Sins of the Father

by Hannah Howe

  “Yeah,” Sweets laughed, “and I’m related to the royal family, on my father’s side.”

  Of course, I hadn’t spent the night with my father, so that part of my statement was a lie. Objectively, Gawain could have murdered Frankie; certainly, he had a motive. But I couldn’t believe that of my father. I had to back him; with no proof to lean on, there was nothing left, but loyalty.

  When I failed to reply, Sweets said, “You’re serious; ‘Madman’ Morgan is your father?”

  I nodded.

  “Christ on a crutch, Sam,” Sweets dropped his trilby into the stream, “you might have offered me a chair before you said that.”

  “Gawain Morgan didn’t shoot Frankie Quinn,” I said, stooping to retrieve Sweets’ hat from the stream; “I’m sure of that.”

  “‘Madman’ Morgan is your father,” Sweets said, rolling his eyes. He gazed at me as though in a trance, as though hypnotized.

  I handed him his trilby and said, “This doesn’t make any difference to us.”

  “Why should it make a difference to us?” Sweets frowned. In his confusion, he placed the hat on his head, covered his brow in silt.

  With a shrug, I reached into my shoulder bag; I removed a tissue and offered it to Sweets. “It makes a difference because you’ve become a father-figure to me.”

  “Nonsense,” Sweets scowled. He wiped the silt from his brow then walked towards the longhouse. “I’m just someone you tap up for information.”

  “You think I’m as cold as that?” I frowned. At first, I held my ground, then I ran to catch up with Sweets. “Answer me,” I demanded.

  “No, no you’re not,” Sweets said. He turned on his heel, paused and stared at me. “You’re a very warm person.”

  “Well then,” I said. “Gawain being my father doesn’t make a difference to us; I still look up to you.”

  Sweets glanced at his trilby. He shook his head, possibly in despair. Then he walked over to his car where he tossed the trilby through an open window, on to the passenger seat, only to reach in and remove a second hat from the dashboard. Sweets the Boy Scout, always prepared.

  “I’ll need a statement from you,” he said.

  “I’ll offer you one.”

  “And from Gawain Morgan.”

  I nodded, “He’ll oblige, I’m sure.”

  “If he’s guilty, and you’re covering up for him, I’ll have to come down hard on you, Sam.”

  “He isn’t guilty,” I said with a mixture of belief and hope.

  “This isn’t my patch,” Sweets said. “I’m here because of you, and your personal call.”

  I nodded, “And because of your vested interest in Frankie Quinn.”

  With a shrug, Sweets acknowledged my comment. Then he turned to stare at the media circus; all the major television channels were there, buzzing around, like flies hovering over a cowpat, beaming details of the atrocity into peoples’ living rooms. This was high drama, an audience winner. In death, Frankie Quinn would become a star. What was it they said when Elvis Presley died? Good career move.

  “So who did this?” Sweets asked.

  “Someone Frankie was going to finger?”

  “Besides Morgan?”

  I nodded, “Yes.”

  “You got a name?” Sweets asked.

  I shrugged, “I was hoping that Frankie Quinn would supply one, today.”

  Sweets perched the replacement trilby on top of his head. Then he adjusted the brim. He wore the trilby for reasons of vanity, to cover his thinning locks. Strange that someone with no dress sense should resort to acts of vanity, but that’s how we are, I suppose, a bundle of contradictions.

  He said, “If you should stumble across a name...”

  “I’ll get back to you.”

  Sweets took a step away, to join his colleagues, only to pause. With a concerned look on his face, he said, “Sure you want to stand by your words?”

  I nodded, “Every one of them.”

  “You’ll pledge your loyalty to Gawain Morgan, despite his countless misdemeanours?”

  “I’m his daughter,” I sighed; “what else can I do?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  For the remainder of the day I offered my evidence to the police, sat around while they checked that evidence, and talked with anyone who would listen, pumping them for information. At 11.20 p.m., I rolled into bed, but didn’t sleep. Actually, I did sleep from time to time, because I could still recall a series of vivid nightmares, including the image of Frankie Quinn’s right eye staring back at me from its position on the longhouse floorboards; a bullet had removed the eyeball from its socket and that eyeball sat there, bloodshot but intact.

