Jenny Parker Investigates

by D J Harrison

  It’s the fact that I was able to treat myself for the first time in ages that makes my coat so special. I bought it at a tiny shop in Kirkby Lonsdale when I’d taken Toby out for the day and couldn’t think of anything to do other than go for a drive in the Lune Valley. It was so expensive, nearly three hundred pounds, that I’d become breathless and sweaty at the thought of spending all that money on a coat when I had several perfectly serviceable ones already. I’ve never regretted it, though. My coat is wonderful and I deserve it.

  The other coat is only a few paces ahead of me, I hang back, make some distance. I’m in no mood to connect with someone who might want to compare clothing, she’ll only tell me how she bought her coat in a sale for fifty quid and then I’ll never feel good about mine again. Now I’m a bit closer, I realise her coat isn’t exactly the same as mine, it lacks the detailing around the pockets, the hood is a bit shapeless and floppy, the fabric isn’t the same quality as I know mine to be. I guess it’s a cheap mass market equivalent, she probably did pay fifty quid for it, and I’m still happy with my choice.

  I hear a squeal of tyres, a big car comes hurtling around the corner, heading down the line of parked cars towards me. It’s going much too fast, hardly manages to make the turn, seems out of control, sliding on the wet road surface. Instinctively, I duck into the gap between two cars. I hear a piercing scream, a soft thud. A loose trolley comes clattering past followed by the car which is now going even faster. The headlight nearest to me is smashed. I glimpse two men in the car as it hurtles past, slides around the bottom of the row and speeds towards the exit. In what seems a brief moment, it’s gone.

  When I emerge from my sanctuary, a small group of people is gathered around the fallen figure. The adjacent car has its front smashed in. The woman lies awkwardly, head at an unnatural angle, still, lifeless. She’s wearing my coat.

  Shocked, I turn away, walk slowly back to my car. As I tread nervously, looking over my shoulder at frequent intervals, cowering at the sound of any car, I replay the incident in my head. I hear the tyres squeal, feel the terribly soft thud as her body was broken, watch the grim-faced men as they make their escape.

  My coat. She’s wearing my coat. That’s what killed her, it was my coat. It should have been me, they were after me. I know it. My thoughts make me hurry, my legs feel weak, hardly able to propel me back to my car.

  As I pull the solid door shut and sit in the protective steel, I begin to cry. Desperate sobs convulse me, I can’t control myself. My whole system is shut down, all I can do is heave and shudder, feel the anguish. I sit transfixed until I’m roused from my catatonic state by flashing blue lights.

  When I get home, I take off my lovely coat, fold it neatly, place it in a black plastic bin liner, take it downstairs and throw it in the dustbin.

  Whenever I close my eyes, I see the woman’s sightless eyes staring accusingly at me from inside her fur-trimmed hood.

  38

  ‘You’re very clever.’ Alex hovers over the bed, holding a mug of tea. He obviously thinks I’ve decided to wake up. He’s wrong. I try a tired sigh and turn over, burying my head in his pillow.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about what you did, very smart and brave.’

  I let him talk. I don’t feel clever and I’m certainly not brave enough to tell him about the woman in the Tesco car park. He started off with clever and brave, maybe he’ll get round to some attributes I want to hear like passionate, sexy, beautiful, desirable. There are plenty for him to choose from.

  He clunks the mug on the bedside table, sits softly on the bed and places his hands on the only bit of me left exposed, my neck and head. I feel his warmth and my whole body stirs with longing.

  ‘Sending them that computer disc with the tracker, that’s a brilliant piece of work, I don’t know how you thought of it.’

  I love his gentle touch, but I wish he would stop talking and come back to bed.

  ‘On the one hand they get a peace offering from you, something that ought to get them off your back. On the other, you find where they are, you get the upper hand. Brilliant.’

