by Neil Watson
This time, Emanuele nodded. “I don’t see why not,” he confirmed.
As Siobhan laid it out on the desk and got her phone ready, she noticed that its battery level had already gone down to only 19%.
She hurriedly took some pictures of the note that had been written on both sides, but the auto-flash blurred every image, so she took them again, this time with the flash off.
Eventually, the photos looked satisfactory, and sufficiently clear for Siobhan to text the best ones across to Oliver—she guessed he’d probably be at The Old Parlor by now, getting ready for his meeting at noon.
The phone’s battery was now at only 16%, but she also wanted to get some shots of Emanuele himself because she thought they might be useful for Oliver’s blogs as well as for her aunt’s newspaper. She frowned as she realised that more pictures would mean an even greater drain on the battery. Still, it had to be done, she thought.
By the time she had finished, she was now desperate for some water, and asked if she could wash her hands, and whether the tap water in his ‘bathroom’ was suitable for drinking.
This was exactly what Emanuele had been hoping to hear. “Why of course. Please help yourself,” he said, gesturing with his hand for Siobhan to go behind the screen.
At first, she approached the sink, bent down, and turned on the cold-water tap, so that she could splash her face to freshen up. She lifted her head up to dry her eyes, and looked at herself in the mirror above the shelf.
Then she noticed a jar with something unusual in it, but it took a while to towel her face dry, before she was able to examine it closer.
Horrified at what she saw, she let out a deafening scream that had the guard come rushing in. Emanuele looked at him and nodded towards the bathroom.
“Have you been at it again, Mr. Emanuele? You know that’s not a nice thing for the young lady to see, don’t you?” said the guard in a firm, but jovial manner. Luckily for Siobhan, as her stomach muscles lurched, she had a toilet pan just behind her in which to vomit.
“I’m so sorry, my dear,” apologised Emanuele, rather insincerely. Knowing exactly what must have caused his visitor’s reaction, he reached around to remove the jar from the shelf, and in doing so held it up to the light, pleased with how his missing finger’s thick hair was continuing to grow so well in the watery substance that covered it. And the nail, also nourished by the liquid, was now at least two inches long. “You see, I’m left handed, and it was my trigger finger,” he began, as if that were enough of an explanation for his grotesque keepsake, but he went on: “I chopped it off myself as penance for all those bad things I did. When I found God, I had to show my sorrow to Him.”
Having decided she’d spent quite enough time in the company of the peculiar man, Siobhan told the guard in no uncertain terms that she wanted to leave “right away”, quickly gathering up her things and walking towards the door.
The guard winked behind him at Emanuele, as he accompanied the young lady back to the prison’s Reception.
Still shaking, Siobhan ripped off her ID tag and threw it on the desk. “He’s sick!” was all she could say to the uniformed man.
“Have a nice day, Ma’am,” she heard the man reply as she pushed against the rotating door and exited the building.
In his room, Emanuele continued laughing with the guard who had by now returned. “We’ve got to do something to pass the time, haven’t we?” chuckled the inmate.
“We do, Mr. Emanuele, we surely do,” confirmed the guard. “It gets ‘em every time, doesn’t it?” Emanuele nodded with a wry smile. But despite the rather cruel entertainment he had enjoyed at his visitor’s expense, there was something else that had given him a great sense of satisfaction—that at last someone had asked him about Yushi, and had learned the truth about what had happened in 1981.
Emanuele sat down and mulled over how Yushi, during his last hours on earth, had turned to him and begged to be forgiven for his sins. Although Emanuele was not a man of the cloth, for Yushi, he had been the closest thing to any God with whom he felt comfortable enough to disclose all. Emanuele had sworn on the Holy Bible that he would look after his confession note, and only share it when the right person came along. He’d spent many years behind bars, with very few visitors, and Siobhan, with her beautiful big blue eyes, was, in his opinion, that right person. And with his cancer gradually spreading, he was relieved that he’d been able to pass on what appeared to be Yushi’s confession before it became too late.
