by Hannah Howe
I held up my hand to curtail any further comments or questions. Then I made a supreme effort to sit up straight and smile. “I’m fine.”
“The man...” Mac prompted.
Julie stared up at Mac. Doubtless, she was intimidated by his imposing presence and maybe that’s why she admitted, “Yeah, I’ve seen him around.”
“When?” Mac asked.
Once again, Julie went into her shell. Head bowed, she refused to answer.
“When, Julie?” I pressed.
She swallowed. Then she looked up to the rafters and I noticed that her eyes were swimming with tears. “Must I answer?” she pleaded.
“Please,” I cajoled.
“I don’t want to get anyone in trouble.”
Mac glowered. His tone was harsh, uncompromising, “Would you rather the man pay Samantha a return visit and have her dead?”
Julie swallowed again. She shook her head. “The day you were shot,” she said. “I saw that man in our street then.”
“When?” I asked.
“About five minutes before I went into your office and found you.”
“Where did you see him?”
“He was hanging around your office.”
Mac and I exchanged a glance. Then he asked, “Did you notice a gun?”
Julie shook her head. From her handbag, she removed a tissue and proceeded to blow her nose, which was red from the cold and her sniffles. “I didn’t see any gun.”
“Did he look angry, upset, agitated?” Mac probed.
“No, he looked quite happy, cheerful, even.” Julie shot me a worried glance, possibly concern for me, concern for herself, concern that she’d said too much. She murmured, “Do you think he tried to kill you?”
“I hope it isn’t him,” I replied truthfully.
“But he looks favourite, Missy.”
I glanced at Mac and nodded. “He does.”
We followed Julie on to the street where I saw a man, lurking in the shadows. Julie and the man exchanged glances and it was clear that she had another client to satisfy before the dawn.
“Thank you, Julie,” I said as Mac escorted me towards the Bugatti. “I owe you a big favour.”
“Just keep my name out of all this,” Julie frowned, “and that’ll be favour enough.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
It was a long, dark night of the soul, or I should say morning because dawn was breaking as we arrived at my flat and from that moment, I spent until lunchtime in the bathroom. My throat burned like a furnace while my insides bubbled like an acid bath. I considered wrapping myself in my duvet and crawling into the bath, but I didn’t have the energy to walk into my bedroom to fetch the damn thing.
I dozed while sitting in the bathroom and I even drifted into sleep. I had a vivid nightmare of a man chasing me. The man had a large carving knife and he was trying to stab me. I ran, frantically, but he was gaining ground. Then I turned a corner and discovered that I was in a cul-de-sac...
I tried to make sense of the nightmare and concluded that my subconscious was dwelling on ‘Cardiff Jack’ and his predecessor, ‘Jack the Ripper’. But why? I couldn’t come up with an answer. Yet the nagging thought persisted that the solution to the shooting was in there, somewhere.
Around 1 p.m., Mac opened the front door then disappeared into my spare room as Alan walked into the flat. Mac had been up with me, fussing to some extent, insisting that he should call ‘the good Dr Storey’. But Alan was busy with his own work and I had no mind to bother him. Nonetheless, I sensed that Mac had gone behind my back and phoned Alan while I’d been enduring yet another ‘bathroom break’.
“I thought you were resting.” Alan kept his tone light, though a degree of concern etched his features while a hint of exasperation strained his voice.
I was slouched on my bed, feeling as limp as a wet lettuce. “Don’t nag me, please. I had a rough night.”
“Not feeling any better?”
I shook my head.
Alan leaned forward. He took hold of my left hand and eased me away from my pillow. “Come on, let’s get you back to the hospital.”
“No,” I protested while sitting up. “I’ve nearly wrapped this up. One more day. Then I’ll do whatever you say. I promise.”
I gave Alan a winning smile, though the black circles around my eyes and the stains on my dressing gown offered an eclipse, the realisation that I was faking it for all I was worth.
“I don’t want to argue with you, Sam, but...”
“Then don’t argue with me. Please.”
