by Mike Ripley
‘You show wisdom beyond your years,’ he said, and I half expected him to add ‘young Jedi’.
‘Not wisdom, common sense.’
‘What about our mutual friend in Belmarsh?’
‘Now that’s a bit more problematical.’ He raised his eyebrows at such a long word. It was probably even longer in Welsh, with four ‘g’s or more, not that he’d know, being from the south. ‘There’s no doubt that our mutual friend’s prime objective was to screw you around. I’m afraid he doesn’t like you much, Mr Turner.’
I couldn’t think why.
‘What’s between my brother-in-law and me is private. We’ll keep it that way.’
Brother-in-law? And I thought I had the Oscar for dysfunctional families that year.
‘Whatever you say. But I think it would please our friend to think that you were deprived of your merchandise, you lost your investment, and shall we add that you were thrown into a flat spin when you heard about your solicitor helping the police with their enquiries for the first time when it was on BBC Wales tomorrow morning? Wouldn’t that satisfy him?’
‘That might work, but he wouldn’t believe it if he heard it through me.’
‘I’ll tell him,’ I volunteered.
‘You will?’
Well, maybe I’d write.
‘If I have to, sure.’
‘Do it. Now, you said you wanted something from me. Better make it quick. I’ve got phone calls to make.’
I licked my lips, because they had suddenly dried up.
‘When we were in London, you said I didn’t really know about Amy and Keith Flowers, and something about her being “the old gang” or something. What did you mean?’
‘I knew you didn’t know,’ he said, and his face cracked into a grin. ‘No, I shouldn’t laugh, I suppose. Your Amy was a student here in Cardiff for a time. Keith Flowers was with a firm of accountants. I came across them because they’d rented some of my property down the docks. That was the old docks, not the tarted up new one nobody can afford to live in.
‘They’d got a nice little scam going with a company supposed to be making sundials.’
‘Sundials?’
‘Yes, sundials using recycled materials – bits of brass from the old collieries, Welsh slate for the bases.’
‘Did they sell?’
‘I dunno, ‘cos they never made one, it was all a con. They got their start-up money from the Common Market or the European Union or whatever the fuck they call it these days. Said Wales was a Third World country and needed aid. People were quite affronted by that at the time; didn’t like to think of themselves as Third World. Now they call it “inward investment” and everyone’s at it. Amy and Keith were among the first to get a grant, and they had a good solicitor.’
‘Rees.’
‘Spot on. When the company went belly-up, they never found the cash, about £72,000 as I remember. It had been well squirreled away. Young Amy had ambitions, you see. Needed some seed capital for a move to London. Rees did whatever she told him to, and they sort of cut Keith out of the loop.
‘He was always a bit unstable, was Keith, but that tipped him over the edge. He threw a wobbler when two Inland Revenue investigators turned up and started asking nasty questions. He went for them, big time. Beat the living crap out of them. Both were hospitalised and took early retirement.’
‘Two Inland Revue inspectors? Maybe I’ve misjudged Keith Flowers.’
‘Not funny, Mr Angel. They were both women. I don’t like, nor do I approve of, violence towards women. That’s why he got such a hefty sentence.’
‘I didn’t know,’ I said contritely. ‘Thank you for that.’
‘She didn’t tell you?’
‘Not in so many words.’
‘No,’ he said with another sigh. ‘She wouldn’t. Women are such bitches.’
I didn’t know whether to agree or not.
‘Tell you what,’ he said suddenly, ‘I’ll make a few calls, sort things out my end. You have a night in Cardiff on me. See some of the nightlife. Don’t worry, I won’t be with you. You don’t want an old git like me cramping your style.’
What was going on? Any minute now he’d be adopting me.
‘I hadn’t planned ...’
‘Won’t hear a refusal.’
I got the impression he never did.
‘This wouldn’t involve Barry and Huw would it?’
‘Not unless you wanted them to buy you a drink. I’d’ve thought you could find your own entertainment.’
‘I can, I can. It’s just I wasn’t thinking of Cardiff for tonight.’
‘I’ll put you up at the St David’s, the best in town.’
‘They’re probably fully booked,’ I tried.
He gave me a look that said they were never fully booked for him.
‘You do what you want. Make a night of it on the town or go to the health spa. It’ll all be on my tab. Then you and I’ll have breakfast together in the morning. How’s that?’
‘Do I have a choice?’
He wrinkled his nose as if thinking hard. ‘Not really.’
‘And if I just kept driving back to London, you’d come and visit me there? Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not next week, but some time, and I’d always be looking over my shoulder?’
He looked partly impressed, partly surprised.
‘Good God almighty you’ve got a vivid imagination on you. You don’t realise how valuable you are to me, Mr Angel. I would wrap you in cotton wool if I could.’
‘You would?’
‘Of course I would. You’re going to see my psycho brother-in-law in Belmarsh and tell him how I almost had a heart attack thanks to his cunning plan. That way he’ll stay cheerful for a while and give me a bit of piece. I don’t want my living room creosoted. I’ve spent thousands on my living room. The wife would fucking kill me.’
