by Matt Hilton
She lurched out the car, and jogged along the path for the porch steps, head bent low, hands protecting her face from the stinging raindrops. A cascade of rain fell from the overflowing gutters, and she had to plunge under the sheeting water. Soaked. She shook and droplets dappled the porch floor. The front door remained resolutely shut, and there were no lights on inside. She rang the bell, but heard no reply over the tumult, so balled her fist and hammered on the door.
‘Mrs Norris? Margaret? It’s me, Tess Grey.’
She knocked again, and leaned on the bell push for extra effect.
A car prowled by behind her, rain lashing over it. Tess glanced back, but the rain was so heavy she could barely make out the vehicle’s shape or colour let alone the driver. It carried on, and she knocked again at the door.
The small clapboard house creaked and moaned under the storm. But from within Tess was sure she heard a door close. She knocked again.
‘Take it easy,’ muttered Margaret Norris. ‘You’re going to take my damn door off its hinges.’
Tess exhaled. Waited.
There was a rattle of bolts, but when the door edged open it hung on its security chain.
‘I wasn’t expecting you back so soon,’ Margaret announced. ‘After all that fuss last night.’
‘Things got a little out of hand,’ Tess admitted, ‘but I hope it didn’t affect our arrangement?’
Margaret was wearing her spectacles and she adjusted them as she thought. ‘I still want you to find Jasmine, if that’s what you mean?’
‘And I’m still on the job. Have been throughout the night and this morning.’ A gust pushed rain under the porch roof, spattering it on Tess’s back. ‘Would you mind if I came in, Mrs Norris. Things are kind of hairy out here.’
‘Where’s the caveman?’
Tess smiled at the description of Po: but couldn’t help agreeing with Margaret’s summation. Po had come across as a primitive brute last night. ‘He isn’t with me. He’s doing something else just now.’
‘Beating up somebody else?’
‘I think that’s a little unfair. Nicolas was stopping Trojak from harassing you, don’t forget.’
‘Yeah, I suppose so …’
‘So …’ Tess went on, ‘I can come in?’
‘I guess.’
The door closed momentarily while the chain was rattled loose. ‘Come in,’ said Margaret, as she held out a hand, clutching an obligatory cigarette. Tess stepped inside, stamping her feet on the mat while Margaret secured the door.
‘Somewhere to hang my coat?’ Tess asked, as she shrugged out of the dripping garment.
‘Put it through here.’ Margaret led the way to the kitchen at the rear of the house.
The woman had been working in the kitchen, the reason she hadn’t immediately heard Tess at the door. There were far too many pots on the stove and ingredients laid out on chopping boards to feed one woman. Equal amounts of steam and cigarette smoke vied to dominate the atmosphere. Tess took a seat at a proffered chair, and tugged off her hat while Margaret took her coat and hung it on a hook on the back door. Tess worked the damp wool between her fingers.
‘You want coffee or anything?’ Margaret offered with no enthusiasm.
‘No, I don’t intend on staying long. Anyway, it looks as if you’ve enough to be getting on with.’
‘It’s a lot,’ Margaret admitted. ‘I cook in batches these days. Prepare enough meals for a few days. Works out more economical that way.’
It made sense. Tess, like many of her generation, cooked as and when, and usually made too much food, which ended up in the trashcan. By the look of things, Margaret was preparing enough food to freeze or store for later in the week. The old woman parked her cigarette butt between her lips and returned to slicing carrots. ‘Keeps my mind off other things too,’ Margaret said.
Tess had considered mentioning how she suspected Jasmine might be the victim of a prolific offender, but without firm proof it would be a bad road to lead her grandmother down. Instead, she asked what she’d come about. ‘Last night we were talking about when Jasmine was attacked.’
‘Allegedly attacked.’ Margaret glimpsed up from beneath her eyebrows, between the frames of the misted lenses of her glasses. Tess’s eyebrows rose marginally in response.
‘You said that Jasmine alleged she was assaulted by the son of one of her foster parents?’ Tess left the suggestion hanging.
