Death on a Dirty Afternoon (The Terry Bell Mysteries Book 1)

by Colin Garrow

  'What's happened?'

  I sighed. 'Long story.'

  I finished my coffee and put the cup down. Charis looked up from her notepad. She hadn't written anything. She glanced again at the printouts she'd picked up from her desk on the way through to the interview room. Whatever was on there, I guessed it wasn't good news.

  'My problem, Terry, is that Sanjay Ahmed put a call in to Newcastle police last night. He reported a break-in at his property on Nugent Crescent and claimed the intruder was still on the premises. Two units attended and found signs of a struggle. Mr Ahmed gave a description, which, I have to say, matches you to a tee. He also claims the man who broke in has been hanging around the property for some time. According to him, the thief was alone.'

  'Sorry, but have ye not been listenin?'

  She tapped her pen on the table. 'You haven't told me anything useful yet.'

  I coughed. Somehow, I'd expected her to listen, to take action, to do...something. 'Carol's missing. Christ knows what's happened to her. She could be...she could be dead or anything.'

  She exchanged a glance with Ramshaw, who I noticed was looking very grown up. 'We've only got your word for that.'

  I banged a hand on the table, making them both jump. 'For fuck's sake Charis, why won't you believe me?'

  She leaned forward, her face hard and stony. 'Why the hell should I? You've been lying to me right from the start.'

  I blinked. 'No, I've told ye —'

  'Shite! That's what ye've told me, Terry. A total load of shite. Right from day one.' She swivelled her eyes to the right.

  Following her gaze, I looked at Ramshaw and got the distinct impression that this was where the up-and-coming DC steps in with the punch line. I said, 'And I suppose you think the same, do ye?'

  He stared straight back at me. 'What happened to the hockey stick?'

  Turned out it was a sliver of wood that led them to the truth - one of several miniscule fragments they'd found embedded in Ronnie's face. You might think it'd be hard to match such a tiny item with an actual object, but no, not a problem at all. Not with the advances being made in technology. In fact, I wouldn't have been surprised if they had a 3D printer that could reproduce Sharon's hockey stick from scratch using only the tiniest of splinters.

  Course, it hadn't been like that at all, not really. Although that tiny fragment had given them a clue, it had simply been a matter of the police talking to Sharon, and Sharon just happening to mention a particular item she'd left behind when she moved out. Yup. Good old detective work. Sherlock Fucking Holmes, eat your heart out.

  So I had no choice. At least, that's what I'd tell myself later when the sloppy brown stuff would more than likely hit the apparatus with the rotating blades.

  I told them about the argument with Frank, about Bench Face and his bearded pal and about me and Carol's visits to Donny White and Judy the Spanx Queen. I didn't tell them about Ralph being with us the previous night - no point burning all my bridges.

  And of course I told them about the blood on the hockey stick, the threats from Big Ronnie and the notes on the doors.

  Charis let out the first of a series of heavy sighs before she eventually spoke.

  'Tell me again about the notes.'

  'Like what?'

  'Like what you think they mean.'

  I shrugged. 'I thought they were from Ronnie, or at least, I thought the first one was.'

  She stared at her notepad. 'And they both said 'Give it back?' '

  'Pretty much.'

  'So?'

  I glanced at Ramshaw, who was now at the table, chin resting in his hands. 'Give what back?'

  'I don't know.'

  'Well someone must know. There has to be a motive.' Charis held up a finger. 'One: money.'

  'Possibly,' I said. 'But it was Ronnie that owed me, so why would he send a reminder?'

  'Good point.' She curled her finger back down, then it shot up again. 'The gear from your hackney cab?'

  'He'd already sent me a couple of texts about that, but again, hardly summat to get in a tiz about.'

  She kept the finger up and added another. 'Two: sex.'

  I was tempted to say 'Not just now, pet,' but thought better of it. 'Look, this all started with Frank, so it must be about him, and Frank was having an affair, so...'

  She nodded slowly. 'But why would Ronnie care?'

  'Um...maybe Ronnie knew the woman Frank was seeing?'

