Drink With The Devil

by David Woods

  “Hello, Jim. How are you?”

  “Could be better.”

  “I’ve been on site checking your story, and had a bit of luck. We found the cudgel used to lay you out. Hair still stuck to the rusty scaffold pipe matched yours.”

  Jim brightened up considerably. “That’s good.”

  “Yes. Not only that, but we interviewed some of the occupants of the new houses last night. One of the men whom we hadn’t talked to before said he saw two men running from the scene.”

  “Why didn’t he say so before?”

  “He said he’d been away on business. The other news is that the car registration number belongs to a private investigator called Simpson and he’s gone missing in a hurry, leaving half his furniture behind.”

  “So it looks a lot better for me?”

  “Yes. But you’re not in the clear yet?”

  “No. What about the Osborne murders?”

  “Sergeant Pratt is too keen on promotion. He cooked up that story about Briggs, implicating you in an effort to make you confess.”

  “So I won’t be charged with their murders?”

  “No. You won’t.”

  Jim heaved a sigh of relief and then frowned as he asked. “What’s been done about Rosie’s funeral?”

  “I understand her son and daughter organised it.”

  “When?”

  “She was cremated two days ago.”

  Jim returned to his cell relieved that things were looking much better, but sad that he missed Rosie’s funeral. He thought about her a lot that night, dreaming she was still at home waiting for him.

  The next morning dragged by slowly with Jim waiting for more news. At last it came in the afternoon when the chief inspector visited his cell and broke the good news. “The murder charge has been dropped and you’re free to go.”

  “That’s fantastic. Thank you very much.” Jim shook his hand enthusiastically and gratefully. The inspector grimaced as his hand felt as though it had been gripped in a vice. Jim relaxed his hold. “Sorry about that.”

  “Never mind.”

  “Thank God you came back from holiday when you did.”

  “Yes. I’m sorry about the treatment you received.”

  “That’s all over now.”

  “I hope so.”

  “You don’t sound too sure.”

  “There are still two men out there who want me dead.”

  “Yes. And I’d like to know why.”

  “Keep me informed if you spot anyone suspicious. And be very careful.”

  “I will.”

  Jim ran up the steps and stood outside the police station, breathing in deeply, looking up at the clear sky and feeling the sun warming his face. He was feeling good, with renewed energy surging through his body, but when a hand tapped him on the shoulder he turned to face Sergeant Pratt.

  “You bastard. I’ll get you, if it takes me the rest of my life.”

  He walked off, leaving Jim confused and wondering why the man was so bitter. A police car drew up a minute or two later with an officer beckoning him to get in, and he found himself beside the girl who took his hair sample. She brought him up-to-date with the news as they travelled towards Kingston, dropping him off outside the small terraced house which he entered and stood in the hallway. Suddenly the kitchen door burst open and Jim realised immediately that the small lady facing him, a much younger version of Rosie, was her daughter.

  Her expression changed to a scowl at the sight of Jim. “What the bloody ’ell d’you want, you murdering bastard? How can you have the cheek to come back here, after killing my mum and that poor man in the fire?”

  Jim was shocked and stood still. When she had let off steam he asked quietly, “How d’you know who I am?”

  “The police told me you were on your way here.”

  “Oh, I see.” He thought for a minute while she looked him up and down, and spoke softly again. “Thank you for organising Rosie’s funeral.”

  She went red and spluttered. “You, thank me! She was my mother, what else was I to do? Now pack your things and clear off.”

  Jim turned and saw letters on the front mat, several addressed to him. He picked them up and went up to his bedroom. The room was strewn with his clothes, the chest of drawers left open and the bed was tipped on its side. He tidied up and then sat down to open his mail. The first letter he opened was from a firm of solicitors and enclosed a copy of Rosie’s will, which he read through slowly. He was amazed to find she had left the house and all its contents to him. The memory of her and her kindness filled his eyes with tears, and he sat on his bed racked with grief again, but his thoughts were soon shattered by a shout up the stairs.

  “Come on, you murdering pig. Get a move on.”

  Jim rose and walked slowly downstairs clutching the letter and copy of the will, handing it to the red-faced woman who hissed, “What’s this?”

  “Your mother’s will. You’d better read it.”

  She read it quickly and then, screaming, threw it to the floor. “That evil old bitch didn’t leave me anything.”

  Jim just watched and listened as the woman went berserk, calling her mother all the names she could think of, and many of which he had not heard before. Then she turned to him, “You murdering bastard, you forced her to write that will.” Suddenly she ran at him with small fists lashing at his body. Jim just held both her forearms still as she struggled, walked her backwards into the front room and plonked her down into a chair. She was silenced by his strength and listened to his husky voice.

  “You can take anything you want, and then leave.”

  She looked nervously at him. “I’ve already taken what I want.” Jim looked around the room and noticed a lot of ornaments missing.

  “So I see.”

  “I’ve taken her clothes and things from the bedroom.”

  “Good. I’m sure she really would have wanted you to have them.” Jim watched the sad-looking woman leave through the back door, and thought how different she was compared to her mother.

