by Hannah Howe
Chapter Twenty-Four
I’d felt better. I’d rarely felt worse. I was sitting in my office chair, trying to make sense of my situation. Gradually, everything came into focus: I was in my office; Faye was fussing over me while Mac and Sweets looked on. I felt light-headed, drunk, probably the result of mild concussion.
“Shit, Sam,” Faye said, “you’re black and blue.”
Faye dabbed my face with a ball of cotton wool. Although her touch was tender, the cotton wool stung; that would be the antiseptic she was applying to my wound.
At a guess, Faye had found me lying on the office floor, unconscious. Probably, she’d informed Sweets and Mac, as she’d sought assistance. Like true friends, they’d galloped to the rescue. That scenario made sense to me, though in all truth, my wits were so scrambled, hardly anything made sense.
“What happened?” Faye asked. She dropped a blood-stained ball of cotton wool into the wastepaper basket then fished in a plastic bag for a replacement.
“Brandon Bishop happened,” I said, “The incident should be on one of your cameras.”
Faye glanced towards a potted plant and a concealed camera. She nodded at Mac and the big man retrieved the camera from its hiding place. Then he plugged it into Faye’s computer.
While Faye dabbed my face, we watched the assault, winced as Brandon Bishop’s boot connected with my body. He kicked me time and time again. The camera captured the vicious gleam in Brandon’s eyes, the intense look of pleasure on his face. Most of his blows landed after I’d lost consciousness. The video nasty turned my stomach, made my blood run cold, produced a film of perspiration on my forehead.
At Sweets’ insistence, Faye replayed the video. I could tell from the hurt in his eyes that the images upset him. Nevertheless, the film served as evidence; he viewed the assault as Detective Inspector MacArthur, not as my friend.
“That’s it,” Sweet said through clenched teeth, “Brandon Bishop goes down for this.”
“Wait,” I said. Then, “Ouch!” as Faye applied another layer of antiseptic to my grazed cheek.
“Does it hurt?” she asked solicitously.
“Yes,” I said.
“Anywhere else hurt?”
Tentatively, I stretched my back, leaned to the left and right. “Mainly my ribs,” I grimaced.
“Let’s get you to the hospital,” Faye insisted.
“No,” I said, “My ribs aren’t broken; I’m all right.”
“How do you know that?” Faye scowled.
“Dan fractured my ribs. This feels different. Maybe I have a few minor internal injuries, but nothing more.” I finished with a winning smile. “I feel fine.”
“Liar,” Faye said. She dabbed my face with renewed enthusiasm, as though to solicit a yelp, as though to underline her point. Her ministrations hurt like hell and although I wanted to, I refused to yell.
In truth, the pain of my damaged ribs, and my wounded face, was only the half of it. Maybe for the first time in my career, I felt shaken, scared. My mother and ex-husband had beaten me, on a daily basis. But those blows had been an eruption of violent emotion, short and brutal, followed by remorse. Brandon showed no remorse, only enjoyment. And viewing his sadism through the security camera unnerved me. Whatever else the Fates had in store, a beating like that must never happen again.
As a child and young adult, I’d had the ability to bounce back from the beatings. Maybe that ability had been a curse because it bred a tolerance, an acceptance of my situation. But time had moved on. I was a different person now. In the past, I’d accepted the beatings because I’d blamed myself for everything; the beatings were my rightful punishment. Now, with the wisdom of hindsight and experience, I could see that I’d been wrong. Okay, I annoyed people, made mistakes, induced anger. But not to the point of unbridled violence. No one deserved that punishment. And, truth to tell, I couldn’t take it anymore.
“I’m going to have a word with Brandon Bishop,” Sweets said. He adjusted his trilby then strode purposefully towards the door.
