Rough Cut

by Owen Carey Jones

  The gallery was just one of many in St Pierre and was on two floors with a small apartment above. The ancient three storey building which housed it, and several other shops, ran the length of the narrow cobbled street. The thick walls of the building insulated the interior, keeping it cool in the summer, and the gallery was always filled with people escaping from the heat of the day and pretending to examine the merchandise.

  “Hi, Jacques.”

  Jacques recognised the voice coming from behind a little clump of middle aged women dressed in either flowery summer dresses or loud trousers, both of which were generally too tight and outlined rolls of unsightly flab. He pushed his way past them rudely and provoked a flurry of muttering about ‘ill-mannered locals’. When he reached Yvonne, he grabbed her hand.

  “Come on, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee,” he said.

  “Jacques, I’m working!” she said as she pulled her hand back.

  “Françoise can manage without you for ten minutes, can’t she? I’ll tell her.”

  Yvonne’s assistant, Françoise, who worked part-time with Yvonne in the shop, saw Jacques marching purposefully towards her.

  “Hello, Jacques. How about a kiss?” she said, puckering her voluptuous lips and closing her vast eyes. Everything about Françoise was larger than life, especially her appetites.

  He skirted round to give her a peck on the cheek. “Look after the shop for a few minutes, will you? I’m taking Yvonne for a coffee.”

  Ten minutes later, Jacques was sitting with Yvonne outside a café, sipping a cappuccino. The hot afternoon sun shone into the little courtyard and lit up the ancient fountain at its centre. Yvonne picked up her coffee cup and drank from it as Jacques spoke.

  “Did you sell anything today?” he asked.

  “One picture and a couple of vases. That’s all.”

  “Maybe you should get another job. You hardly earn anything from running the gallery and you have to spend every day there in the summer.”

  “True, but I do get the apartment above the shop as well. And I can always get Françoise to cover for me if I want some time off.” Yvonne lifted her cup and smiled, “That’s the advantage of being the manager.”

  As they chatted and drank their coffee, the anger that Jacques had felt towards his mother turned to remorse. She deserved better than that from him and he wanted to go home and make it up with her.

  “I must go and make friends with Maman again,” he said as he reached into his pocket and put some coins on the table to pay for the coffee.

  “Oh, Jacques!” responded Yvonne, frowning as he got up from the table, “You haven’t been upsetting her again, have you?

  “It’s her own fault. She still won’t tell me who he is.”

  “Well, she must have her reasons.”

  “That’s easy for you to say, you know who your father is.”

  “Not that it has made much difference to my life given that he disappeared without a trace before I was born!”

  Jacques got up and turned to look at her. “I just want to know who he is, that’s all. You can understand that, can’t you?”

  Yvonne nodded and smiled as Jacques gave her a peck on the cheek before disappearing down the nearby street, leaving her to finish her coffee alone.

  CHAPTER 3

  The centre of Moscow was bathed in the early afternoon sunshine as Jeremy, Anna and Eloise stood in Red Square and looked towards the Kremlin, a spectacular, if rather forbidding edifice.

  Jeremy’s company, Baines Automotive Ltd, manufactured parts for cars and had grown from virtually nothing when, at the age of twenty-four, he had bought it from the receivers. Now it was a major supplier to the motor industry, exporting to most European countries including France and Germany.

  Across from the Kremlin, the GUM shopping centre dominated one whole side of Red Square. All of the world’s most prestigious retailers occupied space in this building. It consisted of three floors, of which the uppermost housed the Demonstration Hall, a popular centre for exhibitions and conferences.

  During this particular weekend in June, the World Automotive Parts Exhibition and Conference was taking place in Moscow. As usual, the event was split between the spacious Expocentre, about half a mile from Red Square, and the GUM Demonstration Hall where, each day, the main speakers addressed appreciative audiences packed tightly into the space.

  The area around the entrance to the shopping centre was dotted with little groups of people talking and laughing as they waited for the start of the next conference session.

  In one of these little groups, Jeremy was studying the conference programme, Eloise was checking the contents of her large carrier bag and Anna was surveying the picturesque scene when they were joined by Dimitri Surkov, who was also attending the conference. Jeremy and Anna had met Dimitri several years before when they had all been attending this same event and they had agreed to meet up at the conference every year since then. Dimitri greeted Anna and Jeremy warmly with a kiss on both cheeks before Jeremy introduced Eloise.

  “This young lady is Eloise Darrington,” he said, “She is taking over responsibility for organising our annual conference in Sainte Maxime and our presence at exhibitions such as this one.”

  “Welcome to Moscow,” said Dimitri as he smiled at Eloise and indicated the city with a sweep of his hand.

  “Are you also in the car parts business?” asked Eloise.

  Dimitri smiled. “Not really. I work for Scientific Institute in Siberia where we do research into many things.”

  “So why are you here?”

  Anna looked at Eloise in surprise at her directness.

  “Dimitri’s unit at the Institute specialises in research into the applications of graphite,” she said. “Which, as I’m sure you know, is used in the manufacture of brake linings.”

