Single Handed (Gareth Dawson Series Book 3)

by Nathan Burrows

  “Right, okay. Anywhere nice?”

  “Started off in the Queen of Iceni down on Riverside, but it was mobbed so we went to the Coach and Horses instead.” Dave picked up his drink and took a sip. “But that was full of away fans, so we left and went to the Fat Cat and Canary on Yarmouth Road for a few.”

  “Dave,” Gareth said, trying to hide his impatience. “I don’t need a detailed itinerary.”

  “Sorry,” Dave replied, looking into his drink. “Anyway, we ended up leaving there at chucking out time and going back down to Riverside. There’s a club opened on Prince of Wales Road that Charlotte wanted to go to, but it’s only open on Friday and Saturdays.”

  “Yep, keep going mate.” This was like pulling teeth, Gareth thought.

  “I don’t know if you’ve been there? Mirage, it’s called.”

  “The new one?”

  “Yeah. Between the kebab shop and Kwikfit.”

  “Probably not my scene anyway, to be honest.”

  “I saw Laura there.”

  “In the club?” Gareth asked.

  “Yep.”

  He frowned at Dave’s reply. Laura must have decided to go back into the city to join her friends after he’d got out of the cab.

  “Okay, well, she’s a grown woman. If she wants to go clubbing, then that’s up to her,” Gareth replied.

  “She was, er, well…” Dave’s voice tailed away, and he stared at his drink.

  “Dave,” Gareth said, more sharply than he’d intended. “Whatever it is, mate, spit it out.”

  “She was with someone, boss,” Dave replied, still staring at his Coca-Cola. “I went for a pee and saw her in the corner. She was kissing them. I’m not talking about a peck on the cheek, either.”

  Gareth felt the pit of his stomach drop away as Dave’s cheeks coloured.

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you that, but I thought you’d probably want to know.”

  “You’re right, Dave. I would want to know.” Gareth took a deep breath, trying to hide his feelings from the other man. “Thank you for telling me. I mean, we’re not seeing each other so what she does is up to her.”

  “There’s more, boss. The person she was, er, kissing?”

  “Did you recognise them?”

  “Yeah. It was that copper from the other day. Kate, I think she’s called.”

  36

  What do you mean, negotiate?

  Ronnie swore out loud as he read the e-mail, attracting the attention of a few of the other customers in the Internet cafe. The computer was one he’d not used before, and he didn’t have the luxury of a completely unobserved screen. Glaring back at the inquisitive looks until they got the message and looked away, he returned his attention to the e-mail in front of him.

  Surely Annette McGuire wasn’t that thick? His last e-mail to her had been pretty explicit, or so he had thought. He navigated the mouse and clicked on the icon to reply.

  It’s simple. You give me money, and I go away and destroy the photographs and videos of your husband. Or you don’t give me money, and I destroy you instead.

  The only thing we need to negotiate is how much you give me.

  R.

  He checked the e-mail a couple of times and, when he was happy that it was as clear as it could be, clicked on send. Ronnie looked at his watch and worked out the time difference between Bali and the United Kingdom. It was just after one in the morning where he was, which made it just after six the previous evening for Annette McGuire. He debated waiting for a while to see if the bitch replied, but decided against it. He could go to a different cafe tomorrow at some point and check in then.

  Ronnie got to his feet and made his way out of the Internet cafe. Despite the lateness of the hour, the streets were teeming with people. Saturday night was a Saturday night, he supposed, wherever you were in the world. He raised his hand to hail a passing ojek—a moped taxi—and hopped on the back.

  “Jalan Sudamala,” he shouted in the ear of the driver who replied with a knowing grin. Ronnie put his arm loosely around the driver’s midriff and held on as he negotiated his way back into the throng of passing traffic.

  As the moped made its way to Ronnie’s destination, he could see the neighbourhoods becoming poorer and poorer, block by block. When they reached Jalan Sudamala, the street he was heading for, Ronnie knew he was in an area that few Westerners visited. The ones that did visit this particular street would only be visiting for one thing and, while this made him vulnerable, it also afforded him a degree of safety. Westerners were charged more than locals for the services he was looking for. A lot more. The result of this was that they were tolerated, if not necessarily welcomed with open arms.

