Sins of the Father

by Hannah Howe

  “Just let it unfold naturally, Sam.” Alan’s image froze and his voice tailed off. When he returned, he asked, “What happens when you do find Frankie Quinn?”

  “Gawain will talk with him, try to steer him away from the police.”

  “Gawain fears that Frankie will betray him?”

  I nodded. “Frankie’s my father’s age. They are both desperate men in that they don’t want to go back to prison.”

  “But one of them might have to,” Alan said.

  I sighed, “That’s the long and the short of it. Will Frankie’s liberty mean more to him than his loyalty? I guess when we catch up with Frankie, we’ll find out.” The signal faded again. When it returned, I added, “Also, Frankie has a girlfriend, Gina. She’s in her early twenties, and is heavily pregnant, due any day.”

  Alan sat back. He crooked an index finger and placed it above his upper lip. He lapsed into silence, gave the camera a thoughtful look. Then he said, “Your father went inside when you were born.”

  “I know.”

  “Maybe Frankie feels or thinks that he owes Gina and his baby something, and that will tip the balance in the end.”

  “It doesn’t look good for my dad,” I conceded.

  “Maybe there’s another solution,” Alan suggested, “a third way. If there is, you’ll find it; you’re good at that. Whatever you do,” he said, “take care.”

  “I will,” I promised.

  “You’d like Perth,” Alan said, leaning forward, smiling at the camera, “it’s a...”

  Then the line went dead. I waited, for a further fifteen minutes. At that point, I conceded; we’d have to save our love for another day; it was time for bed.

  Chapter Ten

  In the morning, I drove to my office where I found Marlowe waiting, on the windowsill. I opened the window and placed it on the latch to welcome in the fresh air. Although the sun shone bright this morning, the atmosphere remained humid, sticky; a thunderstorm hovered, yet refused to break.

  While Marlowe rubbed his corpulent body against my hand, I reflected on Frankie Quinn and our search for him. Over breakfast, Faye had conceded that she’d made little progress with Gina; the pregnant woman either knew nothing, or refused to talk.

  I fed Marlowe then returned to the window, seeking a gentle breeze, and some inspiration. On the street, I spied Rosie, a young girl, an occasional visitor to my office. Rosie was teasing Joel, a ten-year-old boy. Joel was besotted with Rosie and, like all true romantics, suffered in the name of love.

  I also spied a furtive, snotty-nosed man lurking in the shadows. The man had a camera, equipped with a telephoto lens. Occasionally, he’d point that camera at my office window and snap away. That would be Mouse, my stalker. I’d sought legal advice, tried to obtain an injunction, but I couldn’t infringe on his civil liberties, so the authorities allowed him to click merrily away. I knew from my life with Dan that the injunction route would be a waste of time. Dan beat me black and blue, broke bones, and the police did nothing about it. If a husband could get away with domestic violence, then a creep could get away with taking furtive photographs.

  With Mouse in mind, I walked away from the window and sat at my desk. Marlowe joined me; he proceeded to purr and lick his paws. Then the telephone rang. It was Mac, who greeted me in his dulcet Scottish tones.

  “Hello, Missy.”

  “You’re up bright and early,” I said.

  “Stirred by the humidity, the summer sunshine and lascivious matters that need not disturb your fair head.”

  “Hochmagandy,” I said. “Lucky for some.”

  Mac laughed, “You remember.”

  “Like an elephant, me; I never forget.”

  As Mac walked through his house a snippet of news from a television news channel intruded on our conversation. The news item mentioned a number of government ministers and their tax avoidance schemes, squirreling away money on distant offshore islands, all legal, one hundred per cent legit. Meanwhile, the chancellor raided the piggy banks of the poor in search of extra funds. ‘We’re all in this together,’ so the government ministers said; they were telling the truth, of course.

  “You met with Naz?” Mac asked, a welcome silence now evident in the background.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And you escaped unscathed?”

  “He did threaten to set his dogs on me at one point. But fair dos, I did provoke him.”

  “Missy,” Mac sucked in his breath, “when are you going to learn that sometimes it’s wiser to bite your tongue, to keep your words in your head?”

