Buying Llamas Off the Internet

by Ian Edwards

‘What the hell is going on next door?’ Mr Brown asked.

  Mrs Brown took her fingers out of her ears. ‘It sounds like someone’s in a lot pain. It’s a dreadful racket.’

  ‘It sounds like someone’s being strangled. If I don’t see his wife by the end of the week, I’m going to the police,’ Mr Brown said.

  Mrs Brown put a hand on her husband’s arm. ‘Shush,’ she said, ‘that screeching,’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘I know it can’t be, but it sounds like Whitney Houston’s “I will always love you.”

  Mr Brown stared at his wife, shook his head and tried to get back to sleep.

  *

  Amy stared out of the window as the coach left Victoria Coach Station and made its way through the early Saturday morning traffic. She had stowed her bag in the overhead luggage locker and dumped her handbag on the adjacent seat, which she hoped together with her negative demeanour would be enough to deter any other passengers from sitting next to her.

  It had been a long time, Amy thought, since she had travelled by coach without having to supervise a class of children. It reminded her of returning home from university, when all she could afford was coach travel.

  Amy looked at her watch. James would have realised that she had gone now. She imagined him trying to call her mobile before realising that it was ringing on the kitchen table where she had left it. She expected that he would have sat down and tried to work out what had happened before giving up and contacting Alan. The thought of the two of them together brought a smile to her face, and she again told herself she was not running away. She simply needed time away from home, away from James and away from the memories of that night.

  Within seconds she was aware of somebody sitting in the seat next to her. She resisted turning round and kept looking out of the window.

  ‘Do you like sponge?’ The voice startled Amy out of her thoughts.

  ‘I said do you like sponge?’ The voice repeated.

  Amy reluctantly looked over at her fellow passenger. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, barely disguising her disinterest.

  ‘Sponge,’ he said again. ‘For eating on a journey. I love sponge. I always eat it on a journey. It stops me from feeling sick. Knits my insides together.’

  Amy studied him closely. He was a thin man, roughly the same age as she was, with wild hair, his coat zipped up to his chin and a plastic carrier bag on his lap which, judging by the condition of it, pre-dated the plastic bag charge.

  ‘Oh, OK,’ she replied, trying not to encourage him.

  ‘Look,’ the man said, and removed a tin foil package from the bag. He opened the package to reveal a sponge cake. ‘Would you like some?’

  ‘No, I’m fine thank you,’ she said and turned back to the window.

  ‘Have this,’ he said, and thrust a piece of sponge cake under her nose.

  She looked at the man’s suspiciously dirty fingernails and shook her head. ‘No thank you.’

  ‘I insist,’ he said, not taking no for an answer, and pushed the piece of cake forward. A large dollop of jam fell out of the sponge cake and landed on her leg.

  ‘Sorry, allow me to clean that up.’

  Before Amy could react, the grubby man had removed a piece of tissue from his bag, spat on it and began wiping her leg, smearing the jam into her jeans.

  ‘It’s OK, just leave it,’ she snapped, wriggling away from the man’s intrusive hands.

  Stung by her response, the man backed away and dropped the tissue and pieces of cake into the bag.

  Amy turned away and went back to staring out of the window.

  ‘Would you mind if I played my mouth organ?’ he asked.

  Amy looked across to where the man began cleaning a mouth organ. She sighed, accepting that this was going to be a very long journey.

  *

  ‘One more thing, Hazel.’

  She always did this, Hazel thought, give me a list of things to do, and just as I’m heading out the door she adds another one.

  Hazel sat back down at the large mahogany desk opposite her employer and smiled sweetly.

  ‘What’s that Ms Shilling?’ she asked.

  Her employer passed her a note.

  ‘Can you arrange for a minicab to collect this lady from town this afternoon? She’ll be on the coach that is supposed to get in at 3.00pm.’

  Hazel studied the piece of paper. ’Is this a guest?’ She asked. ‘Only I can’t recall seeing her name on the guest list.’

  ‘No, she’s a friend of mine. She called me yesterday, said she’d like to come and stay for a while.’

  Hazel nodded. ‘OK.’

