by S. T. Boston
“Hello, Reed residence,” came a well-spoken female voice. There was the slightest hint of country to it as well, but only just.
“Hi,” Mike said, caught a little off guard, he'd really expected the answering machine and not a real human. “I’m just returning your call, I had ….”
“Mr. Cross?” the lady asked tentatively, cutting him off. Her voice had a vein of nervousness laced through it now.
“Yes – although I’m more than a little confused about where you got this number from and how you know who I am?”
“You took some finding, Mr. Cross. Eventually, I found this number on a Private Investigation forum, a customer recommended you to someone looking for a discrete service into matrimonial matters. The post was from three years ago, I really didn’t know if you still had the same number. I couldn’t find a contact link on any websites, not even your Unexplained UK Facebook page,” the lady said hurriedly. “And I didn’t really want to air my story there.”
“Yeah, I’ve been out of the PI game for just over a year,” Mike answered, wondering how long it would be before he was back to chasing debts and cheating spouses. “What kind of investigation are you after, Mrs. Reed, financial, marital?” Mike bet it would be marital, people always sounded on edge when they first spoke to him about those sorts of cases.
“Umm, no – it’s a little more specialist than that,” the lady paused. “I’m sorry I just realised that I never gave you my first name and a proper introduction, how very rude. My name is Sue, Sue Reed.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Reed,” Mike replied, “But I’ve had a hell of a day if you could just let me know how I may be able to help you.” He sounded a little curt, it wasn’t intentional, but he was still feeling riled by Rick and his stupid tie.
“Yes, of course, please accept my apologies,” Mike heard Sue clear her throat nervously.” I’ve had your number for two weeks now, the number of times I’ve had it loaded onto my phone with my finger over the dial button but never made the call. Well it looks like today is the day,” she laughed to herself and Mike could tell she was stalling. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s really no problem,” Mike reassured, making sure he didn’t come across quite so curtly as before. “Just take your time.” Mike glanced in his rear-view mirror and watched absently as an old lady in a BMW X5, that was far too big for her level of driving confidence, struggled the vehicle into a bay, taking a good ten shunts to manoeuvre the behemoth of a vehicle in straight. Having parked satisfactorily she then discovered that she couldn’t open the door wide enough to get out.
“You see, what it is – umm – It’s more your other speciality I need you for,” Sue laughed nervously again. “But I don’t want any TV cameras!” she added hastily.
“Paranormal research,” Mike added.
“Yes, God - you probably think I’m some crazy lady calling you like this. But I’m not. Three weeks ago, I had never heard of you Mr. Cross, but then I began to look online for someone who might be able to help. I found the news reports on that case you explained in Sleaford first, then I found your show.”
“Well the Sleaford case wasn’t really a haunting,” Mike cut in, not quite able to believe this was the second time the matter had been broached that day. “It was a clever hoax being run by the father of the family and a very tech-savvy fourteen-year-old son for the sole purpose of financial gain and recognition."
“That aside Mr. Cross, I have watched all of your shows thanks to our Sky on Demand service since, and your ability to find answers is what I need.”
Despite the nervous and scatty way this Sue lady was coming across Mike began warming to her more by the second, he wondered if she would mind putting those thoughts into writing, maybe on a piece of paper that could accompany a Fuck You card for Rick. “Is this about your holiday home?” he asked, cutting to the point.
There was a long pause before Sue finally answered, “How, how - could you know that?”
“I Google searched your number Mrs. Reed,”
“Sue,” she cut in, “Please call me, Sue.”
“No problem, Sue. As I said I Google searched your number and it came up with the booking line for a place called The Old Chapel. So, I’m guessing it’s either that place or your house, but if I were a betting man, which I’m not by the way, I’d say it’s your holiday let that you’re calling about.”
“Very good, Mr. Cross. It’s that kind of foresight that I need.”
“Call me Mike,” he said, returning the favour.
“Okay, Mike,” she laughed nervously again.
