(2013) The Catch

by Tom Bale

  ‘Takes a lot to sneak up on me in the small hours!’ he’d joked.

  Ignoring the implicit invitation to try, Stemper had made his way to bed, aware that through no fault of his own another complication had arisen.

  The next morning Quills had been thrilled when Stemper agreed to take tea and toast in the spacious but fussy dining room.

  ‘It’s all included, you know. Have the Full English if you like. I’ve kippers, too. Not much call for them these days ...’

  And so he had wittered on, Stemper indulging him, even while the plans quietly formed: both short- and long-term. He ate a single slice of toast, with a rather nice thick-cut marmalade. Quills reappeared the moment he had finished, a photo album under one arm.

  ‘May I? Just quickly.’ The proprietor nudged his way into a chair next to Stemper and handed him the album. ‘Photography was expressly forbidden on set. Terribly naughty, but how could I resist? Look.’

  The pictures showed Quills in a vintage brown suit and a fedora, standing amongst a group in similar garb, on a stretch of promenade that Stemper guessed was Hove. There was a line of brightly coloured beach huts in the background. In one, a man that Stemper recognised as John Hurt was talking to a woman in a dowdy costume who might or might not have been Dame Helen Mirren.

  ‘The third AD said I was wonderful.’ Quills gave a little sigh, and corrected himself. ‘Looked wonderful.’

  ‘What lovely memories,’ Stemper said, returning the album.

  ‘Thank you. I wish I’d been more involved on that one. Fortunately you get a lot of films made down this way. Brighton’s a magnet for artistic types, as you probably know.’

  ‘So I’ve heard. Does a movie called Entwined ring any bells?’

  Quills arched one eyebrow. ‘Yes. A rom-com, wasn’t it? Haven’t seen it myself, but I believe there was some location filming in Sussex.’

  ‘When was that, do you recall?’

  Another probing glance from Quills, then he gazed skyward and stroked his chin.

  ‘Summertime, it would have been. Late summer.’

  ‘Last year?’

  ‘Oh, no. Year before, I think.’ His eyes flashed. ‘I’m dying to know why you’re interested.’

  ‘Just enquiring for a friend.’ Stemper decided he had nothing to lose by being enigmatic. No matter what else he said or did, they were set on a path now, he and Quills.

  ‘Hmm.’ The proprietor wagged a finger at him. ‘There’s a quality to you ... Are you sure you’re not in the business?’

  ‘Let’s just say I’m of it, not in it.’

  Quills waited for him to elaborate, saw it wasn’t going to happen and spluttered with laughter.

  ‘Oh, you’re a tease ... You know, I’d very much like to get drunk with you one night.’

  Stemper smiled, stretching the silence almost to breaking point before he responded.

  ‘I’d like that, too.’

  ****

  Stemper had only the dimmest memory of Worthing. He thought his parents had played here at some time in the early 1970s, but he couldn’t recall having visited it since. Just another South Coast seaside town, a little down at heel but somehow charming with it, not as attractive or prosperous as Brighton, but not so evidently in decline as Hastings, which Stemper knew quite well.

  He had a sneaking affection for such places, clinging on for survival in the face of an economic storm that could strip a town of its vitality as savagely as any Atlantic hurricane. A storm that no one could understand, much less contain.

  ****

  He parked at the far end of Broadwater Street and set off on foot, an anonymous figure in a dark grey suit. He carried a briefcase and wore glasses with a strong black frame and clear lenses.

  It was a warm day for late March, spring-like but not fragrant: too far inland to smell the sea. There was something man-made in the air; a vaguely unpleasant chemical aroma.

  Stemper found the building. Having been prepared to bluff his way inside, he was gratified to find the outer door gliding slowly towards the latch as one of the residents entered ahead of him. He caught the door and paused until the resident was out of sight. The communal area was in a poor state of repair, with peeling paintwork and a large stain on the carpet – animal urine, possibly – that should have been cleaned with stronger detergent.

