by Simon Leigh
‘Come into the office, that’s an order.’
‘Mr Matherson, fuck you and fuck the job,’ he opened his car window and tossed the phone out.
He started his engine.
The rain obscured Valerie’s view as it poured down her windshield. She didn’t see Freddie leave the house. She just saw the lights filtered through the rain.
Her phone started ringing.
What now?
‘I need you to kill Freddie,’ said Matherson. ‘As suspected he’s running away like a coward.’
She smiled.
Freddie’s getting out?
‘Yes, sir,’ she said and closed her phone.
She was happy for him. She had to help.
He was still in his car outside the house. She opened her door and stepped out into the pouring rain getting soaked within seconds. ‘Freddie!’ she shouted, her voice drowned out by the hammering rain.
He pulled away.
Shit.
She ran back to her car and followed, unaware of a car one hundred yards behind her doing the same thing.
She followed him to Saint Patrick’s church.
CHAPTER FORTY TWO
At 08:00 on Thursday 9th, Valerie woke in Bill’s arms, still naked and with a grin beaming across her face. The night had lasted a long time and she’d loved every minute of it. Pent up energy had been released in ways she hadn’t felt for a long time and she was full of life, like a weight was lifted from her shoulders.
Sliding out of bed, she grabbed a large sweater from the chair, which buried her, and walked out into the living room where she found Lucy’s bedroom door wide open.
‘Lucy?’ she asked, peering inside.
The room was empty.
A little worried, she walked into the expensive kitchen, standing in awe.
How much do you make, Bill?
On a stool to a breakfast bar was a note. It said:
Thanks for everything. I’ve gone to my parents house in Bakersfield to collect Chloe. You can find me there. Didn’t want to wake you.
Didn’t want to wake us? Jesus Christ.
She didn’t like it. She wanted Lucy and Chloe where she could see them.
At least they’re safe.
Flicking on the coffee maker on the counter top, she waited for it to boil with a wide smile on her face thinking back to last night. A night of passion and relief from the nightmare her life had spiralled into.
Bill emerged in a gown with messy bed hair and walked over to her with a smile to match hers. ‘Morning missy.’
‘Morning mister. Coffee?’
He nodded and she handed him a cup.
They sat on the couch in silence, Valerie with her legs tucked under her covered in the large sweater and Bill beside her.
‘Can I ask you something?’ he asked.
‘Of course.’
‘Why were you sent to kill Freddie?’
Wow. Not even brushed his teeth and he’s on it.
Deflated would be the best way to describe how she felt. Brought back to reality with that simple question. Why were you sent to kill Freddie? It was simple, wasn’t it? But she couldn’t explain it. Or didn’t want to. A night of excitement had turned into nothing.
She sighed and ignored it. ‘So what now?’
Sensing he’d damaged the mood, he changed the subject. ‘I think we should have a shower,’ he said with a wink. ‘Together.’
‘Do you now?’ she said, smiling again.
‘Yes.’
She stood up and ran into the bathroom shouting, ‘You’ll have to catch me first.’
CHAPTER FORTY THREE
Tucked away in the basement below The Golden Palace restaurant were Matherson and Cook, sitting in silence in a makeshift office. Deep in thought, Cook watched Matherson going through every scenario he could, coming to the conclusion that it was all over every time.
This lower level, once used for illegal gambling during the night, now stood as a vacant shell with unused roulette, blackjack, and poker tables collecting dust. The office itself was dark and boring with a computer, a money counter attached to the desk, and a mirrored window looking out onto the casino floor.
Smells from the upstairs breakfast of various Dim-Sum dishes seeped down here sending their stomachs into overdrive.
‘I don’t think it’s safe here,’ said Cook.
‘It’s not safe. I agree. I look like a coward hiding down here. If just one of our enemies get wind of this, we’re finished. When Sharpe calls, we’ll head back to the office.’
‘Yes, Mr Matherson.’
Cook’s phone rang.
He answered it while Matherson watched him from the edge of his seat.
Cook didn’t say much – just a ‘say again?’ or ‘what?’ every now and then.
‘Dead? How? OK, bye.’
Silence.
‘Well?’ asked Matherson.
‘Sharpe’s dead.’
‘How?’
‘He was killed at that private detective’s office, his throat slit and his tongue half missing.’
Matherson fell back into his seat. ‘My God.’
The breakfast rush was still going strong upstairs with orders being barked out in the kitchen between the chefs and waitresses.
Some loud noises were heard shortly followed by screaming and shouting.
‘What’s that?’ asked Matherson.
‘Probably nothing. I’ll go check.’
He nodded, ‘Yes.’
‘I’ll bring some food.’
Matherson looked at him through defeated eyes. ‘If anything happens, please don’t leave me.’
Cook walked up the rickety steps to the kitchen where he peered through the porthole shaped window in the door. People of varied ethnicities were chomping down on their morning food, children and adults alike giving up the fight to hold the chopsticks, opting for a fork instead.
He smiled. It all looked very appetizing.
The owner was busy arguing with a customer by the main entrance and Cook figured that was where the excitement was.
