by David Carter
Greg’s business mind went into overdrive. There’s a reason people have to obtain credit licences before they can lend money. And there’s a reason why interest rates are monitored and capped, and not before time. Lending fifty quid on a Thursday and getting back seventy-five on the Saturday may not sound too penalising if you say it quick until one did the maths.
On that 50% interest rate for two days, based over a year, the borrower would pay back £9,125... for fifty quid. Ciaran Webb was lending money at that rate all the time. He was making those returns. That was unacceptable in modern day Britain. It was unacceptable in Chester, and it was unacceptable to Greg Morrell, and he was about to do something about it, because no one else would. Ridding vermin from the streets.
Ciaran Webb was not a man of regular habits. He came and went whenever the hell he liked. But he drank in the Bear’s Claw and conducted business there too. Greg knew that, and set his bag down in the shop entrance, and watched and waited.
Inside the pub, the landlord would not tolerate drug dealing on the premises. Or dodgy fags being bought and sold, or any trading in knock-off meat from the local Bestdas, and certainly no cheap and vile imported booze, either. But money changing hands? That was okay. What was wrong with that?
People often borrowed a few quid from pals, and that had to be repaid. Money changing hands was okay. It was normal behaviour. And the good thing was, people knew Ciaran would be there. They’d call in to borrow a few quid, and once it was in their grubby hands, it was only a tiny step towards buying the first of several drinks.
Ciaran was bringing fresh custom into the alehouse. They would never bar him. They even gave him a bottle of Scotch at Christmas, because he was worth it.
Sixty-One
Jago wiped his eye with his hankie. He reached forward and picked up the mug and swigged the half inch of cold tea that remained. He hated being there, sitting before the three of them, people he knew, being humiliated. But he also knew he’d brought it on himself.
But if they thought his love for Kelly Jones was nothing more than a passing phase, they couldn’t be more wrong. When he next spoke he said, ‘You’re a perceptive cuss, Darriteau, I’ll give you that, but it wasn’t like that.’
‘I’ll accept your word on that, Jago. How about you tell us what happened?’
Jago nodded and realised he had to tell the truth, even if it made him look weaker still.
‘She knew I loved her, deeply and forever. She said she loved me too, though I have always questioned that. I was desperate to see her again and couldn’t stop myself ringing the Golden Sun Tanning Bar.’
‘The brothel?’ clarified Walter.
Jago nodded and continued.
‘The boss guy wasn’t happy with me ringing in what he called “work hours”, though every hour was a goddamned work hour in that horrible place. He took some persuading, but eventually he put me through.’
‘And?’
‘I told her I needed to see her, and had something for her. I said it couldn’t wait. She was so nice to me. Real sweet, both then, before, and after. Let’s face it, she could have said some awful things, but she didn’t. I couldn’t believe my luck when she said she’d have to go home first, take a shower, and get changed. It would be a couple of hours before she could be at dad’s place.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I told her that was fine. I was okay with it. If you want to know my actual corny words, I told her I would wait a lifetime, so long as I knew she was coming,’ and Jago glanced at them, expecting to see pitying visages on three faces, and he did.
‘It must have been about three o’clock when the taxi arrived at the house. I was so excited, you wouldn’t believe. What is it they say? A cat on a hot tin roof? That had nothing on me. I’d sent Mrs French home, told her I would fix dad’s dinner. I don’t think she wanted to go, but I slipped her thirty quid to bugger off and she said, “Thanks a bunch, Jago”, let herself out, and we had the place to ourselves.
‘Kelly had no money for the fare, surprise surprise, so I went outside and paid the cabbie. She looked better than ever. She’d gone the whole hog. Rice paper skirt, blouse, and as I was later to discover, bra and knickers too. In her rush to see me, she hadn’t brought any other clothes. God knows how she was going to get home because that get-up would never survive five minutes. She sure knew how to turn me on. Probably why she was so good at her job, and the reason she was in such demand.’
Jago stopped for thought. Walter was keen to keep words flowing and said, ‘And then, Jago, what happened then?’
