Dead Lands

by Lloyd Otis

  ‘And?’

  ‘Van Bruen’s daughter is dead and there are whispers that it’s murder.’

  ‘Are you saying Breck believes I did it?’

  Clarke gave his friend an unconvincing shrug. ‘When is your train due?’

  ‘In about fifty minutes.’

  ‘Come on, let’s get going.’

  Troy was about to hop in until he spotted a man hanging about at the end of the street. The tall man dressed in black, had a distinctive goatee and looked suspicious. Troy jumped into the Range Rover but kept an eye on him and after they moved off, he checked to see if they were being trailed. They weren’t.

  Troy relaxed but during the journey something inside his head clicked and the identity of the man became clear. Based on the description that Ceinwen gave him, it appeared to be Eddie hanging about at the end of her street. Marcin’s Eddie.

  Troy opened Clarke’s glove compartment and forced his hand inside to grab a pen. He wrote down a number on the back of a torn envelope, while Clarke wondered what he was doing. Troy waited until the train station came into view before he tucked the envelope into Clarke’s pocket.

  ‘Ring Ceinwen,’ he heard himself say. ‘Her number is on the envelope. Tell her to go to her father’s home and stay there until I contact her.’

  Clarke gave him a bemused look. ‘But I’ve never spoken to her before.’

  ‘No time to explain. Just tell her that I think Marcin knows where she is.’

  ‘Who’s he and what does he know?’

  ‘He’s an ex-boyfriend, a violent one by all means, and now he knows about the home she’s renting to be as far away as possible from her husband.’

  Clarke shook his head in disbelief. ‘I never knew you were with a married woman, and now there’s a violent ex-boyfriend lurking about. You don’t make things easy for yourself.’

  ‘No, I’m not known to.’

  Clarke refocused enough on the driving to swing off the main road and park. He switched off the engine while looking a little perplexed. Troy hooked the rucksack by his feet, over his back.

  ‘Take care of yourself.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘When will you collect the passport from Mo?’

  ‘Not sure, but soon. I’ll know when.’

  Troy opened the door and slapped the roof of the Range Rover. Clarke gave him a thumbs up, hit the gas and sped away.

  Troy crossed the road, pleased he hadn’t been followed, and just happened to glance back without knowing why. Good thing too because a Granada came into view, and he saw the stranger that he spotted at the end of Ceinwen’s road behind the wheel. Troy kept calm and ducked down, darted across the road then ran into the station to catch his train.

  FORTY FOUR

  Breck left Kearns inside the car and jogged across the road to enter Bill’s Snooker Hall, where a few regular customers sat inside passing the day with idle chat. The Italian manager stood behind the beech-wood bar wearing a fugazi smile while touting for business. A parade of snooker tables covered the main area and Breck soon located the person he had come to see. Maurice Mace. Better known as Mo.

  Breck slammed a hand down upon the smooth baize and the tepid man closest to the impact froze. The outline of the nipple rings were visible from under his vest, and for Breck, his leather trousers were a tad too tight for anyone in their early sixties.

  Mo stood maybe a few feet or so to his left, in ripped jeans and plain shirt, and showed a bit of savvy by urging his friend to go. The man fizzled away while Breck used his discarded cue to fire the black ball into the middle pocket. It signalled the end of the game and time for business. Mo placed his hands into his pockets and sucked in his stomach.

  ‘I thought you were playing it straight nowadays, Mo.’

  ‘Are you jealous?’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘I pushed out the straight rumour to drum up business. Being treated like a leper is bad in these parts. We all got needs.’

  ‘Let’s talk.’

  Mo realised Breck wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon so released his stomach and saw it droop. He beckoned Breck over to a quiet part of the room where they’d be able to talk in private, and both men faced each other around a small circular table.

  ‘To what do I owe the pleasure, DI Breck?’

  ‘I want to know the whereabouts of a suspect in a murder investigation by the name of Alexander Troy.’

  ‘You come here asking me that. I thought you were the law.’

  A perplexed Breck replied, ‘I am.’

  ‘I’d love to help but I can’t.’

