by Hannah Howe
“That’s the nature of our business, honey,” Mickey replied philosophically. He perched on the edge of my desk, then leaned towards me and grinned. “It’s a good job I’ve got another lead for you.”
“What lead?” I asked, my eyes widening in anticipation.
“Maybe we should discuss it over dinner.”
I frowned, then returned to my computer, thumping the keys with a force that did nothing for the computer, or my fingernails, come to that. “I’ve already told you, I don’t eat with wolves.”
“Now I’m a wolf, am I?” Mickey grinned. Appropriately, his features slipped into a wolfish visage.
“You know who you are, Mickey, and what you are. And you seem comfortable with that persona. In that sense, I envy you. But I don’t envy you your lifestyle.”
Mickey shrugged a muscular shoulder, disturbing the smooth line of his leather jacket. He moved closer so that his calf dangled close to my thigh. “You know what they say about you, don’t you, Sam.”
I glared at my computer screen and a message stating that ‘Windows was not responding’. As if I didn’t know. “I’m an iceberg,” I replied with a sigh.
“That’s one school of thought.”
I glanced up, arching an inquisitive eyebrow. “There are others?”
Mickey pursed his lips. He nodded. “Some people have you down as a dyke. Others reckon that you want money for it.”
I felt the fire burn on my cheeks and could taste the acid of indignation as it bubbled up from the pit of my stomach. “How do they reach that conclusion?” I asked, my anger flashing in my eyes.
Mickey glanced towards my office window at the line of Victorian tenements, at buildings that had seen better days. “Look at the street you’re in. You’re in the middle of the red light district. It’s natural that people should jump to conclusions.”
“Maybe they should check their facts first before jumping to their conclusions. I’m not a dyke and I don’t charge money for it. And I resent the fact that you should make those accusations.”
Mickey held his hands up in a defensive gesture. His right eye slipped into a lazy, suggestive wink. “Don’t shoot the messenger, Sam.”
I glared at my computer screen. Windows was still not responding and I was hopping mad. “How can these people think these things of me? Because I turn down the advances of sweaty middle-aged men, I’m a lesbian or a whore. It’s pathetic.”
“Trouble is,” Mickey shrugged, “you turn everyone down, from what I’ve heard. Surely one of them must do something for you?” Before I could reply in the negative, Mickey added, “I’ve been thinking, to get you out of this hole, why don’t you tell them that we are an item?”
“What about your wife?”
“I’ve told you, we have an understanding.” He allowed his leg to wander over to my thigh. Before I could respond or protest, his ankle brushed against my inner-thigh, caressing it. “Come on, Sam, there’s a magnetism between us, I can feel it. And every time I meet you, it pulls me closer.”
He leaned forward to kiss me. However, I jumped up and walked away from my desk.
Mickey turned and viewed me through sad, weary eyes. He shook his head. “When they ask me, what should I tell them? That you are as cold as they say, that you are a dyke, that you do want money for it?”
“Get out, Mickey!” I turned and pointed towards my office door. “Get out. I’m not lying about my love life for anyone.”
“Sure, babe,” he said with an easy smile playing around his lips, a smile that revealed the lie of the sadness in his eyes, “it’s your reputation.”
“It is. Now get out.”
Mickey hesitated. Then he asked, “Don’t you want my lead?”
I hung my head, allowing my hair to fall over my face. I felt confused and embarrassed, my standard reaction when propositioned by a man. I had a deep-seated problem, I recognised that, but I always assumed that the problem would fade, that I would find love with the right man. Now, today, in my office, I found myself doubting that assumption and, worse, I found myself doubting my abilities as an enquiry agent. And that doubt centred on a woman I didn’t like; to preserve my sanity, I had to find Ruth Carey.
“Try the recreation ground off Cathedral Road. I understand Peter hangs out there, plays five-a-side football, most lunchtimes.” Mickey glanced at me and at my computer. Then he surprised me by changing tack. “You’re on the social networks, aren’t you, Sam?”
I frowned, not sure where this conversation was going. “I’ve signed up, but I don’t do anything with it.”
