When Hell Freezes Over

by Rick Blechta

  “I’ve been on pins and needles all day long, Michael!” Regina exclaimed when I got her on the phone. “What’s happening?”

  It took me a good thirty minutes to lay it all out. I knew which way I was hoping she’d jump about what to do next, and I tried to angle the discussion in that direction, but she didn’t pick up on it.

  “Poor Angus,” she said softly when I’d finished. “Do you really think it could have been my father’s men?”

  “That’s where we’re in pretty murky water. It could have been...and it would explain why Angus had to die. If he’d been left around to tell someone what information they’d wanted, they would be in serious trouble. If it was the second group of men, then I just don’t know. But whoever was responsible, the sad truth is that Angus had to die.”

  “Why?

  “To keep the information from the other group.”

  Regina didn’t speak right away, and when she did, it had a quiet intensity I could hear clearly from three thousand miles away. “In your heart of hearts, do you think Angus would have told them what they wanted to know?”

  I had known she would ask that question, and I’d been pondering it all day myself. Angus would have been aware of how dangerous that would be, but he had no idea at the time they showed up at his house where Regina was. He only knew where I was.

  “I certainly hope not.”

  “What about the man who came to your business today?”

  “Perhaps Campbell has someone nosing around. He kept bringing up drugs. Maybe he thinks Angus and I are... were involved in the drug trade, something like that. If it was the police at my business, they’re looking for something on me. It won’t be long before they’re also looking for you, though. They know you exist—”

  “How?”

  “You left hair samples all over Angus’s house. In the shower, for instance. Other places, too.”

  “They know about that?”

  “Not from anything I said. I told them the sheets weren’t fresh, and I’d been too lazy to change them. If they wanted to press things, though, I suppose I could be asked to give a DNA sample, and that could be matched up to what we undoubtedly left on the sheets, and then with the hairs you left in the shower. My employees can identify you. How do I explain all that?” I ended bluntly.

  “No, Michael! I do not want to be brought into this. I can’t be. These people are after me!”

  My anger with Regina, building as the day had progressed, suddenly boiled over. “I certainly wish you’d thought to tell Angus that before you left!” I spat out angrily.

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means, even though we both should have thought things through a lot better, it’s you those thugs were after. Don’t you regret anything about what’s happened? My friend is dead because I brought you to his house!”

  “Michael I...I know that. It’s just...”

  “Whose side are you on, anyway? Are you trying to protect your father or something?”

  There was a long pause before she spoke. “Okay. You’re right. Tell the cops. Just don’t tell them about me.”

  I looked heavenward. “Can’t you see that’s impossible?”

  “Can’t you just ride this out?”

  “I don’t want to. I want Angus’s killers to be brought to justice! Don’t you want that, too?”

  “Yes, yes. Of course I do,” she answered, but it sounded reluctant.

  “Then you have to agree to help the police.”

  “You’re definitely going to tell them everything?”

  “Yes,” I answered, suddenly certain of the way forward. “There’s no other choice. And you must help. You have valuable information.”

  “I don’t know if I’m ready for that... There’s my, um, father to think about in all this. I don’t know if I’m ready to...you know...”

  “Say you’ll help!”

  “I’ll think about it. Call me tomorrow.”

  “What’s there to think about? How can you be this ungrateful?”

  “Goodbye, Michael.”

  The line went dead, and I sat there stupidly until the dial tone returned.

  Damn her! Damn myself.

  Eight

  It didn’t surprise me to get a phone call from the Dunoon police at half eight next morning.

  “ DCI Campbell would like to see you as soon as possible, sir.”

  I didn’t feel up to what was coming, having been awake almost the entire night. No doubt about it, I’d landed in a right mess.

  As I walked up the hill to the Dunoon police station, I kept a wary eye out for the media. It was only a matter of time before they got wind of my involvement in Angus’s death. Even though Neurotica’s story was firmly in the past tense, they wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to troll for juicy info. A bit of digging, and I’d be nailed.

  I strolled by several cars and vans parked on the street, their occupants keeping warm while they waited for something to happen. They wouldn’t be happy when they discovered their big story had walked right under their noses, twice.

  The duty officer at the station told me to sit on one of the benches lining the walls of the gloomy room. Ten minutes later, Campbell himself came to retrieve me. I stood to shake hands but couldn’t read anything useful in his expression.

  We went to a different room that morning, bare except for an ancient wooden table, three unmatched plastic seats and a metal waste basket that looked as if it had been booted more than a few times. A constable came in to take notes almost as soon as we’d sat, but also— to my mind more ominously—he placed a recorder on the table between Campbell and me. Having seen the BBC ’s Prime Suspect series, I knew full well what that meant.

  “So, Mr. Quinn,” Campbell began,“did you spend a comfortable night?”

  “Not really. What is the recorder for?”

  “We have moved on to the second stage of our investigation, and since we may require it later, I thought it best to have it on hand from the beginning.”

  Up to that point, I hadn’t quite decided what I wanted to do, but the appearance of the recorder settled it. Not telling the detective what I knew was getting me deeper into it with each passing moment.

