by Anna Legat
‘People survive accidents.’
‘Yes, I know. And it’s only a bump on the head …’
Plus a botched CPR! A cardiac arrest! Vegetative state …
The doorbell rang. Brandon cursed under his breath. ‘Who the hell is that?’ With shaky fingers he was doing up his jeans.
‘I’ll see who it is. It’s probably my fake auntie. She’s been all over Dad since Mum’s gone off sick.’ Emma put her finger on Brandon’s lips. ‘Sit tight, be quiet. I’ll be back.’
DS Thackeray looked pleased with himself (if his drawn face with its permanently downturned mouth and heavily hooded eyes could effectively convey any pleasure) when he sat with Rob and Mark in the lounge. Before getting down to business, he went by the book and asked about my wellbeing.
‘No improvement, I’m afraid,’ Rob told him, looking apologetic for not being able to offer anything more upbeat on the subject. ‘Would you like a cup of tea, or anything?’
Tea had seemed to solve most of Rob’s problems in the past, but not any more. The policeman shook his head. ‘There’s been a breakthrough in the investigation. We’ve identified the man who –’
‘Who’s that?’ Emma was standing in the door. Expecting just Rob and Mark, she was wearing only her dressing gown. It was tied up loosely on her hips; one side was longer than the other. Instinctively, she pulled the lapel over her chest and folded her arms. She shifted on her bare feet defensively and leaned against the door frame.
‘This is the policeman investigating the hit-and-run.’
‘DS Thackeray.’
‘I see. Have you caught him, the man who did it to Mum?’
‘We’ve identified him. Positive identification. The CCTV photo we showed your father was unclear, but we’ve recovered prints from the stolen car. They belong to Jason Mahon, a car thief, well known to us. There’s a definite link between him and your mother. We’re looking into that connection – a case, one of the last cases your mother was working on before the incident.’
‘Incident?’ Emma asked. ‘So it’s no longer an accident?’
She was sharp, my girl. I was proud of her. When push came to shove, she was sharper than Rob and Mark put together. She knew how to tune into the subtleties of language and she was not inhibited by basic politeness, something neither Rob nor Mark could shake off however hard they tried.
‘Yes, we believe it was deliberate. We may be looking at attempted murder. Our officers are on their way to Gaolers Road to effect an arrest –’
Emma stiffened. ‘To Gaolers Road? What’s his name? Your suspect – what’s his name again?’
A strange noise came from somewhere outside in the garden. It was as if a sack of potatoes had fallen from a height.
‘What was that?’ Both Rob and Mark went to the patio door to take a look.
Emma persisted, ‘The name … what was that name?’
‘Jason Mahon.’
‘Jason …’ she was pale. They couldn’t possibly guess, but I knew she had put two and two together. ‘May I see his photo? Do you have his photo? You said CCTV photo …’
Thackeray passed the picture to her. She took it tentatively, slowly, as if afraid of what it may reveal. She gave out a thin gasp when she looked at it. It was fortunate that Rob and Mark were still surveying the garden, because just by looking at her, they would have guessed something was not right. She returned the photo.
‘Do you know him?’
‘Excuse me, please.’ She ran out of the room.
Her bedroom was empty and the window had been left open. Brandon had done a runner. He must have heard everything. Emma stood in the midst of her gothic paraphernalia, lost and small. She was Little Miss Muffet in a haunted house full of spiders.
She retched, covered her mouth, and ran to the toilet. The contents of her stomach poured out of her.
‘Emma? Are you all right?’ It was Rob’s voice.
‘Fine, Dad,’ she managed to say. ‘It must be something I’ve eaten.’ She washed her mouth and her face under the tap. For a long, tortuous moment she stared at her own face in the mirror. The water had made her mascara run. Wet wisps of dyed black hair clung to her cheeks, like cracks in a canvas. My poor girl – she was scared and confused. I could guess how she felt. I would’ve felt the same way: an accomplice in her own mother’s murder. I didn’t want her to feel like that. There was no reason to, but even if I could tell her that, she wouldn’t have listened. Emma never listened to me and if she did it was only to do the exact opposite of what I was asking her to do. At this very moment, she desperately needed me to assure her that it wasn’t her fault so that she could argue with me and insist that it was. It would’ve made her feel better. But I couldn’t say anything.
