Murder Knows No Season

by Cathy Ace

  ‘Yes, I worked that one out. We have to find out if anyone saw Rob and Poppy leave with someone – though you’d think John the landlord would have mentioned it if he’d seen it,’ replied Annie, striding out with her long legs. ‘What other news did Mave get?’ she asked breathlessly as they hurried along the narrow pavement.

  ‘Mavis’s nurse contact overheard more than I wanted Helen to know,’ replied Christine. ‘Apparently it was Rob Brown’s overdeveloped neck muscles that saved his life; his assailant sliced at his throat and missed his carotid by millimeters, otherwise he’d have bled to death before they got to him. But, as it is, he’ll be fine, in time. Mavis’s contact also overheard the statement Rob Brown gave to the police; he said he met Poppy at the pub, as planned, but that Poppy was taken ill there. Some bloke they’d never met before offered to drive them to Poppy’s flat in his van. Rob helped him get Poppy into the back of a white transit van. Then the bloke must have hit Rob over the head. The next thing Rob knew he was lying on the road, surrounded by paramedics and police.’

  ‘Oh, bugger,’ remarked Annie. ‘That sounds serious.’

  ‘And that’s not all,’ continued Christine, ‘this nurse gathered from the police conversations going on outside Rob Brown’s room that they couldn’t see a number plate on any of the CCTV pictures of the van, and that they weren’t having much luck tracing its whereabouts because, after dumping him on the road, it had driven into the underground car park on Park Lane and didn’t seem to have come out again – but they can’t find it in there.’

  Christine and Annie were both worried.

  ‘So we’re going to the pub to try to find out who the man with the van is, right?’ asked Annie, knowing the answer.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Christine, ‘but I’m assuming that the police will have been there before us, given Rob’s statement to them, so I’m not sure what we can find out that they haven’t already discovered.’

  ‘But we can try,’ added Annie helpfully.

  ‘Yes, we can try,’ replied Christine as they rushed toward their quarry.

  When Annie strode through the doors of The Hereford Bull for the second time that day, her eyes immediately locked onto John the landlord, who was standing behind the bar looking pink around the gills.

  ‘You two again?’ he said. ‘What a morning this has turned out to be. Only just got rid of the Old Bill, ain’t I? All to do with that Rob and Poppy Brown, like you two were on about. What’s occurring? They wouldn’t tell me nothing.’

  Annie turned to Christine and said, ‘He’s all mine.’ Then she leaned across the pumps and whispered as menacingly as she could, ‘Someone accompanied Poppy and Rob Brown when they left here last evening. We need to know who that was.’

  John didn’t seem even slightly intimidated, which disappointed Annie. ‘Like I’ve just been saying to the coppers, I didn’t see them leave here with no one. I didn’t see them leave here at all. I can’t be keeping an eye on everyone’s comings and goings all night.’

  Annie admitted to herself he had a point. ‘What about that young lad we saw arriving here for his shift this morning. Did he see anything?’

  ‘Coppers asked him too, and he didn’t.’

  Annie rallied, ‘He can’t have been the only person working here for you last night. Can we speak to the other members of staff who were here then?’

  John sighed. ‘Like I’ve already said to the p’lice, the two others who were on last night ain’t here now.’ He looked at his watch. ‘One of them was due to start five minutes ago, at noon, but he strolls in whenever he fancies, don’t he?’

  ‘Phone numbers?’ pressed Annie.

  John hesitated for the first time. ‘Well, I gave them to the rozzers, but I’m not sure about giving them to you two. You’re not official, are you?’

  ‘Lady Jacintha Wraysbury, Poppy Brown’s employer, is our client. We are, most definitely, official,’ said Christine.

  Annie rolled her eyes in an attempt to get Christine to back off. She felt she could get something out of John by playing the ‘fellow Londoner’ card.

  A red-haired boy, who appeared to Annie to be aged about twelve, sauntered behind the bar. ‘Hello, John, what do you want me to start with?’ he asked.

  John shook his head. ‘Bloody Millennials,’ he said to Annie then, to the youth, ‘Simon, nice of you to grace us with your presence. You missed all the action; Plod wants to talk to you about a bloke you might have seen here last night. Helped a bloke and a girl out of here when she felt bad.’