  Ronnie made his way down the dark road, illuminated only by the lights of houses, until he found a neon sign on the corner of Jalan Sudamala and another much smaller street. This was the place he was looking for. The sign had three horizontal stripes—red, yellow, and grey—and the words BUNGALOW WD across the top. Under the words were a large number 11, followed by an equally large X. He walked into the smaller road until he found the entrance to a courtyard surrounded by ramshackle houses.

  When he walked into the courtyard, he was approached by a dark-skinned man who grinned at him.

  “Om suastiastu,” the man said, holding his fingertips together as if he was praying. Ronnie repeated the phrase which was the only Balinese he knew how to say. He couldn’t remember exactly what it meant—something about peace and greetings—but he nodded his head as he said it anyway.

  “English?” Ronnie asked when the man just stood there grinning at him. He barked something in Balinese, and another man appeared from the darkness.

  “English,” the new arrival said, with the same inane grin as his colleague. “You want boy or girl?”

  “Girl,” Ronnie replied.

  “How old?”

  “Young.”

  “How young?”

  “Young,” Ronnie repeated, holding his hand out so it was about four feet off the ground.

  The two men in the courtyard had a hurried conversation in rapid Balinese. As the one who spoke English relayed what Ronnie was looking for to the older man, he saw his grin fade and be replaced by a look of disgust. Ronnie didn’t care. They would still take his money.

  “Two million rupiah,” the younger of the two men said with a challenging look on his face, as if he was daring Ronnie to try to barter with him. “Until morning.” Ronnie had to suppress a smile. That was a few quid over a hundred pounds. He would have happily paid three times that for the right girl. Money was tight, but it wasn’t that tight, and he sensed that the McGuire woman was about to pay up, anyway. If she did, that would keep him going for months.

  Ronnie counted the money out, struggling to see what he was doing in the poorly lit courtyard. He handed over the notes and watched as the young man counted it, his eyesight a lot better than Ronnie’s was. Satisfied, he gave the money to the other man who was holding his phone to his ear.

  “Follow me,” the younger man said, and Ronnie did as instructed. The man led him to a door, which he opened before stepping back to let Ronnie enter. “Ten minutes.”

  The inside of the house was sparse, but at least it had a working light. It consisted of two rooms: a main room with a large bed and a table. Draped on the sheet were two threadbare towels, and next to the bed was a small table. Off the main room was a smaller room that Ronnie knew would have a shower and a toilet that—if he was lucky—flushed.

  Having decided not to trust the shower, Ronnie sat on the edge of the bed to wait. This was, he thought, his second favourite part of outings like this one. The thought that somewhere not far away, a girl was probably being dragged from her bed to come and meet with him. Meet with him for his favourite part of outings like this.

  When he heard a moped engine outside, he got to his feet. A few seconds later, there was a tentative knock at the door. His mouth dry, Ronnie crossed the room to open it.

  37

/>   Malcolm was on the verge of packing up for the day and heading home when Kate Hunter walked into the office. He glanced at his watch, realising that it was later than he had thought.

  “Kate,” he said, leaning forward and turning his computer monitor off for the night. All part of the ACC’s latest brainchild to reduce costs. Malcolm couldn’t really see the point when all the base units were left turned on, but he supposed every little helped. “Busy day?”

  “Busy enough,” she replied. “Pretty run of the mill, though. Domestic abuse case in Mile Cross that turned out to be not much more than a loud argument. Reports of a robbery up in Hellesdon, but by the time we got there, everyone had gone home. Last one was a job out in Eaton to a little old lady who was convinced that her dachshund had been stolen.”

  “And had it?”

  “Nope, it turned up right as rain. Poor thing probably wanted to get some peace and quiet. My God, the woman could talk.”

  Malcolm grinned in response. He missed jobs like that but, as a Superintendent, would never be involved in them again.