  “You reckon I’m chopsy?” I asked.

  “I reckon you should rely more on your discretion, on your intellect.”

  “Maybe when I’m married, I’ll turn over a new leaf.”

  “Aye, and for now steer clear of Naz.”

  “If possible,” I said.

  “Make it possible,” Mac insisted. “Naz is a nasty piece of work. He’s not like Vincent Vanzetti or Rudy Valentine. Vanzetti and Valentine are hard men, and they can be brutal on occasion, but they know where to draw the line. Naz has no parameters. Indeed, he enjoys overstepping the mark, will do so on purpose. Naz is a sicko, not right in the head. You’ve seen his posters, you know what I mean. If he gets a chance to hurt you, he will, and take great pleasure from it. You’ve annoyed him once and got the yellow card; you annoy him again, he’ll put the boot in.”

  “You phoned me just to offer that warning?”

  “Yea and nay. I got something for you; Frankie Quinn’s whereabouts.”

  I leaned forward, my pen and notebook poised. “Where is he?” I asked.

  “Brecon. An old farm building, Ty Maen. I reckon that’s Welsh.”

  “Stone house,” I translated. “And I reckon you’re learning, Mac.”

  “It’s just short of Brecon; in fact, near a place called...I’ll spell it for you...F.f.r.w.d.g.r.e.c.h.”

  “Ffrwdgrech,” I said.

  “Aye, that’s it,” Mac said, and I could sense his scowl. “When are you Welsh gonna learn the value of a vowel? Anyway,” he continued, “Frankie’s snuck himself away up there.”

  “How did you tumble on to that?” I asked.

  “Anonymous sources.”

  “In other words, don’t ask.”

  “Sometimes,” Mac reasoned, “it’s wise to give your tongue a rest. Remember that, Missy, especially if you should encounter Naz again; better still, don’t encounter Naz again.”

  I underlined the note I’d made on my notepad then sat back in triumph. It’s good to have friends, especially friends who have secure connections. “Thanks, Mac.”

  “Anytime,” he said. “You know where I am if you should need me. I’m chilling for the next week or so, until after your wedding, before embarking on a bodyguarding assignment in the Netherlands. So make use of my services. Usual rates.”

  “A man-sized bar of fruit and nut chocolate, extra chunky?”

  “Missy,” Mac sighed, “everyone else pays me top dollar, as for you, I guess you know me too well.”

  Chapter Eleven

  I jumped into my Mini and drove north, out of Cardiff, towards the Brecon Beacons. The journey, a pleasant one of forty-two miles and close on an hour, took me into the heart of a beautiful national park.

  Apparently, the Brecon Beacons took its name from the ancient practice of lighting hilltop fires to warn the locals of impending attacks by invaders. As I drove, I skirted a series of north-facing escarpments, with lakes below those escarpments, and a succession of old drovers’ tracks, trampled for centuries by cattle and geese. Despite its natural beauty, the Brecon Beacons could be harsh; a training ground for the military, including the SAS, the region had claimed lives, especially during times of extreme weather.

  My directions took me off the main road on to a series of country lanes, which snaked their way through a patchwork of fields, twelve miles south of Brecon. There, in an isolated, picturesque, location I found Ty Maen, the old stone house.


  I parked my Mini in a lane then admired the building. The only house in the vicinity, the stone house was a longhouse, probably dating from the sixteenth century. Traditionally, cruck trusses supported the walls and roofs of longhouses, large curved timbers sitting on the ground, meeting at an apex. In the sixteenth century, cattle were housed in one section of the building while the farmer and his family lived in the remaining rooms. In those days, an open hearth warmed the house while the smoke escaped through the slatted windows. Modernizers had placed a chimney on the roof and replaced the original thatch with grey slates. Someone had also applied a fresh coat of whitewash to the sturdy stone walls.

  Temptation and curiosity lured me towards the building. However, a battered Volkswagen, parked near the patio, urged caution. So, with my eyes flicking from the front door to the slatted windows, I adjusted my sunglasses and nudged the peak of my sun hat on to my head.