  She stared hard at me for a moment. 'Hang on...' She flicked through her pile of papers and pulled out a sheaf of forms. From where I sat, I could see they were photocopies of job sheets from the taxi office.

  'We did a bit of diggin. Paul suggested we check through the records for the past six months, rather than just the two days we originally looked at.' She glanced across at Ramshaw. 'He picked these up last night.' Taking out two sheets, she passed them across the table. 'Here and here,' she said, indicating a couple of entries on each sheet, 'Ronnie picked up from the Hexagon and dropped off - supposedly - at Central Station in Newcastle.' She looked up. 'Ring any bells?'

  'So he might have gone to Ahmed's place?'

  She made a maybe-maybe-not gesture.' I'm not saying I believe all that bollocks about Ahmed, but if there's a connection..?'

  I leaned forward and studied the sheets. 'What if Frank - for some reason - did some of Ronnie's regular pickups for him? Like, if Ronnie had a more important job lined up, he might have passed one or two on to another driver and Frank was about the only one he trusted.'

  'Ye said Frank owed him money?'

  'He did, but Frank was the first driver Ronnie took on - he'd been with the firm for ten years at least. Frank was there even before Ken got involved.'

  'Okay. So if Frank found out something...' She shrugged.

  'Like something involving this mysterious woman of his?'

  She sat back and stared at the desk. 'Possibly.'

  'None of this is helping find Carol.' I was trying not to sound irritated but it didn't quite work.

  'We've got someone watching both Ahmed's place and Andersson's boat.'

  'What about his house?'

  She shook her head. 'He doesn't have a house.'

  'He bloody does! Elise told me - it's out in the sticks somewhere.' I stared at her. 'I thought you'd checked all that?'

  Her voice was steady. 'As far as we're aware, Mr Andersson spends all his spare time on his boat. There's no record of a house, no bills relating to property on his bank statements. Nothing.'

  'He's got a house. Somewhere. I know he has.'

  'And of course,' she added, 'we still haven't found Frank's car.'

  When I left the police station, the first thing I saw was a black Volvo with tinted windows. It was parked across the road. The passenger side window buzzed down and Ralph cocked a finger at me.

  'Got your car back, then?' I said.

  He shook his head. 'Nah, this is Mrs Carver's. So if anythin happens to it, I'll be blamin you.'

  As soon as I was inside, he took off towards the town centre.

  'Where we goin?'

  He glanced at me. 'To cast out the net.'

  'What - fishin?'

  'That's right, bonny lad - fishing for information.'

  That sounded good, but I had more pressing concerns on my mind. 'We need to find Carol.'

  Ralph pulled up at a T-junction and twisted round to look at me. 'Oh aye? Know where she is, do yer?'

  'Well, no, not exactly...'

  He nodded. 'That's why we're goin fishin.'

  A minute later, we turned into Battlehill Terrace and pulled up outside one of the popular private hotels that were neither popular nor private. I'd done plenty pickups from the place in the past, but didn't have a Scooby about its present occupants.

  'What we doing here?'

  Ralph smiled. 'If I'm right, this'll be the fishing equivalent of cod and chips twice.'

  I didn't bother trying to work out Ralph's metaphors, but guessed he knew what he was doing.


  As the main door of the hotel was ajar, we walked straight in. The lobby boasted little in the way of welcoming decor and the walls bore the traces of several layers of paint and paper. I followed my large friend across the faded carpet to the stairs.

  On the first floor, Ralph knocked on a door that led off the landing. A screechy voice called for us to hang on. I didn't recognise its owner until she opened the door.

  Judy the Spanx Queen looked up at Ralph and sighed in a way that suggested some past acquaintance. She blinked several times like she'd got something in her eye, then pulled her nightie around herself. I was glad it wasn't of the see-through variety. Her fingers fidgeted with the buttons.

  She turned to me. 'What now?'

  I was about to speak but Ralph jumped in first.

  'A little bird told iz ye had some information. About a job ye passed on.'

  Her eyes swivelled up to Ralph, but her face still pointed at me. Her mouth opened. 'Erm...Ah divvent think so...'