  I don’t feel like I have the upper hand, they’re still out to get me and can kill me any time they like. The tracker idea is looking more foolhardy by the minute. Something is badly wrong, either they know I’m trying to find them or they’re not the ones who stole the lorry. Could they be the ones who owned it, and they’ve got the idea from somewhere that I’m implicated in its theft? The more I think about it the more I realise I must be missing something. They asked me why I stole their lorry. Why would they do that? Were they the ones George took the disc to, or not? Maybe they did check the disc and see that it was blank? Now I wonder how that must seem to them. Was the message they got the one I intended?

  I’ve been having my first proper sleep since the accident at Tesco and I’m not finished. I don’t care if they’re wondering where I am at the office. It’s Saturday, surely I’m allowed a day off once in a while. A pang of guilt stabs me, then I struggle back to life and sit up.

  ‘What time is it?’ I ask.

  ‘Eleven-thirty.’ Alex smiles as if proud of the good job his bed has been doing.

  ‘Shit.’ I can’t help it, but regret the unladylike expletive as soon as I utter it. ‘I have to go.’ He hands me the tea, my awkward position makes me dribble down my naked chest and I flinch, spilling even more hot liquid down my front.

  ‘It’s the first home match of the season,’ I explain.

  ‘You never said you were a football fan.’

  ‘I’m not. My lads do the parking, I have to supervise.’ I’m really there to collect the money, dole out the wages, make sure there’s no temptation for the guys to pocket a bit extra. Also, with my bank problems, I need all the cash I can get just to pay the bills.

  ‘Can’t I come with you?’ he asks.

  My heart sinks. I can’t take him to see my bunch of yellow-jacketed chancers taking cash off motorists to allow them to park in areas where they could park anyway, if we weren’t there. Some of the parking is subject to informal arrangements with the site owners, some of it isn’t. Sometimes we have to cut through a fence or knock down a gate to get access. Occasionally the police query our rights to be doing what we do but they’re usually satisfied by the spurious documents I have created. An official-looking letter on a fake letterhead generally does the trick.

  Gary was doing this for a long time before I arrived on the scene. It was he who established territorial rights.

  Alex, a government official, can’t risk being involved, even if he approves of what I’m doing, which I doubt.

  ‘No,’ I speak softly. ‘Not your scene. I’ll only be gone a couple of hours, I can come back here if you want.’

  ‘What I want is for you to stay here, let someone else look after work.’ He clambers onto the bed, puts his warm hand on my naked stomach. I feel a deep urge to melt back into his arms, to allow his touch deep inside me, to surrender to this moment and let the world out there take whatever course it will. Instead I slide deftly to one side, slip out of the bed and start dressing.

  ‘Later,’ I say. ‘Keep that thought, I’ll be back for it soon enough.’

  Alex wrinkles his face in disappointment, but makes no further move to stop me leaving. I realise how close I am to staying when I feel a twinge of doubt rapidly dispelled by my practical mind. Two thousand pounds in cash. I need this money. Alex will be here when I get back.

  39

  I don’t recognise the black youth who is taking the money. I park the Range Rover across the car park entrance and wind down my window.

  ‘Five pounds,’ he says.

  ‘Who are you?’ I ask.

  ‘You want to park or what? Five pounds.’

  There are no familiar faces amongst the yellow jacketed lads who are waving cars in. None of my men are here. It’s still early, two hours to kick off, so they should be arriving any minute now.

  ‘Who told you to man this car park?’ I ask.<
br />
  ‘Five pounds, missy, or fuck off.’

  I open the door and step out of the car, leaving it blocking the way in. ‘This is our car park, you have no right to be here,’ I tell him. ‘I suggest you clear off now before there’s any trouble.’ He towers over me but his arms are slack, his face confused rather than angry.

  It’s the first match of the season, an opportune time for someone to muscle in on our business, and that’s what they’re trying to do. I should wait for Mick and the lads to arrive; they’ll see this bunch off in no time.

  The youth looks nervously over his shoulder, shouts to one of his mates, ‘Get Leroy.’ None of the interlopers are out of their teens by the look of them. The boy in front of me could still be at school.

  In response, a man gets out of a black Audi parked untidily in the far corner of the yard. He walks slowly towards me with a rolling, swaggering gait. A small man in comparison to the ones who accompany him. As he gets nearer, I realise that he is even younger than the rest. Leroy looks like a school kid dressed in ridiculously baggy trousers, worn so low they threaten to drop to his ankles with every step.

