by Mona Marple
“I don’t know.” Tom said. “I have a funny feeling about it. I’d love to know what she said to Tony Morton to get that reaction out of him.”
“I’m more interested by the fact that she did get that reaction. God, Tom, imagine… if we hadn’t been there, she could have been his second victim.”
13
Ingrid Tate no longer looked immaculate. Her hair stood up in all directions and her eyes were bloodshot. A small scratch sat raised on her cheek.
“What happened?” Sandy asked.
Ingrid flexed her hands into fists, clenched and relaxed them, again and again. “I need to get out.”
“Are you in danger?” Sandy asked.
Ingrid raised an eyebrow towards her.
“Sorry, stupid question.”
“Tell me you’ve got news.” Ingrid implored, her foot tapping on the floor to a rhythm only she could hear.
“I’ve ruled out Marshall Tate.” Sandy said.
“Marshall? Geeze, I could have told you it wasn’t him.” Ingrid snapped. “That man wouldn’t dare.”
“Well, I had to follow the evidence, Ingrid… he turned up in the village and arranged a press conference in my shop.” Sandy said. She was still shook up from witnessing Tony Morton’s behaviour, and coming face to face with Domingo Cavali, and she’d hoped for a little more thanks from the woman she was trying to help. “Played the chief mourner role to the cameras and then I heard him saying he couldn’t stand Hugo.”
Ingrid flinched at her words but Sandy held her gaze and fought the instinct to apologise for her harsh words.
“Marshall’s in the village?”
Sandy nodded.
“I would never have expected him to travel across here for Hugo.” Ingrid said. “But he was indifferent, well, they were indifferent to each other. There was no hate between them.”
“Unlike you and Hugo?” Sandy asked.
Ingrid faltered. Her mouth opened and then closed again.
“Why didn’t you tell me to start with that you were divorced?” Sandy asked. She was wasting time but Ingrid's lack of thanks had annoyed her.
Ingrid sighed. “We’ve been through this! I wanted you to review the case and do what the police didn’t bother to. I wanted you to investigate! It’s such an easy arrest, isn’t it, the bitter ex-wife? Lazy policing drives me insane.”
“And clients who don’t tell you the truth?” Sandy asked. “Do they drive you insane?”
Ingrid physically reacted to the words, her head jerked back and eyes opened wide. Then she flashed a large smile and laughed softly. “Touche, dear girl. Okay, no more playing games. I’ll be honest with you, about everything.”
Sandy waited, but Ingrid said nothing more.
“You need to ask me the questions, Sandy. I’m not just going to tell you my life story. Come on, you can do this. What’s puzzling you? Which things don’t make sense? Who are your leads?”
“I went to visit Domingo.” Sandy blurted.
“Good!” Ingrid said, eyes wild, searching Sandy’s face for emotion. “I hoped you would. Was he… okay?”
“He didn’t have a tear tattoo.”
“Interesting.” Ingrid said. She scratched at her cheek and opened the graze, a trickle of blood welled up and she wiped it away. “Sorry, damn thing’s so itchy.”
Sandy pursed her lips. “I didn’t ask him who ordered the hit, and now I’m wishing I had. But I didn’t think he’d tell me.”
“Oh, he wouldn’t tell you.” Ingrid said. “It’s really very interesting that there’s no tattoo.”
“It means he didn’t do it for the glory.”
“Or the money.”
“Money?” Sandy asked.
“You need to have a chunk of money to buy a hitman, Sandy.”
“You said he might have wanted to send that money to his family. Couldn’t he be sorry but still have done it for money?”
“He has no family.” Ingrid said with a sigh. “Only Donovan, really, and I don’t think Domingo would do something so desperate for him.”
“Why else would he do it then?” Sandy asked.
Ingrid shook her head. “Fear, perhaps. If it’s not money, it’s power… they must have had a power over him.”
Sandy continued to look at her quizzically.
“You know what I mean by power, come on, think it through! Fear, love, hate, a secret you need to keep secret…”
“Tony Morton.” Sandy whispered.
