by Jake Barton
The first light of morning was touching the horizon when Marcus rose from the bed and removed the cassette from the machine. He placed it inside a cloth bag which he jammed into his waistband from where he produced a slim package.
Dobson raised a hand in a defensive posture as Marcus lobbed the package at him.
"I won't be needing that," he said. "You may as well have it back."
Dobson glanced at the package in his lap. The ransom money was exactly as he'd last seen it, the banknotes still bound together with a stout elastic band, apart from blood stains which were now splattered over the surface of the outside layers.
"One word out of you and you'll never see either of them again," Marcus hissed, his mouth pressed directly against the side of Dobson's head. "I wasn't here and you never saw that tape. One word to the Police about me and you know what the consequences will be for your wife and daughter."
Dobson flinched and closed his eyes.
He waited, expecting the worst, but when he opened his eyes, he was alone. He could hear the policeman in the room below whistling as he opened the curtains. The bloodstained package still lay in his lap. He looked at it, his expression blank. His wife's apparent betrayal filled his head.
At the extreme edge of reason, he was blinded to any thought of her torment, his consciousness blotting out everything but the sight of her being raped by Marcus. Dobson's own sense of sexual inadequacy was deep-seated, and unable to rationalise the horrific circumstances in which his wife and daughter were confined, he felt only a deep and irrational sense of betrayal.
Dobson stood, momentarily alert, and dressed himself in the clothes he'd thrown off the previous evening. He picked up his car keys, walked downstairs and out of the front door. The constable on duty ran from the kitchen where he'd been making a pot of tea, and saw the taillights of Dobson's car as it shot through the gates onto the road.
*****
Dexter looked like a vulture perched on the edge of a hard-backed chair. Dexter and Donna had been invited to the Police Station after the sudden disappearance of Dobson. Abbott was breaking all the rules, but Donna could understand his reasoning.
Due to the clout wielded by their client, Dexter was officially recognised as the liaison between the Police and the civilian enquiry, and Abbott had taken the opportunity to make full use of his old mentor. The large metal-framed windows were so grime-encrusted that the light of a bright summer’s day would translate to mid-December by the time it arrived in the room. On a day like today, all the overhead lights were blazing.
The room was full to bursting. Abbott was in full flow, delegating furiously. Marriott strutted in from the corridor, scratching his crotch. He nodded at Dexter, and then walked towards Donna, a leer already distorting his face. Donna was rescued by the arrival of a red-faced officer in uniform who literally ran through the open doorway and handed a slip of paper to Abbott. He scanned the contents, and then dropped the sheet on the desk. "Fuck me, that's all we need." All conversation stopped, every face turned towards Abbott.
Abbott looked to Dexter, possibly out of habit. "Dobson's topped himself," he said. "Ran his motor into the back of a cement truck on the Chester Road. Doing well over a hundred, apparently. Nothing left of him but fucking Spam."
*****
Roper strutted from his desk to the window and back, wearing a groove in the deep-pile carpet.
"I'd like you all to know that I’m very pleased with your performance," he said.
The assembled staff sat on hard-backed chairs, waiting for him to get on with it. Martha sat at the vast desk, like a blue-rinsed gnome, pencil poised to record her master's words of wisdom for posterity. Her hand-written briefing notes were works of art. Each heading was neatly underlined and the sub-headings indented precisely half an inch from the main text. Each topic was numbered, Roman numerals naturally.
Even reading upside down, Donna could see the writing was clear and precise, no spelling mistakes or crossings out, no amendments or afterthoughts. The product of an orderly mind where efficiency was the dominant virtue.
"This last week has not been an easy time for you all. I recognise that. A case of this magnitude, requiring the abandonment of all our other enquiries, makes extreme demands on personnel and also on the daily office routines which have been so carefully tailored to encourage optimum efficiency at all times."