  ‘You can put her in the tranquil suite. I think you’ll find that it’s free this week.’

  ‘Yes Ms Shilling,’ Hazel said.

  ‘Why are you still here? Be on your way, you’ve work to do,’ Ms Shilling said, waving Hazel away.

  ‘Sorry Ms Shilling, I’ll get on with it now,’ Hazel said whilst retreating backwards out of the room.

  Hazel gently shut the door behind her and poked her tongue out. She accepted that she was only eighteen years old, and should be grateful for the job, but Ms Shilling really made things difficult sometimes. It was no wonder that none of her previous PA’s lasted very long.

  Sitting down at her desk, which was conveniently positioned just outside Ms Shilling’s office, and Hazel thought cynically, within shouting distance, she picked up the telephone and called the local minicab office.

  *

  Amy had been ready to get off the coach several minutes after “sponge man” had started a second rendition of “when the saints go marching in.” Unfortunately this wasn’t practical as the coach was travelling at 60mph along the motorway. She had to endure several more verses and an unusual version of “She’ll be coming round the mountain,” before the driver put her out of her misery by announcing that they would soon be arriving at Limpend. As the coach came to a halt, Amy lifted her bag out of the overhead luggage compartment, mumbled an “excuse me” at the sponge man and exited the coach as soon as the driver opened the doors.

  No sooner had she set foot on the pavement than the door closed and the coach pulled away revealing, on the other side of the road a taxi rank. Alongside one of the taxis, a man stood holding a piece of A4 paper in front of him which had AMY GOULD written across it in black marker pen. He also wore a lanyard round his neck which identified him as David Smith, Taxi Driver, licensed by Limpend Parish Council.

  Amy smiled at the use of her maiden name and crossed the road.

  ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I’m Amy Gould.’

  David stuffed the piece of paper into his pocket. ‘I’m here to pick you up and take you to the Sanctuary.’ He opened the passenger door. ‘Jump in.’

  ‘Have you stayed at the Sanctuary before?’ he asked eventually, breaking the silence of the first few minutes.

  ‘No,’ Amy admitted, watching the countryside roll past. ‘It’s my first time. The owner is a friend of mine.’

  ‘How far had you come on the coach?’

  ‘Just up from London,’ Amy said, and went back to the view of the countryside.

  Unperturbed by Amy’s reluctance to enter into a conversation he asked, ‘are you staying for the Halloween Parade in the village next weekend?’

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ she said, her disinterest obvious to David, who decided to keep quiet for remainder of the journey.

  *

  ‘We’re here.’

  David’s announcement woke Amy with a start. She looked at the clock on the dashboard. She had been asleep no more than ten minutes, but still felt disorientated.

  The taxi pulled to a halt in front of a pair of large double doors set out at the centre of what Amy could only describe as a ridiculously large and very grand house. Two sets of large windows on either side of the doors had white shutters across them, giving Amy the impression of the setting of a lavish television period drama.

  ‘How much do I owe you?’ she asked,
climbing out of the taxi.

  ‘It’s covered by the Sanctuary,’ David told her.

  ‘OK, thanks,’ she said and pulled open the doors.

  Amy stepped into a large square reception. It was an uncomplicated environment, wood panelled walls with two doors on each wall set into the panelling. A long desk was positioned opposite the entrance where two women sat wearing identical uniforms and identical smiles.

  Amy strode over to the desk. ‘Hello, I’m Amy Coo…’ she corrected herself. ‘…Gould.’

  One of the receptionists looked at the screen in front of her and frowned. ‘Do you have a reservation?’ she asked.

  ‘I…er, I think so, yes.’

  ‘Amy!’ the familiar voice caused her to turn round.

  The receptionist looked up. ‘Ms Shilling,’ she said.

  Amy looked at her old friend. ‘Frances, so lovely to see you,’ and opened her arms to receive a warm embrace.

  ‘Miss Gould is booked in as my guest, Frances Shilling said to the receptionists. ‘Can you see that her bags are taken to the tranquil suite?’

  ‘I only have this,’ Amy said holding up her holdall.

