by Hannah Howe
“That depends,” I said.
“On what?”
“On how sensitive Brandon is to a murder charge.”
With his face turning puce, Brydon adjusted his spectacles. In petulant fashion, he stamped his right foot on the ground. “Brandon didn’t murder anyone,” he insisted.
“Frankie Quinn?” I suggested.
“He didn’t murder Frankie.”
“Who did?” I asked.
“Naz.”
“Why?”
“For the jollies,” Brydon said. “Naz hurts people, for the jollies.”
I nodded, “That’s true. I want to believe that Naz iced Frankie, but whenever I roll the dice, Brandon’s number comes up.”
“He didn’t do it!” Brydon yelled.
“So maybe you did?” I suggested.
A crowd, including the children, had gathered in the alley. Even the dogs had abandoned the torn bin bags to cock their heads at us. This scene was no good for anyone, but still Brydon rambled on, as though driven by a demon, as though a prisoner of his own obsessive mind.
“You are not listening,” Brydon said. With perspiration glistening on his face, he adjusted his spectacles, tried to prevent them from slipping down his nose. “We didn’t murder anyone. You mustn’t upset Brandon. You mustn’t upset me. If you upset either of us, I’ll have to gouge your eyes out. And that won’t look very pretty on the wedding pictures, will it?” Brydon jabbed a forceful forefinger in my direction, to underline his point. “But you understand why I must do it.” He smiled sweetly, “So we have an agreement then?”
“No agreement,” I said.
“You are not listening.”
Brydon’s forefinger turned into a fist as he pushed me against the wall. I placed my left hand on the wall, to retain my balance. Then Mac strode into the alley, his Beretta glinting in the morning light. Immediately, the children disappeared, ushered away by the adults.
“Maybe it’s time you listened to me,” Mac suggested, his expression pleasant, his tone affable.
“She won’t listen to me,” Brydon frowned. In frustration, he stamped his right foot again.
“She’s like that,” Mac admitted. “She tends to listen to her conscience and nothing else.” He sighed then shook his head sadly, “Moral codes can be a devil to live by, though I sense that you, Brydon Bishop, don’t have that problem.”
Brydon glared at me. He snatched the velvet knife box from my right hand. “You’re not having your gift.” With his shoulders hunched, he stomped away from the alley. At his limousine, he paused and announced, “And you won’t be going to no wedding either. In fact, I’ve already booked a date for your funeral.”
Chapter Thirty
With Brydon’s words ringing in our ears, Mac and I made our way to Gina’s. We found Faye in the flat, arranging the baby items, ensuring that they were all neat and tidy.
“What do you think?” Faye asked, her smiling eyes admiring a row of soft toys.
“Very pretty,” I said. “Now all we need is the baby.”
Gina was sitting on her canvas chair. She leaned forward and groaned, “I think he’ll be out soon,” she said.
Thanks to Mac and Faye’s efforts, the attic flat looked more homely. Even so, it was no place for a baby. Some people are dealt aces at birth, while others are dealt deuces and treys. Sociological studies showed that, ironically, those born into poverty developed into happier human beings. Maybe there’s a moral in there somewhere.
“Jolene Merchant,” I said to Gina, “was she a friend?”
“Jolene?” Gina frowned. “What do you know about her?”
“Was she a friend?” I repeated.
Reluctantly, Gina nodded, “Sort of.”
“In that case,” I said, “I think I know why Frankie was murdered.” I wandered over to the window, leaned against the wall and explained, “There have been two brutal, you might even say sadistic, murders in the region in the past year: Frankie and Jolene Merchant. My guess is, those murders are connected because they carry the same sadistic stamp. I suspect that Frankie knew Jolene, or knew about her murder, and that’s why Brydon or Brandon murdered him.” I paused to gauge Gina’s reaction. Her averted, furtive gaze revealed that my deductions made sense. “Maybe you’d like to fill in the blanks.”
Gina shuffled in her seat; the canvas groaned while the seams continued to split. She was in danger of falling through the chair. Certainly, it was beyond repair, gradually deteriorating with each visit.