“What seems to be the issue?”
“I’d rather, if possible that is, speak to you in person. I’m not sure what your hourly rate is but….”
“The unwritten rule is that when working in the field of paranormal investigation there is no charge. It’s a free service.” Mike wasn’t sure who’d written that rule, it was a stupid one, in fact whoever had thought that particular gem up needed a boot planting in their arse, however, it was one rule that every team he knew of, or had spoken to stuck by. Sure, he got paid by the TV channel for the show, quite nicely, too. But private and non-filmed investigations that were for the aid of a troubled homeowner were always free of charge. “I will say though, that if a lot of time or travelling is involved then it would be appreciated if you covered expenses, assuming I take the case on that is.”
“I wouldn’t dream of having you out of pocket, Mr. Cr – Mike,” she corrected. “How soon can you come to Wiltshire? We are between Salisbury and Marlborough, a little place called Pewsey?”
Mike knew the place and was about to give a list of excuses about how he couldn’t possibly make it this week due to one lie or another, but his curiosity got the better of him and after all the only thing that awaited him at home was an empty three bed semi and a tropical fish tank in major need of a cleaning. As well as that there were two things that grabbed his attention and told him that this lady was not some attention seeking nut-job. One was her instant request for no cameras and the second was her nervousness, and it wasn’t nervousness at trying to trick or fool him, it was a nervousness about sounding foolish, the kind of nervousness that told Mike she didn’t quite believe whatever was happening herself. He geographically ran the trip home in his head, it wouldn’t be a massive detour on the way back to Arundel to go via Wiltshire, forty or fifty miles at most he guessed.
“I’m in Manchester at the moment, Sue,” Mike said, still running the trip in his head as he spoke. “I’m heading south very soon, so how does around four or five this evening sound?”
“You can really come that soon?” she sounded relieved.
“What can I say, you’ve piqued my curiosity. Can I ask one thing, though?”
“Of course, anything.”
“Do you mind if I get my researcher, Tara, to meet me at yours? I always like to have a second set of ears when being told about a case and she's not a million miles from you."
“Is that the nice, pretty young lady on your show?” Sue asked, sounding enthused. “The one you call Tig?”
“Ha,” Mike laughed. “Yeah, that’s her.” Off camera Tara’s language could be a tad more colourful, but she could reign it in when required and be professional.
“No problem at all, if you have a pen to hand, I’ll give you my address.”
Mike fished around in the glovebox, found a pen and jotted down the address for the Reed residence. Leaning forward he programmed his satnav. There was no signal in the concrete-box of a multi-story but as soon as he got outside it would send him the right way. Pulling out of the bay Mike found Tara’s number on the call list and wondered just how he would tell her the bad news about the show, there was no doubt that she’d be devastated, Scotty too. He hoped not devastated enough to ditch him on this new case, Sue Reed and her converted chapel of a holiday home had really caught his intrigue. Her reluctance to be filmed and her unwillingness to discuss the matter over the phone just added to it.
As the Jeep broke free of the car park’s shade and out into the hot July sun the call to Tara connected and began to ring.
Chapter 7
“The guy’s a total cock sucker!” Tara said, holding the phone to her shoulder as she poured boiling hot water over the coffee granules in her favourite mug, the one that donned the caption Drama Queen in bright, bold pink lettering, the D sporting a cartoon crown. She could hear Mike was on the road and driving. In general, his Jeep's hands-free system was good, but for some reason, it had the annoying ability to cut out occasionally, and usually at a pivotal part of the conversation, and as such she'd had to have certain details repeated a few times.
“So, you’re not mad that I wouldn’t give in to their ideas of spicing the show up a bit by stretching the truth?” Mike asked as a car horn sounded in the background Tara didn’t know if it were intended for him or not.
