by Hannah Howe
“Did he have any distinguishing marks on his face?”
Julie frowned. For some reason she stared at Mac. “What do you mean?”
“Any scars,” I asked, “blemishes, warts, moles...?”
She nodded, her eyes suddenly wide and animated. “Now you mention it, yes, he did; he had a large mole on his chin.”
Nigel Kirkpatrick. The description matched him. As a potential hirer, Mr Kirkpatrick had called on me on two occasions, though he had declined to enlist my services. I would pay Mr Kirkpatrick a visit, in the morning.
“Thank you, Julie, you’ve been a great help. I take it you didn’t mention this man to the police.”
A nervous grimace returned to Julie’s face. “Me and the police...”
I smiled and nodded. “I understand.”
The wind was whistling through the open door of the warehouse disturbing a rusty iron hook, which hung from the rafters, above our heads. The old building creaked and groaned and I wondered how often Julie had been here and if she would return with a client while we were snug and warm in our beds.
As we wandered on to the street Julie said, “Glad to see you looking better. When I saw you in that big pool of blood, I thought you was dead. The girls on the street were upset. You were very good to us, investigating Beatrice’s murder, securing a conviction when the police were too half-arsed to care. You’ve got a lot of friends on the street, Sam, they’ll help you catch the sod, I’m sure of that.”
I nodded my thanks then offered Julie a handful of notes, taken from my purse. As I struggled to return my purse to my shoulder bag, Julie disappeared into the distance, her cold crunch footsteps echoing as the blizzard threatened to bite. My feet were like ice and I could cut my frozen breath with a knife, but at least I had the luxury of returning home, whereas for Julie her night’s work had barely begun.
Chapter Thirteen
I endured a restless night, mainly thanks to my upset stomach. I was adjusting to my left-handedness, though I have to confess there are certain things you do in the bathroom that feel natural when you use your right hand; however, those things feel distinctly weird when you’re compelled to use your left hand.
After the luxury of a lie-in, I skipped breakfast then instructed Mac to chauffeur me to Lisvane at the northern reaches of the city.
The Welsh name for Lisvane, Llysfaen, translates as ‘the stone court’, which suggests that there was a courthouse in the district, used for collecting taxes. Where’s Robin Hood when you need him...
Property values in this prosperous district were among the highest in Cardiff so it came as no surprise to find Nigel Kirkpatrick’s Audi parked outside a sprawling modern bungalow. The large lawn, partially covered in snow, was showing signs of winter wear, though the conifers looked healthy. The path was icy so we tiptoed our way over the lawn then rang Nigel Kirkpatrick’s doorbell.
An accountant in his mid-forties, Nigel Kirkpatrick looked surprised when he found us on his doorstep. He had steel grey hair, grey eyes and plain, rimless spectacles. Around five foot ten he was slim with no spare flesh. Dressed in a grey suit, white shirt and dark grey tie, he wore a silver watch on a silver wristband and a gold wedding ring. Two things stood out as I gazed at Mr Kirkpatrick – the large mole on his chin, which blemished an otherwise nondescript face, and his hair, a coiffure so neatly combed that not a single strand strayed from its rightful place.
“Hello, can I help you?” Kirkpatrick frowned while adjusting his spectacles.
“I hope you can; I wonder if we might have a word...”
He hesitated, his grey eyes wandering along the passageway to a squash racket propped against a golf bag. “It’s not really convenient...I’ve arranged to meet up with Simon, you see...Maybe later...”
Kirkpatrick was about to close the door on us when Mac placed his sizeable boot against the door frame. “The lady wants to talk with you now. I’m sure you can find the good grace to make it convenient.”
The accountant stared at Mac. He glanced down to Mac’s boot. He swallowed, then nodded. “Of course. Anything for a lady. Please, step inside.”
At Kirkpatrick’s invitation, we entered his living room, a room neat to the point of obsession, its walls covered in framed photographs.
Kirkpatrick removed an expensive-looking camera from an armchair and I sat, after first smoothing the back of my skirt. After a brief hesitation, Kirkpatrick sat opposite me, on the edge of a second armchair, while Mac stood by the living room door, his thick forearms folded across his chest.
