Mr Invisible

by Duncan Brockwell

  “Yeah, put him down, Shane. This isn’t right,” Nathan whispered. “What’s he done?”

  “Go on back to serving drinks, all right? I’ll handle this. Or do you want me to tell the lads to avoid this place in the future? Up to you.” The last thing The Starfish’s owner wanted was for him to boycott the pub; his team not only spent a lot of money here, they brought in customers, too. The Starfish received a great deal of publicity with the Sydney Swans drinking and eating there.

  “You’re making a mistake, Shane, but you go ahead.” Nathan had his palms displayed in a placating manner. “I’m sorry, I tried,” he said to Single Guy.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, buddy.”

  When Shane heard the guy’s accent, he gripped the shirt even tighter. Single Guy was a pommie. “Oh, is that right?” He pulled Single Guy out from behind the table and pushed him towards the beach. “You can tell it to my boot in a sec.” He had no hesitation in believing this pom was Elf Man. He pushed the scared bloke every time he slowed his pace, hearing Georgina behind him moaning to Amelia and Isla. Oliver and Kereama were by his side, ready. “Let’s do this!”

  Walking along the sandy beach, Shane forced Elf Man to stop when he couldn’t hear voices coming from Lush, The Starfish or The Bucket List anymore. “Here’ll do, mate.” He grabbed him and spun him around. “Give me your phone,” he said to Single Guy, digging into his shorts and pulling out his mobile. He handed it to Georgina. “Take a look through this. I’d like you all to meet Elf Man.”

  “Who? Huh? What?” Single Guy stuttered. “Elf Man?”

  “Nice try.” Shane clenched his fist and landed the first blow to his cheek. It hurt his wrist, but it was worth it, to see the little bastard dazed on the sand. With Elf Man on his back, he went in and kicked him in the ribs, then stamped on his knee, the rage flowing out of him. “Won’t be coming back here again, will you, huh?”

  “This won’t be good for your health,” Kereama added, kicking Single Guy in the other side of his ribcage, taking it in turns with Shane.

  Oliver kicked him in the balls, as the pom yelped.

  “Pick him up,” Shane said, breathless. He wanted to laugh in Elf Man’s bloody face. “You come near my lady again, I’ll kill you, do you understand?” He growled, then lurched forwards and punched the guy in his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. He was about to finish him off with a fist to the face, when he heard, “Stop! This isn’t Elf Man. Here, look for yourself.”

  Grabbing the phone from Georgina, Shane stared at the screen. Elf Man was groaning, held up by Oliver and Kereama, his head down. It had to be him. What were the odds of them finding a single guy at The Starfish, who happened to be a pom? And he’d acted shifty. It had to be him. “Oli, grab his wallet.” Going to the guy’s Chatter account on the app, the name: Iain French. Not Elf Man. “What’s his driver’s licence say?”

  “Iain French.” Oliver shook his head. “He lives in Richmond, UK.”

  “Shit!” Anger welled up in Shane’s gut. He drew his arm back and threw the bloke’s phone as far as he could in frustration. Rubbing his hair, he pondered his predicament. He had just beaten up the wrong bloke. He stepped up to the almost-unconscious man. “Hey! I’m so sorry!” The guy’s head hung; he was barely conscious. “Right, we need to get him to the hospital. George, call him an ambo, would you?”

  “What the fuck, Shane? We’ve just beaten the shit out of this guy,” Kereama complained. “He’s going to call the cops on us now, for sure. Plus, there are about two dozen people back at The Starfish who watched us drag him away.”

  “Don’t you think I know that!” he yelled at Kereama, who held the pom upright.

  Georgina and the girls went to his victim’s aid, gently placing him on the sand.

  While they were tending to him, Shane had to think. The only way out of this was to pay the guy off, to give him enough money to not press charges.

  He walked towards the ocean, listening to the waves lapping over one another. It was a stunning evening, with not a cloud in the sky. He found the guy’s phone and picked it up. The sand cushioned the blow. “What’ve I done?” Shane asked himself. Then, he turned and headed back.