Andy looked as if he'd settled down for a long siege, slumped in his chair, eyes hooded. No one else Donna knew could manage to look so relaxed while perched on an unyielding wooden chair. Roper's own personal chair stood unused and unwanted while he paced the room. Donna eyed its comfortable depths with longing.
"The situation has now altered, as I’m sure you will appreciate," Roper droned. "Strictly speaking, we no longer have a client, as such, and further work on the enquiry would be a fruitless exercise. The Police are working on the theory that our client killed himself as a result of his bungled attempt to obtain the very generous life insurance he'd recently taken out on his wife and daughter. The fact that the ransom money has now been found in his bedroom, heavily stained with blood, leads to the inevitable conclusion that Dobson may well have staged the abduction of his wife and daughter with the intention of gaining very substantial sums of life insurance."
Dexter snorted. Roper hesitated for a moment. "Of course, we will be keeping an open mind at this stage," he continued, "but there is no denying that the situation regarding our enquiry has now changed. There is also the prospect of any further enquiries being seen as unprofitable."
Dexter stirred at the mention of profit. Donna had heard his raised voice behind the closed door of Roper's office, and was well aware that there had been some acrimonious discussions between the two Senior Partners.
"We still have a client, despite the sad events of yesterday," Dexter rumbled. "Paula Dobson and her daughter are still missing, and to abandon the search for them would be nothing less than dereliction of duty, could even be regarded as breach of contract."
Roper stopped in mid-pace as if struck by lightning. Dereliction of duty was a serious charge, but breach of contract was even worse, invoking the spectre of financial penalties. Donna smirked. Dexter certainly knew which buttons to press where Roper was concerned.
"I’m not suggesting for a moment that we seek to break our contract," Roper blustered.
Dexter rose to his feet. "In that case, perhaps you'll excuse me. I have work to do."
Martha stiffened. To interrupt the leader was bad enough, but this was rank defiance. Mutiny, no less. Donna concealed a smirk.
"Let's not act too hastily." Roper looked stricken at the prospect of Dexter breaking up his briefing. "I’m sure we're all agreed that the situation is now in a state of flux with the death of our funding client."
Dexter visibly winced at the word funding, giving Donna the incentive to speak out.
"We were funded up front, if you remember. I saw the cheque handed over." As Donna spoke, a number of things happened.
Roper glared, Andy woke up, Dexter sat down again and Martha sniffed. What else would she do?
"Miss O'Prey, I hardly feel it is your place to discuss funding arrangements," Roper fulminated. "But as you have raised the matter, I can confirm that R and D Security did indeed receive an advance retainer, in line with our standard terms of representation. In view of the serious nature of the case, the Senior Partners decided to concentrate all the firm's efforts on this single matter. To this end, all other work on existing cases was suspended, no new work was accepted, and the whole emphasis of the firm was concentrated on the Dobson enquiry. What I am now saying is that the situation has changed. With the death of our Principal, and the disappearance of his wife, possibly also deceased, there comes a point at which consideration should be given to moving on to other pressing matters. I hope I make myself plain."
Donna sat on the edge of her chair, considering whether she would ever feel able to take another breath. Martha sniffed, seemingly this time
with approval at the crushing of a dissident wretch.
"Even so." The bloody Seventh Cavalry, in the guise of Dexter, came to the rescue. Eyes swivelled away from Donna’s direction, at last. "We have a moral duty to continue to do our best for our client. We were hired to find Celine Dobson, and have not done so. I feel we should continue with the enquiry unless or until the position is resolved or becomes completely untenable."
The next half-hour was open warfare between the partners. Eventually, after harsh words on both sides, Dexter conceded that the enquiry could be scaled down, but not abandoned, and that he would take overall command. Andy would concentrate on the backlog of existing cases, Roper would deal with new business, and Martha would handle the paperwork. That left only one person unaccounted for. Donna suspected that Roper would have preferred some military option, like sending her to the glasshouse, or imposing fatigue duties, but Dexter got in first.
