by J. D. Weston
“Then someone kills the bride. A gunshot, loud and clear. People run. John’s men tackle the killer, but the driver gets away. John calms the guests down. A man like John Cartwright could do that. He’s very persuasive. But while he’s calming the crowd down, telling them everything is under control, the groom lets his emotions get the better of him.”
“The groom, sir? Donald Cartwright?” said the woman.
“He’s an emotional, reckless mess. He’s scared.”
“Of what?”
The man ignored her question and continued with his hypothesis. He leaned back on the rear end of the covered classic car, a move that would infuriate even the calm and collected John.
“Donny does something stupid,” said the man, and Harvey adjusted his position but still couldn’t see the man’s face. He saw the man fold his arms. He saw the man’s fingers tapping as if he was playing a melody on his arm.
“Myers?” mouthed Harvey and stepped back to the wall behind him. There would be no explaining his presence on the grounds of a known villain just an hour after a murder had taken place.
“Things get out of control,” continued Myers. “The guests are sent away. Cartwright knows that we’ll turn up, so he hides the body of the man who killed Julia…”
Myers paused, maybe due to a last-minute doubt as his theory voiced its unwanted opinion.
“In this room,” he finished. He pushed himself off the car, pulled the sheets away, and, using a tissue from his pocket, carefully pushed the car’s chrome boot release.
He stood back to admire his ingenuity and his face was framed perfectly in the slot from which Harvey spied them.
The look of disappointment on his face was priceless.
“Well, well, well.”
It was John’s voice. A huge shadow moved across the concrete floor in the doorway. Then, one by one, smaller shadows peeled off, accompanied by the clicks of heels. Expensive, heeled dress shoes.
Harvey closed his eyes and completed the picture with his imagination and hearing. John’s heavy paces. The shuffle of Sergio’s feet on the polished concrete as he moved out of harm’s way. Donny’s faster, less methodical steps following John. He mimicked his father’s presence when he could but could never match him mentally.
And still, the giant shadow that belonged to Julios remained in the doorway. Julios would fill the space. There would be no escape.
“Sergio,” said John, in that condescending tone of voice that Harvey hated so much. “Do I have cause to make a complaint?”
“You do, John,” replied Sergio. “We gave strict instructions that Detective Myers and his friend were not to enter any building. There were four of us present and the instructions were quite clear.”
“I see,” said John. “Could that be deemed as harassment, Sergio?”
“Not yet, John. But if the detectives were asked to leave and they failed to do so, then I’m sure we could seek a harassment charge.”
“Make all the complaints you want, Cartwright,” said Myers. “A young girl died here today and you’re hiding something. I know you and your type better than you think.”
“Sergio?” said John.
“Unsupported allegations, defamation of character, and trespassing.” Sergio pointed to the empty boot of the E-Type. “And clearly, you have no evidence.”
“I think it’s time you left, Detective Myers. Don’t you?” said John.
Myers said nothing. He nodded to his partner and they edged to the door, where Julios’ shadow seemed to sidestep to allow them through.
But Myers stopped at the threshold, his shadow tiny beside Julios’, but clear enough for Harvey to see his stretched profile.
“A girl died here today, Mr Cartwright, and a man died a few miles from here. I believe the cases are linked and I’m just trying to find who did it,” said Myers.
“Well I wish you all the best with that,” replied John. “Sounds like you’re far too busy to be hanging around here.”
“If we find you taking the law into your own hands, there will be a price to pay, Mr Cartwright. Don’t let me catch you interfering. The consequences of perverting the course of justice far outweigh that of an allegation that is, by all accounts, your word against mine.”
“I won’t,” said John.
“You won’t what, Mr Cartwright?”
John smiled and winked at Myers’ partner. “I won’t let you catch me,” said John, then turned to Sergio. “See them out, Sergio, will you? Make sure they don’t run into trouble on the way.”
Myers’ shadow shook its head, and he turned to leave again. Julios allowed Sergio through then returned to his space in the doorway and nodded to John when the detectives were out of view.
John looked about the space. His expression was mildly amused but confused.
Harvey stepped from the shadows and John offered him a proud smile.
“Right, it’s just us four” said John. “And things are getting out of hand. What I need is honesty, Donny. Tell me truthfully. Do you know who they were?”
“No, Dad. Of course. I would have said.”
John looked him in the eye, but Donny couldn’t meet his stare. It wasn’t unusual. Donny had never managed to look a man in the eye. It was one of the reasons nobody trusted him. That, and his history of deceit.
“Do you know of any reason why somebody would want to kill, Julia?” said John.
Donny’s eyes teared up. They shone like beacons in the dim light.
“Don’t start all that now, Donny. Now is not the time.”
“No, Dad. No. Why would anyone want to kill her?”
“In that case, we can only assume they meant to get you,” said John.
“The detective thought the same,” said Harvey. “I heard him say before you arrived. He thinks Donny is involved somehow.”
“What?” said Donny. “Why would I be involved in my own wife’s murder? We were married an hour-”
“Donny, shut up, will you?” said John, tiring of Donny’s emotional outbursts. “Do you or do you not know anything about what happened? It doesn’t matter if you did. I’ll stand by you. But I need to know the truth.”
