by Hannah Howe
He turned to face me, his large left hand easing the car through its gears. “You’re wrong, Missy. You may not believe this, but I’m a moral person. I have a strong moral compass; it comes from my family’s Presbyterian background. The problem is the laws of this land have been drafted to suit the rich, whereas my moral laws have been drafted to suit the forces of light, and sometimes those laws come into conflict.”
“So,” I reasoned, “under that tough, no nonsense, take no prisoners exterior, you’re really nothing more than an Angel of Mercy.”
“Aye,” he grinned, flashing his gold eye tooth, “something like that.”
“We all need our delusions, Mac, we all need our delusions.”
We slowed as we approached another pedestrian crossing. A young woman crossed on this occasion, her arm around a screaming toddler, the toddler clutching a teddy bear. Safely on the pavement, the toddler turned to face me, bursting into tears at the sight of my bandages and ashen appearance. Samantha Smith, the Grangetown Ghoul, scaring young children a speciality; well, I was ill – that’s my excuse, and I’m sticking to it.
As the Bugatti pulled away from the crossing, Mac glanced at me and said, “Anyone ever tell you, Missy, that you have too much lip?”
I closed my eyes and reclined, resting my head against the cherry-coloured upholstery. “The person who put a bullet in my shoulder probably thought the same thing and, whatever he says, that person is not Jesus.”
At police headquarters Mac, unsurprisingly, remained in his car while Sweets escorted me to Carolyn Tyler’s goldfish bowl, her glass-panelled office.
“Ah, Ms Smith, just the person I wanted to see.” Tyler closed a file then placed it in a grey filing cabinet. While I stood, she sat at her desk, her fingers rearranging pictures of her children, her eyes following a female detective as she walked through the outer office. For a brief instant, a lightning flash of time, the two women exchanged a secret smile. Were they lovers? Or was my imagination running away with me? Did it matter? To Tyler, her family and her career, obviously yes. To me, almost certainly no. Unless she fancied me, and that was the reason for her hostility, love and hate being two sides of the same coin and all that...hold your horses, Samantha, now you really are getting ahead of yourself.
“Jesus has confessed.” Tyler’s words broke my reverie and my runaway train of thought.
“I know,” I replied, “I heard.”
Tyler glanced at Sweets and while he performed an uncomfortable soft-shoe shuffle, she offered him a megawatt, full-powered glare.
“Can I talk with Jesus?” I asked.
“I’m sorry,” Tyler shook her head; her lips curved into a painful smile of rejection, “that is out of the question.”
“Five minutes,” I pleaded. “In five minutes I’ll establish if he’s telling the truth.”
Tyler dipped her head and the bright office light created a halo on her dark auburn hair. She stared at the papers on her desk. She was gathering her thoughts, controlling her emotions. Control was important to a woman like Carolyn Tyler and an outburst in front of Sweets would not go down well. After scribbling her signature on a document, she looked up and said, “Are you implying that we cannot determine truth from lies?”
“I’m stating that I was there when the gunman walked into my office, I can determine if there are any flaws in his confession, any wrinkles in his declaration of guilt.”
“I’m sorry,” Tyler repeated, her fingers fondling her pen, scrawling a note in the margin of a document, “we have identified our prime suspect and we have his confession. Earlier today, a psychiatrist confirmed that the man who calls himself Jesus is lucid and of sound mind. The Jesus act might be just that, an act, to cover up his crime.”
“Why would he seek to cover up something when he’s confessed?” I asked.
Tyler squeezed her pen in frustration. If I wasn’t her public enemy number one, I was certainly in her top ten. “You’re pulling at a ball of string, Ms Smith, and you’re threatening to tie us all in knots. I reiterate, the psychiatrist is happy with Jesus’ confession, the evidence supports his confession; we are not looking for anyone else in connection with this crime.”
Again, Tyler offered me the crown of her head. As she studied her documents and scrawled notes in the margins, I concluded that our conversation had come to an end. Burning with indignation, I scorched through police headquarters convinced that they’d arrested the wrong man.
