by P. R. Black
Was she still barred? In a town like this, that might extend over several generations.
‘Have you had much luck with the case?’ Lisa asked.
‘Bits and pieces. There’s a link between what happened with my family and one or two others.’
‘I read about that in the paper. I hope you catch him.’
‘I’ll catch him.’ Becky felt the hairs on the back of her neck stir. To say it aloud was a bold act. She had rarely articulated it before. The very statement dared admit to her rising hope.
He was out in the garden in their compact, but sturdy bungalow, pulling weeds out of the flower beds running along one side of the front garden. He wore a bell-bottomed polo shirt which had probably been old when Becky was young, and a pair of fag-burned trousers turned up above some flakey golf shoes of a similar vintage. She heard him grunt as she pulled up behind him. He frowned at the car, taking a while to recognise the faces behind the windscreen.
He wiped his hands on his trousers as he greeted them. ‘Becky. This is a wee surprise.’
‘I was just bobbing around. Thought I’d come in to say hello. You free for a chat?’
She was ushered into a kitchen dinette area. The Formica-topped tables and red benches, installed around 1989, had an American diner feel to them. They were of an age to be paroled from the ‘naff’ zone and cross over into ‘kitsch’.
Becky accepted an offer of a cup of tea, and was relieved when Lisa, changed into Lycra, headed out for a run.
‘Mel not home?’ she asked, as Jack Tullington slid into the seat opposite her. Perhaps it was the lack of the large overcoat and hat he usually wore, but the man seemed somewhat reduced, as if his shoulders had accordioned in towards his neck. He’d always looked old to Becky, but never less than sturdy.
‘Mel? She’s off to her mother’s. She’s been gone a couple of days. The old dear doesn’t keep so well. Getting on a bit.’
‘Sorry to hear that.’ Becky nodded out of the window, where Lisa’s head could be seen bobbing past above the fence outside, at a keen twelve miles per hour. ‘You know, that’s the first time I’ve seen Lisa in years. She in her senior year at school, now?’
‘Just about. Be at uni soon. Time flies, eh?’
‘She’s going to be a real beauty. Six-footer already, hey?’
‘The height comes from her mother’s side, you won’t be shocked to discover.’ He chuckled, but his body language was wrong, hunched, defensive. Maybe it was because he was out of context; perhaps it was because he was missing his hat. Grey curls straggled round his balding head, fringing his ears like bent spokes on a bicycle. ‘Now – since we parted on such bad terms last time, why don’t you tell me why you’re here?’
She took a deep breath. ‘I wanted to apologise. When I accused you of having me followed. I know it wasn’t you.’
He relaxed a little. ‘It was a tad harsh. But I forgive you, lassie. Want to tell me who did have you followed?’
‘Your brother, of course. It was a real breakthrough in the case.’
‘My brother? Angus?’
‘That’s right. The guy who made all the property deals. The guy who was putting together the package for the property through in France. Along with the French connection, LaFleur.’
Jack’s eyes narrowed. ‘What property through in France?’
‘Oh, come on. Don’t play dumb with me, Jack.’
‘Angus had his fingers in a few pies, both before and after he left the police, I won’t deny it. But we haven’t been close for a long time.’
‘No, I gather you fell out round about when my family died.’ She sipped her tea, studying him closely.
‘We’re brothers. Brothers sometimes fight. Angus is a strange guy.’
‘Strange guy is right. Two terms in prison – one for fraud, one for assault and battery. That’s ignoring all the minor things on his record. Not bad for a former copper, even if he was bent. I wonder if he was a good source for you – all that Glasgow gangster stuff you made your name on, back in the day.’
‘It was all a long time ago,’ Jack said. ‘He was a daft boy, but he learned his lesson. He made good.’
‘He did – it seems he moved on from crime to property development. It’s not too great a leap of the imagination, to be fair. I can think of a few estate agents I’d have in the stocks, if not prison.’
