Bang! You're Dead

by Mona Marple

  Sandy looked at Felix, who grinned at her with perfectly white false teeth.

  “You look as beautiful as the first sunrise of the year.” Felix said.

  Dorie blushed. “Well, yes, and I do prefer that tie to the awful spotted one. You know that.”

  “I remembered.” Felix said. “It’s so good to see you again, Dorie.”

  “I hope you’re keeping my place clean. I know what you bachelors are like. Toothpaste left all over the sink to crust!”

  “Make an honest man of me, eh?” He asked.

  “Get away with yer, you silly old sod.” Dorie said, but Sandy saw a smile flash at the corners of her mouth.

  “Have you seen those two?” She asked Coral, who was stood behind the counter gazing at the drinks machine. “Dorie and Felix? They’re so cute.”

  “I don’t know how I feel about it to be honest, when a woman my gran’s age has a better love life than me.” Coral admitted.

  “What are you trying to make?”

  “Latte, for the Welsh chap. I’ve already thrown two cappuccinos away. Don’t know how much longer he’ll wait.”

  Sandy turned and looked out at the tables. She recognised everyone apart from a man sat alone on one of the tables furthest away. He was well-dressed, with a shiny bald head and a perfectly round, protruding stomach. If his patience was wearing thin, he gave no sign of it. His gaze was fixed on looking out of the window.

  “I’ll do it.” Sandy said. She demonstrated, yet again, how a latte was made by pressing the latte button on the large machine, although in Coral’s defence, the text on lots of the buttons was worn off or hard to read. The machine would need replacing soon, an expense Sandy had budgeted for.

  She carried the drink across to the Welsh man, who gazed straight past her and flashed an enormous smile at someone behind her. Sandy turned and saw the most plastic-perfect woman she had ever set eyes on. The woman was like a caricature, tiny waist, enormous breasts, big blonde hair, large blue eyes, and a tiny nose.

  “My darling!” The man cried, in an effeminate voice that suggested she wasn’t his darling in that sense.

  The woman met Sandy’s gaze and smiled. “Do I order at the counter?”

  “I can take your order, what would you like?”

  “Black coffee, please. Nothing to eat.” She said, to Sandy’s relief. Sandy wasn’t sure she could have handled this woman with perfect proportions sitting and eating cake while all Sandy had to go was look at a picture in a recipe book to gain a few pounds.

  “I’ll bring it over.” Sandy said. She returned to the counter and met Coral’s gaze. “Can you make a black coffee for Barbie?”

  “Meow!” Coral said, with a laugh.

  Sandy felt her cheeks flush. “Sorry, that was really mean of me.”

  “She’s stunning.” Coral breathed. Sandy turned and saw that a general hush had fallen over the cafe as everyone attempted to take surreptitious glances at the blond beauty. Sandy retreated into the kitchen, where Bernice was sticking a knife into a tray of a dozen jacket potatoes to check their progress. She was about to tell Bernice about the beautiful woman in the cafe, but an excited cry rang out before she could say a word. Bernice looked at her and shrugged, and Sandy returned out front.

  A young, ginger man with a TV camera on his shoulder stood in the doorway, while a smartly-dressed man with a microphone fixed to his blazer addressed the customers. “If you can stay calm, please, while we film. The shrieks don’t come across too great on TV.”

  “Ah, hello.” Sandy said as she strode across to the TV presenter. “I’m Sandy Shaw, the owner. I was expecting you.”

  “Brill.” He said. “Thanks for letting us film here. So, we’re doing a piece on the murder, you knew him, yeah?”

  “What?” Sandy asked.

  “The murder? Hugo Tate?”

  “No, I didn’t know him.” Sandy admitted. “I thought this was a piece about my business.”

  The presenter looked at the cameraman, who shrugged. “Maybe next time. Hot news now is Hugo Tate. You can’t do any kind of interview about him?”

  “Well, no, like I say, I never met him.” Sandy said.

  “Perhaps I could help?” The Welsh man called, his lilting voice attracting the presenter’s attention. The Welsh man rose to his feet and held out a hand to the presenter. “Marshall Tate. Hugo is - was - my little brother.”

