Scamper's Find

by Terry H. Watson

  Sergei remained silent throughout his time with the detectives, saddened at the loss of his family and distressed as he heard of their fate.

  Harvey explained to the heartbroken trio, “It was all so unnecessary. Our country would not have deported them. We have schemes in place for genuine asylum seekers. Sadly, being unaware of that, they allowed themselves to fear the worst and were caught in a dreadful situation. Their worst nightmare was to be sent back to their warring homeland. That would not have happened.

  “Before we return to Chicago, I would like to arrange for you all to accompany us there to meet and talk with Lucy’s mother. It would perhaps help her with some closure to listen to your story and know that her daughter had been cared for by good people during her captivity and for yourselves too, to understand more about the child who spent her last few weeks with your family.”

  Marc was at first sceptical about taking up the offer. Somewhere in the recess of his brain was a fear of authorities, borne of years of unrest and war, but he was a fair man who discerned goodness in the officers who were obviously affected by their story of their flight to freedom.

  Harvey looked at the bemused trio and continued, “I have to make a few calls first to have the trip sanctioned and to speak with Brenda Mears.”

  Emotions were high in that little New York apartment as the stunned trio quickly packed for an unexpected journey. Sergei, stomach churning with grief and a sadness he had not felt for some time, wondered at the wisdom of meeting the mother of the girl whose life was tragically entwined with his family.

  The Chicago duo returned to HQ with more information than they had hoped to amass and with three extra passengers.

  ***

  Brenda Mears paced up and down as the time approached for her to meet with some people that Superintendent Harvey thought might help her sorrow. She adjusted her dress, her hair and make-up, and looked out towards the long drive, impatient, nervous and wishing the visit was over. She welcomed the visitors to her home, a home no longer filled with music or laughter, but one that had taken on a more morbid aura. She showed them into the only room that was now in use, the others having been closed up since Molly’s last cleaning frenzy. She had suffered so much loss and wondered at the wisdom of recalling painful memories by having these people visit. Detective Carr had persuaded her to meet with the group. She listened attentively to them as they recounted their story and warmed to the young man who attempted to apologise for his relatives’ part in the abduction of her daughter.

  “Sergei,” she said, holding the hand of the youth, “you have nothing to apologise for. It was my relative, my own aunt, who brought this tragedy to our doors. We have all suffered such loss because of one mad woman.”

  Carole Carr noted how Brenda Mears had mellowed over the years since her daughter’s death and thought such a pity it took a tragedy for her to become a much nicer person.

  Before they left, Brenda asked Sergei about his future plans. She offered him employment with Mears Empire if he wished to consider a career in the publishing business. He thanked her for her offer but felt he had to return to his homeland.

  “There is nothing for me now in your country. I must return to my homeland and build a life for myself. Perhaps I can help restore my beloved city to its former glory. My ambition is to be an architect. Perhaps I can work and pay my way through university and realise my dream. My injured arm is healing and is stronger now.”

  To the surprise of the group sitting in that room, their host offered to fund his university course. Sergei waved a hand in protest, but Brenda continued, “Sergei, I have more money than I’ll ever need. I have set up several trust funds in memory of Lucy. You would be doing me a great honour if you accept my offer. It would keep her memory alive and of course, that of your sister and brother-in-law, whom I now realise in my heart, had only Lucy’s best interest in theirs. We have all suffered loss, so let’s build a lasting memory befitting to them, in the future career of a sincere and gentle young architect.”

  The visitors returned to New York, more at peace with the world and still reeling from the generosity of the one person they were afraid to encounter. It was agreed that Sergei remain with Donata and Marc until he was fully recovered from his traumatic few years.

  The motherly Donata fussed over the young man, fed him well and together with Marc talked and wept for their shared loss. He remained with them for some months until his strength had returned and his injured arm ceased to be a problem. Feeling refreshed Sergei made the decision to return home to Sarajevo.

  He was assured by his hosts that he would always have a home with them should he wish to return to New York, and a place in their hearts forever.

  “Sergei, we are your new family now. You are our son.”

  All three wept together as they parted company.

  On returning home, his first task was to seek out Doctor Josef to report the tragic demise of Nikol and Amila Tanovic.

  CHAPTER 23

  During their vacation, B-J and Fred continued their tour of London unaware that they had been followed for several days. Two Bryson brothers, Bobby and Joe, seldom let them out of their sight since the night Bobby spotted them in a pub and confirmed the identity with his brother.

  “It is Barry Jones,” said Joe; “definitely him. I’d know that brute anywhere. No amount of disguise could wipe out that creep’s features. Mind you, he looks as if he’s been living the high life. Did you notice that suit? Must have cost a pretty penny.”

  The brothers discreetly followed the unsuspecting tourists, who, after an evening drinking, parted company and headed to their separate hotels a few streets apart.

  “Oh no, Bobby! They’re staying in different hotels! Right, we take one each and stay close. Keep tabs on that nerd. We owe it to mum to sort him out. I’ll take our old chum Barry and you stick with the other guy. Don’t let him out of your sight.”

  “What about him, the other guy? We don’t even know who he is. Should we even bother with him?”

