Bang! You're Dead

by Mona Marple

  “Yes, am I in the right place?” She asked.

  The man scowled. “Not really, love. First time, eh?”

  She nodded.

  “Visitors around the other side. Ya can walk it. Hurry though, they won’t wait for ya.”

  “Thanks.” Sandy said, noting the direction he gestured. She took off at the fastest pace that felt safe with the snow beginning to settle on the ground, and followed the circumference of the barbed wire fence until she reached a building that stood outside the wire. An old, decrepit playground stood next to the building’s automatic doors, but nobody played on it today.

  “12.15?” A large woman called to Sandy as she burst through the automatic doors.

  She nodded, out of breath slightly.

  “S’your lucky day, everythin’s on a go slow today. Come on over.” The woman said, and Sandy walked up to the counter where she stood. The woman’s body was bursting out in between every button of her shirt, and her demeanour looked like that of a woman who knew how to handle trouble. “Name?”

  “Sandy Shaw.”

  “Seriously? Cos I ain’t got time for games.”

  Sandy felt her cheeks flush. “It really is, look.”

  She dug in her handbag and pulled out her purse, then retrieved her driving licence, which she passed across the countertop to the woman.

  “Hmm, crazy what people’ll call their kids. Seen worse in here.”

  “I’m here to see Ingrid Tate.” Sandy explained. She’d had a lifetime of jokes about her and her sister’s seaside names and wasn’t affected by the comments now.

  “Of course.” The woman said. She typed into her computer and nodded. “Okay, stand right there and here we go, done.”

  “What?” Sandy asked.

  “Your photo, just took your photo. You’ll need to do fingerprints and then you’re gonna be good to go. You know you can’t take anything in there, yeah? We have lockers, you’ll need a pound coin.”

  “I don’t think I’ve…”

  “No pound coin, you’re gonna have to run back to your vehicle and leave your bag there. No unattended bags in here and no I can’t lend you a pound, don’t even ask.” The woman said. She stopped her typing for a moment and looked at Sandy. “I think you’re gonna want to have a good look for a pound coin.”

  Sandy unzipped her purse and, to her surprise, found several coins, including a pound coin. “I’ve got one.”

  “I’m delighted for you.” The woman said, in a tone that was not quite sarcastic enough to have her complained about. “Fingerprints.”

  Sandy had never given her fingerprints before, and was surprised by how distressing she found the procedure. The formality of it, the very essence of her person being recorded on a government system, spooked her.

  “And you’re done.” The woman said. “You’re gonna go through those doors right there, you’ll find your group in security. Do as you’re told, and you’ll be just fine. Don’t forget your bag on the way out.”

  Sandy smiled her thanks and walked over to the far wall, which was covered with small lockers. She opened the door to one and stuffed her handbag in, locked it up with her pound coin, and then left the reception area via another automatic door, which took her outside. She was within the prison grounds now, behind the barbed wire. The tall walls of the main prison stood just a few feet ahead of her, down a spongy path with another deserted playground on the right.

  Children must come here, Sandy realised, and as soon as the thought hit her she realised how obvious it was. Of course children came here. The prison must be full of mothers, grandfathers and cousins. People who had children on the outside who would miss their presence enough to come to this place to see them. Did the children have to give fingerprints, Sandy wondered, then forced the thought out of her mind.

  She entered the main prison complex via another automatic door, and immediately felt the energy of the place. A nervous, unpredictable energy that left everyone on high alert. As if anything could happen at a moment’s notice.

  “Join the line!” A female officer called as Sandy entered the security room. Four other visitors were in a queue waiting to go through airport-style security, with six other people stood after the security check waiting with a different officer.

  Sandy filed in as she was told to. The officers had batons and their expressions were serious. The walls of the room, chipped and faded, were covered with warnings about the consequences of smuggling things into jail. Sandy stared straight ahead, desperate to avoid eye contact with everyone, and shuffled forward when the others did.