  “You heard about the football?” Kate asked him.

  “Yeah, should be a quiet night in the city. Uniform aren’t reporting much at all. Even Riverside’s quiet for a Saturday.”

  “It’s not even nine o’clock yet, though,” she replied. “Plenty of time. Were there any problems at the ground, do you know?”

  “One Brighton lad managed to get a ticket for the Snakepit.” Malcolm was referring to one of the more vocal home fan areas of Carrow Road. “Didn’t keep as quiet as he should have done when they went one-nil up.”

  “Oh dear,” Kate said, smiling. “I take it the Norwich lot let him know what they thought?”

  “They certainly did. The stewards managed to drag him out before he got too badly bruised, though. What time do you finish?”

  “Ten,” she replied. “I’ll just finish up my reports and handover to the night shift, and that’ll be me.”

  “Did you get to speak to the McGuire woman?”

  “Of course I did.” She looked at him with an aggrieved expression. “That was the first thing I did when I left earlier.”

  “And?”

  Kate pulled up a chair and sat down next to Malcolm after pulling her notebook out of her pocket.

  “There’s definitely something not right there,” she said, flicking through the pages to find the one she was looking for. “I didn’t get very far, to be honest. She clammed up pretty quickly.”

  “What did you get?”

  “Well, she went scuba diving once with Philip and hated it, so that line of enquiry’s dead in the water.”

  “Very dry,” Malcolm said with a smile. “What else?”

  “He was, what were the words she used, very persuasive. When they got together in Australia, all she was after was a bit of a roll in the hay. Or sand, I suppose. But he wanted more than that.”

  “So nothing we didn’t already know.”

  “No,” Kate replied. “Nothing new. But there’s definitely something. Do you remember the photograph of Philip in her house?” Malcolm pursed his lips for a second.

  “Yes, it was on the bookcase. Him on a beach in scuba gear.”

  “It’s not there now. There're no photographs of him at all that I could see.”

  “Right. That’s not unusual, though. Sometimes people don’t want reminders of their loved ones, at least in the beginning.”

  “But where were all the other photos?”

  “How d’you mean?”

  “There weren’t any,” Kate continued. “No wedding photos or family shots. No pictures of birthdays or holidays. I noticed that when we went to tell her he was dead, but didn’t really appreciate it at the time.”

  “You said she clammed up,” Malcolm said, thinking for a second. “At what point?”

  “Sorry, I’m not with you?”

  “What were you asking her about when she clammed up?”

  “Oh, right,” Kate replied, checking her notes. “Money. I had just asked her if they were having any financial difficulties, and she just asked me what that had to do with a diving accident. Then, nothing.”

  “Interesting point to finish the conversation on, given the money going from their account to Bali.”

  “He had been there, though. Philip.”

  “Where, Bali?”

  “Yeah. She mentioned it as one of the places he went scuba diving in. So there’s a link there somewhere. There’s definitely something, boss. I can feel it.”

  Malcolm thanked Kate and got to his feet, mulling over their conversation. It wasn’t just Kate who thought something was not quite right about Annette McGuire. Maybe a follow on call with Jon Brandon down at the NCA wouldn’t hurt, even if it was just to run some ideas past him. The NCA could look at her with a different perspective as they had access to systems that Norfolk Police didn’t. Malcolm knew what Jon was like on an investigation, and he doubted that he would have looked at her at all. They’d argued on more than one occasion when they had worked together about Jon’s tendency to focus on the prize and forget about the periphery of investigations.

  He packed his things away into his briefcase, checked again to make sure that the monitor was turned off properly, and then turned to Kate.

  “I think we should go back and see her again. Both of us. We’ll tell her that Philip’s name has cropped up in another investigation and turn the heat up on her a bit. What do you think?”

  Kate looked back at him with surprise as if she wasn’t used to having one of her superiors ask her opinion. Malcolm was old school in that respect, and prided himself on it. He wasn’t like one of the direct entrants who were increasingly popular in the police these days, and was genuinely interested in what she had to say.