‘She asked me what I had for her. I’d planned to build up to it, but put on the spot like that, I jumped down on one knee and blurted my proposal: “Marry me and be my wife!”, and as I did that, I opened the red velvet case and showed her the ring. Her mouth fell open. Her eyes widened as they had never done before, and do you know what she said?’
‘What, Jago, what?’
‘She said yes! Yes, yes, yes! I know... it sounds and looks impossible and ridiculous, but it wasn’t. She agreed to become Mrs Wilderton. She held out her hand and asked me to slip the ring on her finger. It fitted like a dream. Perfect; and she loved it, everything about it. I always hated the other chunky thing she wore, but she would never take it off.’
Jago stalled again. Maybe basking in perfect memories.
Walter said, ‘What happened next?’
‘Do you really want to know all the intimate details, Darriteau? Surely not.’
‘We need more, Jago. We need to find out what happened to the poor girl.’
Jago nodded and said, ‘I guess you do. All right. I scooped her up in my arms. Even the feel of that clothing was a massive turn on, as I carried her upstairs to the bedroom. I’d always kept my room on at Plough Lane. Dad was fine with that. I’d left a lot of my earlier things there. It was a bolthole whenever life grew tough. I carried her into the bedroom, laid her on the double bed, and returned to the door and closed and locked it.’
Walter said, ‘You locked it?’
‘I did. Dad had the locks put on all the bedrooms when we first moved there. He said he never wanted people barging into bedrooms. You never know what you might find. Quite a sensible idea, if you ask me. I’m surprised more houses don’t have locks on bedroom doors. None of the modern ones do.’
‘And then?’
‘What do you think? I started my late lunch. Some of that paper clothing is fruit flavoured. It was strawberry that day, I remember it well. It didn’t take me long to demolish the skirt and blouse, it melts in the mouth, and I was about to start on the interesting bits, when Kelly stiffened and said, “There’s someone in the house!” That spoilt the day, I can tell you. I sat up and listened. I heard noises too. Someone down below was banging about. I thought we had burglars. But a moment later we heard someone coming up the stairs, yelling, “Jago! Are you in there?” as he tried the door handle. My father, who else?’
‘Go on,’ said Walter.
‘He ordered me to open the door. Kelly told me not to. Dad yelled, “Have you got someone in there?” and before I could answer he said, “You’ve got that slut in there, haven’t you? You know she’s the chosen one. The boys are coming down later to deal with her.” I didn’t know what to say or do, but he went away. Kelly asked me what he meant by calling her the chosen one, and who were the boys, and how were they going to deal with her? It upset her. He came back a minute or two later, inserting a key in the lock, struggling to open the door. His house, his locks, his keys, I should have known he kept spares for all the rooms. That was him all over. Kelly pleaded with me to stop him coming in, and pulled the sheet over herself, but there was nothing I could do. The door was flung open. Dad was standing in the doorway, glaring down at us. Me, naked as the day I entered this world. Kelly hiding under the sheet and wishing she was back in New Ferry.’
Jago paused and Karen said, ‘Go on, man.’
He sighed and said, ‘My father possessed a wicked tempe
r, though give him his due, he could control it, and it only revealed itself on rare occasions. But that day it was on full frontal display. He’d entered some kind of fury trance. I stood up, naked, at the end of the bed, blocking his path. He was seventy-four but still strong, and I was forty-six and relatively fit. But it made no difference. I tried to calm him down, to ease him from the room. He was having none of it. I remember he yelled, “The Brotherhood will not be denied!” I grabbed hold of his jacket, intending to tug him outside, but he snarled and resisted. He pushed me with all his strength away to the side. I staggered backwards, two or three paces, trying to regain my balance, before falling over, cracking the back of my head on the corner of the mahogany dressing table. I’ve still got the scar. Kelly screamed. I was dazed, but still conscious. Dad yelled, “Come here, you slut!” and I watched him grab her by the wrist and yank her from the bed, semi-naked. It was awful,’ said Jago, shaking his head. ‘Hideous.’