I glanced at the sling covering my right arm and said, “This is not a fashion accessory. Someone shot me.”
Kirkpatrick averted his gaze. He stared, somewhat vacantly, at a picture on the wall, at an elderly couple with a strong family resemblance, standing beside a younger woman, possibly Kirkpatrick’s parents and sister.
“I’m sorry to hear about that,” he mumbled. Then he turned to glare at me, his eyes wide in alarm. “You don’t think it was me, do you?”
“You were seen running from my office around the time of the shooting.”
“When was this?” he asked.
“On the thirteenth of December, unlucky for some.”
“No,” Kirkpatrick said after some thought, “you are definitely mistaken. I was in my office all day on the thirteenth.” He smiled, though the humour did not touch his eyes. “It must be a case of mistaken identity.”
At the doorway, Mac was unimpressed. He turned to Kirkpatrick and glowered, “You have a very good memory, sunshine; I find it hard to recall exactly where I was yesterday, let alone seventeen days ago.”
“Well...er,” Kirkpatrick mumbled, “I do have a good memory actually.”
While siding with Mac and doubting Kirkpatrick’s statement, I said, “You called at my office, twice, prior to the shooting.”
“That’s right.”
“What for?”
“To hire you.”
“To do what?”
Again, Kirkpatrick hesitated. He removed his spectacles then polished them on a cloth retrieved from his trouser pocket. “Must we discuss this now?” He glanced at Mac. “In front of him?”
Mac took a step into the room, his heavy boots sinking into the shag pile carpet. “What be the matter, sunshine, you have a problem with my aftershave?”
Unable, or unwilling, to respond, Kirkpatrick merely stared at his highly polished shoes.
Shuffling forward in my seat in an attempt to catch Kirkpatrick’s attention, I continued, “I was polite and patient with you when you called on me because sometimes potential clients check me out first, which is understandable, and sometimes they are nervous about revealing the true nature of their problem. I sensed that you were checking me out and that you were nervous. But, clearly, you put your doubts and apprehensions to one side to visit me a third time. I’d like to know why.”
Kirkpatrick dropped his spectacles. As he bent over to retrieve them he mumbled, “I really am rather busy, can’t we rearrange for another time?”
Showing a surprising amount of dexterity, Mac swooped and recovered the spectacles. “Maybe you’d like to talk with the police instead,” he said, placing a hyphen between the ‘l’ and the ‘i’ of the constabulary.
Kirkpatrick swallowed, gulping down air. He loosened his necktie then accepted the spectacles from Mac’s outstretched hand. Eventually, he conceded, “I did visit your office for a third time. However, I did not shoot you. Good heavens, why would I want to shoot you. I don’t know you. I don’t harbour a grudge against you. I don’t dislike you in any way.”
“Then what were you doing in my office?”
Kirkpatrick placed his spectacles on the bridge of his nose. He returned the cloth to his trouser pocket. Then, while perched on the edge of his armchair, he allowed his eyes to wander to a framed picture of a buxom woman. In her early thirties, the woman had short blonde hair, pearly white teeth and an enticing smile. “It’s my wife, Natasha. She’s Russian, you
know. We met on the Internet. I think she’s having an affair. I was going to ask you to follow her.”
I glanced at Mac and he nodded. We were in agreement; we believed him.
With the genie out of the bottle, Kirkpatrick allowed his emotions to flow. “We’ve been married four years. I met Natasha after I’d divorced my first wife, Deirdre. After four years, Deirdre had an affair. I was worried that history might be repeating itself.”
“Do you still want me to follow Natasha?” I asked.
“No, I’ve changed my mind. I’ve decided to give her one more chance.”
I glanced at the picture of Natasha. She was voluptuous, a party animal, at a guess; it was hard to see her living in domesticity with this rather grey man.
“When you entered my office,” I asked, “what did you see?”
“You. In a pool of blood.”
Clenching his fists, Mac was clearly incensed. “You saw the Wee Lassie in a pool of blood and you did nothing, except run to save your embarrassment. What sort of man are you, tosh?”