  Jeremy looked at his watch. “It’s almost two,” he said looking up at Anna and Dimitri, “I’d better get in there. Are you coming, Dimitri?”

  Dimitri smiled and held up his hands. “No, no, this session is too technical for me. I am just simple administrator.”

  “OK,” responded Jeremy as he leaned forward and kissed Anna on the cheek, “I guess I’m on my own for this one.” He turned to go. “See you later, darling. Have fun.”

  Jeremy walked towards the entrance to the shopping centre as the others watched him go.

  “I must go too,” said Eloise. “I need to get over to the Expocentre and check that our stand is fully supplied with literature after the lunch time rush.”

  Anna and Dimitri watched as Eloise walked along the road, past the Kremlin and round the corner. When she had disappeared, Dimitri turned to Anna and smiled.

  “I buy you good Russian coffee, yes?” The invitation was issued without any expectation that Anna’s response would be other than in the affirmative. He smiled as she nodded and they headed off together.

  _________________________

  At about the same time as Anna and Dimitri were heading off to find a café in Moscow, Jacques and Yvonne were sitting at the dining table in Claudine’s apartment as Claudine brought a bottle of wine and three glasses from the kitchen. She poured the wine into the glasses and passed one each to Jacques and Yvonne before sitting down. Then, in a very ceremonious manner, she raised her glass and smiled.

  “Happy birthday, Cherie,” she said and Jacques and Yvonne both raised their glasses in Claudine’s direction before drinking from them.

  Moments later, Claudine was still wearing a broad smile and Jacques and Yvonne looked at her questioningly, waiting for her to speak. Instead, she said nothing, she just continued smiling and pretended not to know why they were looking at her in that way.

  “What?!” she said eventually, enjoying every moment and pretending not to be aware that she was behaving in an unusual manner.

  Yvonne sighed as if to say ‘you know very well what’ but then she gave in and voiced what she and Jacques were both thinking.

  “Why the big smile?” sh
e asked, cocking her head on one side to emphasise the question.

  “Well, today is Jacques’ twenty-first birthday. Annnnnd, that means…” Claudine paused as she got up from the table and went to the sideboard, her gait almost a dance. When she reached the sideboard, she opened a drawer and extracted an envelope from it before returning to the table. “That means that you get this.”

  Claudine handed the envelope to her son, her smile now bigger than ever, if indeed that were possible. Jacques took the envelope, his face showing that he really had no idea what all the fuss was about.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Well, when you were born, your father put some money into an account for you which was to be given to you on your twenty-first birthday. And that’s today!”

  Jacques looked at his mother for a few moments before opening the envelope. Slowly, he extracted a piece of paper from it and unfolded it. As he looked at the piece of paper, his eyes widened. He looked at his mother and then back at the piece of paper before speaking in a dull mechanical tone.

  “It says here that there is eight hundred and thirty-two thousand euros in the account.” Jacques looked at his mother before continuing, his expression hovering between excitement and anger. “Is this some kind of joke?” he asked.

  “No joke, Cherie,” responded Claudine, “the money is yours, to do with as you wish.”

  Jacques stared at the piece of paper as the reality of the news sank in. Both Claudine and Yvonne were grinning from ear to ear as they watched him. Then he put piece of paper back into the envelope and laid it carefully on the table in front of him before fixing his mother with a stare.

  “Who is he, Maman?” he asked and Claudine’s smile vanished.

  “You know I can’t tell you, Jacques,” she said, “I made a promise, a solemn promise that I never would.”

  Claudine watched Jacques, waiting for a response. It didn’t come so she decided to continue. Although her voice was now flat, and conveyed her disappointment at his reaction, she managed a forced smile as she spoke.

  “What will you do with the money?” she asked.

  Jacques’ expression changed as he realised the impact the money would have on his life and, slowly, a smile spread across his face. As it did, he looked at his mother.

  “Do you really need to ask me that?”

  At this, Yvonne, keen to keep the moment upbeat, jumped to her feet and raised her glass.

  “To your father, Jacques, whoever he is!”

  Jacques and Claudine looked at each other. Neither was quite sure how to react to Yvonne’s interruption, so they followed her lead, getting to their feet and echoing the toast before their formal posture crumbled and they all started laughing hysterically.

  _________________________

  At London’s Heathrow airport, Carter’s plane landed at eleven fifteen in the morning and taxied along the runway. Half an hour later, Carter was in the baggage collection area waiting for the bags from his flight to appear. He had his phone in his hand and looked at the screen as he waited for it to initialise. When it had, he pressed a few buttons and put it to his ear, a smile on his face. More than a week had passed since his call to Nicole and he was looking forward to speaking to her again.

  “Nicole! Hi, it’s Carter,” he began. “I’ve just landed at Heathrow.”

  Carter listened and as he did, his expression changed, the smile fading to be replaced by a look of dismay.

  “I don’t know what to say,” he said before looking round the room wondering how to continue the conversation.

  All his hopes for his visit to Nicole, the love of his life, went out of the window when she told him what had happened to her son. Eventually, he decided what to say although he was very reluctant to say it.

