by Hannah Howe
“Why didn’t you say?” I smiled.
“Because...,” he hesitated. “Because I didn’t want to embarrass you. I don’t embarrass you, do I?” he added with a rush.
“Stop asking that question,” I scowled. “Of course you don’t embarrass me.”
Gawain nodded. He seemed anxious, perched on the edge of his armchair. His eczema had flared up and it covered his neck in a painful rash. He wore an open-necked shirt in an effort to avoid further irritation. However, he still felt compelled to adjust the collar from time to time, and caress his neck with the back of his hand.
Putting his worries to one side, my father leaned towards me and frowned. “Your face,” he asked, “what happened?”
“Brandon Bishop happened.” I offered a series of edited highlights, a Parental Guidance version, not the full-blown XXX video nasty.
“I’m going to floor him,” Gawain said, standing, driving his left fist into his right palm; “I’m going to put him in the ground.”
“And wriggle free of one murder charge only to get hooked by another?”
I urged my father to sit down then told him about Brydon and Brandon, about my suspicions. At the conclusion of my tale, he offered a contrite nod then said, “This is all my fault. When it’s all over, I’ll walk out of your life and you’ll never see me again.”
Tears stung my eyes. I wiped them away with an irritated gesture. “If you really want to hurt me, fine, do just that.” I pointed to the grazes on my cheek. “These are just bruises; they’ll heal. I’ve had dozens of bruises before. But the hurt of you not being there will never heal. If you want to abandon me for a second time, fine, you do just that. But if you abandon me now you’ll walk away with a large piece of my heart.”
“You care,” Gawain said. Unashamedly, he began to cry.
“Of course I care, you idiot. You’re my father; my dad.”
We stood and hugged, shed tears together. We needed the physical contact, the tears and their emotional release. We were trying to bridge a gap that stretched back in time, thirty-four years, to the day of my birth, to the day when my father walked out on me. He was still Gawain to me, but with each passing day, he was also my father. The crisis over Frankie Quinn had drawn us closer together, helped bridge that time gap and emotional void.
“I won’t hurt you ever again,” Gawain said, “I promise.” He placed a hand to the back of my head, kissed my brow then sighed, “I’ve been a bad father.”
“It’s not too late to change, to do some good.”
“What do you want me to do?” he asked, standing back, forcing up a smile, holding me at arm’s length.
“Hand yourself in. Talk with the police. Tell them the truth. The focus is on Brydon and Brandon now; you’re not the prime suspect anymore.”
Gawain nodded. “I’ll do that,” he said. “I’ll do it, for you.”
We walked out to my Mini. In an effort to hide my damaged ribs from my father, I slipped awkwardly into the car. After I’d made myself comfortable on the driver’s seat, I wound down the window and said, “I think Frankie had some dirt on the Bishops; any idea what?”
Gawain shrugged. “The Bishops are into so many things, from the heavy violent end to the fancy technical stuff.”
“They are several sandwiches short of a picnic,” I said, “so who handles the technical stuff?”
My father repeated Mac’s statement, “Faceless men. Nameless men. You know how it is; the people in the sharp suits carrying the smart briefcases; they are the biggest cons. In the past, you’d don a mask and look for a soft target, a security van driven by men past their prime, a factory offering an easy wages snatch. Now, you wear a sharp suit and carry a briefcase; you deal in the City, you hack into computers; back then, we looked to net thousands; these days they drop millions into black holes, scoop them up, and no one bats an eye. I considered myself a professional, but in reality, I was an amateur. The City slickers and cyber crime merchants of today, they are the true bastards, not the likes of back pocket pickers like me, Frankie and Stan.”
“Don’t forget to talk with the police,” I said; “tell them everything.”
“I will,” my father promised. “But after I’ve talked with the police, I want a piece of the Bishops. No one hurts my Princess and gets away with it.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
That afternoon, I met up with Mac and he chauffeured me to the Taff Green warehouse. Outside the warehouse, Nudger Nicholls and Harry ‘the Hat’ Pearson were loading sports equipment on to an articulated truck. The truck had European number plates and logos; although Naz despised our European cousins, clearly he was happy to trade with them.
