by Hannah Howe
“Of the sort you described, no.”
“Someone with a disturbed mind murdered Frankie Quinn. Whatever the motive for the murder, it went beyond that, to something approaching sadism.”
“Sadism,” Alan mused. He sat back and caressed his chin. “Of course,” he said, “we no longer label sadistic people with sadistic personality disorder.”
“Why is that?” I asked.
“Because lawyers got wise to the label; they convinced juries that they should excuse sadists their crimes on the grounds of mental illness. Political correctness and the legal community have a big say in how we view people with emotional problems, some might argue too big a say.”
“How does a person become a sadist?” I asked.
“A single act of violence is unlikely to turn a person into a sadist. However, pleasure associated with a violent act is a slippery slope. The pleasure from repeated acts of violence can become addictive, leading to repeated and more extreme acts of cruelty. Sadism is like smoking; a hard habit to break. One more point,” Alan said; “sadists will not fight someone they regard as equal; their enjoyment comes from controlling and torturing people, people they consider weaker than themselves. If someone confronts a sadist, and the sadist regards that person as more powerful, the sadist will become submissive. All of this is a long way of saying, these people are dangerous; don’t tangle with them.”
I nodded then blew Alan a kiss. While I pondered his words, he turned to his daughter.
“How are you, Alis?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” Alis said. Apparently, still embarrassed about the Internet porn, she had no mind to chat with her father and so their conversation withered on the vine.
“I miss you,” Alan said to me.
“I miss you more,” I replied.
“I love you,” he said.
“I love you more,” I smiled.
“See you soon.” Alan blew me a kiss. “Take care.”
Then we lost the connection again and decided to call it a night.
Chapter Twenty
I was worried about my father. Understandably, as the prime suspect in the Frankie Quinn murder enquiry, he felt tense, nervous, on edge. So, I decided to call on him. Also, I required more background information on Brydon and Brandon Bishop.
When I arrived at Gawain’s Rest Bay home, I discovered a swarm of police and onlookers in attendance. Sweets was there, talking to his mate, Detective Inspector Hopkins. Hopkins was a handsome man. However, he seemed positively gorgeous today. Hormones, Samantha...wait until Alan gets home...you’re in need of some tender, loving care.
Hopkins disappeared into my father’s house. So, I elbowed my way through the crowd then asked Sweets, “What’s happened?”
“Your dad has done a runner.”
“Shit!” I swore.
“Any idea where he might be?” Sweets asked patiently, eyeing me with deep suspicion.
“No, none at all,” I replied truthfully.
“Sam...”
“It is the truth, Sweets. If I knew where he was, I’d tell you, honest.”
“Just like you told the truth at the murder scene.”
“Okay,” I sighed, “at the longhouse I told a white lie.”
“Gawain was with you?”
I nodded, “We called on Frankie.”
“To shoot him?”
I scowled and, mindful of the onlookers, resisted the urge to shout at Sweets. “To talk with him.”
“I see.” Sweets surmised, “So you started to talk, then the gun went off accidentally. Twenty-one times.”
Twenty-one times. New information for me. The carnage suggested a greater number, though if you fire a gun twenty-one times you’re hardly looking to wound someone.
“A handgun?” I asked.
“Uh-huh. A .44 Magnum.”
“Which can hold up to seven rounds,” I said.
“Which suggests three guns.”
“Or three gunmen,” I mused.
“Gawain, you and Mac?”
This time, I did raise my voice, which brought scowls of protest and looks of interest from the bystanders. “You think I’m capable of something like that?”
“A couple of years ago,” Sweets said, dragging me away from the crowd, to the corner of the house, “you put four bullets in a woman.”
“In self-defence,” I said.
“Four bullets, Sam.”
“I know, but four bullets is a long way short of twenty-one.”
Sweets shook his head, in exasperation. He whistled softly through the gap in his two front teeth, nudged his trilby on to his crown. The trilby was the original, patently a favourite. I identified that fact from a small fawn feather, pinned to the crown.