“You should. It’s a good way to promote your business. And,” Mickey grinned, “you can meet some very interesting people on there.” He walked to my office door, then paused. “You’re a beautiful woman, Sam. It’s a shame you’re so...” My glare cut across his sentence and he felt compelled to raise his hands in a defensive gesture, again “...if you need me, I’ll be around.”
Chapter Seventeen
By noon, I was sitting in my Mini in Cathedral Road, not far from Ruth Carey’s office, watching a gang of youths kick a football around a park. I am not a sporty type, though I do have my moments, especially when it comes to rugby. With my phone in my lap and with Peter Vanzetti’s picture shining bright, I scanned the footballers’ faces looking for a likeness. After thirty minutes, I found none. Then my luck changed. At twelve thirty-seven, a car screeched into the street and parked opposite the recreation ground. I recognised the car – it was a black Subaru covered in racing car emblems and stickers, the same car that sped Ruth Carey into the wilderness.
Through my binoculars, I observed as a man climbed out of the car. Wearing a black tee-shirt and jeans, he had dark, wavy hair, cut short and a youthful, handsome face, a face sullied by the hint of a beard and a metal stud in his left eyebrow. He also wore a stud in his left ear along with tattoos down his arms and on his neck. He was stocky, muscular, around five foot ten and some twenty years younger than Vincent Vanzetti. However, the picture in my lap confirmed that this was Peter Vanzetti and I concluded that Peter must be the baby of a, presumably, large family.
Peter Vanzetti joined his friends in the park and for half an hour, they kicked a football around. Even my untutored eye could see that Peter Vanzetti was not a natural sports player – his movements were ungainly and he seemed to follow the ball, rather than have a positional sense for where the ball would travel next. Still, his smiling face suggested that he’d enjoyed the game and with a wave to his friends, he returned to his car.
From the recreation ground, Peter drove into the city. He was a poor driver, relying on his accelerator and brakes, travelling too fast before coming to a sudden halt. His carefree driving suggested that he had no fear of a potential tail so I followed him with ease.
Peter parked his car in Quay Street and from there we were on foot as he wandered into the city. He walked to a supermarket, grabbed a trolley and sped down the aisles. Peter used his trolley as he used his car, showing little regard for the people around him. I followed at a discrete distance and, with a basket in my hand, observed as he loaded his trolley with produce – fruit, cooked meats, bread, cakes, biscuits and a six-pack of canned beer. Apart from the beer, he bought nothing in a tin and nothing that would require heating on a stove. Conclusion: Peter did not possess a tin opener or a stove?
When Peter arrived at the checkout, I noted that he had enough food for two people, if not more. He paid with cash and, with a carrier bag swinging in his right hand, he walked back to his car. Meanwhile, I contented myself with a selection of fruit and while giving a banana a thoughtful munch, I followed Peter back to the car park.
As Peter drove to his next destination with me in tow, I pondered his behaviour. The food suggested that he was shopping for two, himself and Ruth Carey? Yet, at the recreation ground and in the supermarket, he had been very casual, in no hurry at all. If he had abducted Ruth Carey, he knew that she was going nowhere, possibly because he had already murdered her?
The Subaru sped along the streets of Cardiff and I think it’s fair to say that Peter drove like an idiot. Thankfully, the traffic kept him in check so I didn’t have to risk a speeding ticket.
After fifteen minutes of rally driving Peter arrived at a pub, the Ship and Anchor. He parked his car then entered the pub, presumably to meet someone or to have a drink. I sat in my Mini and pondered...should I follow him into the pub, or was that pushing my luck too far? Because surely even someone as blinkered as Peter would eventually twig that he had a tail. My main aim was to get to Ruth Carey and it was doubtful that she was in the pub. So I flicked my hair over my shoulders and sat back to wait.
I tend to associate alcohol with Dan and his violence, and with my mother; the association is not a good one, therefore I’m not a fan of pubs.