PART FIVE
THE KIDNAPPING
CHAPTER 37
(MONDAY, 22ND JANUARY, 2018)
Ozborn Sets a Trap
A ccording to Google Maps, his journey to The Old Parlor in Paris would take Oliver around 90 minutes from the Dickinsons’. Ideally, he’d thought it would be best to arrive early so that, while waiting for Mystery Caller to arrive, he could catch up with some writing. It had been a couple of days since he’d sent anything over to the East Anglian Chronicle, and it was about time he updated his blog. And, if time permitted, he could take a look at Mrs. Toporofski’s pictures, the ones that Siobhan had sent across.
Once he pulled off Route 70 near Marshall, it wasn’t long before Oliver found The Old Parlor. It looked like a typical bar, with neon signs inviting clients to ‘DRINK COORS’, and ‘Try The Best Surf & Turf For Miles’. Ah, yes, he remembered that he’d be doing just that when Siobhan was due to join him later. That was something to look forward to, and the anticipation of having a nice meal with her helped to quell the nerves he was feeling about his imminent appointment.
As planned, Oliver arrived half an hour early at the establishment, which, on entry, was much darker in contrast than the bright sunshine outside. Spotting a perfectly-positioned, empty table in the far corner, once his eyes had adjusted, he went straight to it, out of sight from the few lonesome looking men on stools at the bar, cradling their ice-cold beer bottles. Enticed by the neon sign he’d seen outside, and thirsty from his drive, when the waitress came up to him he ordered a Coors Light. The waitress raised her eyes as he spoke. “Cute accent,” she remarked as she turned towards the bar.
Oliver was well used to this sort of comment by now. “Err, thanks,” was all he said. While he waited for his drink to be brought over, he checked his phone for Siobhan’s text, but there was no signal. He then began thinking about what to write in his blog.
“One Coors Light for the cute Brit over there,” called out the waitress to her colleague behind the bar. One of the patrons on a stool, wearing a Stetson hat, looked up, his gaze following the waitress as she returned to the man in the dimly-lit corner, carrying the tray containing Oliver’s beer bottle and glass. Although it was too dark to see properly, Marc Ozborn recognised the man’s profile from the TV pictures he’d seen. He climbed down from his stool, picked up his own bottle off the bar and sauntered over to where Oliver was sitting.
In turn, Oliver also instantly recognised the gruff voice, and looked up when he heard the man in the hat speak. “So, you’re the Young Sherlock, are you?” Mystery Caller said, more as a statement than a question.
“Err, yes, that’s me,” Oliver responded, caught off guard by the early arrival of the man who then picked up a chair from a neighbouring table and swung it round and sat down next to him. It was a little too close for comfort, in Oliver’s opinion, and he already didn’t like the guy—his odour was stale for a start, and his breath reeked of alcohol.
Having already worked out his tactics, Ozborn leant towards Oliver and gave a smile. Although he did his best to come across sincerely, Oliver was sceptical. But when the man went on to say how much he’d been interested in the Bike Radio Murder story, and how he’d been so pleased to watch his Young Sherlock persona on TV and read the pieces in the papers, Oliver was, despite his misgivings, just a little flattered.
“Well, it’s real nice meeting you here like this, Mr. Markland,” continued the man. “I sure do admire what you’re doing—and I think I can help. There�
�s something I’d like to show you later—but I left it in the pickup. We can get it later—I didn’t expect you to be so early.” Again, he gave a smile that had the desired effect and put Oliver at ease. Maybe it was the Coors helping to relax him, but Oliver was slowly beginning to warm to the guy’s rough way of talking. “But first,” continued Ozborn, “let’s finish our beers and enjoy the music,” he said, cocking his ear to the speaker system on the wall.
The song playing happened to be one of Oliver’s favourites—‘Everybody’s Talkin’’ by Nilsson. “Man, I just love this song,” stated the man, who still hadn’t introduced himself.
“Yes,” agreed Oliver. “Actually, I do too, Mr. . . . I’m sorry. I don’t know your name . . .”
Oliver didn’t realise it, but he was walking into a trap. Ozborn held out his hand. “Actually, you can just call me Marc. How do you do?” Ozborn said, trying not to sound like he was mocking the British accent, but of course he was. The comment went over Oliver’s head anyway as, with each sip of beer he drank, he mellowed a little more.