Cassandra and the Rottweilers were in the glass-panelled office in the depths of the warehouse. She was feeding the dogs, which were chained to the wall.
While the Rottweilers consumed their raw meat, Cassandra disappeared into a cubicle to wash her hands. She glared at me, a look that screamed disdain, though she did offer Mac an appreciative glance.
Passing Cassandra on the way, Naz strolled out of the cubicle, his hands busy, adjusting his trousers. Apparently, he was human enough to answer a call of nature. Maybe one day he’d flush his words and attitude down the toilet as well, to a place where they belonged.
“What happened to you?” he asked, eyeing my bruises, offering a huge grin.
“None of your business,” I said.
Naz walked over to me, towered over me, glared at my bruises. “I would have paid good money to have seen that,” he laughed.
“I bet you would,” I said.
For the first time, Naz acknowledged Mac; he did so with a look of suspicion, coupled with conceit. His top lip curled into a snarl, his eyes narrowed. His posture said, ‘look at me; I’m hard, I’m mean’.
“He with you?” Naz asked, jerking a thumb over his shoulder towards Mac.
“Is that a problem?” I asked.
“He’s a poof,” Naz sneered. “You’re walking around with a poof; you like queers?”
“I like decent people,” I said.
“Queers ain’t decent.”
I smiled politely. “We kill what we fear and we fear what we don’t understand.”
“What?” Naz scowled.
“Just mumbling to myself,” I said.
Naz wandered into the warehouse. We followed without haste, without breaking sweat. Indeed, I felt calmer by the hour; the nightmares of the assault had faded; true, my nerve ends still jangled occasionally and my confidence wavered from time to time, but I felt more like my old self today; Samantha at ninety per cent.
“You want to buy some exercise equipment?” Naz asked. He nodded towards a punchbag then eased his hands into a pair of boxing gloves.
“I want to buy some information,” I said.
He grinned, “On Frankie Quinn?”
I nodded, “I reckon Brydon or Brandon murdered Frankie.”
Naz’s grin broadened. He thumped the punchbag, landed a vicious right hook. “So I’m in the clear,” he said.
“Maybe,” I said. “What did Frankie have on the Bishops?”
“How should I know?” Naz asked.
“Like to take a guess?”
“What’s it to me?” he asked, rolling his shoulders, hitting the punchbag with a series of right hooks and left uppercuts.
“If I get rid of Brydon and Brandon that will leave the way clear for you.”
“And that don’t bother you?” He paused, to catch his breath, to wipe the sweat from his brow.
“It bothers the hell out of me,” I conceded. “First, we get rid of the Bishops, then we get rid of you.”
Naz laughed. He pressed his sweat-stained boxing glove against the end of my nose. Strangely, the scent from the boxing glove was stimulating; it heightened my senses, enticed a basic, animal response; fight or flight: prepare for action.
“You’ll never get rid of me,” Naz snarled. “I’m your worst nightmare.”
“What did
Frankie have on the Bishops?” I asked, ignoring his comment.
Once more, Naz thumped the punchbag, sent ripples up the supporting rope, to the rafters, made them groan. He glared at Mac. “You want me to talk in front of this poof?”
“His name is Mac,” I said. “And if you insult him again all deals are off.”
Naz paused. He steadied the punchbag, leaned against it, mopped his brow. Big with his mouth and displays of bravado, he was out of condition; dangerous in the short term, he’d wilt, if you could stay the course.
“Brydon and Brandon like the cinema,” Naz said.
“Your point?” I asked.
“They like to make home movies, especially Brandon.”
“Go on.”
“They like movies that don’t appear on TV or in the cinema. You know movies with a bit of this, a bit of that, a bit of torture.”
“They sell these movies?” I asked.
“Yeah. And their backers put them on the Internet, the secret Internet for perverts. He’s a pervert.” Naz glared at Mac, as though to underline his point. “You know what I’d like to do with perverts?” With a grin, Naz drew his right fist back then thumped the punchbag, his blow containing a mixture of aggression, anger and hate. “Imagine if that was him.”