  Sandy stifled a gasp.

  “Mr Tate, I’m sorry for your loss.” The presenter said, the feeling behind the words not quite reaching his voice. “We want to do a feature about your brother. He sounds like a great man.”

  Marshall Tate took a quick intake of breath and nodded. “He was indeed.”

  “Would you speak to us today?” The presenter asked.

  “Of course.” Marshall agreed readily. “I want the whole world to know what a special man Hugo was.”

  The presenter and cameraman spent ten minutes chatting with Marshall at the back of the cafe. Ten minutes that Sandy watched them from behind the counter.

  “Ask them to mention the name of this place on air.” Coral suggested.

  “I can’t do that.” Sandy said.

  Coral shrugged. “I would. Bloomin’ cheeky if you ask me, using this place.”

  “Okay, we’re here live in Waterfell Tweed with Mr Marshall Tate, brother of the late Hugo Tate who was tragically killed. Marshall, thank you for speaking to us today. Can you start by telling us a little about Hugo?”

  Marshall’s eyes were already damp and the question triggered more tears from him. “He was a beautiful soul. I was his big brother, always there to be the leader, to do things first, and yet Hugo managed to do more, much more, in his life than I have in mine. He overtook me in every way, and I was delighted to sit back and watch him. He was a good, good man.”

  “Do you have any idea why someone would have wanted to hurt him?”

  “I have no idea. My brother was a good man.”

  “His ex-wife Ingrid has been charged with his murder. Do you know her well?”

  “No.” Hugo said, and a dark cloud transformed his face. “I would say that my relationship with my brother changed when he settled down with Ingrid. It was less encouraged for us to be close. And, it is my deepest regret, that we didn’t have time to rekindle that bond before he was… he was…”

  Sandy looked away as gut-wrenching sobs took over Marshall’s body.

  “You seem confident that you would have been able to grow closer again?”

  “Oh absolutely. We had a lifelong bond. And Hugo had moved on, his new partner was much more, well… accommodating.” Marshall said. His gaze fell on the blond woman, who watched him closely and swallowed.

  6

  Sandy sat on her settee that night, with The Cat on her left, and Tom on her right. A tub of popcorn sat on her lap.

  “This is why I’m not a size two like Hugo Tate’s new woman.” Sandy said, as she grabbed another handful of popcorn and ate it piece by piece.

  “You’re perfect as you are.” Tom said, which was the right answer but one she couldn’t believe he meant. She wondered what Tom’s reaction would have been if he’d seen the woman in the cafe that day.

  “Oh, Tom.” She sighed. “I don’t know where to start with this case.”

  “Well, now you know Ingrid’s his ex, surely that changes things?” He said.

  “Not really.” She said. “Wives kill husbands, ex-wives kill husbands. It’s a crime of passion either way. It’s not like she had zero motive as his wife.”

  “True.” Tom said. “Wow, I love it when you talk romantic to me.”

  She laughed and flicked a piece of popcorn at him. It bounced off his chest and flew back past her, before it landed on The Cat’s fur. The Cat opened an eye and hissed at Tom.

  “Oops, sorry Catkins.” Tom said.

  “Don’t patronise The Cat, Tom. I can’t be held responsible for what he might do to you.” Tom laughed. “Let’s just relax and not think abou
t Hugo tonight, yeah?”

  “Sounds perfect.” Sandy said. She put the popcorn on the coffee table and nuzzled into Tom’s side, enjoying the warmth of him. He had messaged her earlier and asked if he could come over and watch mindless reality shows with her, and she had grinned like a fool at the mundanity of the suggestion before responding with a resounding yes.

  “Oh, we need to change the channel.” Sandy realised. The programme they had been watching, about people voting each other off of a coach holiday around Europe, had finished. “Where’s the remote?”

  “I think you had it.” Tom said.

  She moved away from him and looked around the settee for the long, black remote control.

  “You know my mum always called it the oopie-doopie?”

  “What?” Sandy asked. She pulled a face in amusement.

  “Yep. She’d always be goin’ around the house asking, ‘where’s me oopie-doopie’. Good times.” Tom said.