"Donna will be with me," he said. "It started as her case and I’m sure we're all keen to promote a sense of loyalty and continuity in the firm."
Roper didn't say anything, but having made saying nothing an art form, his very silence managed to convey his total disapproval.
They filed out, Dexter rubbing his big hands together. He'd obviously enjoyed the last hour, even if nobody else had.
"I’m off to speak to Abbott," he said to Donna when the two of them reached his office. "I'd like you to concentrate on Marcus Green. I want to know by this time tomorrow whether he's a viable suspect or not. The Police think not, and I’m not prepared to waste any more time on him unless we find a definite link between him and the case. No more vague suspicions. Nail the bastard into the enquiry today or forget him. Look into his background, try and confirm where he is right now. If he's sitting on a beach in bloody St. Tropez, or banged up in a cell somewhere, that will be good enough to rule him out. At the moment, he's a loose end, and I don't like loose ends. I suggest door-to-door enquiries and concentrate on his mother. Andy’s been watching the house, no joy so far. See what you can turn up. If he's not in touch with her, then I want to know why not. One day to find a link, or forget him, right?"
Donna nodded.
"One more thing. I’ll stick up for you against that pompous twat down the hall, but don't take it for granted. Step out of line and I’ll recommend you for a week's duty as Martha's filing clerk. Now, I agreed to handle the official enquiry and as part of the deal for keeping you involved, I’m booking you off duty for the rest of today. You can look into Marcus Green in your own time as he's not officially connected to the case in any way. The firm isn't bankrolling you. Find me a link and you're back on the payroll. Otherwise, you start fresh tomorrow with a clean slate and we play it strictly by the book, shadowing the official enquiry. Got it?"
Donna got it. Back under the thumb, but at least she was still involved in the case.
~ Chapter 17 ~
The metal gate creaked when Donna pushed it, rusty hinges protesting loudly. At some time in the distant past, it had been painted with black enamel, but the preparation had obviously been pretty sketchy as the flaking rust spots were roughly painted over.
The result was probably better than nothing, but only just. A small porch, only a couple of feet deep, framed the door. A cracked pane of glass in the left-hand panel had been repaired on the inside with broad adhesive tape – a once temporary solution that had progressed through simple lethargy to permanence.
A straggly hedge separating the path from the house next door had been neatly cropped to the exact centre, leaving next door to look after their side. The result was somehow worse than if neither side had been clipped – one side neat and trim, the other unkempt and uncared for. Not much sign here of neighbourly co-operation, despite the faded Neighbourhood Watch sticker in the front window.
She'd been on house-to-house enquiries for almost an hour and had achieved nothing despite having already passing herself off as a sales representative, a researcher for the BBC, and someone from the Council. None of these assumed identities had achieved anything.
Donna was supposed to be finding out all there was to know about the mother of Marcus Green, specifically whether or not her son was ever in touch with her. Dexter had left her in no doubt that these enquiries were to be in her own time and did not form part of the official investigation. Donna had accepted that, keen to follow up any possible leads. Mind you, that was an hour ago. A wasted hour!
She banged on the door, all efforts to budge the rusted knocker having failed. A middle-aged man answered the door.
The first things Donna noticed were the big coarse hands sticking out from the sleeves of his jacket – reddened fingers with bitten nails, workman’s hands – streaky blonde hair and a face like a well-polished saddle – permanently tanned, doubtless from a lamp, with the creases and lines deeply etched on cheek and brow.
The eyes were bright shiny buttons peering out from under thick lashes. A denim shirt faded by repeated frequent washings to a faint pastel shade in which the original blue could only just be discerned. Donna was reminded of those paint colours that were all the rage a few years back offering a hint of lavender or whatever. A button was missing from one sleeve, the cuff flapping at his wrist. Faded jeans and scuffed tan boots completed the outfit.
He could have been a millionaire rock star from some 1970’s rock band, but she doubted it. He looked at her breasts for about half a minute until she coughed loudly, then he reluctantly raised weary eyes to her face.
