“I just don’t know why on earth I stayed with him Brenda,” she’d told her when she’d finally started to talk about it after dinner one night. “It still baffles me. Of course these things don’t happen overnight and it took years for him to show his true colours. He was a monster and he terrified me, so he did. By the time I realised what he was like, Norman had effectively become all of my life, and such as it was, I was never brave enough to just walk away from it. I was the last to see that I needed to change my life because, right to the end, I was more terrified of having to cope on my own than I ever was of Norman; and that’s what I can’t ever forgive him for. He knew that, so he did, and he used it against me, undermining me and making me feel useless, as if I was nothing without him. He made me feel that my life with him was… well… he made out it was normal. Norman Normal; that was him right enough.”
Brenda had encouraged her to continue, knowing it was a story long overdue in the telling, and Maureen had gone on with her story well into the night.
“I learned how to handle him in my own way eventually, as most abused women learn in time to get by as best they can, and I learned how to take the blows if and when they came in such a way that they didn’t hurt so much nor show the bruising when I was out and about. It was a skill actually, not that I was in any way proud of it. Maybe I learned it from my mum: in the same way that maybe I also learned from her that husbands hit their wives and there was nothing to be done about it. Such is life.”
There were tears at that point.
They discovered they shared the common shame of having a sackfull of ready excuses as backup: I fell; a door opened suddenly and hit me; I had a bizarre gardening accident. And if no-one believed them at least they were too polite to let them know and that had made it easier for them to believe the lies also.
“The hitting wasn’t the worst of it. Not by a long way,” she went on. “There was also the sex.” She’d lowered her voice conspiratorially when she said sex. “It’s not that I didn’t like it or anything, I liked it well enough before Norman, but I absolutely couldn’t stand it with him. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t exactly experienced, my age group simply didn’t do those sorts of things, but I’d had a few flings in my day and I fair enjoyed them, even though the boys involved were only interested in sleeping with me and moving on.”
She recalled how Maureen had drifted off in a brief reverie before chuckling wryly.
“Sleeping with me – that’s a laugh. Back then it was all fumbling outside in the cold and rolling about on damp freezing grass with your knickers yanked aside. The luxury of lying in a warm bed and having time to explore each other was never something I had. Then along came Norman, all suave and charming and telling me he loved me. He charmed my mum and dad too: auld Tony thought the sun shone out of his backside, mainly because they’d shared the same interests of gambling and drinking, and although I never twigged it at first, violence towards women. Aye, my dad used to do it to my mum as well.”
A tear had crept into her eye again at that point and Brenda had hugged her in compassion.
Eventually she’d shrugged and carried on.
“Norman played a canny game alright. He never tried anything on with me; he even told me it would be better to wait for our wedding night just to make it more special for us both. Naturally I was in a right state when it eventually came along. But it was a real disaster. He had no idea of how to touch me and was he only concerned with his own grunting pleasure. I hoped it would improve, obviously, but he wasn’t interested in learning anything about me. Eventually, when I couldn’t stand it anymore, I tried to put him off his usual Saturday ritual: bookies, beer, bonk. Talking to him was useless of course so I had to find other ways: false periods; headaches; unspecified women’s troubles; those sorts of ploys.”
She laughed. “You know whit he said to me once? He said, ‘Hen, if you have any more periods ye’ll bleed tae death.’ The very cheek of him. But try as I might, he just would not leave me alone until I found the one thing that seemed to turn him off completely. I got fat. I was always very proud of my looks and I hated the way my shape changed as I gained weight, but the comfort food made me feel better and Norman’s attention got less the more my waistline got bigger, so I just ‘let masel’ go’, as my mum would have said.”
Then they had both cried some more and hugged and healed.
And now, after everything she had gone through to be free, just when things were about to go so well again in her life, she was dead. It was unbelievable.
“Well?” DI Mitchell snapped her back to the present. She collected her thoughts as quickly as she could.
“To be honest, I can’t really tell you the exact details of what was in it because I don’t remember it all now. But it was to do with her boss at her work. He was involved with a number of what she called ‘shady’ characters. He managed their money I think. Maureen told me he was keeping two sets of books on them; one that he showed to them and one that he held himself. She also reckoned he was working some sort of scam, siphoning off funds into his personal bank account. She was sure of it. He was doing it somewhere offshore, the Caribbean I think, and it had been going on for a while. That’s pretty much all I can remember. I told her that this was dangerous knowledge and she shouldn’t say anything to anyone.”