  The conversation was interrupted by the news beginning on the TV.

  Further arrest made in the murder of Hugo Tate. Domingo Cavali, a criminal with links to The Blood Ties, a gang thought to have a national presence, has been charged with murder and remanded into custody. Cavali is no stranger to the legal world, with previous convictions for violence and robbery. Most recently, he made the news when he was found not guilty of an armed robbery despite overwhelming evidence against him. It is thought that Tate’s murder was a hit ordered by his ex-wife, Ingrid Tate, who is also charged with murder.

  “Wow.” Sandy said. The television showed a Hispanic man with a neat moustache and cropped beard, his head shaved.

  “Cavali… I know that name.” Tom said.

  “Really? You know this guy?”

  “No, not him. I know a… geeze what’s his name? Donovan! Donovan Cavali.”

  “Think they’re related?” Sandy asked, her wind whirring with ideas.

  Tom shrugged. “I have no idea. I’m not about to ask him.”

  “Well, who is he? How do you know him?”

  “He’s a delivery driver for the brewery. I only see him to say hello to, if I take the delivery. He has this name badge on, and it’s a full name one, and he’s the only one who delivers to us, has been for years, so I made a point of memorising his name so I could greet him by name.” Tom said. Memorising a delivery driver’s name was such a generous thing to do, and it didn’t surprise Sandy at all to learn that it was the kind of thing Tom did. “I know he likes a pint but never drinks on shift. Some of them do, ya know, which is worrying because I never believe we’re the only pub they have a drink in and those trucks are weapons. He always says he’ll have to pop in after shift one day, but he never has.”

  “Does he look like this guy?” Sandy asked.

  Tom stared at the TV, screwed his nose up in concentration. “A little, I guess. Same skin tone. My guy’s got a rounder face, I’d say. And hair. Dark hair.”

  “I need to speak to your guy.” Sandy said. Tom sighed. “When’s he due to deliver next?”

  “I don’t know about this, Sand. He might have nothing to do with this Domingo guy.”

  “Tom, trust me.” Sandy urged. “I know what I’m doing. I’ll ask him without him even realising what I’m doing.”

  Tom wasn’t convinced. “And if he is related? And the whole family have got gang links? This is a whole other level of murder, Sandy. You heard - a national gang. You don’t want to upset these people.”

  Sandy sighed. “Fine.”

  **

  When Sandy walked into The Tweed public house the next day, she could tell by the stunned look on Tom’s face that she had guessed right about Donovan Cavali’s next delivery day. She had kept a close eye on the street all morning until a brewery lorry drove past. She knew that The Tweed would have several deliveries, and that Donovan Cavali wouldn't be the driver for all of them, but figured it was worth a try.

  “What are you doing here?” He asked as he poured a pint for an old man sitting at the bar.

  “I came to see your face.” Sandy said. The white lie slipped out of her mouth easier than she had expected.

  Tom cocked his head and raised his eyebrows at her. “And the truth?”

  “I’ll get an orange juice, please.” Sandy said, to dodge the question. The old man at the bar looked from her to Tom and took his pint to enjoy in peace at a booth table.

  “You’re too sneaky for your own good, Miss Shaw.” Tom said.

  She grinned at him, although her insides danced with nerves.

  The door burst open then and Donovan Cavali walked in, pulling a trolley with three casks of ale on. He was quite obviously related to Domingo. His skin was, as Tom had said, lighter, more Sahara sand than Domingo’s caramel. His face was more full, hinting at a home-life that involved good cooking, his skin dotted with moles and freckles.

  He kept his head down as he walked in, and Sandy noted the concern on Tom’s face.

  “All okay, Don?” He asked.

  Donovan glanced up at him and nodded.

  “Mention it.” Sandy whispered. Tom looked at her, panicked, but nodded.

  “Don, I saw the news last night.” He began.

  Donovan stopped walking and propped the trolley up so it remained in place on its own. He met Tom’s gaze but said nothing.

  “The Cavali guy, I don’t know if he’s related to you but, well, must be rough for you if he is.”

