by Neil Watson
“Hello dear, it’s Hannah Toporofski. You came here yesterday when the TV people were doing that interview with me,” she said, emphatically.
“Of course,” replied Siobhan. “I remember. What is it? How can I help?” She chuckled to herself at how the caller had built up her role in the TV interview with Oliver. Nevertheless, Siobhan had rather liked her, and once Mrs. Toporofski had explained the reason for her call, obviously embarrassed and feeling foolish, Siobhan did her best to put her at ease. “Any information, no matter how unusual it may seem, could be of great interest, Hannah, so please don’t worry. Now, would you be able to email the photos of the truck across to me?”
The very mention of the word ‘email’ sent Hannah into a state of panic. “I’m so sorry, honey, but I can’t do computers very well. I can manage to turn one on and look at the pictures of antiques, but I’m afraid that’s about all I can do. I use the computer for researching and valuing the items. Some are worth quite a lot of money, you know,” Hannah went on, beginning to go off topic. “I’m afraid you’ll have to come back here if you don’t mind, Miss Siobhan,” Hannah explained, rather demandingly.
Siobhan didn’t mind. Knowing that she’d be driving near Hannah’s house on her way to Stateville later that evening, she agreed to call by, deciding that even if it were only to pacify the elderly lady she’d taken quite a liking to, it wouldn’t be too much trouble. “Thank you, dear,” said Hannah, gratefully. “I’ll see you later, then.”
***
Oliver had just pulled up in the Dickinson’s driveway when Siobhan called to tell of this latest development. “All leads are potentially important,” Oliver responded with enthusiasm. “We may as well follow this one up, as long as you’re sure you don’t mind stopping off in Paris. It’s turning out to be a busy time for both of us, isn’t it?”
“Sure is,” replied Siobhan. “But I rather suspect that Hannah’s just looking for any excuse to get back on the TV—so I’ll have a quick chat with her, get the pics she took, and then get on the freeway to Stateville. Quite honestly, I don’t mind a bit. It’s all very exciting.” What Siobhan really meant to say, but was a little too shy, was: “It’s all very exciting doing all this with you, Oliver.”
Siobhan then pensively thought a moment before continuing, her eyes a little moist. She’d not realised until this moment that she’d actually fallen head over heels in love with the handsome young Brit, and the thought of going away now, just for one night without Oliver made her feel quite sad. With a quiver in her voice, she spoke softly into the phone: “And you take care, y’hear? Look after yourself while I’m gone.”
Feeling rather embarrassed that she’d let her emotional guard down a little too soon in their burgeoning relationship, she cheered herself up before finishing the call by making a suggestion. Speaking in a more chirpy tone, she continued: “I’ve had an idea! Let’s meet up tomorrow around two o’clock for lunch at The Old Parlor and we can compare notes. I should easily be back by then, and even if your meeting hasn’t finished, I could get to see Mystery Caller as well. It’ll give us both something to look forward to, and the place does terrific surf ‘n’ turfs as well.”
“Great idea!” said Oliver, although not sure what surf ‘n’ turf was. “Tomorrow at two it is, then. See you there.” He hung up, amazed that such a stunningly attractive girl was so keen to spend time with him. And now he was about to go back to the Dickinson’s house for a Sunday evening with the equally beautiful Sam. He suddenly felt awkward, especially knowing that if he were to ask Sam and her dad to accompany him to The Old Parlor tomorrow, things could become difficult if the meeting with Mystery Caller went on too long and overlapped with Siobhan’s arrival.
“Hmm,” Oliver pondered. “Probably best to keep the two girls in my life separate, for now, at least.” Choosing between whether he should risk the possibility of Sam meeting Siobhan, or just taking the easier option of going to The Old Parlor alone, he decided on the latter.