  The fresh-faced youth wrinkled his forehead, then said, ‘Yeah. I saw them. I know the bloke you mean – Gary. Gary Gilchrist. Plumber. Comes in sometimes when he’s got a job in the area. Why do they want to talk to me about him?’

  The young man seemed genuinely curious.

  ‘Never mind why,’ snapped John, ‘just give them a ring. I put the number on the side there. But don’t forget who pays your wages around here; I need three barrels changing and we’re low on tonics and bitter lemons, so sort that out. And I need them tables cleared and cleaned in the corner. So get that lot sorted, then you can phone them.’ He rolled his eyes towards Annie. ‘These young ones – want it all on a plate, eh?’

  Annie nodded sympathetically. She couldn’t lose this chance. Looking at the young barman she said aloud, ‘Oh come on, he’s just a lad, he probably doesn’t know anything useful about Gilchrist anyway.’

  Annie hoped the young man fancied showing off a bit. She was pleased to be proved right.

  He replied swiftly, and with vigor, ‘Well maybe I do, see? I know he lives in one of those big old houses out on St Peter’s Terrace, just the other side of the Cromwell Road. He got really pissed – sorry, I mean drunk –’ he nodded apologetically at Christine – ‘in here one night and I couldn’t shut him up. That’s when he told me his name, and all about the house his mother left him when she’d died.’ He lowered his voice. ‘He kept shoving some pretty disgusting photos of his girlfriend at me; she clearly didn’t mind showing her all to the camera, but then she’d have to be a bit of a slapper to go for him. If you’ll pardon my French. He’s a nasty bit of work, if you ask me. I can’t imagine him helping out someone for nothing. Might do it if there was a few quid in it for him, I suppose.’

  ‘Ta, doll,’ said Annie, her insides squirming with excitement. ‘Maybe he’s a keeper, after all, John,’ she quipped, then she grabbed Christine and said, ‘We’re off.’ She dragged her colleague out of the door. ‘If we’re quick we might just get in ahead of the police.’

  Christine was swift to react. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked, as Annie leaped into the oncoming traffic to stop a cab.

  ‘St Peter’s Terrace,’ she shouted at the cabbie, answering Christine’s question at the same time.

  Once they were sitting, Annie pulled out her phone and called the office. Her voice was excited, Christine was agog.

  Carol answered the phone; she used her best telephone voice.

  ‘Car, it’s Annie – we need an address for a Gary Gilchrist, St Peter’s Terrace, not far from Gloucester Road tube station, north side of the Cromwell Road. He might be listed as a plumber, or if just the house is listed it might be with a different first name or initial because the house used to be his mother’s.’

  ‘Got it. Hang on. I need both hands . . .’ replied Carol.

  ‘Said the actress to the bishop,’ quipped Annie to Christine, who flashed her colleague a weak smile.

  ‘Number eighteen,’ said Carol clearly, ‘and who’s Gary Gilchrist, when he’s at home?’

  ‘Pop me onto speaker phone and I’ll fill you in as we go,’ replied Annie. Mavis and Carol asked all the questions Annie expected, then Mavis asked an extra one, which worried her.

  ‘Ach – well done so far, girls, but what are you going to do when you get there?’ She sounded concerned. ‘Do you not think it might be wiser to let the police take it from here, since they are now clearly involved.’

  Annie’s e
nthusiasm drained.

  ‘Mavis?’ mouthed Christine.

  Annie nodded. ‘Mave wants to know what we’ll do when we get there.’

  ‘Tell her not to tell anyone where we’re going – if anyone asks – and that we’ll keep in touch,’ said Christine. Annie did as she was told, and ended the call.

  ‘So – do we have a plan?’ asked Annie, knowing the answer.

  ‘What do you think?’ replied Christine.

  ‘Knock at the door and play it by ear?’ suggested Annie.

  ‘Unless you’ve got a better idea,’ was Christine’s glum response.

  ‘Well, we’ve got about another ten minutes before we get there – maybe we can come up with something,’ mused Annie.

  ‘Hmm,’ was all Christine could manage.

  ‘Come on, girl,’ urged Annie, ‘put that Mensa brain to work; we need every little grey cell working for us. I know you can do it.’