I watched her. She thoroughly dried her face in a towel, making sure that every bit of make-up was erased from her skin. Without the eyeliner, her eyes looked smaller and rounder, like a child’s eyes. She brushed her hair and put it into a ponytail. In her room she changed into leggings and a white T-shirt. I didn’t know she even had a single item of white clothing. The paleness of her skin blended with the whiteness of the T-shirt.
From the bathroom cupboard she fetched a black rubbish bag and into it went her entire gothic world: the posters from the walls, the blood-red bed sheets, the trinkets and makeup from the dressing table, and most of the contents of her wardrobe. She dragged the bulging bag down the stairs. DS Thackeray was gone. Mark was gone. Rob was getting himself into his gardening boots, the ones without laces and with mud-caked, falling-off soles.
‘What’s that?’ He pointed to the black bag.
‘Nothing. Just rubbish.’
‘You’ve been tidying up?’ He smiled, grateful for her efforts.
She dropped the bag in the middle of the hallway. The veneer of her cold composure suddenly melted away, leaving behind a skinny little girl choking on tears. ‘Dad?’
Rob, already equipped with a trowel, gazed at her. ‘Emma? Are you not well? Is it something you ate? I’ve heard you throwing up …’
‘No … No … It’s my fault Mum’s in hospital!’
He charged towards her, trowel in hand, gardening boots leaving a trail of mud on the carpet. He tried to hug her, but the rubbish bag stood between them like a beacon of restraint. ‘Of course, it isn’t your fault. You must never blame yourself. Your mum’s accident was just that … an accident.’
‘He was trying to kill her!’
‘We don’t know that! The police are only guessing. We don’t know that lad; we don’t know what he was trying-’
‘Jason! His name is Jason. He’s Brandon’s flatmate! Brandon knew! Jason does anything Brandon tells him … Brandon is like a god to him …’
‘Who’s Brandon?’
Emma looked at Rob, disbelieving. For a moment, I was sure, she would give up, shrug her shoulders and fall back on her usual ‘Whatever! ’ But she was a changed girl. ‘Brandon, yeah?’ she spoke slowly like to an idiot. ‘Dad! You met Brandon last night. He’s my boyfriend. Was my boyfriend …’
‘The fireman?’
‘Yes, the bloody fireman!’ Emma punched the black rubbish bag to vent her frustration.
‘Well … in that case …’ Rob was lost for words. ‘I mean, are you sure?’
‘I want to talk to that copper. I want to tell him.’
‘Yes, let’s do that. If that makes you feel better … We’ll go to the station.’ Rob picked up the car keys from the kitchen table and ushered Emma to the Mini. I don’t know what it is about Rob and his props, but he took the trowel with him and held it in his right hand as he steered the car. He was still holding on to it while they were sitting at the police station, waiting for DS Thackeray to be found. He was brandishing the thing like a deadly weapon in the face of the riff-raff of detainees swearing their innocence and aggrieved citizens wishing to make a complaint to the officer on duty who happened to be on his tea break away from the desk. Emma and Rob were in for a long wait. Neither of the
m thought of simply telephoning the man.
It was an hour later when DS Thackeray hurried through the front door, telling off two constables who lagged behind him looking positively brow-beaten. DS Thackeray was flushed deep red. He was thrusting his forefinger into the face of one of his constables just as Rob stood up to greet him, possibly preventing the final onslaught. ‘DS Thackeray, hello … Rob Ibsen, you remember?’ he began tentatively. ‘My daughter has something to report. It may be helpful to your investigation.’
The policeman’s pointing finger froze where it was as he turned to Rob. Now, it was in Rob’s face. ‘Mr Ibsen? Yes! What is it?’ he asked impatiently.
Emma got up. She spoke, calm and collected, factual: ‘I know Jason. He’s flatmates with my boyfriend. My boyfriend was upstairs in the house when you came to tell us about Jason. He must’ve heard and got out, through the window. My bedroom window is on the first floor. He jumped.’
‘He was in your bedroom? What was he doing in your bedroom?’ Rob raised his trowel and pointed it at Emma. One more disjointed move and that trowel would cause someone grievous bodily harm.