  With the others, Shane crouched and studied the bloke’s bloody face. “I’ll make this up to you, I promise.” He laid the mobile on his chest. “This is all a big misunderstanding. I’ll pay you whatever you feel’s appropriate.” It was falling on deaf ears, the guy almost unconscious. “He’s done. Is an ambo on its way?” Shane asked his girlfriend.

  “It’ll be here in a few minutes.” Georgina glanced at the poor man.

  “We’d best bolt.” Oliver gestured leaving.

  “There’s no point. We’re done. Too many people saw us. No, the only way out of this is to pay him off. We can’t leave him here like this.” An ambulance wailed in the distance. “And you told them where to find us?”

  “On the beach, down from The Bucket List, yeah.” Georgina wiped the guy’s face with a bandanna she had in her bag. “We’re in the shit, Shane.”

  “No! Really?” It was the most obvious statement ever. Shane’s mobile rung in his shorts pocket. Without thinking, he retrieved it and entered his passcode. “It’s him!” he said, as Oliver and Kereama crowded around him. Shane read out a message. “Is this the famous Aussie hospitality? Your lot aren’t very welcoming. Lol.”

  A video showed him punching the guy to the sand, then kicking him while down. It was taken from quite a distance, back towards The Starfish. Shane didn’t need to watch the video; he needed to find Elf Man. Looking up from his phone, he couldn’t see anyone.

  Shane took the mobile and ran with it back the way they’d come, positive he would find Elf Man walking away. “I know you’re there, prick,” he said as he ran at full pace, the sand hampering his speed. And as he approached The Bucket List, he saw a guy strolling away from him, wearing a white shirt and brown khaki shorts.

  “Elf Man!” he shouted, still running as fast as he could.

  Elf Man turned his head, shocked, then started sprinting.

  “Shit!” Shane’s lungs burned. He was too far away to tackle him, he conceded, watching the pommie visitor join the crowd of people walking along the promenade. He stooped over to catch his breath, his palms on his knees. “Tosser!” If he’d kept quiet, he might have gained enough ground to stop him. Hindsight was a bitch, he thought.

  Once his lungs recovered, Shane headed back in the direction of the others. He could see the ambulance crew had arrived. Trying to forget Elf Man was on the loose, Shane’s focus had to be on convincing Iain French not to press charges.

  14

  “I thought she said Tuesday morning at the latest.” Packard glanced at his watch.

  Coates turned off the ignition and checked out the row of terraced houses through his window. “You’ve worked here for long enough, you know what it’s like. She says Tuesday morning, but really means Thursday afternoon.” It was a good job he had leads to chase down. If not, he would be banging on Patricia Rollins’ office door.

  After interviewing Tara Henson’s parents, who formally identified their daughter, he and Sergeant Packard now knew their victim’s history. She had been homeless in London at sixteen, after three long sex-and drug-fuelled years. She packed a bag and went to stay with her then-boyfriend, Finn. Hooked on cocaine, he introduced her to the wonders of heroin, until three violent years later he grew bored of her and threw her out. Unable to return to her parents, she found a squat with a couple of girls, where she lived for five years, doing whatever it took to buy her precious H.

  A common story told to Coates countless times. All it took to corrupt some people was a weak will. Seduced by the sex, and the drugs, it didn’t take long for life to spit her out. Alone, selling herself to anyone who had the cash, her father had found her after she flagged him down on a kerbside, mistaking him for a punter.

  By this point, she had a pimp, who attacked Mr Henson when he tried to convin
ce his daughter to return home with him. Fortunately, Tara’s dad beat her pimp by the kerb, breaking his left femur, right patella, and fracturing his left fibula. He also broke three ribs and fractured the pimp’s right arm in three places.

  Having taken her away from a life of heroin addicted debauchery, Mr Henson checked her into rehab, where she dried out, and vowed to clean herself up. True to her word, she completed her rehabilitation and returned home to live with her parents.

  At twenty-six, she had no qualifications and no work experience, but that didn’t stop the pretty girl getting a waitressing job at a restaurant in Lewes town centre, where she worked up until her murder a few days earlier. According to her parents, Tara found a terraced house that Mr Henson put a deposit down on. And for the last three years, she’d lived there happily on her own.