  Christine didn’t look convinced.

  Poppy was getting sick of the taste of leather. She’d managed to nibble through one knot, but had then realized that was a stupid idea; she’d be much better off trying to nibble through the flat strands that bound her wrists.

  The smell of bacon had long since gone, but now her stomach was aching, she was so hungry; she’d already passed the point where relieving herself while fully dressed and curled up in a black, brick box was something to worry about, but the results were less than pleasant.

  Poppy still had no recollection of how she’d ended up wherever she was, but, with every passing moment, she was becoming more angry, more frustrated, and more determined to get out. She had worked out that her eye teeth were the best to nibble with, but her gums and jaw were starting to ache with the effort. Then – finally – a cord snapped, and she was able to begin to unwind the leather loops; there was no point pulling at them because they only got tighter.

  A few minutes later Poppy’s hands were free. She rubbed her wrists, trying to get the circulation going. She patted her body to check for her mobile phone – of course, it had gone – so she felt around her surroundings. Initially, she discovered nothing new. She was in a brick box – brick walls and a brick floor, but now she used her freed hands to reach above her, where she felt something different – a wooden door. It moved; creaked. She didn’t want to make a noise, so decided to try to free her ankles before feeling about any more.

  This was more difficult than she’d hoped. She could feel the same leather ties on her ankles as she’d bitten through on her wrists, and even found several knots, but she had no idea how to release these bonds; she certainly couldn’t chew through them.

  If she couldn’t free her feet, what about trying to open the lid of the ‘box’ and find out what was outside? It seemed to be her only option. She wasn’t sure if she’d be able to move as slowly and smoothly as she wanted, but got herself onto her haunches and worked out that only one edge of the lid would move. As she lifted it a little, no discernable light came into her tiny world. In fact, nothing happened at all. She risked pushing it a little more, and then more. She had to raise it quite a bit to be able to peer through the gap, where she saw . . . nothing, just more blackness.

  Encouraged that at least there was no one outside the box waiting to hurt her, Poppy pushed the lid as far open as it would go and slowly, and very painfully, straightened up to a standing position. Everything hurt. It was excruciating. She didn’t know how long she’d been curled up, but it was long enough to allow her muscles to forget what it was to support her weight. She rubbed her legs, her arms, and her face. Even her hair ached. But at least she was out – well, in a manner of speaking.

  ‘Rob, are you there?’ she ventured. There was no response. Somehow, she’d known she was alone.

  Poppy tried to make out what was around her. True, everything was still dark, but this darkness was less intense and she could gradually make out shadowy outlines of various types of junk, piled to the roof of what was, she assumed, some sort of basement or cellar. There were no windows, but, directly above her head, she could make out some little dots of light. They were arranged in a circle. Poppy puzzled over what it could be.

  Then she got it.

  Poppy was familiar with the iron coal-cellar covers that dotted some London streets; they’d allowed coal deliveries to be made from the roadside directly into the cellars below. They had one at the shop, which was the ground floor of an old mews house. She must have been shut in the coal-hole in a cellar, and there, out of reach above her head, and surely opening onto the street, was the metal cover. Not big enough for her to fit through, she knew that, but big enough so she could at least alert someone passing by to her predicament.

  Now, if only she could get there; she judged the basement to be about ten feet high, so it would beyond her reach, unless she could get out of the coal-hole then find something to stand on.

  Her spirits buoyed by this discovery, she decided to hunt about – carefully and quietly – for something that might have a sharp enough edge to cut leather, so she could release her feet. She placed her hands carefully on the edges of the coal-hole, and pulled up her legs. Swinging them out of the box was a painful job. She took a couple of moments to get her balance. She suspected the only way she’d get across the floor, other than hopping – which might be dangerous, was to kneel down and use her hands to pull herself about, which she did.

  The floor was filthy and there were sharp little things that stuck into her palms, but she propelled herself toward a smallish pile of junk and tried to make out what was there. The faint light from above showed her what had been cutting into her palms – there was a broken window frame with some smashed glass in it. She couldn’t believe her luck; all she had to do was get hold of a piece of the glass and she could use it as a cutting tool. She pulled her no-doubt filthy sweater over her head and wrapped it around her hands for protection.

