by Oscar Turner
‘Here you fuckin' moron. It's all in black and white.’
It says the money is still missing.' That bitch must have kept the loot. And the bloke who collapsed, he ain't dead at all. You silly cunt.’
Bruno stared at the crumpled paper.
‘Did you fucking hear me. Well fucking say somefing,will ya?’
Bruno shook his head frantically.
‘He's dead Roger. Course he's dead. You seen him. It's just the cops playing tricks to make us fink he ain't.’
Roger grabbed him by the throat again.
‘Bollocks. I'm telling you Bruno, we gotta find both of 'em, the chick and the bloke. Right?’
‘How?’
‘What do you mean fucking how?’
Roger was as stumped as Bruno was.
‘You work it out, and if I find out you got sumfing to do with this, you're fucking dead.’
The idea of death momentarily appealed to Bruno.
‘Well?’ Roger snapped.
‘Maybe she did give them the money back and the cops are watching her, waiting for us to get at her.’ mumbled Bruno, desperately.
‘Bollocks’ said Roger. ‘You fuckin' get her. Right!’
Bruno looked up at him, nodding frantically. ‘OK. OK.’
‘And what about your fucking dad, eh? Maybe he fucking fixed us up. Where the fuck is he?’
‘I dunno.’
‘What do you mean you don't fucking know. You fink I'm fick or summit?’ said Roger.
‘I dunno honest, he's gone to ground somewhere, he said he'd contact me in a few days when it's all calmed down. It's true honest! Don't worry I'll sort it out, all right? Let me do it my way.’
Roger eased his grip and slowly climbed off the bed.
‘You've got a fucking week Bruno. If you ain't got a result. I'm taking over.’
‘OK. OK, a week’
‘I'll be watching you, dick head,’ said Roger, reaching down and grabbing Bruno by the throat again. ‘You find that fucking chick and get that fucking money. Got it?’
Roger left, unsuccessfully trying to slam the door, its dislodged hinges causing the door to wobble pathetically in its frame, spring open again and fall against the wall.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Limit.
Shoal was on his way home for a spot of liver and bacon when he got a call to go the station immediately and barged into his office to find Chief Superintendent Baxter of Sussex Police Internal Affairs sat behind his desk examining a thick file in front of him. Three other plain clothed officers were busy rifling through his filing cabinet.
‘What's going on here sir?’ said Shoal angrily.
Baxter looked over his glasses at Shoal. ‘Sit down Shoal.’
Shoal slowly sat down, his eyes darting around the office. One of the men began loading a pile of files into a metal case.
‘Sir?’
‘I'm afraid you are being suspended from duty Shoal, forthwith, pending an official enquiry.’
‘Enquiry sir?’
‘Yes Shoal, an enquiry into the death of a certain Cecil Snowden-Smythe.’
‘But sir, the post mortem showed that he died from a brain haemorrhage.’
‘Yes that's right Shoal, caused by multiple injuries to the head and limbs.’
‘But sir.’
‘Shoal!’ interrupted Baxter. ‘This is the second custodial death you have had on your watch in three months.’
‘Yes sir but..’
‘But nothing Shoal, it's not up to me. I have been instructed to suspend you until a full enquiry has been conducted into both deaths. It’s a perfectly normal procedure.’
‘Sir, I am in the middle of a major crime investigation and I...’
‘Shoal! I have told you, it's not up to me. I am just following orders. There have been several written complaints about your conduct lately and now, with this latest incident, we have to follow them up OK?’
‘What sort of complaints?’
‘I am not at liberty to discuss it with you Shoal.’
Shoal scrubbed at his rubbery chin, stood up and began pacing around the office.
‘It's that Khan bastard isn't it?’
Baxter looked back at the three other men behind him at the filing cabinets.
‘Lads. Give me five minutes will you?’
The three men immediately stopped what they were doing and left the room.
Baxter waited a few moments, looking at Shoal.
