Murder Knows No Season

by Cathy Ace

  Gary and Natasha stood in front of the television laughing and eating their bacon sandwiches. Then the tiny silver mobile phone Gary had set upon the mantelpiece sprang to life.

  ‘That’ll be His Knobship, I reckon,’ said Gary with a cocky wink, ‘so turn the telly down and let’s do it.’

  Natasha adjusted the volume and giggled a little.

  Gary pushed the button on the phone and said, ‘Hello,’ in the deepest, roughest voice he could manage.

  ‘I say – who’s that?’ The voice was posh, a woman.

  ‘None of your business.’ Gary was purposely brusque.

  ‘To whom am I speaking?’ The voice was high, clipped, very precise.

  Gary kept his cool. ‘That’s for me to know,’ he replied, cockily.

  ‘And for me to find out, I suppose?’

  The woman was playing with him. Snotty cow. But he’d have the last laugh.

  ‘I want three million, like the note to His Knobship said, or she’s dead.’ Gary made sure he sounded business-like.

  ‘Note? What note?’ the woman sounded puzzled. She was playing for time. He wouldn’t let her get away with it.

  ‘Don’t mess with me – you wouldn’t ’ave rung if it weren’t for the note. Three million like it said, where it said, when it said.’

  ‘But I’ve lost the note,’ came the woman’s plaintive cry.

  Gary knew she was messing with him, and pushed the button to end the conversation. ‘Tit,’ he shouted at the phone.

  ‘What did they say – what?’ screamed Natasha, her eyes wide and wild.

  ‘Maybe they’ve got someone who’s not the police trying to trace the call, that’s what. Some posh bird was talkin’ rubbish. Ramblin’ on, sayin’ she’d lost the note.’

  ‘How can they have lost the note?’ squealed Natasha. ‘You stapled it to that bloke’s ear before you dumped ’im out the van, for Chrissakes.’

  ‘Exactly,’ replied Gary. ‘You can’t exactly loose nothin’ stapled to a person’s ear like that, can yer?’

  ‘Yeah,’ replied Natasha emphatically, then added an equally forceful, ‘Nah.’

  They both jumped when the telephone rang again.

  ‘What?’ shouted Gary when he answered.

  ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have upset you,’ said the woman’s voice.

  That was more like it. At least she knew who was in charge.

  ‘I just wanted to clarify your instructions.’ She sounded frightened.

  ‘Look,’ shouted Gary, just about holding onto the edge of his temper, ‘like I said in the note, put three million quid in unmarked notes into a sports bag in the bin by the third bench along from the statue of the Frog Prince in Battersea Park. There are only three benches along there and each one has a bin by it – put it in the end bin by the end bench. Noon tomorrow. That’s it.’

  He turned off the telephone altogether and nodded emphatically at Natasha. ‘And then all we’ve got to do is pick up the money and get out of here. You won’t mind helpin’ me with that little job, will yer, Tash?’

  Natasha looked doubtful. ‘I’m not sure about that, Gary. I mean, they might have police everywhere.’

  ‘You don’t think I’m that stupid, do yer? That bin by that bench is surrounded by trees – they won’t see us till we’ve gone, and then it’ll be too late. All you’ve got to do is dress up in them old overalls, act like you’re emptying the bin, bring the bag to the van, and we’ll be off.’

  They shared a brown sauce-flavored kiss.

  As his hands explored Tash’s body, Gary’s mind wandered back through the conversation with the Posh Bitch.

  Lost the note? What did they take him for? An idiot? They’d pay up alright – and nothing on the news meant they hadn’t called in the police. Now all he had to do was wait, collect the money and ride off into the sunset. He’d put Tash in the firing line, ’cos, essentially, she was disposable. But he’d hang onto her, while she had her uses.

  On the way to the office, all four women received a copy of the selfie Poppy Brown had taken in a pub the previous night from Jacintha.

  The quartet studied it as the taxi made slow headway through the gathering traffic.

  ‘I know that place.’ Christine was gleeful. She pointed to the background she’d enlarged. ‘Those posters on the wall, for old films; they’re at The Hereford Bull.’

  Annie was impressed, and allowed herself to sound it when she commented, ‘Good girl – it pays to know your pubs. Just what I’m always saying.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Carol was squinting, and sounded dubious.