Kirkpatrick seemed to disappear into himself. He sank back into his armchair, his hands clasped together, his eyes wandering fretfully around the room. “I apologise,” he mumbled in a small voice. “I admit, my behaviour was shameful.”
“Did you see anyone else hanging around my office?”
“No one.” He shook his head. “I swear.”
I stood. We’d ruined Nigel Kirkpatrick’s day, but at least I could cross him off my list of suspects.
“Thank you for your time, Mr Kirkpatrick.”
With his head bowed, Kirkpatrick stared at his shag pile carpet. After a quick glance at Mac, I left the bungalow.
Outside, in the cold, as we walked to Mac’s car, he said, “Why thank the toerag, he left you to die.”
“I appreciate that you’re trying to help, but your aggression is misplaced.”
Mac glanced up to the overcast sky. He shook his head, then opened the passenger door of his Bugatti. “You’re too soft, Missy, you need to toughen up to survive in this game.”
“There is more to toughness than showing aggression,” I replied.
After I’d climbed into the car, he closed the door with commendable care, given his state of high dudgeon.
“What now?” Mac asked as he slipped on to the driver’s seat.
“Back to the office to think.”
Chapter Fourteen
We were sitting in my office, yours truly in the desk chair while Mac filled my client’s chair. I was gazing at the bloodstain on the floorboards, and the sight of my blood was starting to annoy.
“Come on,” I said, “let’s go buy a carpet.”
We called at a local store. Thankfully, in view of my pitiful finances, the store was holding a post Christmas sale. Mac persuaded me to choose vinyl flooring over carpet because vinyl flooring is easier to clean. So I selected a light oak colour and we returned to my office.
At my office, Mac moved the furniture and set about laying the floor, performing the work of two men. Sustained by his beloved fruit and nut chocolate, he worked like a Trojan while my injured shoulder reduced me to breaking squares off the chocolate then dropping them into his mouth.
As Mac repositioned my desk, lifting the heavy oak furniture as though it were matchwood, I asked, “Have you ever shot anyone?”
“If I’ve put a bullet into somebody, they’ve deserved it,” he replied bluntly. Then, after a break to devour a square of chocolate, he asked, “What about you, Missy; have you shot anyone?”
“Yes,” I admitted, my mind flashing back to a gunfight I had with Lady Fiona Grimsley, aka Lady Diamond, “and I’m still having nightmares about it.” My mind tended to wander to some dark places when I thought of Fiona Grimsley, so instead I tried to focus on the present and Nigel Kirkpatrick. After reviewing our recent interview I concluded, “I don’t think Mr Kirkpatrick is the shooting type.”
“He’s definitely a toerag, but I tend to agree.” Mac paused. He reached into his trouser pocket as his phone offered a clarion call with trumpets blazing, the trumpets serving as a ringtone. He shrugged, “Excuse me.”
I nodded. Then, with my left hand, set about rearranging the items on my desk.
“Apologies for that,” Mac said after a terse conversation.
“Lover trouble?” I asked, unable to suppress my snooping instincts any further.
“Uh-huh.” Mac placed my new computer on the desk, then he squatted to plug the machine into a wall socket. With his back to me, he said, “You’ve sussed that I’m gay.”
“Uh-huh.”
He glanced over his shoulder, offering me a cautious look. “You have a problem with that?”
“Why should I have a problem?”
“Some people do. Some people think gay men should spend all their time rearranging furniture while singing the soundtrack to The Sound of Music. Okay, so right now I’m playing up to the stereotype, but some people think there’s no place for a gay man in our game.”
“How did you get into our game?” I asked.
He sighed, then straightened. “Maybe I’ll tell you someday.”
“And your boyfriend...”
“Wants me home for New Year.”
“Then leave.” I sat at my desk and switched on my computer. It purred into action and I checked my emails. “I can cope.”
“No,” Mac replied firmly. “I signed on to look after you. I’ll fulfil my contract.”
“What about your boyfriend?”
Mac shrugged a broad shoulder. “That’s between me and him.”