‘Shoal. This is not personal, believe me. There have been several serious accusations made against you and yes some of them are related to the Khan honour killing case. When there is a death in custody, like the Khan boy, which I know was investigated thoroughly and found in your favour, it still doesn't do our image any good. But when there is a second death, with the same circumstances and cause of death, well, surely Shoal, you must understand, it does beg questions.’
‘Sir I...’
‘We know what you are up against Shoal, really we do. We had no idea what a hornets nest you uncovered when they found the Khan girl's body and you, to your credit, exposed that whole extortion racket.’
Shoal relaxed a little with Baxter's words.
‘So it's a P.R. thing then.’ said Shoal, defeated.
‘I'm sure it'll blow over Shoal, these things always do.’ said Baxter, in a manner that suggested a wink.
‘And the Hogarth's case? Who's taking that over?’
‘Well,’ said Baxter shuffling through a folder, ‘let me see. Doesn't seem like you were getting too far on that one. No prints, no witnesses, no nothing really. Except you've got some notes here on a Polly Capital.’
‘I spoke to the office manager earlier, he regain consciousness and verified Polly Capital's story.’
‘That's the woman the gang took hostage?’
‘Yes sir. For a while there, I must admit I had my suspicions about her. Nothing concrete, just a feeling.’ said Shoal fidgeting with his chin nervously.
‘Can I be frank with you Shoal?’ said Baxter.
Shoal looked at Baxter with suspicion.
‘Of course, I assumed you always have been sir.’
Baxter nodded. ‘I try. You see Shoal, we understand that your interrogation tactics are becoming, shall we say, radical?’
‘Radical sir?’
‘Yes, some people say, even cruel, sadistic. It's become a bit of an issue frankly. This Cecil Snowden-Smythe chap, for example. Sounds to me like you were taunting him with a class A drug to get information. Offering him a hit of heroin and disappearance of evidence in exchange for information. Does that ring a bell Shoal?’
Shoal stood still, taking in Baxter's sternly delivered words. He had not recorded the interview. Shoal suddenly felt surrounded: betrayed.
‘Nobody, as yet, has put in a complaint,’ continued Baxter, ‘but if someone did, I think you, and therefore me, would have some very tricky questions to answer, and quite rightly so. The way you treated Cecil Snowden-Smythe was tantamount to torture Shoal. Are you listening to me Shoal?’
Shoal stood still, his eyes fixed on his nameplate on the desk in front of Baxter. Betrayal had settled in, now he was being busted. Shoal nodded and looked at Baxter.
‘Thank you sir.’ said Shoal bowing his head slightly. ‘You are right.’
Baxter smiled compassionately. ‘You need to rest Shoal. You've been doing this for far too long. You're too emotionally involved to do your job and if I were you, I would think long and hard about your future in the next few weeks.’
Shoal looked at the stone stare on Baxter's face for as long as could.
There was a knock on the door and Ricketts walked in.
‘Sorry to disturb you sir, just thought you should know. Just heard from the hospital, Mr. Arnold, the office manager, he died a couple of hours ago.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Three months later.
32a Samson St, Shepherds Bush, London.
Polly watched Seymour, fast asleep next
to her, studying his angelic expression, complete with that boyish grin. He was so at peace: innocent. At times, when they caressed each other, their bodies entangled in a closeness that only love can allow, she wanted to tell him everything so much: but she couldn't. The consequences would have been too wild. That troubled her. Why couldn't she tell the man she loved the truth? She concluded that the reason was precisely why she loved him.
Initially, Seymour had objected to the idea of moving to London. He was happy in Hove and Polly had to work hard to persuade him; secretly driven by the possibility that Mrs. Pascali might suddenly burst through the door brandishing a machine gun. The moment Seymour agreed to move, Polly went into action and within days she found, with the help of convoluted contacts -including the British Bat Conservation Society- a large, first floor Victorian era, ex-dance studio; a spacious light room with a basic kitchen and bathroom. The rent was minimal, as the building was in line for demolition to make way for a new supermarket. The project had been delayed, thanks to the discovery of a pair of rare and protected Nathusius’ Pipistrelle bats in the attic. Polly and Seymour’s job was to make sure nobody poisoned the little buggers. As long as they did that, their tenancy was secure.