Jack sighed. His chest and shoulders seemed to inflate to their usual elephantine frame. ‘Becky, love, I’ll do anything for you. I swore I’d do anything for you. And I’ll make good on that until the day I die. But so help me god, don’t insult me and my family in my own fucking house.’ His shoulders sagged, then, just a little. ‘What is your point?’
‘My point is that your brother involved my father in an investment scheme over some property in and around Europe. It seems that the deal wasn’t quite on the level – shady enough for my dad to want to pull out. He was worried it amounted to little more than a Ponzi scheme. But before he decided to withdraw the money, he checked the area out for himself, by taking a little holiday there. He brought his family out with him. The idea was to check out possible locations for a new hotel – a side project he had, supposedly without your Angus’ knowledge. A fact-finding mission, and a family holiday, rolled into one. And on that very holiday, they were all slaughtered. Except me.’
‘And you’re saying the two things are linked? The investment and the murders?’
‘Only circumstantially, I thought. And then I checked out other property links connected with your brother. One in particular got my interest. A housing development on a flood plain, in clear breach of planning regulations. Bogland. Your brother managed to get it through council planners – but one of the investors got cold feet. Guess what happened?’
‘Do tell.’
‘He and his family vanished. Not a trace of them. Their house was quite close to some ancient standing stones. There’s even a tumulus nearby. Pre-Roman. Fascinating stuff. I think it’s been on a BBC4 documentary.’
‘Are you suggesting that… my brother, Angus… is the man who killed your family?’
‘Not at all. I’m saying that the guy he hired to do it killed my family. And a few others, too.’
Jack laughed, shaking his head. ‘What reason could Angus have for killing your family?’
‘Money, obviously. Staying out of jail, for another. My dad was committed to the deal before he went on holiday, but not in writing. He had made it known to his solicitor and various accountants that he was thinking of pulling out of the main funding deal – even stated openly that he thought there was some fraud involved, that he might be being ripped off. After he died, Angus found another gullible partner and it all went through. Angus got all the money. Just like he got the cash for the houses on the flood plains.’
‘This is ridiculous, Becky. It’s fantasy world stuff, this. Your parents and your brother and sister weren’t assassinated – they were murdered by a lunatic. Totally different thing, surely.’
‘Not for the guy I’m looking for. It’s what he did for a living, as well as a hobby, when he came to the west. I think he mingled business and pleasure for a good few years.’
‘The guy you’re looking for, you say. He’s a copper, you say. No, wait, he’s a contract killer. What’s he going to be next, a taxi driver? An airline pilot? A fucking deep-sea diver? How about an astronaut? I’ve got it – the killer is Mr Ben!’
‘Now you’re insulting me, Jack.’
‘This sounds like madness, Becky. You reckon this guy, this international serial killer and now contract hitman, breaks into your flat…’
‘How do you know about that?’ Becky asked, sharply.
‘The same way you know about things – I’m a journalist. I talked to some sources. You know what they said to me? “The Morgan lass is cracking up. Wild goose chases. Seeing devils everywhere.”’
‘Well, the next time you see your source, ask them how this crackpot managed to turn up evidence that
was practically under their nose, and found those missing bodies. Ask them to explain that.’ She got up.
‘Becky, what are you going to do now? Because if you’re going after Angus…’
‘Is he going to snuff me out? Tell him not to worry – his man is on the case to finish what he started. I’ve passed what I know about Angus onto the police. I happen to know they arrested him three hours ago.’
Jack blinked.
‘So, if you’re in any way connected to any of his property deals, now might be the time to worry. I guess time will tell, won’t it? Because I really need to know, so you may as well tell me: how much did you know, Jack? Were you involved in those deals?’
‘I swear to god, barring the odd piece of chat, I didn’t know about any business deals or set-ups. I’m no businessman. I wasn’t interested in Angus’ work out of uniform. In the early days, he was good for a tip, but little else. Your dad was interested in business, though. We all grew up together. He and Angus met up at the odd social event or wedding. Angus had some propositions, and your dad followed them up. He made money on a few of them. Money that’s now in your pocket, I should add.’