Reaching up, I gave Alan a big hug. With his chin resting on my good shoulder, he sighed. He was still sighing as his right hand drew small circles of comfort over my back. I couldn’t see his face, but I knew that his features would be lined with worry.
“There,” I insisted, “I’m feeling better already.”
He eased himself away from me and sat on the bed. While I reclined on my puffed-up pillows, he asked, “What were you doing last night?”
I summarised my conversation with Julie.
“So,” Alan surmised, “you think Mickey Anthony tried to kill you?”
“He looks guilty,” I conceded with reluctance. “Mac thinks so too.”
“His motive?” Alan asked.
“Partly anger because I deflated his ego, and partly rage because I stepped between him and Alis. Also, his business is going down the pan because of the bad publicity. Maybe his intention was to wound me, to cause me pain for the pain I’ve caused him.” I sighed, then looked up into Alan’s eyes. “I hope I’m wrong, for Alis’ sake.”
“Don’t worry about Alis,” Alan reassured me, “she’s over Mickey Anthony. He was just a brief phase in her life, an infatuation. If she’s any feelings towards him, they’re feelings of anger and resentment, for the lies he told her and for the casual way he intended to use her.” Alan took hold of my hand. He brought my fingers up to his lips and kissed them. “I know you and Mickey go back a long way and that he’s helped you in the past, but if he turns out to be the guilty party I, for one, will not be sorry.”
We sat in silence, lost in our own thoughts, mulling over our feelings towards Mickey Anthony. He was a rascal, a rogue, a man of few principles where women were concerned, yet he had a certain charm, a quintessential quality.
“I take it you plan to question Mickey?” Alan asked, breaking our reverie.
I nodded. “But don’t worry, Mac will escort me.”
With Alan’s help, I struggled out of bed. Then I walked over to a wicker chair, where I’d discarded my day clothes. My clothes were creased, but clean, so I eased myself into them – a pair of jeans and a thick woollen sweater. The weight, added over the Christmas festivities, had disappeared and, as I ran my finger between waist and waistband, I realised that I was a comfortable size ten again.
As I tried to fasten my jeans, I said to Alan, “I met Vincent Vanzetti yesterday. He offered me a job, working for him.”
Alan’s features morphed into a quizzical grimace. For some reason he reminded me of Walter Matthau, though he looked nothing like him. Must be another element of the strange daydream I was wandering through at the moment. In all honesty, I wasn’t fully with it; I was drifting in and out, losing myself for seconds at a time.
“What did you say to Vanzetti?” Alan asked.
“Huh?” I frowned.
“About the job offer...”
“I turned him down, politely.”
“The right decision.” Alan smiled. “And your civility was a nice touch.”
“An essential touch.” I was all fingers and thumbs with my jeans fastener, so Alan wandered over to lend me a hand. As he popped the button into place, I said, “I’ve been thinking...”
“Uh-huh.”
“I might quit the private eye game.”
“Why?” he frowned. “Because of the shooting?”
“Because of the aftermath. I don’t want to put you through anything like that again. The pain i
n your eyes was too much; I couldn’t bear to see that again.”
Alan took hold of my hand. He guided me towards the wicker chair, where I sat down. “That’s a very selfless decision,” he said. “But I’m not sure it’s the right one.”
“Why?” I canted my head to the right, then ran my left hand through my hair to remove a loose strand from my eyes. My hair was dirty and in need of washing, but not today. “I thought you’d be happy at my decision.”
“I’ll admit,” Alan conceded, “there are times when I’m concerned about you, worried about the situations you get yourself into, some of the company you keep, but I try to step back and adopt a broader view. Your job as an enquiry agent has helped to mould you into the person you are, the person I love. Your job has helped you to overcome your past difficulties. I think you need this job to feed your self-belief and self-esteem. Also, if Mickey Anthony did shoot you, then the attempt on your life stems from personal issues; indeed its roots lie with Alis and me. Ultimately, it’s your decision and I’ll continue to love you whatever path you take.”
