Tie Die

by Max Tomlinson

  “She will,” Colleen said, sipping. “It’ll just take time.”

  “I need to work on a few things.”

  “It’s not going to be a breeze, but you’ll get there.”

  Steve drank an inch of beer. “I knew Lynda was a hard case, but I never expected that.”

  “Lynda didn’t expect a lot of things, either. Ev going rogue, taking over, and kidnapping your daughter for real.”

  Steve shook his head. “Ev was a bad apple from way back. When he was our roadie. You reckon they can prove what he did … to Brenda Pike? In my hotel room?”

  “Some news about Ev,” Colleen said. “He confessed to spiking your bottle of whiskey that night in the dressing room of the Hammersmith Odeon. He’s pinning it all on Sir Ian, of course. Singing like a bird, as they say. He’s staring down extortion, murder, and kidnapping charges.”

  “So that’s why I got so bloody pissed that night,” Steve said.

  “Now you know it wasn’t your fault, Steve.”

  “It was enough of my fault,” he said with a sigh. “I ran from it once. Not again.”

  Maybe someday he could forgive himself.

  “Tich says he’ll provide a statement,” Colleen said. “Inspector Owens has contacted Scotland Yard. Gus Pedersen says Sir Ian is an accessory to multiple crimes, if not more. And then there’s your ex-father-in-law. Rex is going to be facing more than a few charges: extortion, kidnapping, child endangerment.”

  Steve frowned. “All the bloody trouble I caused.”

  “You were set up, Steve. Yes, you did the wrong thing by running but you know you weren’t responsible for Brenda Pike.”

  “All the misery I set into motion?”

  Colleen knew all about regret. Killing her ex in a fit of rage. She had lost nine years in prison, time that could have been spent with her daughter. Time that had driven a seemingly permanent wedge between them.

  “You haven’t seen anything, Steve,” she said.

  “Well, it’s Mel that matters now.”

  “There you go. What are you going to do about Octavien? Your mob loan? We need to get SFPD vice involved.”

  Steve gave a single shake of his head. “No. I borrowed that money fair and square. Thanks to you getting that gym bag with most of the ransom money back, I can get enough short term to pay Octavien off. Gus is going to help me get the rights to my catalog back, which will be a whole lot easier now that Sir Ian has been exposed. Once that happens, I can cover my legal fees, pay you, and have enough left to focus on raising Mel properly.”

  It would be a while before she got paid. But she had no doubt she would be.

  “Whoa, dude. That catalog is your lifeblood. Now that you’re off the murder charge, aren’t you in line to inherit Lynda’s house?”

  He gave a desolate laugh. “Lynda didn’t leave a will. Everything’ll go through probate. Gus tells me Lynda’s old man is her next of kin, so he’ll probably get whatever she has—including that house.”

  A small wave of sadness washed over Colleen. “But you’ve held onto those songs all these years, Steve. They’re your songs.”

  “They were everything to me once, but all they’ve done is cause problems for me and anyone who got near them.” He drank a cheerless draft. “Time to let them go. Mel is what’s important.”

  Colleen sipped her drink, more than a sip. Maybe Steve was right. “No one will ever sing them like you anyway. They’ll always be yours, no matter who owns them.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the band with no name!”

  The crowd that was jammed into The Pitt broke into a roar as the band churned into a ’60s rocker, Deena’s drums thumping away, the bass throbbing, the guitar dialed up to a meaty crunch, all of which set an infectious groove. Colleen felt the beat deep in her guts, primitive and basic.

  Steve stepped up to the mic, clean-shaven, hair freshly shorn, nice and tight to the sides, looking like a young bull as he pulled the microphone off the stand and flipped it up into the air, caught it in his other hand, generating shouts and cheers. He wore a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, the buttons halfway down, snug-fitting 501s that showed off his workingman’s build, slimmed down by a week in jail, and a confident grin that said he was back in his element.

  He put the mic out to his lips.

  “This one goes out to that lovely lady standing right over there at the bar. Buy her a drink; she’s the reason I’m up here today.”