  Behind me van doors slam and my men arrive. ‘Perfect timing,’ I say as Mick looms over my shoulder. The youth who told me to fuck off steps back, looking as if he’s now having different ideas.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Mick asks unnecessarily, maybe as a way of announcing his arrival. As if anyone could fail to notice a man of his bulk dressed in a fluorescent jacket so big it seems to illuminate the whole street.

  Leroy finishes his unhurried saunter across the car park and stands flanked by his helpers. By now I have four of my own at my shoulders. Leroy is a child and has kids to back him up. I almost feel sorry for the inequality of the situation. He is hopelessly out of his depth. I only hope he realises it and leaves gracefully.

  ‘There seems to have been a mistake,’ I say. ‘This is our car park. Whoever has sent you here must have been mistaken.’

  ‘No mistake.’ Leroy’s voice has a high-pitched, pseudo American whine to it. ‘This was your park, it ain’t no more.’

  He stands with his head tilted to one side, arms held stiffly, fingers pointing towards me. It’s a pose I’ve seen rappers take on TV. The thick gold chain around Leroy’s neck is another testament to their influence.

  It’s almost laughable, this childish bluster and foolish bravado. When I look into Leroy’s eyes I don’t see any fear. He is obviously outmatched here, will have to back down to avoid a beating. He’s going to lose face in front of his teenage gang, yet he holds my gaze unwaveringly, head cocked to one side as if trying to peer around the corner.

  I get a sudden rush of terror as I realise what must happen next. I take half a step back, ready to turn away, disperse my men, leave quietly. Before I can, the inevitable gun is poked at my face.

  Leroy’s face contorts as he spits out words. ‘Fuck off, you whore. If I see you on my land again I’ll blow your face away.’

  Gary’s kindly face flashes through my mind. No guns, walk away; his words, his mantra. Don’t get involved with fire arms, he was adamant about it. He once explained that a gun couldn’t protect anyone, only put them at risk. A gun wouldn’t have saved him the night he was killed. I might have, if I’d followed my instinct and kept away from his home.

  Whether it’s the thought of Gary or my more recent encounter with threatening behaviour, I don’t know. Something moves deep inside me. I feel a great anger born out of mistreatment and savage abuse. My hands rise reflexively, as if they carry a will of their own. My right sweeps the pistol aside, my left grasps the gun arm at the elbow, folding it back towards Leroy and bearing down hard. The explosion jolts me but I still cling on, locking the arm in place.

  Leroy’s face shows he is as surprised as I am that the gun has discharged. The surprised look is quickly followed by concern and then pain, confirming that Leroy has shot himself. I twist away the weapon, stand back and allow Leroy to sink to his knees clutching his stomach. A dark wet patch is spreading quickly from his groin. He begins to whimper and shake. All his bravado is lost, there is now only a frightened boy crying with pain.

  Mick and two lads push past me and pick up Leroy, then half carry, half drag him to his car. A thin dribble of blood stains the dusty concrete as they go.

  ‘Get him out of here,’ Mick orders the black youths. They need no persuading but leap into the big Audi and drive steadily towards me. I throw the gun onto the passenger seat and back the Range Rover into the road to allow them passage. Cars begin to enter the car park and Mick calmly relieves them of their money. The rest of the lads fan out, direct the traffic, waving in new customers. Business as usual.

  I look up and down the road expecting flashing blue lights, police rushing to the incident, SWAT teams being deployed from black vans. Nothing. The pedestrians walk by unconcernedly, the punters roll up in ever increasing numbers.

  40

  I’m still trembling when I reach the sanctuary of my flat. My hands shake as I fill the kettle, my nerves are jumping all over my body. I feel wretched. As I stand waiting for the kettle to boil I remember the gun. A fit of panic pictures it where it lies on the front seat of my car. I imagine curious faces pressed to the window, gazing at the deadly instrument.

  After clattering down the stairs, I arrive breathless back at the Range Rover and yank open the passenger door. The gun rests quietly on the brown leather, as if it belonged there.