  Frances sighed. ‘Same old Amy, still underselling herself.’ She turned back to the reception desk. ‘Can you arrange for Miss Gould’s…’ she looked again at the holdall, ‘…luggage to be taken to the suite.’

  Without waiting for an answer she took Amy’s holdall and passed it to the receptionist, before putting her arm round Amy. ‘Come with me,’ she said quietly. ‘We have so much catching up to do.’

  Chapter 26 – Sunday.

  Jayne stepped into the empty office and turned the lights on. The overhead fluorescent strip lights flicked on and off several times before finally bathing the room in bright light.

  She looked around the Incident room, which had been her base for the last few weeks. Four desks, all facing a pair of white boards covered in post-it notes and photographs. In the centre of one of the whiteboards, a photograph of Clive Oneway stared out as if in accusation. A large question mark had been drawn over the photograph, summing up the team’s conclusions, following weeks of investigations.

  As Jayne took a couple of steps towards her desk she paused. Protruding out from behind the adjacent desk was a pair of feet. Specifically a pair of scuffed black shoes, which Jayne assumed had feet inside them. She crept over to her desk and quietly removed her extendable baton from the drawer.

  Peering over the desk she saw that the shoes were in fact connected to a sleeping DCI Montgomery. Extending her baton to its maximum length she gently prodded her senior officer. His eyes suddenly sprung open.

  ‘PC Talbot. What the hell are you doing?’ He snapped.

  ‘What the hell are you doing down there?’ Jayne barked back.

  ‘What the hell are you doing down there, sir,’ Monty corrected.

  ‘Well, what are you doing there…sir,’ Jayne said, while folding her baton back to normal size.

  Monty sat up and rubbed a hand across his face.

  ‘I just laid down for a rest. Next thing I know you’re poking me with a stick,’ he explained. Grabbing hold of the desk, he levered himself up to his feet. ‘Anyway what are you doing here? Don’t you know it’s Sunday?’

  Sitting on the edge of the desk, Jayne replied, ’I thought I’d take advantage of the peace and quiet and go over the witness statements.’

  ‘Any coffee?’ Monty asked as he pulled out a chair and sat behind the nearest desk.

  ‘Yes, plenty,’ Jayne snapped. ‘In the canteen,’ she added and turned back to her desk.

  Monty sighed, mumbled something about young officers today not respecting the rank, slowly stood up and wandered towards the doors.

  ‘I wouldn’t bother,’ Jayne said after him.

  ‘What?’ he said and paused at the door.

  ‘Canteen’s closed. It doesn’t open until 9am,’ she paused. ‘It’s Sunday,’ she added.

  Monty shook his head and made his way back to his desk, sat down and rubbed his face again.

  ‘So PC Talbot what have we got?’ he said at last.

  ‘These are the witness statements from the girls we’ve spoken to who are on record as having spent time with Clive Oneway in the month leading up to his death,’ she said, gesturing at the pile of yellow files on her desk.

  Monty looked the pile up and down. ‘That’s a lot of girls. That’ll explain why he fell off the balcony.’

  ‘Sir?’ Jayne asked puzzled.

  ‘He was exhausted. Probably fell asleep and fell over the guard rail.’

  Jayne rolled her eyes. ‘We don’t know that these girls were prostitutes. They may have been simply hired companions. We know that Clive Oneway didn’t have a regular girlfriend.’

  Monty snorted. ‘Oh come on, Talbot what are you, a police officer or a Lollipop Lady?’

  ‘Sir!’ Jayne blurted out.

  Monty leaned over and pulled one of the files towards him and flicked through the pages. Jayne studied him, carefully looking to see if his lips moved.

  ‘These are classy girls,’ he said putting the file back. ‘This isn’t a quickie from Poxy Roxy round the back of the kebab shop.’

  ‘There is absolutely no evidence to link any of these girls with Oneway’s death,’ Jayne pointed out.

  Monty sighed and leant back, balancing precariously in his chair.

  ‘We’ve got nothing have we?’

  ‘Not really no,’ Jayne conceded.

  ‘The next door neighbour, what was her name?’

  ‘Mrs Armitage.’

  ‘Yeah her. Do you think she could pick out the girl she saw with Oneway if we show her some pictures?’ Monty asked.