  In the morning, after a shower and breakfast, Faye and I called on Gina McBride.

  “Can we come in?” I asked after I’d knocked on the door leading to her attic.

  “You got a pizza?” Gina frowned, glancing at Faye.

  “I’ll get you one later,” Faye said with a smile.

  “Okay.” Gina opened the door and we walked into the attic. “Excuse the mess,” she said waving a sarcastic hand over the garret floor cum building site, “only I haven’t had time to tidy.”

  “It’s early morning,” Faye noted, “not lunchtime; do you have a pregnancy craving for pizza?”

  Gina eased herself on to the canvas chair. She sighed, “I have a craving for food.”

  “Have you eaten today?” Faye asked.

  “Not yet. I have a tin of soup lined up for dinner.”

  We followed Gina’s gaze to a small cupboard, sitting on the floor, waiting for someone to screw it to the wall. On top of that cupboard, I spied a tin of low cost soup.

  “Do you want anything with the pizza?” Faye asked.

  “Fries would be nice. And a can of cola.”

  While Faye made a mental note of Gina’s request, I asked, “Have you heard about Frankie?”

  “Yes,” Gina nodded. She averted her gaze, stared down to the ground. “The police found my contact details in his wallet.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Numb when they told me.” Gina looked up. As she answered my question, she glanced at Faye. “I guess I’m okay now.”

  “Can we do anything for you?” Faye asked.

  “Like what?”

  “Do you need anything?”

  “Money,” Gina said. “Food.”

  “Anything else?”

  Gina shrugged and akin to our previous visit, her over-sized tee-shirt drifted off her left shoulder. “What else could I need?” she asked.

  “You’ll need a cot for the baby,” Faye said, “some toys, nappies, baby food...”

  “Frankie said he’d take care of that.” Gina sniffed and, abruptly, wiped a tear from her left eye. She stared at the wall, lost in her own thoughts.

  “Any idea who shot Frankie?” I asked.

  Gina shook her head, “No.”

  “He was looking to cut a deal, or several deals, with the police.”

  She shrugged, “He never mentioned any of that to me.”

  “Did he mention any names?”

  Gina lapsed into silence. Meanwhile, overhead, a low rumble of thunder offered a prelude to a thunderstorm. That said, the thunder sounded like a long, reluctant groan, not the violent roar that would clear the humidity from the air.

  “Frankie mentioned one name,” Gina said. “Morgan...Gawain Morgan. I remember that name because it’s weird.”

  “It’s from Sir Gawain and the Green Knight,” I said. “A medieval poem.”

  Gina shrugged, “I don’t know nothing about no poems.”

  I smiled then asked, “Did Frankie mention anyone else?”

  Gina shook her head. “He didn’t talk business with me. Didn’t want to upset me.”

  With some effort, she eased herself away from the canvas chair. Then she placed a hand to the small of her back and waddled across the attic, to the sink. She was holding back her tears, I sensed, and suffering from the heat.

&nb
sp; After Gina had splashed some water over her face, she turned to me and said, “You found Frankie?”

  “I did.”

  “What was it like?”

  “Not pretty,” I confessed. “They didn’t ask you to formally identify his body?”

  “A mate stepped forward to do that,” Gina said.

  “Which mate?”

  “Stan. Stan Livingstone; do you know him?”

  “We met, a few days ago,” I said.

  Gina walked over to the attic door. She opened the door then took a long, deep breath, sucking in lungfuls of air. She stared across the rooftops of Cardiff, across the city skyscape, looking west towards the satanic black clouds, and a fork of lightning, which flashed over the coastal towns and villages, including my father’s home town of Porthcawl.

  “What are you going to do now?” Faye asked.

  With her back to us, Gina replied, “Sit around and wait for the baby, I guess.”

  “And after that?”

  She shrugged, “I don’t know.”

  “Has anyone talked with you?” I asked.

  Gina walked out on to the metal staircase. She gazed at the sky then leaned against the safety rail. The rail was rusty, cracked in places, not fit for purpose. Indeed, you could say that about her attic abode.