  Finally, it was her turn to walk through the security check. The alarm sounded and she was instructed to stand on a box with her arms out to each side, while a female officer with bad skin and a slight moustache patted her down for a physical check.

  “You’re okay.” She said, and gestured for Sandy to join the other visitors.

  The officer stationed with them led them out of the security check area, into a narrow corridor with a locked door at the far end. When all of them were in the corridor, he locked the door behind them, and only then did he unlock the next door and allow them to file out of the building and across another, longer path towards a huge building that appeared to be the main body of the prison. Sandy had thought the last building was the prison itself, and the sense of being lost in locked buildings, each one bigger than the last, disoriented her.

  The officer unlocked the door they reached, allowed them all to file in, and then locked the door behind them. A metal gate, painted white, stood in front of them, and the officer unlocked that and then locked it after them. It seemed that prison life was all about locking and unlocking doors. Sandy had never suffered with claustrophobia but began to worry that she might.

  “Straight down to the desk.” The officer said. The group followed his orders and walked down the narrow corridor. Sandy, at the back, watched the others. They were an ordinary group of people. She could have passed any one of them on the street and had no idea they had someone gone from their life. One woman, dressed in a suit, sobbed quietly as they walked down the corridor, while a couple of teenage boys near the front of the crowd chatted and laughed to each other.

  An elderly man who walked painfully in front of her stopped suddenly, and she instinctively took hold of his arm in case he fell.

  “Are you okay?” She asked.

  He smiled up at her gratefully, his eyes grey and watery. “It gets harder every time.”

  She bit her lip and nodded at him, having no words that could comfort him.

  “Bill, need a hand?” The officer asked from the front of the group. The old man straightened his spine and shook his head.

  “No sir, I’m okay now.” He said, proud.

  “Nearly there.” The officer said. He led them to another locked door, which Sandy could see opened into the visiting room. Low tables, fixed to the ground, with one chair in front and two chairs behind, also fixed to the ground, filled the room. Nobody sat at the desks.

  It was fifteen minutes into the visiting hour already, a clock on the wall revealed.

  “Here we go folks, you know the drill. Take a seat at a desk and wait. Do not move when the inmates arrive, do not physically touch the inmates, do not raise your voices. Remain seated throughout the visit or you’ll have the visit shut down for everyone. If you need help, raise your hand.”

  He unlocked and opened the door, which Sandy noted was heavy and reinforced, and the visitors filed in one by one.

  Sandy took a seat at a table close to the door. She was about to sit down with a woman charged with murder. It felt surreal.

  After minutes of waiting, the door at the far end of the room opened and a prison guard led in around ten visitors. The women searched the room for the face they were expecting and made their ways separately to the table where their visitor waited. Sandy watched the subtle, muted reunions. A few inmates smiled, others showed no emotion at all.

  In the middle of the line, eyes
alert, posture impeccable, was Ingrid Tate. Her eyes landed on Sandy and gave one nod of recognition and made her way to sit across from her.

  “You look well.” Sandy said. An inane thing to say in the circumstances, but true. Ingrid somehow appeared as cool and confident, as well put together, on the inside as she had on the outside.

  “Of course, dear.” Ingrid said. “One simply has mountains of time to pluck eyebrows and suchlike in here. No tweezers, of course, to make the job easier.”

  Sandy gave a small outtake of breath, meant to signal a laugh but in such a subtle way that it wouldn’t be inappropriate.

  “We don’t have long.” Ingrid said, with a glance to the wall clock.

  “I was here on time, it’s…”

  “Visits never start on time, don’t worry.” Ingrid said. “But I don’t have time for pleasantries. I didn’t when I was sitting on that side of the table and I certainly don’t now. I need your help, Sandy.”

  “But why me?”

  “I know how you’ve been solving the murders. The police might like to pretend it’s all their own work, but I know what’s really going on. It seems like you’re the only person who can prove I didn’t do this.”

  “Surely you’re the best person, Ingrid, with your skills?” Sandy asked.

