Sam's Song

by Hannah Howe

  Chapter Seventeen

  I drove to my office. In my office, I made myself a cup of coffee – instant, decaf, black – fed Marlowe and sat behind my desk, ready to look for clues.

  I opened the McGill file and removed the first sheet of paper, an A4 photocopy of various numbers and squiggles. I took out my pen and notebook and started to make notes. At one point, Marlowe decided to play detective and he walked all over my notes, so I opened the office window and encouraged him to jump out. He gave me a look of repulsion, as if to say, “pull the other one, lady, it’s pouring down, there’s no way I’m going out there”. What can you do? I closed the window and Marlowe returned to my desk. Thankfully, he curled into a purring ball and I returned to my clues.

  Half an hour later, and while sipping my second cup of coffee and scratching my head, I came up with a solution. The numbers and squiggles related to a card game, possibly blackjack, and McGill was trying to fashion a system to win when gambling at the game. Well done, Sam; you merit another cup of coffee. But no more – after four, you tend to get the shakes.

  The second piece of paper was also A4. This contained a cipher, a code for writing and sending secret messages. I have a mind for such things and, in truth, I found the code simple and easy to break. But did it hold any significance to McGill’s murder? Again, I scratched my head; I wasn’t sure.

  I was working on the third piece of paper when the outline of a male figure appeared behind the frosted glass of my office door. I looked up and frowned. A client? But my work schedule was already full. Nevertheless, think of the money...maybe this was my lucky day. Then Dan entered holding a bunch of flowers. He grinned. I dropped my pen on to my notepad and groaned.

  “For you.” Dan walked into my office, closing the door with the sole of his shoe. He thrust the flowers, carnations, towards me, placing them under my nose. Okay, the carnations smelt sweet, but I could have done without the interruption; I could have done without Dan.

  “These won’t get you anywhere.” I took the flowers, stood and went in search of a receptacle.

  Dan scowled, “Can’t I buy you gifts now?”

  “You never did in the past.”

  “Well I have now. I’m a different man, I keep telling you that.”

  I walked over to my office sink. Under the sink, I found a chipped vase, which saw occasional use when I was in a flowery mood. I thumped the tap and managed to coax some water out of the groaning pipework. I placed the water in the vase and arranged the flowers. Then I positioned the carnations on a filing cabinet; they were not going on my desk; they were not going to invade my personal space.

  Dan walked over to me as I stood beside the filing cabinet, admiring the flowers. “Have you asked Derwena about my article?” he enquired.

  I shook my head, “I haven’t had a chance.”

  He grabbed hold of my left arm, above my elbow. “You promised me, Sam.”

  I tensed. Possibly, I was trembling, but I managed to give him a very dark, forceful look. “You’re hurting me; let go of my arm.”

  He released his grip immediately and held up his hands in apology. “I’m sorry. But you promised me; you said you’d talk with Derwena.”

  “Woody’s a murder suspect, Derwena is climbing the walls – I’ll ask her when I get a chance.” I rubbed my arm and returned to my desk. Marlowe had retreated into a corner where he was licking his paws. He eyed Dan with suspicion and I sensed that he was preparing to jump, to dive out of my office window.

  “You do it, you ask Derwena,” Dan persisted. He placed his hands on my desk. Then he arched his body, leaning forward. “You do it because you owe me, lots.”

  “I don’t owe you anything.”

  “You owe me four years of my life.”

  I looked up from my desk and McGill’s papers. I frowned, tilting my head to my left. “I owe you?”

  “Four years with you was like spending four years in a monastery. Is it any wonder I had affairs.”

  I looked down to McGill’s papers. I allowed my hair to fall across my face. I was shaking inside. “I was not a good wife,” I mumbled. “In fact, I was a lousy wife, and in retrospect, I don’t blame you for the affairs.” I took a deep breath. I looked up, sweeping my hair from my eyes. My face was red and my skin burned, partly out of embarrassment, partly out of indignation. I was not superwoman, but I had gained some strength over the past five years. Even though I was still shaking inside, I was going to say my piece. I was not going to just sit there, or hide. “I don’t blame you for the affairs, but the rest I cannot forget or forgive. You hurt me, not just with broken bones but also with scars that no one can see, scars that pain me every day. I owe you nothing, and nothing is what you’ll get from me. Now leave this office and leave me alone.”

  “I’m sorry, Sam.” Dan squatted beside my chair. His tone was soft, contrite. “I was out of order. I know you’re still hurting, but I’m hurting too. When you love someone as much as I love you, it hurts.” He reached across to place his hand against my cheek, but when he saw the look of revulsion on my face, he had second thoughts and withdrew. “I want to make it up to you, Sam, bit by bit. Come on, let’s put the past behind us. At least, let’s be friends.”