  Donovan nodded. “Finally. Finally someone’s had the decency to mention it to my face.”

  His voice was accent-free, his words choked on the emotion behind them.

  “I’m really sorry, buddy.” Tom said. He was so natural, so at ease with this man he barely knew but considered a friend. Sandy was proud of the man he was.

  “My brother.” Donovan explained. He shook his head, as if in disbelief about the whole situation. “Only a kid.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Sandy said. “I’m Sandy, by the way. I’m Tom’s partner.”

  Donovan reached out his arm and shook Sandy’s arm in a half-hearted way.

  “The media are saying it was a hit ordered by someone else.” Sandy said. “Do you know who that might have been?”

  Donovan looked at her, as if his vision was distorted. He tried to focus on her face. “We move in different worlds. I haven’t seen him for a long time.”

  “Because of the things he was into?” Sandy pressed.

  “He lived with me, for a while. Caught him selling dope in my garden. Had to tell him to go, man, I got kids, ya know? I can’t have them around that stuff.”

  “It’s not your fault, Don.” Tom said. “Come and have a sit down, let me get you a coffee.”

  Donovan moved to the bar stools and obediently sat at one. Sandy noted the black scrawls on his knuckles, and Donovan noted her noting them. “Got out years ago. Not the life for me.”

  “The Blood Ties?” She asked.

  He snorted in response. “Nah, nah, they’re big time. I joined this little group, tryin’a play like a big shot. I was young and dumb. Had this mess done, realised straightaway it was a mistake. Got them to cover it up before I even left the place - said, just scribble over it all, I can’t go home with that on me. I was in that gang less than a day.”

  “What happened to Domingo?” Sandy asked.

  “Thought he’d do better than me. Started off running drugs, took over a patch. He wasn’t into no gang life. Only joined a few weeks ago. I think they offered him money.”

  “Why would they do that?” Sandy asked. “Is that common?”

  “Not really. He was riding high after getting off the armed robbery charge.”

  “I heard a bit about that.” Sandy said. Tom placed a cup of coffee in front of Donovan. He picked it up, hands shaking, and took a sip of the scalding liquid.

  “She got him off, you know?” Donovan said.

  “Who?”

  “Ingrid Tate.” He said, with a sad shake of his head. “I guess they think she came knocking fo
r the favour to be repaid.”

  Sandy considered his words as a chill ran down her spine. She had found Ingrid to be cold and detached, but could she be that calculated?

  “If I wanted to get to the bottom of what happened, to help your brother, where should I start?”

  “Well, don’t waste any time tryin’a speak to him. He’ll feed you a load a lies. Nah, you wanna know the truth, go to the Pink Flamingo.”

  “The Pink Flamingo?” Sandy asked. “What’s that?”

  Donovan sneered at her. “Lady, you don’t know what that place is, you should probably keep your nose outta this business.”

  7

  The Pink Flamingo was a non-descript building in the middle of an industrial estate just outside of Waterfell Tweed. It had no windows and the door was solid metal. A large bruiser of a man stood guard outside the door. A neon sign, with the name and a flamingo, flashed above the door.

  Sandy clutched Tom’s hand as he parked up opposite in the car park of a closed carpet shop.

  “Sure you want to do this?” He asked.

  “I’m sure.”

  They walked to the door hand in hand, with the agreement that Tom would do the talking. The bruiser looked them up and down and made no move to open the door for them.

  “Open?” Tom asked. Sandy heard his voice waver with nerves and hoped the bruiser wouldn’t.

  “Is she comin’ in or workin’?” The bruiser asked, with a look in Sandy’s direction that she didn’t appreciate.

  “We’re together.” Tom said. “Got some winnings to spend.”

  The bruiser nodded and opened the door. Tom led the way and Sandy stayed close to him, not letting go of his hand.

  The Pink Flamingo was sticky floors, cigarette smoke despite the smoking ban, and men. A bar stood at the far wall, and a small man sat on a bar stool with a woman in a bright pink leotard and impossibly high heels draped on his lap. She laughed too loud at something he said, but when he made a move towards her face with his hand, she slapped his hand away and jumped off his knee.