I was standing outside in the cold with Sweets at my side. My mind had cooled, though I was still simmering, at boiling point. “Just give me five minutes with him, Sweets, please.”
Sweets shook his head sadly. “This is Tyler’s case; I can’t go over her head.”
“Then at least let me read the confession.”
“It’s out of bounds, Sam; let it lie at that.”
“Then tell me what he said. Surely you can do that.”
Sweets sighed. He pushed his trilby on to the crown of his head, then reached into his coat pocket for a bonbon. As he unwrapped the cool, clear mint he murmured, “Jesus said he walked into your office carrying the .38. He raised the gun, pointed the weapon at you and pulled the trigger.”
“Why?”
“Because the angels wanted you, so he said.”
I turned away from Sweets then stamped my foot in indignation. The air was so cold, my system so overheated it was a wonder steam didn’t escape from my ears. “That explanation does not tie-in with the notion that he’s sane.”
“Maybe the man is insane,” Sweets conceded, “but his confession places him in your office when the gun went off.”
“Explain.”
“He mentioned your new computer, and your cat. He even mentioned Marlowe by name.”
“How does he know Marlowe’s name?” I was pacing up and down the icy pavement. My antics had attracted an audience – passers-by stopped and glared at me, as though I were insane. “These details have been offered up to him to make his confession sound convincing. You know as well as I do, there are ways of asking questions, ways of getting answers, answers you are looking for, rather than seeking the facts. Tyler hates my guts; she’s looking for an easy ride, so she assisted Jesus with his confession just to get this case off her back.”
“That’s a serious charge, Sam,” Sweets frowned while chewing on his bonbon, “you sure you want to stand by it?”
“Stand by it...get Tyler here and I’ll tell it to her face.” A gust of icy wind blew down the street, removing snowflakes from the avenue of trees, making me shiver. I felt very cold. My teeth started to chatter while moisture gathered on my brow. “This guy, Jesus, is disturbed,” I continued. “He wants to be a martyr, like Jesus.”
“Sleeping with a psychologist doesn’t make you an expert on the human mind, Sam.”
“Then let Alan talk with him, he’ll get the truth.”
Sweets placed a hand to his forehead. He shook his head. At the end of this conversation, he’d do well to avoid a migraine. “You know we can’t do that.”
“Do you want the truth?” I blurted. “Sometimes I have my doubts.”
“You’re getting yourself worked up, Sam.” Sweets placed a hand on my good arm. He offered me a smile of reassurance. “Go home, cool it. I’ll voice your concerns to God upstairs. If there’s any room for doubt, I’ll contact you. But, for now, Jesus is our man.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“He didn’t do it, Mac.”
I was sitting in the Bugatti, shivering with rage and with the chill that was gripping my bones.
“So who did...Mickey?”
“I’d like to question him again. But first, let’s have a word with Rosie and Julie.”
Mac slipped the car into gear and we drove south, away from Cathays to my office in Butetown. Everywhere you looked, people were huddled against the cold. Extremes of weather were almost unknown during my childhood and adolescence, and snow was something that appeared on Christmas cards and in fairytales. So
to experience snow at Christmas was a rarity, and for that snow to return a few days later, rarer still. Yet, a continuation of the extreme weather was forecast with the weatherman cheerfully predicting that we were in for ‘the big chill’.
As we trundled along behind a lorry, a gritter spreading salt on to the road, Mac turned to me and said, “You’re not looking too good, Missy.”
“I’m fine; drive on.”
“Maybe I should get you back to the good Dr Storey.”
I glanced in the driver’s mirror and noticed that my face was alabaster white and that my forehead was dripping with sweat. “Drive on, Mac, and don’t nag.”
“Only, I signed on, you see, to protect you; I made a promise to the good Dr Storey. Besides, my CV’s clean, nary a blemish; I don’t want you to croak on my watch.”
Bile rose in my throat, and more. I mumbled, “Stop the car, Mac.”
“Really, Missy, you’re not looking too good.”