  Ralph moved so quickly it made me jump. Grabbing Judy's arm, he twisted it behind her, prompting a yelp of pain.

  'Christ man! What the fuck ye doin?'

  Ralph sprang forward, propelling her backwards into the flat. I followed in his wake as he pushed her along the short passageway and into a room at the end.

  Judy wriggled free of his grasp and jumped back, but Ralph had stopped in the doorway, blocking off any means of escape. Peering over his shoulder, I looked into the room and was surprised to find myself face to face with a familiar young man of dubious origin.

  'Oh, crap. What da fuck you doin here, man?'

  My Jamaican Cockney friend was naked except for a strategically placed cushion, which he held over his dangly bits.

  'Might ask you the same question,' I said.

  Ralph stepped forward and turned to me. 'Ye know this fucker?'

  I told him about our previous meeting in the lane behind Ahmed's house and the fact he was acquainted with the man called Horse.

  Gesturing to the unclothed fellow on her sofa, Ralph turned to Judy. 'Client, is he?'

  'Client? Cheeky bastard. What ye think I am?'

  'I know what you are, bonny lass. Just answer the question.'

  Judy shook her head as if to rid herself of the accusation.

  'Who gave you the job?'

  She raised her chin in an act of further defiance, but in doing so, her eyes flicked towards her companion.

  Ralph caught the look and a smile spread over his features. 'Thought as much. Now, young man...'

  Judy seemed about to object but said nothing more.

  Moving forward, Ralph reached into his jacket and pulled out what looked like a piece of rolled-up leather. Standing directly in front of Judy's gentleman friend, he made a show of unrolling it, revealing a number of highly-polished items slotted into neat little pockets. Selecting a pair of secateurs, he passed the tool roll to me.

  'Whatcha doin wiv dat, bro?'

  'I'll ask the questions,' said Ralph. 'What's your name, son?'

  For a moment, it looked as if belligerence might get the better of the young lothario, but then he shrugged and said, 'Barney.'

  Ralph glanced at Judy and she gave a slight nod.

  'Okay, Barney,' he said, brandishing the shears. 'We'd like answers to several questions.'

  Barney made a face. 'What - ye goin to cut ma cock off?' He grinned and shook his head. 'Nah. Judy's told me about you. You ain't the type.'

  This seemed like a stupid thing to say, given the particularly mean look on Ralph's face and the nearness of the cutters to Barney's scrotum, but the upturned chin and downturned mouth gave him a strangely heroic demeanour. I almost admired his bravado.

  Ralph's face seemed to visibly cool, as if it had somehow metamorphosed into a block of marble. He stood for a long time, staring down at the young man, eyes hard and wide. Then he shrugged and nodded. 'You know what? You're right - I'm no Shylock, and in any case I don't reckon I'd get a pound of flesh off that scraggy bit of black puddin ye've got there. But then, it's not your flesh I'm interested in.' And with that he jumped forward and grabbed a handful of Barney's dreadlocks.

  The young man's reaction was delightful. Abandoning both the cushion and his vulnerability, he jumped up, pulling at Ralph's arm, trying to steer it away from his precious coiffure.

  'No, man, not that...'

  Judy was trembling, her feet shuffling forward. She seemed about to jump into the fray, but I moved between her and Barney, allowing Ralph the space he needed to play his winning hand. A second later, Barney was on his back on the sofa, Ralph's knee on his chest and a hank of hair between the blades of the shears.

  'Right. You ready to answer my questions now, son?'

  Chapter 15

  Back in the car, Ralph slipped the unused shears into their pocket and tied up the tool roll. He slid the key into the ignition then looked at me.

  'Go on then - ask.'

  'Ask what?'

  He frowned. 'You okay, Terry? Look like you're in shock.'

  I let out a long breath and shook my head. 'Just wasn't what I was expectin.'

  He sniffed and eased the car away from the kerb. 'Yeah, I know.' After a moment he said, 'Which way?'

  'Towards the golf club.'

  He nodded and took the next left.

  I stared out the window, pondering how to approach things. Whichever way our next encounter went, there were going to be consequences - the sort of consequences I didn't want to think about. I decided to leave the details to chance and occupy my mind with something less demanding.