The warehouse was quiet; Cassandra had disappeared; Naz’s minions were still busy, loading the articulated truck. So, Mac drew his Beretta from its holster, took careful aim at the rope dangling from the rafters and said, “Now let’s imagine that punchbag was you.” Mac fired one shot, which severed the rope, sent the punchbag crashing on to the floor. “It’s a wee point I make,” Mac smiled, “but I assume it’s a point well taken.”
And, with eloquence in our stride, we walked out of the warehouse.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I returned to the office where I fed Marlowe then made a beeline for my newspaper archive. The file on local murders was mercifully slim, so I sat at my desk, sipped bottled mineral water and studied the file.
Within minutes, one of the murders leapt out at me. The murder was nine months old; the victim was Jolene Merchant. Jolene shared many of Gina’s characteristics: heroin found in her body suggested that she’d been a heavy user; her address placed her in Gina’s parish; her age made her Gina’s contemporary. Furthermore, her body had been badly mutilated, not with gunshot wounds, but with evidence of sadistic torture. The word ‘sadistic’ held my attention. In my career, I’d seen nothing as gruesome as Frankie Quinn’s murder; the graphic nature of the newspaper report revealed that Jolene had succumbed to the same level of sadism.
Unsolved, the murder of Jolene Merchant offered potential links to Gina and, maybe, Frankie. True, firm evidence was thin on the ground, but my newspaper files and further details, gleaned from the Internet, suggested that I should talk again with Gina.
However, first another video link conversation with my beloved.
Late in the evening, the sky was dark so the office cried out for illumination. Conversely, I had a mind to hide my bruises from Alan, to skate over that aspect of the enquiry. So, I sat in the dark, leaned forward and allowed my hair to fall over my face.
We established the video link via my computer and when Alan’s smiling face appeared on the screen, I asked, “How are you?”
“Fine,” Alan said. “Preparing for home. All packed.” He adjusted his phone and his image wobbled. Then he asked, “How are you?”
“Okay,” I lied.
“Where are you?”
“In my office.”
“It’s dark,” Alan complained; “why don’t you switch on the light.”
Oh, hum...what to do? To claim that the light bulb had blown and perpetuate the lie, or to switch on the light and sit in shadow? I plumped for the latter, leaning my head to the left so that my hair fell over my face.
“That better?” I asked with a smile.
“I still can’t see you,” Alan frowned.
“How about now?” I asked, shuffling on my seat, making a minor adjustment to my position.
Alan leaned towards his phone. He stared at my image. Deep furrows appeared on his forehead. “What happened to your face?” he asked.
“Oh, I just tripped and fell,” I said lightly.
Alan sat back. With some people, you could lie and get away with it. However, Alan had a built-in bullshit meter; he knew when you were lying, when you were hiding the truth. “Who hit you?” he scowled.
“Brandon Bishop. I annoyed him. Fair dos, you know how annoying I can be.”
“Have you informed the police?” Alan asked, his face deadly serious.
“The whole incident was recorded.” I abandoned the pretence, went into detail, explained about Faye’s secret cameras.
“So they’ve arrested Bishop?”
“We’re holding our fire,” I said, “looking to get the twins off the streets.”
Alan paused. He lapsed into deep thought.
While Alan searched for the right words, Marlowe jumped on to my desk and flicked his tail at the camera. Then he stretched and leapt on to the windowsill, in preparation for a night in the alley.
“You must do what you must do, I understand that,” Alan said, “but don’t place yourself in any unnecessary danger.”
“I have Mac, Gawain and Sweets fussing over me,” I said. “And Faye. Honestly, I’m fine. No one will lay a finger on me again.”
Alan nodded, as though satisfied. Then he asked, “What about your ribs?”
“My ribs?” Although tempted to lie, I saw the folly of that endeavour. So instead, I asked, “How can you tell that from the other side of the planet?”
“I know you,” Alan smiled. “Every minute detail.”
