Jenny Parker Investigates

by D J Harrison

  I lose sight of him as I turn and head for the exit ramp where I meet another pedestrian where none should be walking slowly down towards me. My jangling nerves identify another would-be assassin and I floor the throttle and drive straight at him. There’s no time for him to get completely out of my way and I feel a solid thud as I catch him with my front wing and send him sprawling.

  By the time I pull into the car park in front of Alex’s flat I’m wet with nervous perspiration. I feel wrung out like an old dish rag and my heart isn’t so much beating as pattering against the inside of my chest. I ring Alex; no answer. I think about ringing the police and decide against it. They could have been Mormons or Jehovah’s Witnesses I suppose, I never saw any weapons. Nobody said anything. Then I recollect the look in the man’s eyes, my feelings of abject terror and I know for sure they were out to get me. Maybe not kill me there and then but definitely they were after me.

  At least I think they were.

  I decide to wait for Alex to come home before I do anything. It’s seven fifteen before he rings me back. I’ve been sat in my car listening to local radio for almost an hour. Nobody else has tried to kill me and there’s no reports of anyone being killed by a hit and run driver in Salford.

  ‘Where have you been, Alex?’

  ‘In a meeting. My phone’s off I’m afraid, sorry did you want me?’

  ‘Of course I want you, it’s an emergency. Two men tried to kill me. They didn’t succeed but no thanks to you.’

  ‘Where are you?’ Alex sounds suitably upset.

  ‘In my car, in your car park.’

  ‘I’ll be back in five minutes. Have you called the police?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you want me to do it?’

  ‘No, just get here yourself as quick as you can.’

  He arrives breathless enough for me to forgive his absence when I needed him.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asks, looking me up and down as if searching for bullet holes or missing body parts. I tell him what happened and how I hit the second man.

  ‘There’s no point reporting it to the police. They’ll only arrest me for leaving the scene of an accident.’

  Alex’s face tells me he can see my point.

  I feel safe in Alex’s flat, safer in his bed, and safest in his arms, my tension being stroked away.

  We drive over to my flat as soon as it’s light. As we cautiously approach I half expect to see a body outlined in chalk on the exit ramp and blue and white police tape across the entrance. There’s nothing. No sign of any incident at all. Black Honda Civic and Silver Polo are sitting unscathed and unconcerned.

  15

  ‘Please Mick, I’m begging you. At least try.’

  Mick shakes his enormous head, which has begun to glow bright red in embarrassment at my desperation. He is used to the cool Jenny, the one who is calm in any crisis. What he’s getting is panicked Jenny, a woman in fear of her life and nobody to turn to for help. Apart from one man, one remote possibility.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jenny.’

  ‘You say he won’t talk to me. So you ask him instead.’

  ‘Wouldn’t make any difference. He only ever dealt with Gary. Forget it, Jenny, he’s big trouble. You’re better off not getting him involved.’

  My breath is coming in gasps now, the tears are released and I’m not trying to hide them. The full enormity of my plight is coming home to me. Mick has to see me like this, even though he’s in obvious distress at the sight. He’s the one man I know I can rely on. He’s the one who saved my life, protected me all along with little thought for his own safety. Now, I’m not asking him to fight for me, only to make a phone call and this is causing him more distress than I could ever anticipate.

  ‘There’s at least one Eastern European vice gang that’s out to kill me. They’re going to succeed because they don’t give a shit what they have to do to get me. I need protection, Mick, and not the sort that GOD Security could have managed in the past. These bastards are after me with machine guns for God’s sake, I have to have someone who can deal with that.’

  ‘You should go to the police, Jenny. Let them look after you. They’re the only option.’

  ‘Look Mick,’ I take a deep breath, wiping my dribbling nose with my sleeve. ‘I already told the police all about it. They’re doing what they can, which isn’t much at all. Your best option isn’t working. Now will you call him for me?’

  ‘The number Gary had probably doesn’t work any more.’ Mick is still protesting, trying to wriggle off the hook. I don’t like making him feel so uncomfortable, but desperate measures are needed.

  ‘Do this for me, Mick. Find him, set up a meeting for me, that’s all I ask. If he won’t help, then you’ll have done your best.’ As I say this I hope that he’ll be able to walk behind my hearse with a clear conscience.

  16

  Even though I’ve been given detailed directions, I walk past the entrance to the Armenian Taverna twice before discovering it. Princess Street, at the side of the town hall, near John Dalton Street, he said. All useful locational information, perhaps, but nearly useless without the important detail that the almost secret entrance consists of a narrow staircase leading down into the bowels of the earth.

  At the foot of the staircase, I turn back on myself along a glass-walled corridor where I have a good view of the restaurant and which allows its occupants an even better look at me.

  I wonder when the busy period is for this place. Maybe it’s in the evenings. Tuesday lunchtimes don’t appear to be the peak period; there are only two people sat at the tables. One of them, a large square-faced man, is inches away from me through the glass partition, holding a ridiculously small cup of coffee with thick fingers that appear out of proportion.