“I told you the truth. Why would I lie? They killed my wife.”
John nodded and turned to Julios.
“Julios, Donny, pack a bag each. Make it fast. You’re going away for a while.”
“What?” said Donny. “Where are we going?”
“You’re going to a safe house and you’re going to stay there until all this is over. Sergio will give you the details. Nobody, not even me, will know where you are.”
The message was far from subtle. John was mad at Donny but was holding his temper back. He took a deep breath, leaving Donny to deal with his emotions by kicking a bucket across the barn.
“Harvey, how did you get on with the driver?” said John.
“He couldn’t talk,” said Harvey.
“And the other one?” said John, searching around the room. “Where is he?”
“I told you I wanted him,” said Donny. “I told you not to give him to Harvey. He messes everything up for me. What did you do with him? Did you let him go?”
“Shut up, Donny,” said John.
“They killed my wife, you idiot,” said Donny, ignoring his father. He closed the distance between himself and Harvey but stayed closer to John.
“Donny, watch your mouth,” said John.
“Oh, that’s right. Stick up for Harvey. Nothing changes, does it? Even when his sister was alive, it was the same.”
Harvey drew his knife.
“Donny,” said John, drawing his name out long and slow in a warning but keeping his eyes on Harvey’s and raising his hands to keep everyone cool.
But Donny continued his rant.
“The one time I need him to help me and he lets me down. Of all the people that should know grief, it’s him. I remember how he cried when Hannah died. I remember how Julios helped him get his revenge.”
Har
vey walked toward Donny, his knife in his hand ready to strike.
“Harvey, no,” said John.
“Yeah, what?” said Donny, in a rare act of bravado that could only be fuelled by his emotions. “You’re going to kill me as well, are you? You’re a nut job, Harvey. You always have been. I’m glad Hannah died. At least you know how it feels. It wouldn’t surprise me if you were in on it. In fact, where were you when Julia was killed? You were supposed to be security. It’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?”
In a flash, Harvey whipped his knife across the front of Donny’s face. The blade passed just fractions of an inch from Donny’s eyes. It was so fast that Donny barely had time to register the move. He silenced and stood with his mouth ajar and eyes wide.
Without looking, Harvey jammed his knife into the upright beam beside him and sliced the rope. There was the sound of whipping rope tearing through the pulley and Asif’s plastic-wrapped body fell to the concrete floor with a sickening thump.
“There’s your man,” said Harvey, and yanked the knife from the beam. He held the blade up to Donny’s face, staring into his eyes.
“Harvey,” warned John.
But Harvey stayed there, long enough for Donny to heed the warning. Then he turned the knife in his hand and offered the handle to Donny.
“See if you can make him talk,” said Harvey.
But Donny was in shock. He stood motionless and his face dropped from a bitter sneer to that of the weak man he was.
“Go on,” said Harvey, and jabbed Donny with the handle of the knife. “See if you make him talk. You make it all sound so easy, Donny.”
He jabbed again, but Donny just stood there.
“You want revenge, Donny?” said Harvey. “Do you want to make someone suffer? Do you want to know how it feels?”
Harvey grabbed his hand and placed the knife into it, closing Donny’s fist around the carved, wooden handle. He raised Donny’s limp arm to his own throat and held the blade against his skin.
“There, Donny. There. All you have to do is cut. Go on. Cut me, Donny. See how it feels.”
A trickle of blood both warmed and whetted Harvey’s neck, but Donny’s arm was limp and weak.
“Cut me, Donny.”
“Enough,” said John, and his voice boomed around the vaulted roof, amplified by the empty space.
Feeling his own hand shaking and the trickle of blood drip onto his chest, Harvey held Donny for a moment longer, until John spoke again.
“I said that’s enough,” said John, his voice quieter but authoritative.
Harvey pulled the knife from Donny’s hand and shoved his arm away. There was so much he wanted to tell Donny about grief and revenge. But his words would be wasted. Donny had neither the strength nor the will to go through with revenge of any description.
“Right,” said John. “This is a bloody mess and we aren’t going to get through it by fighting each other. Do I make myself clear?”
Neither man answered.
“I said, do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Dad,” said Donny, and found a patch of shadow to avert his gaze.
“Harvey?” said John, and he waited for Harvey to look him in the eye. “Have I made myself clear?”
Harvey didn’t reply. He nodded once and stared back at him. It was all John was going to get and he knew it.
Sergio re-entered the barn and took in the scene. A man like Sergio, as despicable as he was, could tell what was happening and was wise enough to stay silent.
“Pack your bags, Donny. Julios, I want you gone in under an hour,” said John. Then he turned to Sergio and growled, “Sergio, I told you I wanted that guest list checked and checked again.”
“But, John, I-”
“Get Julios the address to the safe house and get out of my sight. I’ll come and find you when I’m ready. I mean it, Sergio. I don’t want you back here until I say.”
Sergio, embarrassed to be berated in front of everyone, led Donny from the barn.
