by Jake Barton
It didn't suit him, nothing would. Surely even his parents, and Donna had to concede, in all likelihood, he'd had parents, must have referred to him as Mister Roper while he was still in short trousers.
"New clients, Miss O’Prey," Roper intoned, putting further musings on hold. "First impressions count. I will of course be meeting them at the gate and escorting them to the office. At that stage, you must be alert. Ready to present yourself and the firm in the best possible light."
"Yes Mister Roper." Three bags full, Mister Roper.
"Naturally, I expect you to speak up if required, but please do not let us have any repetition of that business last month," said Roper.
"Surely it wasn’t right to sell the client a security system including motion sensors when the client had three cats in his warehouse to keep down mice? There’d be alarms going off all night."
Roper frowned, half turning in his chair and steepling his fingers in familiar fashion.
Oh shit, here it comes, lecture time. Donna was not mistaken.
"In the first place, Miss O’Prey, this firm does not sell security systems. We are not fly by night burglar alarm salesmen." He held up a hand, forestalling any intended interruption.
"No indeed, we act as consultants, discussing every aspect of a client’s security situation."
Yes, and then we sell them a burglar alarm because of the high profit margins on security systems.
"What our clients do not need is interruptions from some chit of a girl, no matter how well intentioned."
"With respect," Donna said, deliberately failing to convey even the faintest hint of respect. "I’m twenty years of age, Mister Roper. Hardly a chit of a girl."
Roper snorted. "Festina Lente, Miss O’Prey. Make haste slowly, if you remember your Latin."
Donna opened her mouth to speak, but Roper was ready for her.
"The subject is closed, young lady."
Young lady may be a small step up from chit of a girl, Donna thought, but the meaning was the same. Wrong age, wrong sex, and wrong bloody hairstyle.
Roper was winding down. Donna could tell by the way he glanced at his watch. Correct time keeping was a synonym for efficiency to quote an oft-repeated Roperism.
"Perhaps you’ll be good enough to ascertain when your car will once again be at your disposal. I should be sorry to see you arriving late for work on any subsequent occasions. Time matters, Miss O’Prey. It is a finite resource. Time is…?" He waited expectantly.
"Efficiency, Mister Roper," Donna chirped obediently, repeating the Master’s mantra like some demented parrot. Roper nodded approval and departed, arms swinging as if on the parade ground.
*****
Marcus walked across the road, passing the lifeboat station, and entered Coronation Gardens. A scruffy Alsatian was pissing on the "Dogs must be on a lead" sign. Marcus strode briskly up the central aisle, flanked by yellowing grass, and turned left into Banks Road. His filthy clothes and dirt-streaked features guaranteed his avoidance by other passersby.
His priorities on release had been money and a continuing source of income. Not the pathetic discharge grant and certainly not any job arranged by the Probation Service. He asked around for the address of the biggest drug dealer in the area. A simple matter of looking the part and asking the right sort of people.
Arriving at the seedy flat as a potential customer, he left an hour later with a thick wad of cash and a canvas bag containing the dealer’s entire stock. He’d offered the man a simple choice; the drugs or his eyesight.
He’d agreed to the deal very quickly; too quickly, even given the extenuating circumstances. Certain measures became necessary before he divulged the location of his reserve stock.
On leaving, Marcus bundled the man inside a chest freezer, securing the lid with a washing line taken from the outside balcony.
He doubted the man would be able to escape before he froze to death, especially considering his weakened condition. The removal of fingernails and tongue had been messy and the blood loss would have considerably weakened him.
During his time in the Secure Unit, Marcus had been frequently assessed as likely to be cruel to animals. As if to refute this claim, he’d tossed the bloody tongue to a stray dog on leaving the area.
~ Chapter 3 ~
Hearing voices in the corridor Donna hurriedly added a fresh dab of lipstick and dragged her fingers through the hair that was a reflection of herself - short, spiky and disorganised. Roper was expounding on the magnificence of his hugely complicated security system. So much for not being a burglar alarm salesman.