After retracting from a handshake that Oliver thought was akin to rubbing sandpaper, it was now his turn to lean closer towards the man. “So, you have some information for me about the Bike Radio Murder, then? I think that’s what you said on the phone. I’d be very grateful for any lead, no matter how small. You see, I’m not entirely convinced that they got the right man. After all, as far as I can make out, the guy they caught was just a simple cyclist passing through the town. Can you tell me anything about the case?”
“I sure can, Oliver. I sure can,” Ozborn repeated. “Come on. Drink up and I’ll show you. As I said, it’s outside in the truck.” Without waiting, the man who was still wearing his Stetson, stood up and began walking to the exit. Oliver took the last swig of his bottled beer, and followed. He thanked the man who was by now holding the door open for him, and they both walked to Ozborn’s old Dodge truck that was situated across the lot, near the road. Once outside, Oliver’s phone that was on silent picked up a signal, and he felt the familiar vibration in his pocket indicating that some texts had come through. “Door’s open,” Ozborn said, with false politeness that Oliver didn’t pick up on. “Climb in. We can sit and talk some more, and I’ll show you something I’m sure you’ll be interested in seeing.”
For a moment, Oliver hesitated. But the prospect of maybe learning something to help him with his investigation was too much to walk away from. So, he opened the rusty door with its pitted chrome push-button handle and got in, sitting on the large bench seat, wide enough for three, maybe even four adults, while he waited for this man he only knew as ‘Mark’ to get in the driver’s side. When Ozborn did get in, his whole character changed noticeably, as he turned to Oliver and, with a menacing grin, said: “Ready?”
Before Oliver could answer, Ozborn had already turned on the ignition, and with a roar of the engine, he lifted the column-shift into gear. The acceleration forward was such that Oliver’s head was thrown back, startled. Without a headrest, the force cricked his neck and it sent a twinge of pain right down his back. Immediately, Oliver could tell that something wasn’t right. He turned to look across at the man behind the wheel, who remained staring straight ahead as he drove at speed out of the parking lot and onto the road.
“Ya know what time it is, Sherlock?” Ozborn barked, frowning, his false, charming demeanour having disappeared in an instant. Oliver took his phone out and looked at the screen that showed 12:03, also enabling to see that he’d had two texts from Siobhan. “It’s just gone midday,” he shouted over the noise of the engine.
“No, it ain’t,” replied Ozborn. “It’s time you got taught a lesson, you goddamn Limey, foolin’ around playing detectives like it was some game. Well, I don’t appreciate that too good.”
Oliver listened to the words being spoken with such venom that spit was being projected from the man’s mouth as far as the windshield.
The truck was being driven far too quickly for Oliver to jump out. He would have sustained much more of an injury than a cricked neck. Despite the pain he was in, he shifted his body and cowered as far towards the door as he could, looking around the cab. “Where are we going?” he asked, scared and confused.
“You’ll see. I suggest you just sit back and keep quiet,” was all Ozborn would say, as he drove out of town towards the open landscape.
Ozborn appeared transfixed. He was intent on getting to Flatrock Creek without saying another word. Oliver was, by now, genuinely frightened. Still holding his phone, he slowly and subtly moved it over to his right side, out of view from the crazed driver, wondering whether he would be able to send a text message to someone for help. He discretely looked down at the phone’s screen that was now displaying one of Mrs. Toporofski’s pictures, sent by Siobhan. The vehicle in the picture looked very similar to the one he was in now. Admittedly, he hadn’t paid particular attention to the vehicle a few seconds earlier when walking towards it in the parking lot, but it was definitely the same make and colour. Oliver was certain of that.
Oliver kept his head motionless and forward facing, while moving his eyes around, trying to see something, anything, that would give him some more information about this man who had now become his captor. In front, folded up untidily and stuffed into the shelf beneath the dash, was a bundle of official looking documents. The top one that Oliver could see was headed ‘DEPT. OF MOTOR VEHICLES – LICENSE PLATES’.