“Like I said,” Gina shrugged, “I knew Jolene.”
“Go on,” I said.
“Frankie recruited us.”
“What for?”
“To appear in Brandon’s videos.”
“Sex?” I asked.
“No,” Gina shook her head. She leaned forward then placed her hands on her midriff. “Torture. Brandon likes to torture people.” She closed her eyes and a film of perspiration appeared on her forehead. “I think it turns him on.”
“So,” I said, “Frankie recruited women to appear in Brandon’s videos?”
“And some men,” Gina said. “Brandon likes to torture men too.”
“And in return?” I asked.
“Frankie collected a finder’s fee and we got some H.”
“Heroin,” I said.
Gina nodded, “For our habits.”
“What happened to Jolene?”
Gina leaned forward again. She glanced at Faye and Mac. I sensed that the baby was on its way, that Gina was enduring contractions. The thought of Faye and Mac as midwives did not really compute, so best to press ahead with the questions before Gina went deep into labour.
“With Jolene,” Gina said, “Brandon got carried away. The whole thing went wrong. He was too extreme. He killed her.”
“And Frankie knew this.”
Gina nodded, “He told me about it. Wouldn’t let me do anymore videos.”
“Where did they film these videos?”
“A place up near the Rhiw. An old bunker or something. Do you know it?”
I nodded, “I know of it.”
The bunker was one of many in the area, a relic from the Second World War. Apparently, art treasures and other valuables were stored in these bunkers, safe from enemy bombs and air raids. Government cutbacks ensured that many public properties now found their way into private hands. Presumably, the Bishops, or their backers, had acquired the bunker, an ideal location for secret filming; miles from anywhere, victims could scream without reaching anyone’s ears.
“What about your habit?” I asked. “How did you cope once you’d quit the videos?”
Gina stood. She waddled over to the sink and splashed water on her face. She allowed the water to evaporate, eschewed use of a towel. “After I quit the videos,” she said, “Frankie found the drugs from somewhere.”
“Then you became pregnant.”
She nodded, “And I quit that scene for good.”
I wandered over to Gina and helped her on to the canvas chair. As she sat, there was a loud rip, so I grabbed her arms and eased her to her feet. She glanced over her shoulder, at the chair, and shook her head in sadness.
“Frankie bought me that chair,” she said. “Or at least he stole it.”
As Gina mourned the passing of the chair, a metaphor for Frankie’s passing, I reviewed her situation. Free from heroin, she no longer required money for the drug; she no longer had to submit to the Bishop brothers’ torture. However, that still left Frankie in a difficult position, with knowledge of Jolene’s murder.
“Brydon and Brandon heard that Frankie was looking to cut a deal,” I said, “and feared that he’d shop them.”
“I guess so,” Gina said. She wandered around the attic, clearly distressed, not sure what to do with herself. As she wandered, I nodded towards Mac and he stepped forward. A man for all seasons, he prepared to guide her to the metal staircase and drive her to the hospital.
“Will you talk with the police,” I asked, “
tell them all you know?”
“I can’t do that,” Gina complained. “You shouldn’t ask.”
“You’re afraid.”
“Of course I’m afraid.”
“It only takes one person to stand up and be brave,” I said, “and others will follow. Many people must fear the Bishops, many people want rid of them. If you speak out, others will join the chorus.”
“Why can’t they speak out first and let me join the chorus?” Gina asked, her voice close to a wail.
“Because they don’t have your courage,” I said. “You came off heroin, on your own; if you could do that, you can stand up to Brydon and Brandon.”
“I...” Gina hesitated. “I don’t know.” Then she doubled up in pain. “Oh, shit,” she cried, “I think the bastard’s gonna drop.”
I’d pushed Gina far enough, and could well understand her reluctance. However, it was time for the questions to stop; time to help her down the metal staircase and into the hospital.