Margaret chopped furiously and chunks of carrot went flying. She dashed the diced vegetables into a loose pile with her left hand, used the knife-wielding one to pluck out her cigarette. The loose ash fell on the floor by her feet.
‘I hinted that something had changed your mind,’ Tess went on, ‘and you were about to admit something just before we were rudely interrupted.’
‘I wasn’t about to admit a damn thing,’ said Margaret but she avoided looking at Tess, her body language disagreeing with her words.
‘Just before Trojak arrived I said, “If you really do care about Jasmine, you need to tell me”,’ Tess reminded her. ‘You said you couldn’t and when I asked why not you started to say something.’ Tess racked her memory for the correct phrase. ‘You said “Because that”, but were stopped. That what, Margaret? Or that who?’
Shaking her head furiously, Margaret used the knife to scrape the carrots off the chopping board into a pan. ‘Who’s working for who here?’ she demanded after placing the pan at the kitchen sink. ‘Why are you asking me all these questions?’
‘To help Jasmine.’ Tess left it at that.
Margaret put aside the knife.
She stubbed out her cigarette in an overflowing ashtray set on the side of the counter. With nothing better to do with her fingers she pushed both hands through her hair, teasing it the way Tess did her damp woollen hat.
‘There was a time when I wasn’t as well off as I am now. Not that I’m rich or anything, but I’m comfortably off. Time was when things were much harder. Don’t judge me, Tess …’
Tess didn’t reply.
‘When Jasmine made the allegation against the boy, I wanted to go with her to the police. I really did.’
‘But you came to another arrangement instead.’
‘There you go judging me.’
‘I’m not interested in soothing your conscience, Margaret, only in helping Jasmine.’ Tess held the old woman’s gaze. ‘What did you do? Exchange money for your silence?’
Margaret’s lips nipped tightly and she reached for her pack of cigarettes. She had second thoughts though, and instead walked over and took the seat opposite Tess. She shook her head morosely.
‘It was stupid and selfish of me. But I can’t turn back the clock now. Jasmine had told lies before, and I was doubtful about what she told me, so who was it really harming if I accepted a cash handout? Like I said, things were tough back then. I’d lost my daughter, my only grandkid was taken away, and I’d no husband around to help keep a house.’
Tess looked at the tabletop.
‘Jasmine had made allegations before,’ Margaret went on.
‘Maybe she was telling the truth those times too,’ Tess said, and couldn’t keep the tone of reproof from her voice.
Anger flared in Margaret’s face, but it wasn’t aimed at Tess.
‘It’s possible that I helped destroy Jasmine’s reputation for a measly five thousand bucks! Do you realize how bad that makes me feel now?’
It did explain why Margaret was prepared to pay more for Tess’s time and expertise than she’d ever received from the ill-gotten bribe.
‘So?’ Tess prompted.
Margaret blinked at her.
‘Will you tell me the boy’s name?’
‘I suppose you’d find it easy enough anyway.’ Margaret sighed. ‘You’ve a list of all the foster parents, and I assume you’ve already questioned them.’
The first thing Tess had done was check with Jasmine’s former parents, before moving on to chasing down leads with the likes of Maxwell Carter.
None of those she’d spoken to had added anything of value, except to express how it didn’t surprise them that Jasmine had taken off yet again.
‘Cal Hopewell,’ Margaret stated.
Tess pictured Allan Hopewell, now a widower. His wife Cheryl and he had fostered Jasmine for a few short months, but had found the rebellious teen too much to handle, what with already having an older son and daughter who took priority.
‘Calvin Hopewell?’ Tess looked for confirmation, and received a brisk nod. She churned through the snippets of information she’d lodged in the back of her mind concerning the Hopewells. ‘If I’m right, then Cal wasn’t exactly a boy when Jasmine lived with the family.’
‘When you’re as old as I am, anyone under forty is still a child.’
‘He was a senior in college, right? That made him at least twenty-two at the time.’
