by Matthew Ross
The messages in her final week alarmed me, ‘You have to tell her about us, if you don’t I will’ and the final message, from Rob Beach read ‘Wait. Do not talk to my wife! It should be me. Don’t do anything! Do not say anything to anyone. I will contact you.’ It shocked me that the last message was sent the night before she was killed.
‘What do you think?’ asked Perry, ‘Could it be him? What do you know about him?’
I thought for a moment before replying, ‘All I know about him is he’s a lowlife scumbag. I’m sure he and Sally were having a relationship. But that’s all I’m sure about. You’ve seen the text messages, they’re hard to interpret. Was he offering to do the decent thing and stand by her, or was he fobbing her off? I can’t tell, can you?’
She shook her head slowly, she understood my predicament: would I be handing Beach over to Hamlet unfairly and for no other reason than to save my own neck? She looked thoughtful and turned away from me, busying herself by filling a cup from the tap then using it to water a plant on the window sill. When she turned back, she seemed certain she’d found a solution.
‘There’s only one thing for it, you’ll have to go to the police.’
‘No, that would only make matters a whole heap worse. First, I’d have to explain where the phone came from, why I have it and why I hadn’t given it in before. Then Hamlet would find out that anything the police do next is because of what’s on the phone and he knows it’s me that’s got the phone, so I’d be a grass in his eyes and I really don’t want that thanks. No, all that going to the police would serve is getting me even further into trouble.’
Perry nodded as though she’d expected me to say that all along.
‘Okay then, let’s come about this from a different direction,’ said Perry. ‘Tell me about Sally, what do you know about her?’ But there wasn’t really a lot to tell. I didn’t know her very well, we were kind of related in a distant disjointed way, but never close, partly because of the age difference but also the very rarely seen Auntie Val was the missing link between the families. Sally was a nice kid, a loving mother, that was about all I could say.
‘Do you think she had strategic importance?’ asked Perry, to my confused face. ‘I mean, she was close to Hamlet, practically his daughter-in-law, you said yourself there was history between him and Beach, could he have got with her as a cruel trick on Hamlet?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said, the photos suggested one thing, the text messages suggested another. ‘Do you want to hear how Hamlet sorted out Beach? Beach had started turning up in Hamlet’s bars pushing his gear, which was a big no-no, it was like setting up a barbecue in McDonalds. Hamlet noticed and wasn’t happy. So, one night he gets the DJ to cue up that silly Christmas song, I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day, by Roy Wood and Wizzard. Remember that bit at the end? When it fades out, with only the children’s voices? Hamlet got the DJ to play that bit, just as they turned a spotlight on Beach at the same time. Oh, you should have seen it, it was like one of those old films where the dopey prison breaker freezes in a beam of light, that was Rob Beach, and then comes a child’s voice repeating ‘…when the Snowman brings the snow, the Snowman brings the snow…’ over and over again. And as it so happens, in a proper Hamlet coincidence, there only happened to be a couple of plainclothes officers from the Drugs Squad in that night, off duty having a beer, who knew? They were very interested in Mr Beach and took him in for possession with intent to supply. That was probably the last time I saw him. Until I bumped into him at Queen Mary’s a few days ago.’
‘Yes, Queen Mary’s,’ said Perry, she was excited about this. ‘Let’s think about that. There’s Rob Beach: serial shagger, small-time dealer, fancies himself as a boutique supplier – is that the right word?’
‘Boutique? Yep, that’s what I was told.’
‘Then, there’s Charlie Quentin. Party animal. You suspect Beach was supplying Charlie Quentin with the drugs for his parties, am I right?’
‘You are correct.’
‘Charlie Quentin was desperate for cash to keep partying, and would effectively buy dirty cash from Tommy for a clean cheque?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And Tommy had a lot of cash to shift. So if we’ve got this right, the relationship went Tommy to Charlie, Charlie to Beach and back again?’ Perry said. I couldn’t see where she was going with this, however the flash of brilliance behind her eyes suggested she knew exactly where.