“Who?”
“When I saw Donovan, he told me to go to The Pink Flamingo. Tony Morton is the owner.”
“The Pink… Flamingo?” Ingrid asked, the words sparking a memory.
“Heavenli worked there.” Sandy explained. “There are posters of her on the wall still. She must have been the biggest attraction that place has ever had, what with her… erm…”
“She’s beautiful, you can say it.” Ingrid said.
“Why would Tony Morton have power over Domingo? That’s what I don’t understand.”
“Why would he want Hugo dead?” Ingrid asked.
“Well, my thinking is, he was angry that Heavenli left the club and blamed Hugo. Heavenli getting pregnant was probably the last straw.” Sandy explained.
“Hmm.” Ingrid murmured, not convinced. “Why do you think he was that bothered? Owner of a club like that, you expect the girls to come and go.”
“I saw him with her. I was watching the outside of The Pink Flamingo, I don’t know what I was looking for, but Heavenli turned up. There was an argument with Tony Morton, she whispered something to him, it seemed flirty to start with, and then he got angry. I had to rescue her.”
“Maybe she was still refusing to go back to work?” Ingrid asked.
“Possibly. She wouldn’t tell us anything, she was cagey. But I saw the way he looked at her.”
“The way I guess all men look at her?” Ingrid asked.
“Pretty much.” Sandy said. “It wasn’t the way a concerned employer would look at an employee whose just been widowed.”
“The baby could be his.” Ingrid said. She covered her mouth with a long, slender hand.
“Oh my… I’ve been thinking the baby was Hugo’s, I’d forgotten… well, that’s motive! Surely?”
“Sandy.” Ingrid said, her tone serious. “I think we need to take this to the police now.”
“No!” Sandy objected.
“I’m putting you in danger, it’s selfish of me. Let’s show the professionals what you’ve found.”
“I’ve found nothing.” Sandy said. “You know what they’re like, as far as they’re concerned their case is closed. You’re guilty to them. They won’t take any of this seriously.”
Ingrid took a deep breath. Her shoulders were crumpled into her chest, she sat low in the chair. Hopeless. “It’s up to you now, I’m not going to encourage it any more.”
“Ingrid, I can…”
“I’ve done, Sandy. Let’s leave it for today.” She muttered. She raised a hand and a prison guard sauntered across to her.
“What’s up, Tate?”
“I feel ill, I need to go back to my cell.” Ingrid said. The guard grunted and waved over another officer.
“I’ll show your visitor out.” The guard said. “Tate’s feeling ill.”
“Geeze.” The second guard said. “You better not throw up on me. Already had that happen this week.”
“I’ll see you soon, Ingrid, okay? Look after yourself.” Sandy said as she stood up.
“Goodbye, Sandy.” Ingrid whispered. “Thank you for helping me.”
**
Sandy emerged from the cold, impersonal prison building to what had become a bright, sunny day. The sun sat high in the sky, heat spatters warming her face as she walked along the perimeter of the compound towards her car.
“What am I not seeing?” Sandy asked herself out loud. She pictured Ingrid’s beaten-down expression. How awful it must be to face the possibility of being convicted for a murder she hadn
’t committed.
Sandy turned around and gazed back at the prison. Visiting time had finished and other people were streaming out of the visitors’ hall like ants. She watched them, fascinated by the new world she was experiencing where a portion of time each week or month had to be assigned to visiting this place.
As she opened her car door, her phone rang. Cass.
“Hey.” She said as she sank into the driver’s seat. She left the door open, enjoying the warm rays on her.
“I miss your face!” Cass said. “And Mrs Sweeney’s cancelled, again, surprise surprise… so I thought I’d give you a call. You’re not at the shop?”
“No, I’ve been to visit Ingrid, I’m just about to leave.” Sandy said. The swarm of departing visitors continued to approach, their shadows tall in front of them as they transitioned from prison to the real world. “What are you going to do about Mrs Sweeney?”
