by Hannah Howe
When I arrived back at the house, I was out of breath and light-headed from my exertions. I dropped George’s gun into a pond, which at one time had been an attractive garden feature. Then I gathered my gun and sundry lady-type things, returned them to my shoulder bag and, because my birthday is April 1st, April Fools’ Day, I went in search of Ruth Carey.
Chapter Nineteen
I was still shaking as I approached the house. Leaning against the porch I told myself that I could do this, that I should take a deep breath and compose myself. And, while taking several deep breaths I reflected. I had no idea who George was or who he was working for...Vincent Vanzetti? The vague look on George’s face when I mentioned Vincent Vanzetti’s name suggested not, which meant that this game had another, unknown, player. I could discover his or her identity later. For now, I had to get into the cellar and find Ruth Carey.
As I eased myself along the ruin of the corridor, it occurred to me that I could call Sweets and allow him to take over. However, I needed to redeem myself; it was important for my self-esteem that I rescued Ruth.
I wandered through the shell of the house looking for a trapdoor. The moon was bright and offered some illumination. However, the moon also cast eerie shadows and it was easy to imagine that the ghosts of the house were watching my every step. Then it occurred to me to follow the footsteps, or at least a path that the footsteps had cleared through the fallen masonry.
Using this method, I walked into the servants’ quarters, or at least I assumed that these rooms were the servants’ quarters when the house had been at its height. Inside a small room, I spied a trapdoor. I also spied two empty beer barrels and a length of heavy iron chain, pushed to one side. I reasoned that this was why Peter Vanzetti appeared so comfortable when playing football and shopping – when the barrels and chain were placed over the trapdoor, Ruth would be trapped inside the cellar.
I walked over to the trapdoor and lay flat on the ground. I placed an ear to the trapdoor and detected voices, one male, one female, presumably Peter Vanzetti and Ruth Carey. I had to get Peter out of there so I could talk with Ruth, which meant a distraction.
Standing, I walked over to the chain. It was heavy, rusty, dirty, but I managed to hurl it against a stone wall. The chain fell to the ground with a clatter. In the cellar, I could hear footsteps and the creak of a wooden ladder.
I was standing beside the trapdoor, gun in hand. I reversed my grip on the gun, holding the barrel and, as Peter’s head appeared through the trapdoor, I hit him, hard. Like George before him, Peter went out like a light. Sitting on the floor, I placed my hands under Peter’s armpits and dragged him from the trapdoor. Then I set foot on the wobbly wooden ladder that led into the cellar.
A shaft of moonlight followed me into the cellar. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, darkness punctuated by the soft glow of a portable gas light, but when they did adjust, I caught sight of Ruth Carey, tied to a metal frame, presumably an old wine rack. Her eyes were wide, her face pale and patently she was scared.
“Are you all right?” I asked, and Ruth nodded. “Hold still,” I said, “I’ll soon have you out of here.”
From my shoulder bag, I produced a penknife and proceeded to saw my way through Ruth’s bonds. With her hands and feet free, I escorted her towards the ladder. We picked our way through the debris of discarded beer cans, wrappers and fruit peel then with yours truly in the lead we climbed towards the moonlight.
Outside the cellar, in the ruin of the room, Peter had come round. He was groggy and confused, but the sight of Ruth stirred him. Scrambling to his feet, he took a step towards her, and my gun.
“We’re leaving,” I said, the barrel of my gun pointing at Peter. “Don’t try to stop us. I’m not sure where you and Ruth go from here, but I told your brother that I want to help you. I don’t want any trouble and I don’t want to land you in any trouble, understand?” I added with a sigh, “Please, go to your brother, tell him what happened. Then stay away from Dr Carey.”
“Ruth!” Peter lunged at Ruth Carey.
I wrapped my index finger around the trigger and was about to fire a warning shot into the air, when a gunshot reverberated through the old ruin. Startled, I glanced at Ruth and noticed that she was splattered with blood. Horrified, I gazed at Peter and saw him stagger, a bullet wound exposing the socket and inner-workings of his right eye. In macabre slow motion, he fell to the ground, dead.