  ‘Of the girls?’ Jayne queried.

  ‘No, pictures of my mum’s 80th Birthday party,’ Monty snapped. ‘What do you think?’

  Jayne bristled and bit her tongue before calmly replying, ‘Mrs Armitage did say that she didn’t see the girl’s face.’

  ‘The agencies that Oneway used,’ Monty paused, ‘the ones we know he used from what we have found in his apartment, have confirmed that he used the girls to accompany him to functions. There are no records of him having booked company for the day he died, so it’s a safe bet to assume that he had a private agreement with one of the girls.’

  ‘Even then there is no evidence that any of these girls were there when he died, or that they pushed him over the edge,’ Jayne pointed out.

  ‘I have a meeting with the boss at the end of the week. At this rate all I can tell him is that we have nothing that changes our view that Oneway killed himself.’

  ‘Shall we go back to the agencies and go over all their records to see if we’ve missed anything?’ Jayne suggested.

  ‘This, PC Talbot,’ Monty announced, ‘is the problem with so called escort agencies…’

  ‘What is?’ Jayne asked, already regretting her decision to come in to work.

  ‘They’re too official. Records for this, records for that. Trying to convince us they’re not up to anything illegal. If he had been with Poxy Roxy that night, she would have confessed to anything for a bag of chips and a shiny coin.’

  Jayne stared at her senior officer open mouthed.

  ‘To be fair though,’ Monty continued, ‘she’d do anything for a bag of chips and a shiny coin.’

  *

  Amy stirred and gradually opened her eyes. It was different. Everything was different; the sheets smelt different, the light was different, even the sounds outside were different. Something else was different too. No hangover. No pounding headache, or the nauseous feeling she had suffered every morning for the past few weeks.

  She pushed herself up on her elbows and looked around. She was in a large bedroom, the walls, furniture and even the blinds across the windows were a creamy shade of white.

  A soft knocking on the door disturbed her thoughts.

  ‘Hello,’ she called out.

  The door opened and a young woman entered carrying a tra
y.

  ‘Breakfast,’ the young woman announced cheerfully.

  Amy mumbled her thanks and took the tray, balancing it on her lap.

  ‘Ms Shilling asked if you could come to her office when you’ve had your breakfast,’ the young woman paused. ‘If that’s OK.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Amy replied. She was about to start her breakfast when she had a thought, ‘What’s the time?’ she asked. ‘Only there’s no clocks in here,’ she gestured around the room.

  ‘Its 10.30,’ the woman said before adding, ‘there’s no clocks in any of the rooms. Its policy.’

  Amy nodded without really understanding.

  ‘Clocks, time, they make you stressed. Ms Shilling believes that you can only truly relax when you are not a slave to time,’ the woman explained.

  ‘Oh, OK,’ Amy said.

  The woman made to leave the room when Amy called out.

  ‘One more thing, what time is dinner?’

  ‘Dinner’s served between six and eight,’ the woman explained, without any sense of irony.

  Amy smiled her thanks and the woman left the room, leaving Amy to her breakfast.

  Working her way through the toast and honey, Amy thought back to the previous evening and her meeting with Frances Shilling. It had started with the awkwardness of two people who had not seen each other for several years, and whose only contact had been sporadic exchanges of emails.

  *

  Closing her office door behind her, Frances looked Amy up and down.

  ‘You haven’t changed at all,’ she said. ‘Still the same old Amy Gould.’

  'You haven’t changed either. You look exactly the same,’ Amy lied. Frances Shilling was still short and overweight, but her hair was now longer, more unkempt and littered with grey streaks.

  ‘You’re just being kind Amy,’ Frances said laughing. ‘I look and feel exactly how I am. Old and fat.’

  Sensing Amy’s awkwardness at her response she continued, ‘have a seat. Tell me everything that’s going on.’

  Amy couldn’t recall exactly how long they had sat on the sofa in Frances’s office drinking coffee and eating snacks, but she had told Frances everything from the moment Clive Oneway fell from his balcony.

  ‘And that’s it. That’s why I’m here,’ she said finishing the story.