  “Only you and the police have talked with me,” she said.

  “Anyone threatened you?” I asked, joining her on the staircase.

  “Only my landlord for the rent.”

  Another fork of lightning illuminated the sky, though we waited in vain for the delicate sound of thunder. Heavy, ponderous raindrops fell and Gina welcomed them. She tilted her head back, closed her eyes and poked her tongue out. After the raindrops had splashed on to her face, she turned to me and said, “How did the gunman find Frankie?”

  “Good question,” I said.

  “Someone tipped him off?”

  I nodded, “Seems likely.”

  “Who?” she asked.

  “We don’t know,” I confessed. As usual, there were more questions than answers.

  “You won’t forget the pizza, will you?” Gina asked as Faye appeared on the staircase. “And the fries. And the cola.”

  “I won’t forget them,” Faye said. “I’ll be back, within the hour.”

  The rain continued to fall, with more purpose this time. It soaked through Gina’s tee-shirt, outlined her heavy, pregnant curves, revealed that she was naked underneath.

  “You know what,” Gina said, “with Frankie, I thought it would mean less trouble; I thought older guys would be easier to live with. Shows what I know, innit.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  I left Faye with Gina, hoping that she could tease some information out of the pregnant woman and offer a lead to Frankie’s murderer. While they talked, I drove south to Barry Island in search of Stan Livingstone, the ice-cream man.

  The thundery weather had ushered people from the beach. Instead, they occupied the Pleasure Park, enjoyed the fun of the log flume and sundry other rides. The Quasar Centre, amusement arcades, bouncy castle and the medieval castle climbing frame also attracted the locals and tourists. However, no one fancied an ice cream today so I found Stan, alone, sitting in his van, staring out to sea, no doubt contemplating life in dark water.

  “Not a good day for business,” I said.

  Stan adjusted his gold neck chain, eased it away from his chest hair and sighed, “Not a good day, full stop.”

  Despite the inclement weather, Stan was still wearing his shorts, flip-flops and Hawaiian shirt. Indeed, if he climbed out of his van and stood on a rock, his luminous attire would serve as a lighthouse.

  “Were you close to Frankie?” I asked.

  Stan nodded. Automatically, he reached for a cone, filled the cone with ice cream and stuffed the ice cream with a flake. Then he handed the Ninety-Nine to me.

  “Frankie was a mate,” Stan said. “In our youth, we were the three musketeers: me, Frankie, Gawain...all for one, one for all. But you know how it is. Time drifts by, you lose touch, or you argue; you fall out. You meet up again out of the blue. Guess the next time I’ll meet up with Frankie will be when I’m doing The Great Ice Cream Round in the Sky. Bring it on, I say; I’m sick of twenty-first century corporate greed, ripping me off, ripping my business off wherever I turn, sick of this violence.”

  Stan climbed down from his van and we went for a stroll along the beach. The sand at Barry was golden, plentiful and flat, occupying the U-shaped curve of Whitmore Bay. The tide was out today so we had acres to roam in, with only the squawking seagulls and the playful screams from the amusements and arcades to distract us.

  We were strolling towards Friars Point when I asked, “You identified the body?”

  Stan nodded, “I could barely recognise him.”

  “Any idea who did it?”

  “The police think Gawain.”

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  Stan paused. His flip-flops nudged a plastic bucket, a sandcastle bucket, abandoned along with its spade. He said, “In his youth, Gawain was a violent man, but with his fists. And he never lost control. Whoever did that to Frankie was out of control.”

  “Did Gawain ever kill anyone,” I asked, “with his fists?”

  “He took a few to the edge but, like I said, he always kept control. He wasn’t in it for the blood sport, just the devilment of stealing things. I don’t think he did it for the money, as such, for greed; he did it because it was a challenge; and the devilment of that challenge gave him a thrill. Does that make sense to you?”

  I thought of my own life, of walking along the cliff top, scaring the senses out of my mother; of the decision to become an enquiry agent; of meeting and mixing with dangerous men and women. Like Gawain, I responded to an inner demon, enjoyed the challenge, the sense of devilment. In that regard, we were similar. Proof, if needed, that I was his daughter.