  People turned to Colleen and cheered. Someone slapped her shoulder and said, “Yeah!” Someone else, “Go girl!”

  And she never felt quite so pleased with the outcome of a case.

  Steve started singing about being in a frenzy. The Lost Chords first number one hit.

  Colleen set her drink down on the bar and clapped along. Despite her beat-up appearance, she was decked out in a leather mini, platform shoes, tight lace top.

  And for a few wonderful minutes, she was free.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  The Torino’s windshield wipers slapped away wet late-night fog as Colleen turned right on Vermont, her ears still buzzing with the ravages of the band with no name. It was well past two thirty in the a.m.

  Her head swam with the drinks people had bought her, and the kiss Steve had planted on her in the alley behind The Pitt that went on for delicious seconds.

  “Fancy comin’ back to my place, love?” he whispered, holding her in a warm clinch. His eyes crinkled.

  As tempting as it was, she needed some alone time. To process.

  “Not tonight,” she said.

  “Fair enough. But I’m holding you to a rematch.”

  “Play your cards right and we’ll see,” she said, winking.

  Now she drove by the front door of her apartment building.

  And then she noticed, with a start, the white van, parked across the street.

  No.

  No.

  Her patience disappeared. She stopped the car, middle of the street, the motor running while she fished around under the dash, grabbed the gym sock that contained the Bersa. Freshly loaded.

  The light pistol had killed at least one man and now felt much heavier in her hand as she flung open the driver’s door and climbed out in her miniskirt, gun down by her side.

  Her platform shoes clomped on the asphalt as she crossed Vermont in a diagonal, heading for the white van. The windshield was smeared with moisture but behind the wheel she could make out a figure in a dark jacket, wearing some sort of hat.

  She got closer.

  He was wearing a knit cap. The same man as before.

  He sat up, mouth open when he saw her coming straight for the front of the van.

  The engine fired up, coughing moisture. The windshield wipers cuffed away two sister arcs, revealing a man in his late twenties, early thirties.

  He moved to put the van into gear.

  She stopped in front of it, brought the gun up, pointed it directly at the windshield, straight into his frozen face.

  “If you move,” she said, loud enough that he could hear her over the engine, through the glass, “I fire.”

  He put the gearshift back into neutral.

  “Put your hands up where I can see them,” she growled.

  His hands went up.

  “Turn the engine off with one hand,” she said. “Then get out of the van.”

  “You’re insane!” he shouted.

  “Yep,” she said, moving the gun to the center of the windshield, away from his head, squeezing off one shot. The pop was followed by a small, neat hole punched through the glass. The rearview mirror shattered. He flinched as glass tinkled around the inside of the cab.

  It only got easier, she realized.

  “Hands up,” she said. “Up! Up! Up!”

  He did. They trembled.

  “Get out of the van,” she said. “Now.”

  The van door creaked open. He stepped out. She held the gun on him, moving between t
he parked van, onto the sidewalk.

  “I’m unarmed,” he said, shaking visibly. “Unarmed!”

  He was heavy and wore orange baggy silk pants that ballooned at the ankles. He had sandals on his big feet.

  “What?” she said, surprised, realizing where he’d come from. “Lose the hat.”

  He pulled the knit hat off with a shaking hand. His head was shaved.

  “You’re from Moon Ranch,” she said. The commune in Point Arenas. Where Pamela was staying. She’d joined the sect and Colleen had been issued a restraining order when she tried to intervene.

  “Please don’t shoot.”

  “What are you doing here, watching me?”

  “Aadhya,” he stammered.

  Aadhya was Pamela’s name at Moon Ranch.

  “Her name is Pamela,” Colleen said. “Pamela.”

  “Sure,” he said. “Sorry.”

  “What about Pamela?” Colleen said.

  “She’s gone. Ran away.”

  A bolt hit Colleen, running up her spine. Her daughter, once brainwashed, had finally run. Yes.

  “And you’re looking for her,” Colleen said. “And you thought she’d come here.”

  “Yes.” He gulped. “I was only following instructions.”