I don’t know how he did it, but there was a Master Suite waiting for me at the St David’s. I only wished I’d had luggage to take up to it.
I didn’t know why I was doing this. My hands shook as I raided the mini-bar. I should be a good proportion down the M4 by now. Len Turner was checking out my story, keeping me in town so he could put his hands on me if he needed to. I was being held on suspicion, albeit in a mink-lined prison. And it did have a health spa.
I charged a pair of Speedo swimming shorts to the room, hired a towel and relaxed in the pool, the sauna, the jacuzzi and then the pool again. When in Rome visiting the Emperor, it’s always best to enjoy the decadence while you can. Tomorrow you might find yourself in the arena.
Back in my room – suite – I used my mobile to ring home and see if there were any messages. If Len Turner was getting the bill, I didn’t want to give him any itemised phone numbers I cared about.
There was one message for me. Amy asking me not to forget to pick her up at the airport.
That made me think of the confrontation that was coming round the corner and coming fast.
To hell with it. If I was going to be depressed, I’d be depressed on a full stomach, and the hotel’s restaurants were good. From the Information for Visitors brochure I decided on lobster, as it was the most expensive thing. I’d have it for starters, then see what I felt like for a main course.
I was putting on my least grimy T-shirt when there was a knock on the door, which was odd, because I hadn’t ordered anything for nearly 15 minutes.
I glued my eye to the security spy-hole – the prisoner spying on the jailers – and there was a young, straight-haired blonde in the process of taking off a pair of octagonal wire-framed glasses and feeding them into a case in a small leather handbag.
I opened the door.
‘Hello,’ I said, making it upbeat and innocent, not fruity and lecherous like a bad Leslie Phillips impersonation.
She
wore a white TALtop. Who’d have thought it? They had actually made it to Wales. And she’d set it off with a black leather waistcoat, a short red suede mini skirt, black tights and Victorian ‘granny’ ankle boots with three inch spiked heels.
‘Mr Angel?’ she said politely.
‘Probably,’ I said.
‘I’ve been told to keep you company for the night, do anything you want.’
She stood there with her hands on her bag, holding it to her stomach. Not nervous, not overly tarty as she could have been by putting her hands on her hips. Quite demure, in fact.
‘Anything?’ I said. It was pure reflex. Old habits die hard.
She nodded, dead serious. ‘Anything.’
I thought carefully about what to say next.
‘Mr Turner sent you.’
‘Yes.’
‘And he’d be offended if I said no?’
It was her turn to think carefully. ‘I could be in trouble if I didn’t appear to come up to expectations, though I could order a replacement.’
‘No, no, no problems in that area, it’s just ... Look, have you had guys say they just want to talk, you know, just sit and talk. And it usually turns out to be about their wives and how they don’t understand them?’
‘Y-e-s,’ she said slowly, then she saw me grinning. ‘All the time, actually. Sad fuckers, most of them.’
Oh, I had a feisty one here.
‘Well, let me tell you ...?’
‘Julia.’
‘Let me tell you, Julia, that you are in the presence of one of those sad fuckers, whose wife does understand him, but he’s alone, in Cardiff for one night, and is really, really hungry. But he’s on expenses. So, the question you’ve got to ask yourself is, do you like lobster?’
She was struggling against the smile, which was a pity, because she had a nice face that hadn’t had much to laugh at.
‘Let me get this right. You want to take me to dinner? That’s all? No afters? It’s okay, the afters are paid for. I just like to know where I stand.’
‘Not quite correct. I want to take you for the most expensive dinner you’ve ever had, with the finest wines in Christendom. After which, you can come in here and put your feet up – oops, bad choice of words there – what I mean is, you can make it look like you stayed, if you think you need to, or you can get a taxi home at my expense. Well, not mine, but on expenses. Alternatively, we can sit and watch the Discovery Channel, because I’m pretty sure you can get that in a Master Suite, and we can annoy Room Service until the wee hours. Or we could do the mini-bar, shelf by shelf, seeing who finishes ...’
‘You’re weird,’ she said, smiling now. ‘I think I’ll take the expensive dinner option.’
‘A wise choice, madam, you won’t regret it,’ I said, giving her a low bow.
It was the least I could do for the girl on tape 6.
By the time Len Turner showed up at breakfast, I was on my third cup of coffee. I had restricted myself to couple of pastries after the blow-out of the night before. (There had been a minor fuss about me demanding fresh raspberries with shredded mint leaves to go with the iles flotant, and the chef had been called for and had finally agreed, after the better part of bottle of cognac, that they did complement one another.)
‘I can’t stop,’ he said, not bothering to sit down. ‘Got to go and sell a few shares to pay your fucking bill.’
‘It was your idea,’ I said nervously.
‘Remind me not to have any more.’
He was dressed for business: three piece suit, shirt and tie, clutching a briefcase. Well, one of his businesses.
‘Going for an interview with my new solicitors, aren’t I? Note that. They’re interviewing me, see if my business is worth having.’
‘They’d be foolish to refuse,’ I said. Foolish? Bloody suicidal.
‘Oh, they’ll see sense when the cheque book comes out.’
