Sins of the Father

by Hannah Howe

  Fittingly, given their nicknames of the Pope and the Cardinal, the twins lived in Llandaff, near the cathedral. Their house was a modest two-up, two down, a Victorian building with an extension stretching into the back garden, hardly the anticipated abode of criminal masterminds.

  As I travelled to Llandaff, I thought about Gawain. I’d received no word from my father, had no idea where he was hiding. Probably, he feared discovery, if he should use his mobile phone, feared that the police would trace him, so he decided to keep stum. At least, I hoped that that was the scenario. The alternative did not bear thinking about.

  Although feeling nervous, and guilty about lying to Mac, I reasoned that I had no option other than to meet the Bishops. During the afternoon, I’d concocted a plan; I would introduce myself as my alter ego, the journalist, Abigail Summer. From their media articles, it was clear that the Bishop brothers enjoyed talking about themselves, so it seemed a fair bet that they’d be willing to talk with me, if I posed as a journalist.

  I knocked on the door of 23 Tremorfa Terrace and waited for someone to answer. The door was black, unblemished and shiny, with silver fittings. It reminded me of a funeral home, but I tried not to dwell on that.

  After I’d knocked on the door a second time, it creaked open to reveal a man in his early fifties. From his media photographs, I identified the man as Brydon Bishop.

  Tall at around six foot four and at least two stone overweight, Brydon had a rich mop of silver hair, combed back from his forehead. His eyes were stern, coal-black, hidden behind black-framed spectacles. A thick, mono eyebrow, thick lips and a large, bulbous nose dominated his face. Despite the hot weather, he wore a black suit, white shirt and a thin black tie. He looked like an undertaker, complete with a lugubrious expression.

  “Hello,” I smiled, “my name is Abigail Summer. I’m a journalist; I’m researching an article and I wondered if I could have a word with you.”

  “Summer?” he frowned. “Like the seasons?” He spoke in a dull, low monotone, with a puzzled edge, as though words were a stranger to him.

  “That’s right,” I said, “Abigail Summer, like the seasons.”

  “A journalist?” he frowned again.

  “That’s right.”

  “You’d like a word?”

  “That’s right.”

  “With me?”

  This time, I kept silent and just nodded. Variety, the spice of life.

  “Okay,” he said, opening the door wide, “you’d better come in.”

  I followed Brydon into his living room. Two items caught my attention immediately: a large clock on the mantelpiece and a neat dining table. A wooden frame encased the clock; humpbacked, it ticked with menace, and that tick induced a flashback, offered an image of Frankie Quinn, of his mutilated body, as he lay sprawled in the longhouse. A pristine lace tablecloth covered the table, while a white china tea service sat on that tablecloth. A silver rim decorated the tea service.

  “Sit down,” Brydon said, easing a straight-backed wooden chair away from the table. “Can I offer you a cup of tea?”

  “I’ve just had a snack,” I said; “thanks all the same.”

  “Go on,” he insisted, as I smoothed the back of my skirt and sat at the table, “have a cup of tea, and a ginger nut biscuit.” He nodded towards a packet of biscuits, positioned on a china plate. “You like ginger nuts?”

  “Love them,” I said; it seemed the prudent answer to a simple question, a question innocent in its conception, yet loaded with menace. Indeed, with his bulk and general demeanour, Brydon bristled with intimidation, although his manner also contained a strange, childlike quality.

  “I like dunking my ginger nuts,” Brydon said. He sat beside me at the table. “Of course, there’s an art to ginger nut dunking; you have to get the biscuit soggy, but not too soggy, or it will fall into your tea. And that would be a disaster.”

  “I can imagine,” I said.

  “A soggy biscuit can ruin a cup of tea. Of course, I’m an expert, me; I know just how far to go, with my biscuits, with everything in life.”

  “That’s a comforting thought,” I smiled winningly. Then, to change the subject, I said, “Lovely house.”

  Brydon nodded. He dunked his biscuit, held it steady in the warm tea. “I live here, with my brother.”

  “Brandon?”