  Jim spent the rest of the day cleaning up the house and then went to his local pub for a meal, which he ate alone while thinking about his future plans. He liked the old terraced house and decided he would stay for the time being, but was worried about his company and about what had happened in his absence. He went to bed early, slept soundly and late, with no Rosie to wake him up. The house seemed empty and silent as he searched for something to eat. The small kitchen smelt musty and stale, and he was pleased to get out into the fresh air. He had breakfast in a transport cafe on the way to the building site, parking his car in the usual place, and then walking into the office.

  Oliver leapt to his feet and strode forward, hand outstretched. “Jim, how very nice to see you.”

  “Oliver. What are you doing here?”

  “Minding the shop whilst you were temporarily absent.”

  “That’s very good of you. So you’ve managed to keep things going?”

  “Yes with Billy’s help.”

  “What did you use for money?”

  “I gave the company a temporary loan.”

  “You’ve paid the wages from your own pocket?”

  “Well I knew you’d be back shortly.”

  Jim shuddered, realising how close he’d come to letting Oliver down.

  Billy joined them and shook hands warmly before expressing his sorrow about Rosie.

  “I feel very guilty about telling her you were dead.”

  “You had to tell her something before she read it in the newspapers.”

  “That’s what I thought. But look what happened.”

  “You couldn’t have known she had a weak heart.”

  “No I didn’t know.”

  Jim did not know either, but it helped to relieve Billy’s guilt. They chatted at length about progress on the site and future plans. Oliver joined in and voiced his opinion.

  Jim looked at his old friend and said. “Will you stay a bit longer?”

 
“Yes. If you want me to. I’ve enjoyed being involved in business again.”

  “Good. There are several things I need to do, and the most important is to get fit again. At the moment I feel like a limp rag.”

  Billy grinned. “There’s plenty of hod carrying to do.”

  “That’s what I had in mind. The second thing is to find another site. We could be out of here in six months.”

  Oliver broke in. “That’s true. We’re ahead of schedule, but more important the houses are all sold.”

  “Really? How did we manage that?”

  “All the publicity you attracted with stories in the newspapers brought the customers flocking in. They all paid deposits on condition we complete on time.”

  “Good. So we aren’t short of money?”

  Oliver grinned. “I am.”

  “Not for long.”

  Jim wrote out a cheque paying back the loan with interest, and made an arrangement for Oliver to sign the company cheques in case he was away again. In the afternoon he walked around the site. All the men greeted him with enthusiasm, and he thanked them all for standing by him. He left early to do some shopping and arrange for the milkman to call again.

  The next morning he was the first to arrive on site, immediately setting to work hod-carrying, using the standard size first and progressing to his own massive hod three days later. He worked all day on site and stayed in the office until late in the evenings, rushing back to his local pub where he had arranged to have a meal ready every night. After a week of strenuous work his body felt like old times, hard and muscular. After having worked all the next week in late summer sunshine, his face and body had become bronzed and he looked the picture of health.

  At the end of the second week he was working on the edge of the site, when a voice from behind a hedge attracted his attention. “Hello mate. I had a body like yours once.”

  Jim walked across to see an old man looking over the top of the hedge. “Hello. How are you?” He said cheerfully.

  “Not too bad, considering me age. When I was your age I used to lift two hundredweight sacks of wheat up the granary steps.”

  Jim listened and noticed the man’s bowed legs as he leaned against a stick and that he was obviously not able to stand up straight. He also noticed his swollen knuckles and wrists, and wondered what he looked like when he was younger. Maybe all that lifting he had mentioned caused his present problems, he thought.

  The old man eventually stopped talking, looking slowly around the meadow and then back at Jim. His voice was shaky. “D’you think your boss would be interested in buying this field? I can’t manage it anymore and I’ve got no sons.”

  Jim looked at the flat grassland, which was situated between his building site and a main road.

  “How many acres have you got there?”

  “Exactly twenty.”

  “Well, I think Grainger Construction would be interested.”

  “Good. I’ll come round and see your boss.”

  “You’ve been talking to him.”

  The old man laughed. “Well I’ll be darned. Nice to see a modern boss not afraid of manual work.”

  Jim went to see him at the weekend and agreed terms based on the best agricultural price. The old man knew Jim would try to build houses on the ground and wished him good luck. Oliver started negotiations with the Council and they agreed to keep an open mind, pending an application for planning permission.

  One morning Jim rang Chief Inspector Green. “Have you found those two villains yet?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “What about Simpson?”

  “No sign of him either.”

  “Oh dear. Are you still trying?”

  “Yes. I’ve got Sergeant Pratt on it.”

  “Have you really? Goodbye.”

  Jim got Oliver and Billy together. “I’ll be taking some time off. Can you carry on?”

  Oliver answered. “No problem. It’s about time you had some holiday.”

  Billy knew better. “Jim’s not having a holiday. I bet he’ll be looking for those villains.”

  Jim nodded. “I’ll have a go. The police have got nowhere, and with Pratt looking they never will. I can’t just leave it at that. After all, it’s their fault that Rosie died, so I owe it to her to try.”