Cass sighed. Sandy had told her for a while that she should take deposits from her beauty salon customers when they booked appointments, in case they cancelled at short notice. “I might just block her number so she can’t book in again! Honestly, it’s so annoying. Anyway, there are bigger problems I guess… I bet Ingrid’s not worrying about her nails right now.”
“She looks awful.” Sandy admitted. “And I don’t think she’s safe. She’s got a cut on her face. I thought she’d be ok, I thought they’d love to have a lawyer in prison to help them.”
“I guess it depends how many of them she’s already helped…” Cass said.
“Oh God.” Sandy exclaimed. “You mean her old clients who’ve been sent down could be in there with her?”
“Well, it’s the only prison nearby… I mean, John Moon’s in there, isn’t he?”
A chill ran down Sandy’s spine. “Men? Men are in there too?”
She remembered John Moon’s case because of how awful it had been. The media coverage had lasted months, and even through only catching parts of it here and there, Sandy had considered the man obviously guilty of the awful crimes. He pleaded not guilty and a long, drawn-out trial resulted in a jury finding him guilty after less than twenty minutes deliberating.
Ingrid had been his lawyer, and while she had had to remain silent about him as a client after the case, he had taken to writing angry letters to any newspaper or magazine who might print them, criticising her advice and work, suggesting she had known he could access ‘unlimited’ money and had ripped him off because of that, and even accusing her of flirting with him.
Sandy remembered Coral telling her about the crazy letters John Moon had sent in to the newspaper where she had been a journalist. Sandy had shook her head and they’d both agreed the streets were safer with him locked away.
The thought that Ingrid was under the same roof as him filled her with dread.
A raucous laugh from the group of visitors caused Sandy to look up.
“No way!” She exclaimed.
“What? What is it, Sand?” Cass asked down the phone.
“I can’t believe what I’m seeing.” Sandy whispered. She dropped low in her seat and watched the familiar face walk, alone at the back of the group, towards the car park. She saw the grief on their face and realised there was no risk the person would spot her as she had spotted them. They were in a world of their own, trapped in thoughts Sandy could only begin to guess.
“Sandy, you’re worrying me.”
“I know who ordered the hit.” Sandy whispered, then ended the call.
She waited until the person climbed into the Mercedes and drove out of the car park, then closed her own car door and sat up in the seat.
She needed to make a plan to confront them.
Because she knew this person would have only one reason to visit HMP Leyton Scrubs.
14
She shouldn’t have come.
Dread refused to leave her as she got ready, dressing in a plain black dress, pairing it with dark tights and a pair of low heels.
She shouldn’t have come. As she brushed her long mane of hair and spun it into a bun to sit high atop her head.
She shouldn’t have come. As she climbed into Coral’s car and allowed her sister to fill the air with inane chatter.
She shouldn’t have come.
And yet, she had.
The church overflowed with faces, many of them village residents, but plenty of them shifty, unknown faces, attending for the story they could write or the stolen photograph they could sell on.
Sandy smiled towards Dorie, who sat nestled between her son Jim, and her renter Felix, an arm draped around each of them. She wore a garish purple dress and balanced a lilac beret on her head. Heavy lip liner stressed the full shape of the lips she wished she had, rather than the ones that existed on her face.
Tom was at The Tweed, preparing for the wake. Sandy had tried not to take it personally when an out of town catering company had been asked to prepare the food. She didn’t want catering work, she tried to remind herself. But, still.
Coral gripped her hand as they sat down. She too must realise that it was a mistake for the two of them to be there together. Sandy pinched the top of her nose to keep the memories away. They had already sat side by side in this church too often. She let out a choke before it strangled her.
“Okay?” Coral asked.
Sandy nodded furiously, motion to remove the emotion. Coral understood; said nothing else.
As the pallbearers entered, coffin held high, Sandy took a sharp intake of breath. Surely the murdered man’s body wouldn’t be released for some time, months perhaps. Or was that a fiction that only occurred on TV crime shows?