Hogarth Heavy Engineering had made a deal with her, just before they left Hove. They paid her over £5,000 plus three months salary in compensation for her ordeal; on the condition that she signed a letter declaring that they were in no way negligent. Against all advice from lurking, vulture-like lawyers, she signed, took the money and ran.
The complete change in environment was, for Polly, a great relief. It felt like she was recovering from an illness at last. Back in Hove, she had been continually swallowed up by her mixed feelings of what she had done. Her relationship with Seymour had suffered too. Understandably, he was confused by her behaviour, but then, so was she. But still, somehow, despite the complex soup of lies, born of secrecy, their love remained the rod that ran through their lives. Now, over time, living in a new bubble, Polly's fears had diluted from a terrifying fear that occupied her mind continually to an occasional waft of terrifying fear that were an unpleasant intrusion.
She had moved on; just as she had moved on many times before in her helter-skelter life, but this time, it felt different. The violence she had witnessed, the death of Mr.Arnold and Spider, the lies she still had to hold in her gut, somehow gave her life an extra dimension. The sheer power of the whole episode had frightened her, but that fear had somehow morphed into a primal sensation she never wanted to forget. Her life had been directly threatened and the more she thought about it, the more she was grateful for it.
The chaos of moving to London had enabled her to make a covert trip to the bags she’d hidden. It was a spontaneous decision, whilst heading to London in a hired car to meet up with George Bourne from the British Bat Conservation Society. It took her just a few nerve racking seconds to reach in and pull out one of the bags, grab a bundle of damp notes and leave: the adrenalin nearly popped her eyes.
Polly slipped out of bed and went to the kitchen, made coffee, sat at the large oak table and opened up a folder in front of her. The folder contained list of art galleries she had compiled over the previous weeks and it was getting shorter by the day; angry lines scratching out each one that had rejected her requests for a meeting to show them slides of Seymour's work.
She was beginning to feel foolish about her naivety and closed the folder. Seymour hadn’t helped. Although he had initially been supportive of her mission to show his work, now he was mocking her, sarcastically: of course apologising afterwards. ‘Only joking,’ etc. But now it was increasingly looking like he was right. You can’t contrive the credibility of an artist. But then, Seymour didn’t know the full story of what she had in mind. Polly had been busy this last few weeks, she’d been to several art exhibition openings and by now she had realized that these exhibitions were more about flirty, wine soaked, social gatherings than anything else. The art was just an excuse in her eyes and rightfully so; most of the art she had seen was unremarkable. She had met many pretentious, arrogant, but generally attractive, fun people at these openings, good connections like: Simon Baxter, the curator at "D'Art," Graham Single at "Le Hamlet Gallerie," Vidor Mallinski at "Homeless," Shana Porstus at "Vingt Six," all of whom were attracted to Polly for her intelligence, her oozing sex appeal and her irrefutable charm. Talents she had used in the past to achieve her aims. She had shown all of them the slides of Seymour’s work; the response was always polite.
With a sigh, Polly finished off her coffee and went for a shower. She wasn’t about to give up quite yet.
As usual, dressed to kill, Polly set out for another, maybe final, attempt to find a gallery space. It had crossed her mind, having seen several empty shops, that maybe she could just open a new gallery and fill it with Seymour’s work; price it high. Just with the contacts she had already met, she could easily populate an opening party. With the right booze and plenty of it, she could create her own buzz of excitement. Until people could see his work in the flesh, it was impossible to feel magic they radiated. Slides just didn’t do the trick. She would pretend to buy the lot and Bingo! Dirty damp money becomes nice, fresh ,crispy, kosher cash. At least then she wouldn’t have to deal with all these smartasses that made her feel like some door to door hawker. She hadn’t mentioned that idea to Seymour yet.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Carva’s gallery.