  He made his way to number six: treading lightly, because footsteps reverberate. Reaching the door, he was unfazed by the existence of a peephole. The glasses were the crucial detail. People instinctively discounted the threat of violence from a man wearing glasses.

  He listened for evidence of movement. She might not be alone, but he could deal with that. If she was out, he’d have to consider a visit to her workplace, which would require a more delicate approach.

  He knocked and waited, not looking directly at the peephole. He heard a bolt being drawn back and the door was opened by a woman who matched Jerry’s description: young, pale, heavyset and miserable. She wore a big shapeless sweater that hung to her knees, and black tights with a couple of holes at the feet.

  She had the sort of face that looked unformed without make-up, like a mask that had been taken too early from its mould. There were fashionable chunks of metal embedded in her skin, and a raw hole in her lip from which a piercing had been removed.

  She held an unlit cigarette in one hand, a lighter in the other. Her expression was devoid of fear or curiosity.

  ‘I’m from the managing agents,’ Stemper said, angling his body so that she automatically matched him, turning sideways and opening a gap for him to exploit. ‘Safety assessment. Won’t take more than two minutes.’

  ‘But haven’t they—?’

  He was already striding past, the briefcase held up as a barrier between them. It would put her at ease, this unwillingness to risk physical contact.

  ‘I shouldn’t be telling you this,’ he called as she shut the door behind him. ‘We’ve had problems with the picture windows.’

  He’d reached the living room, which was tidier than he had expected, and set the briefcase down.

  ‘I didn’t hear about that.’

  ‘Hinges failed. One of your neighbours had a very lucky escape.’ He nodded at the doorway behind her. ‘Is that your boyfriend or partner?’

  She turned to see what had caught his attention. ‘There’s nobody—’

  ****

  He moved extraordinarily fast. Partly it was adrenalin, partly practice, but it was also, he liked to think, a natural gift. Stemper had been born a predator.

  He took hold of her dominant right arm and grabbed a fistful of hair, pulling her head backwards while he pressed his foot against her knee, urging her body to the floor. A tiny clatter as the lighter slipped from her grasp.

  ‘I won’t hurt you, Traci. But you have to cooperate.’

  ‘Who are you?’ She didn’t quite shriek, but she was too loud. He adjusted his grip on her arm, found the pressure point just above her elbow and gave her a taste of pain.

  ‘Do as I say, Traci. Settle down. Be quiet. Listen.’

  This time, there was a squeal of capitulation. He knelt behind her and used one hand to remove his tie, looped it over her head and around her neck: a good makeshift noose.

  ‘Hank O’Brien, you remember him?’

  Her body tensed, and she struggled: a sudden fit of panic. He quelled the movement by throttling her for ten seconds, then released the pressure.

  ‘A friend of yours tried to burgle the house. You’re an accessory to that crime.’

  ‘I ... I dunno what you mean.’

  ‘Traci,’ he said quietly, and began to tighten the noose. She gasped, begging him to stop.

  ‘I just mentioned what had happened. I didn’t realise he was gonna—’

  ‘I’m not interested. Tuesday night, O’Brien was in the pub with a young woman. How did the fight start?’

  ‘Uh ... He got lairy with her, I reckon. She hit him, then a couple of guys waded in.’

&nbs
p; ‘Did you know any of them?’

  ‘Apart from Hank, no. That’s who the police are searching for. The men, I mean. I think they know who the woman is.’

  ‘Describe her.’

  Another quiver of panic. ‘Uh, oh God ... uh, taller than me. Slim. Dark brown hair, shoulder-length. Quite pretty. Good complexion.’

  ‘Age?’

  ‘Thirty-something. She looked ... serious. She had a suit on. Oh, and this green bracelet. Hermes, I think. I noticed it when I was serving her.’

  ‘Well done. Now tell me about the two men.’

  She gave the sort of big heaving sigh that he associated with teenage torpor: Do I have to? His response was ten long seconds with the tie pulled savagely tight.