She noticed the copper raising a disapproving eyebrow at that but she continued anyway. “Because it could get her into big trouble, especially if she had made a mistake about it. She could lose her job, or worse. It was all in her journal; she’d copied everything down, accounts, deposits, withdrawals… everything. She had this habit of writing these journals you see and she had loads of them in the house. It was really sweet… just something that she did… and this is the only one that is missing.”
“Ah hah,” was all DI Mitchell said.
“So you see… I just thought… well… that what was in that one might have been the reason she was killed…”
Brenda began to sob again. It had been such a shock. The night before the tragedy Maureen had been so full of life and seemed so happy. They were planning a holiday in a few weeks time, anything to get away from this dreary, rainy, awful summer. They’d thought of Greece, or one of the Greek Islands.
“As long as it isn’t Lesbos!” Maureen had said, and they’d both laughed.
“Can’t I just look through her things….please? It would only take five minutes. It might have been overlooked…”
“Look, I’m sorry for your loss, but what exactly was your relationship with Mrs Patrick?”
“I was… am… a… friend,” said Brenda, wiping her tears with a paper hankie.
“A friend?” She didn’t elaborate, so he added, “I think I’ve already told you we can only release personal effects to next of kin.”
“But have they…. has he… claimed them yet?”
“We’re still trying to contact Mr Patrick.”
Hot tears were again flowing and he suddenly felt very sorry for her. It was always hardest on those who, by law, were denied access to closure.
Every broken marriage polarised the parties involved but when death, especially a sudden violent death, intruded before the final details of the divorce were resolved, the hurt for those loved ones left behind was magnified by the involvement of the estranged partner whom they knew did not deserve any further access to the deceased’s life.
The last remnants of someone deeply cared for held in custody, to be turned over to someone who neither wanted nor valued them, leaving another aching with loss for what could have been.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” was all he could think of to say.
“No… thanks… I’ll be okay. It was just so sudden. I still can’t believe it has happened.”
“Well, we will get to the bottom of it I can assure you. It’s only a matter of time,” he said confidently.
But the truth was they didn’t have a clue who the driver of the lorry was. No-one had seen him leave the scene an
d the guys they had in custody, the guys who’d been chasing and shooting at the lorry, were saying nothing. They’d found tracks leading through a field adjacent to the motorway and police tracker dogs had followed a scent for a while, but the rain had washed away most of the trail and they had found nothing conclusive, certainly nothing to give them any idea of who to go after.
They had the dabs from the lorry cab and they’d found some bloodstains too. DNA matching had shown some to be from one of the guys they had in the pokey, the big one with the sore face, but there were other traces they couldn’t get a match for yet. Still, when they did pick someone up at least they’d be able to identify them right away.
He supposed this new information was at least something, perhaps not directly related to the crime itself but a good copper never ignores a piece of the jigsaw, no matter how small or seemingly irrelevant.
DI Paul Mitchell considered himself to be a good copper, so he pulled out his notebook, saying, “Can you give me the details then of what you know and who she suspected of being involved in this scam?”
“You mean you’ll look into it?” asked Brenda, her hopes springing to life again.
“I can’t promise it will lead anywhere in our specific investigation, but the very least I can do is pass it along to the Serious Fraud Squad and have them take a look. You never know.”
Chapter 21
He’d called Badger the minute he’d gotten back to the van and while he was still contemplating Big Davie’s calm confidence.
Thankfully Badger was back in Scotland, and yes, he could and would give him a bed. Badger wasn’t as close a mate as Pete was, but he was still a mate and he asked no questions. The reality was that he probably wasn’t remotely interested in Kats’ situation anyway; Badger wasn’t exactly a people person.
The drive through to Perthshire only took an hour, but it took a further half an hour to find the farm track leading up to the ramshackle old steading, the only inhabitable part of which was where Badger had a few rooms. He had said he would be out but he’d left the keys under a stone by the door so Kats could let himself in.