‘Think about what he says in his text messages to her,’ said Perry. ‘He talks about money, says he’s expecting a large windfall any day soon. Where’s that coming from?’ I shrugged my shoulders, I didn’t have the faintest clue. To be honest I hadn’t given it a lot of thought, I’d assumed it was a delaying tactic to keep Sally from getting too serious or demanding. I’d never even considered there could be any substance behind it.
‘Oh, you’re useless, think!’ said Perry, getting quite animated and excited, but any inspiration I’d had dropped faster than Gillingham’s goal difference after Christmas. ‘Let’s assume it means what it says, he’s hoping to come into some money.’
‘Okay, let’s do that.’ I was getting the hump being the dumb sidekick and hoped it would be over quicker if I played along.
‘Fact one,’ said Perry holding up a thumb Fonz style, ‘Beach supplies Charlie with dope. Fact two,’ now extending her forefinger and thumb gun shape, ‘Charlie buys it with cash acquired from Tommy. Fact three, this all happened at the old people’s home. And fact four, Disco told you Tommy hadn’t been discreet about his cash and people were noticing. Don’t you see what that all adds up to?’
‘No.’
‘Seriously? Are you winding me up?’
‘No.’
‘Oh my God. Really? Charlie was getting his cash from Tommy, who had a ready supply of it. What if – and this is a big if – Rob Beach said in his text he was expecting a windfall of cash because he’d decided to cut out the middle man and go straight to Tommy?’
‘But Tommy didn’t do drugs.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake! Think! What if he went straight to Tommy because he wanted Tommy’s money? What if he killed Tommy?’
Ah, now I understood. Could it be true?
‘But what if…’ I began, ‘…he was merely stringing Sally along, using her for easy jollies while the wife’s at work? From what I’ve heard from Karen he’s a good dad to that boy, but I’ve seen enough mates get tortured by ex-wives and girlfriends using their kids against them, Hamlet being a case in point. What if he didn’t want her telling his wife because he feared losing the boy? What if he thought it came down to a straight choice between Sally or the boy, and Sally came second? What if he killed Sally?’
A moment of silence and reflection hung between us, broken by a noisy mewl from Mr Skinner announcing himself entering the room. Perry picked him up and rubbed her nose on the fur between his ears and he purred loudly.
‘So,’ I said. ‘What if your what if and my what if were both correct?’
‘Then in that case,’ she replied. ‘We’re looking at a double murderer.’
I don’t know if you’ve ever had a similar conversation, but there really isn’t anywhere you can go after that, so we just looked at the cat. The cat looked at us then jumped off Perry’s lap and disappeared upstairs, so we looked at the stairs.
‘Yeah, so like I say, I can get you a brand-new kitchen,’ I said, trying to break free from the conversational quicksand. ‘Never been used, still in the wrapping some of it, gloss white, very modern and smart.’
‘How much?’
‘Nothing. Not a bean. For me anyway but you might want to give Disco a drink for his time. Be warned, he drinks a lot.’
‘Okay,’ she laughed, and I felt the tension had been released from the room. She must have felt it too as she followed up with: ‘We really have to tell the police now.’
‘We can’t. For a start it’s all ifs and maybes, we don’t have any evidence.’
; ‘We’ve got more than the police currently have got against you. Don’t you want to clear your name?’
‘Of course I do,’ I said, although I was more concerned about my standing with Hamlet than the police. ‘Let me think about it over night, okay?’
She nodded, saying it sounded like a good idea, but for me there was nothing to think about, I simply wanted her to stop going on about it.
47
Hey. I need someone to talk to about this, someone who can listen and won’t judge. I thought about talking maybe to Disco, but you know Disco when it comes to the gossip grapevine – he’s Marvin Gaye, he’s all over it. And I’m not talking to Uncle Bern – knowing him, he’d probably try charging me to listen, and knowing me, I’d probably end up paying.
And I’m certainly not talking to Hamlet, not yet anyway, not until I’m clear in my own mind what’s going on. Tell him too early and it’d be carnage – there won’t just be blood on the walls, it’ll be dripping off the ceiling.