“No, wait,” I said. “If you pick Brandon up for assault, what will happen? He’ll probably get bail and I’ll spend my days and nights looking over my shoulder, waiting for him to strike again. If it goes to trial, a smart lawyer will smooth talk the judge. Maybe Brandon will get a slap on his wrist, or a short sentence. Either way, I’ll have made an enemy for life. If we play it my way, we could hit the jackpot and get the Bishop brothers off the streets for good.”
“How?” Sweets frowned.
“Clearly they’re upset about something, and I reckon that something is Frankie Quinn.”
“You think they murdered Frankie?”
I shrugged, then winced as a spasm of pain shot through my body, “Maybe one or the other, or both murdered Frankie, I don’t know.”
“Why?” Sweets asked.
“Because Frankie had some dirt on them and was ready to spill it.”
“What?” Sweets scowled.
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe Brandon hit you simply because he likes hitting people,” Sweets suggested.
“Maybe,” I conceded. “But instinct and experience tell me that Brandon did this for a reason, and maybe that reason is linked to the murder of Frankie Quinn.”
Sweets slumped on to my client’s chair. He tossed his hat across my desk. He ran his fingers through his thinning hair then asked, “So what do you want to do now?”
“Sit on the camera evidence for a couple of days. Let me poke around. If I turn up nothing, we nail Brandon for assault. It’s win-win all round.”
Sweets glanced at Faye. In unison, they shook their heads. With a sigh of exasperation, he said, “You’re not rowing with both your oars in the water. And I must be just as crazy to go along with you.”
I grinned then glanced at Mac. Throughout the video nasty, and our conversation, Mac had remained silent. However, his eyes and ears took in everything, every little detail. And although his face betrayed no emotion, his fingers, curled into tight, knotted fists, revealed his innermost thoughts. He was angry, thirsting for revenge.
“What do you think, Mac?” I asked. “You reckon we’re on to something?”
He stared at me, his huge ginger moustache bristling with indignation. He said, “I reckon I’m very annoyed with you.”
“Okay,” I conceded, “I deceived you and I shouldn’t have. It was an error of judgement and I apologize. In truth, I feel a little scared. I won’t dismiss your words so lightly ever again.”
Mac nodded, a brief, curt gesture, a gesture of acceptance.
“So what do you reckon?” I asked.
Mac drove his right fist into his left palm. He growled, “Before this game is over, I reckon Mr Brandon Bishop is going to feel the full power of my fist. And if you don’t want to know the result, look away now.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
With my mild concussion and sore ribs, driving was out of the question. So Mac volunteered to chauffeur me to Gina’s attic flat. We went there in search of more information, something to tie Frankie Quinn to the Bishop brothers and, maybe, provide a motive for his murder.
As Mac parked his Bugatti, Faye arrived in her rust bucket; not the best of drivers, Faye had scratched and dented her car. On a regular basis, we discussed the prospect of Faye buying a new car. However, given her limited driving ability, maybe it was prudent to continue with the rust bucket, until she broke the habit of playing dodgems.
“What have you got there?” I asked.
“For the nipper,” Faye said, removing an armful of toys from the boot of her car.
I peered into the boot; it was crammed with toys and baby equipment; the back seat was loaded too, with a crib and blankets. “This must have cost you a fortune,” I said.
Faye handed the toys to Mac; he took them without complaint.
“My mother sent her monthly cheque. Guilt money for the way she’s fracked up my life. I decided to cash the cheque, rather than shred it.”
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“You always shred her cheques,” I said. “She’ll think that you’re weakening.”
“Let her think what she likes,” Faye said, dumping an armful of toys on to me; I winced, mindful of my sore ribs, but bore the burden without further protest. “The baby can’t be born into that,” Faye nodded towards the building site of an apartment, “with nothing. Better to spend the money on this stuff than tear up the cheque.”
“Good for Gina and the baby,” I said, “But what about you?”
“I can cope,” Faye said. “I’m not a fragile rose, waiting to wilt at the first sign of stormy weather; I’ve been there, where Gina is now; I’ve lived rough, served my time on the street.”