  Coates thought it tragic that she should go through such a tough time in her teenage years, overcome those obstacles, only to meet a brutal and violent end after she’d safely navigated her way through. He was certain Mr and Mrs Henson felt the same way too. And interviewing the occupant of the terraced house next door would bring justice closer to the family’s reach, Coates hoped. “I’m going to call her after the interview. Now, let’s get this done. Stacey Redmond was her best friend for the past three years or so.”

  “Yeah, I guess if anyone knows anything about her private life, she will,” Packard conceded, opening his door. “Sorry! All this waiting does my nut in.”

  Heaving himself out of the white carpool Peugeot, Coates regarded his partner over the roof. “And you think I like waiting?”

  “You’re so calm about everything, I can never tell when you’re agitated.” He grinned as he closed the passenger door. “I guess that’s why they made you inspector, huh?”

  “I like to think I’m good at my job.” He locked the doors with his key fob then followed Sergeant Packard over the road, through the property’s gate and along the driveway. At the door, his partner knocked, while he stood back. A portly woman in her mid-thirties opened it a crack.

  “Detectives, please come in.” She let them through. “Can I make you a cup of tea or coffee? The kettle’s boiled.”

  In the hallway, she led them to the small – homely – lounge, which was beautifully decorated and adorned with candles. Everywhere he looked in the living room/dining room picture frames held images of wild birds. “Bird lover, I see.” He hoped to start building a rapport immediately. “Which is your favourite?”

  She thought about it for a second. “Umm, I’d have to say, Mr Robin.” She pointed at the picture front and centre, hanging on the chimney breast, above her gorgeous ornate fireplace. “So beautiful, and we get plenty visiting our garden year round.”

  Their interviewee left them alone, while she went and made their drinks. Stacey brought back three steaming mugs of coffee a couple of minutes later. “Thanks,” he said, sitting on the sofa next to Packard, opposite her on an armchair. “Tara’s parents tell us you were friends with her, that you would know about her private affairs?”

  “Well, only as much as she let on. She could be secretive when she wanted to be. We’ve lived next door to each other for years now, and she only confided in me about her childhood last year. Imagine living rough for years; it must’ve left a stain. But yeah, she trusted me. What do you need to know?”

  “Was she dating anyone?” Packard asked.

  Stacey sucked air in. “She was clean… If that’s what you were getting at?”

  “No, that isn’t what I meant, Miss Redmond, not at all,” he reassured her. “We know all about her past, what she did to survive. No, we’re interested in her more recent history. We’re working a lead that points in the direction of a man she met. Maybe online, or through a friend. Is there anyone like that in her life?”

  “Her ex-boyfriend, you mean?” Stacey asked. “I’m afraid I never–”

  “Not her ex, no,” Coates interrupted. “Her parents gave us him. He checked out and his alibi is airtight. He’s out of the country, and has been for over six months. No, we were hoping she might’ve confided in you about someone new?”

  Stacey shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. I can’t think of anyone.”

  Coates, disappointed, hoped she might point him in the right direction. “Has she had any run-ins with anyone? Any confrontations with men? Anything like that?”

  “She led quite a simple life,” Stacey said. “Some might say boring, but I think Tara had enough excitement in her life growing up. I think she wanted a quiet, dull life.” Stacey leaned forwards, staring into thin air. “I tried convincing her to go online dating.”

  “And did she?” Packard asked, excited.

  “Yeah, she joined LoveMe.com. I helped her fill out her application and choose the picture. I wish I hadn’t, for all the luck she had on there. Not one date, in over six months. She got talking to a few guys, but they were all losers, desperate and sleazy. I felt guilty helping her.”

  “Was she on social media much?” Coates asked.

  “The usual, Facebook and Chatter.”

  Before he could ask his next question, his mobile rang in his suit jacket pocket. “Excuse me, I need to take this.” He mouthed “coroner” to Packard on his way into the kitchen, away from prying ears. “Hi!” he said in greeting. “I hope you’re bringing good news.”

  “I am, and unexpected.”

  “Oh? Why’s that?” Through the kitchen window, a couple of blackbirds fought over Stacey’s feeder in the garden.

  “We got lucky on this one. The prints belong to Arthur Peebles.” Her voice stopped at the mention of the notorious name. “Dave? Did you hear me? Arthur Peebles. All the trace is his; there’s no doubt.”

