by Hannah Howe
I eyed the bloodstain and shivered again. “Apprehensive.”
“Can you recall anything new about that day?”
I cast my mind back, but nothing fresh appeared. “No, nothing.” Then I spied a face at the window. “Marlowe!”
I opened the window and the cat jumped on to my desk. He purred, a deep throaty sound, as he rubbed his body against my left hand. Cold from the snow, he was happy to see me, pleased to be in the warm again.
“Has Sweets been looking after you?” I asked and Marlowe meowed. “You’ve put on weight,” I noticed. I caressed his head and his rough tongue licked my fingers. “It’s a New Year diet for you, my boy. But first, Uncle Alan has a treat.”
Alan produced the goody bag stuffed with Christmas leftovers, mainly turkey, but with some sausage and bacon as well. He placed the meats in Marlowe’s dish, near the sink, and the cat ran over to greet him, weaving his corpulent body between Alan’s sturdy legs.
As Marlowe munched his way through his belated Christmas dinner, a sense of familiarity returned to me. I sighed and relaxed. “I’m okay now. The fears have gone.” I sat in my chair at my desk. “This is my place. This is where I belong.”
Alan smiled then nodded. “Shall I take you home?”
Home. My cosy little flat, largely abandoned since the shooting. No, I’d feel lonely there. Besides, I had work to do. I leaned over and switched on my answering machine. “Let me catch up with a few things first.”
Alan’s hand covered mine and his fingers switched off the machine. He glared at me, offering a dark, censorious frown. “Sam, you promised me...”
“I have to work, Alan, to survive. I need to pay the rent on this place, on my flat. I’ll take it easy, nothing too strenuous, I promise. Besides,” I glanced at the bloodstain, “I want to look into who shot me.”
“The police are handling that.”
I flicked my hair over my shoulder and scoffed. “Detective Inspector Tyler couldn’t handle a piss up in a brewery, if you’ll excuse my French.”
Alan shook his head sadly, not at my language, but at my obstinacy, at my inability to listen. “Nothing I say or do will change your mind, will it?” he added, his voice weary, edged with concern.
I sat there, at my desk, my lips offering a smile of reassurance. Then I dipped my head and looked up from under my fringe, my brown eyes wide and pleading. Okay, this was pure manipulation, but I had an investigation to carry out, into the person who tried to claim my life.
“I thought as much.” Alan offered his right hand and, gently, eased me to my feet. “Come on, Little Miss Stubborn, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
Puzzled, I followed Alan out of my office into his car. As we made our way through the city, I reflected that I was a fool to play mind games with a psychologist.
We drove towards the Bay, to a landmark building, the Norwegian Church. The church started life in 1868 as a seaman’s mission, serving the Scandinavian community. Originally built to offer religious and social care to Norwegian sailors, the building was deconsecrated in 1974 and thereafter vandalised. Fortunately, memories of the building had been revived with the construction of a new Norwegian Church, which played host to a variety of arts exhibitions, concerts and social events. Furthermore, the church offered splendid views of the Bay, and beyond to the seaside town of Penarth.
Alan parked his car and we walked towards the church. People were milling around, adults and youngsters, possibly visitors to the nearby Dr Who Experience and BBC Wales Drama Village. It was slippery underfoot so Alan held my hand to aid my balance.
Near the church, standing by the railings, gazing at the icy blue waters of the Bay, I spied a man, a very tall man with a bald head and piercing blue eyes. Well built, muscular, he had a granite-hard expression, prominent eyebrow ridges and an enormous ginger moustache. He wore a long leather overcoat, blue jeans and a colourful plaid shirt, while a gold stud earring adorned his left ear.
“Dr Storey, I presume,” the big man said in a thick Scottish accent.
“You’re Mac?” Alan asked.
The big man nodded. “Aye, that’s me.”
I frowned while fighting a sense of foreboding. “Do you two know each other?”
Alan turned away from the big man. He gazed at me. “You remember Bernie, my friend, the man who owns Samson Securities, well he recommended Mac.”