Faye slammed the boot shut with some feeling. Her time with Gina had stirred up some ghosts, and I wondered if she was ready, mentally, to walk with those demons. Nevertheless, the toys and baby equipment were a selfless, generous gesture.
Gina opened her door and we trooped into her flat. We made three trips up the steel staircase with our arms full of goodies and, as we lined the toys and baby paraphernalia up for inspection, she asked, “What’s all that?”
“For your baby,” Faye explained. “There’s more in the car.”
Gina picked up a teddy bear. She hugged it, kissed it, then eyed Faye with suspicion. “I can’t pay you,” she said.
“I don’t want money,” Faye said.
Gina examined the crib, ran a finger along its surface. The crib was elegant, with a canopy and wicker frame. “Why do this for me?” she asked.
“I’m doing it for your baby.”
“But why?”
Faye sighed. She glanced at me, then at a set of teething rings. She examined the teething rings, all brightly coloured, fashioned into friendly animal shapes.
“The why doesn’t matter,” Faye said. “I can do it, so I am. Some people give money to charity, I’m giving baby stuff to you. Just accept it and make sure that you do well by your baby.”
Gina waddled over to Faye. She adjusted her tee-shirt, dragged it over her shoulder. Then she grimaced, placed a hand to the small of her back. With her cheeks burning red, indignant with anger, she said, “I gave up heroin for my baby; you think I’d let him down?”
“It’s a boy, is it?” Faye asked, her eyebrows arching in mild surprise.
Gina shrugged and her tee-shirt fell off her shoulder. This time, she allowed it to hang there, limp. As before, she was naked under her tee-shirt, a sweat-stained garment in need of a wash.
“What happened to you?” Gina asked, turning to face me. She’d been so enamoured with the crib and toys, she’d barely noticed my presence. Indeed, apart from a curious glance, she’d hardly noticed Mac.
“I had an argument with Brandon Bishop,” I explained.
“He’s a psycho,” Gina frowned.
“Agreed,” I said. “Do you know Brandon Bishop?”
Gina shrugged, “We met, once or twice.”
“When?”
“A long time ago.”
Gina picked up the teddy bear then glanced around the attic. She searched for a suitable perch, a place to display the baby’s toys. In truth, the attic was a mess, a fact noted by Mac. He assessed the situation then set to work, rearranging the packing cases, planks of wood and bits of furniture. As usual, Mac set about his task with industry and purpose, a fact that puzzled Gina, to judge from her perplexed expression.
“I don’t want to talk about Brandon Bishop,” Gina said with a shiver; “he gives me the creeps.”
“I’m working on a theory,” I said. “My theory runs like this: Brandon, or Brydon, or both murdered Frankie.”
“Why?” Gina asked.
“Because Frankie could finger them for criminal misdeeds.”
“Criminal misdeeds?” Gina frowned. She twisted her features, bent them like plasticine, like a champion gurner.
I shrugged. “It’s enquiry agent speak.”
I helped Mac with a packing case. As Mac eased a slab of wood on to the packing case to create a makeshift work surface, a place to position the baby bath, I asked, “What did Frankie have on the Bishop brothers?”
“I don’t know,” Gina said. She turned away, hugged the teddy bear.
“Frankie knew Brydon and Brandon?”
“I guess he did,” she replied with her sweat-stained back to me.
“So he must have talked about them.”
“Not to me.”
“He was planning his future, your future; he must have said something.”
“I told you,” she said, turning to face me, her cheeks burning with anger, “I don’t want to talk about Brydon or Brandon.”
“Are you frightened of the Bishops?” I asked.
Gina paused to examine the baby bottles and sterilising equipment. She nodded, “Of course I am. Look what Brandon did to you. If I talk about them, they’ll kill me and the baby.” Then she looked up, her features alive with animation, her eyes wide with fear. She asked, “Is this what this stuff is about, to get me to talk?”