  In hindsight, I probably should have had a lawyer with me, but since I felt I had nothing to hide, and I had done nothing wrong except to be a bloody stupid git, I got ready to spill the load.

  “I, ah, may not have been as forthcoming yesterday as I might have been,” I began.

  Campbell didn’t make an outward sign, but I could detect a satisfied reaction. After a long moment of staring, he reached forward and switched on the tape recorder, stating the date, time, circumstances and people present. Then the detective leaned back in his chair, folded his arms across his chest and nodded, making it clear I wasn’t going to receive any help with this.

  I took a deep breath, said a silent Hail Mary and began. “When I returned here from Birmingham, I had a woman with me.”

  His face was unreadable. “We were aware of that.”

  “You were?”

  He smiled, but it wasn’t friendly. “There were two condom wrappers under your bed, as well as one recently-used condom stuck in the toilet, which is an old one and doesn’t flush very efficiently.”

  “You looked in the toilet?”

  “We removed the toilet. Since discovering that, we spoke to the ferry workers, and one remembers your friend’s Jaguar making the crossing with its memorable damage as well as a rather good-looking young lady accompanying you.”

  “And that’s why you asked me to come in this morning?”

  “Partially.”

  “What do you mean by ‘partially’?”

  “Look, Mr. Quinn. Why don’t you just tell me your story, and then we can clean up any remaining questions when you’ve finished.”

  Trying to stay relaxed and look decidedly not guilty, I fixed my eyes firmly on the opposite wall and told Campbell everything I could remember, starting with
Regina jumping into my car in Birmingham in the early hours of Monday morning last.

  It took quite a long time.

  ***

  They didn’t let me go until almost half two. After I’d finished my story, Campbell had a multitude of questions. He asked if I thought I might be able to help a police artist sketch any of the six men who’d tried to stop us that night in Birmingham. He even had my fingerprints taken to help with identification of what they’d found at Angus’s place. Finally, they typed up a statement for me to sign. No one made any indication as to whether what I’d told them had been believed.

  If I thought I’d been exhausted before the interview, I’d been wrong. Part of my fatigue was hunger, so I stopped at the same café as the day before and ate a bowl of soup and a sandwich, hardly noticing what any of it tasted like. Still, I felt better for eating—and for finally doing something positive to help the cops catch the bastards who’d murdered my friend.

  When I got back to my room, I immediately tried Regina to give her the lowdown on how things had gone. Even though he wouldn’t say how he was going to proceed with the information I’d given him, I felt certain DCI Campbell would try to get someone in Toronto to interview Regina. She needed to know exactly what I had said so there wouldn’t be problems with conflicting stories.

  With a sinking heart, I received the news that the person in Room 517 had departed the previous evening—almost as soon as she’d got off the phone with me, as it turned out. “Did she leave any messages for people calling?”

  The desk clerk’s reply sounded tentative. “I will check, sir, but somehow I doubt it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She left without settling her bill.”

  “She skipped?”

  There was a pause. “Yes, and I’m afraid the credit card she gave me when checking in was not, ah, active.”

  “Did Miss Mastrocolle leave any forwarding information?”

  “I’m sorry, the guest in that room used a different name. Are you sure the guest you’re inquiring about was in 517?”

  “Of course I am! I spoke to her yesterday afternoon.” I squeezed the bridge of my nose between thumb and forefinger. “How muchdoes she owe?”

  The voice on the other end sounded very much relieved, and I suspected that he’d screwed up and not handled her registration correctly. Most hotels check credit card information when guests register, not after they’ve skipped out on their bill.

  Filled with disquiet, I replaced the receiver. Several things didn’t add up here. I should have expected Regina to register under an assumed name if she could, but the bogus credit card was a really stinking bit of evidence. If she was what she’d told me, she wouldn’t have phony credit cards.

  Dialing the operator, I asked for directory assistance for Paris. Several minutes later, my disquiet had ramped up alarmingly. The place Regina had told me she worked, Galerie Longchamps, had never heard of her and had never in their history had an American working for them.

  I called back the hotel in Toronto. “Could you tell me what name the woman in 517 used?”

  The desk clerk sounded more friendly this time. “This is about more than her hotel bill, isn’t it?” he asked candidly.

  “You could say that.”

  “Sorry to hear that, sir. I don’t think it would be too far beyond hotel policy to tell you that she registered under the name of Genevieve Fleury. Had all the papers, too, and a very charming French accent. She certainly fooled me.”

  I was stunned. “Where did she say she was from?”

  “Boy, you sound as if you’re in the same boat I was! Sure hope you weren’t taken for much. Her driver’s license said Montreal.”

  After hanging up, I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Something was very wrong, and it was obvious that, even after coming clean with Campbell, my situation had now become considerably worse.

  What did I really know about the girl? Only that two groups of men had chased her and been quite ready to use force (or worse) to get her. Past that, I could be sure of nothing—except that she was a damned good liar.

  I rang up Campbell, only to be informed that he’d gone to the divisional headquarters in Dumbarton and wouldn’t return until thefollowing morning. I asked if they would have him call me as soon as possible, that it was quite urgent.