  “That’s right.” At the critical moment, Brydon removed his biscuit from the tea then dropped it into his mouth. “Of course, the house belonged to my mother. And my grandmother, and my great-grandmother.” He paused, swallowed his biscuit, then glanced at a series of family pictures lining the wall. “My mother’s in a home now,” he added morosely. “My grandmother’s in her grave.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.

  “She was ninety-two when she died.”

  “A good age.”

  Brydon pushed out his bottom lip then nodded, slowly, deliberately. “We put flowers on her grave, every Sunday. Is your grandmother dead?” he asked, his expression curiously vacant, his head tilted to the right.

  “Yes, she is.”

  “And your mother?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “That’s sad,” he said.

  We sat in respectful silence. Then I said, “You mentioned your brother.”

  “Brandon.”

  “He’s not at home?”

  “He’s doing a spot of business. We’re businessmen you see. I.T. That means information technology.”

  “Computers,” I said.

  Brydon nodded. He dunked another biscuit into his tea. “Do you own a computer?” he asked.

  “I type my articles on one.”

  “Of course,” he smiled. Despite the smile, a frown remained on his forehead. Indeed, the frown was a Brydon Bishop trademark, a permanent feature. “You want to write about me?” he asked.

  “Actually, I’m researching an article about Frankie Quinn.”

  “Frankie Quinn?”

  “Yes. He died recently.”

  “Really?” Brydon salvaged his ginger nut from the steaming teacup. He swallowed the biscuit, fingered the packet then glanced at me. He asked with choirboy innocence, “Natural causes?”

  “Multiple gunshot wounds to the body and head.”

  Once again, we paused, to allow my statement to sink in. During that pause, Brydon eased a third ginger nut from its packet; his fingers moved with exaggerated precision, while his eyes flicked furtively from the left to the right. A physical man in every sense, he tried to look affable, a look that did not become him.

  “I understand that you and Frankie were friends,” I said.

  “Acquaintances,” Brydon said. “Casual. We’d meet up for a chat. And a cup of tea. Now and then.”

  “Frankie was murdered,” I said.

  “So you said.” Brydon dipped his head, rolled his shoulders, looked on the point of losing control.

  “Any idea who murdered him?”

  Brydon pondered for a moment. He dunked his biscuit, then beamed with satisfaction, clearly pleased with his train of thought. In his customary low monotone, he said, “I heard Naz did it.”

  “Who told you that?” I asked.

  “A little bird.”

  “Why did Naz murder Frankie?”

  “Because he’s into that,” Brydon said.

  “Murder?”

  “Extreme violence.” Brydon scoffed his biscuit. For the first time, he sipped his tea. While he sipped his tea he crooked the little finger on his right hand, curved it in exaggerated fashion. “I blame the video games myself. And the government. The government’s got a lot to answer for.”

  “True,” I said. “So Naz murdered Frankie.”

  Brydon nodded. With exaggerated care, he placed his cup on its saucer, centred it then said, “Naz heard people were looking for Frankie. Decided to grab a piece of the action. Went along and shot him, just for the jollies. Naz likes to hurt people, just for the jollies.”

  The hint of relish in Brydo
n’s voice, the elation in his tone suggested that he could have been talking about himself; gone was the monotone; now, his voice reverberated with excitement.

  “You ever shot anyone?” he asked, his large right hand reaching for the teapot, topping up his cup of tea.

  “I’m a journalist,” I lied. “The pen is mightier than the sword. What about you,” I asked; “have you shot anyone?”

  “I’m a businessman,” he said solemnly. “I’m into I.T. That’s...”

  “Information technology.”

  “Computers,” Brydon nodded. He sat back and threw his hands up in the air, in a display of mock horror. “Where’s my manners?” he asked. “I haven’t poured you a cup of tea.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “Anyway, I’m not a tea drinker; I prefer coffee.”

  Brydon dropped three sugar cubes into his teacup. He added a splash of milk. As he stirred his tea, he eyed me with intent, as though my statement about coffee had transgressed the eleventh commandment; Thou Shalt Not Disagree With Brydon Bishop. The twelfth commandment probably ran ditto, regarding his brother.

  “No offence,” he said, setting his silver spoon on a saucer, “but I must feed Cyril and Crespo now.”