  “That’s why you’ve been watching me. To see if she came home.”

  He nodded quickly.

  “When did Pamela run away?”

  “Last week,” he said.

  A jolt of excitement flowed through Colleen’s guts.

  Pamela. Pamela was free.

  Colleen lowered the gun.

  “Okay,” she said. “Leave. Go.”

  He jerked in surprise. “Okay.”

  “But tell your masters if I see any of you again, I won’t be so kind.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Thank you. Thank you.”

  He hopped back in the van, heaved the door shut, fired up the engine. She stood up on the curb as he threw the vehicle into gear, cut the steering wheel tight, peeled out into the street in a taut 180, squealed off down Vermont, skidding. Then gone.

  Colleen stood there, ears still buzzing, gun by her side.

  Free. Pamela was free.

  But where?

  EPILOGUE

  The unmarked cream-colored Rover sedan pulled up in front of the last house on Windsor Road. The property was a large mock Tudor detached, recently painted white, with an expanse of open space rolling down the hill next to it. The London sun was just rising and picking up the dark glistening green of the wet grass. Fingers crossed, it promised to be a rain-free day.

  “Nice place,” Inspector Grayson said, peering up at the closed curtains upstairs from the passenger seat. He was a middle-aged man with a soft pink face and thinning blond hair. His unimpressive build was hidden in a beige raincoat.

  “You’re in Finchley now, sir,” Campbell said at the wheel, putting on an upper-class accent. “Thatcher Country.”

  “Are the constables in place?”

  “Yes, sir. One around the back. And Higgins for backup.”

  “Higgins the sprinter,” Inspector Grayson said. He craned his neck, peered down the hill. Ah, there she was, long and lean, in her police blues, standing by the playground. Looking smart in a woman’s police bowler, with its red-and-white checked band. Stamping her feet in the cold. He could see her breath. “Very good.”

  “Do you want me to come with you, sir?”

  “No,” Grayson said. “Top brass wants to play it low key.”

  “Typical. He’s got a ‘sir’ in front of his bloody name; he gets special treatment.”

  “I’ll signal if I need help.” Grayson showed two fingers. “Two fingers behind my back.”

  “Right you are, sir. Good luck.”

  “Right.” Inspector Grayson got out of the Rover, adjusted his raincoat.

  Up to the door of Sir Ian Ellis’ house.

  Rang the bell.

  “Who on earth is that?” Sir Ian said, waking up.

  “How should I know?” his wife said, burying her head under the covers. One pink curler stuck out.

  The doorbell rang again.

  “You going to get that or not?” his wife said into her pillow.

  Sir Ian sighed, climbed out of bed, yanked on his dressing gown, stepped into leather slippers. Went over to the window. Pulled the curtain open no more than an inch or two.

  And jumped when he saw the Rover parked out front. A figure at the wheel. He didn’t know anyone with a Rover like that.

  He let the curtain narrow an inch and peered down by the front door.

  Another man he didn’t know, in a raincoat. Looking up now. Squinting. Not smiling.

  Sir Ian’s heart played an unpleasant rhythm. He took a deep breath.

  Friend or foe? He couldn’t imagine them being friends. He didn’t have many to begin with.

  The police.

  “Eloise,” he hissed. “Get up!”

  “What is it now?”

  “The police. At the door. Go tell them I’m not home.”

  “Christ, Ian.” She sat up, looking as rumpled as the bed. “What have you done now?”

  “I don’t know.” But there was plenty to answer for. That bloody Brenda Pike girl. He never should have trusted Ev. Bloody oaf. Ev was going to be his ruin if he wasn’t careful. “Go on—please!”

  “Right.” His wife climbed out of bed, fumbling for her spectacles. She pulled on a fluffy blue robe, frouffy slippers with heels. Went downstairs. Meanwhile, Sir Ian dressed quickly, got his passport, secret stash of money, American Express checks from his locked desk in his study where he kept them in case of emergency. He laced his walking shoes. Threw on a sweater and a car coat, because one never knew where one might end up. All the while he listened. At the front door, Eloise talking to the police.

