Sam's Song

by Hannah Howe

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was eight o’clock in the evening when I called on Deke Spencer. As before, I parked my Mini, adjusted my trench coat and walked towards the ornate gates of Tusker Hall. Except, on this occasion, the gates were open and the driveway was lined with cars. Expensive cars. A Ferrari, a Porsche, a Bentley, a Rolls Royce. Maybe I could sneak my Mini in alongside them, unnoticed. Maybe not. However, I did walk up the driveway, keeping to the shingle – no cowpats today, if you please – until I reached the front door.

  I skipped up the five low steps that led to the door and rang the doorbell. Echoing my earlier visit, Deke Spencer greeted me with a brilliant, white-toothed smile. He was dressed in a dinner jacket and gaudy tie today and, obviously, he was entertaining.

  “Now my evening’s complete,” he stated sincerely in his slow, mid-Atlantic drawl. A mischievous twinkle appeared in his deep blue eyes as he held out his hand, inviting me in. “Would you care to join us for dinner?” he asked. “I’m throwing a dinner party, for a few bankers, etcetera. You can be my guest of honour.”

  “Maybe we’d better talk in private. We don’t want the bankers choking on their canapés when I bring up the subject of murder.”

  Deke rubbed his chin, caressing his five o’clock shadow. With some reluctance, he nodded slowly. “Give me two minutes. You can wait in the library.”

  While Deke tended to his guests, I studied the solid wall of books. Almost immediately, I found a leather-backed copy of Ivanhoe by Sir Walter Scott. I read that book as a teenager and I wanted to be Ivanhoe, not Rebecca or Rowena. I was very confused as a teenager, not about my sexuality – despite my tomboy tendencies, I was attracted to boys, or I should say older males, maybe in a subconscious attempt to find a father-figure – but I was a confused, insular individual, lacking social confidence and belief in myself. And I guess that’s why I fell for Dan and put up with the nightmare of our marriage.

  Deke returned with his fingers adjusting the knot in his tie – the tie and dinner jacket didn’t suit him: he was definitely a jeans and casual shirt man.

  “The subject of murder...sounds heavy,” Deke frowned, while straightening his tie.

  “It is,” I agreed. “But before we get on to that, you owe me an apology.”

  His frown intensified. Puzzled, he tilted his head to his right. “An apology? What for?”

  “You said, indeed you swore on the Bible, that you were not a drug pusher.”

  “Ah!” Again, the mischievous smile and the twinkle in his clear blue eyes along with the butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth expression. “I don’t push drugs, I deal in recreational substances.”

  I folded my arms across my chest. I tapped my foot on the marble floor. I gazed up to the glass chandelier, dangling from the vaulted ceiling. Okay, Sarah Bernhardt I am not, but I think I made my point.

  “You don’t believe me?” Deke grinned.

  I continued to look at the ceiling. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “Let me explain.” Deke loosened his tie. He undid the top button on his shirt. He was getting down to business. “Let me begin by asking you a question...name the most commonly used drug in the world.”

  I thought for a moment, then replied, “Cocaine?”

  Deke shook his head. “Not even close. The answer is coffee – that drug is in just about every home in the country.”

  “But coffee isn’t addictive.”

  “True,” Deke agreed. “Coffee causes physical dependency, not addiction.” Now Deke removed his dinner jacket and draped it over the back of a chair; he was warming to his theme. “Name the three most addictive drugs on the market today.”

  “Heroin, cocaine and cannabis,” I reeled off.

  “Close. One – heroin; two – crack cocaine; three – tobacco.”

  I sighed and complained, “You’re mixing illegal drugs with legal drugs.”

  “And why, when they are often safer, are these drugs made illegal? Because governments don’t control and tax these drugs. Also, they regard them as immoral. Governments are two-faced and hypocritical. In the Victorian Age, the British Empire was the biggest drug dealer in the world. And while the Empire controlled the drugs, they were deemed acceptable. Even Queen Victoria took cannabis.”

  “Okay,” I conceded, “so the whole thing is a screwed up mix of government and private cartels and public health is a low priority, but that doesn’t justify your stance.”

  “I don’t need to justify my stance,” Deke insisted. “Governments need to justify their stance. I deal in cannabis – heroin and cocaine offer richer pickings but, believe it or not, I do have a moral code that guides me. Cannabis can ease the pain of multiple sclerosis, assist amputees and prevent seizures in epileptics. Cannabis can be of great help to society. Indeed, Henry VIII even passed a law requiring farmers to grow it! Now tell me which drugs cause the most deaths across the world.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know; you tell me.”

