by Jim Bennett
‘I’ve got some things to do in the house if that’s it'.
‘No that isn’t it’, Julie said, feeling annoyed now. ‘You started all of this, you can’t just drop out of it again when you’re no longer interested'.
‘I didn’t kill the lad and it looks to me like they’ve found their murderer without my help. I think I’m done’.
Julie tried to protest. Unsurprisingly, Mrs McGrath wasn’t interested. She closed the door in her face with a decided thud. Again, she could hear the sound of her cane scraping on the tiles as she retreated back into the house.
Dejected, Julie made her way down the path and returned to her own house. She spent the rest of the day wandering around aimlessly, looking for something that needed doing. It was useless. She couldn’t think of anything else.
When the evening arrived and Julie hadn’t managed to do anything of any use, she decided to resign herself to her fate. If she wasn’t going to be able to focus on anything else until this mess was resolved, then she may as well steer into the skid. She convinced herself that she had just been out of sorts yesterday, and that’s why she’d given it all up. All she needed was a bit of fun to revitalise her, which Mike had given her in spades.
She firmly placed herself at the kitchen table, a glass of pinot within easy reaching distance. On the notepad before her, she began to write everyone’s name who they had spoken to.
Julie was the first to admit that her memory wasn’t the best. Therefore the local drug dealer who had chased them off the industrial estate was listed as ‘angry thug', and each of his companions were listed as ‘henchmen', one to four respectively. Not knowing what to call the drug dealer’s girlfriend, she googled it and found the term ‘moll’. It sounded horrendously dated even to her ears. She reasoned that if she allowed herself to get bogged down into every little detail, she wasn’t going to get anywhere.
Why hadn’t they thought to speak to the underlings and ask them where they’d been on the night Jack was killed? Had the police done that, or had they dismissed them just as Julie and Mrs McGrath had done?
And what about the girl at Nixons? Just because she said Jack left the bar at midnight didn’t mean that she had. Surely that’s the kind of thing that the police would look into as a matter of course. Or maybe not if they weren’t willing to consider that anyone but Brian was the murderer. As Julie made her notes, the amount of questions that she didn’t know the answers to began to increase exponentially. It started to make her feel overwhelmed and she began to sip at her wine with increasing regularity. Her attention then waned completely, doodling in the margins of her notebook.
She felt that their investigation was such a mess that it might be better to give up on this one and wait for the next local murder. That way, she could ask all the right questions from the start instead of letting Mrs McGrath convince her that you could tell if someone was a killer just by the look in their eyes.
Having almost decided to give up and order herself a takeaway, she remembered Brian sitting in custody for a crime he might not have committed. This wasn’t in fact something she was doing for the enjoyment factor, but to prove that the local letcher was innocent of this crime at least. She did feel like a bit of a hypocrite after giving Mrs McGrath such a hard time about forcing her to investigate Jack’s death. Brian’s arrest had brought it home somehow and made the injustice of it feel more real.
“Okay”, she said to herself, “you shouldn’t give up, but you don’t want to cover old ground again. What else can you do?” She decided the best approach would be to walk herself through the last few days again, from when Jack arrived up until the present day. Each of the supporting characters that came into her mind's eye seemed like such an unlikely choice for the part of the murderer. The obvious exception was that group of yobs, although Jack’s death was all a bit too cloak and dagger to consider them serious suspects. Surely if they wanted Jack dead, they would have stabbed him with a Stanley knife and then passed around a bottle of white lightning to celebrate. There was something more cold and calculating to all this.
Again, her mind processed all the faces she had seen throughout this drama. All of a sudden, the fat banker popped into her head. The greasy old boy that Jack had punched in the bar. Through some mad reasoning only known to her, Mrs McGrath had decided that he wasn’t worth tracking down because it didn’t make sense for him to kill Jack. This coming from a woman who had thought it necessary to pound on the doors of all her neighbours on the off chance they were capable of homicide.
The idea of exploring a lead that they hadn’t previously considered was exciting, invigorating even. So what if it came to nothing? It was somewhere to start at least. There were no messy thoughts of previous failures to contend with either.
And DI Morris couldn’t really object. He’d disregarded the information as inconsequential already. Surely then it was fair enough that Julie could go and speak to the man. If she thought he said anything important, she could tell the police straight away.
But how was she going to find him? Once again she tried to remember the details of that evening of high drama through the fog of alcohol. There was something, clawing just at the corner of her mind. Yes, he had been carrying an umbrella with something printed on it. What was it? Jerry something? Jerry Something Bloors. With a roaring lion underneath it.
She opened her laptop and typed ‘jerry', and ‘bloors', into the search engine. There it was, number one on the list. Jerryman Bloors, a distinguished boutique trader based in the city. As luck would have it, there was only one branch. Julie couldn’t have felt prouder of herself if she had just caught the Yorkshire Ripper. She was looking for someone and had actually managed to find them on purpose. Unscrewing the cap on the second bottle of wine in the fridge, Julie remarked to herself that the case was definitely looking up.