  ‘Well the department I work for operate a little different to the rest. Let me show you.’ Breck reached across to Mo’s left hand then squeezed the life out of it. Mo yelped and slapped his free right hand on the table. ‘All right enough, let go.’ If you screw my fingers up I won’t be able to work.’

  ‘Now you’re catching on. The way I see it, your fingers allow you to illegally forge, for which you can earn good money. I’d be doing everyone a favour if I broke them.’

  That infuriated Mo. ‘If I talk to you my business is dead.’

  ‘I want to know when, Mo.’

  ‘When what?’

  ‘I want to know exactly when is it that Troy’s planning to collect the passport from you so that I can nick him.’

  After rubbing the top of his left hand, Mo dug into a bag hooked onto the back of his chair and pulled out a gift.

  Breck examined the passport which gave Troy a new name and nationality. A new start. His pathway to a new beginning.

  ‘It’s all done. He said he’d call me when he’d be ready to collect it. That’s not the way I work so he paid me extra for the inconvenience.’

  Breck returned the passport to Mo with a warning. ‘Don’t tell him I’ve been sniffing around and when he calls you, tell me. Not a week after, not a day after, but straight away.’ Mo held his head in his hands but Breck was in no mood to administer sympathy. ‘Are you listening to me, Maurice?’

  ‘Yes, got it.’

  Breck rose to his feet and extended his hand in friendship but Mo was hesitant, recalling the sharp pain that cut through his fingers just a few moments ago.

  ‘Suit yourself but I’m expecting to hear something from you very soon.’

  Breck left the table and padded out of the snooker hall, updated Kearns in the car, then they sped away.

  FORTY FIVE

  Cardiff

  Troy’s tired eyes sprung open. He peered out of the window just as Cardiff Central Station came into view and a cluster of butterflies crowded the pit of his stomach. Although he was still in a tight spot with his options limited, he knew a solution existed, albeit a dangerous one. He needed to push for it if he was ever to get his old life back.

  Troy hopped off the train and left the station. The taxi driver’s flat cap covered his eyes so it was a miracle he could ever see the road, and after Troy told him where to go, he said he knew the place. Along their journey they drove past a boarded-up shop, its name now forgotten by most, and a youth club with bandaged windows. They stopped at a street in Cathays that pretended to be asleep when its eyes were wide awake and Troy paid up and jumped out.

  Dai Kyler, a friend that mixed with the wrong types, possessed similar brooding eyes but had been lost for a long time. Bin bags blocked the entrance to his garden, which Troy bypassed and when he reached the door, he slammed down the knocker.

  Kyler soon appeared wearing a smile and a white vest while holding a can of Carlsberg. Scars marked his arms like tattoos.

  The size of the house was deceptive from the outside. Its rooms were larger than expected with embossed water blue wallpaper that had been in existence since the early 60s. Kyler rumbled through a few loose papers on the sofa, bills, telephone, and electric, while Troy observed the overflowing ashtray.

  ‘Have you started smoking again?’

  Kyler shook his head. ‘Nah, the bird I’m poking does. She stays
over sometimes, lives across the road. You know how it is, I need the release but relationships are hard.’

  ‘Your accent’s thicker.’

  ‘I’ve been working on it. I love nothing more than blending in but I’ll take that as a compliment.’

  Kyler grabbed a shirt that hung on a nearby chair and buttoned up. ‘Who else knows you’re here in Cardiff?’ He checked his wallet

  ‘Just the friend that drove me to the station. He won’t say anything.’

  ‘If you’re here it means there’s a lot of shit flying. What about the help at your disposal? You know people.’

  ‘There’s no help. Proctor didn’t pick up when I last called so it’s just me it seems.’

  ‘What else?’ Kyler noticed Troy’s hesitation.

  ‘There’s a stranger claiming to be me and I guess I didn’t expect that either.’

  ‘What rock has he crawled out from?’

  ‘No idea. I can’t even track him.’

  ‘This is madness. You’re in a crazy situation, a dangerous one.’

  Kyler moved across to the half-opened window and peered out, leaving Troy feeling unsure about whether or not he wanted to help.

