by Robert White
“I am,”
She opened the door and turned. She wore nothing but the tiniest bra and pants and sashayed down her hall beckoning me in with a crooked finger wagging behind her.
“I like Scottish people,” she said. “They are honest in my opinion. They tend to be poor…but reliable.”
I followed her swaying hips into a very nice minimalist lounge. Takeaway food cartons littered a coffee table alongside empty pre-mixed cans of vodka and cola.
Henri flopped onto a very expensive looking sofa and tucked her legs underneath herself.
“Sorry about the mess,” she said, waving at the food cartons. “Had a friend around last night for drinks…didn’t much feel like going out, what with Todd and everything.”
“Nasty business,” I offered.
“Mmm, he was a nice boy. I liked him.”
She gave me a knowing look.
“And he didn’t stare at my tits all the time.”
“Maybe if you put some clothes on, I could control myself,” I said flatly.
Henri stood.
“Touché, Mr Cogan, I’ll just be a moment.”
A moment she was, and then she returned from an unseen room wearing a silk dressing gown that looked as expensive as her sofa.
She resumed her position.
“Better?” she asked. “Conservative enough to stop your Scottish juices flowing?”
I knew her game.
“I reckon I can resist you,” I said smiling. “Are you always so forthright, Miss Duvall?”
She smiled back. “I do try. So much better than pretence, don’t you think, Mr Cogan?”
“Des,” I said.
“Des,” she repeated. “So…Des, as you are most definitely not a policeman, does that make you a private detective?”
“I suppose so, yes. My colleagues and I have been asked to assist the family and the authorities in finding the culprits who murdered poor Todd.”
Henri rested her head on her shoulder and narrowed her eyes. “I always find that kind of speak uncomfortable, Des. I mean, JE Blackman already has the full might of the Greater Manchester Force at his disposal, not to mention those rather creepy Americans in suits that call you Ma’am all the time.”
She twirled a blonde lock with a solitary finger. “I presume they belong to the Secret Service, the CIA or FBI maybe?”
“You are a very knowledgeable young lady for one so young.”
“Daddy is…well was, a diplomat. He’s a civil servant these days… advises the Government on foreign policy, I believe.”
“How long did you know Todd?” I asked, moving the conversation in the direction I wanted.
Henri smiled. It was a genuine act and I saw her eyes un-focus as her brain took her to another place for a second.
“I met Todd in this very building. We were both on our way to the registration event before the term even started. Serendipitous, really. He was beautiful, charming, intelligent and talented. We became friends in an instant. Had he been straight, he would be in my bed right now.”
“So, you knew he was gay right from the start?”
“You would have needed to be deaf, dumb and blind, Des.”
“He was camp?”
“He listened to Shirley Bassey... dressed like her on occasions.”
“I see…dinnea get it mysel’ like… It’s just that JE Blackman…”
“Had him cured, yes, Todd told me. We both had a good laugh at that one.”
“You think JE really believed his son was straight?”
“Daddy still believes I’m a virgin.”
I had a smile at that.
“Did you spend a lot of time together? I mean, out of University?”
“Oh yes, we both had similar musical interests…apart from the Bassey. I mean, seriously, we both loved the classics, opera and the West End musical scene. Todd was a genius at finding just the right pieces to slot into modern dance loops.”
I nodded, knowing the areas of their musical taste were well beyond me.
I ploughed on. “Did Todd ever confide in you about being … How can I say… smothered by his father?”
“Oh yes. I was aware that JE had him followed for a while. In fact, I helped him give them the slip on a few occasions. It was all very tinker tailor. Rather a turn on, actually.”
“Ever any suspicious characters knocking about? Any creepy visitors?”
She shook her head. “Not that I recall.”
“And he never complained of being frightened or worried for his safety?”
“Only back home. Todd came here to feel safe, Des. He couldn’t be himself in the States. I mean, come on. The son of a Southern state Senator, who cross dresses?”
“I get your point, but he would have had to go home, eventually.”
Another shake of the head. “He was a genius in the studio. Just because he came from money didn’t mean he wasn’t talented. The money helps obviously, but he’d planned to go to Paris as soon as he’d finished his degree. Todd never intended to return to Kentucky.”
“JE couldn’t hide him away forever.”
She shrugged. “Look at the Thatcher kids, Maggie kept their antics quiet most of the time.”
“You are a shrewd young woman, I’ll say that.” I leaned forward. “So, when did you last see Todd alive?”
For the first time, I saw Henri’s façade fall. Her bottom lip trembled as silent tears fell and her voice broke.
“Three or four nights ago.” She began to sob. “Oh my God, I don’t even know what day this is…sorry. It was the night he was killed, I suppose. We, well… we’d done a tour of the Village as usual and ended up in a little fried chicken shop. It was late on, maybe three-thirty. We bought burgers and were standing outside eating, talking, laughing, the way we always were. Then Todd got a call… not unusual at that time of the morning to be fair. He seemed delighted with whoever had rung him, gave me a quick peck on the cheek and was off back towards the canal.”
“A boyfriend?”
“Todd had lots of those… he was a naughty boy.”