  “Cyril and Crespo?” I frowned.

  “Our snakes. Boa constrictors. Would you like to see them?”

  “Maybe next time,” I said.

  I eased myself off the chair, gathered up my shoulder bag and walked to the front door.

  “Call again,” Brydon said, his right hand reaching for the door handle.

  “I will,” I promised.

  “You got a card?” he asked.

  “I’m right out,” I lied. I smiled then offered the casual pretence of searching through my shoulder bag.

  “I always keep a supply of business cards on me,” Brydon said, his left hand delving into his jacket pocket. “Marks me out as a professional. Would you like my card?”

  “Thanks,” I said while grinning from ear to ear; if I offered another false smile, I’d be in danger of inducing facial cramps, “I’d love one.”

  “I’ll see you around,” Brydon said.

  I studied his card. It depicted a computer on a chessboard along with the logo, B and B Bishop, I.T. Consultants. I slipped the card into my shoulder bag, risked another false smile and said, “I’m sure you will.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The following morning, I was sitting in my office, eyeing Marlowe, thinking about Brydon Bishop. Marlowe was licking his paws, gazing at the softly humming fan with evil intent. Marlowe didn’t like the fan; it disturbed his beauty sleep. However, with the tarmac melting on the roads and with the air as stale as a politician’s promise, the fan was essential, more important than a mid-morning cup of coffee.

  Brydon Bishop...maybe he did murder Frankie Quinn. During our conversation, Brydon’s eyes had contained a far away look, the look of someone who could commit random acts of violence. But if he did murder Frankie, why? Maybe the murder was a random act of violence. However, to track Frankie down required time and planning, which suggested that the murder was premeditated.

  I was mulling over that point when a man lumbered into the office; like the office window, the door was open, to create a through draught. The man was Brandon Bishop. I recognized him immediately because he was the spitting image of his brother, with two subtle differences – no spectacles and a small scar on the cleft of his chin.

  “You Smith?” he growled.

  I nodded, “That’s me; descended from a long line of proud labouring men, and women. My great-grandfather was a blacksmith, and his father before him; would you like to hire me?”

  Brandon ignored my comment. He plonked his solid frame on my client’s chair then said, “Mind if I sit down?”

  “Be my guest,” I said. Feeling frisky today, I determined to be the perfect hostess, polite and courteous.

  “I’m Brandon.”

  I nodded.

  “I’ve got a twin brother, Brydon.”

  I waited.

  “You called on Brydon yesterday. You lied to him. You said your name was Summer.”

  “A white lie,” I confessed.

  “I don’t like liars.”

  “Neither do I,” I said.

  “But, on this occasion, I’ll forgive you.”

  I smiled with heartfelt gratitude. “And I appreciate your kindness.” I closed my computer, helped Marlowe on to the windowsill then asked, “How did you uncover the truth?”

  “We have a security camera in our door. It takes a picture of everyone who knocks on our door. It took a picture of you. We’re into I.T.”

  “So Brydon told me.”

  “I took your picture round the nightclubs. Slick Stephens recognized you.” Brandon tilted his head to the right. He gave me a vacant look. If anything, he lacked his brother’s intelligence, which placed the pair of them below the Neanderthals, in terms of evolutionary development. “You know Slick Stephens?” Brandon asked.

  “Unfortunately, I do.” Slick Stephens, a slippery, unsavoury man, managed a chain of nightclubs on behalf of local mobster, Rudy Valentine.

  “This time I forgive you,” Brandon said. He wagged a finger at me in admonishment, “But don’t do it again.”

  “I won’t,” I promised. “I’ve learned my lesson.”

  From the windowsill, Marlowe eyed Brandon with deep suspicion. On a scale of zero to ten, I reckoned that Marlowe rated the fan at one and Brandon at zero. And, for a cat, he had an outstanding grasp of human character.

  “I’ve written a poem about you,” Brandon said. With an ugly smile on his face, he delved into his jacket pocket and produced a piece of paper. Like his brother, yesterday, Brandon wore a black suit, while shirt and thin black tie. His shoes, too, were black and highly polished. “I write poetry.”

  “So I heard.”

  “You want to hear my poem?”