And Perry? I’d thought about it, but it’d mean sharing too much, more than I’m ready to right now, I think I’ve told her enough for now and things are good, I’d like to keep it that way.
So, it’s you, Dad, just like it’s always been you, Dad. I can’t think of anyone I trust more. I miss you and wish you were here. I still talk to you every day. Although you already know that, don’t you?
Sorry, I should have gone to see you and Mum when I was at Bluebell Hill Crem earlier, I simply didn’t get the chance, it was all a bit odd. But the Garden of Remembrance’s looking nice, the rose buds are beginning to appear, it’ll be very pretty when they’re fully in bloom.
Adam’s back. But I don’t know where he’s been, or where he is, or why he went away. Have you got any idea? Did you ever hear from him? Any visits? I’ve been wondering whether he kept in touch with anyone, whether they let him know about you? Or it’s something I’ll need to do if and when I ever find him.
Anyway, I’m in a mess Dad, and I’m struggling to find a way out. You used to say there’s always a price to pay for getting rich quick, didn’t you, and you were right of course. I’ve been trying to make sense of it. I borrowed a load of money from Hamlet thinking it was safe and he’d claim it back from Chapman, but I thought wrong. I borrowed money from Tommy as a quick fix to avoid getting my head kicked in. I’ve been thrown a lifeline of sorts from the Wilkes’ because that’ll cover all my trade debts, but as far as I can see I still need Hamlet’s money – I need to pay back Tommy. Part of me says Jen wasn’t even aware of it and what you don’t know you don’t miss: but I know. That’s what’s important. I know. And there’s his little girl having to grow up without her dad, he’d have wanted her looked after, a good education, the deposit on a house, this money was meant for her future. I can’t steal from her.
Tommy’s money and Hamlet’s money combined, that’s just over three hundred and fifty thousand. I’ve got the Wilkes money coming, but even if I can squeeze a bit extra out of that, I’m still short of over two hundred grand. No matter what way I look at it, I can’t do it. Chapman can’t write me a cheque from beyond the grave, if you see him up there on a cloud somewhere give him a bloody hard kick up the arse from me, the twat.
The only way out I can see is give Rob Beach to Hamlet and hope he sticks to his promise to release me from his debt. Now, the Rob Beach I knew was an absolute arsehole, but even still it doesn’t feel right offering him up like a blood sacrifice, he’s got a little boy for God’s sake.
I’ve still not learned to play that bloody banjo yet, Dad, but it did get a bit of a workout the other night, someone saying they were bit of a fan of yours back in the day. He was pretty good too. I didn’t tell him though, least I have to do with him the better.
I’ve been trying to remember as much as I can about Rob Beach, but there’s not a lot. He was just someone that was always there, everywhere we went. He was a small fry dealer, a good-looking lad, slept around a lot. That’s about all I can remember, which is why I can’t for the life of me work out why Sally was so totally smitten by him, but someone for everyone I suppose. Although there was certainly bad blood between Rob Beach and Hamlet. Surely he couldn’t have strung her along as a cruel prank to get back at Hamlet could he?
I have to decide whether I throw him to the lions or not. I thought at first it simply came down to a matter of him or me, but now I don’t think that’s true. That little boy keeps coming back to haunt me.
I miss you Dad, more than I can ever put in words. I see you in my dreams most nights and it hurts to wake up. Something happens during the day and I’ll think, ‘Must tell Dad about that tonight,’ and when I realise I can’t the pain hits me again.
So, who am I to put another son in that position?
But then what kind of man steals a little girl’s future?
That’s my choice Dad: I ruin the boy’s life or I ruin the girl’s.
What would you do Dad?
48
‘They’ve cleaned it up well, you can still smell the disinfectant, it’s faint but it’s there. Look, if you get down close you can still see a bit, come on, crouch down.’