CHAPTER 35
(SUNDAY, 21ST JANUARY, 2018)
Police Warning
A part from the doom and gloom of the national headlines, the rest of the radio news was local—and made up of quick bullet points, catering for the short attention span of the majority of the station’s listeners. But so as not to depress the audience too much with the current state of the country’s affairs, DJ David Roberts always tried to follow the news bulletin with some light-hearted relief. So, despite the seriousness of the subject matter on this occasion, the presenter had had some fun with the pre-recorded interview he’d made earlier with the British ‘detective’ who was gaining notoriety as ‘Young Sherlock’.
“Good afternoon, Young Sherlock. So, Mr. Holmes . . . that’s not your real name, is it?” Before Oliver had had the chance to answer, more questions kept being fired at him. “ . . . How do you like investigating a moider over here in the US? What’s it like being a detective here, compared to Baker Street in your own London Town?”
Oliver took the jokes at his expense in good humour and began answering with a very exaggerated British laugh, then proceeded to get serious for the next 45 seconds before the interviewer wound things up with a standard “well, that’s all we’ve got time for”, and: “Good luck with your investigations, Sherlock. Keep us posted with any developments. Oh, and please pass on our best wishes to Doctor Watson, won’t you?”
Roberts rounded off the very one-sided interview with a jolly “Ta ta for now”, and cut off Oliver’s response. He then played a record with a famous opening riff of saxophone. How corny, thought Ozborn. Even he got the ‘Baker Street’ reference, as he turned down the volume of the Gerry Rafferty song, and negotiated his way through Paris’s residential area towards the open stretch of road home.
Slumped behind the wheel of his pickup, Ozborn reflected on the interviewee’s ‘serious’ 45 seconds of prime-time radio that he’d just been listening to. The ‘Young Sherlock’ had very briefly told of how his associate investigator would soon be meeting Yakamoto’s cell mate, and that he himself had just come from seeing the forensic scientist who had originally worked on the Bike Radio Murder case. And as if that wasn’t enough to wind him up, Young Sherlock had then gone on to say that the scientist was aware of ‘certain discrepancies’ in the case files she had been reviewing.
Whatever did that mean? Ozborn was deep in thought contemplating what discrepancies they could be. As far as he was concerned, he just wanted old sleeping dogs to be left alone. But if this guy Markland, Ozborn thought, kept insisting on uncovering these ‘discrepancies’, he would have no alternative but to put a stop to this nonsense. For sure, the Markland guy was getting on his nerves, and Ozborn knew he needed to be halted in his tracks. The only question was how would be the best way to do that. He didn’t want to resort to violence, but if that was the only option left open to him, then what else was he supposed to do?
To relieve his rising anxiety, as soon as Ozborn had reached the stretch of road outside Paris where he could let all the horses from under the hood loose, he did just that, pushing the metal hard to the floor. It was just his bad luck that his speeding pickup caught the attention of eagle-eyed Sergeant Lorraine Mills, whose patrol car was stationary at the side of the road, waiting behind some trees in her favourite ambush spot. Bored with the evening’s inactivity, the most exciting thoughts that had entered her mind thus far had been what to feed her cats, Max and Monty, when she’d get home after her shift. Then after that, she may well spend an enjoyable hour or so sorting through her extensive collection of shoes, perhaps rearranging them in order of colour, instead of style. Yes, that’s what she’d do later, but for now she’d have to sit and wait for some action. She chuckled to herself as she thought of the many times her husband Lee would ask the same old question time and again about what can she possibly do with such an extensive collection of footwear. She knew he would never understand, so she’d given up trying to explain that it was what women do.
But
, seeing the speeding vehicle, her thoughts were brought sharply back to the here and now. Good! For her, this brightened up what would otherwise have been a very dull Sunday evening.
Mills adjusted her shoulder-length blonde hair tied up at the back, put her police hat on and donned her Ray Ban sunglasses, ready to pull out on to the road.
Once she had managed to catch up sufficiently to read the fast-moving Dodge’s license plate, she was able to obtain enough information on the police’s system to tell her all she wanted to know about this particular motorist.