"Yeah?"
"I’m looking for a Mrs Green," Donna said boldly, giving up on any attempt at an assumed pretext.
"Over the way," he said, jerking a thumb at the house opposite.
"Do you know if her son is likely to be in?"
"What son? She 'aint got no bloody son."
"Oh," Donna persisted. "I thought she had a son called Marcus."
"Look, love, I’ve lived over the road to the old bat for five years, and I’m telling you, she ain’t got no son."
Donna nodded. Five years. Well, Marcus had been banged up for longer than that, until very recently anyway, but it wasn't looking very promising. She started to thank him for his trouble, but he'd gone back to ogling her breasts again, so she didn't bother.
As Donna walked away, she heard him curse and turned to see he had stepped down to follow her and his shoeless foot was now residing in a deep puddle.
"She won't answer the door, she never does."
"Oh?"
"Not to anyone. She's a mad old cow. Try the house next door. They've lived here forever and might help you out. From the Social are you?" Donna smiled and grunted in a non-committed fashion.
"Thought you were. The house with the piss-coloured paintwork, they'll sort you out. Don't worry about Clive; he's all right when you get to know him." He wandered back to the sanctuary of his step, pointing at the yellow painted window frames directly opposite.
Donna walked across the road and up the path of the house he'd pointed out. She was breaking one of Dexter's precious rules, but didn't really care. He'd told her time and again to avoid close neighbours, especially those next door. They were likely to be friendly with the subject and would be likely to tip them off that someone was going round asking about their affairs. A gamble at best as the next-door neighbour could be a best mate or a deadly enemy. A gamble not worth taking, Dexter reckoned.
Even the house opposite where she'd just been would have been off limits if Dexter had been here. The house was the other half of a semi and appeared to have a good view of the garden next-door from the rear windows. Donna walked up the path, avoiding the dividing hedge that was festooned in spiders webs, affecting a nonchalance she did not feel and still with no idea what, if anything, she was going to say.
The front door was partly open, but when Donna tapped on the frame a high-pitched voice from the dark depths of the hall called out, "Come on in, Stan."
Donna wasn't Stan, but went in anyway. She wandered down a gloomy hal
l towards what seemed to be the kitchen. The smell of cabbage being boiled to death was a generous hint in that direction. Living with Peg, the smell was familiar. An old man seated at a small wooden table raised his head at Donna’s appearance.
"You're not Stan."
"No." Donna didn't say any more for the moment and neither did he. They'd both agreed that she wasn't Stan and that seemed to satisfy him.
"Come on in," he said at last, as she hovered uncertainly in the doorway. "Sit yourself down."
She moved closer and sat opposite him in a rocky wooden chair. The old codger seemed harmless enough and Donna relaxed while waiting for him to ask what a total stranger was doing in his kitchen. He showed no immediate signs of doing so, but sat staring into space, almost as if she didn't exist.
Donna felt her previous tensions drain away and the tautness of her shoulder muscles ease as she lolled back in the chair, at peace with herself for the first time in a good while. The room was in a bit of a state. Marks from greasy heads darkened the back cushions of both chairs. The table had once been rather grand, but had now fallen from grace.
A patina of age may be desirable, but the innumerable burn marks from untended cigarettes and rings from hot teacups proved rather less attractive. The mugs and cups were all disgusting. At least they would be to a fussy bugger like Peg – thick tea-stains covering the interior surface. Rinsed at best, but not properly cleaned. Peg and her trusty bottle of bleach would have a field day here.
"What you after then? Come to read the meters?" Donna blinked. Did she look like a meter reader? Her already fragile self-esteem went down another couple of notches. Placing a low value on your own worth can be a serious handicap, even more so when it can so readily be justified.
"No," Donna stammered. "I was wondering if I could ask you about the people next-door."
"What people next-door?"
"Mrs Green, isn't it?"
"There's just her there, not any people. One person is a person, not people."