I knew that I wouldn’t like the answer, but I asked the question all the same, “Mac is a bodyguard?”
The big man nodded. “Amongst other things.”
I was tempted to stamp my foot, to fight off the icy chill and to display my indignation. “Alan, I don’t need a bodyguard.”
“Someone tried to kill you, Sam. He’s still out there. For all we know he might still have you in his sights. Mac will protect you until I get back from France.”
“But, Alan...”
“No buts, no arguments, or any of your stubborn pride.”
“But, Alan...”
Mac rippled his shoulders. He turned and gazed across the Bay. “If the Wee Lassie wants me away, I’ll get on the first plane to Glasgow.”
“You’re staying, Mac,” Alan said firmly, “isn’t he, Sam?”
I gave Alan an indignant look, my lips sulking into a petulant pout.
“Besides,” Alan continued, ignoring my look, “you’ll need someone to drive you around.”
As ever, Alan had a point. As usual, he was right. I sighed and conceded defeat. “Hello, Mac, I’m Sam, and I guess you’re staying.”
Alan smiled. He hugged me. “I’ll leave you in Mac’s capable hands. I’ll ring you as soon as I can. Don’t overdo it, Sam. Do the needful, then rest. That’s an order.”
Even though I’d conceded defeat, the petulant pout was still on my lips. “I’m no good at taking orders.”
Alan gave my behind a playful pat. He kissed me on the lips. “Then it’s a damn good job you excel in other departments, isn’t it?”
I blushed, my cheeks turning scarlet, while Mac offered a dry cough, clearing his throat.
“Take good care of her, Mac. She means the world to me.”
Mac smiled to reveal a gold filling on his left eye tooth. “Don’t worry, Dr Storey, I’m sure me and the Wee Lassie will get on famously.”
Chapter Eleven
From the Norwegian Church, Mac escorted me to his car, a blue Bugatti 57.
“Very impressive,” I conceded.
“My pride and joy; my little baby.” Mac polished the red Bugatti badge on the silver radiator. A throwback to the 1930s, the car was sleek and curvy, elegance personified. “The twin-cam straight eight pulls like a train while the handling and steering are amazing. Nought to sixty in ten seconds with a top speed of 120 mph; if anyone is foolish enough to tail us, we’ll have them eating dust.”
I climbed into the car, which for all its elegance was a little claustrophobic, and Mac drove me to Grangetown and my humble home. He escorted me to the front door where I turned and said, “Thank you, Mac; you can go now. Where are you staying?”
Mac took the door key from my left hand, opened the door and entered my Victorian flat. “With you, Lassie.”
“But...”
“Job description says I have to stay with you.”
“But...”
Mac arched a cautionary eyebrow. While glancing around my flat, he returned my keys. “The good Dr Storey said...”
I entered the flat and shut the door. “Never mind what the good Dr Storey said. No offence, but I’m not happy about this; Alan shouldn’t have gone behind my back.”
Mac shrugged. While talking with me his eyes were busy, absorbing every detail of my modest abode. “That’s between you and Dr Storey.” He strode purposefully towards my bedroom. “Do you mind if I look around, get a feel for the lie of the land, as it were.”
Knickers on the radiator... “Actually...” Before I could utter another word, Mac was in my bedroom, leaving me to toss my shoulder bag on to the c
ouch in exasperation.
“Everything appears to be tickety-boo,” Mac announced on returning to my living room. He eyed the couch and my shoulder bag. “Your settee looks comfortable; I guess I’ll kip here tonight.”
Mac eased my shoulder bag to one side. He sat on the couch then placed his large hands on the seat covers to test the springs. With a look of satisfaction on his face, he nodded his approval.
Clearly, I was stuck with the man, at least until Alan returned from France. I was not happy; in fact, I was still indignant. Then I reminded myself that Alan had hired this man out of love; he cared about me, he wanted to protect me and I should be grateful for that. I had to swallow my pride, push my stubborn streak to one side and bide my time until New Year’s Eve. Surely even someone as mulish as me could do that...
“Mac, you can sleep in my spare room, if you don’t mind making up the bed.”
