by Rachel Green
He came round the side of the desk “You, sir, are the very worst kind of client. I shall be marking your claim for investigation and I shall be referring the whole matter to the police.” He held open the door. “Good day to you.”
Chase found himself on the pavement, as poor as he had been half an hour ago. He looked at the brokers door, where Michael was turning the sign to ‘closed’ and then at his car. He began to whistle again.
“A million quid.”
* * * *
The animals were making a racket by the time he got to the sanctuary. He heard them as soon as he turned into the lane leading to the gates. He growled. Who was due to open on Fridays? Becky? There’d be a message on the answer phone saying she wasn’t coming in, Chase was sure. That meant no-one had fed or cleaned out the animals.
Chase thumped the steering wheel. Pennie would have been here by eight and would have called him if Becky hadn’t shown up. He really should have made her a key-holder too. She’d have gone to pieces over that.
Pulling up directly in front of the gates was probably a mistake. Chase would have turned around and gone away again had he seen the black Jaguar waiting for him. It was typical of Mister Benton to use such a clichéd car. “Why wouldn’t I?” he said the one time Chase had dared ask him about it. “Do firemen ride mopeds or fire engines? Call it occupational advertising, policemen have their panda cars and I have my Jag.” He’d lit a cigar and smiled, offering Chase a drink from the on-board cabinet.
He wasn’t drinking now.
As Chase got out of the wagon to open the sanctuary, Speaker and Dog got out of the front seats of the Jag and opened the rear door. Chase had never realized the phrase dripping with gold could be so perfectly applied to a real person. Speaker, surprisingly, was carrying a briefcase. Chase didn’t even know he could read more than the race listings.
“Mister Spenser,” he said. “What a pleasure it is to see you.”
“The pleasure’s all yours, Mister Benton.” Chase began undoing the three padlocks on the tall steel gates. “I think you’ll find I paid you in full.”
“Oh you did.” Benton waddled over to the gates and stood just out of reach of their swing. “Most grateful I was. Most grateful. My colleague Mister Speaker happened to mention another little matter you discussed with him, however.”
“What was that?” Chase opened the first lock and pulled the chain through the bars. He hung it over the fence to his right. “I don’t recall asking for your help with anything else. In fact, I doubt I’ll be asking for it ever again.” He turned back to the second padlock, the urge to grin almost overpowering.
Benton turned to one side, beckoned with a sharp movement of the head and Speaker and Dog came trotting over. The latter stood a little way back but moved round to Chase’s right side.
“What was the business proposition Mister Spenser outlined to you yesterday?” Benton asked.
Speaker coughed. “He referred to the insurance policy he’d taken out on his assistant and picnic partner Ms Pennie Black,” said Speaker, “intimating that it would be worth a considerable amount upon her sudden death.”
“How much is a considerable amount, do you think?” said Benton. “A million pounds? It sounds a lot but it’s not what it used to be. When my father―God rest his soul-ran the business, a million pounds would set you up for life. These days it’s hardly worth the paper it’s written on. He could have bought a country mansion, but these days you wouldn’t get much change from a three bed semi in Tooting.
“It’d help out a bit though.” Chase took off the second lock and chain, draping it over the fence next to the first. “I could pay off a debt or two.”
“I’m sure you could.” Benton held out his hand and Speaker opened his briefcase to drop a copy of the lunchtime Laverstone Times into his hand. “What do we have here?” he said, turning it to show Chase. “‘Local Lady in Guillotine House of Horror’ as a cover story. Look, for isn’t it the aforementioned Miss Black. What a coincidence.” He lowered the paper and stared at Chase. “It is a coincidence, isn’t it?”
“Of course it is,” said Chase, taking the third and last padlock off the gate. “You don’t imagine for one minute that I had anything to do with it, do you?” The gates swung open under their own weight.
“You tell me, Mister Spenser.”