  “My husband’s not here,” Sir Ian’s wife said.

  Inspector Grayson put his badge away, came out with a warrant. “We have a warrant for his arrest, madam.” Behind his back he showed two fingers. He immediately heard the crackle of the police radio in the car, then Campbell getting out to assist.

  “But my husband’s not here!” Sir Ian’s wife shrieked, a little too loud. Sending a signal? “You can’t come in! Do you have any idea who we are?”

  Upstairs, that was all Ian needed to hear. Time to leg it. He ran to the back of the house, scrutinized the backyard from behind a curtain.

  Down there by the shed at the back, a police constable. Bloody hell. Ian took a deep breath as his heart hammered, then dashed into the next bedroom, the one over the garage. It was a bit of a jump from there to freedom, but he could manage it. How many times, in his mind, had he planned this? Now the time had come.

  He should never had used Ev again, not after he killed that silly girl for him. Tried to pin it on Steve Cook.

  While the police entered the house downstairs, he quietly cranked open the window, stepped out onto the narrow ledge over one side of the garage. Feet slipping on wet stucco. Not a good feeling. Not at all.

  The constable by the shed saw him. Came quickly toward him.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Bit of an emergency!” Sir Ian shouted. “The house is on fire.”

  “I don’t think so,” he said drily, picking up his feet into a run.

  There was a bushy hedge over the tall fence, next to the park. Ian was ready as he’d ever be. He was already plotting how to get to Wales. Then the boat to Dublin. Then, who knew where? If nothing else, he’d be rid of Eloise. Small mercies.

  It crossed his mind that he was about to do what Steve Cook did all those years ago. Flee. A chill of realization shuddered through him.

  “Sorry, laddie!” One story up, Sir Ian jumped off the ledge, just missing the fence, thank God. Landed on the hedge on the other side and it heaved with his weight, dumping him unceremoniously on the grass. Ouch. Rougher than he liked, but his fall was broken. Leg throbbing. Nothing else, he didn’t think. He was in luc
k.

  He got up, panting.

  The police constable in his garden on the other side of the fence was on his radio now. “He’s done a runner! Jumped the flippin’ fence! Heading for the commons.”

  Sir Ian actually laughed as he tore down the common space toward the playground. It would take more than PC Plod to stop him. Still a trick or two left up old Ian’s sleeve.

  And froze when he saw a beanpole of a police constable, female, coming at him like a whirlwind. A police radio in her hand. She raised it as she ran.

  “Got ’im!” she shouted in a South London accent. Her checked hat flew off.

  Good Lord!

  Ian spun, frantic. He aimed for the other side of the park. Hendon Lane beyond. It would have to do.

  And ran for all he was worth. Which wasn’t much, compared to the thumping strides of the gazelle looming up behind him.

  “Stop! Police!”

  He did not heed her words.

  She leapt on him from behind, grabbed him, twisting him hard, taking him down to the wet grass with a wallop that ended with a pop somewhere in his shoulder. Now that did hurt.

  “Good morning, sunshine!” she said in his ear. She had minty breath.

  His head rang with the impact. And up the hill, coming toward them, he could hear the other officers whooping with glee.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Years ago, a homicide detective on the San Francisco Peninsula told me of a harrowing murder case he was working that involved outlaw bikers and an unfortunate individual who fell afoul of them. Among the people caught up in the investigation were a runaway teenage girl from the Midwest and her distraught parent with a dark past who came out to California looking for her. It didn’t take long for me to realize that here was a character who could almost write her own story. Enter Colleen Hayes.

  Thank you for reading Tie Die. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did writing it. If you liked the book, please consider leaving a review on Amazon or the social platform of your choice, and tell your friends about books and authors you enjoy. It really makes a difference to those of us sitting in darkened rooms, banging out stories about people who never really existed doing things that never really happened, except in our imaginations. You are, after all, the reason we do this. I truly like to hear from readers as well and you can stay in touch with me and follow Colleen’s latest exploits on my website, listed below. Another Colleen Hayes mystery is on the way.