“The baby items are a gift from Faye,” I said. “They have no connection to our conversation.” I paused to allow my words to sink in then continued, “Maybe the Bishops murdered Frankie.”
“And I owe him, is that it?” Gina wailed. “Emotional blackmail.”
“You know all about emotional blackmail; you’ve been on the wrong end of it?”
“Sometimes,” she replied in a small voice.
“Do you want justice for Frankie?” I asked bluntly.
Gina sat on her canvas chair. She continued to hug the teddy bear. “I just want peace and quiet for me and my kid.”
“While the Bishops are around,” I said, “you’ll never have peace and quiet. They’ll always be there to threaten you.”
“I can’t speak out against them,” she insisted.
“What if the police offer you protection?”
Gina shook her head decisively. “No one can protect me from Brandon and Brydon, not even the police.” She turned to glance at Mac. He’d found a power drill amongst the rubble and now he set about placing the cupboards on the walls, creating shelves. “What’s all this to you, anyway?” Gina asked. “Frankie’s nothing to you.”
“Some people support the winning team, just because they’re winning. I always support the underdog; it’s the way I am, I suppose.”
We spent a further two hours, knocking the attic into shape, in preparation for Gina’s baby. After those two hours, the attic still looked like a building site, albeit a building site with a sense of organisation and order. Apparently, Jesus was born in a stable; in that case, Gina’s baby would be in good company.
While preparing for bed that night, I started to shiver, uncontrollably. The shivers went on for a good five minutes and along with the shakes I also sweat profusely. The shivers and cold sweat were a reaction to Brandon’s footwork; the physical pain was still there, but that pain would fade. The emotional pain gripped me and induced flashbacks to my childhood and my life with Dan. I looked at my phone and thought about calling Alan. Then I lay down to rest, closed my eyes and endured a troubled, restless sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Six
I woke up with a groan. Somehow, I managed to drag myself out of bed. After a shower and breakfast, I glanced at my phone and noticed a message, from my father; he wanted to see me; he provided his location.
My head felt clearer today and my bruises, although painful, were less troublesome, so I decided that I was fit enough to drive my car.
As I drove to my father’s location, the village of Cefn Cribwr, situated inland, four miles north of Porthcawl, I reasoned that the police could trace my father’s call. However, events had moved on and while he was still a suspect, we’d also placed Brydon and Brandon Bishop in the frame. That said, I remained mindful of Naz. Maybe he’d played a part in the murder. Almost certainly, he knew more than he was letting on. I’d have to talk with Naz again, but not alone; I’d swallow my pride and call on Mac.<
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Situated on a prominent ridge, Cefn Cribwr offered a splendid view of its neighbouring towns and villages, and the coast. Looking out to sea, I noticed that the sky was black and heavy. Furthermore, the air remained humid, physical and oppressive. We longed for a cooling breeze, for fluffy white clouds, for blue skies again.
I parked my Mini outside a council house, one of many that overlooked a nearby sports field. With my body held rigid to protect my ribs, I walked along a path and knocked on the front door. The door opened immediately and, after a furtive glance over my shoulder, my father ushered me inside the house.
The council house was furnished with the basics of modern living, and the front room, where we sat, was neat and clean. I glanced around the room, to a picture of an attractive woman in her mid-fifties, to a series of photographs depicting a young couple and their children. I also spied a line of snooker trophies, arranged on the mantelpiece. At a guess, the man in the photographs was the woman’s son; and pictures of him holding a snooker cue suggested that he’d garnered the sporting medals. The whole added up to a typical, warm, family scene.
“Who lives here?” I asked.
“A friend,” Gawain said, ducking his head in evasive fashion.
“A friend?”
“All right then,” he confessed, offering a shy cough, “a lady friend.”
Once again, I glanced at her picture. She was smiling in the picture, as you do, apparently content, happy, satisfied, with a beach in the background and the wind ruffling her curly grey hair.
“Are you two romantically attached?” I asked.
“Sort of,” Gawain shrugged.