“Promiscuous?”
“He invented it.”
“And you have no idea who called him?”
Henri shook her head and wiped away her tears.
“Think about that call, Henri. What did Todd say to the caller?”
“I don’t remember, I mean we were both a bit tipsy…erm, maybe something about a flat… I dunno.”
“Was Todd moving?”
“Oh yes, he had to be out of his place next month anyway. The owner’s back in the country. The lease is up.”
“Anything else, Henri? Please… think.”
I waited.
“Look,” she said. “I’m not one hundred per cent here.”
“Go on.”
“Well…I got the impression the guy was older than Todd. He called him an old fashioned name, you know, like Alf, or Bert?”
“And did you tell this to the cops or the Americans?”
She shook her head again.
I wrote my mobile number on the top of a fast food carton.
“You’ve been a big help Henri, thank you. If you think of anything else, give me a call, eh?”
I let myself out and wandered back down the stairs one floor. Gingerly, I stuck my head into the corridor. Todd’s front door was crisscrossed with crime scene tape, but there was no sign of police activity.
Forty eight hours into the vicious murder of an American Senator’s son and no forensic team in place at his home address?
The whole job stank worse than a Fleetwood whore’s handbag.
I trod the last two floors, my head full of questions, hit the electronic exit button to the left of the front door, and marched into the sunshine.
I’d taken two s
hort steps when I heard the unmistakeable sound of a pistol being cocked behind me. A split second later, the cold metal barrel of a handgun was resting against the back of my neck.
“Now, Mr Cogan. As asking nicely doesn’t appear to work, I figured that y’all needed some gentle persuasion to play nice. We’re going for a drive.”
I recognised the lazy drawl instantly.
I didn’t turn.
“Listen, Mitch. Where I come from, you never point a gun at a man unless you intend to kill him.”
“Oh, I will do that, Sir, if I’ve a mind.”
“Well, I suggest you put that pea shooter of yours away before I take it off you and beat some sense into you with it.”
“This is a custom made .44 Magnum, Mr Cogan. And I have you at a disadvantage, Sir.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I don’t?”
As I’d tripped down the stairs, I’d moved my own Glock 19 from the back of my waistband to the front. After all, ye couldnea be too careful eh?
As I’d stepped into the open, my right hand rested on the grip covered by my sweatshirt. It had been a simple move to draw and push it between my skin and the garment pointing backward, directly into Mitch’s gut.
I waggled the gun to make my point.
“No, cowboy, this baby is cocked and ready, same as yours. So… what you want to do? Count to three? Or maybe a quick draw contest out on the street over there? Gunfight at the OK Corral?”
I heard Mitch make his weapon safe.
I did the same and turned.
“We need to talk,” he said.
Lauren North’s Story:
Rick had gone home to change for his meeting with Cartwright. Apparently, he couldn’t wear the suit he had at the lock up as he’d worn it for the meeting with the old spy at Claridges. That was bad form.
Whatever Rick said about the aging MI5 handler, I knew he held a grudging respect for him. I also knew that something had happened during their last meeting in London that had affected Rick badly. He’d returned very drunk and disappeared for a day or so afterward.
Add to that, he’d never mentioned the matter again, so I just knew it was something major. It was just the way Mr Fuller worked.
I sat at my laptop and trawled Greater Manchester’s official website for any information on our sparkly new officer in charge of the Blackman murder, Detective Chief Superintendent Williams. Other than his smiling portrait picture, name and rank, I came up with a big fat zero.
Certainly no rising star.
Then, I hit the usual search engines. There were two entries. The first was a picture of Williams from 2002. It had been lifted from a local paper. He was shaking the hand of a Deputy Chief Constable who was presenting him with his long service and good conduct medal.
I did the maths.
Williams was due to retire this year.
The second entry was a short piece from the Daily Mail. It read:
A Senior Greater Manchester Police detective, DCS Alan Edward Williams, was injured yesterday after an argument with a neighbour turned violent.
Williams,49yrs, of Cheadle, had to be taken to hospital by ambulance where he was treated for cuts and bruises to his face.
Mr Williams had erected a wooden sign in his front garden depicting the resurrection of Jesus Christ, and his neighbour, Nasir Khan, had taken offence to it.
“Alan puts the sign in the garden every Easter,” said Williams’ dress designer wife, Fiona, 42yrs. “And I don’t see why we should stop now, just because we have a Muslim person for a neighbour. It was awful, Mr Khan came into our garden and started to pull down the sign. When Alan challenged him, he punched my husband in the face. Of course, Alan being a good Christian, he did not retaliate.”
Alongside the article was a picture of Williams with a fat lip, and his dutiful wife, arm in arm, holding the offending sign.
Khan had been charged with assault.
The Mail, being The Mail, made a big thing of the storm in a teacup and followed up the piece on its comments page. It toed the Right Wing scaremongers line of how England was now overrun by violent immigrants determined to destroy British Christian values.
The article only confirmed my suspicions. Williams was God Squad. The type that knocked you out of bed on a Sunday morning to tell you what Jesus had done that week.