“No!” She replied firmly, and it was the truth. She felt gutted, sure, mixed with a few grams of disappointment and a fair scoop of anger, but none of it was directed at Mike. Hell, without him she’d have never had a shot at being on TV and would likely have spent the rest of her days sitting on her bum scanning food at Tesco for blue-rinse toting pensioners. The kind who wanted to talk to her all day about mundane subjects like how their cat was on medication for constipation, or how we needed some rain or there’d be a hosepipe ban before long.
Still cradling the phone, she picked up the milk carton that was already out of the fridge and sat on the side, and likely a few hours the right side of going sour in this warm weather. Tara unscrewed the green plastic cap and gave it a tentative sniff, it seemed fine, so she dumped a spill of it into her steaming drink.
“I know how you feel about that kind of thing,” she added as she stirred her coffee. “That’s not what the show or team is, was - or ever will be about. Have you called Scotty?”
“Not yet,” she heard him reply through a stress relieving breath. “He’ll be gutted. I’ll bring him up to speed after this call.”
"Well, it's not like I'm over the moon. I mean, fuck, I'm technically unemployed now. There is no way I'm going back to Tesco working the check-out and making polite conversation with lonely old people who seem to think that I'm there for some kind of social.” Tara reached out and shook a cigarette loose from the half-smoked pack of Bensons and lit it.
“I thought you’d quit,” Mike said instantly.
“I have, well I did,” Tara replied quickly, feeling like she’d just been busted. She crushed it out, picked up the pack and thought about tossing it in the bin, then thought better of it and put it back on the counter by the warming milk. “It’s just, well – that shithead Jason called me last night.”
“He’s out already!!”
“Looks like it,” Tara said before taking a testing sip of her drink.
“They give him five years for beating the shit out of you and practically leaving you for dead and he’s out in just under three. Now I know why I quit working in law enforcement. What did he want?”
“To see me.”
“You’re not seriously –“
“Fuck no, no way!” Tara cut in. “I told him if he called me again, I’d be making one call, to the cops.”
“Good.” Mike sounded relieved.
Tara guessed that once you'd lived in the world of law enforcement you always carried it with you. Mike had been away from that life for about seven years now, but it was still deeply ingrained in him. He was the type of guy she should have gone for, but never seemed able to fall for, but now wanted.
Her first serious boyfriend, Rich, who’d she’d foolishly moved in with at twenty had a liking for being violent toward her, too. Not on the level that Jason had, or with the sadistic enjoyment he seemed to glean from it, either. But enough for her to eventually pack up and leave after three years of his jealous rages and overly controlling behaviour. Rich’s violent nature stemmed more from his infatuating love for her and his inability to rein in her free spirit. It came down to the fact that he’d never been able to grasp that at as a girl in her early twenties she hadn’t wanted to spend every night with him, she wanted to go out and meet friends, go to the clubs that just a few years before had been off limits, unless you had a particularly good fake ID or an older sister who happened to look a lot like you. Neither of which Tara had the benefit of. By twenty-three and having been treated to a black eye for wanting to go on a girls’ holiday to Spain, she packed up and left. Little did she know that Rich had just been a practise arsehole for the main event.
Jason Paxman came along when she’d been a few months the wrong side of her thirtieth and starting to feel like life, from that point on, would be a downhill ride to old age. He seemed different, nice even. He had his own business and worked hard, unlike Rich whose whole attitude seemed to be that the world owed him something and being hell-bent on doing as little as possible for maximum reward. He also had his own place that was mortgage free, a nice car and visited the gym religiously three times a week. Mixed with his charm, dark hair and tanned skin he seemed like the perfect guy, what her mother would call a real catch, a keeper, and she’d often said to her, after they’d popped in for a brew, or the occasional Sunday roast, “You’ve done okay there, honey”. Always followed by a knowing wink or gentle nudge with her elbow.