  ‘I was told it’d be safe here for me.’

  Kyler took a few moments to think before explaining his own situation.

  ‘Things are tricky right now. You can’t stay for more than a day or two at most.’

  ‘Then why have I been sent here?’

  ‘I can’t answer that but it’s not been great for me either.’

  ‘Maybe I can blend in with what you’re doing here for a while. It’ll take me out of the limelight because they’ve put my face on the local news.’

  ‘Hey, hold on. I haven’t heard from you in ages and now you want to just break all the rules.’ Kyler’s face tightened at the thought. ‘There’s a line and we don’t cross it. You know that. Stay away from my space and I stay away from yours.’

  ‘I understand but Proctor sent me here. Don’t forget, before this crap swallowed us up we were good friends, and after it we still will be. Look, forget about me blending in. Get me what I want and I’ll leave.’

  ‘What is it that you want?’

  ‘A gun, one that’s untraceable. Everything is moving the wrong way and I don’t like it one little bit. Total silence from Proctor, accusations of murder, and now trouble for the woman who I have to protect. I don’t trust anything much so I’ll finish it then get away.’

  ‘Wait a couple days and I’ll see.’

  ‘I can’t. I’m getting ready to skip the country for a while and it’s better to do it sooner rather than later judging by how things are panning out. I’ve got a guy setting me up with a passport but I’m running out of time to wrap everything up. They’ve pinned me down for the murder of my finance director and now the daughter of my CEO.’

  ‘Okay but haven’t you got an alibi?’

  ‘For the first one yes, but I can’t use it, not yet anyway.’

  ‘I don’t get it, why not?’

  Troy took a deep breath. ‘There’s a line and we don’t cross it. You stay away from my space and I stay away from yours, remember?’

  *

  The evening arrived and both men tried to find the resolution they were unable to earlier. Troy watched Kyler stare into nothingness and contort his face like a maths professor attempting to solve the most difficult of equations.

  ‘My view is that if an ex-boyfriend is causing your lover problems then so what? He’ll tire of it and judging by what you’ve said, there are bigger issues to deal with.’

  ‘You don’t understand.’ Troy frowned. ‘Marcin deciding to drop his interest in Ceinwen, would be like an Atheist wanting to hold hands with a Christian. It’s never going to happen.’

  Kyler slung a protective arm around him. ‘It’ll be fine but when this is all done and dusted, for the sake of our health, maybe we should both consider new careers. You’ve had a long day and I’ve got a great bottle of Scotch. Let’s relax this evening and then I’ll get you what you want tomorrow.’

  Troy smiled. It sounded like a good idea.

  FORTY SIX

  The faint sound of jingling of car keys hovered over Troy’s head and stirred him awake. Kyler playfully pulled him upwards by his collars and then stuffed a bread roll into his mouth which Troy spat out. He made a weak attempt to tidy himself up seeing as the bottom half of his shirt hung loosely over his unbuckled trousers. His head felt like someone had stuck it in a vice and left it there.

  ‘What time is it, Dai?’

  ‘It’s before dawn, the early hours of the morning. Time to get going.’

  ‘What’s the strength of that Scotch that I drank yesterday?’

  ‘No idea. Stuff like that doesn’t bother me, I’m too busy lapping it up.’

  Troy staggered out to the car, amazed that Kyler appeared to be unaffected by their late-night bonding session.

  On their journey, they spoke about sport and politics in an attempt to keep things as normal as possible. It served as a silent denial of who they were and what they had become. Kyler drove along Richmond Road then onto Fitzalan Place, trying to get to Butetown as quick as possible by taking the route to Bute Street. The car continued for a little while longer until Kyler slowed down across the road from Old Joe’s, a local cafe sandwiched between a dry cleaner and a newsagent.

  Troy walked in with Kyler and noticed the menu on the wall that tempted customers with plenty of options. The owner, Joe, drank out of a mug from behind the counter. His tired eyes were glued to the black and white television, and he wore his chequered shirt rolled up at the sleeves. Kyler greeted him with a warm handshake then Joe lifted the counter to allow both men to walk through.