  “It’s his bad luck to tie up with the bad guy. Can’t afford to have him spot us. We need a plan. Let’s collect our van and hole up near the corner here where we can see both hotels in case they leave.”

  The brothers settled down to their surveillance duties, taking turns on the watch until they were sure the two were unlikely to put in an appearance that night, then they themselves settled to sleep in their vehicle.

  The tourist duo continued with their exploring, the Londoner almost euphoric as he pointed out landmarks to his friend from the top of the London Eye, from the comfort of a riverboat, from the banks of the Thames and from the top of Tower Bridge. They had no idea that they were being followed. They quickened their pace when the heavens opened with yet another torrential downpour.

  “So, Fred, me lad, what do you think of London?” asked a jovial B-J, delighted at being back in his home territory and loving the rain after the searing heat of Rio.

  “I sure like your Blighty place, sure do. It’s awesome! But your English weather, hey, it’s too cold for me, and all that rain! Makes me long for our beach back home. How soon can we go back? My bones are frozen like icicles.”

  “You gonna chicken out on me then?” laughed his buddy, knowing his friend longed to be gone from the miserable weather.

  “We can go home anytime you like; separately again though. You’ve got your return tickets. You head off in the next few days if you’ve a mind to, and I’ll follow next week. I’ll go over travel arrangements with you and make sure you know exactly where to go. I’d sure like to stay longer and see a bit more, even pop down to the coast, but, hey, I understand you want to get home to the sun. Never took you for a tourist anyway!”

  They had their collars up, heads down and tucked into their jackets. The rain was relentless. It stung at their faces like sharp needles, the wind whipping it ar
ound them. Their lightweight clothes afforded little protection from the elements. Fred shivered as he rubbed his hands together and stamped his feet in an effort to keep warm. His head felt cold, a coldness he had not experienced since he last lived through a Chicago winter. Little did he know then that the coldness he felt was a precursor to an even colder, sinister event about to change his life.

  “Yeah, good idea. I’ll head back to sun, sea and work. You can stay here and turn to ice if you like, but I’ll be off as soon as possible.”

  The thought of home lifted his spirit. He imagined himself once more in casual beach clothes, warming his body from the heat of the sun, swimming in the sea and enjoying life to the full.

  There was no prospect of any respite from the deluge. It was as if the weather had caught the sombre mood of the unhappy, nervous sightseer. The dark clouds mirrored the darkness in his heart. He longed to be gone from this miserable place. They dived into a dark alley to shelter from the worst of the rain. As they entered the garbage-strewn lane, Fred hunched his shoulders. He felt totally dejected. The stench from the shelter did nothing to improve his spirit.

  Other people similarly avoiding the rain joined them.

  “It’s a real downpour this time,” B-J said to the likewise soaked men who shared their shelter.

  “It’s on for the day.”

  “Yeah, Barry, it is that!”

  He was taken aback to be addressed by name by one of the strangers.

  “Hey, man, do we know each other?” he inquired as he stared at them, recognition slowly awakening in him memories of a time long forgotten.

  “Oh, yeah, we do! You must remember us, and one and t’other. The Bryson bros! We go back a long time, don’t we Barry? We must have a catch up and a cosy chat about old times. You’d like that, wouldn’t you Barry?”

  The colour drained from his face and he feared the implication of this encounter. Suddenly the terror and fear he had meted out to those brothers many years ago paled into a distant memory. The tables had turned. Odds were stacked against him. He felt trapped in the stinking alleyway as the two men blocked his escape from the shelter. His heart beat rapidly as he sought a way out of the impending doom.

  There was no place to run to. While Fred was trying to figure out the cockney slang he had just heard, he suffered a sharp blow to the head and felt a rag, which smelt of something foul, placed over his mouth.

  B-J screamed: “Hey, what you doing? Leave him alone, he ain’t done nuffin’.”

  Bobby Bryson, his face contorted with rage, hollered, “He’s a mate of yours, so that’s good enough for us.”

  “Now, Barry, we’ll have that chat, but in a little while!” said Joe as he secured the panic-stricken man’s hands with strong rope and placed a similar gag in the mouth of his shocked foe.

  The brothers groaned as they lifted the struggling men unceremoniously into a large waste container at the back of the alley, an alley strewn with litter, remains of food, and a few rats who relished the food discarded by untidy people among the capitals citizens and visitors. Water poured from broken gutters, hungry birds fed on remains of food. Through this lane, the brothers ran to retrieve their truck. Their heavy footsteps squelched on the cobbles as they hurried from the stinking alley.

  “They won’t be heard; no one in their right mind will come near that foul container, not in this weather. They’ll be fine until we get back with the van,” said Joe.

  The brothers were keen anglers and often went on fishing trips for days on end using the van for overnight stays. It stank of fish, but the brothers never noticed. They returned to the alley, laughed as they threw their bruised and stunned victims into the van which they then stored in their garage in a secluded area, knowing it would be undisturbed until such time as they had formed a plan to dispose of their two unfortunate captives.