While Ruth screamed, I gathered my senses. I ran towards the sound of the gun. I ran towards the forest, past my car, into the glade. I saw no sign of George the assassin; I saw no sign of his Triumph Spitfire. Appropriately, the scene faded to darkness as the moon hid behind a cloud.
Chapter Twenty
I was sitting in a police interview room in the centre of Cardiff. Ruth Carey was in another part of the building, also being interviewed. The nervous energy of the night and the early hours of the morning had left me exhausted. Furthermore, with problems stacking up all round, I felt in need of sleep. So, I placed my arms on the Formica table, my head on my arms and tried to doze.
I was drifting into the arms of Morpheus when Sweets entered the interview room. He threw his coat on to a coat hook and his trilby on to the Formica table. Then he sat opposite me and glowered. He was in a bad mood.
“What happened, Sam?”
From my position, head down on the desk, I replied, “I entered the building...”
“Sit up!” Sweets ordered. “I want to see your face when I talk with you.”
Wearily, I forced myself upright, swept my hair from my face and continued, “I entered the building because I sensed that my client, Dr Ruth Carey, was in there, held captive. I discovered Dr Carey tied to a metal frame. I released her and we were about to leave the building when Peter Vanzetti appeared. I raised my gun to warn Peter Vanzetti off, then someone from outside the building shot him. I ran out of the building to investigate, but the assassin had fled.”
Sweets dropped a folder on to the table. From the folder he extracted a sheet of paper and proceeded to read my official statement. From time to time, he mumbled to himself and nodded, then asked, “What about the blow to the back of Peter Vanzetti’s head?”
“That was me. I had to incapacitate him to get to Ruth.”
“So,” Sweets surmised while removing a bonbon from his pocket, “you knocked him on the head, then you shot him.”
“I didn’t shoot him!” I yelled, my voice resonating in the sparsely furnished room.
Sweets unwrapped the bonbon and placed it in his mouth. He gave the sugar-free sweet a thoughtful suck. “No need to get hysterical, Sam.”
“I’m not...” I sighed and made a supreme effort to control myself. “I didn’t shoot him. Okay, so I’m not sugar and spice and all things nice. I’m not a pretty little girl all tied up neat in a pretty pink bow. Okay, I have a lot of anger trapped inside me and sometimes that anger finds a way out. But I’m not a violent person. I defend myself when threatened, but I don’t initiate violence. I get angry with people, but most of the time I get angry with myself. I went into that building to rescue Ruth Carey, to redeem myself over her abduction. I did not go into that building to shoot anyone. And that is the truth.”
Sweets continued to suck his sweet. He gazed at me, his blue eyes intense, his expression thoughtful. In the silence, I reflected on the events of the night. True, I had headbutted George in the groin, thumped him in the solar plexus and kicked him on the jaw. True, I had clouted Peter over the head. But I took no pleasure from those actions. With each blow, I cringed and felt a wave of guilt. For four years, Dan had beaten me and some of those blows had given him satisfaction, while others had carried the weight of frustration. One way or another I had lived with violence all my life and I knew where to draw the line. George was going to shoot me, for god’s sake – what was I supposed to do?
“You went into that building alone, Sam, to confront a man with deep psychological problems and a predisposition to
wards violence. He could have killed you.”
“I’m thirty-two, Sweets, I’m an adult. I can look after myself.”
“Can you?” Sweets leaned forward in his chair. “Can you look after yourself?” He showered me with orange-flavoured spittle. “Sometimes, I think you shouldn’t be let out without a nursemaid.”
With my anger rising, I leaned forward and glared at him. “So I need a nursemaid, do I?”
“To keep you safe, yes.”
I thumped the table, somewhat petulantly behaving, as Sweets was treating me, like a child. “Stop trying to daddy me, Sweets; save your lectures for your kids.”