Benton put one arm around his shoulder and guided him into the sanctuary. The shrieking of the animals increased as soon as they saw Chase. “You tell me what you were doing there at eight o’clock this morning.”
“I’d gone to pick her up for work,” he said. “We left her car here yesterday, look.” He pointed at Pennie’s car, still locked up in the car park.
“Then how do you explain seeing the body or part of it―of poor Miss Black, then breaking into her house to steal papers?”
“I didn’t,” said Chase, knowing it was only a matter of semantics but indignant all the same.
“I have it on good authority you did. I wonder if the police are aware of that little fact?” Benton left the question hanging as he steered Chase to the offices.
“I didn’t kill her.”
“I didn’t say you did, but it’s an interesting choice of phrase. I wasn’t even aware that she was murdered. Tsk. You just can’t trust the papers these days.”
“The people downstairs were dead, too,” said Chase. “It seems logical that all three were murdered.”
“Does it? I wouldn’t know.” Benton indicated for Chase to unlock the office door. “Not my line of business, murder. Blackmail, extortion with threats of violence, extortion with actual violence, is more my game.” He jerked his head backwards and Chased looked and saw Speaker and Dog, both holding lengths of chain.
“What exactly do you want?” he asked.
Benton clicked his fingers and Speaker opened his briefcase once more. “I’d like you to give me your autograph,” he said. “Nothing fancy, and then you can get on with feeding your animals.” He looked across at the pens. “That’s a nice pig,” he said. “I’m partial to a bit of bacon. Do let me know when you need it butchered. Dog here could do with the practice, couldn’t you Dog?”
“His name’s César now, Mister Benton sir,” said Speaker. “He says it gives him an edge.”
Benton scowled. “I’ll give him an edge if he doesn’t stop being stupid.” He turned back to Chase, all smiles again. “Shall we have a nice sit-down in your office?”
“I’m not signing anything,” said Chase.
“Oh that’s where you’re wrong.” Benton guided him to his own desk and put the sheet of paper in front of him. “You can sign it now, or you can sign it with ten broken fingers. He thumped his fist onto the desk, catching Chase’s hand underneath it. One of the chunky blocks of gold Benton wore as a ring, turned out to be a lot less pliable than Chase’s finger.
Chase went white as the blood drained from his face.
“Feel a bit sick, do you?” Benton picked up the waste paper basket and wedged it between Chase’s chest and the edge of the desk. “Don’t mind me, I’ve witnessed a lot worse than that in my time.”
“What is this?” Chase asked through deep breaths.
“An affidavit stating that you’ve made me the beneficiary of the insurance policy,” said Benton.
Chase grimaced and looked down. He was fairly sure what remained in his stomach was going to stay there. It was almost lucky he’d been sick in Pennie’s garden-if he’d had any left he would have lost it now. “It can’t be legal,” he said. “It would have to be signed in front of an impartial witness; a judge or commissioner for oaths.”
“It will be,” said Benton. “You leave the details to me. Can I offer you a pen or would you like to see what another broken phalanx feels like?”
“I’ll sign.” Chase grimaced. Easy come, easy go. At lea
st he could stop feeling guilty about benefiting from her death now.
“Excellent.” Benton proffered a pen. Gold, naturally. You could melt the man down and buy the Catholic Church with the proceeds. “You know it makes sense.”
Chase signed the flourish of his name and Benton pulled the sheet away, turning it to the small window to dry the ink. “That was very wise, Mister Spenser.” He folded the paper carefully. “I wouldn’t have liked there to be any unpleasantness.”
The squeal from outside brought Chase running to the window. César was in Kermit’s pen, with Speaker shouting encouragement from the safety of the outside. “Stop him!” Chase said. “I don’t run a sanctuary to have the animals slaughtered by your thugs.”
“No, Mister Spenser, you run it to give yourself a free source of laboratory animals, don’t you?” Benton laughed at Chase’s shock. “Don’t try to deny it, I’ve documentary evidence to support it. That pig over there, the one you’re so fond of, was instrumental in making your cross-species fertilisation drug.”