  Christine was. ‘Jacintha said Poppy was meeting someone at a pub on the Gloucester Road, and The Hereford Bull is there. Great pub food – menu on a blackboard. Nice brickwork. I know it well, and I’ve sat under those posters. I’m absolutely certain that’s where this photo was taken.’

  It was agreed among the group that someone should visit the pub, to try to discover the identity of the unknown man. As soon as Christine volunteered, Annie added she’d join her – on the basis that you never knew what might come up, and that she always enjoyed a trip to a pub, even if it was on business. So the pair left Carol and Mavis to return to the office, while they took up positions on the roadside, hoping to be able to get a taxi quickly.

  Annie swore liberally at the traffic as the cab she and Christine had eventually managed to hail battled its way along Park Lane, then became embedded among others of its ilk on Gloucester Place.

  Meanwhile, Christine continued in her fruitless attempts to reach Poppy on her telephone. Eventually Annie could tell she’d made a breakthrough, but couldn’t make any sense of Christine’s side of the conversation.

  ‘That was quite extraordinary,’ said Christine to Annie as she stared at the device in her hand. ‘Some chap just answered Poppy’s phone and as good as threatened to kill Poppy if I didn’t follow instructions in some ransom note he thinks he’s delivered.’

  Annie was taken aback. ‘What ransom note? Your cousin never said anything about a ransom note, nor did your aunt.’

  ‘Indeed they didn’t – and I’m sure at least one of them would have mentioned such a thing. But the man said he’d sent it to “His Knobship” which is very odd, because I know Jacintha’s father would have mentioned something like a ransom note to Aunt Agatha, and she to us.’

  Annie was worried, and puzzled. The cab driver, who appeared to have overheard some key words of their conversation, peered into his rear-view mirror with a look of concern.

  ‘Did you hang up?’ asked Annie.

  ‘No, he hung up on me,’ replied Christine.

  Annie gave the situation some thought. ‘I think you should phone him back, Chrissy, and find out what he thinks he put in his so-called ransom note.’

  Christine paused for a moment, then agreed. She redialed Poppy’s number. Annie waited with baited breath, trying to read the notes Christine was scribbling on the pad balanced on her knee. When the expression on Christine’s face told Annie the call had ended, Christine pushed the redial button again.

  ‘He’s turned the phone off completely. It’s going to voicemail again. There was something in the man’s voice I didn’t like; I think he was trying to sound sort of gruff and rough, but – underneath it all – I think he really was serious.’

  Annie didn’t like the sound of it; Chrissy was pretty good at judging stuff like that.

  ‘Bum,’ remarked Annie, succinctly. ‘What does he want? Exactly? Did he say?’

  The cab driver slowed long before he needed to at a set of amber lights; Annie was in no doubt he was straining to hear what they were saying, so ensured the privacy window was shut, and hoped it worked.

  Christine whispered, ‘Three million in unmarked notes, here . . .’ She pointed at her pad, where Annie could just about read her scribbles. ‘Then we have to do this . . .’ Christine pointed to the notes again.

  Annie understood why Chrissy didn’t want the cab driver to know what was g
oing on, and was aghast. ‘You think they’ve kidnapped Poppy?’ She’d never been good at whispering, but did her best. However, she wasn’t quiet enough for her exclamation to have escaped the practiced ear of the cabbie; it seemed the privacy window didn’t work too well after all.

  ‘If some bloke wants three mill in notes, he’d better have a great big bag for it, and be a weight lifter, or have it in hundred-pound notes; and nobody takes them these days, not even us cabbies. Too many fakes around,’ he said.

  ‘Oi, we’re having a private conversation back here,’ snapped Annie.

  ‘Sort of conversation you should be having with a copper, if you ask me,’ retorted the cabbie.

  ‘Look, mate,’ responded Annie, her hackles up, ‘number one, we’re not asking you, and number two, we’re private detectives and quite capable of sorting this for ourselves, ta very much, so keep your bleedin’ nose where it should be – in other words, pointin’ straight ahead and out of our business.’

  She pushed the so-called privacy glass shut again with a bump, and could tell from the back of his head that the cabbie was silently responding to her outburst. She was glad that at least he was finally moving toward their destination.