Chapter Thirty-One
Gina endured a long labour. Finally, she gave birth in the early hours of the morning. Given her situation, and level of fear, it didn’t seem right to press her any further. We were close to nailing the Bishops, but required a different, more subtle form of hammer – a hammer in the shape of evidence.
With evening upon us, I was sitting in my office, mulling over that point, eyeing Gawain, Mac, Faye and Marlowe. Gawain was reclining in my client’s chair, his fingers busy, easing his shirt collar away from his eczema; Faye was wandering around, nudging everything into place while pausing occasionally to enjoy the breeze offered by the fan. Only Marlowe and Mac seemed totally relaxed; Marlowe was asleep on my desk while Mac leaned against the outer wall, casting a casual eye over the street and the alley, on the lookout for potential danger.
The office was overcrowded, the air incredibly humid, ripe for a violent thunderstorm. Today, the weather would break; but what about Brydon and Brandon, would they crack too? Were we sitting ducks, waiting for the Bishop brothers to gun us down? It was not a pleasant thought.
The enquiry had moved on and although Gawain remained a suspect, his talk with Sweets had cleared the air. My father eyed me, as though seeking guidance, so I leapt to my feet and made a decision.
“This is ridiculous,” I said.
Everyone looked at me then Faye asked, “Where are you going?”
“The bunker.”
“To look for evidence?” Mac grinned.
I nodded.
“Are you going to break in?” Faye asked.
I glanced at Gawain and smiled, “If I have assistance.”
My father smiled in turn. He leaned back, interlaced his fingers then gave his knuckles a loud crack. “I’m a bit rusty. I’ll have to collect my tools, but I’m game if you are.”
Gawain duly collected the tools of his former trade then met us near the Rhiw, to the north of Cardiff. Mac and I arrived in separate cars – his Bugatti and my Mini. We’d dispatched Faye to the flat, to sit by the phone, as a point of contact, out of harm’s way.
With forks of lightning shooting across the sky, we made our way through the hillside. The bunker was isolated, secluded, a man-made cavern carved into the soft earth. Metal and concrete ensured that the structure remained solid, safe. A large, metal door barred our way, along with red and white boundary tape, and several posters yelling, ‘Keep Out!’
After glancing around, to determine that we were alone, that the bunker was unguarded, we clambered over the boundary tape, ignored the ‘Keep Out’ signs and watched as my father set to work. From a pouch, he removed a series of picks and gadgets. The padlock, a large, impressive affair, was situated at waist height, a comfortable position for any burglar.
It took my father seven minutes of prodding and poking then, with the lock in his hands, he stood back, smiled and announced, “Still got the touch.”
Mac pressed a button and the metal door rolled towards the ceiling, creaking and groaning on its journey. When the door came to rest, we entered the bunker, stepped away from the flashes of lightning, from the roars of thunder, took refuge from the rain, which was sheeting down.
I flicked a switch and the strip lights flickered into life, offered brilliant illumination. We stepped deeper into the bunker then paused to examine a range of equipment, relics from a medieval torture chamber. We spied a rack and a brazier, circled with pokers and candles, items to burn and torment the skin; whips of all shapes, sizes and materials; metal spikes, knives, even a mace and an iron maiden.
I was examining the mace when Mac said, “Missy, I think you should look at this.”
Mac was standing beside a metal filing cabinet, grey and nondescript. However, inside that cabinet we discovered documents, pictures and silver discs.
I flicked through the pictures until I chanced upon an image of Jolene Merchant. At least, it looked like Jolene; her face was so badly beaten, it was difficult to tell.
“That looks like Jolene,” I said.
“Very careless,” Mac said, “to leave all this evidence lying around.”
“Power,” I said. “When you rule the roost, you think you’re impregnable.”
Mac nodded. He glanced towards the entrance, to my father, who was keeping watch. “Maybe Gawain and my good self should make ourselves scarce while you phone the pol-ice.” As ever, Mac stretched the constabulary over two syllables.
“Good idea,” I said.
We placed the evidence in the filing cabinet then turned to join Gawain. However, as we walked towards the entrance a flash of light blinded us.