  “Ha! I don’t find killers, Sandy, I get killers let off.”

  A shiver ran down Sandy’s spine as Ingrid’s words sank in.

  “Oh, come on. I know it doesn’t sound nice, but that’s a lawyer’s job. I don’t ask my clients if they’ve really done it. They tell me they’re innocent and I work on that. So, actually solving a case, finding the real killer, I’ve got no more clue about that than anyone else.”

  “I didn’t even know your husband, though.”

  “Well, I don’t see why that matters.” Ingrid said.

  “For all of the other murders, I’ve had some kind of link. This one, I mean, it hasn’t even hit the news. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  “Well, what do you want to know?”

  “Erm, I guess I don’t know that either.”

  “Shall I just tell you a little about him? Would that help?”

  Sandy shrugged. She felt out of her depth, and the woman in the suit, who was meeting with a young woman who looked like she must be her daughter, continued to sob audibly.

  Ingrid noticed Sandy glance across to them. “First visit. Always the worst.”

  “I’m sorry you’re in here, Ingrid.” Sandy said. “Is it awful?”

  “Awful?!” Ingrid asked with some amusement. “This will be the best PR I’ve ever had, as long as you crack the case of course. I couldn’t pay for all of the media attention I’ll be getting soon!”

  “But if you’re found guilty…”

  “I know, I know. I know better than most. We don’t have time for that. Sit comfortably and let me tell you a little about my husband. Hugo was a dreamer. Delusional, really...”

  Sandy gulped. “Stop. I’d like to get the facts first, not the emotion. I do want to help you. You helped me, and I know I owe you for that.”

  “Spoken like a true gang member, that should help you no ends!” Ingrid exclaimed.

  “Gang member?”

  “I’m joking, dear, goodness, I know you’re not a gang girl. But the real killer, well, they were in a gang.”

  “A gang? Well surely that rules you out right away, I mean, it’s pretty obvious you’re not a gang member!”

  “Oh Sandy, they don’t think I did it.”

  “I’m confused, why are you in here?”

  “Look at these nails.” Ingrid said, and she held up her long, slim hands to show her manicured nails. “They don’t think I pulled the trigger. They think I ordered the hit.”

  5

  Sandy was pleased to return to the normality of Books and Bakes the following day. She slept in and arrived just before opening time, to the heady scent of cinnamon rolls and chocolate fudge cake. Comfort foods.

  “You’re too good.” She said to Bernice as she poked her head into the kitchen. Bernice gave her a slow, cautious smile. “What’s up?”

  “We had a weird call earlier.” Bernice said, as she returned the morning’s freshly cleaned pots and pans to the cupboards.

  “Was it another call for the vet’s?” Sandy asked. “I really need to get that sorted.”

  “No, not that. A man asking if we’d mind TV cameras coming later to do a feature on us.”

  Sandy clasped her hands over her mouth and forced herself not to descend into excited shrieking, which she knew Bernice wouldn’t approve of. “A TV crew? You’re kidding? This is amazing!” Sandy exclaimed.

  “Hmm.” Bernice said with an eyebrow raised.

  “What did you tell them? Please tell me you said yes.”

  “I said it’s not really for me to say but I thought the boss would agree, so they’ll be here this afternoon.” Bernice said, head buried in the fridge longer than it needed to be. “I’ll stay back here when they come.”

  “Oh, Bernice, you’re such an important part of this place, you should be out front showing yourself off.”

  Bernice closed the fridge door and glared at Sandy, arms folded across her chest. “I’ve got zero interest in showing myself off. I know how big this could be for you, Sand, and I really hope it goes well. But I can’t be involved in it.”

  Sandy nodded. The thought of appearing on camera didn’t fill her with excitement, but the extra attention the shop would get did. She’d push through her nerves. “Will they want an interview?”

  Bernice shrugged. “I couldn’t say. Oh, the Hugo Tate news is out, by the way.”

  “It is?” Sandy asked, eyes wide.

  Bernice nodded. “Saw it online this morning.”