  I snatch it up, looking wildly around me for witnesses, and thrust it under my blouse where it nestles cold and uncomfortable against my belly. Slamming the door I take a few steps homeward, then freeze with indecision. Am I going to take this weapon and hide it in my home? The last time I hid contraband the police raided me, seized the guilty money and imprisoned me. It’s bound to happen again if I have a gun.

  I consider taking it to one of the big steel bins and lobbing it in, then I remember all the security cameras around the place, one of which must be watching me right now. It might even have seen the pistol when I retrieved it. I go back to the car and climb in. I slip the gun out of my clothes and push it into the glove compartment. I resolve to dispose of it properly, I need time to think what that might look like. Melt it down for scrap metal perhaps, but I have to find the means.

  Back upstairs, the tea steadies me, the exertion from the stairs has cleared my head, pumped blood through my system. I ring Mick.

  ‘What’s happening?’ I ask.

  ‘Nothing, business as usual,’ he answers. ‘Are you at home? Do you want me to dish out the wages then bring the takings back for you?’

  ‘Yes please, that would be good. I’m still in shock, Mick, I can’t believe what just happened.’

  ‘The little toe-rag had it coming, you were lucky he didn’t shoot you. He would have if you’d let him.’

  ‘What about the police, have they been round?’

  ‘No, it’s all cool, no sign of any interest.’

  ‘But the gunshot, surely it would have been reported?’

  ‘Not necessarily, lots of bangs around here. Cars backfiring, fireworks, all sorts of noises. It’s no surprise if one muffled shot goes unnoticed. Apart from our young friend, of course, he noticed it all right.’

  ‘Okay, let me know if there’s any sign of trouble. I’ll wait here for you.’

  41

  I’m still wondering what to say to Alex when he rings.

  ‘Are you on your way back here yet?’ His voice is light and cheerful.

  ‘No.’ I hesitate, story not formed; no tale devised suitable for Alex’s consumption. ‘Not yet, I’m at home sorting something out.’

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asks. His note of concern makes me think he can tell the voice of a woman who has recently been in a gun fight.

  ‘Yes, fine,’ I lie.

  ‘You don’t sound fine,’ Alex says. ‘Shall I come over now and cheer you up?’

  ‘No, don’t.’ I recognise my abruptness, try to soften it.
‘Yes, sorry, but later.’ I look at the kitchen clock. ‘This evening, can you come about six maybe?’ By that time I hope I will have gained some composure and concocted something to explain my mood.

  The whole Alex thing is unravelling. He thinks I’m an accountant who’s fallen foul of unspeakable evil through no fault of her own, that I lead an unblemished life and earn an honest living. I haven’t bothered him with any details that demonstrate the exact opposite. I left out my prison sentence for money-laundering and neglected to mention any continuing activity in that business. Hard working and honest, that’s what Alex thinks. And unlucky. Our brief joy can’t possibly stand up to the truth of who I really am. Now I have to add assault with a deadly weapon to the list. I only hope that Leroy received timely medical intervention and that it isn’t murder. My worst nightmare has him bleeding slowly to death in his bedroom, scared to tell his parents what happened to him.

  Alex is touching me, caressing me gently. I lie naked, splayed, trying to be receptive and failing. Last night when he did the exact same movements I opened and blossomed every time. I felt every thrill of energy, I abandoned myself to his loving care. I rocked and whimpered and shouted with joy.

  ‘It’s not working, is it?’ Alex says. His own enthusiasm for love-making is evidenced by his unwavering erection that points accusingly in my direction.

  ‘Sorry,’ I mutter. I take hold of his cock, begin to rub it, intent on providing him some relief, some recompense for his journey over here.

  ‘That’s okay.’ He takes my hand, disengages it. ‘We’ll wait for a better moment, shall we?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I feel the dread of inconsolable loss, I’m excluding him, rejecting him, lying here clenched and unavailable. I know what I’m doing, but it can’t be helped, there’s too much to hide, too many lies inside me. The foul river between us seems unbridgeable.