  “I think it’s a must,” I said. Leaning forward, I offered an ebullient smile.

  “It’s a work in progress,” Brandon cautioned, “you understand?”

  “I’ll try to be generous,” I said.

  Brandon cleared his throat then intoned, “Her hair shines like spun silk, I wish her eyes were green, like bread with mould.” He paused to explain, “I’m not sure about that line. See, I was going to put ‘like spun gold’, and that rhymes with mould, but your hair ain’t gold so I had to change it.” He continued, “Her legs aren’t long, but she’d look good on a horse, riding side-saddle of course. To see that, I’d offer a fiver, but only if she rode like Lady Godiva.” He sniggered, “I like that line.” Then, “I bet she’d look good in a basque, when I get to see her I really must ask.”

  In the far distance, I thought I heard a low rumble of thunder. Or maybe it was Dylan Thomas, turning in his grave.

  “What do you think?” Brandon asked, his face earnest, deadly serious. “Give it to me straight,” he insisted, “I can handle criticism.”

  “Needs a bit of polishing,” I suggested.

  “You don’t like it?” he growled, his face mean, his hands curling into fists, crushing the poem.

  “For a first draft,” I back-pedalled, “it’s excellent.”

  “You want me to sign it?” he offered, removing a pen from his jacket pocket.

  “Why not?” I smiled.

  In a slow, laboured hand, Brandon scrawled, Love, Brandon Bishop, at the foot of his poem. He grinned then handed the poem to me. “Here,” he said. “I’d like to think that we’ve established an understanding.”

  “We’re well on the way,” I said, accepting the poem, placing it on my desk.

  “Good,” he nodded firmly. “Do you write poetry?”

  “No, but I’m reading some at the moment; Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales.”

  “Saucer?” he frowned.

  “Chaucer,” I said.

  “Oh.” His frown deepened to a level beyond infinity. “Wasn’t he a goalkeeper with the Albion?”

&nb
sp; “Don’t know,” I said; “I’m not into sport.”

  “Oh.” Brandon sat back and placed his hands in his lap. He gazed at me for a long minute, through dark, ominous eyes. “You got a first name?” he asked.

  “Samantha.”

  “Pretty name.”

  “Thank you,” I smiled.

  “Pretty face.”

  “Thank you.” My smile broadened.

  “Be a shame to cut it.”

  “Why would you want to do that?” I asked.

  “You’ve been talking with my brother,” he growled.

  I nodded, “I thought we’d already established that.”

  “No one talks with my brother unless I say so.”

  “Unfortunately,” I explained, “you weren’t around.”

  “You want to talk with my brother, you ask me first, you understand?”

  Again, I nodded, “If I want to talk with Brydon, I phone you first.”

  “My brother is a very private man. He doesn’t like snoopers. Me and my brother are like that.” Brandon placed his middle finger on top of his index finger. Then he waved his fingers at me. “I don’t like snoopers.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind,” I said.

  “You annoy my brother again, and I’ll ring that cat’s neck.” He turned to glare at Marlowe, who was still sitting on the windowsill, licking his paws.

  “Touch the cat,” I said, “and I’ll ring your neck.”

  “You’ve threatened me.” Brandon stood. He leaned forward, placed his hands on my desk. With his face turning puce, he yelled, “That makes me very ANGRY!”

  “I can see that,” I said. “Maybe you should sit down; calm down; return to your seat.”

  Brandon rolled his neck, curled his fingers into tight fists. Then he stepped towards the window. “I think I’d better kill the cat.”

  I jumped up, shooed Marlowe through the window, then secured the catch.

  Understandably, my actions did not placate Brandon. He lost the last semblance of control and said, “Guess I’d better kill you instead.”

  I ran towards the office door. However, before I could get there, Brandon grabbed my arm. He threw me, doll-like, against the wall, where I bumped my head. Through a halo of stars, I tried to climb to my feet, only to receive a heavy boot in my ribs. I fell back with a groan. I was about to ease myself on to my feet when Brandon’s boot connected again, this time with the side of my head. Instinct compelled me to scramble to my feet. However, after further heavy blows from Brandon’s boots, I lost consciousness.