  ‘Both late twenties, maybe. One of them was really hot. He had dark hair, not curly exactly but like wavy. His mate had light brown hair.’ Another sigh. ‘Look, I did all this with the fucking police. They’ve done these e-fit things. They’ll be on TV.’

  ‘But you saw them in the flesh. You heard their voices. What accents did they have? Common or well-spoken?’

  ‘No accents. They weren’t posh or nothing, but not rough. Just normal. Same as you.’

  ‘After they’d broken up the fight, what happened then?’

  ‘The woman left first. She—’ Traci stopped abruptly. ‘I can’t swear to this, but I sort of had the feeling she knew them. The way she spoke to them, especially the fit one. She looked well pissed-off with him.’

  ‘What did the police say about this?’

  ‘I didn’t tell ’em. I mean, it’s only a guess. And I don’t wanna get involved.’

  ‘Did the police mention the woman’s name?’

  ‘No. Just said they were gonna ask her to look at the e-fits. I’ve got no idea who she is, honest.’

  ****

  Stemper said nothing. His hand twitched, eager to go back to work.

  Flinching, she said, ‘There’s something else. The money.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The farmer that discovered the body, he reckons the next day he was walking his dog and he saw this envelope in the field, right? With three grand in cash.’ True amazement in her voice, as though this represented unimaginable wealth.

  ‘He found it the following day? Wednesday morning?’

  ‘No. That’s what’s so weird. He found it on Thursday, after the cops had searched. In the pub last night he was really freaking out. The cops were saying he must have took it when he found the body, but chickened out and put it back. Only he swears he didn’t.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘He wouldn’t have the balls to lie to them. He’s so straight, he goes to church and everything.’

  Stemper smiled. He couldn’t claim to know what this meant, but it felt like a major step forward.

  CHAPTER 44

  At lunchtime Dan knew he had to escape the stifling atmosphere of the shop. He walked along to the Sainsbury’s on the Lewes Road gyratory, reflecting on the fact that the air around him was probably richer with exhaust fumes than it was with oxygen.

  But it was a pleasant enough day, and the walk and the solitude were beneficial to his mood. He bought a sandwich and strolled back, crossing the road to avoid directly passing the shop, then made for the Level, a large communal space with a children’s playground and a skatepark. There were avenues lined with elm trees, and a patch of open ground which often played host to travelling funfairs.

  He found an unoccupied bench and sat down. While he ate his sandwich he tried to let his mind go blank, as if his worries might float away like untethered balloons. Little hope of that, but perhaps it brought his blood pressure down by a point or two.

  He’d rung Hayley a couple more times and had no response. He was reluctant to leave a message, since almost every communication between them seemed to go wrong. Now he tried again, and when it tripped over to voicemail he said, ‘Hayley, I hear you’re not well. I hope it isn’t too serious. Call me, please, because we need to talk.’

  ****

  She must have been screening her calls, for she rang back immediately.

  ‘How are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Not great. Hardly surprising, really.’

  Dan decided not to comment. ‘Take it easy today, then.’

  ‘I am. That’s why I wasn’t answering the phone. But I’m glad to hear what you said.’

  ‘Well, this week’s been weird. We keep falling out for no reason ...’

  ‘No reason? Come on. Your message said we need to talk, so let’s talk. What did you do last night?’

  ‘Hayley—’

  ‘It’s a simple enough question. Did you stay in? Go out? What?’

  ‘I had a drink with Robbie.’

  ‘Oh, Robbie.’ Her voice was loaded with sarcasm. ‘You two are inseparable at the moment, aren’t you?’

  ‘Look, I rang to see if you were okay. What is it, a bug? Something you ate?’

  ‘Maybe. Or maybe it’s how my body’s reacting to emotional stress.’

  ‘Hayley, I don’t understand—’

  ‘I just want the truth. Stop lying to me, Daniel. I’m not a fool, and I won’t be treated like this.’ She cut the call on a sob of despair.

  ****

  But Dan was nothing if not a masochist, so on the walk back to work he called Robbie.