  “Thanks, Bernice.” Sandy said. “I’m gonna go upstairs.”

  She took the stairs two at a time and took a seat behind the book shop counter, where she turned on the computer and loaded up an online news site. The murder wasn’t remarkable enough to have made the national news, but when she did a search for Hugo Tate, she found an article from the closest city’s newspaper.

  LOCAL TEACHER KILLED IN GANG HIT the headline reads.

  A teacher? Sandy had imagined him as being a lawyer, like Ingrid. She clicked onto the full story, where a photo of Hugo Tate stood below the main headline. He was bald-headed, bespectacled and entirely plain-looking. Sandy could have passed him in the street without even realising a person had been there.

  Ingrid was so immaculately presented, so regal. It was hard to imagine the two as a couple.

  She continued reading.

  Hugo Tate, teacher at The Grove primary school, was said to be respected and liked by teachers and students alike. He was killed in a shooting that is being treated as an ordered gang hit, and is survived by his brother and partner.

  Sandy clicked through to another article covering the death. This one featured a video of Hugo Tate speaking to the local news about the building of a sensory garden at the school. He stuttered throughout the interview, and adjusted his glasses with a frequency that bordered on obsession.

  The text below the video was a much more in-depth article about his life.

  Mr Tate campaigned for additional funds to be released to The Grove primary school and was instrumental in the school transforming its OFSTED ratings within two years. While never taking a formal leadership role at the school, Mr Tate was a core member of the staff and will be sorely missed. His legacy includes the Early Worms Reading Club, the annual trip to the Natural History Museum in London, and, of course, the sensory garden.

  Mr Tate, the ex-husband of renowned solicitor Ingrid Tate, who has been charged with his murder, is survived by his brother Marshall.

  “Oh my.” Sandy said.

  “Everythin’ alright, lady?” Derrick called. He stood a few feet away from her, a large box in his hands.

  “Derrick! You made me jump.” Sandy said as she composed herself. “What’s that?�
��

  “New stock’s arrived, I said I’d help the guys bring it up.” Derrick said. He walked past her and into the storage room, where he placed the box on the floor. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah… I just got some surprising news.” Sandy said, with a smile. She had thought that Ingrid and Hugo were a couple, married, cohabiting. Her being his ex-wife gave her such an obvious motive it was almost cliched, and yet most cliches became that because they were true so often.

  Three burly men appeared out of the lift, all dragging a loaded pulley stacked high with boxes of books.

  “Where’d ya want ‘em?” One called across to Sandy.

  “In here, mate.” Derrick replied, gesturing to the storage room. Sandy watched the men work and tried to put thoughts of Hugo Tate to the back of her mind. The new stock arriving was exciting, and she wanted to enjoy it. Each time she blinked, however, she saw the bespectacled, nervous face of Hugo Tate. A man who had campaigned tirelessly for a primary school. Who on Earth would want such a man dead?

  She sighed and returned downstairs, where she found the cafe almost half-full.

  Felix Bartholomow, the elderly man renting Dorie’s cottage, sat at a table close to the counter, resplendent in a suit, tie and flat cap. He beamed when he saw Sandy and attempted to stand, despite him needing a cane to support his weight.

  “Sit down Felix, I’m not the queen.” She teased, although his chivalry flattered her. “How are you doing? Looking very suave.”

  “I’ve got a date.” He confessed, his eyes bright.

  “Fabulous!” Sandy exclaimed. “Who’s the lucky lady?”

  “She’s just about to walk in.” Felix said with a wink. Sandy turned to see Dorie Slaughter push the door open, looking just as unique and impressive in her leopard print fur coat, a dozen brightly coloured necklaces bobbing around her neck.

  “I don’t know why you insist on paying your rent in cash, Felix.” Dorie cursed as she pulled out the seat opposite him. “I’m a busy woman, I can’t be coming down here every month to see you. Bacon sandwich, Sandy, and a mug of tea, since you’re just standing around wasting time.”