by Peter Boland
Sylvia looked blank. “No idea. I think he genuinely cared for her. You can tell the people who visit because they think they have to and the ones who visit because they want to. He definitely wanted to be there.”
“So his father wasn’t aware Ben was visiting her until you started working there?”
“That’s correct.”
“And Ben didn’t know his father was keeping tabs on his meetings with Jenny.”
“I don’t think so.”
Tannaz cleared her throat. “Was Jenny murdered? Actually, I’ll rephrase the question, why was Jenny murdered?”
Sylvia’s big brown eyes pleaded with Tannaz. “Please don’t ask me that,” she gasped.
“I have to. I swear this conversation stays between us. I won’t tell a soul.”
Sylvia clasped her hands again. “This man, Simon Wellington, he will kill me.”
“I know, that’s why I won’t tell him. You have my word.”
Sylvia swallowed hard and took a deep, tense breath. “The day after you visited Jenny, someone called me on this phone and told me not to go near her room between the hours of one and four in the morning. I was to go in and check on her like I regularly do at seven o’clock, just before breakfast.”
“And that’s when you found her dead.”
“Yes.”
“Someone had come in the night and killed her?”
Sylvia nodded, tears falling from eyes. “Her neck was broken.”
“Nobody got suspicious?”
“Many elderly people break their necks when they fall. Happens all the time.”
“And do you think Simon Wellington killed her because of the things she was saying about him killing her daughter?”
She continued to nod, wiping her eyes with the heels of her hands. “At first, she never mentioned him. Then maybe once or twice, but more and more she spoke of him, and what he did. In the week before you came, she became obsessed, talked about it almost non-stop. Ranted about it to whoever would listen. I tried to calm her, keep her quiet, because I knew what would happen. Simon Wellington would shut her up.” Fresh tears spilled from Sylvia’s eyes.
Tannaz sat beside Sylvia on the stairs and took her by the hand. “You didn’t kill her, Sylvia. That evil bastard Wellington did.”
“I told him about Jenny and her outbursts.”
“You had no choice.”
“I could have refused. Told him I didn’t want his job. Or said nothing.”
“Well, then it could very well be you lying dead at the end of your bed. Thing is, Sylvia, we think Simon Wellington killed some of our friends too. And we want to make sure he doesn’t do it again.”
“Who did he kill?”
“Have you heard of someone called Dave Mosely?”
Sylvia shook her head.
“Luke Mosely?”
Sylvia shook her head.
Tannaz said, “We need information. We just haven’t got enough to figure out what he’s up to, or to prove what he’s done. Do you know anything about Simon Wellington that could help us?”
Sylvia looked at the floor, clearly reluctant to answer.
“You have my word none of this will get back to him, and we won’t tell the police. I swear on the Holy Mother and everything else you believe in.”
Sylvia gulped back a mouthful of air and let it out slowly. “He gets people to do things for him.”
“What sort of things? Things like you’re doing?”
“No, I’m lucky. I’ve heard sometimes he forces people to do horrible things.”
“What sort of things?”
“Nasty things.”
“I’ve heard this too. I can’t seem to find out what it is or why. No one talks about it.”
“That’s because, like me, everyone has something to lose. Like his tenants. He could make them homeless.”
“Section twenty-one.”
Sylvia nodded. “Yes, section twenty-one. He uses it like a weapon. They can be out, like that.” She snapped her fingers. “Losing your home, no matter how bad, people will do anything to have a home, anything. Fear of living on the street, good way to keep people quiet. And even if they did say something, no one would believe them.”
Tannaz smiled as reassuringly as she could, then got up to leave. “Don’t worry, Sylvia. We’re on your side.” Tannaz held up her phone screen, showing her number. “Send me a text, then we’ll have each other’s numbers. You can call me if you need help or remember anything else.”
Sylvia tensed up, reluctance written all over her face.
“Come on, Sylvia, you don’t have many allies in this. All I’m asking for is your number, so I can contact you. Where’s the harm in that? And you can call me if you need anything, or if you’re worried about something.”