  Gary Gilchrist rolled onto his stomach and stubbed out his cigarette in the remnants of the bacon sandwich he’d discarded on the bedside table. He looked across at Tash as she lay on her back, blowing smoke rings toward the ceiling. He could do worse. But not much.

  Natasha Moon stubbed out her own cigarette and looked over at her boyfriend. ‘Gary . . .?’ She sounded dreamy, and twisted her hair coquettishly. ‘Tell me about how you got them again – you were so clever . . .’

  Gary sighed. Ah well, string her along and let her bathe in his glory a bit longer. She really was a stupid, gullible, little tart.

  ‘Like I said,’ he began, sounding important, ‘I’d stopped off to pick up some stuff from Bloko in Notting Hill. Just the usual – a bit of weed, a few tabs and so forth – and he asked me to take some roofies to a contact of his in a pub up by the Westway. I had a bit of time, so I stopped for a pint at a pub just across the Cromwell Road – you know, one of them posh ones – for a pint. Well, I’m in there, mindin’ me own business like, when the two of them come in. The big one’s sort of looking after the girl, and she’s using all these names of flowers – which means the Royal family; I seen that in the paper one day – it’s some sort of code for the secret police what looks after ’em. She’s got this bag with the name of that posh florist shop on it, and I gets closer, and he’s telling her how well she’s doing, and how well the shop’s doing, and she’s all “Yeah, we’re the best, alright” and I thought “I know who you are, you snotty little bitch”. They done that piece on her shop in that Sunday magazine, didn’t they? About how much her old man’s worth, right? And how she only gets all these fancy customers because of Daddy’s money. So I ’ad the idea right there and then. I managed to drop a couple of the roofies into their drinks, and they carries on chatting like, till the girl starts to feel the effects.’

  Natasha giggled, ‘Did she go all floppy?’

  Gary grinned. ‘Yeah, sorta. So I goes over and offers them a lift to her place, all friendly like. The big one, the bodyguard, is feelin’ it a bit too, but he helps me get the kid into the van, but
then he won’t play dead, so I thump him with an old bit of metal pipe I keeps in the van just in case, and down he goes too. I shut the doors and brought ’em back ’ere. Luckily, with the stuff I gave him, the bodyguard won’t remember he helped me carry the girl downstairs. If he’s alive, that is. And no one knows me at that pub. Only been there a few times before; one night I got a bit the worse for wear there, but nothing to make me stick out, like. And the rest you knows.’

  ‘Why did you make me write the note?’ Natasha sounded hurt.

  ‘’Cos you’ve got nicer writin’ than me, pet, that’s why.’ He thought she’d buy it.

  ‘Oh, really?’ was her only response. ‘And tell me again why you want me to pick up the money?’

  ‘Because you’ll look more natural in that cleaner’s outfit in the park. And no one’s going to see you anyway, so you’ll be fine, don’t worry about it.’ She was beginning to get on Gary’s nerves.

  ‘I still think we should have fed her, Gary. I mean, she’s got to be used to eating well, what with living in palaces and all.’

  Gary snapped. He pushed down on Natasha’s arm, heavily.

  ‘Look, Tash – I’ll say what we will and will not do. And she can miss a few meals. Christ, Tash, she’s a duchess, you’re not gonna make friends with her, are you? You’re just some old slag from nowhere, and she’s friggin’ Lady Jacintha friggin’ Wraysbury. We don’t want her seeing us, anyway, do we?’

  ‘But she’s seen you already, Gary. And the big bloke did. Do you really think you killed him when you pushed him out of the van? Or will he have talked to the police already?’

  Gary gave Natasha’s arm a painful squeeze before he leaped out of bed and pulled on his underpants.

  ‘Shut up, you silly cow. They don’t know me, and they won’t be able to finger me. If the bodyguard wasn’t dead when they found him, then I’ve lost me touch. I knows just where to cut ’em to make ’em bleed, see, and there’s been nuthin’ on the news, so, no, I don’t think he’s talking to the Old Bill. I think he’s dead. And I think His Knobship will pay up and they’ll keep it all hush, hush. They’re good at that, them lot with titles. Besides, when we get away with the money we can look like whoever we want.’