  I wore the sun hat to keep the hot afternoon sun off my head. Nevertheless, a bead of perspiration trickled down my brow. The perspiration had everything to do with the heat, I lied to myself, and nothing to do with nerves.

  With cautious tread, I approached the longhouse. Then, call it a sixth sense, call it experience, something compelled me to dive to the ground. As I hit the dry dirt, a gunshot faded into the warm, still air. I rolled and rolled, aware of a second gunshot, until I came to rest behind a grassy mound. A thought occurred to me: could the bullets penetrate the dry embankment? Probably. So I scampered away from the dirt, sought the shelter of a low stone wall, tasted the dust from that wall as another bullet pinged off a rock.

  Should I reach into my shoulder bag and produce my gun? Shooting someone wasn’t on my agenda for today. Come to think of it, being shot by someone wasn’t on my agenda either. Instinctively, I ducked my head as another bullet whined into the humid air.

  “Hold your fire!” I yelled from my position behind the wall. “I’m a friend!” I made the assumption that Frankie Quinn was the gunman, and that his nerves were jangling as well. “I have a message, from Gina!” I continued to yell.

  “Gina?” A male voice shouted back. “Is she okay?”

  I nodded, stupid really, because he couldn’t see me from his position, partially hidden behind a shuttered window. However, sometimes, most times, you rely and react on instinct, not cold, logical thought.

  “She’s okay,” I said. “Maybe you could put the gun down and we could talk?”

  Silence. During that breathless silence I noticed that my jeans were dusty, my sleeveless blouse stained and my palms scarred with fresh grazes.

  “Okay,” he said after what seemed like an hour, though in reality was closer to a minute. “Get up, step inside, we’ll talk. But the gun stays.”

  Could I trust him? Either that, or embark on a gunfight. Nervously, I poked my head above the wall.

  He was standing by the front door now, a shotgun in his hands. Mercifully, he’d canted the shotgun towards the ground. I climbed to my feet and walked towards the door.

  After Frankie Quinn had glanced around, to ensure that I was alone, he ushered me through the front door into the building.

  Inside the longhouse, I spied a number of brass items – cooking utensils, dangling from low beams. The chairs, table and sideboards were dark, as were the walls. Somewhere in the house, a grandfather clock ticked menacingly away, as though counting down the seconds to a moment of doom. Despite the shiny brass, the house was dark, a combination of the late medieval and Pugin. Furthermore, a stale fragrance hung in the air, possibly the remnants of recently smoked pot.

  “You know Gina?” Frankie asked, sitting beside the dining table, placing his shotgun on its ancient surface. For a brief moment, I wondered about the longhouse’s owners, wondered about their attitude, what they would make of Frankie’s behaviour; I also considered who owned the property, where they were, and if they knew about Frankie. The shotgun nestled beside a newspaper, open at the horse racing page, and a book of simple crossword puzzles.

  While sitting on a stool beside a sideboard, crammed with willow-pattern plates, I answered Frankie’s question. “I know Gina; we met recently.”

  “You an old friend?”

  “No. We only met recently.”

  “Figures,” Frankie nodded. He ran an eye over my petite frame, appraising me. “You don’t look like one of Gina’s friends.”

  I nodded then returned the look of appraisal. Around my father’s age, Frankie Quinn had shaggy grey hair, which hung lank over his ears, along with a bald crown; a few wispy strands covered that crown. His eyes were dark and bloodshot, while his face was lean with sunken cheeks and a pallid complexion. Standing around five foot nine tall, his body, too, was lean and emaciated. Furthermore, a small scar ran under his left eye. Unlike my father, who took pride in his appearance, the passing years had not been kind to Frankie Quinn.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Sam.”

  “Samantha?”

  I nodded.

  “Nice name.” He paused to cough then asked, “You a social worker?”

  “Not exactly,” I said.

  “What are you then?”

  “An enquiry agent.”

  “And Gina hired you?” he frowned.

  “Gawain Morgan hired me.”

  “Ah.” Frankie leaned forward. He fingered the shotgun, offered me a jaundiced look. “Now it all makes sense.”