He nodded. “No problem, Lassie.”
“And, please, don’t call me Lassie or Wee Lassie.”
“Okay, Missy.”
“Or Missy, come to that.”
Mac offered a mock salute. “Sure thing, ma’am.”
“Or ma’am.” I tapped my foot in annoyance while crossing my left arm across my chest. It was going to be a long three days... “Especially not ma’am; my name’s Sam.”
He puffed out his cheeks, accentuating his large, bushy moustache. “One glance at you and I knew you’d be a handful.” He grinned, flashing his gold eye tooth, his gesture robbing his words of any offence. Then, with his face serious, he added, “No locks on your bedroom door, I notice.”
“Do I need one?”
Mac shook his head then grinned again. “Don’t worry, you’re not my type, Missy. Know what I’m saying?” He removed his long leather overcoat, revealing a shoulder holster and a wicked-looking Beretta. My knowledge of guns was not extensive, but I was aware that the Beretta boasted a fifteen-round magazine, weighed two and a half pounds fully loaded and contained a muzzle velocity of 1,280 feet per second. Little wonder that the Beretta became America’s standard military side arm in 1985.
“I’ll leave you to settle down now, Missy, any problems, you just whistle. You know how to whistle, don’t you?”
I nodded. “You just put your lips together and blow.”
“That’s right; you play Bacall to my Bogart and we’ll get along just fine.”
Well, at least he had an appreciation of classic movies, which meant that we had one thing in common.
“By the way, Missy, my CV’s clean, nary a blemish. So don’t go dying on me and blotting it, okay.”
As if I’d be so inconsiderate...
“I had a rather heavy pizza just before I met you, so I’ll rustle up some dinner later, if that’s all right with you.”
I nodded while walking towards the kitchen. I needed something to get me through the day, let alone the next three days – a coffee, probably laced with diazepam. “No problem, Jock,” I called out over my shoulder.
“The name’s Mac,” he replied while placing his hands behind his head, stretching out his long legs.
“And mine’s Sam, not Missy,” I added waspishly from my position beside the living room door.
Mac nodded then laughed. “Touché! Bacall to my Bogart and we’ll get along just fine.”
Chapter Twelve
If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s attracting men who are wizards in the kitchen. Alan was a superb cook and Mac displayed his talents by rustling up some pancakes sprinkled with currants, raisins and lemon juice. Look out size fourteen, here I come...
By 9 p.m., I was tired and ready for bed. My shoulder ached for some reason and the post op bug that had been troubling me was gaining in strength. I thought I was on the mend but, clearly, I needed my medication, so I took my tablets along with a sip of Dr Barr’s tonic then retired to bed.
The following day, I was on my best behaviour. Despite Mac’s insistence on calling me ‘Wee Lassie’ and ‘Missy’, I didn’t call him ‘Jock’ once. In the morning, we drove to my office where Mac helped to set up my new computer. We ensured that the machine was fully functional then returned home for a late lunch. I rested during the afternoon, aware that I’d be out during the evening and for part of the night.
Throughout the day, Mac’s trained eye searched for would-be assailants, but he saw no one threatening. Maybe the assassin had fled. Maybe the palaver surrounding the shooting had put him off and he’d decided to make himself scarce. Of course, that left the question – why did he shoot me in the first place?
While I read Robert Louis Stevenson’s Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, Mac listened to a football match on a miniature radio. As the action unfolded, he became agitated, joyful then depressed.
“That’s what you get for following the Thistle,” he sighed philosophically. “Home town team, you see, I won’t be having with following any United or City just because it’s the fashion.”
While Mac listened to the football, he munched away on a large bar of fruit and nut chocolate. He offered me a square of chocolate from time to time, but I declined. In truth, I wasn’t feeling too great and without wishing to labour you with the details, my guts were playing up.
During the afternoon, Mac was also busy on his phone, sending and receiving text messages. These messages disturbed him and he became morose. I sensed that the messages were of a personal nature, though I declined to probe.