He got out of the car and took a look round: he was in a chaotic old yard with bits of broken machinery, some of which looked as though it was in the process of being repaired, and the air was sticky with a faint odour of last season’s livestock. Crows were rasping in the nearby trees and he could hear the sound of a river rushing through the tight glen at the back of the property.
“Jeezus, talk about getting back to nature.”
He pulled his kit bag out of the van and went to find the keys to open the door.
Inside the house wasn’t much better. The kitchen sink was piled with dirty dishes and old clothing. On the large farmhouse table there was a partially stripped down M16 assault rifle and what looked like the business bits of fragmentation grenades. On the wall was a claymore mine balanced precariously on a shelf, he couldn’t tell if it was live or not, but knowing Badger he wasn’t going to be the one to lift it down and examine it.
“Amazin’ what a woman’s touch can do for a home,” he muttered as he dropped his kit in the middle of the chaos.
He suspected that Pete had suggested he come here because Badger had been the regimental Fixer. There wasn’t anything that Badger couldn’t get. You wanted US Army issue body armour, no sweat; 42 inch plasma screen TV from the NAAFI, you’ll have it Monday; APLP rounds, in stock; latest X-BOX games, can do.
Even the officers used him, but on the QT obviously: they sent their intermediaries to do the actual deals but everyone knew who it was for anyway. Not that Badger ever said a word about any of his deals, he operated strictly on the hush-hush; you got what you asked for but if you blabbed anything to anyone that would be your last. Obviously, a man like Badger could also get you drugs, if you were so inclined.
He opened the fridge door and took out a beer, unsurprisingly that was all that there was in there anyway. He’d just cracked the can when he heard the sound of a diesel engine labouring and wheezing its way into the yard. Out of the side window he saw an old battered blue Defender sliding to a stop beside his rented van, Badger jumping out and banging the door shut behind him.
“Sorry I wasn’t here to welcome you mate,” he said as he bounced into the kitchen and pumped Kats’ hand in his big gorilla’s paw. “But Lord Lah-de-dah wanted me to feed the shagging pheasants.”
Badger’s faint but discernible Welsh accent was set at a slightly higher pitch than his huge frame suggested it should be.
“That’s okay mate, I found the essentials.” Kats lifted his beer can in salute, “Could you no’ have found anywhere more remote?”
Badger laughed, “Yeah, but it suits me and from what you said on the phone it sounds as though it will suit you pretty well too.”
“Aye, yer not wrong there man.”
“Let’s get you squared away and then we can go out for a pint and see what’s what.”
Kats picked up his kit and followed him through to another room expecting the worst, but was pleasantly surprised when he was shown into a small, tidy, but Spartan bedroom.
“This is perfect Badger, I really appreciate this mate.”
“No trouble Kats, dump your bag there and we’ll go grab some grub and a few jugs.”
They bumped down the farm track in the Defender at bone-jarring speed and shot straight into the busy main road at the bottom, Badger showing not the slightest inclination to check for oncoming traffic and Kats surreptitiously holding onto the seat belt.
Thankfully, the pub was only a few minutes away and they soon screamed into the gravel parking area, chips bouncing off the other parked vehicles.
“You’re still driving like a little old lady I see Badge.”
“You always were a friggin’ pussy Kats. Come on, I’m gasping.”
“My shout mate, what will it be?”
He went to the bar to get the round in whilst Badger headed to the slot machine and started feeding in coins. Kats smiled, he’d forgotten what an eccentric character Badger was but he was grateful for the safe house nevertheless.
He had a lot of thinking to do and some big decisions to make, perhaps even some big favours to ask, so Badger’s set-up plus his background were perfect; clever old Pete for suggesting him. He paid the young Australian barmaid for the drinks and headed to an empty table to wait till Badger ran out of the coins he was enthusiastically feeding into the slot-machine.
The bar was quiet, typical of any small country pub midweek in the rain, so they would be able to talk in peace.
“That shagging thing’s rigged.” He cocked his thumb at the slot machine as he dropped down with an audible thump on the bench beside Kats. “I fancy steak pie, you want steak pie?” and he was off back up to the bar to order the food before Kats could respond.
When he came back he was carrying a newspaper and Kats wondered if he was going to just sit there and read it.
“Er… so how’ve you been Badger?”