  I said, 'Go on then - how d'you know Judy?'

  'What makes ye think I know her?'

  'Bloody obvious.'

  'An there's me thinkin I was being inscrutable.' He coughed. 'She's me mam's sister. Usual story. Got in with a bad lot, started doin drugs at fifteen and it all went downhill from there.' His eyes told me this was as much as I was going to get, so I let it go.

  It amazed me how towns like this one seemed to cultivate multiple layers of overlapping relationships, each one linked to another and yet another, to the point where I sometimes thought the whole town was one big, sprawling, interrelated clan, complete with all the back-biting, snidey, hypocritical cattiness most families have. Except with this one, there was always one more skeleton lurking in the wardrobe with yet another sordid secret waiting to be exposed.

  Just past the clubhouse, I directed Ralph to take a left onto the Farmway. It was one of those Leech-built estates that were thrown up in the late Sixties to replace pit houses and welfare cottages, with the promise of ridding its residents of the curse of outside toilets. Trouble was, unlike the dwellings they were meant to be replacing, these houses weren't built to last and cracks started appearing within a few months of the first punters moving in. Now, half of them were up for sale and the other half were home to folk who still thought property was worth hanging on to.

  Like many similar communities, Mr Leech had pinched a few ideas from the New Town developments and factored in areas for growth. Consequently, most of these estates had their own shops, a pub or two and if they were really lucky, a community centre. But it wasn't the wellbeing of the community I was interested in.

  Taking a right past the handful of shops, I told Ralph to pull up on the opposite side of the road. We both turned to look at the not-so-modern edifice that sat on a quarter-acre of land between the two halves of the estate. The place looked like it had been modelled on one of those quaint, timber-built country churches in Virginia - the ones that are always painted white and look far too good for sinners and repentant souls. Unfortunately, the builder had utilised several tons of the pale yellow bricks so beloved of northern collieries. I dare say it must have looked okay to begin with, but to my mind, it'd never resembled anything but a monument to dead miners. And not a very good one, at that.

  I got out the car and looked up at the scaffolding. A couple of swarthy-looking guys were leaning on the railing
at the top, watching us.

  'One of them?' said Ralph.

  'No.' I walked round the side of the building and found the main door. It was already open, held in place by a pile of bricks.

  Even allowing for the huge arched windows, the scaffolding and layers of polythene covering the walls outside had diminished the natural light, so there was a gloominess to the interior. Here and there, cables hung over the rafters with light bulbs dangling from the ends, illuminating the central section of the main hall. Most of the pews had been ripped out and the initial framework of stud walls erected, the plan presumably to separate the space into individual apartments. To the right was a door leading to a side room where I imagined the clergy would've helped themselves to wine and biscuits. Now the space was piled high with bags of plaster.

  At the far end of the hall, through the maze of pine joists, three familiar faces looked up from their task. The one with the beard dropped the sheet of plasterboard he was holding, letting it crash to the floor. I waved a cheery hello at his friends.

  Directly in front of us, a makeshift desk had been rigged up over the top of a couple of the remaining pews, where a man in a waxed jacket was poring over a series of diagrams laid out across the top. He straightened up and glared at Monkey Boy.

  'What the hell you doing? You know how much I pay for those?'

  None of them spoke, though all three made vague pointing gestures, indicating that they were no longer alone. It was only then that David turned round and saw us.

  'Terry? What a nice er...' He frowned and looked at his watch. 'What you doing here?'

  'Ye said pop in any time. So we have.' My voice came out sounding less composed than I'd've liked, and there was a note of something close to panic that surprised me. Realising my fists were clenched, I willed myself to relax, to take a breath.

  My sister's husband cleared his throat and gave a strained laugh. 'Aye, well obviously I didn't mean just any time.'

  I nodded towards my friend. 'This is Ralph, a mate of mine.'

  Ralph raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

  David jumped to a conclusion and shook his head. To Ralph he said, 'Sorry mate, I haven't any jobs going just now.' He gave me a pained look. 'Terry...'