll try not to think about you.”
Apart from the evergreen grief arising from the traffic congestion in the city, he had every reason to feel a sense of satisfaction as he drove back to his office. “Hum, Queens Park,” he mused. At least it narrowed down the picture somewhat. Assuming of course that the information turns out to be kosher. Momentarily he was forced to shudder as to its origin, when a mental image of the ‘lovely Rita’, suddenly invaded his subconscious.
Having taken another solemn oath to rectify his troublesome door catch, he checked his answer phone for messages. “Damn! She’s obviously been in touch while I’ve been out…Hi Joan? Yeah it’s Mike, I just picked up your call. How are things in Hove at present?” The quality of her voice alone seemed to create a subsidy for any problems he may have held. For the first time in a long while, he felt good.
“Fine thanks, just fine. In fact I’ve had some company. Toni my journalist friend came down from London for a couple of days, so I can’t complain.” She then went to say that she had been in touch with her estranged husband. He advised that there was some ready mail waiting to be collected, and that she had arranged to collect it sometime within the next 24 hours. She further went on to suggest that they arrange a meet for that evening to mull things over.
For his part, Eastern had already made the decision to keep what little information he held on ice for the time being. “Another day isn’t going to make any difference,” he assured himself, or so he thought. In ignorance, pertaining to a vital development he could never have foreseen, it was later left to the media circle into shocking him back into the realms of reality. His defence was, and always had been, solid and unwavering, now it was under attack. “In my line of business, and for the benefit of hindsight, I only deal in facts. Whereas tabloid headlines are a two minute reminder, intended to lull the subscriber that the rest of the news is worth reading. Only to find out 24 hours later, that they’re fish and chips fodder.”
He’d only bought the newspaper that same morning for something to look at, whilst awaiting an order for a Chinese takeaway for his lunch. Bearing in mind his personal and current involvement with the case, it made his intended meal seem futile in comparison as the words of the headline instantly grabbed his attention. They were bold, they were specific, and they were in his face:
POLICE CHIEF IN BUNG PROBE
‘Whistle blower’ stands by statement
The report went on to say that a leading tabloid had been contacted some two weeks ago with a view to running a story concerning an alleged monetary theory. The accusation revolved around a deep rooted conspiracy, existing within the ranks of one leading police force. Owing to the importance of the allegation, the instigator has not yet been identified or indeed investigated at this stage and reporting restrictions had been put in place. One particular source suggests that there is a possibility he may have held a position in the force concerned, prior to his resignation. The story cover also stated that resulting from an initial enquiry, two members of that force have subsequently been removed from their posts within the CID branch and, as a result, were currently suspended on full pay, pending a full blown internal enquiry, led by the IPCC, due to get underway shortly.
A well delivered, and proverbial, smack in the mouth would have had less impact had it been available. As it was, a cold rush of air swept over his body, gripping him like a vice. Slowly he lowered the paper, his eyes still transfixed, as he struggled to take in his worst verbal nightmare. At the same time, his blood count accelerated and threatened to turn his heart inside out. On a par, a bell the equivalent to ‘Big Ben’ began pounding away inside his diffused brain that was going nowhere fast. And then, a sudden breakthrough, as a clouded image of Joan took centre stage.
“That’ll be £7.50 please Mike,” the proprietor of the takeaway requested.
“Say what?” he hadn’t yet adjusted to the situation at hand.
“Your meal of course! It’s ready to go.”
The ground was harder then what he thought as he came crashing down to earth, but at least he landed on the kosher side of reality. “Sorry Ling, I was bleedin’ miles away…here, keep the change mate.” Tossing a £10 note on the counter, Eastern grabbed his meal. Thrusting the paper under his free arm, he hurriedly departed the shop with the appearance of a man on a mission.
The puzzled Chinese owner watched him leave and was heard to remark “He’s obviously got a woman problem, I know he doesn’t gamble.”
Knowing his track record, the observation made was nearer the truth than could have been imagined. As ten minutes later Eastern began making a bad job of juggling a portion of spare ribs with a feverishly placed phone call. “C’mon Joan, pick up the bloody phone…ah, there you are thank God!”