“Gawain looks guilty,” Sweets said, “especially now he’s done a runner.”
We paused while Sweets popped a bonbon into his mouth and I reflected on the worrisome nature of my father’s situation. I sensed that Gawain was feeling the heat; nevertheless, his disappearance offered his cause nothing but harm.
I followed Sweets into the house, into the snooker room. The coloured balls were scattered over the table, the cues placed on the green baize, against a side cushion. There was no sign of violence in the house, no disturbance, so at least we could rule out attempted murder or abduction. Another thing: the windows and doors were all closed. Indeed, the heat in the house resembled a physical presence – when you opened a door and walked into a room, you felt as though you’d bumped into a wall. Everything about the house suggested neatness and order, that my father had walked out of his own volition.
As Sweets stared at the snooker balls, I asked, “Did Frankie hand over any evidence?”
“We were getting to that point when Gawain, or persons unknown, cut him down.”
“What sort of evidence?”
“Swag, maps, plans, instructions, surveys, all crafted in Gawain’s neat hand; enough to put him inside and throw away the key.”
“You’ve been after Gawain for a while,” I said.
Sweets rolled the bonbon around in his mouth. He sucked then nodded, “Almost from day one.”
“You’d love to believe that he pulled the trigger.”
Sweets picked up a snooker ball, the yellow, and threatened to crush it in his right hand. “I want the truth, Sam. Whoever pulled the trigger, I want that man.” He stared at me. “Or woman.”
“I didn’t do it,” I said.
Sweets rolled the snooker ball across the table; it kissed the blue and sent that ball trickling towards a centre pocket. “So we pass on that for now.”
“Gawain didn’t do it,” I said.
“So you say.”
“Why are you being so vindictive?” I asked. “Are you jealous, or something?”
“Jealous?” he frowned.
“Because Gawain’s my father.”
“This is purely professional, Sam.”
“So feelings don’t enter into it?”
Sweets swallowed his bonbon. He reached into his trouser pocket and fished for another toffee to suck, another pacifier. His cheeks were red, flushed. He rolled his shoulders in agitated fashion, a sign that his joints were playing up, a sign of distress.
He said, “You think I’m a robot; that I want to see you suffer?”
“Then remove the blinkers; remember, Frankie Quinn was a life-long con artist, with lots of dodgy friends and many dangerous enemies. Other people wanted to talk with him, besides Gawain.”
“Give me a name,” Sweets said.
“I’ll give you two; the Bishop brothers, Brydon and Brandon. Maybe you should talk with them.”
“Maybe I will,” Sweets conceded.
“Maybe I should talk with them.”
“No.” Sweets took a step towards me, barred my exit from the snooker room. He said, “The Bishop brothers don’t belong on this planet; they belong on the dark side of the moon; they are way past psycho.”
“You’d like to put them away?”
<
br /> He nodded, “Be safer for everyone if I did.”
“Then why don’t you?”
Sweets removed his trilby, fanned his face and sighed, “A little thing called evidence.”
“And maybe Frankie was going to offer that evidence, incriminate the Bishop brothers?”
“And maybe that’s just a convenient theory,” Sweets said.
“So, you’re still gunning for Gawain.”
He nodded, “Until Gawain Morgan can establish his innocence, he’s the prime suspect.”
“I’ll establish his innocence,” I said. “And I’ll bring in the guilty party.”
Sweets almost smiled. “You sound as if you’ve walked into your wardrobe and walked out as the Lone Ranger.”
“Watch and learn, Kemo Sabe,” I said. “And don’t try to warn me off, because I ain’t going away.”
Chapter Twenty-One
So, I had a theory, but no evidence: Brydon or Brandon, or both, murdered Frankie Quinn because he was going to dish the dirt on them. If so, what was that dirt? What was their motive? Maybe I was barking at the moon, a good analogy because I was in the mood to howl away at something.