  Coates couldn’t speak at first. Shock prevented it. “I hear you… But I thought, isn’t he in prison?”

  “Nope, released eighteen months ago,” Rollins said. “I’ve sent the report over to you by email. You have your suspect.”

  And he did. “Yeah, great. Thanks, I appreciate you getting this back to me. Have you put this through the scanner a couple of times? You’re absolutely certain it’s him?” Still in shock, he tried to put it to the back of his mind.

  “A hundred per cent,” Rollins confirmed.

  Coates thanked the coroner and let her go. Staring at his phone, he thought of the ramifications. Shaking away his thoughts, he walked back to the lounge, where Packard was questioning the homeowner. “We thank you for your time, Miss Redmond, but we need to leave.”

  “But, sir, we’re getting somewhere,” his partner protested. “Stacey’s just told me about a guy Tara talked to on Chatter.”

  “Brilliant! Stacey, can you send over his account details, please. I’ve spoken to the coroner. We have a positive ID on our suspect.” He saw the sudden rush of excitement in Packard’s eyes. “We need to get back to the station.”

  Finishing his coffee in two gulps, Coates thanked Stacey once more, then led Packard out of the house and across the road towards their car. “Are you going to tell me who it is?” he heard his passenger ask from behind him. After unlocking the car, he got in and waited for Packard to fasten his seat belt. “It’s Arthur Peebles.” He waited for acknowledgement.

  “I’m sorry! Am I supposed to know who that is?”

  Coates sighed, letting out a lungful of air. “Oh, of course, you must be too young to remember,” he said, trying to hide his annoyance. “You’re only twenty-six, I forget that sometimes.” He started the engine and pulled out of the space. “Arthur Peebles was given life imprisonment for the rape and murder of Zoe Evans, a minor. He and Michael Ince, his co-defendant, were both fourteen at the time; they were classmates with Zoe. It made all the national press at the time.”

  “I recall something, Shouldn’t he still be in prison? I mean, if he’d been released, wouldn’t it have been all over the news?”

  “According to Rollins they released him eighteen months ago.” Coates pulled up behind an elderly woman driving a Nissan.
“Maybe the probation service had to let him go on the quiet, you know? Anyway, Rollins emailed me the file.”

  “You know, if you had a smartphone, you might be able to read the email right here.” Packard sniggered, always one for making fun of his being a luddite. “Or I can pull it up for you now, if you want?”

  “Thanks, but I’m not handing you my password.” Getting annoyed at the slow speed of the Nissan, Coates honked his horn. “No, I can wait until we get to the station.”

  15

  Oliver loved the hot weather, yet was grateful for the air conditioning at night. He spat toothpaste into the basin and replaced his toothbrush. Wearing a white vest top and khaki shorts, he walked through to his bedroom to find Isla looking out of the window. Their room looked over the road below. “What’s so interesting?” He stepped behind her and pinched her bum. She turned and complained jovially. He said, “What’s out there?”

  “I’m not sure. I thought I saw a guy coming out of our drive, but I think he just walked past. Probably nothing.”

  Concerned, Oliver pulled the curtains back and gazed out of the window at the street lamp lit road. “Where is he now?”

  “Gone. Maybe he didn’t come out of our driveway, babe.”

  A sudden rush of fear enveloped him. “But the Nota’s out there,” he said, praying it was unharmed. His pride and joy, the Nota Le Mans, was his dream sports car. If something happened to it, he would go mental. He wished they could afford a place with a perimeter wall, like Shane and Georgina had, but they weren’t that wealthy. Without hesitation, he rushed out of the bedroom, hearing Isla chasing after him. Downstairs, he found the house’s alarm panel and input the code to disarm it.

  Outside, the warmth hitting him, he breathed out in relief when he saw his beloved sat on the drive, her red coat gleaming in the street light. “Oh thank God!”

  “Why’s she out here?” Isla asked. “Why isn’t she in the garage?”

  “I forgot.” He was so relieved “she” had remained undamaged. He had only bought her six months earlier. Being both track and road ready, his Le Mans was the most favourite thing in his life. Everyone’s heads turned when he drove past, the way he liked it. “I’ll put her away now.” He headed back to the house.