My inbox was loaded with junk, which I deleted. Mercifully, there was also the offer of employment from a large hotel chain, who engaged me as a ‘mystery guest’ on a regular basis, and from a local solicitor, Manny Fry. While not exactly the in-house investigator for Fry, Gouldman and Fletcher, I did carry out regular jobs for them, bread-and-butter tasks, like process serving.
I was closing the lid on my computer when a young girl walked into my office. Suddenly the mist cleared from my mind and I recalled that her name was Rosie. She had a tentative smile on her cherubic face and a bunch of garden flowers in her right hand.
“He looks scary,” Rosie observed, eyeing Mac.
“That’s Mac; he’s a friend and, I promise you, he doesn’t bite.”
Rosie cast a wary eye over Mac, who looked on, non-committally. Deciding that Mac could be trusted, Rosie gained in confidence and walked towards my desk. “For you.” She offered the flowers to me. “I picked them from the gardens.”
Standing, I walked around to the front of my desk. “Thank you, Rosie, they’re lovely.” I accepted the flowers while Mac wandered over to the sink to collect a vase. Then I frowned as a thought occurred to me. “I hope you won’t get into any trouble with your neighbours.”
“Nah.” Rosie shrugged while eyeing my new vinyl floor. “If anyone says anything about the flowers I’ll say Joel did it.”
Joel...the young boy who was teasing Rosie in the street...it was all coming back to me, the events on the day I was shot.
Smiling, I asked, “Is Joel your boyfriend?”
“Nah. He keeps chasing me, but he’s too silly. I’m on the lookout for someone special, someone with a bit of sophistication.”
“Sophistication...” I raised my eyebrows, “...that’s a big word.”
Rosie nodded. She smiled, clearly pleased with herself. “My dad says it about you. He says you’ve got a touch of class. He says you’re a lady. He says you’re very sophisticated.”
I laughed. If only he knew the truth. “I don’t know about that...”
Rosie offered me an intense stare. Clearly, she sought agreement and not someone who would shatter any innocent illusions. While tugging nervously at a strand of thick, fair hair, she said, “I think you look lovely. Even with that bandage on your arm.”
“Well, thank you,” I smiled. “And thank your dad for his kind words.”
Mac placed the va
se of flowers on a filing cabinet. They would look pretty on my desk, but odds-on Marlowe would take a shine to them and knock the vase over my new computer. The flowers were safer on the filing cabinet, where they offered a welcome touch of colour to my spartan office.
While leaning back against my desk I thought about Rosie and our first meeting; I recalled clambering through the rubble of a partially demolished building, searching for her dog.
“How is Bugle?” I asked, thinking of the dog.
“Still eating all the rubbish he can get into.” Rosie swayed playfully from side to side. She shrugged, “He’s fine.”
I thought of Bugle, of his beautiful markings and upright tail. Then I recalled our altercation with a strange man, a man with coal-black eyes...
“My dad says you were shot.” Rosie’s concerned voice brought me back to the office. She was staring at me again, at my arm this time. “My dad says he hopes they catch the bastard and string him up. And in case you think I’m using naughty words, let me tell you now, I cleaned that up.”
I glanced at Mac and we both smiled.
“I’m going to be a private eye when I grow up,” Rosie announced proudly.
“And what does your dad say to that?” Mac intoned, joining our conversation.
“He says private eyes are smart and to be smart I must eat all my greens. I hate greens. Do you like greens?” she asked me.
“I’m a vegetarian,” I replied. “I eat a lot of greens.”
“Oh.” Rosie thought for a moment, her scowl pulling her fringe on to her eyebrows. Then she brightened. “Maybe I’ll be a vet instead.” With a cheery wave, she added, “Bye.”
Rosie skipped from my office, returning to the street, no doubt to torment Joel.
“Penny for them,” Mac said after Rosie had left the office.
I gazed somewhat vacantly into the middle-distance, my mind recalling the man with the strange expression and the coal-black eyes.
“Fancy a trip to a building site?” I asked.
Mac frowned. “You think it’d be worth our while?”
I nodded. Somehow, I did think that the trip to the building site would be worth our while.
