by Hannah Howe
“I can look after myself,” I said.
Vittoria watched as the tide rolled in, as the sea gathered in small dips and depressions, as the water formed minute pools of brackish beauty. “I thought I could look after myself,” she said, “until I met Osborne.”
Words were superfluous, so we sat on a large rock, absorbed the tranquil surroundings and remained silent for a while.
Then Vittoria repeated, “Why do you do this?”
I picked up a pebble; it was smooth, bright green in colour. The pebble displayed a series of regular ripples, which formed a beguiling pattern. As I balanced the pebble in my left hand, I said, “I drifted into it at first, chasing my ex-husband over an affair. I suppose I developed a taste for it, discovered it was something I could do.”
“But you give a lot of yourself to the job,” Vittoria said, “more than most people.”
I shrugged. She’d made a fair point. That said, I was far from unique in my profession; most of the enquiry agents I knew were committed to their work.
As I dropped the pebble into our bag, I said, “I know what it’s like to suffer, to be alone, in pain, especially to be alone suffering with emotional pain. It just seems right somehow, to try and help people who are in a similar position, don’t you think?”
“I do. But many people wouldn’t agree with you; they’d insist that you should stand on your own two feet.”
“Do your mother and father subscribe to that belief?” I asked.
“Mum does. She’s tough. I guess she had to be, being married to my father. And her upbringing wasn’t a bed of roses either. Dad can be tough, as you know; he can be ruthless. But he’s not an evil man. He doesn’t take enjoyment out of seeing people suffer.”
“But he will make them suffer.”
“If they cross him, yes. Eventually, he’ll make Osborne suffer. When the time is right, he’ll take his revenge.”
“How do you feel about that?” I asked.
“I hate Osborne. I want him dead.”
People filtered on to the beach, eager to take advantage of the morning sunshine. The weather forecasters promised rain later, and the clouds, banking up in the west, over Swansea, suggested that on this occasion the weather forecasters were right.
“I’d like to see V.J.,” Vittoria said.
We paused, to dry our feet on the grass before slipping into our trainers. Our footwear securely tied, we walked towards Mac.
“That might be difficult,” I said.
“Because of the attempted murder charge?”
“Yes. And because V.J. is suffering too. He needs time to come to terms with what happened.”
Vittoria frowned. Her features pinched into a familiar hawk-like gaze. “He doesn’t want to see me?”
“He needs time,” I said, “just like you.”
“I see.”
We walked on, towards Mac, who was standing atop a sand dune. With his greatcoat flapping in the breeze and the sunlight glinting off his bald head, he cut an impressive figure. Even from a distance, he looked intimidating, a cross between a scarecrow, a lighthouse and a Scottish version of the Statue of Liberty.
Before we reached Mac, Vittoria paused. She turned to me and said, “I guess this is the moment of truth, for me and V.J.; I guess now we’ll find out if we’re really made for each other.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The afternoon was drifting into evening when I received an email from Faye. Her task as a mystery guest was complete. She would take a two-day break in Mid-Wales to recharge her batteries, then home to Marlowe and me. Although I’d enjoyed the reminder of old times, when I’d performed my tasks as a solo operator, it would be good to see her again and revel in her company.
I was leaning back in my office chair, reflecting on Faye, when the telephone rang. It was Maya.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said, “about what you said. I’d like to meet you, in secret, to talk.”
“Where?” I asked.
“Westland’s,” she said. “You know, the disused colliery.”
I paused and made a mental note of the location. “Okay,” I said. “When?”
“My husband mustn’t know,” Maya insisted, her tone troubled, on edge.
“He won’t find out from me. When would you like to meet?”
“In an hour.”
“I’ll be there,” I said, and she broke the connection.
Westland’s was a disused coalmine situated to the north of the city. The land had been partially reclaimed and used as a marketplace, and for Sunday morning car boot sales. However, health and safety had discovered subsidence in the area and had closed the market accordingly. A wild, lonely, desolate spot, we could meet there in secret.