Or when they see son Ron in dark glasses and leather jacket lurking at the entrance to the dining room, like I could.
‘Just came by to say that everything you said has come to pass.’
‘It has?’ I said, trying hard not to sound surprised.
‘Seven o’clock news. Helping the police with their enquires into a suspicious death. No charges yet.’
He sounded quite disappointed.
‘So, that’s that, then?’ I said hopefully.
‘Not quite.’
He seemed uncomfortable, almost shifting from one foot to the other yet somehow not physically moving.
‘I had some of my ... Some of my associates visited the offices of a ...’
‘A mutual legal friend?’ I supplied.
‘Yes, well, there was a question of certain files to be recovered.’
‘I thought there might be.’
‘Well, they found this – and several dozen others.’
He rested his briefcase on his knee to open it and took out a video cassette in a plastic box. He put it carefully down on the table and closed the case.
‘The fuckwit made copies for the office.’
I stared at the cassette. The sticky label on the spine said: ‘17. (Amy.)’
Before I could say anything, Len Turner was leaving.
‘Good luck,’ he said.
Chapter Twenty
I never caught the news on BBC Wales. By the time I tried to retune the radio in the Freelander, I was on the bridge crossing the Severn and looking at Wales through the rear-view mirror. I found the national news headlines on Radio 4 at midday, but of course it didn’t rate a mention there.
Just before the Chippenham turn-off, I thought I saw a black TX1 cab pulled up on a garage forecourt, but I could have been mistaken.
I would get back to London with 24 hours to spare before I had to collect Amy from Heathrow.
I could tidy up the house. Maybe write a letter to Malcolm Fisher. Go see how Springsteen was. I could ring Stella – no she’d still be on her honeymoon – or Veronica at Rudgard & Blugden and ask if they’d heard from Steffi Innocent. I might just drop into the conversation that Steffi must be on some financial blacklist as she wasn’t allowed a credit card. (And God knows, they gave them out to just anyone. Look how many I’d got.) Were they aware of that? Had they investigated the investigators?
And then again, I might watch a video.
I did all that except for cleaning the house.
Springsteen was fine. Fenella looked a little more harassed than usual, running around after him, tending to his every need, and she took it badly when I suggested we should get him a bell that he could bat along the floor with his good paw whenever he needed something.
‘Did you ever find out who did this to him?’ Fenella asked.
‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘It’s well sorted.’
When she’d gone, I asked Springsteen if he had any relations in a place called Tregaron. He didn’t deign to reply.
I wrote to Mr Creosote, or Prisoner HM 8281 Fisher as I was supposed to call him, and told him in a roundabout way that his friend’s idea for an adventure holiday in Wales had misfired (I liked that) and that the main backer had lost his investment fund. The matter was effectively closed.
I didn’t have Mr Creosote’s faith in the European Court of Justice ruling that said no-one was allowed to read his mail.
I rang Rudgard & Blugden and got through to Veronica.
Steffi Innocent had phoned in sick – eventually, she added huffily – and was likely to be off all week. No, she didn’t know where she was, but she was such a strange girl, nothing would surprise Veronica. No credit rating? No, she hadn’t heard that, and she’d look into it. It was odd, wasn’t it? They give those cards out to every Tom, Dick or Barry, don’t they? My cat could probably get one if I filled in the form.
‘Interesting idea, Veronica,’ I said, befor
e hanging up.
She rang me back in the early evening to tell me that the basic credit check had come up immediately with Steffi’s name on not one, but three, blacklists. An entire history of credit cards maxed out, one within 24 hours of being issued. A bit of a shopaholic, our Steffi, and therefore untrustworthy in a business that relied so much on trust. (It probably said that on her day-by-day tear-off desk calendar.) Sad though it was, when Stella got back, they would have to review her contract.
That was sad, and a bit like kicking someone when they were down.
But that’s what she’d done.
Most of the night I spent watching a video – the same video of which I now had two copies – or as much of it as I could stomach at one go, which was about an hour.
And there was a fair bit of drinking involved.
A policeman ringing the doorbell got me out of bed just before noon.
He was by himself – his partner was in the police car parked in the street – and he wasn’t wearing his hat. Good signs it wasn’t serious.
‘Mr Angle?’
‘Near enough.’
‘Sorry to disturb you, sir.’
I pulled the belt on my silk robe even tighter.
‘What can I do for you?’
He pulled out his notebook and turned a few pages.
‘Could you tell me if you were in the house on Tuesday night? That’s Tuesday this week.’
‘No, I wasn’t. I’ve been in Wales for few days. Since Monday, actually, and I only got back yesterday afternoon.’
‘Wales? My sergeant’s Welsh.’ He flicked his head to the car, where the other uniform was doing paperwork leaning on the dashboard.
‘That’s nice for you,’ I said cheerfully.
‘Not really. He’s a bit of pain in the arse, if you know what I mean. However, I’ve got to ask you, because you’re the last house on our list. Is there a wife ...?’
‘Yes, but she’s in Spain. Comes back this evening. She wasn’t here Tuesday either.’