by Graham Smith
Gazala slings her bag over one shoulder and sets off along Main. Her thoughts are fixed on the new lines that were delivered this afternoon. With so many of Casperton’s executives being male, female fashion in the town is always at least two steps behind.
While others may be jealous of the bias, she revels in it as it will give her the opportunity she craves.
Crossing at a junction she toys with the idea of getting a bottle of wine from the 7-Eleven, but decides against it. Her mother never gives voice to her disapproval of midweek drinking, but she does allow her face to display her opinion.
Gazala is so wrapped up in her thoughts she doesn’t notice the van following her.
There’s nothing remarkable about it. No decals advertising its owner’s business; no pimped-up wheels or tinted windows. The tyres may be off-road ones and the suspension may have a slight jacking to increase ground clearance, but many vans have those modifications. It’s a typical white panel van similar to a million others in the country. Except this one is driven by someone who is proud of his racism.
She’s unaware of the two masked men sitting in the back. Unknowing of the bag they hold ready to pull over her head.
Perhaps if she was more alert to her surroundings she’d recognise the threat presented by the slow-moving van and its occupants.
After buying some of the latest fashion magazines at the 7-Eleven, Gazala bumps into a neighbour.
They talk as they walk the half mile back to their street. A hundred yards behind them is one of the men from the van. Shorn of the coveralls and mask he’d worn ready for the pickup, he looks like any other guy as he strolls along the street.
His detail an obvious one.
He has to follow her home. Once they know where she lives, as well as where she works, they can pick her up at any time. It’s a blow not to get her tonight, but there’ll be plenty of other chances.
With her address memorised, he walks until he’s three blocks away before calling for the van to come and collect him.
Gazala doesn’t know it, but meeting her neighbour has saved her life.
12
Alfonse meets me at the door of the Joshua Tree, or ‘the Tree’ as everyone calls it. The Tree is a rock bar where even the music has to be twenty-one to get in. A diner-cum-restaurant through the day, it stops serving meals at eight and the music is turned up at half past. Friday and Saturday I mind the door, and eject six-beer-heroes who start fights they mostly can’t finish. The work pays well and satisfies my natural blood-lust.
The two-part message from Kenneth, the owner, has both irritated me and piqued my interest.
‘What you got?’ Alfonse asks the question before I’ve even climbed out of the Mustang.
I shrug. ‘Got a few possible leads but nothing I believe will pan out. You?’
‘I got nothing.’
The dejection in his voice tells me of the strain he’s feeling. Of the way this most personal of cases is getting to him despite only being a day old. I want to reassure him that we’ll catch whoever is behind the murders. At the same time I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep.
However much I want to make up for letting him down, I’m not prepared to offer him false hope.
‘You’re gonna have to work tonight, aren’t you?’
‘Not if I can help it.’ I don’t want to and plan to do everything I can to get out of it as I figure Alfonse’s need is greater than Kenneth’s.
The only reasons I haven’t pulled a sickie are that Kenneth would find out, and I want to know more about the man that the second part of his message said was looking for me.
It seems too short a space of time for Benji to have tracked me down for a spot of revenge so it must be someone else who’s asking around.
When you’ve kicked as many asses as I have, there’s always some fool with a grudge or a point to prove. Whoever it is, they’ll have to stand in line. I don’t have time for petty vendettas.
Alfonse follows me as I lead the way to Kenneth’s office.
I don’t bother knocking as Kenneth is too down to earth to exercise authority with such formalities.
Kenneth lifts his hands in apology. ‘I’m sorry, Jake, but I need you tonight. Mabel has taken a table of twenty. It’s booked in the name Augiers.’
The name tells me everything I need to know. The Augiers family are a bunch of deadbeats. If they lived further south they’d be best described as rednecks. Every one of them is slow of mind and quick of temper.
‘He’ll be here, Kenneth.’ Alfonse’s words cut across the tension in the room. He looks me in the eye. ‘I’m not pointing any fingers, but if I was I’d point some at them.’
I get what he’s saying. The Augiers are backward in their thinking and casual racism is never far from their lips. The last time they were in the Tree, Kenneth had three staff refuse to serve them. By the time I threw them out, six chairs, two tables and a couple of dozen glasses had been smashed.
‘Why did Mabel take the booking?’ I fix Kenneth with a determined stare. ‘Can’t you cancel on them – blame a double-booking or something?’
Whether I’m here tonight or not, there’s going to be trouble. The family are troublemakers, and once alcohol is consumed at least one or two of them will kick off.
Kenneth’s eyes blaze back at me. When he speaks his voice is laden with impotent frustration. ‘I tried. When I called them to tell them of a double-booking they told me to cancel the other one. Maisie-Rae also told me they’d wreck the place if they turned up and there wasn’t a table for them.’
He’s between a rock and a hard place. I can’t let him down, not after everything he’s done for me.
‘I’ll be here.’ I rest my knuckles on the desk and lean close to Kenneth. ‘If they as much as belch too loudly, I’m throwing them out and barring them. You okay with that?’
It’s not his permission I’m asking for and all three of us know it. He should have barred them last time around but he bottled out of it.