John turned his attention to Harvey.
“Harvey,” said John, and Harvey waited for the command, “I don’t want to know what happened. I don’t want to know your thoughts about Donny. I want answers and I want somebody to pay. If you want to carry on with this family, you need to become part of it, not stand on the side lines.”
Harvey didn’t reply.
“I can’t begin to tell you how disappointed I am right now, and you dare to stand there saying nothing. You’re one step away from losing everything so buck your ideas up. Find whoever gave the order to kill Julia…”
He paused, lowered his voice even further, and leaned in to speak into Harvey’s ear.
“And make them pay, Harvey, or God help you.”
Part II
Chapter Twenty-Three
The first-floor office at Romford Police Station was open plan, dated, and loud. The walls were painted a hideous light blue and the row of offices where Allenby was situated were nothing more than cheap, timber-framed cubicles.
But the office was a palace compared to the gents’ washroom. A tiny amount of the budget had been spent on keeping it tidy, but layering paint on flaky paint had only worsened the look, and years of grime ran along the edges of the linoleum floor.
Once again, Myers found his reflection in the mirror. He ran the cold tap and let the basin fill, then splashed the water over his face and used a paper towel to dry himself.
Behind him, one of the lavatories flushed. A man coughed and spat into the bowl before snapping the latch and easing himself from the stall.
“Myers,” said Carver, as Myers dried his face. “Having a bad day, are we?” The strength of his Scottish accent fluctuated. The more condescending he was being, the stronger the accent was.
“Nothing I can’t handle, Carver.”
“Good to hear it,” said Carver, and rinsed his hands. He let the water run and banged the soap dispenser harder than necessary, then pulled a handful of towels from a small pile on the sink. He dried his hands and tossed the towels into an overflowing wastepaper bin, even the dry ones that hadn’t touched his hands. It was when Myers noticed little moments of inconsideration or imperfections in people that he knew he was wound up. He couldn’t care less about a bunch of hand towels or how hard somebody hit the soap dispenser. But he knew himself well enough to know that the little twitches would lead to something much larger.
“Myers?” said Carver, and he realised he was staring at Carver’s hands. He had no idea how long he’d been staring. “Maybe it’s time you took some time off?”
“I’m fine,” said Myers, knowing that Carver was trying to make something out of nothing.
“You look fine,” said Carver, without even an attempt to hide the sarcasm. “How’s young Fox settling in?”
“Fox is good. She’s got a good head on her shoulders. She just needs to adjust to the way things are done here.”
“I’m sure she’s in capable hands.”
Everything he said was worded to be complimentary, or at the least, pleasant. But underneath the shroud, there was an undertone of spite. It was all an attempt to get in Myers’ head. He left Myers no plausible reason to complain. Carver had just told Myers that Fox was in capable hands, he’d shown compassion, and even displayed concern for Myers’ wellbeing.
But it had all been part of an attack. A series of tiny flicks of a blade could do just as much damage as a single stab to the heart.
And on top of the underhand blows, Carver’s confidence bore down on him like a weight. It was an unmovable rock. It was a cloud that darkened with every laugh he raised and case he solved.
It was suppressive for a man like Myers, who lacked the people skills to meet him head on.
“You look like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders, Myers. Do you want me to have a word with Allenby? See if she can ease off a little?”
Another little flick of the blade. Carver’s relationship with Allenby was flawless. It was based on cas
e after case of Carver’s relationships with criminals. The ability to see through the muddy waters of organised crime with the help of the criminals themselves. Carver appeared to be in control, and, in return, the criminals had an easy time. Maybe a few charges dropped here and there. Or a favour or two in the bank.
But that was the organised crime world. A world where Myers rarely ventured. It was a world where the players rarely changed and the shift in power was the only real change. Myers’ world was so very different. Homicide. Murder. A different case every time, and every case was a blank sheet.
Carver shook his head, and Myers realised he was staring again. He pushed past Myers with a quiet laugh to himself.
“You need to wake up and smell the roses, Myers,” he said. “Or at least wake up.”
“How do you do it?” said Myers, as Carver opened the door.
“Do what?” said Carver, holding the door open. The noise of the office along the corridor grew louder and Myers tried to find the right words to say. Words that wouldn’t make him appear weak. But there was no other way of saying it.
“How do you manage to appear so magnanimous despite being a lying, cheating, and despicable criminal?”
Carver smiled.
“It’s a skill.”
Myers despised him.
“I need something,” said Myers, still leaning on the basin. “I need a favour.”
“A favour?” said Carver, and his tone changed from the condescending and patronising sneer he usually used to one of opportunistic interest.
He let go of the door and it banged shut.
“You have my attention, Myers. But be quick. The governor has a case for me.”
And there it was. As clear as day. Myers straightened. He checked his reflection, smoothed his hair, and cleared his throat.
Matthew Myers was back.
“What do you know about Donald Cartwright?”
Carver shrugged off the comment as if the name meant nothing to him.
“And why would I do you a favour, Myers?” he said. “Even if I did know him.”
It was the question Myers had been waiting for.
“Because Donald Cartwright was married today.”