  ‘He might be right you know, Chrissy,’ she conceded. ‘I mean, we haven’t really dealt with anything like this before, have we?’ Annie kept imagining her mother having kittens about her getting mixed up with a kidnapping plot; Eustelle and Rodney Parker had migrated to the East End of London from St Lucia in the 1950s so their future children could have better career options than were available on their beloved, but poor, island. Annie was one-hundred-percent sure her mother wouldn’t think of this bit of the reality of her life as a private investigator as representing that dream; Eustelle had told her exactly what she’d thought of her new job when she’d outlined the plans for the agency, and those plans hadn’t involved anything as potentially dangerous as a kidnapping.

  ‘Okay,’ Annie continued, ‘judging by the traffic, we’ve got about ten minutes before we get to The Hereford Bull. First things first – do you think this is just some chancer who’s found Poppy’s phone and is playing with us?’

  ‘I think he’s really got her,’ Christine replied, sounding grim, ‘and I think he might hurt her, too. There was something in his voice.’

  Annie could tell the telephone conversations had really shaken Christine. ‘Right then,’ she said decisively, ‘you call your Auntie Ag and find out if her husband got a ransom note for Poppy that he’s forgotten to mention. I’ll phone Car and pass on all this info; they need to know about this back at the office – agreed?’

  Christine nodded.

  Annie could tell her colleague was worried, and she couldn’t help but wonder if more resources and experience than the WISE Enquiries Agency possessed were needed. Maybe she should try to persuade Chrissy to talk her cousin into calling in the police after all. It sounded as though Poppy was in real trouble.

  As Annie phoned the office to bring their colleagues up to speed, Christine called her aunt. Annie was finished more quickly than Christine, so she sat quietly, cursing the traffic, and watching her colleague contorting her face as she spoke. It seemed it had taken some time for the duchess to make it to the telephone herself.

  ‘Aunt Aggie?’ Christine opened. ‘Would it be alright with you if I allowed Annie to listen in? Good. Wait a mo.’

  Christine handed Annie one of her pair of ear buds; Annie didn’t care for the idea of putting an already-used ear bud into her own ear, but she could tell it was the only way she’d be able to listen without the cabbie overhearing the entire conversation. She shoved it in, and hoped the Hon. Christine Wilson-Smythe didn’t have anything nasty lurking in her shell-likes.

  Lady Wraysbury was speaking.

  ‘No, no one has brought a note of any sort to the house, darling, I would have mentioned that. And I know Dickie would have mentioned anything of the sort he might have received at the House of Lords, or at his office in the City – he’s been telephoning constantly to find out how this matter is progressing. And either, or both, of us would most certainly have mentioned a ransom note to you.’

  Annie could tell that Lady Agatha was moving about as she spoke; she heard a door being closed somewhere in Magna on Wraysbury Square.

  Lady Agatha now spoke more clearly. ‘There, I’m alone now. Christine, what’s happened? What have you found out?’ Her voice had raised an octave.

  Christine grimaced at Annie, then set about bringing her aunt up to date.

  When she’d finished, her aunt was speechless for a moment, then with a trembling voice said, ‘This sounds dreadful. I’ll talk to Jacintha about contacting the police. I’m sure they’d be discreet. Of course, one doesn’t like to ask for favors, but one might in a pinch.’

  Annie was pretty sure that, if the Wraysburys asked, they’d get the odd favor from the Old Bill, and maybe even a few unbidden ones.

  Christine wrapped up with, ‘I’ll call you back when we have more. We’re going to the pub where we know Poppy met someone last evening. The aim is to find out who she met, and take it from there.’

  Lady Agatha replied, ‘Good luck, Christine dear, and do take care of yourselves. Sure my sister would never forgive me for getting you into any sort of trouble. Have me guts for garters, so she would.’ Then she was gone.

  Annie couldn’t help but smile. ‘Your auntie’s got quite the brogue when she lets the posh bit drop.’

  ‘To be sure we all have it beneath our elocution-lesson-enhanced English,’ replied Christine with a wicked grin. ‘To be fair, the area where my mother’s family, and I, were raised – just on the border in the north of Ireland – doesn’t bless one with the most attractive of accents, so it’s a good job the English public school system ironed it out for all of us.’