Regretfully, hiding behind that perfect guy façade was a very different monster, it took a while to surface, in fact, the first year with him had been one of Tara's happiest, but then she'd agreed to move in, and things had changed. Once living with him twenty-four seven Tara saw a different side to Jason, a side where he would burst into uncontrollable fits of rage at the slightest thing, like if he dropped or spilled something. It was always small petty stuff that stoked his fire. At first doors, walls, or much to her dismay his Springer Spaniel, Max, would bear the brunt of his anger, an anger that he almost seemed to enjoy being consumed by and gave in to at every opportunity. Unfortunately, he soon realised he had another thing he could direct his fury at, her. The first few times Jason hit her hadn’t been too bad, and Tara managed to hide the marks by wearing long sleeves or applying a little more concealer. She'd fooled herself that he was a nice guy really and that usually, his rages were all her fault. But the night that had ended it all, and seen him locked up had been bad, worse than anything Rich had done, or anything she could imagine Jason being capable of.
Jason had been at work all day, he ran his own little letting agency and done quite nicely out of it, too. Maybe it was the pressures of his job that made him the way he was, maybe he was just a sadistic shit, she never really figured it out. There was a good chance it was a bit of both.
On getting home from a day at the office things had been fine, Tara cooked him dinner, as she always did if she wasn't on the late shift at Tesco. She'd even prepared his favourite dish, Spaghetti Bolognese with three slices of warm garlic bread, he always had three slices of garlic bread with it, never more, never less. It had been one of Tara's favourites too, but now just the smell of Bolognese sauce turned her stomach. Jason had been sat in his favourite chair catching up on the BBC News at six, whilst sipping at the first of his four nightly bottles of Corona with a quarter of lime rammed into the neck, (his daily routine). Jason was always big on routine. Looking back on it now she knew that part of it had been no more than mild alcoholism, and his daily drinking, although on the face of it not overly heavy, had likely contributed to the way he was.
That fateful evening she had been in the process of carrying his food through when Max the Spaniel darted between her legs, causing her to send the dish of food crashing to the floor and spilling all over the real wool rug that covered half the white oak laminate in the lounge. Unfortunately, the rug was cream and the spaghetti bolognese really did a job on it. In fact, after the beating that followed, and whilst she'd been laid half-conscious on the hard floor, she'd spent a fair bit of time staring at the spilled dinner through her two swelling eyes as it soaked int
o the rug. Her battered and fuzzy brain had mused that without the meat and spaghetti the red itself didn't actually look too bad, and gave it somewhat of an abstract art look, it almost brightened up the white and sterile looking lounge.
Having beaten her to the brink of unconsciousness, Jason left to take the rest of his frustrations out at the gym. That’s where the police had found and arrested him, having been notified of the assault by the ambulance that she’d managed to call having regained consciousness and found the phone he’d left by her side so she could call for medical assistance. Jason was thoughtful like that! However, in his thoughtfulness, he’d never counted on her ratting him out for it. But by then she’d have enough and being beat half to death was apt to open previously closed eyes to the truth of the matter. Jason was bad, toxic even and she needed to be free of him.
Tara spent the next two days in hospital being treated for a concussion and having x-rays carried out on various parts of her body. Jason’s handywork on this occasion had left her with bad bruising and swelling as well as a few lacerations and a hairline fracture to her right eye socket. The officer who'd run the investigation had told her that it was still one of the worst beatings he'd seen from a domestic violence case and with her statement detailing a history of abuse at his hands, and photographs of her laid in hospital with two eyes almost swollen shut they’d secured a half decent sentence.
Once out of hospital Tara found that no amount of clothing, short of dressing like a Mummy, could hide the marks this time. The bruising from her two black eyes crept past the reaches that even the biggest of sunglass lenses could hide, so she'd squirrelled herself away like a hermit for three weeks, that had felt more like three years, until the marks faded to a level that she felt comfortable with and could hide under makeup. Those bruises went far faster than what it had done to her mentally, that puppy was with her for the long haul. Some nights she’d recount the beating in her head, and the thought that had played through her steadily fogging mind as the punches had rained down, Oh god, this time he might actually kill me!