Sylvia fidgeted, then punched Tannaz’s number into her phone and sent her a text.
Tannaz’s phoned pinged as the text arrived. She smiled and turned to go.
“One more thing,” said Sylvia. “Simon Wellington’s son, Ben. He is nothing like his father.”
“Thanks, Sylvia. And if you need anything, anything at all, you call me, okay?”
Sylvia nodded. Tannaz closed the door and stepped onto the street.
Now she had Sylvia’s number she could hack her phone and find out exactly who’d been calling her every Friday, and possibly the person whom Wellington had ordered to murder Jenny Hopkins.
If they could get to him, they could get to Wellington.
Chapter 27
Tannaz sat across from Savage in the same retro tearoom in Southampton—the place they’d drunk tea with Luke when he was still alive.
Buttery smooth big-band sounds of Glen Miller filled the bunting-strewn air. A waitress in a red wraparound dress and hair like Lana Turner, smiled and plonked a large, blue teapot in front of them. If it wasn’t for the nose ring and tattoos, she’d have looked like she’d stepped straight out of the Blitz.
Tannaz rapidly relayed everything Sylvia Sanchez had said, almost word for word.
“Okay,” said Savage. “So Simon Wellington had Jenny killed because of what she was saying, not because we showed up asking questions.”
“Yes,” replied Tannaz. “Sylvia said she had become more obsessed, ranting about Simon Wellington killing her daughter before we even visited her.”
Savage poured steaming tea into his cup. “So if Wellington had Sylvia to keep tabs on Jenny, why was Ben Wellington seeing her regularly and contributing to her keep? He hasn’t even got enough money for his own family.”
Tannaz took a sip of black coffee. “Maybe Wellington was being thorough. Ben befriends her, gets her to open up to him, while Sylvia’s there to keep an eye on her day-to-day.”
Savage poured in the milk and gave his tea a stir, gazing into the swirling liquid as if the answer lay there. “Like Sylvia said, Wellington would be doubling up, two people doing the same job. And if it was true, why would Jenny open up to the son of a man who killed her daughter?”
“Maybe she didn’t know who he was.”
Tannaz looked out the steamed-up window, an industrial hazard in a place where tea is served all day. She turned back to Savage and said, “Well, one good thing we’ve learnt, we’re still under the radar as far as Simon Wellington is concerned. Sylvia never got to file the report about us sniffing around the nursing home.”
“She could still say something to Simon Wellington. Rat us out.”
Tannaz shook her head. “No way, she’s too frightened of being deported. She won’t say anything.”
“Where did Sylvia’s mobile phone lead you?”
“I hacked it and found the withheld number that called her every Friday, belongs to a guy goes by the name of Bluetooth, real name Kieran Preston, shaved head, always has a headset plugged into his ear. Now t
his guy is definitely on the payroll for Wellington. Guy never leaves his side, drives him around, kind of bodyguard slash personal assistant.”
“Any pictures, background on him?”
“None. So I’m guessing Kieran Preston isn’t his real name.” Tannaz drained her black coffee. “So what do we do next?”
“Stick with the plan. Wait and see.”
Tannaz put her cup down a little too hard, making the cutlery on the table jump. “Surely we have enough to go to the police now. We have Sylvia Sanchez. She was tipped off about Jenny’s murder. Told to stay away from her room. We have Bluetooth, we can prove there’s a connection between him and Sylvia. We have Ben Wellington paying for Jenny’s nursing home and his visits. There’s plenty of evidence. More than enough.”
“It’s not good enough, and it won’t work.”
Frustration flicked across Tannaz’s face. “Why the hell not? We could put Wellington away with all that.”