  ‘We’re nearly there,’ observed Annie. ‘Do you think your uncle will get hold of the police, whatever Jacintha might say?’

  Christine sounded resigned. ‘I believe so, yes. I expect Uncle Richard will want to do that. He’s terribly proper. Has to be, really. So I suggest we find out as much as possible at this pub, then at least we’ll have done all we can. Did the other two have any news?’

  ‘Mave’s begun phoning all the hospitals – working outward from the center of London. Thank goodness her nursing career has taught her all the unofficial routes you can take to find out who’s come through Emergency Admitting. She’ll stick at it for as long as it takes. Nothing so far. Carol’s sorted all the admin stuff for the case and she’s sourcing contact info for Mave, as well as scanning news reports that might mention . . . anything helpful. And we’re there,’ she concluded, as the grumbling cabbie announced they owed him twenty-four pounds and eighty pence.

  Annie shoved thirty pounds into his hand. ‘Thanks for keeping your nose out of our business,’ she smiled.

  He looked at the notes and rolled his eyes. ‘You need the coppers. Kidnapping’s no lark. That’s what I thinks,’ he said, then he pulled away, performed a neat U-turn, and headed off into the traffic again.

  The doors of The Hereford Bull were still locked.

  Annie felt cross. ‘They won’t be open for another twenty minutes. I’ll knock,’ she said, and did so. Loudly.

  The man with a bucket in his hand who opened the door immediately announced, ‘Not open until eleven. Come back then.’

  He moved to shut the door again, but Annie was too quick for him. ‘Nice to know having such huge plates is useful, sometimes,’ she quipped as she wedged her foot to prevent the door from being closed.

  ‘You’re much more useful than that, Annie,’ said Christine quietly, which made Annie feel good.

  ‘Ta, but hold your horses with the love-fest, and let’s get this pub’s landlord – or manager, more like – in front of us so we can show him that photo and find out if he remembers Poppy.’ She lowered her voice, ‘And I need to pop to the loo at some point soon, too. Bladder the size of a pea, me . . . if you know what
I mean.’ She grinned at Christine, hoping she’d get the joke, but she didn’t seem to.

  Instead, Christine pushed the door open again, elbowed her way past the man with the bucket and began screaming, ‘I need to see the landlord, or manager, or whomever is in charge!’

  Bossy and grammatically correct, thought Annie. ‘You go for it, Chrissy,’ she said aloud, and she joined in – proper grammar and all.

  ‘What the bleedin’ ’ell’s goin’ on down ’ere?’ shouted a rumpled-looking man as he descended the stairs.

  Christine decided it was best to be formal. ‘I am The Honorable Christine Wilson-Smythe. This is my colleague Annie Parker. We have enquiries to make about a friend of ours who was here at your establishment last evening.’ Christine pushed her phone in front of the man’s bleary eyes. ‘Do you remember this girl, or the man with whom she is sitting?’

  Christine assessed the man was clean, and dressed ready for his work-day. She didn’t believe she’d roused him from his bed, so felt less sympathy for him than if she and Annie had arrived hours earlier.

  The man’s face was lined, his eyes slightly pink. ‘I’ll need me specs,’ he said, and scampered toward the stairs.

  Christine had no reason to doubt he was speaking the truth, but felt somewhat unsettled by the glance he threw toward the pair of them as he climbed the creaking staircase. ‘Leno, keep an eye on ’em,’ he said to the cleaner as he disappeared.

  The cleaner looked at the women with suspicion, and shuffled past them toward the bar. ‘I’m nearly finished,’ he said gruffly. ‘Have to put the chairs down now. Don’t you two move.’ He rattled his bucket in their general direction, then began to lift chairs down from the tops of tables.

  The rumpled man reappeared, and wiped a grubby pair of spectacles with the sleeve of his shirt. As he placed them onto his nose, Christine could see he was still eyeing her with suspicion. He peered at the screen, and enlarged the picture.

  ‘Can’t say I recognize either of ’em,’ he replied. A bit cagily, though Christine. He handed the phone back to her, ‘But then I wouldn’t, necessarily, unless they was regulars. Gets busy in here, thank God.’