The door opened and Donna stood to greet the new clients. The man was first through the door, his wife a pace behind. Donna wondered whether this was an indication of their relative positions in their marriage. Roper followed them in, rubbing his hands in forced bonhomie. He made introductions and invited everyone to sit down.
Mister Dobson was a large fleshy man. The confidence of good health and prosperity came off him in waves. This was a man accustomed to getting his own way. A cotton shirt, so white it hurt the eyes, sleeves rolled up with mathematical precision, plain navy-blue tie, and no jacket. Dark trousers, beautifully cut, and gleaming black shoes. Everything about him announced - important.
In clear contrast, his wife was tall and slender, eyes watchful and alert behind slightly tinted glasses. The tailored suit was immaculately cut. A mass of blonde curls gave an impression of youthful innocence. But, the leather handbag into which she was delving was Gucci and the piercing eyes missed nothing.
Dobson glared at Donna. "No offence intended," he said. "But I’d understood a former police officer would be dealing with this enquiry."
"Miss O’Prey has my full confidence," Roper replied. This was news to me, thought Donna. "Our Executive Director, Mister Dexter will be monitoring progress at every stage, while Miss O’Prey handles the day to day running of the enquiry. You need have no concerns over her capacity to make a thorough investigation." Much more of this and I’ll be asking for a raise.
"As I understand it," Roper continued. "Your daughter failed to come home last weekend?"
"Yes." It was Mrs Dobson who replied. "I called the police when Celine didn’t arrive home from school on Monday evening. They were not at all helpful."
"How old is Celine?" Donna thought she should say something to justify her employer’s recently expressed confidence. Roper frowned. Despite his previous remarks, he’d clearly intended to be the one asking the questions.
"She’s sixteen," Mrs Dobson replied. "I know she’s no longer a child." The remark accompanied a sharp glance at her husband. "The police told me they couldn’t do any more than issue a description at this stage as there was nothing to indicate foul play."
Just so," Roper said. "As Celine is legally a minor, but not strictly speaking a child, the police would be unlikely to allocate extensive resources for any attempt to locate your daughter." He spoke as if fully conversant with police procedure, which Donna knew to be far from the truth. Roper’s knowledge of military law was encyclopaedic, but he relied heavily on Dexter’s expertise where the "Civilian" police were involved. He invariably referred to the police as civilians, as distinct from the only true professionals, the Military Police.
"That’s why we came to you," Dobson said, his voice as smooth as his silk tie. "My wife is…" He checked himself. "We’re both worried. We want you to find her."
"You’re in good hands," Roper assured him. "Perhaps a few details?" Beneath Roper’s moustache, a trapdoor opened, revealing square yellowing teeth. Bloody Hell, he’s smiling! The manifestation was mercifully brief and he reverted to his habitual frown.
Mrs Dobson passed over the photograph she’d eventually located in her handbag. "That’s Celine," she said, "taken about three months ago."
Beating Roper to the punch, Donna took the photograph and studied it carefully. A slender girl who’d inherited her mother’s eyes. A bright wholesome smile with just a hint of something else.
A wild streak, perhaps? Donna considered the wisdom of her next remark carefully, but decided to go ahead and say it. "Girls of this age do occasionally stay away from home. Teenage rebellion. Presumably that was the reason the police were not too interested at this early stage. Had there been any trouble in the family, perhaps a row?"
"We hadn’t had a row. And Celine would not have gone away without telling me. She always told me everything."
The woman’s voice was more strident now, agitated, a deep frown marring the perfection of her forehead. She was on the edge, Donna surmised, her emotions on the verge of spilling over.
Donna leaned across impulsively and patted her hand. "Try not to worry, I’ll find her."
Donna took copious notes of the rest of the interview with Celine’s parents, but only one opening line of enquiry suggested itself. Celine had gone to stay with a friend, more accurately the parents of the friend, in Parkgate for the weekend. Mrs Dobson telephoned the people, but they had no idea of the girl’s whereabouts. Donna would seek guidance from Dexter, but this seemed the most likely start to the investigation – begin with Celine’s last known movements.