Walter, Karen, and Brax allowed a pause, picturing the scene, wondering if it happened as he’d described, or was it another rehash to show him in the best possible light?
‘Go on, Jago,’ said Walter. ‘Nearly there, man.’
Jago nodded and said, ‘I tried to stand, but that crack on the head left me with a bout of concussion. I sank down on my back, my knees in the air, raised my head in time to see him slap her, and I mean slap with a capital S. Her head seemed to vibrate back-and-forth multi-times as if fixed on a spring. I yelled, “Don’t father, stop it!” something like that, as I struggled to stand. He was famous for many things, was Torquil Wilderton, but not many people know he possessed the biggest hands imaginable. I’ve inherited it to a degree, look at mine...’ and he bunched his fists and held them across the table.’
‘Impressive,’ said Braxton.
‘Yes, but they were nothing compared to his. Like a pair of ham bones on the end of his arms, they were, like on a cartoon character.’
Jago went quiet again and took one of his sizeable fists to his mouth and blew on the fingers.
‘What?’ said Walter.
‘Do you know what she did?’
‘No. What, Jago?’
‘She came to my aid, when it should have been the other way round. She went for him. And how! Yowling like a crazy cat. Baring her teeth. Semi naked in holey, skimpy underwear, one breast free and bouncing. Spitting and scratching and hollering. I had never seen a woman like that before. She scratched his chin real bad as if her claws were fully extended. Blood dripped onto his pristine white shirt. He slapped her again. She went back in for more. It was as if she realised her life was on the line. Maybe in her profession it wasn’t unusual to come across mad and violent men. But dad was an old man and looked it too. But he was still strong and menacing, and that temper bubbled out of him like pure black evil. It didn’t stop her. I was struggling to stand. She went for him again. If I didn’t know better, it looked like she was trying to kill him. And then it happened.’
‘What did?’ said Walter.
‘I saw it coming from the other side of the room. It was so obvious. I shouted, “Watch it, Kelly!” She must have heard me too, but she didn’t act. He pulled his long right arm back, and swung it out and round in a huge arc, his balled fist like a granite cauliflower. A wrecking ball seeking its target. It almost whistled as it travelled through the air. Dad sure put everything into it. I had never seen him do anything like that before. She was moving fast towards him, going in for more brutish violence, teeth bared. She gave it everything she possessed. The fat fist was on its way and couldn’t be recalled. It cracked her on the left side of her chin. The noise like a rifle shot. Her head jerked back, and it knocked her clean across the room, away to the far side, where she fell on her back. I don’t think she banged her head as she went down. But her lights went out, and her eyes closed. She didn’t utter another sound. Dad moved across to her. Standing over her, wiping blood from his face, shaking his big bruised hand. Drops of scarlet dripped down. He prodded her with his foot, provoking movement, provoking sound. But there was nothing.’
Jago shook his head and closed his eyes.
‘And?’ said Karen. ‘What happened next? What did you do?’
‘The old man glared at me and said, “That’s saved a job for the boys later. But I’m not sure it counts towards their initiation,” and he laughed. Laughed, I tell you. It was then, he spotted the ring. He stared down at it and back at me. “You bought that?” he said. “You bloody idiot!”, and he crouched down, his hips creaking, and yanked it off. “What were you thinking? She was never good enough for you. She’s a common whore. Everyone’s had her,” and he turned about and left the room, muttering he needed a drink and something to eat. The last thing he said was, “I may be old, but my fists are still rock solid, and don’t you forget it!” And he left me alone with the girl, out cold on the floor.’
‘And what did you do?’ persisted Karen.
‘I forced myself back to my feet and staggered across the room. Knelt down beside her. I felt for a pulse and checked her breathing. There was nothing there. All was silent. She was dead. The weight of the blow was sufficient to remove the life force from her. If I hadn’t witnessed it, I would never have believed it. In all my time in the army I saw nothing like that.’
‘And then?’ said Walter.