  They padded to the back of the café, then opened the door at the end only to be met by a sheet of darkness. Kyler hit the light switch which revealed a narrow staircase. It led to the basement. He stepped down first and Troy followed behind.

  They passed a box-sized room with its door left ajar, inviting them to glance inside. Hiding their discomfort proved to be difficult when they saw a man attached to a meat hook that hung from the ceiling. He had a bloodied face they couldn’t put a name to. Lance Pringle, proprietor of Pringle’s Bed & Breakfast, had been beaten, and with the life draining from him, he realised that he should’ve stayed in Sandal & Agbrigg. It’d be doubtful he’d live to see the end of the day.

  Kyler and Troy continued onwards until they entered the basement to see a young man sitting on the corner of a worktop peeling an apple. An older man sat around a glass table counting vast bundles of money. His head was covered with a flat cap, semi-hiding his rich brown hair that flowed down either side of his face. Grey whiskers around his jaw sprung outward and the buttons on his shirt were opened to half-way down to show off the array of gold chains around his neck.

  The man in the flat cap continued to count crisp twenty and ten-pound notes until he reached two-thousand pounds and stopped. During this interval, Dai Kyler stepped forward and introduced Troy. The man stared at Troy with a blank expression at first, then clicked his fingers. An employee the size of a steam locomotive train approached, making the ground shudder under his weight, and Troy almost shit himself. He never saw him standing in a darkened corner of the basement. Nevertheless, he threatened to push his intelligence to its limits as he tried to work out how best to tie the counted money inside a black bin liner before hiding it.

  The man Troy now knew as Dexter Wright, took off his flat cap and with it came the most strangest of moments. The carpet of brown hair that Troy thought belonged to him, was actually attached to the cap, and the light shimmered off his bald head. He ran a hand over it but no one seemed surprised and Troy found it hard to take his eyes away from self-made flat cap hair piece mash-up.

  ‘Silas, fix us a couple of drinks,’ Dexter instructed the apple peeler. Yet another youth wasting his life after making the wrong career choice. He then outstretched a hand towards Troy. ‘
Please sit.’

  Troy sat down at about the same time Silas moved off the worktop and found his way to the fridge. Troy watched him grab an unbranded bottle along with a can of R Whites lemonade, and mix them together into two separate glasses. Meanwhile, Dexter reached into his pocket and grabbed a Cuban cigar. He lit it up seconds before Silas delivered the drinks.

  ‘Who do you think set you up then?’ Dexter swallowed his drink in one go and waited for the answer.

  ‘Not sure, I’m working on finding out who it is.’

  Dexter’s fingers curled around his empty glass and he took a few hard puffs on his cigar. ‘I thought you might be able to do better than that.’ Dexter held out a manicured hand and Silas stretched an arm underneath the worktop. He pulled out an object wrapped within a towel and handed it over, so that Dexter could unravel it on the table to the beat of the imagined drum roll.

  ‘This is a SIG-Sauer P220 semi-automatic, a darling of the Swiss Army. Have you used one before?’ Troy shook his head causing Dexter to puff out his cheeks in surprise. ‘What have you used then?’

  ‘This and that.’

  Dexter glanced at Kyler then back at Troy. ‘This and that sounds like the name of the gun I wanted once for Christmas to shoot my older brother with. I was ten years old at the time.’ Dexter turned to Kyler. ‘Imagine that, ten years old and I wanted to do my own brother in.’

  Kyler remained nonplussed so Dexter returned his attention to Troy once again.

  ‘Back to the point. Do you know about me?’ Troy shook his head, he hadn’t been filled in about Dexter’s background. ‘People say I’ve done things, questioned how I’ve got to where I am but they don’t understand what a struggle it’s been. A boy from a Welsh mining town has made his mark up here.’ Troy watched Dexter puff the life out of his cigar. ‘I also don’t let just anybody into my circle but Dai told me you’re a wanted man, and a wanted man is my type of man.’ Dexter laughed after that which allowed Troy to relax a little.