Chase looked out of the window again to see Dog leading Kermit out of the pen by laying a trail of horse nuts for the hungry pig to follow. While he’d been in the office, a van had pulled up in the yard. The two thugs helped a third load Kermit into it. The slamming of doors punctuated his despair.
Chapter Forty-Five
Winston looked down at his drink. A maraschino cherry on a stick did little to enervate a cocktail when the nearest the glass had got to a bottle of tequila, was three shelves of a supermarket. Whose stupid idea was it to have a stag do for Jim?
Oh yes.
Winston had been teetotal now for two-hundred and seventeen days. It wasn’t as if he’d been a drunk to begin with, not unless you counted a Friday night blowout as being an alcoholic. His trouble was the relaxation that came after so much as half a pint of cheap lager. The veves on his chest opened a portal to the realm of the dead; a portal he would rather was kept firmly shut.
They were hardly noticeable. Pennie, during their two brief nights together, had merely asked: “Where did these scars come from? Were they a gang initiation?” He’d almost replied when she ran her tongue along them and coherent thought left the building.
At least he wasn’t alone in his misery. Harold had been sent by Julie and Felicia to ensure he didn’t suffer alone. The shopkeeper wasn’t happy with a Lemonade Sunrise either.
“I say!” Harold raised his cane, trying to attract the attention of the skimpily clad teenager at the bar.
“That won’t do any good, mate,” said Winston, wishing he were anywhere but here. “This is a pub not a restaurant. You have to go to the bar if you want anything.”
“I was trying to avoid that,” Harold confessed. “There’s a press of people there that I’d rather not be pressed against. Do you think we could go somewhere a tad quieter?”
“Not until Jim gets here,” said Winston. “This is where I said we’d meet him.”
“I rather like the place,” said Pennie, who had tagged along hoping to see the man who had trashed her flat and caused her death. “I wish I’d come here last night. I might have got my brains shagged out and still be alive.”
“Who can say what the fates decree us,” said Winston. “When your time comes there’s nothing you can do about it.”
“I beg to differ,” said Harold. “I was on my deathbed once and refused to die. I was up and about again the next day.”
“Yeah, your mom told me that,” said Winston. “And about the time you saved the world from the second coming.”
“Did I? I don’t remember doing that.” Harold took out a notebook and pen and scribbled it down. “I’ll ask her.”
Pennie giggled at Winston’s expression of disbelief. “I think he actually means it,” she said.
“I do.” Harold looked straight at her. “What I want to know, though, is how you’re wandering about like you were still alive. When my uncle became mortally challenged he was confined to the environs of his death.”
“You can see me?” said Pennie. “Hear me?”
“Of course.” Harold downed his drink. “I just wish I could ask you to go to the bar. You’d get through the press no bother.”
“I couldn’t carry anything back though.” Pennie shrugged.
“Oh I don’t know.” Winston grinned. “Pretty girl like you should be able to pick up a couple of spirits.”
“Oh! Very funny.” Harold laughed.
“What is?”
Jim stood over the table, blinking against the flashing lights. “Sorry if I’m a bit late,” he said. “I think I overslept a bit. Did you get me a pint in?”
“No mate.” Winston looked over to the bar, where a throng of people still harried the two people behind the bar. “It’s murder trying to get a drink here.”
“Oh. That’s all right.” Jim put his fingers to his lips and whistled. The girl behind the bar looked up and Jim held up three fingers and pointed down at his table. The girl gave him a thumbs up signal. Three minutes later a tray of drinks were passed from hand to hand over the punters’ heads. Jim dropped a tenner on the tray and sent it back.
“How did you manage that?” Winston asked. “I’ve been coming here years and I’ve never had service like that.”
Jim grinned. “I went to school with her sister,” he said. “I used to help her out when I worked at the factories.”
“What, with homework and so on?” Harold frowned.