“You know what, Sam...” Sweets clenched and unclenched his right fist. With his left hand, he adjusted the copper bracelet around his right wrist. “...you’re very ungrateful and prickly at times.”
“I didn’t invite your friendship.” I turned my head and glared at the wall. Up yours, mate.
“You didn’t invite my friendship. Right. Maybe you are right. Maybe I should take a step back and spend less time watching over you. Maybe we should keep this strictly on a professional level. Maybe I should let you run wild, because you are wild at times; you’re like a feral animal.”
“I am not a feral animal!” I pushed myself to my feet, shoving the edge of the table into Sweets’ comfortable paunch. “I resent that. I’m a thirty-two-year-old woman trying to make an honest living and maybe help a few people along the way.”
“So it’s okay for you to help others, but not for others to help you?”
“I can do it on my own! I’m happy on my own!”
Sweets glared at me and I glared at him. I had rarely seen him so angry. I had rarely felt so annoyed. Then he shook his head sadly and I lost it. I sat on my chair, placed my head in my hands and started to cry, releasing the frustration of recent days and the emotion of the night.
While I sobbed, Sweets eased himself away from the table. He rubbed his stomach, then stood at my side. With his right hand on my left shoulder, he sighed, “So you still haven’t got it on with your psychologist friend, eh?”
I shook my head in silence.
Sweets grunted, then he gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Oh, Sam, what am I going to do with you? I’m not your father, but I do care about you. Why do I care, I ask myself. Maybe because you are alone. Maybe because you have an aura of vulnerability, though I know that you are tougher than you look. Maybe because you remind me of my daughter and you do bring out the parent in me. Maybe because you listen to my jokes when everyone else thinks I’m mad. Maybe because I see myself as a battered old knight who still has a need to rescue the fair maiden. Maybe your psychologist friend could explain why I feel the way I do about you. Do the maybes matter, Sam? Not to me. But I do feel protective towards you.” He shrugged, then turned to stare at the wall, drawing his hand across his face to hide his embarrassment. “I’m not good with these types of words...”
I reached up and squeezed his fingers, which were still resting on my shoulder. “Good friends are hard to find, Sweets, and they’re worth their weight in gold. I’m sorry if I lost my rag with you.”
“Yeah. Well.” For something to do, he flicked his hat across the table. “Put it down to experience.”
I dried my eyes and Sweets returned to his seat at the table. He offered me his packet of bonbons and I took one.
As I sucked the orange flavoured sweet, Sweets said, “As it is, you’re looking good for a murder.”
“Ballistics will clear that up; Peter Vanzetti was not murdered by my gun.”
Sweets nodded, but his expression remained grim. “We might reach that conclusion, but will Vincent Vanzetti?” His words were like ice and they sent a chill through my bones. “Any idea who pulled the trigger?” Sweets asked.
“There was a man...” I described Gorgeous George. “He offered me £10,000 to forget about Peter.” In the light of recent events that is ironic, because the sight of Peter’s shattered face will remain indelibly printed on my mind.
Sweets shook his head. “I don’t recognise your man, but I’ll have a look through the files.” He tidied the file in front of him, placing my statement in a plastic folder. Then he asked, “We found drugs in Peter Vanzetti’s car, cocaine; any idea where the packet came from?”
“I followed Peter into the city. He met someone outside a bookmakers’.” I gave the location. “Drugs and money changed hands.”
There was a knock on the door and a policewoman poked her head around the door frame. Sweets walked to the door, collected two evidence bags, then returned to the table.
“You’re right.” He nodded towards the smaller of the two bags, a bag containing a bullet. “Ballistics has put you in the clear.” Then he caressed his chin and stared at the second bag, the bag containing my gun. “Maybe I should hold on to this, to keep you out of further trouble?”
“What would you prefer, Sweets,” I asked solemnly, “me on a slab or my rival on a slab?”
With a dismissive gesture and a sigh that came up from his shoes, Sweets pushed my Smith and Wesson .32 towards me. “Sugar and spice and all things nice...I wonder what you were like when you were a little girl.”