‘Damn straight I am. I’ve had to rearrange the roster for tonight as it is.’
‘Time’s their booking for?’
‘Seven.’
I jerk my head at Alfonse and make for the door. ‘I’ll be here at six. I want to greet them personally.’
When I reach the door, I turn back with a change of subject. ‘Who was the guy asking for me?’
‘Just someone who asked if you were around and left when I told him no.’
I feel like pushing for a description but there’s little point. Kenneth’s eyesight isn’t the greatest and I don’t remember fighting with Benji, let alone what he looks like. Whoever is trying to find me knows where I work so it’s inevitable our paths will cross.
13
Noelle Holten rubs a loving hand over her stomach and thinks of the new life growing inside her. The home pregnancy tests’ results had been confirmed by Dr Potter earlier in the day.
She lays two places at the table and checks the oven. Dinner smells wonderful and will be ready for Oscar when he returns from work. Tonight is when he’ll learn of her pregnancy and she wants everything to be perfect.
Her first instinct was that they should dine out, but it was soon dismissed. She knows by cooking his favourite meal and cleaning the house from top to bottom she’s already starting to nest, but doesn’t care.
Even Buster, her black Labrador, has been scrubbed in preparation for the moment she tells her boyfriend he’s about to become a father.
All she has left to prepare is herself.
The clothes are laid out on the bed ready. There’s just enough time left for her to grab a quick shower, do her hair and makeup, and dress before Oscar returns.
The one thing she’s been unsure of all day is what to wear. Oscar’s Latino blood runs hot when he’s happy – which made her think of a dress she knows he likes combined with her best lingerie.
Another part of her is questioning whether it’s appropriate for an expectant mother to p
repare for seduction. She doesn’t want to go too far the other way though, and appear frumpy before the little man, or lady, swells her belly.
In the end, she chooses a less seductive dress but keeps the lingerie to go underneath it.
Twenty minutes after stepping into the shower she’s pulling a pair of heels onto her feet. Whatever else happens tonight, she wants to be ready to welcome Oscar with a kiss and a beer when he arrives back from the oilfields.
Today more than any other, since meeting him eighteen months ago, she realises just how much she loves him.
The numerous failed relationships she has behind her, had made her worry she was destined for spinsterhood. Yet Oscar is everything those other men weren’t. Dependable, loving, funny, passionate, gentle and honest are just some of the qualities he possesses.
The hardest part of tonight will be not blurting out the news before dinner, or showing her goofy happiness and causing him to guess.
A proposal from him is the only thing in the world that could make her feel any happier.
14
I knock on Charlie’s door and survey the neighbourhood while I wait. It isn’t quite in white picket fence territory, but we’re no more than a street or two away. It’s a solid working class area where collars will be white.
The door is answered by a slim man wearing designer jeans and a branded shirt. He has one of those complicated beard arrangements which must take forever to keep trimmed. I’m already starting to dislike him and I don’t even know his name.
He nods when I ask if he’s Charlie.
‘I’m here to ask you a few questions about Sherrelle Fournier.’
‘Is she hurt? In trouble? Why do you want to ask me questions about her?’
I gesture at the open door. ‘Can we talk inside?’ Charlie can’t have heard about the murders and I think he may break down when he does. If that’s going to happen it will be best for him to be in a private environment.
He’s not stupid. He reads between our lines with ease. A hand rises to his mouth. ‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
He bumbles his way into the house so I follow him. He makes for the kitchen and throws his arms around the guy standing beside the stove. ‘Sherrelle’s dead.’
The house is a home. Not a woman’s home with splashes of colour and soft furnishings; a guy’s home with pale colours and clean lines.
The man doing the cooking makes comforting noises as he returns Charlie’s embrace. No great insight or deduction is required to connect them as a couple.
I don’t judge. There’s enough condemnation in the world without my adding to it. As far as I’m concerned, people can do whatever they like – providing it doesn’t break any laws and they don’t force their opinions or beliefs on me.
When they break from each other it’s the cook who speaks first.
‘Sorry to be impolite, but who are you?’
I identify myself and learn that his name is Pete.
Charlie slumps into a chair by the table and looks at me with glistening eyes. ‘The fact you’ve come here to talk to me means she wasn’t killed in an accident. That you’re looking into her death … or should I say her life, means she was murdered. I’m right aren’t I?’
‘I’m afraid you are.’
There’s no easy way to tell him how she died so I skirt round the how, and focus on the fact that Darryl and their children were also killed.
He’s astute enough to recognise I’m sparing him the gorier details and doesn’t push me for them.
The existence of Pete has changed my thinking. Where my initial thoughts had centred on Charlie and Sherrelle engaging in an affair or Charlie lashing out against unrequited love, I now realise those scenarios aren’t likely. The relationship on display in front of me is filled with intimacy and tenderness.
Charlie may be bisexual, which re-opens those lines of investigation, but I just can’t see it. Pete’s hand rests on Charlie’s shoulder in a gesture of support and companionship.
Even as I ask a few questions, I’m striking a mental line through his name as a suspect.
If he’s not a suspect he can still be a source. I change both tack and tone as I redirect the conversation.