Roper had been a complete pain, constantly interrupting with irrelevant comments. Donna finally managed to slip away, assuring Mr and Mrs Dobson she’d be in touch shortly. As Donna tiptoed through the door, Roper stood up and began pacing. Oh Christ, there he goes again. Chest out, shoulders back, arms swinging. He came to a halt with a juddering stop, back straight, thumbs in line with the seams of his trousers, and began one of his interminable monologues. "I once had a corporal in Benghazi…"
*****
Marcus had found an informer.
Michael, street name Snake, was a junkie and occasional rent boy who’d noted with interest the well-dressed stranger walking the dark streets behind Lime Street station. Reckoning the man to be worth mugging, Snake had attacked him, a mistake he now bitterly regretted. It had immediately become apparent the lone pedestrian was no easy mark, but had been waiting for Snake to make a move.
The persistent voice soothed its way into Snake’s consciousness. His body contorted, the thin wire cutting into his emaciated frame, restricting the convulsions and producing a snarling rictus of agony, yellow teeth bared in his gaping mouth. Bound hand and foot, lying naked on a rough bare floor, Snake begged for only one thing – the white powder that would help him forget the pain. Marcus, his captor and inquisitor knelt alongside, his soft voice a hypnotic refrain.
"Come on, Snake, you can tell me. You know I'll give you what you need. Tell me about Clive. You know him, used to be a mate of yours, didn’t he?"
"I know you," Snake retorted through his broken teeth. "Know who you are, anyway. Clive told me about you."
"Did he now? That wasn’t very wise of him. So, tell me about Clive. You were mates at school, weren’t you? Clive was a mate of mine once, too. Have you spoken to him lately? Does he still mention his old pal Marcus?"
"Fuck you."
Snake lay still on the damp floor of the dingy basement, his bones standing out in stark relief, his skin pale grey in the murky light, blood running freely where the wire cut deeply into the tender flesh of his wrists and ankles, his broken nose streaming with mucus.
"Just tell me, and then it's all over."
Snake turned his face away, teeth clenched in defiance. He writhed as stomach cramps tore again at his guts. The light from the opaque skylight grew dim. Night was approaching. At least two days had passed since his last fix.
"Just finish it, don't leave me like this," he screamed.
Snake retched, his empty stomach producing nothing but bile, yet constantly racked by cramps and nausea. Rolling on the hard, inflexible concrete, impervious even to the agony of his wired wrists and ankles, he beat his head against the floor, seeking the temporary oblivion of unconsciousness.
Prone to unknown fears, hallucinations and irrational terrors, he thought only of the needle, the relief from all pain; nothing else existed for him now except the blessed release of the needle. An even more violent convulsion racked his body. Panting and gasping for air, limbs contorted, lips stretched to the point where they split and tore, he screamed the frustration of his need.
Only the needle was important, only the needle mattered now. Snake opened one eye as Marcus kicked his ankle.
"Still missing the powder are you? What’s it like?" Marcus asked, genuinely interested. Since his release the drug scene, and especially the vast profits that could be made, had fascinated him.
"What's it like?" cried Snake. "When you haven't got it you're in pain, real screaming fucking awful pain, until you get it, then it's all right again – it's fucking marvellous."
Marcus nodded, seeing the change in the man lying at his feet. He recognised that Snake had gone beyond suffering and would be useless to him in this state. Time to up the ante.
"The really bad times are when everyone else is fixed up and you're the only one hurting." Snake carried on talking. "When it's you that's loaded, high as a kite, you don't give a toss for anybody else."
"You could come off it."
"What for? What else is there? "
"Look here." Marcus showed him the small cloth-wrapped bundle. "Recognise this?"
Snake half-raised himself from the floor as Marcus showed him the white powder in a small plastic bag. "Ready to talk to me now?"