“Lightning?” Mac frowned.
“A car,” I said. “Headlights.”
We peered into the darkness, but the headlights continued to blind us. Then a flash of lightning illuminated a face, highlighted a pair of spectacles. Brydon Bishop.
“Brydon,” Mac said, his fingers reaching for his Beretta. “The door must have been alarmed. Very sophisticated. I didn’t see anything. Whoever’s backing Brydon and Brandon, they know their stuff.”
“Come out with your hands up,” Brydon yelled in best Hollywood fashion.
“So you can shoot us?” I yelled back.
“We want you, the snooper. If we don’t get you, we’ll kill everyone.”
We. So Brandon was there too, hidden in the darkness.
“It’s the snooper,” Brydon repeated, “or we kill everyone.”
I took a step towards the entrance, but Mac held my arm.
“No, Missy; we’re in this together.”
“But it’s me they want.”
With his left hand, Mac encircled my right arm in a vice-like grip. He repeated, “We’re in this together.”
Another flash of lightning arced across the sky, followed by a boom of thunder. The rain bounced off the hard ground, poured down in torrents.
Then, from behind Brydon’s limousine, another figure appeared. Brandon. He held someone at arm’s length, a gun to their head. Gina. And her baby.
It’s the modern way; you give birth, you’re home in hours; Brydon and Brandon must have stopped at the attic then bundled mother and baby into their car.
I took another step towards the entrance and winced as Mac squeezed my arm. “No, Missy; we’re in this together.”
“We want the snooper,” Brydon yelled, “or we kill the baby.”
“Take me,” Gawain said. He ran out into the rain, towards Brydon and Brandon. “Leave the others alone; they won’t do you any harm.”
Brydon levelled his .44 Magnum at my father, probably the weapon that had cut Frankie to shreds.
“No!” I screamed, and Mac loosened his grip on my arm. I ran to join my father, pushed him out of harm’s way, on to the ground.
Brydon’s gun wavered between my father and me. In the background, Brandon held a similar weapon against Gina’s head. She sobbed uncontrollably while clutching her baby. The baby was wrapped in a shawl, one of Faye’s items. Throughout the drama, the baby never made a s
ound.
“We want the snooper,” Brydon repeated.
“No,” my father said, scrambling to his feet.
I looked at Brydon, looked at Brandon, noted their manic expressions. I looked at Gina, looked at her baby, noticed the tears as they streamed down her cheeks. Born with the odds stacked against him, Gina’s baby was less than a day old and, if left to Brydon and Brandon, he stood no chance.
I made an instant decision. I stood on tiptoe, kissed and hugged my father, then said, “I love you.”
With the rain matting my hair, with the downpour washing over my face, I walked towards Brydon and Brandon Bishop, walked towards my fate.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Brandon pushed Gina and her baby into the bunker, where she joined my father and Mac. Brydon relieved Mac of his Beretta. I could tell from the determined look on Mac’s face that he was itching for a fight. However, Brydon and Brandon had already demonstrated that they were capable of murdering Gina and her baby; had Mac fired his gun, it would have resulted in a massacre.
“We’ll be back for you later,” Brydon said, mainly to himself, as he closed the bunker door and secured the padlock. “Get in your car.” He pushed me towards my Mini. “Drive.”
“Where?” I asked.
“We’ll tell you.”
We clambered into my Mini, which took on a claustrophobic air thanks to Brydon and Brandon’s bulky presence.
“Now look what you’ve done,” Brydon sighed. He was sitting on the passenger seat, his .44 Magnum trained on me; Brandon was lounging on the backseat, though thankfully he’d discarded his weapon. “You don’t listen.” Brydon shook his head sadly. In a grumpy voice, he said, “We’re very annoyed with you.”
I drove away from the Rhiw, into a forest, following Brydon’s instructions. I sensed our destination, the location where a dog walker had found Jolene’s tortured body. All the same, I asked the question, just to break the unnerving silence.