I stood. Even though I was hampered by my bad shoulder, was feeling utterly unromantic and sullied when it came to sexy, I gave Alan the biggest hug since I’d known him and a wet kiss on his left cheek.
We were still hugging each other some moments later when Mac knocked on the bedroom door and asked, “May I come in?”
“Sure,” I said, smiling at Alan, watching in gentle amusement as he adjusted his clothing and smoothed his hair.
“Only the weather’s closing in,” Mac announced, his big feet denting the soft pile of my bedside carpet, “and I thought the Wee Lassie might want to pay Dickey Anthony a wee visit.”
“Mickey,” I corrected him.
“He might be Mickey to you,” Mac scowled, “but I know what I think of him.”
Alan smiled at Mac. He kissed my forehead, straightened his tie and said, “Call me when it’s over.”
I nodded then replied indefatigably, “I will.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I phoned Mickey Anthony, but he refused to take my call. So we called at his office in the centre of Cardiff – not there. Mickey lived with his wife in Rhiwbina, a pleasant suburb to the north of the city, but he was not there either.
“Mickey enjoys hang-gliding,” I informed Mac, who took one look at the glowering sky, a look that said, ‘Mickey may be a fool, but on a day like this even a fool wouldn’t venture up there’.
“Maybe he’s in the gym?” I suggested, so we travelled across the city again to Mickey’s gym at the sports centre beside the River Taff. In all truth, the search for Mickey was upsetting my system and as we travelled, I nursed a bottle of spring water in my lap, sipping the water from time to time in an effort to quench the flames that were burning my stomach, my throat, my entire body.
“Okay,” I sighed when we discovered that Mickey wasn’t at his gym, “he enjoys jogging around Friary Gardens; let’s try there.”
Mac parked the Bugatti near City Hall and we walked south, towards Friary Gardens. The wind had dropped. Large snowflakes fluttered to the ground creating a fresh, white carpet. We crunched our way through the snow into the gardens and, thankfully, found Mickey there, a lone figure jogging among the topiary and hedgerows.
“Got a moment, Mickey?” I asked and he slowed to a canter, pausing beside an impressive statue of the Third Marquess of Bute.
Once again, the snowstorm was gathering momentum and white flakes covered Mickey’s shoulders, matting his hair. He brushed the snow from his tracksuit, peered at me then said, “You don’t look too good, Sam; is your shoulder troubling you?”
I glared at Mickey through a veil of snow and said, “I reckon I’ll feel a lot better after our conversation.”
“Okay,” he shrugged, “shoot; what do you want to know?”
“Why did you call at my office the day I was shot?”
While shuffling his feet he offered me a lopsided grin. “I didn’t call at your office.”
“You were seen, Mickey.”
“By whom?”
I shook my head, then stared at my own feet. “You know I don’t reveal my sources.”
“Whoever it was, they were mistaken,” Mickey insisted. “I was on a stakeout the day you were shot.”
“That’s a lie,” Mac growled, his boots sinking into the snow as he took a step towards Mickey Anthony.
Mickey grinned at me. He jerked a thumb towards Mac. “I see you’ve taught your pet gorilla how to talk.”
In the blink of an eye, Mac drove his right fist into Mickey’s solar plexus. Mac’s fist travelled less than six inches, but his timing, power and precision ensured that Mickey dropped to his knees.
Due to the inclement weather, Friary Gardens was largely deserted though at that moment a young man scurried through on his way to the Law Courts. He paused and glanced at Mickey, his sunny features clouding with concern.
With a smile of reassurance, Mac addressed our new companion. “Our friend’s been out jogging; he’s just winded. He’ll be as right as rain in a moment.”
As Mac dragged Mickey to his feet, our companion nodded. Then, after a glance over his shoulder, the young man dipped his head and walked away, struggling into a blizzard of Captain Scott proportions.
“Now try again, sunshine,” Mac insisted, his right hand gripping Mickey’s tracksuit below his chin, his fist threatening to move up into Mickey’s face. “The Wee Lassie asked you a civil question, now provide her with a civil answer.”