It was becoming yet another disappointing day but, as she was having a quick sandwich and a coffee, she spotted a gallery across the road from the cafe, as yet not on her list. It was grand deteriorated Georgian building, standing amongst more modern, but long closed shops. The name above was written in a classic cursive text in gold, peeling paint that was so complicated, it was hard to make out. She watched, as a stiff, sad looking gentleman arrived, unlocked the door and opened it with some difficulty; due to a pile of envelopes blocking it, which he cursed at and went inside. It was three o’clock; a strange time to open, she thought. After a few moments, the gentleman appeared in the shop window from behind a burgundy velvet curtain and carefully placed an old oil painting on a rickety easel. She finished her coffee and went across the road to take a closer look, cupping her hands against the grubby window to peer in. The gallery was bleak and austere: badly lit. It had a stiffness that Polly assumed was designed to ward off flippant riff raff with no money. It probably worked.
As she entered, she gazed around at the serious looking paintings, mainly nicotine soaked oils of grim, peasant poverty that hung on the walls. It was so unlike the snazzy hip contemporary galleries she had been to and its gloom affected her. She was about to turn to leave when the phone rang on a messy desk in the corner. The gentleman appeared from behind a curtain and acknowledged Polly's presence with surprise as he picked up the phone. Polly wandered over to the desk, casually glancing at the paintings on the wall next to it.
‘Hello, Carva speaking. Oh hello. Yes I've been meaning to call you.’
Carva turned away from Polly, cupped his hand around the mouthpiece and retreated back into the doorway, as far as the old coiled handset wire would allow him and began to whisper. Polly stood there for a moment and quickly scanned the desktop. Several bills stood out, the redness of the stern messages of threat seemed to have the desired effect. A court summons lay underneath them, its assertive heading poked out.
‘Yes, I understand. But I am having some difficulty at the moment but...Yes of course.’
Polly could make out the odd word in the conversation, but the tone in his voice more than filled in the gaps. This man was in serious trouble.
She continued her fake interest in the paintings until he put the phone down hard.
Polly approached him smiling.
‘Good afternoon.’
He still had his hand on the phone as if he were daring it to ring again. He was thinking hard for a moment, but snapped out of it with Polly's words.
‘Oh. Hello. Can I help you?’
He studied her quickly from head to toe. He didn't seem impressed.
‘Um, yes I hope so. I'm promoting a new artist and wonder if you would take a look at these slides.’
Polly had already pulled out the transparent slide sheet and was offering it to him.
‘I'm sorry Mrs.?’
‘Capital, Polly Capital.’
‘Mrs. Capital, we only deal in established, traditional artists as you can see.’
He gestured to the dark walls of doom. Polly was resigned to hearing this response in one form or another and had become immune to it. But something zipped inside her. It was that old tingle.
‘I think you will find it worthwhile to at least take a look.’ said Polly as she shook the slides, as if to tease him.
‘Mrs. Capital, I am a very busy man, so if you would excuse me? I can be of no further help to you.’
Polly didn't budge. Something was holding her there. The man could see her defiance and, being a genetic gentlemen, he sighed, took the sheet from her hands and held them up to the light.
‘Yes, very nice madam, but I'm afraid our clientele are extremely discerning people and have little or no interest in this sort of thing.’
He offered the slides back to Polly. Polly stood still, her arms crossed.
‘You're in the poo, aren't you Mr Carva?’
Carva, aghast, stared at her, in an attempt to portray outrage at her charge.
‘Now look Mrs.?’
‘Capital. You can call me Polly. If you want.’
‘Mrs. Capital, I don't know who you are or what you are trying to do, but I can assure you that you are wasting your time and indeed mine and I would appreciate it if you would kindly leave. How did you know my name?’
‘It's on the summons on your desk.’ Even Polly was amazed at her behaviour. ‘Look, I have a business proposition that will involve no investment from you and indeed could be extremely profitable for you.’
‘Mrs. Capital I can't see for the life of me how....’