Chapter Twenty
Julie’s first thought when she walked into the offices of Jerryman Bloors was that it was possibly the least welcoming place on earth. Everything was glass and polished floors with no soul whatsoever to speak of. This extended to the receptionist who was eying her suspiciously as Julie approached the desk. She wore a slim fitting white shirt and a pencil skirt, her hair neatly scraped into a bun.
The best part of two bottles of wine the night before had made the journey into the city a very unpleasant experience. When Julie had woken up that morning feeling like death, it wouldn’t take much convincing for her to remain in bed for the rest of the day. But then she had thought of Brian, probably still sitting in a police cell and the power she might have to get him released.
In the end, the guilt trumped the nausea and she had heaved herself out of bed. She had thought that she couldn’t feel any worse than she already did. That was before she realised how she must look to the sprightly young thing behind the desk. She had tried to look the part, selecting her outfit the night before with vigour when she had first cooked up the plan. However when she had gone to put the clothes on this morning, she was pained to see that both the smart blouse and trousers that she had chosen were ravaged with creases. The thought of dragging the iron and the board from under the stairs and attempting to make the clothes look presentable proved too much for her in her current state. Instead then she had opted for whatever was clean and not too rumpled in her bottom door.
It had really taken her a long time to get going this morning. Then, when she finally got to the station, she realised that she hadn’t checked the timetable. Unbeknownst to her, there was a reduced service in place because of some engineering works. When she had finally managed to get on a train, it was the middle of the afternoon. Catching a glimpse of reflection on the journey into the city, she was horrified to see that she looked like an oversized school girl. The only thing missing was a striped tie worn too short. The whole enterprise felt doomed before it had even started.
‘Hello there’, Julie said when it became clear that she wasn’t going to ask how she could help. ‘I’m here to see Char
les Bond'. After a few false starts, Julie had managed to find the picture of the chap who Jack had fought with on the company website. This was no small feat, given that she had been half cut the one time they had not even really met. That coupled with the fact that every man who worked in the financial sector looked almost exactly the same. It helped that Jerryman Bloors was a relatively small firm, and after going through the photos about a dozen times, she was fairly certain that it was Charles Bond who she needed to speak to.
‘And do you have an appointment?' The receptionist said. Her nose crinkled as she spoke to Julie, as if she was the source of a fairly unpleasant smell.
Julie nodded her head and instantly regretted it.
‘For what time?' The receptionist looked towards her computer screen, her fingers poised above the keys.
Not quite sure of what time it was, Julie tried to surreptitiously look at her watch.
‘3.00pm', Julie said. The receptionist gave her an unimpressed look. ‘Or was it 3.30, sorry I can’t quite remember'.
‘Well that depends. I’m guessing you’re not Mr Lyons?'
Julie did a little laugh, just in case the receptionist was in fact buying into this routine but was afflicted by a perpetually sour face.
‘If you would like to take a seat then Mrs Watanabe, I’ll call Mr Bond’s PA and let him know that you’ve arrived'.
The two women stared at each other for what felt like an impossibly long time.
‘Come to think of it’, Julie said, picking her handbag up off the floor, ‘it wasn’t today that I was seeing old Charlie'. She began to step backwards towards the entrance, feeling ridiculous as she did it. Julie reminded herself that she wasn’t in fact trying to rob a bank and she should probably stop acting like she was. ‘Sorry about that'.
As Julie struggled backwards through the revolving door, the last thing she saw inside the lobby was the smug look of self satisfaction plastered across the receptionist’s face.
Standing outside with a constant stream of incredibly well dressed professionals passing by, Julie had to fight the overwhelming urge to give up. She was starting to get very fed up with herself, all of this despair every few minutes when something didn’t go exactly as expected. No, she told herself, you’re here now, you may as well make a go of it. She was currently standing in a courtyard with impossibly high buildings surrounding her on all sides. In the very centre, there was an uncomfortable looking bench. ‘There we go then’, she said, talking to herself again. ‘I’ll sit there and wait for the bugger to come out’. It wasn’t like she had anything else that she needed to do today. She was supposed to be working this afternoon, but Mr Peg had left another message telling her not to bother coming in. The poor sod had probably bankrupted himself, buying all that sand. Hopefully he hadn’t got himself into too much trouble.
It was a shame really, Julie thought as she walked over to the bench. It hadn’t been a bad little job. Mundane, of course. Not much asked of you though and the customers were always friendly. And then there was Mike of course, the great oaf. Julie had the very distinct impression that he had wanted to kiss her at their night together, but it didn’t feel quite right. At the time she thought that maybe it was because it had been such a long time since she had kissed anyone, except for Jack of course, but somehow she didn’t think that counted. Or maybe it was because he felt like more of a friend. Regardless of what their relationship was, she felt a sudden pang at the thought of not seeing him most days at work.
It wasn’t a bench that was designed for a prolonged stay. Its granite base was uncomfortable to sit on and with no back to the seat, it took a fair amount of effort to remain sitting upright. For the first twenty minutes that Julie was sat there, she could at least enjoy the warmth of the afternoon sun making its way down into the space. However, once the light had passed behind the tall buildings, a chill came over her and she wished that she had brought something to cover her bare arms. A handful of people had exited the buildings of Jerryman Bloor since she had taken up her station, but none of them were Charles Bond as far as she could tell.