  ‘With a client. Ring you back in two secs.’ Piling shock upon shock, Robbie was true to his word. ‘You done anything about that makeover yet? Before the e-fits come out.’

  ‘No,’ Dan said. ‘But Cate’s tried to have them changed to look less like us.’

  ‘Yeah, she told me. Smart cookie, my big sis.’

  ‘She is, and she’s really gone out on a limb for us. You can’t afford to keep upsetting her.’

  ‘Ah, it’s just sibling stuff.’ A sly smile in his voice. ‘How was little Louis this morning?’

  ‘Suffering. And it serves him right.’

  ‘A man after my own heart,’ Robbie declared. ‘Anyway, I was gonna call you. Guess who’s after my services? Only the delightful Mrs Cheryl Wilson ...’

  ‘Who on Earth is she?’

  ‘Cheryl Wilson, née O’Brien. Sister to the late unlucky Hank.’

  Dan was crossing a road; he stumbled on the kerb and nearly fell back into the traffic. ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘She wants me to rent out the farmhouse.’

  ‘Tell me you turned her down.’

  Robbie’s laughter sounded distant, as though he’d moved the phone away from his ear in anticipation of Dan’s outrage. But Dan was too shocked, too weary to shout.

  ‘Oh, Robbie ...’

  ‘What reason did I have to refuse? Chances are, she knows nothing about the film company or the deal I did with Hank. She found the paperwork from last time and thought we’d be the obvious choice.’

  ‘But what if she does hear about the deal? Surely the police will mention it when they explain where he was the night he died?’

  From the way Robbie sniffed, Dan had the impression that this hadn’t occurred to him.

  ‘I’ll deal with that if it arises.’

  ‘You’re playing with fire, Robbie.’

  ‘Maybe, but I’d still argue it would look more suspicious if I’d said no. The cops could well make something of that.’

  Dan sighed. ‘It isn’t just the police. There’s the man who jumped out on us the other night.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘If he’s trying to find out who killed Hank, don’t you think he might be watching the farmhouse?’

  ****

  Robbie was in Preston Park Avenue, having visited a tenant whose boiler was playing up. He’d expected Dan to go apeshit about taking on the farmhouse, and felt almost let down by this subdued reaction.

  A good point about the mystery photographer, though. Robbie should have thought of that himself.

  ‘I can’t really see it,’ he said. ‘Does make you wonder what sort of things Hank was up t
o, though.’

  ‘I don’t want to speculate.’

  ‘No? Well, I think there’s something to be said for knowing your enemy.’ Before Dan could give him grief, he said, ‘Your car. I should be able to sort it this weekend.’

  ‘You’ve found a repairer?’

  ‘Ah, well, I’ve come up with a contingency plan.’

  He was saved from further interrogation by the news that Dan was back at work, with Willie Denham in the vicinity.

  ‘That senile old git?’ Robbie joked. ‘I’d swap my boss for yours any day of the week.’

  Ending the call, he pondered for a while. It seemed to him that there were all kinds of opportunities opening up here. Sure, he’d have to be careful, but he had no shortage of confidence in his own abilities.

  Keeping those plates spinning; it was what Robbie excelled at. Cate, Bree, Hank’s sister ...

  And Mr X, the mystery photographer.

  Everyone had something to hide: experience had taught Robbie that. So what were Hank’s little secrets?

  CHAPTER 45

  Their day began badly, as Gordon had feared it would; and then grew steadily worse.

  It promised to be a long and gruelling job, reviewing the contents of the hard drive that had extracted the guts from Hank O’Brien’s computer. Gordon insisted they take a proper break for lunch: to hell with time constraints.

  First there was a call from Stemper, checking that Jerry had delivered the hard drive. He also added some detail to Jerry’s barely credible account of the break-in.

  ‘Thank God they were there to stop it,’ Gordon said afterwards. But Patricia was in no mood to be reassured.

  ****

  Jerry Conlon delivered the next blow. ‘Don’t blame the messenger, but access to the house just got tricky. This woman’s turned up in a Lexus. I reckon it’s Hank’s sister.’