“Eh? Yeah, I’m good Kats. I got this temporary game keeping job up there you see, the house was thrown in with it so that’s why I took it. The landowner, some Lord Something Or Other, keeps out of my way and lets me get on with it. Ex Army man himself, knows the drill. Says he appreciates my ‘unorthodox methods’.”
“What the hell do you do for him then? You just feed his pheasants or what?”
“Not exactly, I’m mostly what you might call part of the anti-poaching squad. In fact, I am the anti-poaching squad.”
Kats almost spat his beer out. “You? On anti-poaching duties? Ye serious?”
Everyone on the base knew that Badger was a regular provider of illicit meat and game wherever they were based, apart from when they were in towns like Basra where they had no freedom of movement obviously, and the idea of the consummate poacher turned gamekeeper tickled Kats immensely.
“Oh it’s great fun Kats. I got all the right gear obviously: night vision binos; camo and webbing; thunderflashes; us
ual stuff.”
“Thunderflashes?”
“Yeah, they work a treat. I track the buggers with the night scope, see, get in real close quarters and then roll a TF in beside them. It’s a scream Kats. Especially if I time it right when they’re just about to crack off a shot at a stag or whatever. They totally shit themselves and that’s the last you ever see of them. The gaffer loves me.”
“I’ll just bet he does!”
Kats shook his head. From the sublime to the ridiculous: from going head to head with Al Qaeda to nicking lorries full of booze to terrorising the local bambi killers; wouldn’t the Army be proud of its graduates.
“It’s only for a while anyway, I’m going back in you know,” said Badger sipping his beer.
“Really?”
“Yeah man. I been out there retraining with the Pathfinders for six months.”
“Afghanistan? I hear it’s getting pretty dangerous out there Badge. Not like last year when it was the cushy posting compared to Iraq. They seem to be swapping places those two now.”
“Yeah, it is heating up that’s for sure, but I loved it Kats. Totally different from Iraq, more of a guerrilla type thing going on, close quarters fire-fights every single day, right up my street.”
“And the Pathfinders and recon units suit you?”
“I’ve never had a buzz like it man. Every day is different and every day you get pushed to new limits. You get so close to the Taliban sometimes that you can smell their farts. It’s a lot more casual in that unit as well, none of this saluting shit, we have to make it up as we go along most times really.”
“What are they like then? The Taliban I mean, are they different from the wee dickheads we fought as insurgents in Iraq.”
“It’s difficult to compare them. They’re much more dedicated that’s for sure. We separate them into three groups. Your Tier One are the top brass; the mullahs and the field commanders. They’re the serious bad guys and they are the uncompromising fanatics. Any time we get intel about those guys we go in hard, mostly with air strikes from drones or high altitude hellfire attacks. Then there are the Tier Twos. They’re mostly jihadis and radicalised kids that are trained in the camps in Pakistan and brought into the front line. They are very motivated fighters but the biggest problem with them is that they’re so out of their heads on smack all the time that even when you hit them they don’t fall down because they don’t even realise that they’ve been shot. They’ve learned a lot about us too in the time we’ve been there and they are getting ever more effective and dangerous. Last of all are the Tier Threes. We call then the Ten Dollar Taliban ‘cos they’re mostly local farmers and kids who are just guns for hire. They’re just like the ones we were up against in the OMS. When the fighting gets really serious they often just melt away, especially if there are no senior guys there to hold them together. Still, a bullet from one kind of Taliban is just as serious as a bullet from another so we don’t take any chances. They aren’t like us: they don’t have helicopters to pick them up and evacuate them to hospital if they get hurt; they don’t have medics or mobile operating theatres. All they know that is if they go down they’re going to die and then they get to their promised Paradise with the fifty-seven virgins or whatever it is that they are told. So they fight with everything they’ve got and never give up until they die; for them it’s a win-win you see. You have to respect them in some ways, but their beliefs are so out of whack with reality it just baffles you. It’s definitely going to get more dangerous out there now. They’re figuring out that they can’t beat us even in the small scale pitched battles they’ve led so far, so the war will become even more of a guerrilla affair soon. Last year the lads in the unit fought them to a standstill for over fifty days in the desert supporting the Afghan National Police, and the Taliban threw just about everything they had at them before we were re-enforced and beat them back. Actions like that have taught them that they can’t win head to head.”
Waging War To Shake The Cold Page 12