I had absolutely no intention of crouching down in the hunt for brain matter and told Disco so in no uncertain terms. He was beginning to get on my wick. I’d asked him here to help me strip out and refit the Wilkes kitchen but you’d think he was a Jack the Ripper tourist. I’d already told him twice to put his phone camera away. However, despite my growing annoyance with Disco it was nice to be back on the tools, back in my comfort zone, getting on with routine, taking my mind away from my dilemma and my suspicions.
‘Look, can you dismantle everything, and put all the units in the garage, Uncle Bern’s coming this afternoon to take them away.’
‘And the worktops?’
‘Leave them, be careful, we’re reusing them,’ I said. Mr Wilkes had been true to his word and paid me, the money was in the bank and the relief was out of this world when I phoned all my creditors, people I’d known for years, and told them I could pay them at last – apart from Cookie. I figured if I was to be Hamlet’s bitch I could at least benefit from his protection, so Cookie could go swivel for now, especially after what he’d done to Sally’s flat and then to Karen.
Although, just because Mr Wilkes had paid me didn’t mean I’d changed my opinion of him, he was still a nobhead, but I did feel obliged to play fair too. Well, within reason at least. I said we could reuse the bespoke granite worktops and the appliances that were still boxed and wrapped in the garage and that’d save him a large chunk of money. I could have saved him even more by only changing the doors and drawer fronts to the units, but I’d quoted for new carcasses and he accepted it which was handy because I’d promised the outgoing ones to Perry.
The Wilkes lived in a nice large detached house in a smart area; warm honey-coloured bricks, dark brown joinery, fake Tudor beams and a stand-alone double garage adjacent to the property. It was the sort of place I always fancied for myself one day back when I used to have ambitions for a wife, two children and a Labrador. A nicely done orangery extension doubled the size of the kitchen, creating a lovely bright family area that was larger than the entire footprint of my house. There were enough units coming out of here to refit both mine and Perry’s small galley kitchens, and I felt I deserved a little perk after the week I’d had to be honest.
We were taking them whole, no need to collapse down to flat pack, and would work out how to arrange them in the best fit when we got them back home. Disco was making light work of unfixing them using a pump-action ratchet screwdriver. You don’t see them very often these days, most of the younger guys probably wouldn’t even know how to use one having been brought up on power tools and battery drills. It’s an elegant tool from a bygone age, a polished wooden bulb of a handle and chrome retractable shaft that, with a click extends, to its full three feet in length, and with one long smooth movement Disco had the screw out.
Mrs Wilkes didn’t want
to be reminded of Tommy. ‘Get something different, don’t care what’ that’s what she said. So, she’s getting a Shaker style in a pale wood veneer with stainless steel bar handles; she should like it. Mr Wilkes did, because it was in the same price range as the previous white units.
With my account reactivated the Magnificent Maria was more than welcoming to me when I went in to place the order but I’d heard from Disco that her panel beater had been playing away with some strumpet at work, so I wondered if Maria was after some rebound, revenge romps. Not that I’d have been interested, as I’m with Perry now – like I say, the timing has never been right for me and Maria, it’s just not to be. Anyway, ordering was easy enough, despite the distractions. I used the previous order as a shopping list for what was required. The granite counters would lay on top with no adjustment, and the appliances could just simply be popped into the openings and wired into the spurs already there, easy peasy lemony squeezy.
I’d welcomed the flurry of activity, the sorting out the payments, the placing the orders, arranging the labour; it took my mind away from my conversation with Perry, away from Rob Beach.
Whilst Disco swept up the kitchen area, I took the last unit to the garage ready for collection by Uncle Bern, who’d promised me he could get hold of a van big enough to shift everything in one trip. The one good thing Uncle Bern can do is scrounge, he has the brass balls to put people firmly on the spot to ask them for extreme favours and, I suspect, to get rid of him, they agree.
I found all my impounded tools in the garage, apart from the club hammer which I expect was still in Senia’s trophy cabinet. From the smudges of fine black dust all over my hands I realised the police had fingerprinted them all. I plucked a towel hanging off Mr Wilkes’ golf clubs and wiped my hands clean, then set about wiping my tools clean of the black muck with Mr Wilkes’ golf towel.