However, I remained in two minds about Maya – could I trust her? She sounded genuine, desperate to see me. With her help, maybe I could topple Osborne and obtain justice for Vittoria.
I threw my mobile phone, and my Smith and Wesson .32, into my shoulder bag and set off on my journey.
Spring had reverted to winter and, as forecast, the rain fell in torrents. Indeed, the B roads were better suited to boats than my Mini.
I splashed my way along the B roads, into the countryside, into a forest. Nine minutes late, I arrived in a clearing, at the site of the old colliery.
Maya was sitting in her Range Rover, waiting for me. While I parked, she leapt out of her vehicle and ran towards my Mini. “You weren’t followed?” she asked, her gaze furtive as she glanced around.
“No one tailed me,” I said.
I climbed out of my car, locked the door, then sought some much-needed shelter. Apart from a rusty coal wagon and a scattering of derelict mine workings, the old bathhouse offered the only place of sanctuary.
“Are you sure?” Maya persisted.
“I’m certain,” I said.
I turned the collar up on my trench coat, though it did little to protect me from the rain. In the summer, I’d follow Catrin’s fashion suggestion and don my short leather jacket. Faye wore a leather jacket and it looked great on her; mind you, Faye could wear a bin liner and she’d still look stunning, but I digress.
While looking around, searching for trouble, but finding nothing save for the ghosts of our once proud mining industry, I asked, “You want to talk?”
“I have something to show you,” Maya said. She wore a raincoat and a flowerpot hat, which perched, incongruously, atop her silky black hair. “Over here,” she insisted, “in the bathhouse.”
Splashing through the puddles, tiptoeing over rusty chains, I followed Maya to the bathhouse.
As Maya eased an oxidized bolt from its corroded catch, she glanced at me and asked, “You want to punish my husband?”
I nodded. “I want justice for Vittoria.”
“In here,” she said. “A box. Hidden behind that grill. It contains evidence of my husband’s business transactions.”
My gaze followed her long, shapely finger, which pointed to a ventilation grill, placed high in the wall. The wall was black, covered in coal dust. The old shower cubicles were black too; the dust had found its way in through cracks in the windows and walls. The windows were high, narrow and protected with wire mesh, which had rusted and fractured in places. For over a hundred years, coal had been king, the foundation stone for our towns and cities, for our roads and railways, for our ports and leisure resorts. Now, King Coal was a pauper, a dirty old man, not wanted at all.
As I stared at the ventilation grill, I asked, “The box...it contains details of match fixing, of crooked loans?”
“All the details,” Maya said.
“Why hide them here?” I asked.
“It’s safe,” she said. “The box is my insurance policy.”
“You want out of your marriage?”
She bit her lower lip, gazed down to her black boots, sighed and moaned, “Will you help me?”
“I’ll help you,” I said. I smiled and placed a hand on her arm.
While standing un
der the ventilation grill, I raised an arm and reached up, extended my paltry five foot five to its maximum. “I can’t reach it,” I said, “we need a ladder or a box.”
“Over there,” Maya said, pointing towards the far corner, “a box; I used it before.”
I allowed my bag to slip from my shoulder, scurried over to the box, a large, empty packing crate, and dragged it across the floor. With the crate in position, I climbed aboard. Then I ran my fingers over the grill. The grill contained a number of screws, all rusty, though they showed signs of recent wear.
“We need a screwdriver,” I said.
Maya nodded. “I’ll get one from my car.”
While Maya rummaged in her toolbox, I tried to peer through the grill, but I wasn’t tall enough. Besides, night was closing in and I required a torch. I had coal dust over my hands, over my clothes, over my face and a big black splodge on the end of my nose.
For some bizarre reason, I felt an urge to remove the black splodge, so I looked towards my shoulder bag for a tissue. However, my bag wasn’t there so I glanced over to the bathhouse door. Maya was standing outside the door, my bag in her hand. As I jumped off the packing case and ran towards the door, she threw my bag on to a mound of rain-washed coal, then secured the lock. She hadn’t retrieved a screwdriver; she’d obtained a key and a shiny new padlock.