“Okay,” Mickey conceded, holding up his hands as he tried to catch his breath, “I was in your street. I did call at your office.”
“Why?” I asked.
“To apologise for my behaviour towards Alis. To tell you there are no hard feelings.”
I stared into Mickey’s eyes, searching for the truth. As a snowflake stung my eye, I concluded that I’d search in vain, that I’d find no semblance of the truth in there. “I’d like to believe you, Mickey, but I’m struggling.”
“It’s the truth,” Mickey insisted, “I called at your office, but you weren’t there.”
In exasperation, I turned away, unable to stomach his lies.
“Damn it, Sam,” Mickey tried, unsuccessfully, to struggle free of Mac’s grip, “a part of me loves you...”
“And I know which part.”
“...and you don’t shoot the person you love.”
“You do,” I said, “if love turns into obsession.”
Mickey shook his head and I noted a look in his eyes, a look I had not seen before, a look that bordered on desperation. “I wouldn’t hurt you, Sam.” He nodded towards my wounded shoulder. “And I definitely didn’t do that.”
“If you wanted to apologise you could have picked up the phone. You drove to my street for a purpose, Mickey; you had something definite in mind. What was it? And I want the truth, this time.”
“I’ve told you the truth,” Mickey pleaded. Then Mac hit him again, a blow as sickening as the first punch, a blow that sent Mickey sprawling on to the snow.
Mac helped Mickey to his feet. He was about to deliver a third punch when I cried, “Enough!”
The hard man glared at me, his eyes questioning my comment. But with a shrug, Mac did step back while Mickey staggered against the Marquess’ statue, struggling to recover his balance and his breath.
When he’d recovered, Mickey turned to me and conceded, “All right. I did call at your office to apologise. But I was also in your street for another reason.”
I glared at him again, looking for that reason. Then the shame in his eyes offered an answer. It was a light bulb moment, a moment when the miasma of recent weeks dissipated to reveal the truth in all its brutality. “You called on a prostitute, didn’t you, Mickey? For business or pleasure?”
Mickey slid down the statue. He sat, defeated, in the snow. The shame in his eyes deepened and, finally, I had the answer. Mickey had called on the prostitute for pleasure. Despite his mach
o posturing, I surmised that his magic had worn off; he was no longer a babe magnet, his pathetic pursuit of Alis should have alerted me to that. Mickey needed a different woman every night and those women were prostitutes. I felt sad for him, for the man he’d become.
“You have a beautiful wife, Mickey. Why do you do these things?”
From his prone position in the snow, Mickey glanced up at me. He shook his head, sadly, “I don’t know, Sam, I honestly don’t know.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
As usual, the snow brought its own, unique, form of chaos as people rushed to the shops to buy essentials, then crawled home through the gridlock of traffic. The trains had stopped and the local airport had closed. Mac’s car radio supplied us with this information while Mac steered the Bugatti through the icy streets heading for my flat in Grangetown.
When the DJ tried to heighten the tension by taking calls from ‘snowbound’ suburban callers, Mac switched the radio off. We travelled in silence, Mac concentrating on his driving while I closed my eyes and tried to relax.
At my flat, Mac made himself a pot of coffee while I lounged on the sofa. If you looked closely, you could see a stubborn stain on my living room carpet, the result of a mishap when I’d spilled the contents of a coffee cup. The stain was a persistent source of aggravation, an example of a trivial moment, yet a moment that will haunt you like Banquo’s ghost.
Mac joined me in the living room and, as he sipped his coffee, I said, “This time Mickey’s telling the truth.”
“I hate to agree, Missy, but I think you’re right.” He offered me a packet of biscuits; politely, I declined. “So,” he mused while dunking a custard cream into his coffee, “who was wicked enough to put a bullet into you?”
“I haven’t exhausted my list,” I admitted, “but I have exhausted myself.”
Mac nodded. He dunked another biscuit then, with his eyebrows knitting together in concentration, he reasoned, “Maybe Jesus did it after all. Maybe we’ve been too clever for our own good. Maybe the obvious was staring us in the face all along.”