“Don’t feel too...” I managed to open the car door before I was sick all over the pavement. After retching several times, I closed the door, placed my head against the car seat and sighed, “Sorry.”
“Here, sip this.”
Mac offered me a bottle of spring water. I was about to sip the water when the nausea gripped me again and I felt compelled to lean out of the car and vomit.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, closing the car door, trying to ignore the censorious stare of an elderly woman as she walked by.
Mac eyed me with concern. As he climbed out of the car, to wash my vomit from the pavement, he said, “You sure they took the bullet out of you, cause I’d swear you’ve got lead poisoning.” Using a fresh bottle of spring water, Mac removed the bulk of my vomit from the pavement. Back in the car, he gazed through the windscreen and smiled. “Did I tell you of the time I got shot in the arse? And no, I wasna running away. Pinged me real good, he did; couldn’t sit down for a month of Sundays.”
I tried to smile, but it was a mighty effort. I took a sip of water while my mind and body fought the nausea. I’d been sick before, especially on my eighteenth birthday, but nothing like this.
Then Mac’s mobile phone rang.
“Not now, Jimmy, the Wee Lassie is unwell; I canna talk now.”
“You can talk to her, but not to me; she means more to you than me,” a distant voice complained.
Mac glared at his phone. He broke the connection. “Go fry a Mars bar.”
To me, Mac was more sympathetic. “Maybe I should take you back to the good Dr Storey.”
“Don’t fuss me, Mac. Please...give me a minute, I’ll be fine...” In truth it took closer to fifteen minutes, but by then the nausea had subsided and I was able to say, “I’m fine; let’s find Rosie.”
Though I sensed his reluctance, Mac drove me to Marquess Terrace and my office. A row of Victorian tenements that had seen better days, Marquess Terrace looked as I felt – tired. Most of the tenements had been converted into flats equipped with modern amenities, or small businesses. A sauna and massage parlour occupied the space below my office and, while such premises did exist in the city, the words ‘sauna’ and ‘massage’ in this instance were clearly a euphemism.
We found Rosie in the street, riding a new bicycle. Despite the cold weather, she was dressed in nothing more than jeans and her short-sleeved sweater, though in fairness she did seem oblivious to the icy conditions.
On wobbly legs, I walked over to Rosie and asked, “Did Father Christmas bring you that bike?”
“No.” She shook her head and her basin haircut flopped against her brow. “My dad knows a man who knows a man. He can get you a bike, if you like, but only at Christmas. He can get you some whisky, if you’d prefer.” She dipped her head then stared at me while leaning over the handlebars. “Are you listening to me? Are you all right? You look awful. Are you dying? My dad will be upset if you die.”
Something was wrong with me, beyond a reaction to the shooting, but I tried to force all thoughts of that to the back of my mind. “Why will your dad be upset?” I asked.
“He likes to watch you when you arrive and leave for work. My dad says you’ve got a nice arse. He tells my mum that she should do some exercise, to get a nice arse like you. He says your face is quite pretty too.”
“Tell me, Rosie, have you seen this man?” Mac removed his mobile phone from his trouser pocket. He offered Rosie a picture of Mickey Anthony, taken by yours truly at a gathering of private detectives some eighteen months ago. Mickey had changed little, so the picture was valid; I’d transferred the photograph to Mac’s phone during one of our chats in my office, subconsciously aware that this moment would arrive. “Do you recognise this man?” Mac asked.
Rosie tilted her head to one side. She pulled a face as she stared at the picture, her expression an image of concentration, her attention absolute. “Might have,” she replied brightly.
“Have you seen this man in this here street, lately?” Mac asked.
Rosie offered the picture another glance, then she sat on her bicycle, shaking her head. “Can’t remember.”
“Try,” Mac prompted. “It’ll help your friend, Samantha.”
“Not sure.” Rosie pulled a long face. She glanced at me, as though seeking guidance, searching for the right answer. In truth, I was only dimly aware of the conversation and I could contribute little in my current state of distress. Then we all perked up as Rosie said, “Yes, I saw him.”
“When?” Mac asked.
“Before Christmas.”
“When before Christmas?”