“I’m sorry,” she said, though her tone lacked all compassion, all sincerity, “but he’s my husband and I must stand by him.”
I peered through the cracked glass to Maya, my face pressed against the grill, which covered the upper half of the door. I watched as she took backward steps, as she retreated into the darkness, into the rain.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated. Then she climbed into her Range Rover, revved the engine and drove away.
As she rounded a corner, her tail lights glowed like flames. Not once did she look over her shoulder, not once did she glance my way.
Meanwhile, I rattled the door handle and fought the urge to panic. I was locked in, trapped. I could do nothing, except sit back and wait for Osborne. I could do nothing, except maybe find religion and pray.
Chapter Thirty
I’ve always been too trusting, that’s my trouble, always looked for the good in people, even when it wasn’t there.
They had set me up. Maya and Osborne had arranged the packing case, had fabricated her story, had scratched the screws around the grill to make that story sound real. However, documents detailing Osborne’s skulduggery did not exist, or if they did, they were not hidden away in this bathhouse.
I rattled the lock again, to no avail. I kicked the door and only succeeded in bruising my toes. I had to escape, but how?
Despite the cracks in the walls, the masonry was solid; there was no way I could lean against the walls and push them down. The floor was solid concrete while the ceiling, though leaky, was structurally sound and beyond my reach. Likewise, the windows were too high and narrow, and anyway, all were covered in rusty wire mesh. I had nothing about my person, nothing that could loosen the screws and free the mesh. If only I could reach my shoulder bag...
I peered through the mesh on the door panel. My bag was lying on the coal, soaking up the rain. An arm’s length away, my bag tormented me, yet even if I could place my fingers on it, its bulk would not slide under the door. My car keys, my gun, my mobile phone sat in my bag, waiting, offering the prospect of salvation, of release from this nightmare.
Think, Samantha, think...you are good at that...stop fretting and start thinking...the door was loose, maybe I could remove it from its hinges. However, the hinges were rusty; I required some lubricant, a can of oil, margarine, butter...anything greasy. I scanned the showers for remnants, for discarded items from the colliery’s past, from the market and car boot sales. Despite an extensive search, I found only junkies’ needles amongst the litter and corroded cans. No oil. No salvation. Then I spied a crowbar...
I weighed the crowbar in my hands; it was heavy. Great; I needed its weight; it would suit me well. I raised the crowbar above my head and hammered it against the door. Criticize the coal mining industry all you like, but they knew how to build firm structures. Despite repeated bashings, the door wouldn’t budge. Time for a little subtlety; I placed the end of the crowbar between the door and door frame, then pushed against it. The door frame splintered, so I pushed again. I kept pushing and working the crowbar into the gap, into the narrow crevice between the door and its frame, until a loud crack signified a wide fissure. The door was loose, but still it wouldn’t open. I mopped the sweat from my blackened brow and paused for breath.
Once more, I inserted the crowbar. The lower hinge moved away from the wall then a number of screws fell on to the floor. I worked the crowbar between hinge and wall. The hinge bent and buckled, but the final screws refused to budge. So I turned my attention to the upper hinge, loosened the screws, created a gap between wall and hinge, glimpsed the prospect of freedom.
The door was hanging by the shiny new lock and by a handful of rusty screws. The screws were the weakest link; with a bit more effort, they had to fall. And they did. In the end the door frame splintered, the hinges fell away and I dragged open the door. I ran out of the bathhouse into the rain, only to encounter a grinning Grant Osborne.
“I warned you,” he said. “Now I’m going to teach you a lesson.”
I raised the crowbar above my head. If Osborne grabbed hold of the crowbar and used it on me, he would kill me. But not if I used it on him first.
“You take pleasure from inflicting pain, don’t you?” I scowled.
He continued to grin. “I like to see people beg, for their lives, for their money. People should know their place. People like you should know their place. Women are scum; they’re trash; they deserve nothing better.”