“Calm down Mike, I’ve only been outside relaxing on the balcony, I get the impression you’re uptight. There isn’t a problem I hope?” It would have been so damn easy to have brushed her question to one side by saying no and passing his obvious persona off as a personality disorder. “But Joan is no ordinary client” he told himself, and pursued his original line of enquiry.
“I was wondering, have you had the chance to read this morning’s paper yet , or indeed any paper come to that?”
“To be honest Mike, I haven’t left the flat since breakfast, should I have done then? The papers I mean?”
“I’ll get round to that in a moment Joan. My biggest concern is making sure that you’re safe and well.” Eastern then went on to relay his morning’s progress and finished on a confident note, as to Andy Dowling’s possible whereabouts.
“At least it sounds like it could turn out to be a vital lead,” Joan concluded. “So what is the emphasis on the paper routine about?”
Rather than leaving her struggling with a head full of random scenarios, he agreed to meet her at the flat within the hour and summarised by stating “The case itself is beginning to get complex, so we need to hopefully draw some conclusions,” and left it at that.
“Oh I see you’ve brought me one to read…come on in Mike.” Joan indicated the paper under his arm and ushered him inside. Once he looked settled she produced a bottle of Scotch and a carafe of water, which she diligently placed on the table in front of him with an added tumbler. “I thought you might like to help yourself Mike, so relax and enjoy.”
For Eastern the moment now became surreal, as a wave of sentiment swept over him. “Silly I know, but how…?”
“What?” Joan cut in.
“The label on the bottle, it’s Bells. That’s the only brand I drink.”
“That’s right,” she replied coyly. “Just call it a woman’s intuition.” That was a nice touch he thought, but his real interest lay in the content of the newspaper which he handed to her.
“Here. This should give you something to think about Joan. Although it won’t be for the right reasons I’m afraid.” Nursing his Scotch, he sat back while anticipating a reaction. When, as he expected, his prophesy finally appeared, he began to witness a side of Joan that was strangely alien to him. As a result, he wasn’t about to argue her case.
Coolly and calmly she tossed the paper to one side. Leaning forward on her elbows, she rested her chin onto her clenched fists.
At that moment it became clear to Eastern that Joan wasn’t about to divulge her feelings
at this stage, choosing instead to create a hypnotic tension, whilst her inner thoughts remained secluded and locked into a time bomb that was slowly ticking away. A mask of determination etched in pure granite, now washed over her face and in the process accentuated her high cheek bones. Her piercing ice blue eyes bored searchingly into his own, almost as if she was looking for some form of approval that lay in waiting, ready to emerge from a hidden agenda when directed.
For once in his life, Eastern had been subjected into becoming a spectator, and a dumb one at that. Forced as he was into looking on open mouthed as her unflinching gaze gave way to acting out a hungry tigress prior to making a kill. This indeed happened to be Joan Travers playing on her now pent up anger. The verbal aspect of her one woman show, rapidly ensued.
“It looks to me like judgement day has arrived too early for comfort. This isn’t the way it was supposed to be Mike, the whole damn mess has blown up in my face. I’m far from being impressed, knowing that I’ve got more to lose than a ‘bent’ husband. I blame myself for not acting sooner, and knowing that with his influence, this token allegation will become yesterday’s news in a week’s time.”
“If the system is flawed, then…” he wasn’t allowed to finish.
“No Mike, let me finish. We can’t let the bastard get away with this, somebody has got to see him for what he really is. Having said that, I can’t afford to go public on the matter. The media circus alone would leave us far too far exposed.” She broke off suddenly, to shudder in resignation. Eastern couldn’t help but notice the first signs of a crack surfacing in her restrained composure.
“Take your time Joan, you’re not on trial here remember,” he demanded. “You didn’t ask for any of this crap to happen. Right now, you need to be stronger than you have ever been. I’m sure that between us we can focus on the positives that we are aware of, rather than dwell on the uneasy ‘spiel’ that’s beginning to emerge.” To console or be consoled, that is the question. And Joan was back to her old self once again.