If Matherson’s organization fell, it would be a shame but he would just get on with his life. He’d done the best he could do. He was relaxed, a little too relaxed as the bathroom beckoned.
The staff bathroom was in a small and dirty white room with a urinal and a toilet. And it stank. But with no other option, he used it.
Afterwards, while drying his hands under a stream of lukewarm water, the back door through the kitchen burst open. He froze and listened to Chinese being shouted with pans and plates scattering the floor. This time he knew. He knew it wasn’t a pissed off customer. He knew this was for Matherson.
Staying where he was in the bathroom, he looked through a gap in the door at two men run past, neither of them familiar to him. He hoped Matherson had called for them, a short lived hope that was ended when he heard a gunshot from below. It sent a chill down his spine. Customers in the restaurant started screaming and he thought the worst: Matherson had been shot. Then he heard shouting and the thud, thud, thud of boots hitting every step on the way up followed by his boss being dragged, barely conscious through the kitchen and out through back. His face was red, obviously outmatched as he hadn’t put up a fight. He looked defeated, like he’d finally accepted his inevitable demise. He was taken out of sight through the back and the kitchen fell to a stunned silence.
Cook took out his cell phone.
CHAPTER FORTY FOUR
Baker hadn’t been home. He’d been in his cubicle at the station all night, leaving only to get some food or go to the toilet. Occasionally he’d stand at the window and watch the snow fall over the parking lot, battling with the rock salt before the next flake descended. Patrol cars came and went, officers came on shift and went off shift, but he stayed inside. On shift. All night.
This case is dragging like a snake’s dick.
So far he had nothing to go on, just three dead bodies and two missing suspects. How were they connect
ed? Where are they? What to do now? He had no idea and no clues to follow. The lab results hadn’t come back with anything yet either and the shift log for the night Wong was murdered showed that William Yates was on vacation. But what did that prove? He couldn’t act on it.
The basis of any police investigation starts with a clue, and they’d all but fizzled out. He let out an exhausted breath and leaned back in his chair.
Fraser had mentioned someone called Preston. Without anything else, it was a dead loss. He’d also mentioned Bill and the lock pick, which led to another dead body.
Words of wisdom from his mentor back when he started the job sprang into his mind: If in doubt, start at the beginning.
He figured the beginning for this case was seventeen years ago. His undercover had said that Matherson owned Northbrook, allegedly. But that was basically dead and buried as far as evidence was concerned, and it was buried deep. So he started six years ago with the Wong murder, which he didn’t work. It was after the precinct was cleaned out, so he may be in luck and find something in this very station before the low-life scum had their hands on it. Failing that, the next step would be four years ago, with Michael’s murder. It was time to get up to speed with what happened back then.
He stood up from behind his desk and walked out into the main office area towards the police records room. The place was starting to come alive again after a short lull while the clubs were closed. He hadn’t seen much from his cubicle, just listening to the noises of the evening as he had many times before.
The records room door sat five feet behind a desk with a guard and a logging in and out board. Baker signed his name, his badge number, and the date and time then strolled inside.
The room was full to the ceiling of shelves, each one holding boxes arranged in alphabetical order. Inside each box were files from oldest to newest. This precinct was the largest in the city and records from other precincts were sent here for storage making his search the more daunting.
Most of the files were thick full of officer’s reports, pathology reports, evidence, chain of evidence documents, and photographs.
After thirty minutes of flicking through folder after folder in the ‘W’ section, he found the Wong file sandwiched between two others and opened it.
It was completely empty. All it said on the front was name, age and the date. He figured this had to be the correct one as it was the only Wong file there.
Shit.
He looked under ‘M’ for Michael Mason’s file, and then for Julius Matherson.
There must be something of his murder here somewhere.
But after looking through the boxes and finding the correct one, he found the files were non-existent, not even a sleeve.
He knew it was a long shot, but tried ‘N’ for Northbrook. His mentor had told him not to ignore a lead, however small it may be. These files were also missing.
He left the room with the empty Wong file, signed out with the guard and asked, ‘Where do you keep the logging in sheets for that room?’
‘In a box inside the room,’ the guard replied.
‘I need you to look for anyone looking for these.’ He showed him a list of files that were missing.
The guard nodded and Baker headed for the main office.
He found McGowan, who looked in need of a coffee, his hair dishevelled and his shirt collar open.
Walking up to him, he dropped the file on his desk and said, ‘What can you tell me about these?’
McGowan looked annoyed, sweeping the file up into his hands. ‘What about it?’
‘Where are the case reports? Evidence reports? Test results? Michael’s murder file isn’t in there at all. Neither is Northbrook, or Matherson.’
‘No idea where they are. I told you when I found you at Northbrook I couldn’t build a case on it.’
‘Who was in charge of the Wong case?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What do you know?’
‘All I know is what I told you at Northbrook, that some guy outside Amber Heights jumped the barrier and gave me this scar.’
‘Who was it?’
‘Someone looking for his brother or something, I don’t know. It was dark and I can’t remember his face.’