  “It makes sense,” I said, “to me.”

  Stan eased the bucket over with his toe until it rested on the sand, upside down. The bucket had a marbled design, green and white. The spade was green. I owned a similar bucket and spade as a child, only in pink. My mother insisted that everything about me should be pink. Of course, I rebelled. As she said at the time, ‘Samantha, you’re an awkward bugger’.

  “You seem very keen to learn a lot about Gawain,” Stan said.

  I smiled, “I’m nosy by nature.”

  “I’m nosy too,” he said, smiling in turn, offering a hint of his Friar Tuck personality, subdued today because of Frankie. “I’ve got a sensitive nose, me.” His nose twitched as he sniffed the air, sensed my perfume. “A different fragrance today?”

  I nodded, “Chanel, a variation on a theme.”

  “Thought so,” Stan said, tapping the end of his nose, grinning at me. “You still smell nice.”

  We retraced our footsteps, headed for the promenade and the adventure playgrounds. As our feet disturbed the sand, I asked, “Who murdered Frankie?”

  Stan shrugged. He said, “I don’t know. But not many people could have done that.”

  “Like to offer a name?”

  “I’m in deep enough,” he said. “I don’t want to get in any deeper.”

  “Not even for an old mate...all for one, one for all...”

  “I’ve moved on,” Stan said, “got a decent bit of skirt who offers all the home comforts. Got my ice-cream business and reasonable health. I don’t want to risk any of that.”

  “What if I give you a name?” I suggested.

  Stan glanced towards the thinly populated promenade then he looked at me askance. “Did you call on the Nazi?”

  “I did,” I said.

  “You think he did for Frankie?”

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “That sort of thing would give Naz a thrill. But why would he do it?”

  “Good question,” I said. “For the thrill?”

  Stan hesitated. He adjusted his chunky gold bracelet, undid
, then redid its clasp. He shook the bracelet and frowned, as though recalling a time when he’d worn silver bracelets, in the form of handcuffs.

  He asked, “Are you going to call on the Nazi again?”

  “I’m thinking about it,” I said.

  He whistled softly, barely making a sound. “You’re either mad or brave. Either way, you need your head read.”

  I nodded; he was right, of course.

  “Frankie must have made a few enemies,” I said, “during his career.”

  “One or two,” Stan conceded.

  “Violent enemies?”

  “We weren’t into that sort of thing, guns and knives. We’d mix it occasionally, with our fists, but when we did, Gawain and me landed the blows, not Frankie. He was the sort who’d climb a tree and holler instructions in the background.”

  “Thanks, Stan,” I said, “for the chat, and the ice cream. If you think of anything else, or need to talk, you can contact me on this number.”

  I offered Stan my business card, which he accepted.

  “Call again,” he said, “in better times; we can have another chat, a pleasant chat, and enjoy an ice cream.”

  “I will,” I promised, my mind already racing ahead, to a meeting with Naz.

  Chapter Seventeen

  From Gina’s attic flat, I drove to the Taff Green warehouse, where I hoped to question Naz. I wasn’t looking forward to the encounter but, like a visit to the dentist, best to get it over and done with.

  Inside the warehouse, Naz’s minions, including career criminals Harry ‘the Hat’ Pearson and Nudger Nicholls, were loading sports equipment into packing crates. Ignoring them and their nefarious activities, I strode towards the glass-panelled cubicle at the rear of the building, adjusting my shoulder bag as I walked.

  Cassandra, the busty brunette, was sitting on Naz’s desk, chewing gum, flashing her thighs. She was staring at her long red fingernails, her expression vacant, as though waiting for someone to flick a switch to activate her circuits. The Rottweilers were there too, chained to the wall, while Naz pinned a fresh poster to the wall, an image of men in brown shirts guiding blind people towards the edge of a cliff. However, Naz wasn’t dressed in his brown shirt today; instead, he wore a dark blue shirt, along with red braces. The braces were a throwback to the rapacious days of the 1980s when ‘greed was good’. Of course, later decades proved the folly of that philosophy.