‘I dragged a sheet from the bed and laid it across her as best I could. And shed a tear. Yes, really. A tear for a wonderful girl called Kelly Jones. The thing is, we spend all our lives, Darriteau, desperately searching for love, but all we ever find is grief and untold sadness.’
‘What happened to the ring?’ asked Karen.
Jago nodded as if he was coming to that.
‘I went downstairs. The kettle was on. He was making a cheese sandwich. The ring was on the kitchen table, set to the side of a slab of Stilton. I went to grab the ring. He warned me not to, waggling the sharp cutting knife in my direction. I wanted to reunite her with the ring she adored. But he would have none of it. He set the knife down, grinned and grabbed the ring, and beckoned me to follow him, across the hallway and into the cloakroom. He waited for me there. He wanted me to see. There was a weird triumphant, evil look on his face. He tossed it in the pan. It made quite a splash. He glanced back at me, reached out and flushed, and the trinket that brought me so much pleasure in the acquiring, sailed away into the unknown. One day, someone in some strange place, will discover it, and their eyes will light up. And they will wonder who it belonged to, and where it came from. And maybe they might be an honest soul and hand it in. Or perhaps they will thank their god for such good fortune, and wash it and present it to their loved one, mouthing silly words like: it’s nothing, darling, you deserve it, only the best for you, my love.’
Walter and Karen shared a look.
Braxton sighed hard, stretched his arms wide, stifled another yawn, and said, ‘I think we all need a break.’
‘No,’ said Walter. ‘Not yet. We need to know what happened after that. While Jago is flowing and facts are tumbling out.’
Walter went to the phone and ordered more tea and biscuits, sat down again, glanced across at Jago, and said, ‘We’re almost there, Mr Wilderton. It’s nearly finished. Tell us what happened next. How and when did you take Kelly to her grave?’
Sixty-Two
Jago wasn’t keen to talk again. That had been Walter’s worry. The man pleaded for time. Maybe he was reflecting on what he had said. Perhaps everything wasn’t as he had described. Murderers often point the finger at other people to shift blame. The best people for that are dead people, for they can’t answer back, or present their side of the story.
The recently deceased Lysander Torquil Sholto Wilderton couldn’t respond. He was being painted as a cold-hearted and violent murderer, a man accused of killing a human being, and not for the first time. Jago had pointed the finger at his father for Peter Craig’s death too, and how convenient was that? If someone else was held responsible, it would exonerate Jago.
Was it possible, indeed feasible, that an aging man in his mid seventies, possessed the strength and wherewithal to fight off and kill a thirty-one-year-old woman, a fit female in her prime? Anyone can land a lucky blow. But one still had to possess the brute strength behind the strike to inflict sufficient damage to kill. Walter thought it possible, if unlikely. He made a mental note to speak to the pathologist to see if he noticed anything unusual about Torquil’s hands.
Tea and biscuits were brought in and dispatched.
Jago took his fair share, and when he had finished he yawned and said, ‘I’m not sure I can go on any longer, Darriteau. I need a break, and I need a sleep. Can we take it up in the morning?’
‘No,’ said Walter. ‘It needs to be done now.’
The last thing Walter wanted was Jago sleeping on it and deciding he’d said enough, or embellishing his story, maybe ironing out any inconsistencies he’d thought of during a sleepless night. Or indeed, adding little extras that would prove his innocence.
‘You’re a hard man, Darriteau.’
‘No,’ said Walter. ‘I’m a fair man. Let’s do this for Kelly Jones’ sake. Let’s give her the due care and attention she deserves.’
That appeal to Jago’s better nature did the trick, for he sat back and cranked up again.
‘What do you want to know? I’ll answer if I can.’
‘I want to know what happened to Kelly Jones’ body.’
‘Oh, I thought you knew that already.’
‘No, I don’t. In your own words, Jago, what happened in the Plough Lane house after the ring was flushed away?’
Jago scratched his ample forehead and said the two guys arrived a couple of hours later in something of a panic. The plan had been, they were to go to the brothel, pick her up, drive her to Christleton, and kill her.’