  “Gawain wants to talk with you,” I said.

  “I bet he does,” Frankie scoffed.

  “Will you talk with him?”

  “Why should I?” Frankie asked, cradling his shotgun.

  “For old times’ sake.”

  “Those times have gone,” he said, aiming the shotgun at the wall, squinting, peering through the gunsight on the barrel. “I didn’t intend to kill you, just warn you,” he insisted, wrapping a finger around the trigger.

  “In that case,” I said, “good shooting.”

  “But I will kill you, if I have to.”

  I sat in silence, the smile on my face frozen as my blood ran cold.

  Only the tick-tock of the grandfather clock disturbed the silence. The air was oppressive, stifling. Indeed, the humid air compelled Frankie to cough on a number of occasions. Ideally, he’d open the windows and doors, allow some freshness into the building. However, fear reduced his options; forced him to hide away here, hide in his shell.

  “Are you planning to finger Gawain?” I asked.

  “I’m no grass,” Frankie insisted.

  “But you’re prepared to drop him in it.”

  “It’s that, or die in prison.”

  “You’ve been a naughty boy?” I asked.

  He nodded, “All my life.”

  “And recently?”

  “I tried to turn over a fancy house; missed one of the alarms.”

  “So you’re hoping that Gawain’s your passport to freedom.”

  “Nothing personal,” Frankie shrugged, “but it has to be.”

  “You got plenty of dirt on him?”

  “Enough,” he nodded.

  “Past robberies?”

  “Yeah. Going back forty years. I tell you,” he offered me a wan smile, “Robin Hood got nothing on Gawain Morgan. When I spill the beans, it’ll take twenty per cent off the unsolved case list overnight. Okay, I exaggerate,” he conceded, “but Gawain was very active in his prime, very active indeed.”

  I nodded then said, “It’s not so easy to cut a deal with the police these days.”

  “I have my contacts,” Frankie said.

  “People who are keen to put Gawain away?”

  “He made them look like fools. They want him, yeah, want him bad. They’ll deal with me.”

  “If you’re so confident of cutting a deal,” I asked, “why are you on the run?”

  Frankie narrowed his bloodshot eyes. He aimed his shotgun at me. “You got too much lip, you know that. You ask too many questions.”

  “Are you goi
ng to offer me some answers?”

  “Best I button up,” he said, turning away, canting the shotgun towards the ground, “I’ve said too much.”

  “Maybe I can take a guess at the answers. You’re planning to finger someone else, besides Gawain Morgan, someone you fear, and that’s why you’re on the run.”

  “I’m not saying any more,” Frankie insisted. He stood, walked over to a shuttered window then peered through a gap, to the country lanes.

  “So I’m right,” I said. “Who are you planning to finger?”

  Frankie turned into the room. Once again, he waved his shotgun at me, jerked it towards the door. “I think you should leave.”

  “I want to help,” I said.

  “Get out!” he yelled.

  “Okay.” Slowly, I rose to my feet. “I’m going. But what about Gina?”

  “Gina.” Frankie paused. He caressed the stubble on his chin. He stared down to a fleecy rug, which covered the dark floorboards. When he looked up, there were tears in his eyes, tears of tenderness, of concern. “How is she?” he asked.

  “Nearly due. She needs money. She needs you.”

  “I ain’t got no money,” Frankie said. “I can’t be with her now.” He turned to stare at the lanes again, viewed them through suspicious eyes. “You weren’t followed?” he asked.

  “No one followed me,” I said, stating the truth.

  “You going to tell Gawain I’m here?”

  “I think you should talk with Gawain,” I said. “You need friends, Frankie. You’re in hiding because you’ve made enemies. You can’t stay here forever. I won’t betray you, but my sources know where you are. And if my sources know, others will know.” I paused to allow my words to sink in. “Talk with Gawain, let us help you; we’ll help Gina and the baby too.”

  Frankie hesitated. Like the shotgun in his hands, he wavered, caught between a rock and a hard place.

  “What do you say?” I asked. “Meet Gawain, air your differences and I’ll sit in on the chat. We’ll find a solution, keep you safe.”