“Maybe that’s too personal,” I frowned. “After all, the secret of a successful marriage is to retain an air of mystery.”
“You are avoiding the issue,” he said, offering commendable restraint, showing customary patience.
“My ribs?”
“Yes.”
“He hurt them too. They are a bit sore,” I confessed.
“How sore?”
“A lot sore.” I pushed out my bottom lip, into a pout. “They might limit the athletic side of our honeymoon.”
Alan smiled. And, for the first time that evening, the smile touched his eyes. “We are going to Bulgaria, not the Olympics.”
“You know what I mean,” I said.
He nodded, “I guess I do.”
I bit my lip, then asked with some trepidation, “You still want to marry me?”
Alan stared at the camera. With his face straight and serious, he said, “I’ve had two offers since I’ve been out here.”
“Liar.” I poked my tongue out. Then I leaned forward as a wave of matrimonial anxiety washed over me. “Have you?” I asked, biting my lip again.
“No,” he laughed. “And, yes, I still want to marry you.”
“I love you,” I said.
Alan blew me a kiss. “I love you more.”
“You know what,” I said, “my ribs are feeling better already.” I sat back and stretched my arms above my head. My ribs hurt like hell. However, I managed to bite my inner lip and suppress the pain.
“That top is very suggestive when you do that,” Alan said, his body language animated as he peered at the camera.
“Want to see a bit more?” I asked, toying with a button on my blouse.
“Go on then.”
I poked my tongue out again then dropped my fingers from the button. “Wait until you get home.”
“And then?” Alan asked.
“You can rub some oil into my aching muscles and bones.”
“And what about the bits that don’t ache?”
My reply made Alan smile and yours truly blush. Roll on our honeymoon; it couldn’t come soon enough.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The following morning, I returned to my office where I found Mac waiting for me. Together, we planned to call on Gina to discuss the murder
of Jolene Merchant.
However, as we walked towards Mac’s Bugatti another car rolled into view, a long black limousine. Brydon Bishop drove the limousine, somewhat erratically, bumping its tyres against the curb in his endeavour to park the car.
“I want a word with you,” Brydon said, climbing out of the limousine, pointing at me.
“Go ahead,” I said, “talk.”
“In private,” Brydon said while glaring at Mac.
I glanced along the street. Children, including Rosie and her friends, were out playing; a violent scene would not be good for them. So, I nodded towards Mac, indicated that he should look on from a distance while I followed Brydon into the alley.
Brydon Bishop was a dangerous man, clearly unstable. In another age and another time, my mother would have called him ‘simple’. Lacking intelligence, he’d used his natural attributes – muscle, a fearless attitude and a violent streak – to forge a comfortable lifestyle. Along with his brother, he’d bullied his way to the top. Or rather, to a ledge close to the top. At a guess, there were villains above the Bishops, men with greater intelligence. And doubtless those villains exploited the Bishops as much as the Bishops exploited lesser souls. Call me a soft touch, but I saw Brydon and Brandon as victims. I felt sorry for them, felt sad for the way they conducted their lives. Nevertheless, I sensed danger and, as I entered the alley, I made sure that Mac was looking on.
“I have a present for you,” Brydon said. He removed a package from under his left arm then ripped the paper to reveal a box encased in purple velvet. “For your wedding.”
“You are well informed,” I said.
He nodded then grinned, “I keep tabs on the local announcements; births, marriages and deaths. Especially the deaths. I like a good funeral, me.”
“I bet you do,” I said.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” he asked, frowning at me, puckering his lips; he looked like an overgrown child, a child who’d been refused an ice cream.
“On my wedding day,” I said.
“It’s knives,” Brydon said. “Knives are always handy in a marriage.” He spoke in a gruff monotone, a tone that lacked all sense of irony. “I want to apologise for my brother’s behaviour. You must understand that you upset my brother; Brandon is a sensitive person, just like me. We get upset very easily. And when Brandon gets upset, I get upset. Even so, hitting you was out of order. So you won’t upset Brandon again, will you?”