  “See if anything pops up? Yeah, I like it.” She tapped her notebook on her knee. “But she’ll probably want someone there with her next time.”

  “I might speak to Gareth Dawson,” Malcolm said. “Not much love lost between him and Philip, which might be useful.” He walked toward the door, glancing at the clock on the wall. There was more than enough time to stop at Tesco’s to get something for the microwave and a quick pint at his local before Match of the Day came on the telly. Then he could see just how good the new lad from Brighton really was.

  38

  Gareth stared at Dave, unable to believe what he had just heard.

  “What did you just say?” he asked him, hoping that he’d misheard.

  “It was the copper, Kate, boss,” Dave replied, “with Laura.”

  “Are you sure? I mean, you were in a club so presumably it was dark, right?”

  “One hundred per-cent.” Dave wriggled again on his chair before glancing at the door, and it was obvious to Gareth how uncomfortable the young man was. “Charlotte saw them as well. Sorry to be the one to let you know.”

  Gareth frowned, trying to take in the news. That was not what he had been expecting Dave to say at all. That would explain why she hadn’t answered his text messages.

  “Flat battery, my arse,” he muttered under his breath as he took a hefty pull on his pint, almost emptying the glass. He put the glass down on the table so hard that Big Joe and several of the customers turned their heads to look at them. Gareth fixed one or two of them with a stare until they got the message and turned away to mind their own business. Only Big Joe continued to look at him, and Gareth wasn’t about to try to do the same thing with him.

  “Gareth, do you mind if I head away?” Dave asked, looking at him with a pained expression. “Only Charlotte’s waiting for me.”

  “Go on,” Gareth said, “off you fuck. And Dave?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for letting me know. It can’t have been easy, but I appreciate it.”

  Dave didn’t hide the look of relief on his face as he got to his feet before ambling toward the door. Gareth watched him go, relieved to be on his own for a few seconds to process what he’d just heard. Or try to
process, at least. A moment later, he drained his glass and returned to the bar.

  “Same again, fella?” Big Joe said as he approached. He already had a fresh glass in his hand and was holding it under the pump.

  “Please,” Gareth replied with a nod.

  “Everything okay?” Big Joe asked, pouring his pint.

  “Yup. Just peachy.”

  “You do know all breakages must be paid for, right?” Big Joe was smiling as he said this, but Gareth knew it was a warning to behave himself.

  “Sorry, Joe,” Gareth replied. “Just had some unexpected news, that was all.”

  “I thought you were going to twat him for a moment there.”

  “Who? Dave? No, he was just the messenger. Besides, when have I ever started a fight inside your gaff?”

  “Fair point.” Joe laughed as he put Gareth’s pint down on the bar. “But you’ve finished a fair few outside it.”

  “Not for a long time, Joe,” Gareth said, forcing a wry grin onto his face and offering Joe a ten pound note.

  “This one’s on me, mate,” Joe replied. “Just don’t smash the glass.”

  Gareth returned to his table and sat down heavily. One thing he knew was that there was no way he was going round to Laura’s place for dinner now. He reached into his pocket for his phone and tapped out a text message.

  Sorry, can’t make dinner. Change of plan.

  His thumb hovered over the screen for a few seconds before he pressed send with a sigh. Then he held the power button down to turn the phone off and sat back in the chair before deciding to go outside for a smoke.

  Gareth stood in the beer garden, puffing on his cigarette and trying to ignore the lump in his throat. He looked around, remembering what the beer garden used to look like before Big Joe had done it up. It was a lot nicer now, but didn’t have the same character that it used to have. Gareth remembered sitting in the old beer garden talking to Jennifer on the phone before they got together properly. He sat down at the same bench he’d sat on when he’d had that conversation and flicked the ash from his cigarette into the flowerpot that passed as an ashtray. The combination of the memory of talking to Jennifer and what Dave had just told him forced the lump in his throat higher, and he could feel tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. Irritated, he wiped them away with the back of his hand.