  Oliver looked seriously at Jim. “Don’t forget these men are very dangerous.”

  “Yes, they are. But I don’t want to be looking over my shoulder for ever, waiting for them to attack.”

  * * *

  Garry emerged from a long meeting with his estimators and surveyors, having agreed prices for contract tenders. He was tired and looking forward to going home for a nice meal, but when the telephone rang in his office, he found himself talking to Webster, the solicitor.

  “Hello, Mr. Osborne. Sorry to call so late but I thought you ought to know the latest news about Grainger Construction.”

  “Oh yes. “What’s that?”

  “They won’t be selling in the foreseeable future.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Charges against Grainger were dropped this afternoon.”

  “What? I don’t believe it.”

  “It’s true I can assure you.”

  “They can’t do that. The bastard is guilty.”

  “They have. And it’ll be in the papers tomorrow.”

  Garry slammed down the receiver in a rage, his whole body shaking with anger. He thumped his desk with clenched fists and cursed out loud.

  His anger was so intense it affected his whole body, which trembled uncontrollably; tears welled up in his eyes and the muscles in his throat contracted, making speech impossible. Half an hour passed with him leaning on his desk, his thoughts ranging from how badly he had been cheated to his hatred of Grainger — the very thought or sound of that name caused him convulsions.

  Some time later, after lowering his brandy bottle, he picked up the receiver to find Jane standing a bit angry. “Garry, when are you coming home for dinner?”

  “Er, right away dear,” he slurred.

  “Have you been drinking again?”

  “No dear,” he lied.

  “Yes, you have. I’m coming to get you.”

  “If you must.” He put the telephone down and paced up and down the office, feeling ill but still drinking.

  Jane walked in half an hour later, unafraid of him but just angry, and this time she was determined to stand up to him. Her face was set firm as she confronted him.

  “Why are you drinking yourself silly again?”

  “I’m sorry, dear.”

  “Sorry. You’re bloody pathetic. What’s happened this time?”

  “Nothing, dearest.”

  “Nothing. So you’re drinking for nothing now, are you? Now you listen to me. Our marriage has been over for some time, but you’re supposed to be running my father’s company. If you start drinking like you did before, I’ll come back and stand over you every day.”

  Garry sat down heavily, shocked by her forceful speech and cleared his throat, speaking as clearly as he could. “You’ve made your point. I’ll stop drinking and concentrate on work.”

  “We’ll see.” She drove him home and placed a warmed-up dinner in front of him, which he picked at for a while and then went to his bedroom.

  When she read the paper the next morning, Jane threw it down in front of Garry, who was picking at his breakfast. “So that’s what it’s all about. Because they’ve let Grainger out.”

  He picked up the paper slowly, trying to stay calm, and read the story which made him want to shout out loud, but he managed to restrain himself. Even young William stopped eating his cereal as he watched his father’s face.

  Jane drove Garry to work and warned him as he got out of the car. “You will remember what I said, won’t you? And don’t forget one more act of violence towards me and I’ll leave you. And take William with me.”

  Garry stormed off without even glancing at her.

  Chapter Twent
y-Two

  Jim sat in his favourite chair, trying to work out how he would set about finding the two villains who had managed to avoid the police for a long time. It would be difficult if not impossible and his only hope was Simpson, the private investigator, who had suddenly vacated his London flat. Where would he go? He thought about the problem for a while, and then decided the best person to find a private investigator would be another in the same business, but where did one find such a person? Just at that moment the local paper was pushed through the letterbox He searched the advertisements and in the personal column found N. Powell, and immediately rang the local telephone number.

  Simpson answered, “Powell here. Private investigator.”

  “Hello, Mr. Powell. I’ve a job for you.”

  “Oh, yes. And what’s that?”

  “I want you to find a private investigator for me.”

  “You’re pulling my leg?”

  “No, I’m serious. The man I need to find is a private investigator.”

  “Oh, I see. In that case we’d better meet and discuss the case.”

  “Right. The sooner the better. How about this morning?”

  “Shall we meet for coffee? There’s a cafe I know just outside Kingston. I didn’t catch your name, Sir.”

  “Jim Grainger.”

  “Grainger?”

  The telephone went dead. Jim tried the number again but it was engaged, and he sat down puzzled by the man’s reaction, and wondering why the phone was put down at the mention of his name. Perhaps he had read about the murder and was frightened in case he would be the next victim? No, surely not. He picked up the telephone directory and found several N. Powells, but none with the same number. He thought for a while, wondering why a man would advertise himself and choose to be ex-directory at the same time, but then perhaps it was a new number. He rang the operator, to be informed it was a new number, and he also managed to obtain the address.

  Jim jumped in his pick-up and drove to the other side of town, easily finding the small block of flats, where he ran up the steps and thumped heavily on the door. It was opened slowly and then pushed shut, but Jim had his boot in, shoved it open and walked in. The fat man was picking himself up off the floor, Jim towering over him and silently observing the nervous look he was receiving. Both men were silent for a few seconds and Jim spoke first.