Returning to the fat lip picture, I zoomed in on the offending placard. In the bottom left corner were three letters surrounded by a halo motif. They read, ‘SBA.’
I searched the usual engines and instantly found what I was looking for.
SBA stood for The Southern Baptist Association. A Christian fellowship boasting 10 million members and the largest Christian denomination in the Southern United States after the Catholic Church.
A quick glance told me all I needed to know. The group was formed in Georgia by Baptists in the Deep South, who split with Northern Baptists over the issue of slavery. Apparently, they didn’t see why it was a problem.
Five minutes more surfing and I discovered that SBA’s website had a ‘donate to’ link. This took you straight to the totally wacko ‘Golden Gate Ministry’, and the Reverend Billy Chapel’s heal the sick online page. Within five minutes, I had worked out how to self diagnose my almost definitely fatal condition and discovered exactly what size donation it would take for the good Reverend to heal me via the power of prayer.
Via Microsoft, of course.
The Reverend Chapel was, of course, the purveyor of one hundred and eighty million dollars in revenue for JE Blackman’s Golden Gate charity last fiscal year.
Bingo, we had a match.
I printed out what I had, slipped the copies into our ever thickening file and sat flicking through the pages.
Information, lots and lots of it. Sleaze, maybe. Tax evasion, maybe. Weirdness, definitely. But nothing that took us any closer to finding Todd’s killers.
Des Cogan’s Story:
I was kindae annoyed that Mitch had found me again. Then again, it wouldn’t take a genius to realise that one of us might turn up at Todd’s building.
On the other hand, I had a few questions of my own for the young Yank.
I followed him to a coffee shop a block away and we sat outside in the sunshine, me with a Fanta, Mitch with a Dr Pepper.
I nodded towards the American’s bottle. “Never could stand the stuff.”
He shrugged his huge shoulders. “That coming from a guy who drinks Irn Bru.”
I smiled and took a drink. Mitch did seem a nice fella, but from what Rick and Lauren had told me, he was firmly in the JE Blackman camp.
“Ye know why Rick has frozen you out, eh?”
“I have a notion, yes Sir.”
“Ye see Mitch, when ye get into a wee job like this, ye have to see the big picture. I mean, if you are going to slot the guys that murdered the young boy Todd, ye have to be sure you have the right folk in the first place. You can’t have your personal beliefs clouding your judgement.”
I could see he was fighting with himself inside.
“I am kind of angry with myself for the things I said to your folks yesterday. I just lost my way is all. Let my mouth run. See, I was brought up with the church, Mr Cogan. Just like thousands of other poor white kids in the South. We had nothin’ and there was nothin’ comin’ our way either. The only way out of that trailer was the Corps.”
I poured more orange over the ice in my glass.
“Ye are preaching to the converted here, Mitch. Ye think life was any different for me, eh? Two adults and seven kids in a house made for four with damp up the wall and rats in the yard. Oh aye, we had religion all right. All good Catholics we were. Couldnea afford meat for the table, but there was always money for the collection plate in the chapel on a Sunday, eh? The army was my escape too, pal. I couldnea wait to get away. Three squar
es a day. Ma own bed to sleep in. Wages every month.”
“But I’m not like you, Mr Cogan. I’ve not lost my religion. I still have the Lord in my heart and I don’t see the church as a bad thing. I see it as a blessing.”
“I’ve no lost my religion, son. Ye don’t lose Catholicism like spare change down the sofa. Ye may misplace it every now and again, but it’s always there to throw you a big slice of guilt once in a while.”
I leaned forward and fixed on the boy’s face. “Tell me this, Mitch, just like the Vatican in Rome… do ye never wonder where all the money goes, son? Do you never think what Golden Gate and the Reverend Billy Chapel do with that one hundred and eighty million dollars a year they take from the poor saps living in mobile homes in shitsville Tennessee?”
The boy raised his hands in frustration. “Of course I do, Mr Cogan. I’m a religious man, I read my Bible, but that don’t make me no fool. I know there’s some wrong doing, but there’s a lot of good work goin’ on too.”
He scratched his head. More from frustration than need. “And I know I upset Mr Fuller and Ms North when I said about the mosques n’all, but I stand by that. I fought in Iraq, Mr Cogan, I saw what the Arabs think of us, and what they’d do to us given the chance. So, I don’t think it unreasonable that I hold the opinion I do on not encouraging them onto American soil.”
He pointed. “You’ll fight under any flag, Mr Cogan. For anyone, so long as they pay the price. Me, I can only ever fight for the Lord and The United States of America. If that makes me a racist or a bigot, then that’s what I am.”
I shook my head. “Listen Mitch. Having a belief is all well and good. You can believe what you want. You can tell me you consider homosexuality a sin, abortion is murder, there is only one true Lord Jesus Christ… ye can tell me all those things. It dinnea even make you wrong, pal…but… But if ye treat people different because they don’t believe what you do, then ye have an issue. And ye will have a major one with our wee team unless ye learn to keep your mouth shut.”
He looked at me for the longest time. Finally, he nodded.
“I take your point, Sir. I shall keep my opinions to myself in future.”