  Nothing more could be done on the Regina front at the moment, so I next tried the Hilton in Glasgow, only to be told that Mr. Simpson was not accepting calls, but they agreed to deliver a message. It took Rolly only ten minutes to ring back.

  “Michael! How are you?”

  “I’ve been better.”

  “Have you reconsidered what we were discussing yesterday?”

  “There is nothing to reconsider. Let’s just drop it, Rolly, okay?”

  He didn’t answer immediately, and I could distinctly hear a female voice giggling in the background. The lovely Constable Dickson?

  “Sorry, Michael. What was that you said?” Rolly asked.

  “Nothing. So when is the service for Angus?”

  “Monday at the RC church in Dunoon. The body is to be cremated, according to his wishes and that will be done in Greenock. Has that solicitor chap been in touch with you?”

  “What solicitor, and how the hell could he ring me up if no one knew where I’m staying?”

  “Good point. Give me your number, and I’ll pass it on to him.”

  “What does he want?”

  “Didn’t Angus ever tell you? You’re his bleeding executor.”

  ***

  I spent the late afternoon dozing on the bed, only making a quick trip out to pick up a copy of the Glasgow Sunday Herald and a quart of orange juice.

  It must have been a slow news day, because the coverage extended beyond what one would expect for a fairly sensational murder. There was a nice article about Angus the Road Manager, mentioning all the acts he’d worked for, with some very gracious quotes from some of the artists. It didn’t surprise me that there were extensive quotes from Rolly. Most of the photos were from Neurotica gigs as well, including one of Angus, Rolly and me with one of the Beatles who’d once visited us backstage in London. The caption referred to me as the band’s “reclusive keyboard player”. All in all, it was a nice write-up and onethat painted Angus in a flattering light.

  Since it was approaching dinnertime, I flipped on the evening news, and sure enough, Angus’s murder was the third item dealt with. This coverage I was a lot less happy with. One reporter had managed to corner DCI Campbell as he’d left the Dunoon station that afternoon. In reply to the reporter’s question, Campbell said, “We have received new information, although we don’t know how reliable it is at this point. I expect more news will be forthcoming in the next day or two.”

  The clip ended with Campbell requesting “anyone with information to please come forward to assist the investigation.” The next clip was a brief interview with Rolly in his hotel room, something I’m sure he’d been very accommodating about.

  To my horror, he told the reporter that the original members of Neurotica had expressed a desire to perform a memorial concert for their fallen comrade. When the reporter questioned my involvement, Rolly replied, “I’m certain Michael will want to be part of it. He and Angus were very close. As a matter of fact, he was visiting a few days before this senseless killing.”

  Rolly came off as very concerned and generous, but knowing him as I did, I could detect the smugness in his expression. To add insult to injury, the reporter closed the segment with some coverage of my sudden and mysterious departure from Neurotica, complete with a clip from the press conference the band’s management had called after it had occurred. The reporter closed with the statement that I was currently living in Toronto.

  I flipped off the telly and angrily threw the remote across the room, where it shattered against the wall.

  Rolly had just completely screwed me.

  If I didn’t take part in his little memorial concert, I w
ould come across looking very churlish indeed. Angus had been my best friend since I’d left Neurotica, and what excuse could I give for not performing? Rolly knew quite well that my reputation was very important to me.

  As I stewed about the situation, it suddenly dawned on me that anyone who had seen the broadcast (or others like it which undoubtedly would be shown) would know more than enough to be able to find me. Those people who’d killed Angus could now come after me with little trouble.

  I went to bed early and felt like pulling the covers over my head. Sleep didn’t come easily, but I was used to that.

  ***

  The next morning was clear and bright and, feeling the need for a bit of space, I took my hired car and went for a drive up the peninsula as far as Rest and Be Thankful, where I pulled over and looked out at the world. Scotland on a beautiful day can be breathtaking and today it was at its best.

  The glorious view didn’t clear my head, though. My life had gone completely down the crapper. I was in trouble with the police, I was being manoeuvred into doing something I’d sworn I’d never do, and I was partially responsible for the death of a very good friend. The worst thing was I’d found that the one person who could verify everything I’d told the police had disappeared, after feeding me a complete pack of lies. Could things get any worse?

  Back in Dunoon, it took me a bit of time to find the church and a place to park. A lot of people Angus had worked for showed up, so naturally the press was out in force, snapping pictures of rock stars uncharacteristically wearing dark suits or sombre dresses. I managed to get in with only one or two snaps being taken, and none of the TV people could corner me for an interview, since the service was ready to begin.

  Raymond MacDonald, the solicitor Rolly had mentioned, had been on the lookout, though, and cornered me in the vestry for a quick update. Angus’s will stipulated that it was to be read at his home. Unfortunately, the police had forbade use of the house, so helpful Rolly had suggested the outbuilding where the instruments were kept. It wasn’t hard to guess his reasons.

  The less said about the service itself, the better. Angus would have killed himself laughing, being about the most un-religious man imaginable, who always took great glee telling everyone that he wouldn’t be caught dead in a church. That caused me a wistful private smile because here he was, caught dead in a church, complete with choir, pipe organ and a grandiose coffin.