“Firstly, Sylvia won’t testify because she’s here illegally and you said it yourself, like everyone we meet, she’s terrified of Simon Wellington. Secondly, she knew something was going down with Jenny’s murder, she got a tip off and she did nothing, she’d be incriminating herself, involving herself in the plot to kill Jenny. That’s if the police believe there was a plot and it’s not just an old lady tripping and breaking her neck in the night. Thirdly, this won’t lead to Wellington being convicted. If they do prove it was murder, he’ll have ring-fenced himself from all this. Wellington will have one of his low-level minions set up to take the fall.”
“What about Sylvia’s phone? The call records can be traced back to Wellington.”
“Did Wellington give her that phone?”
“No, it was Bluetooth.”
“And I’m guessing it’s a burner.”
“Correct.”
“Then there’s no connection to Wellington.”
Tannaz picked up a teaspoon and gripped it hard. “We know that’s a load of crap. It’s obvious he was keeping tabs on Jenny to see if anyone was believing her story about him killing her daughter.”
“Sure, we know that. Can we prove it? There’s a motive, sure, but Wellington’s smart. There are too many holes for Wellington to wriggle through.”
“Like what?”
“Like his son, Ben. He’s the one who visited Jenny every week, contributed to her nursing bills. Hell, knowing what Wellington’s like he might even set up his own son to take the fall. Throw him under the bus if this thing comes back on him. Then there’s Bluetooth, he’s the one who was in contact with Sylvia, not Wellington. Remember, Wellington is a multi-millionaire, he’ll have a team of elite lawyers coming up with far better arguments than this. So far he’s kept his hands clean. He’ll get off. I’ve seen it before. The chances of nailing him are slim, and that all depends on Sylvia Sanchez giving evidence, which is highly unlikely.”
“Lots of people at that nursing home must have heard Jenny accusing Wellington of murder.”
“They heard someone with dementia ranting about a man who killed their daughter. It’s not strong enough.”
They both fell silent.
Tannaz spoke, quietly with an edge of disappointment. “So what do we do?”
“Same as we’ve been doing. We watch and wait, gather more intel until we have enough to nail Wellington. My gut is telling me this is just the tip of the iceberg. The more we have on this guy, the more we can make it stick. If we jump the gun now, all we’ll do is alert Wellington that we’re on to him. What we’ve got at the moment is flimsy at best. Once he knows we’re asking questions, it’ll disappear altogether.”
Tannaz slumped down in her chair, all the air leaving her lungs in one almighty sigh. “And if that fails?”
“Plan B.”
“What’s Plan B?”
“We take matters into our own hands.”
Tannaz sat upright, more interested. “I think I prefer the sound of that. Can’t we do that now?”
“Not until we know more. And Plan B is a last resort, if all else fails. We need to know everything about Wellington if we’re going to outsmart him. That’s the way of the SAS. Ninety-nine percent surveillance. One percent action. Minimise risk. Maximise success.” Savage took a long slug of tea, gulped it down in one go. “One other thing.”
“What?” asked Tannaz.
“You said that Sylvia Sanchez mentioned that Ben Wellington is nothing like his father.”
“That’s right.”
“Do you think you’d be able to hack Simon Wellington’s solicitors, get a peek at his will?”
“I’m pretty sure I could. Most wills are stored digitally these days as well as hard copy. Why do you want to see his will?”
“Might be something. Might be nothing.”
Chapter 28
Tannaz dropped off Savage in Northam, an industrial area near to St Mary’s football stadium on the banks of the River Itchen. From there he crossed the Itchen Bridge, a slender concrete structure reaching over a mucky industrial stretch of water. In the distance he could see Fawley oil refinery, rising up like some futuristic city with the New Forest behind it.
The tide was out and even though the temperature was only a few degrees above freezing, the exposed foreshore sent a stench of effluent and rotting weeds to his olfactory nerves. As he got half way across the bridge he saw two hardy souls rowing into the wind, their sleek rowing boat doing its best to cut through the chop. The sight of the two rowers, a sport associated with private education, dreaming spires and prestigious universities, seemed at odds with the factories along the banks of the river. The area was a warren of rundown units nudging up against the filthy water to make the most of the cheap land. Their days were numbered, though. In the distance he could see cranes where the low-rent commercial properties were being swallowed up and transformed into luxury high-rise waterfront flats. Most of them probably being bought as an investment and left empty. Ironic, seeing that where he was going, people were living in HMOs packed into buildings that should’ve been condemned long ago.