“Nah. I used to nick stuff for her. Clothing warehouses, make-up shipments, that kind of thing.” He smiled, looking almost desirable under the taint of pure evil that Harold and Winston both suspected was there. “I miss those times,” he said.
“Why?” asked Winston. “You used to spend all day trying not to do any work and then complain come Friday that they hadn’t paid you for the mornings you’d come in late. Now you’re the director of a cutting edge tech company. You’ve got your own hours, your own staff and as many breaks as you want. You’ve got more money to play with than anyone I’ve ever met, and you’re about to marry my sister. You’re the luckiest man alive.”
“Hur! I suppose I am.” Jim grinned into his pint, looking sideways at Winston. “I haven’t got you to look after me, though, and I get these headaches all the time what won’t go away.”
“Headaches?” Harold put his beer down. He’d only taken a few sips but it made him a bit lightheaded all the same. “What sort of headaches?”
“Pains in me head,” said Jim. He put his drink down and dipped his head, rubbing his temples. “Sometimes they’re here and sometimes they’re at the base of me skull.” He tipped forward, his fingers pressing into the hollow at the top of his spine.
“Not right now, like, else I’d have to go for a lie down but they happen most days. I sleep it off, but it’s a bit worrying. I never had nothing like this working at Wheaton’s.”
“Wheatons?” Harold asked.
“The factory we were lathe operators at,” explained Winston. “How long have you had these headaches, Jim? This is the first time you’ve mentioned them.”
“Since I got the job, really.” Jim grinned and leaned forward, whispering in a conspiratorial voice. “If I wasn’t the director I’d get the sack. I’m hardly ever there.” He chuckled and downed the rest of his pint. “Anyone want another?”
“No thanks.” Harold looked into his beer. It was really too gassy for his digestive system. If he didn’t leave the table soon, he was going to embarrass himself in front of the young lady. “Can we go somewhere else? I’d be partial to a cup of tea.”
“There’s the White Art,” said Winston. “They serve beer and tea all night. Coffee too, if you’re into that.”
“I like it here, though,” said Jim. “It’s noisy here. I don’t get headaches when it’s noisy.” He sang a few bars
of the song playing on the television screens.
“It’s noisy at the White Art too,” said Winston. “They get the teachers from the comprehensive in there on a Friday. They’ll be having their darts match.”
“Ah.” Jim nodded and smiled. “I remember them from when we were kids. You had to buy the teachers a pint, else they’d shop your real age to the barman.” He clapped Winston on the back. “All right,” he said. “One more in here and then we’ll go up to the Art.”
“This is the same bloke, isn’t it?” said Pennie to Winston. “This is Jim Hunt. Only don’t get me wrong, but this bloke looks as if he couldn’t find his arse with both hands. How can he have made a robot bent on killing people?”
“This is Jim all right,” said Winston as the director of Magelight Communication stood up and gesticulated at the bar again. “This is the Jim I worked with all those years. The one I helped through his apprenticeship. I haven’t seen him like this in ages. It’s as if he’s back to his normal self.”
He frowned and looked at Harold but the shopkeeper was staring at the people dancing. Winston kicked him under the table.
“Don’t you need the toilet?” he asked as Harold scowled at him, rubbing his shin.
“You can tell, can you?” Harold nodded. “I’ll be a minute or two.” He got up and pushed his way through the crowd. Winston watched him waver along the dance floor.
“Go with him,” he said to Pennie. “Tell him that Jim’s not possessed.”
“That’s obvious,” said Pennie. “Nobody could be that much of an idiot unless they were possessed by Goofy the…whatever Goofy was supposed to be.”
“A dog, I think,” said Winston. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. The point is, Jim’s usually been possessed and now he isn’t. I don’t know why not, but if we can work it out we can drive the demon away.”
“Goofy can’t be a dog,” said Pennie, wincing as Jim put a pint of beer on the table, straight through her hand. “Pluto was a dog and he was far more intelligent than Goofy.”