‘Miss Ibsen … I see.’ Thackeray gazed at her sternly. ‘Jason Mahon wasn’t home when our men got there to effect arrest. He’d just left, apparently … The front door was wide open. My men may have passed him in the street as he had just left the house. He knew we were coming. Someone –’
‘Brandon must’ve warned him,’ Emma finished the sentence for him.
‘Brandon, is your boyfriend, I take it?’
‘Was.’
‘We’ll need his details. You’ll have to tell us all you know, no matter how insignificant it may seem to you.’
‘It’s all bloody significant to me,’ Emma muttered under her breath, and she and Rob followed the sergeant to the interview room.
I found it hard to believe poor Brandon had anything to do with this whole nightmare other than to know about it. Jason would have confided in him that day when Emma had found them both arguing. Jason had been blaming Brandon, but I knew it wasn’t Brandon who had told Jason to do it. It was Ehler. I knew it. And Tony knew it, too. If there was a shred of doubt in his mind about it, it was dispelled when he received a phone call from my young, pimply usurper, Aitken.
The ringing telephone dragged Tony out of the shower. He took the call, wearing nothing but a sheet of frothing soap. His tight buttocks glistened. A momentary current of pleasure travelled through my ectoplasmic body at the faint, distant memory of our past carnal encounters.
‘Tony Sebastian.’
‘Hello, Tony! It’s Gavin. How are you doing?’
‘Gavin?’ Tony frowned, his thoughts cross-referencing his mind’s address book, wondering who the twit that was calling him this early on a Saturday morning could possibly be.
‘Gavin Aitken, Crown Prosecutions.’
‘Ah, Gavin, my man! How are you? What’s up?’
‘Fine, fine … Just a courtesy call, really. It’s about one of Georgiana’s cases … you acted for Michael Ehler. The police want to re-open the case. Expect a visit.’
Tony grabbed a towel and vigorously dried his face and hair. He was now fully awake. ‘Why would they be interested in an old case?’
‘It’s to do with the hit-and-run. They’ve identified the perpetrator. He was Georgiana’s Crown witness in Ehler’s case. They think there’s a connection.’
‘Can’t blame them.’
‘Well, they’re looking into it. I’m wading through the file as we speak. What could be better on a nice Saturday morning? Anyway, thought I’d bring you up to speed.’
‘Thanks, Kevin.’
‘No problem. It’s Gavin, actually.’
Tony parked his virginal white MGA convertible on a double yellow line, the right-side wheels on the pavement, blocking the entire width of it. Above it, towered the sharp ascent to a huge house sprawled on a hill amongst tall, mature trees and thick tufts of bushes. An unassuming iron gate, narrow and blackened, guarded a stone path leading up to the house. Even by Clifton’s leafy standards it was a formidable looking residence. Respectable and very private. It belonged to Michael Ehler – or rather to Mr Prickwane of Bedminster, who was probably still getting used to the idea of being a real estate oligarch.
A woman, wearing a black dress with white trimmings, opened the door. ‘Good morning, Mr Sebastian. Is Mr Ehler expecting you?’ Her clipped enunciation could have rivalled the Duchess of Cornwall’s – and her bright-eyed and bushy-tailed appearance could have given the Duchess of Cambridge a run for her money.
‘Just tell him I’m here,’ Tony said through his teeth.
‘Of course.’ The blue-blooded maid departed, leaving Tony in a marble-floored reception room which could easily have passed for a Downton Abbey filming location.
Within minutes, Ehler appeared wearing a jovial expression on his face and a pair of embroidered slippers on his feet. He was a big, corpulent man with chubby cheeks and a bald head that always reminded me of Winnie the Pooh. The small, pinched nose perched in the middle of his bloated face was trademark Winnie. But that was where the similarities ended. His smile was forced and disingenuous; his forehead glistening with sweat.
‘Tony, I half-expected you! I said to Esther, You know, Esther, I wouldn’t be surprised if Tony popped over today. And here your are!’ Ehler opened his arms as if to embrace Tony, but managed only a lukewarm handshake. Tony’s manner was rigid. If Ehler noticed it, he didn’t let it trouble him. ‘Come in! A few things to go over … We’d best go to my study.’ He gave the maid a throwaway glance. ‘No one’s to disturb us, Mrs Thaw.’