‘I think my dad saw the light. The letters I picked up prove it. He was going to turn Angus in. I think that’s what did for him. Everything else, all the other details from the day… it was all in the execution. The perfect cover for what was really going on – who would suspect a thrill killer was actually a hitman? You’d never even consider it.’
‘Becky, I’m going to ask you to leave, now. I just…’ He raked his fingers over his thin-thatched scalp and trailed them down his cheeks. ‘I’m always going to be here if you need help. I promised. Remember that.’
‘So long as I have a doubt, I won’t ask for your help. And I have a doubt, all right.’ She stared at him, intensely; his eyes darted, but he did not completely look away. ‘You’ll get a phone call from the police, soon, I think. Just routine. But they’ll ask you some questions. You might find it all a bit awkward. Good luck, Jack.’
54
He came out of the gym with a gaggle of female friends. Becky supposed he had more fat than all the women put together. Without glasses, his cheeks were flushed rosy pink. Some of the women hugged him before they dispersed into their cars.
‘I suppose he’s quite attractive,’ Rosie Banning said, from the passenger seat. ‘In that Harry Potterish type way.’
‘I have to admit, I was thinking that. You’d have a nice cuddle on the couch on a Friday night, some wine and crisps, watch Graham Norton. I’d see him right.’
‘Doesn’t half have a lot of women round him,’ Bernard said. He had opted to take the back seat of the tiny rented Fiat, and his knees practically cradled his chin. ‘Don’t reckon he’s struggling for female company.’
‘That’s true,’ Rosie said. ‘So – gay, then?’
‘Definitely gay. That’d be just my luck.’
He got into his Peugeot, put on his glasses and pulled out into traffic before Becky started the Fiat and followed him.
He was early for his appointment, having reached a handsome glass-fronted building in an industrial unit on the outskirts of the city. His cheeks were still a little flushed; he fretted over them in the mirror of his sun visor before getting out.
‘Vain,’ Bernard said. ‘You should write that down in your notes, Rosie. “He was a very vain man…”’
‘He’s an actor,’ Rosie said. ‘It’s a whole new level of vain, if you’re an actor. In fact, I’ll write that line down. That’s not bad at all.’ She did, too, pinging the band off a leopard-skin-sleeved notebook and scribbling a quick note.
‘What now?’ Bernard asked.
Becky settled back in her seat. ‘Wait for him to come out. He won’t be long.’
She was right; he appeared at the front door less than forty minutes later. He had a plastic cup of vending machine coffee in his hand; steam curled up from it despite the bright sunshine.
‘Here we go.’ Becky sprung out of the car. She didn’t wait for the other two to follow her.
His eyes registered the dull, gonging shock of someone who’s been caught in the act, but he quickly recovered, and smiled broadly. He switched his coffee to the other hand, and even attempted a handshake. ‘Miss Morgan, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right.’ She shook his hand and smiled. ‘I’m Miss Morgan. And you’re not Mr Arthur.’
He frowned slightly. ‘Say again, please?’
‘Don’t waste my time. That building’s where your agent works. She’s quite a good one, too. What’s your next role? Got something big lined up?’
‘Um, I’m actually late for a meeting, Miss Morgan. If you don’t mind…’
‘You’re not going anywhere without me. Not before you’ve talked about what you were doing at Interpol, pretending to be someone else, just for my benefit.’
‘I’m here on a case, in fact. Now, excuse me.’
She gripped his wrist. ‘You? On a case? You don’t go out on a case. You’re the guy from IT. If you are who you say you are, you’re a desk jockey. But I know you’re not who you say you are. You’re an actor – stage work, no TV just yet. Though it seems you’re up for anything if the right offer comes up. Such as impersonating a policeman.’
‘Get your hands off me. Or I’ll call the police.’
Becky withdrew her hand. ‘Hey, I’m going to call the police. They can decide if you’ve broken any laws or not. But first we’re going to talk about your last commission. You’ll tell me everything you know.’
*
As it turned out, it wasn’t much. The four of them repaired to a coffee shop round the corner. Bernard sat in front of the man, whose name – his stage name, at any rate – was Willem Durning. Bernard glowered at him, gangly arms folded across his chest.