My doubts about alcohol were reinforced when, after eighteen minutes of waiting, an elderly man weaved his way out of the pub. Emaciated, he was clearly drunk; he couldn’t see through a ladder, his back teeth were well afloat, he was truly chateaued. Crab-like, he wandered towards me, his arms outstretched. Then he took two steps back, turned in a semicircle and disappeared into the darkness. Seven minutes later, a couple staggered out of the pub. She was wearing a mini skirt and a bemused expression. He had one hand up her skirt while the other precariously balanced a carton of chips. They stumbled through some litter and the man dropped a chip. However, he bent to retrieve it, skewering the tasty morsel with a plastic fork. Waste not, want not, as they say.
Sixteen minutes later, Peter Vanzetti emerged from the pub. He drew the back of his right hand across his mouth, skipped towards his car, then sped into the city. I followed, at a steady pace.
The streets were dark and wet, glowing with the red and green of traffic lights, shimmering with a sheen of recent rain. Peter parked his car on a street corner. He jumped out then waited near a bollard and a sign indicating road works. Four minutes later, a man joined him and they wandered towards the darkness of a bookmakers’, closed for the day. The streetlights allowed a glimpse of a package, offered to Peter, and a wad of notes, handed to his companion. Drugs? Ruth Carey’s emails mentioned Peter’s addiction, to cocaine. Cheerfully, he ran back to his car and drove away.
I followed Peter for another twenty minutes, out of the city, into the countryside. Night was falling, the country lanes were dark and I had to concentrate hard as his tail lights threatened to disappear into the distance.
Thankfully, the narrow country lanes curtailed his speed and I was able to tail him to an old, abandoned house. The house was huge; I counted fourteen windows in the facade plus a further four windows in an extension. Victorian in origin, and in a state of decay, the building reminded you of a time when coal was king, a time when Welsh coal barons could afford such opulence.
Peter parked his car adjacent to the porch. He entered the building, which had no roof, and disappeared into the darkness. For the last mile of our journey, I’d travelled without lights and now I pulled into a secluded area away from the house, on to a track hidden by trees. A vast swathe of woodland stretched away from the house. I peered into the woodland, my attention taken by the snapping of twigs. Was someone in there, moving around? I was tempted to investigate, but kept in mind that I must not lose sight of Peter, so I hurried after him, across the overgrown garden. At the porch, I pressed my back to the wall and listened hard.
My breath hung in the night while my chest heaved with anticipation. If Peter was holding Ruth in this building then my guess was she must be in the cellar, the only part of the house under cover and secure. But where was the entrance to the cellar?
I entered the porch and a long corridor. I was about to walk down the corridor when the business end of a Magnum .357 appeared from around a corner; the barrel of the gun came to rest on the end of my nose.
“One false move,” a threatening voice said, “and I’ll blow your head off.”
Chapter Eighteen
“Over there. Move it!”
At gunpoint, he marched me away from the house, towards the trees. There, I discovered a Triumph Spitfire hidden in a glade, surrounded by towering, ivy-clad cherry trees.
“Put your hands on the bonnet. Mind the paintwork! Spread your legs.”
The Magnum was resting against the small of my back, so I thought it best to comply with his instruction, though my position, stooped over the bonnet with my legs akimbo did lack a certain dignity.
“Who are...?” I was about to ask the question when he yanked my bag from my shoulder. Tipping it upside down, he emptied the contents, including my Smith and Wesson .32, on to the soft mulch of the forest floor.
“Get in the car. Put your hands in your lap. Don’t move.”
I climbed into the Spitfire, a convertible, though understandably its roof was down. Inside the car, I found conditions cramped, partly because the Triumph Spitfire is a small vehicle and partly because a briefcase and a sports bag restricted my feet. I glanced at the sports bag and noticed the name George on the owner’s label (the surname was obscured from view) and a tag with the legend Riverside Sports. Again, the full inscription was hidden from my line of sight. From this evidence, I deduced that Mr Magnum was called George and that he liked to work out at a Riverside sports club. George was also into mod music, particularly the Who and Love Affair, and photography – CDs and an expensive-looking camera offering the clues.