Back in my office, I found Mac sitting at Faye’s desk, tickling Marlowe under his chin. Faye had installed a fan, which hummed away, offered a welcome breeze. Marlowe turned to glare at the fan. His look suggested that the hum of the motor annoyed him, disturbed his sleep. The heat was getting to everyone, including the cat; the sky was heavy and overcast, but apart from the occasional flash of lightning and rumble of thunder, still no violent thunderstorm; we were in need of one, in need of its release.
After greeting Mac, I pondered whether to make a cup of coffee or plonk my posterior on my faux-leather chair. If I drank hot coffee, I’d add another bead of perspiration to my brow; if I sat on my chair, I’d probably stick to the seat. So, I settled for a stance in front of the fan, where I enjoyed the sensation of the cooling breeze passing through my long auburn hair; well done, Faye, merciful relief.
Then the lady herself walked into the office, looking hot and frazzled.
“Where have you been?” I asked.
“The hospital,” Faye said. She eased Mac away from her chair, tidied her desk to the point where everything was neat and square, then nudged me aside, taking her turn in front of the fan. “Gina thought she was in labour, but it turned out they were just phantom contractions.” Faye sighed, “I don’t know how women do it. I definitely don’t want any kids. I’m definitely not giving birth.”
“Has Gina told you anything else about Frankie?” I asked.
“Nothing of value; just domestic things. He was good with wires, apparently; knew how to rewire meters, to avoid paying the bills.”
Faye paused to examine the secret cameras she’d hidden in our office. The security cameras were there for trial and evaluation purposes though, in truth, I’d forgotten all about them.
“Keep talking with Gina,” I said. “Get her to trust you.”
Faye nodded. She opened her desk drawer, removed a can of cola, pulled the ring back then took a satisfying sip. “You reckon Gina knows more than she’s letting on?”
“Probably,” I said. “Maybe she’s too frightened to talk.”
“Okay, I’ll call on her later.” Faye placed her cola on a cork coaster. Incongruously, given our humid weather, snow-covered trees decorated the coaster, a beautiful winter scene, sylvan and fresh. “Got to complete this task first,” she said, “serve legal papers, on behalf of Messrs Fry, Gouldman and Fletcher.”
“Fletcher is a woman,” I said, “Yvonne, a Ms.”
Faye glanced at me. She scowled then brushed a golden ringlet away from her face. “Don’t be so pedantic, Sam,” she complained; “loosen up a bit.”
This from a woman who arranged everything in alphabetical order, including her clothing, who couldn’t sleep unless everything was in its rightful place. In fairness to Faye, she did have a good reason for her obsessional behaviour, childhood trauma, and her obsessions did upset her more than anyone else. Nevertheless, her words provoked irritation, an indication of my restless mood, of my anxiety about my father.
“Clarifying the difference between male and female is not being pedantic,” I said while glancing towards Mac, looking for support.
“Don’t stare at me, Missy,” Mac complained; “I’m hardly the person to ask.”
His words broke the spell, and we all laughed aloud.
At the risk of sticking to my chair, I decided to sit down. When comfortably seated, I turned to Mac again. “What if I ask you about Frankie and his murder?”
“Same answer as before...just rumours, some spread with malice, some offered to muddy the waters, none hinting at a grain of truth.”
“Someone must know the truth,” I said.
“Aye, for sure. But, as ever, they’re not prepared to say.”
“Fear?” I suggested.
Mac nodded. He glanced through the open window, to the street below, watched Marlowe as the cat jumped down and strolled towards the alley. Children were playing in the alley, including Rosie and Joel. The sound of their laughter and taunts drifted through the still afternoon air. As usual, Rosie was tormenting Joel. As usual, Joel was a glutton for punishment and determined to absorb more.
With his eyes on the alley, Mac said, “Sometimes fear loosens tongues, sometimes it holds them silent.”
“And the Bishop brothers are big on fear?”
“Aye, that they are. It’s the only way they’ve stayed in business for so long.”
“Tell me more about the brothers,” I said.