  “Each year tobacco kills 5 million people, while alcohol kills 1.5 million people. All the illicit drugs combined kill 200,000 people. Yet governments support the alcohol and tobacco industries because these industries have power and influence. Cocaine kills about 250 people in Britain each year, tobacco kills around 100,000. I’ve seen official statistics where drugs are rated out of 100, with 100 being the most harmful. Crack comes in third at 54, heroin second at 55 and alcohol is the runaway winner on 72. Yet, in your eyes, I’m the drug runner while the tobacco and alcohol merchants are businessmen.”

  “My eyes are glazing over; I think I need a drink.”

  Deke laughed. “You’re a funny lady. But seriously, we’ve got it all wrong. We’re guided by misplaced media-controlled morals and big business, not by the public good.”

  I raised a shoulder in acknowledgement, if not in support. It seemed the least I could do. “I can’t change the world. Indeed, some days I have enough trouble changing my tights. All I want to do is assist Derwena and Woody, and drugs are not helping our cause.”

  “Derwena and Woody take a cocktail of drugs and that’s misuse. I’ve warned them about it. I don’t supply them.”

  “Who does?”

  Deke gave me an enigmatic smile, the Mona Lisa writ large. “My lips are sealed.”

  “And what about your business,” I asked, “do the police buy your line?”

  “I run a sophisticated network, various companies, various industries, various countries. The paper trail, if they find one, is complicated. It would take years to unravel. The police don’t have the time or resources. Give them a month and if they haven’t nabbed a suspect most murders go on the back burner.”

  “Including T.P. McGill’s, you reckon?”

  Deke offered me his Mona Lisa impersonation. “You think I murdered McGill?”

  “You were seen arguing with him.”

  “True,” he acknowledged, “we had a spat.”

  “What about?”

  “Epicurus. Now while it’s true that I hold some strong views about his theory, that life is something to be enjoyed by indulging in pleasures and cultivating friendships, I don’t think those views would stretch to murder.”

  I nodded. I was inclined to believe him. At least the argument wasn’t over football, and a disagreement over philosophers did show a touch of class.

  “Any idea who did it?” I asked.

  Deke eased his dinner jacket from the back of the chair. He brushed the jacket with the back of his hand, to remove any stray hairs, then he slipped into the garment before adjusting the cuffs on his crisp white shirt. “Woody has the motive – ex-lover, jealousy...”

  “Did he do it?”

  Deke buttoned his shirt. He knotted and straightened his tie. He looked as comfortable as a man walking barefoot over hot coals, but I suppose if you want to acquire a house as grand as Tusker Hall, then you have to put up with certain indignities al
ong the way.

  “In a rage, maybe,” Deke conceded. “In cold blood, no.”

  As we walked from the library, I was inclined to cross Woody and Deke off my list of suspects. The answer to the murder lay elsewhere, and it looked as though I would have to dig up some dirt before I would find it.

  Deke escorted me to the doorstep. We gazed into the dark night sky, our eyes following a full moon as it ghosted behind the clouds.

  While still gazing at the sky, Deke thrust his hands into his pockets and advised, “Leave this to the police. Don’t get involved any further. You might despise my lifestyle and how I’ve earned my money, many people do. Even so, I like you. You’re straight; I know I could trust you. Most of the people I’ve met in my life are as bent as corkscrews and they would shaft you as soon as look at you. And believe me, the higher up the greasy pole you go, the quicker they are to shaft you – wealth breeds greed. There are some big players involved in the McGill murder and they would crush you under their boots like they’d crush a snail. These people have no remorse, no sentiment, no feelings. They’re in it to make big bucks and if you stand in their way they will pulp you.”

  I adjusted my trench coat, pulling the lapels tight to my throat. The evening had become chilly, all of a sudden, and I felt a shiver run up and down my spine.

  While gazing into Deke’s smiling blue eyes, I stated directly, “You know who murdered McGill, don’t you.”

  His face slipped into its default expression and he offered me an enigmatic smile. “I have an idea.”

  Deke turned and glanced towards his dining room, listening to the alcohol-fuelled chatter and exaggerated laughter. He grimaced. “I’d better get back to my guests. Time for port, cigars and overseas bank accounts. One man’s businessman is another man’s crook, and vice-versa.” He laughed, “One man’s drug pusher is another man’s recreational substance supplier...” Then his face and tone became serious. “Leave it to the police. Don’t get involved.”