Blissfully unaware that he was being followed, Ozborn slowed down as he neared the outskirts of Marshall. Thinking he was being smart, he didn’t want to alert any eagle-eyed law-enforcement officer that he was driving a vehicle currently registered for Non-Use, and that it didn’t have any valid insurance. So he drove nice and slowly through the streets all the way to his trailer park.
Unfortunately, so did Mills. “Damn!” exclaimed Ozborn when he spotted her police car in his rear-view mirror, just as he pulled up to his trailer. “Won’t they just leave me alone?” Ozborn dejectedly slumped back in his car seat and waited to be approached by the woman in uniform now walking towards his open window.
Assuming the fines he’d no doubt be facing for not having the correct vehicle documentation in place, Ozborn hadn’t realised that his high-speed drive from Paris had also been caught on the police car’s on-dash camera. But instead of being reprimanded about his speeding offence, it was something else that was brought to his attention. “Mr. Ozborn, I think we’re in a little trouble, aren’t we?” began Sergeant Mills. “Weren’t we meant to be attending a driver’s workshop for alcohol and substance abuse this morning?”
Ozborn had completely forgotten the course he should have gone to following his other arrest late the previous week. And things didn’t improve when the policewoman then continued: “And we know Sir, don’t we, that as well as your vehicle being unregistered for road use, it’s a crime to drive it without the appropriate insurance? Not only that, impressive as it is for a vehicle of this age, I have to say, we really oughtn’t be driving it at nearly double the legal limit, ought we?”
The peculiar manner in which the officer spoke really grated on Ozborn’s nerves, and it took all his reserve to keep cool. He was too old for all this hassle, he thought. As the officer then began talking into the radio that was strapped to her shoulder, presumably to headquarters to get yet more detrimental information about him, he wished she’d just disappear and leave him to get on with the rest of his life. He’d already had enough of her damned overbearing style.
But, suddenly, everything changed, and with it Ozborn’s luck for the better. The officer hurriedly re-approached his truck and continued to talk, this time much more rapidly: “We’re fortunate aren’t we, Sir, and apparently for the second time in the past few days?” she said, referring to Ozborn’s recent arrest. “I’ve been called to an urgent incident on the highway. Make sure we get our papers and licence plates in order without delay, and don’t drive the truck again until we do. Do we understand?”
Totally bemused, Ozborn just sat there and nodded open-mouthed, watching the officer run back to her patrol car, then jump in and speed off.
He raised his eyes to the heavens and thanked his lucky stars, having been convinced that this time he was going to be taken away for longer than just one night behind bars.
***
It was about six o’clock that evening when Siobhan pulled up at Hannah Toporofski’s house in Paris. Even before she reached out to bang the knocker, the door was opened. “Come in, do come in, honey,” invited the eager lady. “I know I must sound so foolish, but, honestly my dear, when I looked out the window earlier, it was just as if the whole scene from 1981 was being re-enacted—as if it were only yesterday. And I’m the last person in the world to distinguish one car from another. I don’t know a Chrysler from a Ford, but I simply knew I’d seen this one before,” she went on, continuously talking as she led Siobhan through to the study. She handed over her camera with the image of the pickup truck already displayed on its tiny screen.
Siobhan took a look at the blurred pictures through squinted eyes. “Okay, Hannah, let’s see if we can upload these to my laptop. We never know, do we? They might well turn out to be relevant.” Siobhan said, trying very hard not to sound patronising. The truth was she was beginning to think that Mrs. Toporofski might have lost some of her marbles.
Computer gadgetry was second nature to Siobhan, and after a few minutes fiddling around with a USB cable and her own Toshiba laptop, she was done, much to the astonishment of her host. “There! I was able to see the picture much clearer while I was uploading them. Oliver and I now have got something definite to go on, Hannah, and we both really appreciate you calling us. We’ll certainly let you know if anything turns up as a result of this. Well, I’d better be on my way—I have a long drive ahead of me. Thanks so much again, Hannah.”
Hannah Toporofski was rather disappointed that her guest didn’t want to stay longer to ask her some questions. As she said goodbye to Siobhan at the front door, she decided to ask a question of her own, and she came straight to the point. “Do you think, honey, that you’ll be able to get another TV crew to come here? You know, I could do a piece-to-camera about my déjà-vu experience, couldn’t I, honey?”