*****
Donna was relieved to find the main office empty. The Associates shared a small room as their personal office, while Dexter and Roper occupied the large front rooms – bay windows giving a view of the sea.
The large room next to the kitchen, previously the dining room was called the main office and it was here that the lowly Associates preferred to work. The room she shared with Andy was smaller than the average dog kennel. A scarred and battered desk, two swivel chairs that didn’t swivel and a metal filing cabinet – that was it.
Donna rang the garage and got a recorded message telling her she was in a queue and her call would be transferred as soon as possible. Feeling light-headed, placing the thumb of her free hand on her nose, extending the fingers and waggling them about in an expression of frustration she noticed Roper’s appearance in the doorway.
He looked at her for a moment, shook his head, and went out again. Donna almost threw the ‘phone through the window when the Four Seasons kicked in. God, how she hated this fad of playing music while waiting to be connected. If they must do it, why not at least show a bit of initiative and vary the music? If not Vivaldi, it would be James Galway and his sodding flute.
Donna opened her mouth in one of her trademark silent screams, really letting rip, when she caught sight of Roper who’d reappeared in the doorway. Donna fought to compose herself, but surrendered to a fit of unprofessional giggling. Roper said nothing, but turned on his heel and left. He looked disappointed. Donna gave in to a bout of total hysteria as the sound of his footsteps receded.
Giving up on the garage, Donna rang her home number and waited with some concern as the dial tone continued to ring out. Donna sighed in relief as the connection was made and her grandmother’s familiar voice answered.
"Hello?"
"Peg! Where were you?"
"Where do you think I was? Out on the razzle?" Peg retorted, sounding slightly out of breath.
"My car is at the garage," Donna said, "so I’ll need to sort out a lift home. Expect me when you see me. I’ll wait for Andy to get back and he can drop me off."
"Invite him for tea," Peg said eagerly. "I’ve got a lovely hock boiling up. He’s a lovely lad, that Andy. Such a shame he’s a Nancy. He’d be just right for you."
Donna said she doubted whether Andy would be able to stay for tea, having no wish to inflict Peg’s famous boiled bacon hock, or her philosophy, on any of her friends. Peg regarded Andy’s sexual inclinations much as she would a sprained ankle – a temporary condition that could be remedied by attention and nurture.
"You’ve had another letter from that dou
ble glazing lot in Wallasey you asked to quote for windows. All the measurements are in that new metro, or whatever it calls itself, system. Can’t make head nor tail of it. I don’t know why they don’t wait until all the old people have died before they bring in these newfangled things." This time Donna couldn’t have spoken even if she’d wanted to, but shook her head at the telephone.
"Tea will be on the table at six. I’ll lay a place for Andy." Peg rang off, leaving Donna staring at the telephone, mouth open in disbelief.
Dexter bustled past with a cheerful wave. Donna followed him down to his office and ran through the gist of her meeting with the Dobsons.
"I’ll ring the people in Parkgate if you like," he offered. "Set up a meeting for tomorrow. Doubt I’ll be able to come with you, but you’ll be all right on your own. Can’t see this amounting to much. Girl that age, going AWOL for a day or two. Parents get in a panic, understandable, but I dare say she’ll turn up on her own. Your garage rang while you were on the ‘phone. They won’t be able to start on your car today. Waiting for a part."
"Bugger!"
Dexter smiled. "Quite," he said. "Martha’s still waiting for your expenses, she asked me to tell you."
"The old bat’s always looking to find fault," Donna complained, aware she sounded like a stroppy teenager moaning about her homework.
She knew she shouldn’t be bothering Dexter with all this crap. He’d put her up for the job at R and D Security, and had always gone out of his way to be helpful. Donna still remembered his advice before the ordeal of her interview with Roper.
"Wear a skirt, but not a bloody mini, and a Marks and Sparks blouse. Keep your legs together, sit up straight and try to look demure. Think Beverley Sisters."