Early in the evening Alan phoned. There was plenty of snow in France and more wintry weather was forecast. I crossed my fingers and hoped that he would not be snowbound. Alan was enjoying his time with his parents and he missed me lots. I missed him too and assured him that I was behaving myself.
At 10 p.m., I turned to Mac and said, “I want to go out. You can stay here, if you wish.”
“Job description says I stick to you like glue.” He slipped into his leather coat, checked his Beretta then asked, “We’re we going?”
I smiled sweetly. “For a walk around the streets.”
We returned to Butetown where Mac parked his car outside my office. Then, with our breath hanging in the cold night air, we went for a stroll around the streets, towards the docks.
We saw females of every shape and size, and of all ages. I was on the lookout for one woman in particular, Julie Wilkins, the woman who’d found me in my office and effectively saved my life.
It was past midnight and my legs and shoulder were aching, but we marched on, occasionally slipping on the icy pavements then walking down the middle of the street to avoid the snow. The beauty of the white blanket, evident on Christmas Day, had faded, and now the snow was grey and dirty, slushy and hard, cold and uninviting. We were in need of a thaw, yet more snow was set to fall.
At 1.18 a.m., we found Julie Wilkins. She was standing on a street corner, talking to a man in a white sports car. The car sped away then Julie glanced in our direction. I waved and, thankfully, she held her ground.
Divorced and in her mid-thirties, Julie Wilkins had collar-length, dark brown hair, greying at the roots, dark brown eyes and a pale, careworn complexion. Despite a long, thin nose and a pockmark on her chin, she had a pleasant, friendly face. Of medium height, she was slim with no excess fat to speak of. I guessed that her eldest daughter, aged seventeen, was looking after the two youngsters while Julie was out earning extra funds for the family.
“Hi, Julie,” I smiled. “I’ve been looking all over for you. I want to thank you; you saved my life.”
Julie ran a suspicious eye over Mac then shrugged. “I just made a phone call, that’s all.” Furtively, she glanced up and down the street then groaned as a car slowed only to pick up speed and drive away. “Look,” she sighed, “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m working. I need the money. I’m behind with the repayments on my loan...”
“What if I pay you for an hour?” I suggested. “I only want to chat.”
Julie hesitated. Then, slowly, she nodded, adding, “Can we go somewhere? I mean, I don’t me
an to be rude, but if people see me chatting to you it’s not good for business.”
“Do you know a safe place?” I asked.
“Yeah.” She pointed towards an old warehouse. “Let’s go over there.”
As we walked towards the warehouse, Julie glanced repeatedly at Mac.
“Don’t worry about him,” I said, feeling the need to explain, “he’s just a friend, keeping an eye on my welfare.”
Julie offered Mac another nervous glance, but thereafter she appeared to relax.
In the warehouse, a legacy of the once thriving timber trade, I asked, “The day I was shot...why did you enter my office?”
“I saw someone running out,” Julie explained. “He looked suspicious like. So I thought I’d better check. It was done on instinct, I guess.”
“What did he look like, this man?” Then a thought occurred to me – we’d all assumed that my assailant had been a man, but what if we were wrong, what if a woman had fired the gun? “It was definitely a man?” I probed.
Julie thought for a moment. She placed her bare hands in her raincoat pockets, out of the cold. Then she nodded, “It was all a blur, but it was definitely a man. I saw someone running from your office and I thought, that can’t be right, so I went in to check. I thought maybe someone had tried to rob you, or something.”
“Can you offer any details about this man?”
Julie hesitated. She glanced at me, then at Mac, then down to the toes of her plastic boots. “I don’t want to get myself in any trouble.”
“You won’t get into any trouble. I’ll keep your name out of this, I promise.”
She looked up into my eyes, her brow creasing with concern, her expression uncertain. “You promise?”
“I promise.”
“Well...” Julie bit her bottom lip, then continued, “...he had grey hair, very neat it was, a smart suit, glasses, you know the type without any frames and...” she shrugged, “...that’s all.”
“Was he driving a car?”
“Yes, he jumped into a smart car, an Audi I think it was, and drove away.”