Again, Rosie stared at me, this time at my bandaged shoulder. She gave me a winning smile. “Around the time you were shot.”
Maybe Rosie was seeking to please, so she offered her answer as a solution to our problem. Alternatively, her words might hold the truth. In any event, it was time to thank her. “You’ve been very helpful, Rosie, and I’m very grateful.”
She smiled at my words, then peddled a short distance on her bike. She cycled through the slush without losing her balance, returning to my side with a pensive frown on her forehead and a question on her lips. “Samantha...is arse a naughty word?”
“It depends on the context.”
Her frown intensified. “What’s context?”
“Sometimes it is, sometimes it ain’t,” Mac explained with the wisdom of the world’s greatest philosopher.
“My mum says she will wash my mouth out with soap if I say it again. She says it’s my dad’s fault that I use naughty words.”
“Your dad swears a lot, does he?” Mac asked.
“Mostly at the TV,” Rosie replied. “Mostly at the politicians. A bunch of bankers, I think he calls them.”
Mac and I exchanged a knowing glance. Then Rosie brightened as her friend Joel wandered into the street.
“Oh look, Joel,” Rosie muttered, scooping up a handful of dirty snow and ice. “Got to go; got a present for him...”
Chapter Twenty-Five
We returned to my flat where I fell into bed. I slept, with time out for bathroom breaks, until midnight, then we were on the street again.
We were searching for Julie and she was proving elusive – not at the docks, not on the street, not anywhere. “Why don’t you wait in the car,” Mac suggested, “and I’ll look for your friend.”
“Good idea,” I nodded, and in the Bugatti, I sat for another hour.
I glanced at my watch, my present from Alis. The watch said four-twelve in the a.m. I was tired, cold and riding a wave of nausea, but I was going to see this out to the bitter end.
At four-fifty Mac arrived with Julie. “Will you pay me?” she asked, anxiety troubling her face. “Just for the hour.”
“Still in bother with the loan company?” I asked while climbing out of the car.
Julie nodded. “They’ve started to repossess my white goods. They want to take the TV, but the kids live by the TV, I can’t let them have that.”
We walked away from the car, towards the abandon
ed warehouse. En route, we spied a woman dressed as a wasp and a man in a superman costume – if they got together, I wonder if there’d be a sting in the tail?
Inside the warehouse, I sat on an old packing case while Mac supplied Julie with a handful of notes, remuneration in exchange for her information.
“Is that okay?” I asked, referring to the money.
“That’s fine; I’m very grateful.” Julie sat beside me, on a second packing case, her knees close together, her fingers teasing the hem of her skirt. “I suppose you’ve heard,” she said.
“Heard what?” I asked.
“Another murder. Another local girl. That’s three in as many months.”
I sighed. I’d been so wrapped up in myself, I’d missed that item of local news, though I did recall my newspaper clippings and the fruitless search for the murderer, for the man the press had dubbed ‘Cardiff Jack’.
“You must get off the street, Julie; it’s not safe,” I cautioned.
“I will,” she promised, “once I’ve repaid my loan.”
Her words were sincere, her intentions honourable. Unfortunately, I’d read the terms of her loan and basically the finance company had her over a barrel; she’d be paying off the interest, never mind the loan, until she was old and grey.
Returning to my problem, I said, “We have a suspect for the shooting.”
Julie nodded. “I heard Jesus did it.”
I shook my head, then massaged my temples with my left hand. “It wasn’t him.”
“Then who did it?”
Mac stepped forward with his picture of Mickey Anthony. He offered the picture to Julie. “Have you seen this man in Sam’s street lately?”
Julie stared at the picture, then she glanced away. With nervous fingers, she picked at the hem of her skirt, a skirt she’d made herself, for she was a good seamstress. “I don’t want to get anyone into trouble,” she muttered in a small voice.
“If this here man is innocent,” Mac pointed out, “he won’t get into any trouble.”
Julie glanced at me. I glanced at her, removing my fingers from my temples.
“Are you okay, Sam?” she asked, solicitously. “Only...”