‘Not very helpful is it?’
McGowan motioned for him to come closer and whispered, ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if the records were taken. Nobody followed the case up. It just stopped dead, same as Michael’s and Northbrook seventeen years ago.’
‘Are they connected you think?’
‘If they are, it’s been buried well.’
‘Dammit!’ he shouted. ‘Is everybody bent in this place?’
Most of the room stopped and stared.
McGowan wasn’t pleased either. ‘Will you keep it down? We’re in enough shit for questioning Fraser without a lawyer. Look, why don’t we do our own investigation? Come on, we can go and speak to Wong’s father.’
‘Fine,’ Baker replied and walked out.
CHAPTER FORTY FIVE
Valerie and Bill were at the breakfast bar sitting opposite each other. She watched him stuff a fork full of scrambled eggs into his mouth and wash it down with a mouthful of coffee. Valerie didn’t eat. She just had coffee, black and unsweetened. She’d dressed in yesterday’s clothes as it was all she had and refused his offer of some clean ones that might work on her. Bill wore a cleaned and ironed shirt un-tucked from blue jeans.
She said, ‘I think we need to drop by my place and pick up some clean clothes.’
‘I think we should go to Matherson’s office.’
She put her cup down fiercely, almost slamming it, and glared at him like he had just slapped her mother. ‘Are you crazy? We can’t go there. He has Jackson.’
Bill grabbed a towel and started mopping up the spilled coffee. ‘How can you be so sure?’
She grabbed his arm and looking into his eyes. ‘Are you serious? Or just stupid?’
‘I just think that it couldn’t make things any worse.’
‘And they say men aren’t dumb.’
‘Valerie.’
‘What?’
He had to tell her, she needed to know. Sharp and fast, he said, ‘Jackson is dead. I’m sorry.’
She moved away from the breakfast bar, away from Bill. ‘No he isn’t. Why would you say that?’
‘I found a photo of him on Sharpe’s cell.’
‘Bullshit.’
He said nothing.
Her lip quivered. ‘Show me.’
‘Val.’
‘I said show me.’
He pulled the cell from his pocked, placing it on the bar between them. She grabbed it and fumbled through it quietly until she found the gallery.
She wiped her tears. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I didn’t want to hurt you.’
‘He was my friend,’ she cried. ‘What? Did you think telling me would stop you getting laid? You used me.’
‘Val.’
‘You don’t think I can handle this? You need a reality check, Bill. I work, or worked for, a ruthless asshole. I’ve done things that would make you piss your pants. Matherson will pay for this. And so will you.’ She slapped him across the face and yelled, ‘He was my friend!’ before marching to the bedroom and slamming the door.
She wiped her eyes and scanned the room. The bed sheets were a mess and the curtains were still closed. She cringed. How things change. She’d let him have her, multiple times. It felt good, but it was all a lie to her now. All along he’d known and she felt used.
That lying sack of shit.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Valerie?’
Ignoring him, she looked through Sharpe’s phone. There were numbers and names of people she didn’t even know. There were texts from women, men, any number of people. She deleted them all and wiped any trace of Jackson and Matherson from it. She was angry. She was betrayed. In a fit of rage, she threw the phone across the room, hitting a cupboard door,
which swung open.
Knock, knock.
Fuck off, Bill.
Knock, knock.
‘Val, let me in. Please? We can go and see Matherson together and get to the end of all this.’
‘Leave me alone.’
She picked the phone up from the carpet and noticed something in the cupboard which had come loose from everything else in there.
‘Oh my God.’
On the other side of the door, Bill was resting head against it, trying the handle. He figured it was either locked, or she was pushed against it. Knocking once more, he gave up for a while in case she came out, choosing to sit down. A minute later he got up again. He was restless. He was impatient. He had messed up. He watched from his apartment at the people down below. The snow had stopped, but it was still freezing out there.
How could I be so stupid?
He tried the door again. It still didn’t move.
‘Val?’
Nothing.
‘Val, come on.’
Nothing.
‘Val, I’m sorry.’
Nothing. Not even the sound of her moving around.
He wriggled the handle impatiently. ‘Open this door.’
Nothing.
Fuck this.
‘Valerie, if you’re behind the door, you’ve got three seconds to move.
‘One. Two. Three.’
Nothing.
Stepping back, he slammed his shoulder against it, breaking it clean from its hinges. Cold air hit him like a fridge. He expected two things: she would hit him and run, or she would just run. None of that happened. She wasn’t there. The room was just as he left it. Almost. The window was open showing the snow covered fire escape and the city beyond.
Shit.
The he saw the cupboard in the corner wide open and it soon came to him, his gun was missing.
So was the tape from the Wong murder six years ago.
CHAPTER FORTY SIX
Wong’s restaurant was aptly named ‘Wong’s’. It wasn’t clever, but it drew in the customers like ants to sugar. He wanted to bring the authentic Chinese feel to the place by serving the type of food the Chinese eat and not the Chinese food catered to western tastes. He wanted to use genuine ingredients and sauces made from the ground up and it worked well. The place was prospering.