Osborne extended an arm; he reached for the crowbar. The grin on his face spoke of immense pleasure. Furthermore, his slow, lumbering stride revealed that he was savouring every moment. Meanwhile, the rain poured down and turned his mop of blond hair muddy brown.
In desperation, I swung the crowbar towards his head, but he deflected the blow and grabbed hold of my weapon. The wound on his upper arm, the gunshot graze, offered him no discomfort so we wrestled with the crowbar, fought for control until, with my feet slipping on the coal, I had to concede; he was too strong, too powerful for me; I released the crowbar and ran.
On instinct, I swooped and gathered up my shoulder bag. Then I scampered through the old car park, past an aluminium shed, barely noticing the red and white boundary tape and the signs that screamed, ‘Warning! Ground Unsafe!’ ‘Danger! Subsidence!’ ‘Do Not Cross!’ ‘Do Not Enter!’ ‘Keep Out!’ I ignored those signs, hurdled the boundary tape then scrambled up a slag heap, unevenly grassed, partially reclaimed by nature.
I was on the flat now, on the grass, racing, running who knows where, but away from Osborne. Then my right foot slipped on the grass. Then my leg disappeared down a hole. Before I could gather my senses, I was waist deep in the hole, my legs dangling in thin air, my fingers gripping the wet grass for dear life.
Bit by bit, I disappeared into the hole. Meanwhile, Osborne approached; like a rain-soaked bear, he trudged down the slag heap. I had fallen into an old mineshaft, or ventilation shaft, one of many in the coalfield. Close inspection and the security tape revealed the danger areas. However, when running for your life, when preoccupied, those danger areas looked fresh and innocent, hidden by a thick growth of grass, by natural contours, by the lush green landscape. I was shoulder deep in the hole, my fingers digging into the dirt, my legs flailing, my feet searching for a ledge or stony projection. I dropped another inch. Then my toes touched a rock. I eased my weight against the rock; it felt firm, secure, locked into the landscape.
Within a second, I made a decision, to drop my full weight on to that rock, to use it as a springboard, to scramble out of the hole, away from Osborne. Or to disappear into the darkness and never be seen again.
I dropped
on to the rock. It held. Using my arms, I pushed myself out of the hole, levered myself away, just as Osborne lunged for me. He tore at my clothing, ripped my coat, so I allowed it to fall on to the grass, then turned to confront the monster.
Osborne had dropped the crowbar on the slag heap. With a savage swipe, he reached for my blouse, but I stepped away. While he was off balance, I managed to scratch his face; I pulled the buttons from his shirt to expose a hirsute chest and abdomen. He stood panting, his trousers and jacket covered in mud and dust, his face filthy. He walked forward. I took a step back. He lunged again and missed.
My shoulder bag was in my left hand, held tight. I wrapped my fingers around the strap. My fingernails dug into my palms while my knuckles shone white; I gripped my bag as though holding on to my sanity. Then my right hand disappeared into the depths of my bag and reappeared clutching my gun.
Osborne stared at my gun. He laughed, “You won’t shoot me.”
“One step closer,” I said, “and I will.”
“No you won’t,” he said, his voice firm, confident, assured; “you’re not the type to kill.”
“I shot someone before,” I said, my arm extended, my gun levelled at Osborne, my finger vibrating against the trigger.
“I know,” Osborne grinned. “I checked your record. You shot her because she was going to shoot you. But I’m not going to shoot you; I’m just going to teach you a lesson.”
“One step closer,” I warned.
He continued to grin. This was fun for Osborne. This was pleasure, personified; the man lived for moments like this, for moments when he could make people suffer.
“You’d like to wound me, wouldn’t you,” he said, “but you’re not good enough for that, not a good enough shot. If you fire that gun, it will be to kill, and you couldn’t live with that.” He reached across and ripped my blouse, tore it wide open. “You won’t shoot me.”
I raised my gun, wrapped my finger around its trigger. I stared at his bare flesh and recalled my conversation with Mac, his comment about shooting through bare flesh and living with the nightmares. Could I live with those nightmares?