Ehler had a study! A poor panel beater with a study was nothing short of a pope with a condom, and yet there it was. Ehler had led Tony into a panelled room, furnished with a desk, high armchair, a row of filing cabinets, and a mini-bar. One wall displayed a collection of works by prominent English writers and a full set of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. In a way, Ehler’s place reminded me of Tony’s. It was more or less its faithful replica. Both places had an air of the over-the-top bourgeois about them.
The study had a bay window overlooking the back of a mature garden in the full bloom of May. The garden didn’t seem to belong to its owner: it was tranquil and natural; free of pretension. Ehler’s house must have been prised away from some poor bastard Bristolian intellectual who fell on hard times and had to make way for a panel-beating crime lord charging forth from the fringes of society.
So this was the headquarters of Ehler’s empire! This was where he conducted his dirty business, pulled the strings, received petitioners … There was more to Winnie the Pooh than met the eye!
‘Drink?’ he offered and slipped into his high armchair, which groaned under his weight. Clearly, he didn’t expect Tony to take him up on his offer this early in the day. And Tony didn’t. He went to the window, looked out and breathed deeply.
He spoke without turning back to face his client. ‘You told me the prosecutor’s hit-and-run had nothing to do with you.’
‘And it didn’t – not directly.’
‘You’re taking the piss, Mikey?’
Ehler sighed. There was the indulgence of a forgiving Godfather in that sigh. ‘Tony, what did you want me to tell you? I just wanted to keep your conscience clean, yeah? Kept you out of it.’
‘You had that woman killed.’
‘She dead?’
‘As good as. Why the fuck did you do it?’
‘Let’s get it straight, Tony, yeah?’ There was a trace of irritation in Ehler’s voice. ‘You told me, yeah? You told me she was gonna fry my arse, yeah? You knew I had to do something about it! Don’t go all innocent on me now. Let’s have that drink. It’s lunchtime.’ He got up, heaved himself to the bar, and poured two glasses of brandy. He downed one and slid the other one across his desk, towards Tony. ‘Here! It’ll calm your nerves.’
Tony did not touch it. He said, ‘I only asked you to sort out your affairs. I didn’t ask you to go aro
und murdering people!’
‘A small misunderstanding, then. The boy got carried away. He was just to tap her on the shoulder, put her out of action for a couple of weeks. A broken leg, that sort of thing. Things don’t always go to plan. Anyway, I’ve got it all sorted, Tony, yeah?’ Ehler patted Tony on the back.
‘What do you mean sorted? She’s dying. How can you sort that out?’ Tony’s fists were closed. His lips curled into a snarl I had never seen before. ‘You’ll bring her back to life? You’ve got connections up there, have you?’
Ehler didn’t notice the snarl. He laughed. ‘At least your good humour is back! Don’t worry, Tony. Leave it to me. Go home.’
‘The police know the boy did it. They’ll find him and he will lead them to you,’ Tony hissed. ‘And you know what, Mikey? I’ll be glad when it happens.’
‘Ah, but then I’d lead them to you,’ Ehler sobered up. ‘And we can’t have that, can we?’
‘I don’t give a shit.’
‘Good thing that I do, then!’ Ehler chuckled amiably. ‘I’ll look after you. The boy won’t talk, I’ll make sure of that.’
Tony glared hard at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Here goes,’ Ehler lowered his voice. ‘He got away. He called me an hour ago. The cops came looking for him, but he got away. Someone tipped him off, lucky sod! He’s all panicked and that – can’t be trusted to keep his gob shut … In short, he’s coming to see me tonight. Do you understand? He’s coming to see me, but he won’t be leaving.’ His voice became a whisper when he said: ‘I’ll deal with him myself. Consider this matter closed, yeah?’
Tony took a while to respond. At first, he stared at Ehler, trying to digest everything he was telling him. Then he asked: ‘What time? What time exactly is he coming here?’
‘Seven, yeah? On the dot; he knows I can get touchy when people don’t keep appointments. Anyways, he got no choice. Where else can he go? He’s on the run. The boy needs to disappear. Frankly, I be doing him a favour. Personally. No one else needs to know. Relax, Tony. It’s as good as sorted. You can trust me.’