With his Magnum in his hand, George slipped into the driver’s seat. He eyed me through lascivious eyes, a strange, unsettling look that did nothing for my fragile equilibrium. I was hesitant, but decided to turn my head and look at him in some detail. He had dark hair, greased and combed back from his forehead revealing the suggestion of a widow’s peak. His eyes were dark, fixed and staring. His face was serious, non-smiling, with a sullen pout, long sideburns and a left eyebrow permanently arched in inquisitive fashion. Around six foot tall, he was muscular, his physique hinting at weight training or regular athletic workouts. Overall, he was a strange looking man, a fact emphasised by his clothing, a navy blue business suit and tie, which seemed at least one size too small for him.
“Look down between your legs. Don’t touch anything.”
I looked down to the sports bag and briefcase.
“Put the briefcase on your lap. Open it. Then put your hands where I can see them.”
I did as instructed, then feasted my eyes on a briefcase stuffed with fifty and twenty pound notes.
“Ten thousand pounds. It’s yours. It’s all for you.”
Spellbound, I gazed at the money, then I turned my head slowly and stared at Gorgeous George. “Who are you?” I asked. “What do you want?”
He continued to gawp at me, his eyes now somewhat vacant. “The money’s yours. Take it. Get out of here.”
“The money...for what?” I asked, nonplussed.
“For your amnesia. Forget all you know about Peter Vanzetti. Forget all you know about this place.”
“Are you from Vincent Vanzetti?”
No answer; just a vacant, menacing stare.
“I can’t accept the money,” I said while closing the briefcase, “or your terms.”
“Pity,” he mumbled, “pity for you.” Then, more forcefully, “Get out!”
So, with the Magnum pressed against my back, I climbed out of the car.
“Walk. Into the forest. Don’t stop until I tell you.”
George produced a flashlight and I walked into the forest, following the flashlight’s beam. Occasionally I stumbled and fell against the ridged bark of the cherry trees. Picking myself up I noticed dense thickets of bramble, along with hawthorn, hazel and long ropes of honeysuckle and ivy. I also noticed a wide selection of fungi, though it was too dark to identify the fungi in detail.
As we walked, it occurred to me that George was going to shoot me. Maybe I should have taken the money after all. Principles can be accursed things. In truth, I was nervous; more than that, I was terrified. If I ran into the darkness, he w
ould pick me out with his spotlight and bang, goodbye Samantha. Then my desperation gave me a ridiculous idea.
“This is embarrassing,” I mumbled, “but I need a pee.”
“I’m going to shoot you, lady,” George growled. “What difference does it make if your bladder is full or empty?”
“I don’t want to go to heaven, or hell, with an uncomfortable bladder,” I replied primly.
“Walk on. Shut up. And don’t complain.”
We reached an area of yew trees; appropriate, because the yew was the tree of choice in the medieval graveyard.
“Stand against that tree. Put your hands on your head. Don’t move a muscle.”
“Before you shoot,” I asked, my hands clasped to my head, “can I sing you a song?”
“What?” George frowned. He gave me a look of total bewilderment; like most of the men I encountered, he didn’t know what to make of me.
“Before you shoot,” I repeated, “can I sing you my favourite song?”
“Okay.” He waved his Magnum in exasperation. “Sing it. Get it over and done.”
“And promise not to shoot until I’ve finished.”
“Get on with it! Sing it. Stop annoying me.”
So I started my favourite song, “Ten billion green bottles...”
“Shut up! Now you really are annoying me. You’re a very annoying person.” George walked over to me. He placed his Magnum to my temple. “Get on the ground. On your knees. Closer.” I knelt on the ground, leaning my head towards his crotch. “Mmm,” he sighed. “Closer. Rest your head against my thigh.” I’d heard that death could produce an orgasm, though I’d never imagined it in this light. “Close your eyes. Closer. Mmm. Now feel my pleasure, baby...” I sensed his finger tighten on the trigger, just as I sensed the look of ecstasy on his face. However, my eyes were focused on another location altogether. His balls. As he prepared to release his bullet from its chamber, I tensed my neck muscles and headbutted him in the balls. There was a delicious crack as my forehead made contact with his scrotum, followed by a cry of anguish from George. He doubled up in pain, dropped his gun while I straightened and punched him in the solar plexus. Then, I have to admit, I kicked him on the jaw and he went out like a light. As I ran from the forest with George’s gun in my hand, I reflected that those self-defence lessons were worth every penny.