Margaret nodded, but wasn’t moved on the definition of whether Cal was still a boy or not.
‘Wasn’t he hoping to join the military?’ Tess went on.
‘He was home for semester from Valley Forge Military Academy, on one of those “early commissioning programmes”, when Jasmine claimed he hurt her. He was on a two-year programme that would qualify him as a second lieutenant on entry …’
‘I see now why an allegation of sexual and physical abuse might harm his future. Doesn’t mean I agree with it, but I can understand how his parents might want to buy your silence.’
‘I took their dirty money,’ Margaret said, ‘but I’m not proud. Didn’t even stretch too long before I was back on the bread line.’
Tess fought down the urge to spit in the woman’s face.
‘Jasmine was how old when she stayed with the Hopewells?’
‘Fourteen.’
Tess stared. Margaret wouldn’t meet her gaze, and again reached for a cigarette. Her pack had been left on the kitchen counter, across the room.
‘That’d make Calvin Hopewell, what, in his early thirties now?’ Tess wondered aloud.
‘I guess. Round about thirty-two.’
The mystery man had looked to be in his thirties during the brief glance Tess had got of him as he’d driven away from Charley’s Autoshop.
‘Is he still with the military?’
‘How should I know? I haven’t had anything to do with the Hopewells since they paid me off.’
‘Thought you might have kept up with the news, seeing as Cal’s future was determined by you.’
‘I think that’s enough of the accusations from you, Tess.’ Margaret stood shakily, resting both hands on the table. ‘There’s only so much I will take before I tell you to get the hell out of my house.’
‘Yeah,’ said Tess, but there was no chance she’d offer an apology. ‘I’ve said all I’m going to say on the subject. I’ve enough to be getting on with now.’
Margaret stood propped on her palms. She looked weak, ready to collapse and it wasn’t for want of nicotine.
Tess waited, positive there was something the woman wanted to add.
A pan on the hob seethed, the lid rattling, and outside the storm hadn’t abated. Tess wasn’t sure if the house was shaking or if she was trembling with anticipation.
‘Cal came by,’ Margaret finally said.
‘When?’
‘This morning.’
‘And you didn’t think to call me?’ Tess asked.
‘I didn’t speak to him. I only saw him outside, standing under those trees across the street. I knew it was him, even if it’s been years since I last saw him.’
‘He’s a big guy now. Short dark hair, quite a stocky build?’
Margaret nodded in agreement. ‘I spotted him from the window. I wasn’t sure it was him at first, but then he looked directly at me and I knew.’ She placed her hands over her face, fingers digging beneath her glasses to rub at her eyelids. ‘Knew I’d been wrong to believe his word over Jasmine’s.’
‘It’s because she heard he was coming home that Jasmine left?’ Tess suggested.
‘That’s what I’m thinking.’
Margaret wasn’t being truthful. OK, so she believed she’d spotted Cal Hopewell lurking outside earlier. However, Tess didn’t believe it was the first time Cal had made his presence known to her. Perhaps that explained how he knew where to go when looking for the person investigating Jasmine’s disappearance, or how he knew about where to find her at Po’s garage. Cal Hopewell, without a shadow of doubt, was the mystery man who’d been following her.
‘You said you didn’t speak with him this morning,’ she ventured, hoping Margaret would admit to an earlier visit, but Margaret again shook her head.
‘He spotted me at the same time I saw him. He immediately turned and walked away.’ Margaret hobbled to the counter and retrieved her cigarettes, tapping one out. ‘I didn’t look out the window after that,’ she went on, ‘just came in here and kept myself busy.’
Margaret was frightened of Cal Hopewell, and for good reason. Despite her lie about doubting Jasmine’s claim about being attacked, she had known the truth all along. And that meant she was dangerous to Cal Hopewell, as he was a danger to her.