Heavenli followed the coffin, dressed in a black pencil skirt and a black, lace top that hinted at the swelling of her stomach beneath. Her eyes were dark with kohl, lips sparkled under pink shimmer. The contrast was hypnotising. Even Sandy struggled to take her eyes off the beautiful widow.
Behind her walked Marshall, his skin shining with the leathery orange of a recent extended period on a sunbed. He grinned and waved at random faces in the crowd, then caught himself and wiped an invisible tear from the corner of one eye.
“Oh, no.” Coral whispered, as a hoard of school children paced in next. Dressed in uniform, they filed in two by two as if they were about to board the Ark. The tallest stared straight ahead, while some of the others assessed the crowd and one began to skip. As if height revealed maturity.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” Rob Fields began as the children filed in place behind him. “We welcome the children who knew Hugo Tate best. Please, take a seat as they share with us his favourite hymn.”
Sandy thought of butterscotch tart, sweet and rich. Flapjacks made with diced cherries and ground almonds. Lemon trifle, layer after layer of sponge, lemon jelly, custard, lemon curd, lashings of cream. She remembered how she had once thought that blind baking meant working in the kitchen while being blindfolded. Pictured cornflake tarts, the cornflakes sitting on a bed of jam and then sprinkled with a dash of dessicated coconut.
She thought of anything and everything to distract herself from listening to those heartbroken children sing.
Coral gripped her hand, nails into flesh, and Sandy managed a smile in her direction.
“And now, let us pray for the soul of our friend Hugo. A man who did so much for our community, who was selfless and…”
Sandy filtered out the vicar’s words. They were true, and false, as she imagined the platitudes given out at most funerals were.
Nobody ever gave a eulogy that revealed a person’s faults, did they.
Rob Fields wouldn’t go on to remind the grieving audience about the marriage Hugo had abandoned, about the death-do-us-part commitment he had made and broken.
Was the same true for her mum, Sandy wondered, the thought crashing into her. Did her own mum’s funeral focus on bare platitudes instead of memorialising the woman she had really been. The thought was so unexpected, so painful, that Sandy jumped up from her seat, removed her low heels, and ra
n out of the church, only returning the shoes to her feet when she was safely out of the church with the door closed behind her.
She stood, for a moment, under the shelter of the entrance. The heavens had opened, crying for the loss of Hugo Tate perhaps, and Sandy had no coat. She hoped that Coral would sense her desire to be alone, and after a few moments felt safe to assume her sister wasn’t going to follow her out. She began a leisurely walk around the perimeter of the village square, enjoying the rain falling on her.
When she reached The Tweed, a harried Tom glanced at her as he laid out foil platters of vol-au-vents. He did a double take. “What’s happened?”
She smiled, imagining how she must look emerging from the rain. “I guess I don’t always handle funerals very well.”
“Oh, come here, you sweet, sweet girl.” He said and pulled her in to his firm chest for a hug. She nestled into him but he jumped away. “You’re soaking me! Go up and get changed.”
She shrugged. “I’ll be okay.”
“Sandy, go, please.” He instructed.
“I could help?” She offered, looking at the sealed boxes of food.
“Yes, you can. Get changed and then help. I can’t believe they don’t lay it all out themselves, I’ve seen the invoice. Heavenli must be made of money.”
Sandy tutted as she walked towards the door that led to Tom’s living quarters. “She should have used Books and Bakes.”
“I hear their hygiene rating’s a bit dodgy…” Tom teased as she disappeared into the back. Sandy climbed the stairs and opened the door to Tom’s bedroom. She had no clothes at his, but the radiators were scorching, she could feel their heat just by being in the room, so she pulled off her dress and wrapped herself in Tom’s dressing gown, then draped her dress over the radiator to dry.
In the mirror, she inspected her reflection. Her make-up remained in place, a benefit of not wearing much meant there simply wasn’t enough to run because of a bit of rain. She released her hair from the bun and towel dried it, patting it until it merely hinted at being damp. Tom may have a hairdryer, but she didn’t know where it was kept and wasn’t about to go searching.