‘Forgive me if I sound rude, but did you and Sherrelle ever discuss discrimination?’
Again his intelligence shows as he digests my words.
‘You’re asking me about discrimination for a reason. You’re thinking they were killed because of the colour of their skin.’ His tone takes on an aggressive note for the first time. ‘You think a gay man and a black woman are only friends because they’re both discriminated against?’
I shake my head while raising my hands in a placatory gesture. ‘I’m asking because I’m not gay, black or female. Some folks have tried to call me on being Scottish, but that’s not the same thing.’ I choose not to mention how much it pisses me off to be called English. This isn’t the time to explain about Highland clearances and a thousand other slights.
Pete gives Charlie’s shoulder a slight push. There’s enough force to show admonishment but not enough to fan the flames of anger.
‘I can see why you’re asking.’ The admission comes after a moment’s thought. ‘I guess it’s a valid question but I’m not sure it’s relevant in the twenty-first century.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Maybe once or twice a year I get called faggot, or some such insult because a customer doesn’t get the answer they want.’ He gives a shrug. ‘Anytime it happens, I get the feeling I’ve been insulted with whatever obvious trait I display. You know – like fat, or black, or bald.’ Another shrug. ‘It’s just dumb people giving vent to their frustration and lashing out without imagination.’
I know what he means. I’ve been called lots of names by drunks I’ve thrown out of the Tree. None of them serious – although the ones who call me English will always earn a somewhat more forceful ejection than necessary.
‘Did you ever feel intimidated, or worried that the person would attack you with more than words?’
‘Never.’ He wipes a hand over his face. ‘And if Sherrelle ever felt discriminated against, intimidated or threatened, she didn’t share it with me.’
I can’t help but notice how soon he’s adapted his speech to talk about Sherrelle in the past tense. When my time comes, I hope my friends take longer to adjust than he has. ‘You said earlier that people called you a faggot at the bank because they didn’t get the answer they wanted from you. Did you ever see, or hear, anyone abusing Sherrelle the same way?’
‘Not that I noticed, but she worked mostly on small business accounts while I deal with personal ones.’
I try a different angle and enquire about her relationships with colleagues at the bank. Friends and colleagues know stuff that bosses don’t, but again Charlie’s answer is negative. ‘Nobody had a bad word to say about her. She got on with everyone and was good at her job. No one had to pick up her slack and she always helped others whenever she had a spare moment.’
I thank him for his time and leave. I have ten minutes to get to the Tree. My plan to see what Elizabeth has turned up in Darryl’s past cases will have to wait until morning.
15
I watch as the Augiers family clamber out of a collection of decrepit pickups. As is typical of their uncaring arrogance, they’ve abandoned their vehicles in a way that shows no consideration for others.
The entire family is here and their brooding malevolence travels across the road like an advance party.
Maisie-Rae comes first like a general leading troops into battle. Flanking her are eldest sons, Jim-Bob and Butch. Jim-Bob’s face is still raw from the last silver medal he collected. By contrast, Butch’s face is unmarked and his nose has its original shape.
He’s the real threat; people with battle scars have been hit, guys without, are either too quick or too clever to let their opponent make contact.
I shift a half pace so I’m
blocking the door; my feet planted shoulder width apart and muscles tensed.
Jim-Bob scowls at me in a way that’s meant to be intimidating but isn’t.
Butch gives a measured stare.
Maisie-Rae opens her mouth wide enough to show all three of her teeth. ‘What’s your problem? We got us a booking.’
‘I know.’ I lift my head and look straight at Butch. ‘The last time you were here three staff walked out after your family abused them and a bunch of stuff got broken. That’s not going to happen tonight. If there’s one hint of trouble, I’ll throw the cause out and then I’ll come looking for you.’
‘You don’t want to do that, buddy. You’ll get your English ass kicked all the way home.’
In one swift movement I have Jim-Bob pinned against the wall. What little patience I have is removed when I’m called English by a moron. Doubly so considering the fact I’ve spent the day recovering from the mother of all hangovers while battling guilt at letting Alfonse down. Besides, people listen a lot more closely when you have your hand around their throat.
‘I’m Scottish, not English. You’ll behave yourselves tonight or leave with your asses kicked.’
There’s enough menace in my growl to put uncertainty into his eyes as I release him.
‘Ignore Jim-Bob, he still hasn’t learned how to behave.’ There’s enough contempt in Maisie-Rae’s voice to convey a lifetime of disappointments. ‘We’re here for a meal and a few drinks. Nothing more, nothing less.’
‘That’s fine. Just make sure nobody abuses the staff, or other customers, and you’ll have a great night. Cross the line just once and your night will end immediately.’
I don’t bother to say they’ll be barred, they’ll expect nothing less.
The family file past me into the Tree. Some throw malevolent looks while others make an elaborate show of ignoring me.
Kenneth has used his common sense and made sure their table is as secluded as possible, so other diners aren’t disturbed. The waiting staff are male with one exception, but I don’t have to worry about Kenneth’s wife. She’s more than capable of holding her own with the Augiers. He’s also taken the precaution of making sure the waiting staff are white to prevent any racial slurs.