“Well,” Mac said while leaning against the window frame, while caressing his huge ginger moustache, “they’re in their early fifties. Brydon, the Pope, he likes the nightlife, prostitution, gambling. Also, he collects Faberge eggs. Ditto Brandon, the Cardinal, though with him you can forget the Faberge eggs; he likes the printed word; considers himself a poet.”
“Wordsworth with attitude,” I said.
Mac grinned. He said, “I wandered lonely as a cloud...then pissed on everyone. You get my meaning.”
“You paint such beautiful images,” I said.
“I’m talking as Brandon now,” Mac scowled, “not as meself. Now, if I were to regale you with my poetry, I’m sure you’d shed a tear.”
“We’re right out of tissues,” I said, “so let’s stick to the Bishops.”
“What can I say,” Mac continued, “their father was a bit of a scallywag, to put it politely. They’re devoted to their mother; she’s in an old folks’ home now. In their youth, they dabbled in amateur boxing, then they became bouncers in the local nightclubs before moving into the protection rackets. They’ve donned the mantel of sophistication as they’ve grown older, branched out into cyber crime and the like, with the aid of technically gifted acquaintances.”
“Do you know anything about these acquaintances?”
Mac shrugged. He walked away from the window, into the room, enjoyed the breeze offered by the fan. “These acquaintances are faceless city types in sharp suits, nameless men who tug on the money strings and set everyone a-dancing, the puppet masters who use the likes of the Bishops as a front, and as muscle. These city types control everything from pornography to child prostitution to arms smuggling. They are well connected. When the forces of light get close to them, they simply fade away. There’s a strand of society controlled by the establishment, hidden away from the public. If that strand was ever exposed, the whole edifice of British society would come tumbling down.”
I thought about that, about recent scandals, about recent cover-ups. In my experience, I’d seen enough to know that Mac was telling the truth. However, in general, the public preferred the peace of ignorance, and so the faceless men prospered, while their victims suffered in silent pain.
Returning to the matter in hand, I asked, “The Bishops, they’re identical?”
Mac nodded, “As near as damn it. Brydon is the studious one, tho
ugh I use that word loosely; he wears glasses; otherwise, they’re difficult to tell apart.”
“Gawain has done a runner,” I said; “the police fancy him for Frankie’s murder. I need to talk with the Bishops.”
“Don’t,” Mac frowned. “Simple as that.”
“What if you accompany me?”
“No, Missy. I will not hold myself responsible. To the likes of sensible folk, the Bishops are out of bounds. You open their cage, they’re liable to pounce.”
“Are you frightened of them?” I asked.
Mac offered me a pleasant, tolerant smile. He was human, so he knew fear. However, he kept that fear under lock and key, in a deeply hidden, private place.
He said, “What did Plato say...‘we can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light.’ I don’t fear the Bishop brothers, but I do worry about them, worry about what they might do to you; the thought of them harming you gives me the willies; no need to risk that.”
Mac stepped forward. He towered over me, leaned towards my desk. He continued, “Let me tell you a little story about the Bishop brothers. They have a room at their house, the snake room. As you can imagine, it’s full of snakes. They enjoy throwing live bait into that room, then they sit back and watch the mayhem. I don’t want to see you offering yourself as bait.”
“Okay,” I lied, “I’ll leave it with the police.”
“You do that,” Mac said, wagging a censorious finger at me. “You do otherwise, and I’m liable to get very angry with you.”
I stood and took my turn in front of the fan. As the fresh air cooled my perspiring body, I said, “There are two things a person should never be angry at, what they can help, and what they cannot. See,” I smiled sweetly, “I can quote Plato too.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
At 4 p.m., I made a decision. Mac had wandered away from the office, Faye had returned to Gina, so I decided to pay Brydon and Brandon Bishop a visit.
I’d gleaned the Bishop brothers’ address from the Internet; they weren’t shy about revealing their location; indeed, in media quotes they often boasted about it; in numerous articles they informed readers that their roots ran deep, that they were ‘local boys’.