Siobhan desperately wanted to hit the road, but tried to be as polite as possible. After all, Mrs. Toporofski was a lovely old lady, but was definitely eccentric, to say the least, and even a little crazy, in her opinion. “We’ll certainly be in touch, Hannah, if the TV people want to do something. But I’m afraid it’s them who call the shots, not us,” was how Siobhan decided to leave things.
She held out her hand to shake Mrs. Toporofski’s, but instead of shaking it, the old lady leant over and kissed Siobhan on the cheek and whispered, as if she could read Siobhan’s mind: “See what you can do, honey. I know that you must think me a little silly, but really my dear, I’m not completely loopy—I know what I saw.”
Rather startled by Hannah’s action, Siobhan withdrew as respectfully as possible while trying not to cause any offence. “Goodbye for now, Hannah, and thank you for all your help. I’m sure the pictures will be of great use to us,” Siobhan said, crossing her fingers behind her back. Then, remembering one of Oliver’s colloquialisms, she added a good-humoured: “Cheerio, then!”
As she exited the door and got in her car as quickly as she could, Siobhan waved goodbye from her car window as she headed to the end of the road and then, unlike Marc Ozborn before her who had turned right towards Marshall, she turned left—towards Stateville.
As she drove along the freeway for her hoped-for meeting with M.J. Emanuele the following morning, all Siobhan wanted now was to reach the motel where she’d booked a room, have a hot shower, and collapse into bed. It had been an exhaustingly-full two days, not to mention the long night in-between. And tomorrow was likely to be equally busy.
Fortunately, the traffic wasn’t too bad, and thankfully for Siobhan it wasn’t long before her wish came true. After checking into a cosy room and performing her ablutions, she pulled back the freshly made bed cover. As she adjusted her pillows and made herself comfortable, she suddenly remembered that she should have sent Hannah’s pictures to Oliver.
The images of an old pickup truck surely couldn’t be all that important, and besides, in her opinion, this was probably all just a ruse for an eccentric old lady to get back on the TV. Deciding that she’d send the images to Oliver in the morning, Siobhan drifted pleasantly into a deep sleep.
CHAPTER 36
(MONDAY, 22ND JANUARY, 2018)
Middle Finger
O n Monday morning, Marc Ozborn began another day with a fresh sense of purpose and, unusually, without a hangover. Not quite believing his good fortune of the day before in only having his knuckles wrapped, he decided to follow Officer Mills’s instruction and get the old truck legalised. That morning, he would go int
o Paris to the vehicle licensing office to get the license plates renewed—they would be open until noon. And then, at midday, he’d be meeting the kid from the TV in The Old Parlor. Ozborn made a strong coffee, sat down and thought about how he proposed to stop the boy poking his nose where it wasn’t welcome.
At long last, he thought, things in his life were finally coming together. It had only taken him nearly 70 years! He now had a little money—not much, but certainly enough to afford things like sorting out his car insurance, buy wheels for his beloved truck, and even pay the rent on his trailer on time without getting hounded regularly by his landlord. He’d also managed to deflect the intrusion by Coldplay’s guardians, and one day he might even actually want to see his daughter. One day, although not yet. But what he certainly did not want was this Young Sherlock guy getting in his way and spoiling things.
For over 35 years, he’d carried around the unclear memory of what happened at Sandy Beach’s house, and he thanked his stars that he’d never even been remotely linked with her death. If he had, he wondered, he might have ended up the same way as the guy with the Japanese name.
Young Sherlock, indeed! Who the hell did this kid from England think he was, coming over here and upsetting things? As usual, Ozborn could feel his hackles rising, but aware of his own anger-management issues, he was determined to keep his emotions in check from now on. He’d have to be careful not to lose control when meeting the kid, he thought. Unwelcome attention from the crowd at The Old Parlor Tavern was definitely something to avoid, if at all possible.