It was easy for Oliver to read the large font at the top, but he had to screw up his eyes in order to make out the smaller words in the address box beneath the heading. It was tremendously difficult to focus as the truck bounced up and down on the uneven road. Eventually, when they reached a smooth enough section, Oliver was able to make out the name at the top of the form—‘M. OZBORN’. That was a start, he thought. At least he now knew the full name of the person who, to all intents and purposes, had kidnapped him.
As the truck roared along the road at around 60mph, as discretely as possible, Oliver held his iPhone at his side, out of sight from Ozborn. Squinting downwards at the screen, while appearing to stare straight ahead, Oliver rapidly moved his right thumb, and tapped out a message. He then pressed the ‘Send’ button, and hoped to goodness that Siobhan would get it.
CHAPTER 38
(MONDAY, 22ND JANUARY, 2018)
Siobhan Gets
The Message
S iobhan was by now more than two thirds back to Paris, and she expected to arrive comfortably by the agreed time of 2.00p.m. to meet Oliver. She was hungry, and was looking forward to her surf ‘n’ turf meal with him, and also discussing the revelation of Yushi Yakamoto’s confession note. She’d only had a chance to speed-read it while she was in Emanuele’s cell—or rather, his room—and was eager to reread it and absorb its contents more thoroughly in Oliver’s company.
She couldn’t imagine how the strange bald man had managed to get himself such relatively luxurious surroundings. And how on earth could she have initially enjoyed listening to him talk? What a creep! But that was all irrelevant now. What was relevant was the information Emanuele had been keeping to himself all these years.
There was now a whole new dimension added to the murder scenario. Yushi’s note, if authentic, confirmed that there indeed had been another man present at the time of Sandy Beach’s murder. What was his name again, she asked herself, trying to remember. Mark? It was something like that, according to Yushi. Yes, it was definitely Mark, she remembered, recalling that Yushi had later confirmed that in his note, further on. He certainly didn’t sound like a very friendly guy, did he? In fact, he sounded downright dangerous, if he’s taking drugs and having violent mood swings like Yushi was suggesting. She wondered what had become of ‘Mark’ these days.
‘I guessed he’d be caught and take the rap . . .’ was one of the extracts from Yushi’s confession note that Siobhan couldn’t quite figure out. Who was Yushi referring to? Could it be this same Mark guy?
Having left Statevi
lle prison in such a hurry, Siobhan was now desperate for a bathroom break, and began to look out for a freeway rest area, and hopefully she’d find one with a Starbucks too, so she could also get a cappuccino to go. Fortunately, she noticed there was one coming up in two miles, according to the highway sign that she’d just gone past. Not a moment before time, as she felt her bladder getting closer and closer to bursting point. She sped up to get there even quicker, parked up and dashed in to the ladies’ bathroom, getting a rush of euphoria once she’d begun to feel human again.
Waiting in line at the counter for her coffee, she instinctively picked her phone out of her handbag and began scrolling through her various messages. While she was doing that, a new one pinged through from Oliver. She opened it straight away, curious to know how things had gone with his meeting.
“One skinny cap to go,” called out the assistant. But Siobhan didn’t hear, so shocked was she with what she read.
“Oh, my God! Is this real? Is this an example of her friend’s British sense of humour?” she wondered, optimistically waiting for the punch line that didn’t follow.
“Madam! One skinny cap to go,” the assistant repeated, this time a little louder.
In a total daze, Siobhan completely ignored her order and walked out into the sunshine towards her car. “Oh, my God,” she muttered to herself again. Hurriedly climbing in, Siobhan read Oliver’s message again and again.
“HELP. KIDNAPPED. SAME TRUCK MRS T SAW. MARK OZBORN. HEADING NORTH ON 150. DON’T CALL. WILL TXT WHEN POSS”
For a second, she was confused, especially when she read the name Mark Ozborn.
Siobhan had a hunch. She couldn’t be certain, and she knew it was a long shot, but there were too many coincidences mounting up. What with Oliver’s reference to the ‘same truck’ that Hannah had seen, and now the same first name, Mark, being referred to in Yushi’s note, and now in Oliver’s text.