  “Do you want to cancel?” he began and then quickly continued, “Totally understand if you do, given what’s happened.”

  Carter listened as Nicole told him that she still wanted to see him and the sooner the better as far as she was concerned. His head lifted on hearing this, no smile, it wasn’t going to be easy, but at least he would see her.

  “I’ve got a few things to do here today,” he said, “But I’ll be there late tonight. How about we meet up for lunch at my hotel tomorrow? Say, twelve o’clock, in the bar?”

  At last the hint of a smile from Carter as he spoke. “Yeah, sure. See you soon.” Carter rang off and stared at his phone as the bags started to arrive on the conveyor belt.

  A little later that day, inside a bookshop on Oxford Street in the centre of London, Carter was sitting at a table signing copies of his book as people queued, waiting for their copy to be signed. Carter managed to smile at every proud owner of his literary masterpiece but his thoughts were two hundred miles away in Yorkshire, with Nicole. He couldn’t wait to be on the train to York but before that, there was something else he wanted to do.

  The book signing over, Carter made his way to New Scotland Yard. He looked up at the building before making up his mind and walking purposefully towards the entrance.

  An hour or so later, Carter was in a small office inside New Scotland Yard sitting at one side of a desk. Opposite him, Detective Chief Superintendent Lamont, a man of average height and build dressed in a suit, was sitting behind his desk looking at Carter’s ID wallet. After carefully examining the contents of the wallet, Lamont returned it to Carter.

  “What can I do to help?” he asked, raising his hands, palm upwards to emphasise his enquiry.

  “I’d like to talk to the officer in charge of the investigation into the death of Rob Darrington in Yorkshire. There may be a link to my case.”

  Minutes later, Carter emerged from New Scotland Yard, clutching a piece of paper in his hand on which Lamont had written a name and a phone number. Once outside the building, Carter extracted his phone from his pocket. He punched in the number written on the piece of paper and waited for his call to be answered. When it was, he wasted no time.

  “Detective Inspector Harris, please.” Carter waited a few moments to be put through. “Hello, Carter Jefferson here. Chief Superintendent Lamont at Scotland Yard suggested I call you. It’s about Rob Darrington…”

  CHAPTER 4

  About a mile from the centre of York, quite close to the racecourse, is the headquarters of the North Yorkshire Police. The building housing the offices is built of red brick, four storeys high and has a flat roof.

  At nine-thirty on the morning after the day he had arrived in London, and having taken a late evening train from London to York, Carter drove up to the building and parked the car he had hired that morning in the public area of the car park.

  Once inside the building, Carter, smartly dressed in a suit, approached the reception desk and told the receptionist that he had an appointment with Detective Inspector Harris. As he waited in the reception area, a policewoman approached him.

  “Mr Jefferson?” she asked and Carter got to his feet. “Please come with me.”

  A few minutes later, Carter and Harris were sitting at opposite sides of the desk in Harris’s office on the third floor of the building and Carter was filling Harris in about the case he was investigating. As he was doing so, Harris received a telephone call and he and Carter were soon on their way to a remote spot in the countryside where a dead body had been found.

  During the twenty minute drive to the scene, Carter continued to brief Harris about his investigation and when they arrived, Harris parked his car behind a police van. From there, a policeman in uniform escorted them across a field and down a steep slope into a disused railway cutting.

  Under the road bridge which spanned the cutting, two men in white overalls were bending over a body on the ground. Harris asked Carter to wait as he approached one of the men and spoke to him. Carter waited patiently, out of earshot, as the man explained to Harris what had happened and a few minutes later, Harris returned to Carter.

  “Nasty one, this,” he said.

  “How long do they think the body’
s been there?” Carter enquired as they watched the men in white overalls continue to go about the business of examining the scene in minute detail.

  “A couple of days, more or less,” replied Harris.

  “What happened?” asked Carter.

  “Single shot to the forehead. Point blank range. Looks like an execution to me. Very professional. His hands were tied behind his back.”

  “Did you find the bullet?”

  “It was in the grass behind where he fell, along with most of the back of his skull.” Harris looked at the men working the crime scene and then back at Carter. “Come on, let’s get back to headquarters.”

  The two men struggled up the steep bank and started walking across the field towards where they had parked.

  “Do you know who he was?” asked Carter.

  “Oh yes,” said Harris, “He’s well known to us. Been in and out of trouble since he could walk. But not for anything that would explain this.”

  “Got a name?”

  “Spicer, Carl Spicer. He’s been living in a hostel since his last spell inside. Assault with a deadly weapon we got him for that time, I think. Quite handy with a knife as I recall.”

  Carter and Harris left the field and got back into their car. As they drove back to police headquarters, and a couple of minutes had passed with nothing being said by either of them, Carter broke the silence.

  “Tell me, Inspector, how many murders do you normally get on your patch in, say, a year?” he asked.

  “Not many. Mine is a quiet beat. Last year we had three.”

  “And how many of them were executions like this one?” continued Carter.

  “I haven’t seen anything like this since I left the Met.”