  Marlowe jumped on to my desk. I ran my hand along his spine and he purred. Then he jumped on to my windowsill and I walked over to the window, to let him out. When I returned to my desk, I noticed that Dan was studying McGill’s papers.

  “What you got there?” he asked quizzically.

  “Paperwork belonging to T.P. McGill.”

  “Where did you get that?”

  “I have my sources.”

  He grinned, his dark eyes dancing, alive, mischievous, malevolent. “My, my, we are the little sleuthette, aren’t we?”

  “Don’t mock me!” I slammed the palm of my hand down, hard, on my desk. My palm hurt, but the pain was worth it. “This is my job, and I’m good at it. So don’t mock me.”

  “Don’t be so touchy, Sam, I was only joking.” Dan shook his head. He gave me a sad look, as though he were viewing someone with a feeble mind. “You’re too sensitive, that’s your trouble.” He peered over my shoulder, at T.P. McGill’s papers. “Can I have a look?” I sat back and moved my chair to the right, away from my desk, out of his reach. “Initials?” he speculated as he studied the detail on the papers.

  Despite myself, I was drawn into the debate. “I was thinking that.”

  “Relating to whom?”

  “T.P.’s friends, colleagues?”

  “Or targets for his poisoned pen?” Dan switched on my desk lamp and held the paper under the light. He furrowed his brow and narrowed his eyes. “Why the arrows linking all the initials to M.H.?”

  “M.H. is the person in charge, the leader of something?”

  “Or M.H. is a location.” He grinned and raised his fist – a gesture of triumph. “Mansetree House. Look...” He took my notepad and pen and made a list of names from the initials on McGill’s paper. “All these people are recent guests at Mansetree House.”

  “It’s a bit farfetched, isn’t it? The initials could relate to anything.”

  “They could,” he admitted, “but I remember there was talk amongst my journalistic colleagues that T.P. McGill was working on a story centred on Mansetree House, a big exposé. In fact, it was so big his editor wouldn’t touch it. Everyone assumed that he’d dropped the story, but maybe he was going solo?”

  It was an interesting theory, I had to admit, a theory worth checking out. “Maybe I’ll go there,” I suggested, “and nose around.”

  Dan sat on the edge of my desk. There was a self-satisfied look on his face, a smugness that repelled me. “If you come up with anything, remember who cleared the fog and be sure to give the story to me.”

  I glanced down to McGill’s papers before squaring them off and placing them in Sweets’ folder. I was grateful for the lead, but I felt t
hat I’d spent enough time in Dan’s company; I was eager for him to leave.

  However, he stayed, perched on my desk, his charming smile getting wider by the second. “I’ve got something else for my princess, another present.” He pushed aside the flap on his raincoat and searched inside his trouser pocket. Then he removed a palm-sized jewel box. From the box, he extracted a string of pearls. Pearls didn’t suit me. But, as with everything about me, he never bothered to learn that. “Let me put them around your neck.”

  I tensed every muscle in my body. I shook my head. “No, don’t.”

  “Come on, Sam,” Dan cajoled, “loosen up. These cost me a week’s wages.”

  I swallowed hard as his fingers touched my neck. My fingers were holding my pen, threatening to break it in half. His touch equated to pain. His hands meant suffering. I closed my eyes, but not before a tear trickled down my cheek.

  “Why don’t you get this damned hair cut? Sit still, for Christ’s sake! Let me fasten the clasp.” Dan took a step back, and I could breathe again. “There, you look beautiful. Maybe a kiss for your prince?”

  I panicked. I jumped up and tore the necklace from my neck. The pearls went bouncing across my bare floorboards.

  Anxiously, I looked across to Dan. He was clenching and unclenching his fists. He was breathing hard – short, savage breaths, his nostrils flaring. He walked towards me and I closed my eyes. I turned my head, an involuntary action in anticipation of the expected blow.

  “They cost me a lot of money,” Dan ground out through clenched teeth. “A week’s wages!”

  “I’m sorry,” I blurted, still with my eyes closed, my head turned, as though already struck by a fearsome blow.

  “And so you should be. You’ll make it up to me, right?”

  I opened my eyes. I nodded. He was standing by the door. He had taken a step away from me. His hands were still clenched, but his breathing was under control.

  “I’ll make it up to you, Dan, I promise.”

  “I’m annoyed.” The frown, the anger on his face, the irate look in his eyes, displayed that fact plainly. “But I love you, so I’ll forgive you.” He glanced at his wristwatch, then buttoned his raincoat. “I’ve got to meet someone in five minutes. I’ll meet you at your place tomorrow. I’ll take you to dinner.”

  “I’d like that,” I lied. Anything to get rid of him.

  “That’s my girl.” He grinned, all charming and erudite. “I love you, Sam.” He blew me a kiss before closing my office door. “Until tomorrow.”