‘Would you mind not doing that?’ Willem asked him, a slight tremor in his voice. ‘It’s very intimidating.’
‘I’ll do more than intimidate you,’ Bernard said, in a growl which crumbled like a stock cube on the last word. Rosie Banning hid a smile behind her hand.
‘It’s fine, Bernard’ Becky said, raising a hand. ‘Go and grab us all a Danish pastry or something. Willem isn’t going anywhere. Are you, Willem?’
‘I’ll be leaving this place as soon as I’ve finished the coffee. I promised you a talk over coffee, and nothing more. Otherwise it’s kidnapping.’
‘We’re in a coffee shop,’ Becky said. ‘How can it be kidnapping? We’re just sitting here, calmly and quietly.’
‘Just make sure you tell us all you know,’ Bernard muttered to him, from the side of his mouth. His coffee repeated on him in a high-pitched belch as he stood up. He placed a hand to his mouth and whispered, ‘Pardon’.
‘Sorry for bringing the muscle in,’ Becky said – shooting a glance at Rosie as she smiled, again, ‘we couldn’t be sure if you’d get rough or not.’
‘I’ll be as honest as I can – I had no firm contact with the man who hired me. He arranged everything through my agent. It was a strange deal, but the money he offered was far too good to turn down, for any of us.’
‘How much?’ Rosie asked. She raised her eyebrows when he told her. ‘Not sure I blame you.’
‘Your agent – she had a contact telephone number? An email address?’
Willem shook his head. ‘No. No traceable contact details. She told me all about it – it was all a bit cloak and dagger. Initial contact by phone, no number left. It tickled her, actually – the money was left in a safety deposit box in an old storage warehouse. I guess it tickled me, too. It was so intriguing. I might as well tell you, he made us sign non-disclosure agreements, which I am now breaking.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about that,’ Becky said. ‘How about your lines – how did they come about?’
‘Again, he gave me a script, urged me to learn most of the responses. Most of it was deflection. He set me up with a pass and had briefed his staff that I was in to carry out some IT work on his be
half.’
Becky drew a line under her pad. ‘Well, thanks for your help. I might as well tell you, you’ll be hearing from the police soon, as will your agent. I’d keep your fee in the bank, for now – it might well end up getting seized. Impersonating a police officer is a crime, as I’m sure you know.’
‘I think you’ll find my IT qualifications are in order, Miss Morgan,’ he said.
‘Yeah. That fits, I grant you. Actors have to work, at your level. Guess it beats working in a cinema. There’s just that whole false name thing though, isn’t there?’
A pallor had long since whitewashed Willem’s gym-rosy complexion. ‘This man… Mr Arthur… what has he done?’
‘He’s a murderer, Willem. He’s murdered lots of people. Including my family.’
‘Him? He’s the one? The one they’re looking for?’
‘Yep, absolutely no doubt about it. He’s a serial killer, a pervert, a contract killer… or a pleasing blend of them all. And he might well kill you. He doesn’t like loose ends.’
Willem said nothing; he finished his coffee, and stood up, just as Bernard returned with a tray full of Danishes.
‘Where are you going?’ Bernard growled.
‘Out.’
‘… But I got you a Danish?’ He looked at Becky uncertainly.
‘Work on your technique,’ Willem said, patting him on the shoulder. ‘Either that, or you’ve been miscast. You’re no tough guy, my friend.’
Once he’d gone, Rosie clapped her hands. ‘We’ve got him, surely. We’ve got a name, and a job – the lot.’
‘We don’t have anything,’ Becky said simply. ‘We’ve got no evidence. He’s been quite careful to remove it, over a period of years. You probably still couldn’t trace him. False names, god knows what other identities. We’ve only got a theory. Even when I let Labelle and Marcus know about this, you can bet there’ll be a cover story of some kind to back it up. They’ll reckon I’m insane. They already do, in fact. Even when I’ve given them some evidence. He’s careful. We need to catch him with his pants down, so to speak. Nothing will stick.’