  A second man, almost invisible, is seated in an alcove, back to the wall, perfectly placed to see who’s entering. Our eyes meet, for only the second time, and I repeat the feeling of fearful recognition. If he’d walked past me on the street I wouldn’t have recognised him. If I had to describe him to someone, I couldn’t even begin. The look is unmistakable though and I have no doubt that he is the elusive Popov, the man I have been trying to speak to ever since Gary’s death.

  This is the man who once sent a dozen heavily armed men to guard Gary’s yard, and the man who warned him not to have anything further to do with me, to drop me like a hot potato. The man who told Gary I was trouble, that he’d not be safe with me around. He’s the man who was right in every respect. If Gary had listened to Popov, he’d not be dead. He’d not have had to save my skin. Doreen wouldn’t have to make do with that cold fish Lafferty.

  ‘Thanks for agreeing to talk to me,’ I say, sitting down opposite him, suddenly aware that my back is to the restaurant entrance. I consider moving seats and sitting beside him but feel even more uncomfortable at that prospect. I comfort myself with the thought that he can watch out for both of us. If the threat comes from Popov, I’m already compromised. If it doesn’t, then I’m safer here with him than anywhere.

  ‘It’s only because of Gary,’ he says. ‘He was my good friend.’

  ‘And I was the one who got him killed, he was trying to protect me when they shot him.’ A sudden flush of heat engulfs my neck and face. Was it Popov who killed Gary? Were they his men who were hunting me then? Might it be him who sent the men with machine guns to my flat and the sniper to the airport? He is looking at me with cold blue eyes, I can feel only numbness when he looks at me. There’s no flicker of interest or concern displayed in his heavy face. ‘You were right to warn Gary about me, but I don’t understand why you did.’

  ‘Like I say, he was my good friend.’

  ‘But we never even met. You had no reason.’

  ‘I see you at the flat where we take the man’s body.’

  Martin’s body. I shudder with sadness. Since Martin’s death my life has been difficult to say the least. I get a shock of sadness as I realise I spent no time at all mourning the death of the
man I loved. Instead I was swept into the abyss and spent all my energy struggling for survival.

  ‘Did you kill him?’ I ask.

  Popov’s eyes hold steady. ‘No. We only moved the body.’

  ‘Where was he?’

  ‘We picked him up at a big house, south of Birmingham. They said to take him back to his own apartment. That awkward questions would be asked otherwise.’

  ‘Who gave you the job?’

  ‘You must know I cannot say that.’

  ‘It still doesn’t explain why you told Gary to get rid of me.’

  There’s a residual anger in me at hearing confirmation of what I’d only guessed before. My eyes fill with tears as I relive those horrible moments when my lover was found dead and my whole life descended into a dark place. My breath stops; I’m choking with anxiety.

  ‘When we went in the apartment you were already there, then we waited outside and saw you come out.’ As he speaks, despite the dim light of the restaurant, I can make out a thin white scar that runs the length of his face, from his chin, through his top lip, along his nose and up across his forehead.

  I remember the numbness, the uncertainty I felt in Martin’s flat as I hid in the bathroom. The shock when I thought I’d lost my handbag. When I heard the door open, I panicked and left my handbag on the bedside table. That was how he knew who I was. No wonder he’d been disturbed to see me working for Gary.

  ‘I didn’t want anyone to find out about our affair, that’s why I went to the flat, to tidy up, take my things. I had no idea what was going on.’

  His eyes shift their direction over my shoulder. I hear the door of the restaurant click open. I keep looking at Popov, trying to detect if there is any cause for alarm. Turning around, I see a young couple straining with White Company bags, standing uncertainly in the unwelcoming atmosphere.

  The stocky man with the coffee ushers them quickly to the far corner and seats them next to a mural depicting dancing men in traditional dress. The man I had assumed was one of Popov’s heavies, positioned to guard him, turns out to be the head waiter or proprietor. The removal of this layer of security is comforting in a contradictory way. All the time I thought we were being guarded, I was in a constant state of alert. Now I realise my assumption that this place is exclusively for my meeting with Popov is mistaken. It’s just a slow day. The big man in the smart suit isn’t waiting for trouble, only hoping for customers.

  My attention drains away and my back stops being itchy in anticipation of an attack. I turn my full attention to Popov again. ‘How did you and Gary meet?’ I ask.

  ‘He gave me job when I had nothing else.’

  ‘Ah, a bit like me. I was desperate and Gary picked me out of the gutter. If it wasn’t for him I’d have ended up face down in the Irwell,’ I say. ‘Was it the same for you?’

  Popov continues to stare at me. His face barely moves but I’m sure I can see his eyes softening as he lets in the memory.

  ‘Things were hard,’ he says. ‘When I get here, everything is difficult, not much English, no friends, only Gary.’

  ‘Why did you come here?’ I ask.

  ‘Things very bad for me at home, if I stay they kill me for sure.’

  ‘Who was trying to kill you?’

  His face finally cracks; a tiny smile creeps into the corner of his mouth. ‘Everybody tries to kill me,’ he replies.

  ‘Everyone?’ I asked. ‘Where were you?’