A short walk into the cold, biting breeze and he was back in Thornhill. As he opened the front door to Tivoli Gardens, giving it a shove with his shoulder, he noticed Rosie standing in the doorway to her bedroom. She held a butter knife in her hand, attempting to use the tip as a makeshift screwdriver, attacking the screws that attached the flat metal strike plate to the doorjamb. The butter knife slipped out of her hands and Rosie swore. She stood upright, wiped her brow which was glistening with sweat even though the hallway of Tivoli Gardens held a chill. Her reddened face looked irritable and angry.
Without thinking, Savage asked, “Need a hand?” He instantly wished he hadn’t because he already knew how she would answer.
Scooping up the knife from the floor, Rosie stabbed at the screws of the strike plate, trying desperately to make the blunt end find purchase on the countersunk screwheads. “Nope. I’m fine,” she said abruptly, as the knife slipped out again. “Damn it!” she shouted.
“What are you trying to do?” asked Savage. “Maybe I can help.”
Once more she snatched up the knife and held it threateningly, pointing outward in Savage’s direction. “I said I don’t need your help. I’m quite capable of doing it myself.”
“Okay, fair enough,” said Savage. “Whatever you’re trying to do might be easier with a proper screwdriver.”
“Do you have one?”
“No, but…”
“Well, you’re no help. Please leave me alone now.” Rosie went back to trying and failing to loosen the screws in the doorframe.
Defeated, Savage turned and climbed the stairs.
“That went well,” said Jeff.
In his head, Savage told him to shut up and continued his ascent.
“Definitely hiding something, that Rosie. I’d say several
things. So defensive. Didn’t you see the desperation in her eyes? Like she wanted you to help but didn’t at the same time. Didn’t want to be in the debt of a man like you. That’s understandable. I mean look at you. Such a loser. She’s got you bang to rights. Poor woman is surrounded by dodgy blokes. Damaged goods. Psychos, weirdos and addicts. Bet she’s scared stiff, day and night, especially with that pretty daughter of hers and all these men thinking dirty thoughts about what they’d like to do to her.”
“Shut up, Jeff,” Savage said.
“I will shut up. But you know it’s true. I bet you’ve had those same thoughts.”
“That’s enough, Jeff! You know, sometimes I wish you were a real person.”
“Why’s that?”
“So I could punch you in the head until you’re unconscious and dump you in that stinking river we’ve just crossed.”
“Once a psycho, always a psycho,” Jeff said triumphantly. “You fit right in here, don’t you?”
Savage ignored him. By the time he reached the uppermost landing, Jeff had thankfully lost interest in goading him. The voice in his head fell silent and Savage breathed a sigh of relief. He pushed his key in the lock, gave it a turn and entered his tiny bedroom.
The Jam album was still lying on the bed where he left it. He swooped it up in his hands and brushed off the tiny crumbs of hash and bits of weed. Sacrilegious to use such a classic album for nothing better than rolling joints.
Savage examined the sleeve. The iconic shot of the three members of The Jam standing below the band name, graffitied on white tiles above, their faces so young, so familiar to Savage. He slid the record out of its sleeve, his fingertips holding it gently by its edges. Lifting it up to the light he expected it to be scratched or warped. Surprisingly, the pressing was still pristine. The tight black circular grooves glistened in the dull light. Something magical about vinyl. He sniffed its surface. The aroma of black plastic instantly transported him back to his teenage bedroom. The excitement of buying a new album. Slotting it onto a turntable and hearing the thump of the needle as it dropped onto the record, then the delicious crackle as it found the groove. The anticipation of waiting for the first song to start. It was a ritual, like making tea, it couldn’t be hurried, and only heightened the senses.