  ***

  In his unruly youth, Barry Jones had committed petty crimes, spent time in detention, and always returned to his lawless ways on release from prison. His peers, who avoided him whenever possible, feared him. He was short in stature, with a stocky build and a menacing look which he used to the full should anyone dare cross his path. His swaggering gait and general demeanour ensured a path was cleared for him as he walked through the estate where he lived. Short of money, he entered a local shop where Peggy Bryson, a neighbour and friend of his mother, had worked for several years. She was friendly and popular in her community. The shop owner, Mr. Allison, had gone to the warehouse to fetch more provisions. She was alone in the shop.

  “Hello, Barry, what can I do for you today?”

  Peggy Bryson smiled at the young man who was well known to her. She was aware of his past history, but like his mother, she always hoped he would turn over a new leaf. Her sons, like others on the estate where they lived, avoided him, knowing that confrontation with the bully would not bode well for them.

  “Never mind that, Ma Bryson; just empty the money into this bag, and make it quick!”

  “Barry Jones, just you get off with you! Haven’t you caused your poor mum enough trouble? She deserves better. Now, go away and I won’t mention this to anyone; scarper!”

  He, however, did not listen. Fuelled with drink or some other illicit substance, he lent over, pulled some cash from the till, and wrestled with the adamant woman. Peggy Bryson was a petite lady but was deceivingly strong. She fought back as hard as she could but was no match for the muscular youth. He pushed her so hard that she fell to the floor. He ran off clutching a handful of notes and turned the door sign to ‘Closed for lunch’.

  An hour later, Mr Allison returned to find Peggy slumped on a chair. She had attempted to go for help, but in doing so suffered a massive stroke.

  Lying in her hospital bed, she tried to speak to her worried family. Her voice was weak, her speech slurred, her mind in turmoil. Her eldest son, Alex, who had been summoned by his brothers to be with his mother, held her hand: “Mum, who did this to you? Can you tell us?”

  The boys listened carefully to what she tried to say. She was almost incoherent, but then, Bobby, determined to find the identity of the thug, put his ear closer and listened.

  “Are you saying ‘Barry,’ Mum? It sounds like ‘Barry’.”

  Peggy squeezed his hand, her face lit up in acknowledgement of his perseverance. She nodded.

  “Well! What do you know! Barry Jones!” exclaimed Alex. “Don’t worry Mum, we’ll get him for this. You just concentrate on getting better.”

  Within hours, Barry Jones, rather bruised and battered and clutching a broken finger, was arrested and taken to the local police station. The arresting officer commented on his dishevelled appearance.

  “Well, if it isn’t our old mate, Barry Jones. Welcome back, sir. We didn’t think it would be too long before you visited us again; can’t seem to keep away from the place, eh? Would sir like his usual room? I’m not one for commenting on our guest’s appearance, but, man, you look as if you’ve gone six rounds with Mike Tyson.”

  “Fell down some stairs, man; just missed my footing, that’s all. It’s no big deal.”

  After an uncomfortable night in a police cell, he appeared before the judge, who shook his head at the return of the well-known villain.

  He was convicted and jailed for his villainy. As he was led away to begin his sentence, he looked towards the public gallery where the three brothers sat, smirked at them, and shouted: “How’s your finger and thumb lads?”

  The boys were enraged. His cockney reference to their mother did not go down well.

  “With our crazy justice system, he’ll be out in no time,” said an angry Joe.

  “And we’ll be waiting for him. We owe it to Mum,” said Bobby. “No one messes with the Bryson boys, and no one messes with our mum.”

  On release from prison and fearing reprisal from the Bryson brothers, B
arry Jones changed his moniker to Barclay Ellis-Jones and headed for America where he hoped to start a new life with a new identity.

  It was many years before Peggy’s sons, still determined to avenge their mother’s ordeal, could not believe their luck when their hated foe was spotted in a bar in London’s East End.

  CHAPTER 24

  For days, the captives endured agonising incarceration in the stinking, almost airless van, while facing daily visits from either Bobby or Joe, and sometimes both.

  “Drink up boys,” yelled their captors as they poured water down their parched throat.

  “Got to keep you guys alive for the main event.”

  “What’s that you’re saying Barry? Can’t quite hear you, just like our poor mum. She couldn’t make herself understood either. I’m sure you’re keen to hear how she’s doing? Eh? Well, she’s making great progress in a good care home, the one in Great West Road; you know the one, ‘GWR Care Home’, the posh building near the park, paid for by Mr. Allison. Kind of him, wasn’t it Barry? She’s walking well now, gets lots of therapy and her speech is coming along nicely. She’s made new friends in that home and seems quite content. We see her most days. Bobby, here, will visit tonight. He’ll be sure to pass on your regards.”

  Fred, terror-stricken by his situation and terrified of the brothers, drifted in and out of consciousness.

  Joe quipped, “Shame about your mate here, Barry. He ain’t nuffin’ to do with this, is he? But you gotta appreciate we can’t have him going to the cops now, can we?”

  Joe and Bobby waited to hear from their brother Alex to initiate the next part of the plan. Alex, the eldest, was the planner, the schemer, the quiet, ruthless man. He relayed clear instructions to his siblings by phone. They had the upmost respect and a modicum of fear for their elder sibling.