  ‘Kosovo,’ he answers. ‘Everyone kills everyone, Serbs, Albanians, English, American, all try to kill me.’

  ‘Were you fighting there?’

  His smile disappears. ‘Everyone fighting, very bad situation. Fighting, bombing, families and friends all fighting each other, nobody safe.’

  ‘What about your family?’

  ‘I have no family, no friends.’

  ‘I have a problem a bit like yours,’ I say. ‘There are people trying to kill me.’

  ‘So you say.’

  ‘Are they your men or people who you know?’

  ‘Not from me. I don’t do that sort of work, only protection. No assassinations.’

  ‘But you moved Martin’s body?’

  ‘Yes, to protect the man with the house.’

  ‘Casagrande?’

  Popov waves to the proprietor. ‘We have some coffee now,’ he says.

  ‘Do you protect people like Casagrande?’ I ask.

  He ignores my question and watches as the coffee is placed delicately before us. Two ridiculously small white cups containing a dark black liquid. I swig mine, discover that it is two thirds sludge, feel the bitter grounds in my mouth, and spit them as daintily as possible onto my napkin.

  ‘You like?’ Popov grins, his mouth fully extended for the first time.

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘it’s disgusting. He’s put all the solids in my cup.’

  ‘You are only supposed to drink the liquid. Don’t eat the grounds, they aren’t good,’ he says cautiously, sipping his own.

  ‘Could you protect me?’ I ask.

  ‘Not unless you have plenty money.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Depends on lots of things, maybe for a thousand a day.’

  ‘Pounds?’ I ask.

  ‘Of course pounds.’

  ‘What do I get for my thousand pounds a day?’

  ‘For that two men, round the clock.’

  ‘Armed?’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘So I can have one man for five hundred?’

  ‘Yes, but you don’t get full cover with one man. He has to sleep.’

  ‘Then he can sleep with me.’

  Popov fails to hear anything humorous in my awkward statement and merely nods.

  ‘What if I paid you to find out who is after me and persuade them to stop, is that possible?’

  ‘No, that’s not what we do.’

  ‘But that’s the only way to stop them.’

  ‘Depends on how seriously they want you dead.’

  ‘You can’t get much more serious than turning up at my apartment with a Kalashnikov.’

  ‘That was you?’ Popov’s thick, black eyebrows instantly rise, showing me the first sign of real interest in anything I’ve said so far.

  ‘That was me. They couldn’t get through my door, thank God. You heard about it?’

  ‘Of course, but I did not realise those idiots were after you.’

  ‘Do you know them?’ I ask. ‘Do you know who hired them?’

  ‘Sure I know them, the Klitchko brothers, at least that’s what they called themselves, stupid bastards. The real Klitchkos are both smart guys; they’d be ashamed to have these imbeciles taking their names. Letting off an AK47 around here is guaranteed to get you all the attention you don’t need, from all the people you don’t need it from. Crazy.’ Popov signals for more coffee.

  Despite my attempts to decline he has another thimble of hot black sludge placed in front of me.

  ‘Who hired them? Why are they trying to kill me?’

  ‘Only fools would hire the Klitchkos.’

  ‘Can you find out which fools?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t do detective jobs, only protection.’

  I sip the coffee very carefully, avoid the settled solids and find it almost pleasant this time.

  ‘Gary said you would do all kinds of work, anything to earn some money,’ I say.

  ‘That was then. Things are different now. I learn that any fool can kill someone and that makes the price for killing very cheap. But the prison you get is not so cheap. Stopping the killing, that’s the good paying work and the risk is also much less.’

  ‘Then protect me, Popov. Stop them killing me, find out who they are, make them stop.’

  His eyes narrow. ‘If I do that, you won’t need protection. That’s bad for business.’

  17

  I park next to an elevated metal contraption that’s supposed to remove mud from the wheels of lorries before they reach the public highway. Judging by the state of t
he road as I turned into the Midgeland Brickworks site, they should ask the manufacturers for their money back and buy a pressure washer from B&Q. It can’t help matters that the pile of mud under the machine is so high there’s no space for any more. The wagons are effectively being muddied by this contraption. Even if they were clean to begin with, they would be dripping with the stuff after they pass over it.

  The man in the weighbridge is wearing a donkey jacket with black plastic shoulder patches. Either he’s had this for thirty years or he’s trying to set a new trend. I don’t give much for his chances of success, though I’ve seen less attractive apparel in H&M.

  ‘She’s not here,’ he says.

  ‘Do you know when she’ll be back?’ I ask.

  ‘Not sure.’

  ‘She is coming back here today isn’t she?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Can you get her on her mobile? Tell her Jenny’s here, tell her I’ll wait.’

  Although he looks no more than forty years old, he has the speech and actions of a geriatric. He dials slowly and awkwardly, pausing to check the number after each digit, pointing his finger carefully then painstakingly transferring it to the telephone keypad. His first attempt results in a female voice saying, ‘The telephone number you have dialled has not been recognised.’ On my suggestion he reluctantly tries again. This time it rings out but goes straight to voice mail. I enter Yvonne’s number into my own phone and walk outside.

  After fifteen minutes of trying I get an answer.