I smiled at Sweets. Then, I pressed my thumbs to the sides of my face, wiggled my fingers in the air and poked out my tongue. “I was a monster!”
Chapter Twenty-One
I drove home and fell into bed. I slept fitfully, my slumbers disturbed by nightmares. After four hours, I stirred myself and stumbled into the shower. As the cool water washed over me, I revived to some extent, enough to face a brunch of coffee, fruit juice and a fruit salad. Then under a pale blue sky of early afternoon, I climbed into my car and drove to my office.
Marlowe was waiting for me in my office. As I entered, he meowed incessantly so I fed him then wandered over to my desk and my computer. While Marlowe munched away, I crossed my fingers, switched on my computer and waited for it to do its thing.
Hallelujah! Maybe the machine knew that it was one ‘Windows is not responding’ away from the big sleep, because it behaved impeccably and granted me access to my files. So, after sweeping back my hair and wriggling in my faux-leather chair, I settled down to write my report for Professor Henry Chancellor.
When I write a report for a client, I stick to the facts with as little interpretation as possible. I try to keep my feelings and my emotions out of my reports, allowing my client to reach his own conclusions.
In my report for Professor Chancellor, I stated that I’d gathered evidence of Ruth Carey’s affairs with Boris St John and Peter Vanzetti. I provided details of the affairs then I described my attempt to rescue Ruth along with Peter’s murder by a person unknown. I did not state that I suspected Gorgeous George of the murder. After printing my report, I placed it in an envelope then wandered to the end of my street to post it to Professor Chancellor. The envelope had barely left my fingers when a shadow fell over me and I felt the muzzle of a handgun in the small of my back.
“In the car, lady,” a gruff voice demanded, “the main man wants to talk with you.”
What can you do? I turned and stared at the Man Mountain and his handgun, then at a weedy figure behind the wheel of a Rover 2000. With a sigh, I slid on to the back seat of the Rover with the Man Mountain beside me. Then Weedy drove us out of the city, north, towards Caerphilly.
Caerphilly is famous for its castle and a tower that leans more than its counterpart at Pisa. The castle is still a very impressive monument. However, we were not going to play tourist today. Before arriving at Caerphilly, we turned off the main road and followed a series of minor roads into an area of woodland. The woodland bordered a disused limestone quarry and the quarry brought back bad memories of my gunfight with Fiona Grimsley, Lady Diamond.
“Out of the car,” the Man Mountain ordered; shivering a little from apprehension and the chill of the afternoon, I obliged.
I stepped out of the car and walked towards a fast flowing stream. Vincent Vanzetti was sta
nding beside the stream, his hands deep in his sheepskin coat pockets, his eyes gazing sightlessly at the water.
“What happen?” he asked without looking up.
“Peter was murdered by a person, unknown.”
“Convenient for you,” he growled.
“It’s the truth,” I insisted.
Slowly, Vincent Vanzetti turned his head. While narrowing his eyes, and with a look of anger on his face, he appraised me. “As I see it, you look good for Peter’s murder. You rescued the psychiatrist, Peter tried to stop you, you put a bullet into him. You have form for putting bullets into people.”
“Once,” I reminded him. “I’ve only shot one person, and that was in self-defence. As for Peter...the police checked my gun; I’m in the clear.”
“You had a second gun,” Vanzetti said, concocting a theory to fit his own grief-stricken logic.
“No.” I shook my head. “No second gun.” I took a step towards Vincent Vanzetti, then halted when the Man Mountain took a step towards me. While rubbing my arms through the light fabric of my blouse in an effort to fight off the chill of the late afternoon, I added, “I’m sorry about the murder, I’m sorry about Peter, but I think someone was out to murder him before I arrived on the scene.”
“Who and why?” Vanzetti asked. He stared at me with his mouth slightly open, his eyes thoughtful, his forefinger and thumb caressing the corners of his moustache. “Peter had no enemies, at least, none that would resort to murder.”