NINETEEN
The drive back to her house on Cumberland Avenue was accomplished tentatively. The battering rain was carrying flinty ice: snow wouldn’t be far behind. Tess’s damp clothes steamed up the car, and she flicked her blowers to full to keep the windshield clear. The wipers battled the accumulation of sleet, wiping bows of dirty ice back and forward and making visibility even worse. Her lights were on full, despite it being barely mid-afternoon. Her Prius was a neat little car for summer driving but struggled in these harsh conditions. She couldn’t risk taking her eyes off the road for more than a second, but she could see nothing of value in her mirrors. She parked the Prius on the incline at the steps up to her house, thankful to be back in one piece, but also prickling with concern that Po’s Mustang wasn’t in its customary place alongside. Where had he got to, and when the hell would he be back?
She would have run from her car to the stairs, but that was asking for trouble. The path was filmed with dirty slush, through which ran rivulets of water. A misstep and she’d go down on her butt. She locked the car, pulled her collar up and her hat down to her ears, and walked at a crouch for the steps. The sleet hitting her cheeks stung like crazy. At the roofline the wind attempted to force entry to her home, and she heard a moan of defiance from the eaves as the house withstood the attack and directed the force downward. Heavy droplets flung from the gutters pattered her, some of it invading her mouth. She spat at the gritty taste, and cursing the storm, she went up the stairs, noting distractedly that all was in darkness in the antiques shop: Mrs Ridgeway must have given up and gone home.
As she pulled out her door key, a car swept along Cumberland Avenue, sheeting water. Tess glanced back, hoping it signalled Po’s return. She could barely make out the model, but it was a chunky SUV, not a black muscle car. The car continued by and Tess immediately forgot about it as she unlocked her door and let herself inside. She’d only been out in the storm for half a minute and already she was soaked through and almost chilled to the bone. Gratefully she absorbed the ambient warmth wafting from her living space. She pushed the door shut, sealing out the storm, and stood for a moment, dripping on the welcome mat. Only a nutjob would have gone out in that weather, but she thought the trip had been worth the risk. She dialled the thermostat up a few degrees, dumped her purse in the living room, then shed her coat and hat and kicked off her boots, pulling on sneakers. She found a towel in the bathroom and scrubbed the damp from her hair and the chill from her face. A hot shower wouldn’t go amiss, but it could wait. She switched on the coffee maker as a consolation prize, and went directly to her work station. In a hurry to get started, she dumped the damp towel on the floor and brought her computer out of sleep mode.
Her internet connection was a tad sketchy, down to the weather. Hopefully it wouldn’t fail before she was done. She keyed in ‘Calvin Hopewell’, added a few mo
re pertinent tags, and hit ‘search’. There were a number of false leads, but some that made her sit up and take notice.
‘Oh, my God!’ she wheezed as she spotted one particular link, and her gut soured when she followed it to a news webpage. The page was in German and she had to translate it first, but already got the gist of what to expect from the initial report. While stationed in Germany, no less than two girls had accused Second Lieutenant Calvin Hopewell, 7th Marine Regiment, of aggravated sexual assault. Reports of the alleged crimes were brief, because through a lack of evidence in one case and the withdrawal of the complaint in the second, Hopewell was released without charge. Possibly the military knew there was more to the reports than Hopewell answered to, because he was whisked out of Germany and sent off to Helmand Province, Afghanistan, before he could cause further scandal. If he misbehaved whilst there, nothing was recorded – or it only appeared in sealed documentation she had no access to. Hopewell next turned up, still at the company-grade officer rank, while based at Twenty-nine Palms, California, the Marine Corps Air Ground Combat Center, assisting in the training of marines on oversea assignments, under live fire scenarios. Hopewell again brought down the Corps’ good name when he was arrested for sexual assault and battery on a chalet maid at Lake Havasu, a popular destination for servicemen and women during downtime. Commissioned officers, even at company grade, carried the special trust and confidence of the President of the United States, and the actions of Second Lieutenant Hopewell were scandalous, a severe embarrassment, and could not be tolerated. Court martial and dishonourable discharge followed, as well as a term in the Marine Corps’ brig, Camp Pendleton, before he was kicked back on to Civvy Street with little more than he stood up in.