‘Is anyone sitting here?' A voice said from behind Julie. She turned to see a woman of about Mrs McGrath’s age. Despite the slight chill in the air, the wool cap that she was wearing seemed superfluous to Julie. In each hand, she was carrying at least three plastic bags stuffed full of Lord knows what. Julie held up her open palm to indicate that she should sit. She gave Julie a happy smile and joined her on the bench.
The old woman lowered herself by degrees towards the seat and then dropped herself the final distance. ‘Bloody hell’, she said, placing her bags on the floor, ‘not very comfortable this, is it?' Julie half turned her head towards her and smiled. She’d just shaken off one unhinged, elderly companion. She wasn’t keen to acquire another.
‘Of course, they don’t actually expect anyone to sit here', the old woman continued unprompted. ‘This lot have all got sticks too far up their arses to sit down anyway'. She began to rummage in one of her carrier bags and pulled out a loaf of bread. ‘Murder on my piles though. I usually bring a cushion with me, but I forgot it today’.
Opening the bag that it was in, she took a piece out and ripped it in half. She placed the slightly smaller section down on the bench and then began to eat the larger segment.
‘Do you want some?' She said, holding the bag out to Julie. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not a pedophile or anything’.
‘No thank you’, Julie said. She tried to keep her attention focused on the exit of Jerryman Bloors, although the old woman was incredibly distracting. Not only did she keep shifting her weight every few seconds, but after she had finished her snack, she picked up the other piece of her bread and started to tear it to pieces. When it was entirely shredded, she pulled her hand back behind her head and flung the pieces on the floor. She beat her hands together and the crumbs that had been stuck to her fingerless gloves fell away.
‘For the birds’, she said, when she saw that Julie had been watching her. Julie did a quick survey of their immediate surroundings but couldn’t see another living thing in their immediate proximity, winged or otherwise. However, this didn’t stop her new companion to continue to take piece after piece of bread from the bag. Each time, she would eat half and then distribute the other on the ground.
At one point, the snotty receptionist from earlier came out of her building to have a cigarette. Now that the lunchtime crowd had all returned to work, it was only Julie and her new companion who were left in the courtyard. Therefore, for the entire time that she was smoking, the receptionist fixed them with the most disapproving of looks. This did little to deter the distributor of the bread, who continued to happily make her way through her loaf. The receptionist dropped the cigarette on the ground and extinguished it with the high heel of her shoe. She then collected it from the floor and placed it in the bin hanging from the wall. WIth one last look of utter contempt, she went back through the revolving doors and returned to work.
‘Sorry love', the woman with the bread said, standing up, ‘would you mind looking after my things for me?'
Julie looked down at the mass of carrier bags that were heaped around the bench and said ‘I’m sorry?'
‘Don’t want anyone nicking them. Got to use the ladies you see'.
‘Right', Julie said, not quite understanding.
‘Harder to sneak in, isn’t it? When you’re holding on to all that gumpf’.
Julie looked at the old eccentric's mad winter garb on this summer day and thought it was very unlikely that she would ever be able to sneak under the radar regardless of what she was carrying. Before Julie could tell this stranger that no, she wasn’t willing to act as watchman to her selection of carrier bags, she was a good ten metres away from her and making her way into another one of the grand office blocks surrounding them.
Julie thought about moving to another bench before she realised that there wasn’t one. Instead, she had to satisfy herself by moving to the opposite end that
the bags were gathered around. About two minutes into the woman’s absence, Julie clocked a bloke walking directly towards her. There was no doubt that he was coming to speak to her as there wasn’t another soul in sight. It was also clear that the man was a security guard of some kind. He was wearing what was evidently a clip on tie and the kind of cheap wooly jumper that would only be worn by someone who was required to do so by their profession.
‘Excuse me miss’, he said when he finally approached her. ‘We’ve had some reports of fly tipping in the area. Wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?' He eyed the shopping bags on the floor as he spoke to her.
‘They’re not mine’, she said instinctively and a bit too quickly for someone who was in fact innocent of this mild infraction. The security guard raised an eyebrow and gave her a knowing smile.
‘And what about all this bread?' He kicked at one of the nearest stray pieces. ‘I’m guessing you don’t know anything about that either, do you?'
‘It was this other woman. She asked me to look after her bags while she went to the loo'. Julie attempted to remember which of the buildings the woman who owned the bags had gone into. The problem was that they all looked so similar. She ended up pointing vaguely in the general direction that the woman had walked in a not too convincing manner.
The security guard chuckled to himself. ‘If I had a penny for everytime that I’d heard that’.
‘She’ll be back in a minute I’m sure’.
The security guard looked sceptical. ‘I will wait for her with bated breath'.
Julie had thought that this would be the end of the conversation, but the security guard continued to look at her expectantly. ‘I’m not doing anything wrong, am I?' She said. ‘Shouldn’t I be sitting here?'
