by Jan Toms
Looking around in what could only be described as a shifty manner, the big man appeared to be about to throw the sack into the water. Something flashed in Victor’s mind, some memory of stories about people drowning kittens in this way.
‘Excuse me!’ he called out and the man jerked back, dropping the sack on the ground.
‘Whaddayouwant?’ He turned towards Victor and he was huge. Fluffy began to bark.
Seeing Victor’s modest size the man bent to pick up the sack again, clearly intent on throwing it in the water. Victor ran towards him. He could see that the sack was moving and his compassion took precedence over his fear. ‘If those are kittens, please don’t drown them!’
The man turned and swung the sack like a weapon and Victor ducked, nearly missing his footing. At the same moment, Fluffy went into action. Yapping loudly, he flung himself at the man and bit him sharply on his rather grubby exposed ankle. The man gave a yell. As Victor staggered dangerously near to the edge he reached out to save himself, accidentally pushing the man. On the very edge of the ravine, he wobbled like a silent film comedian and, throwing his arms up in the air, tipped over backwards, down into the water.
Victor gazed into the maelstrom. There had been quite a bit of rain recently and the stream was a veritable torrent. Amid the froth, he caught a glimpse of the man drifting smartly over the edge of a weir. The water would be quieter there and no doubt he would be able to climb out easily. Victor imagined him dragging himself out, dripping wet and enraged. He wasn’t going to hang around. Stopping only to pick up the sack, he grabbed Fluffy’s lead and hastened back along the footpath. Someone hurrying in the opposite direction bumped right into him, nearly kicking Fluffy in the process. In spite of his anxiety, Victor glared at him and picked Fluffy up. Some people had no manners!
He continued to walk quickly, glancing over his shoulder constantly in case he was being followed, but there was no one in sight. He didn’t slow down until he reached home and was safely indoors.
Panting heavily, he put the sack on the table and carefully opened it. Inside were two small kittens, one black and white and the other tabby. In spite of their rough treatment they appeared unhurt. Faced with daylight, they let out a pitiful mewling noise and tenderly Victor lifted them out, smoothing their fur and reassuring them that now they were safe. For want of anything else to do he warmed some milk in a saucepan and filled a saucer, placing it on the ground with the kittens. Fluffy watched with interest.
To his delight they both began to lap. Clearly they were weaned. He felt a moment of anger that anyone could do anything so cruel as to drown them. ‘Never you mind,’ he said to the pair, ‘you are both safe now.’ What he was going to do with them, he had no idea.
Victor spent the night listening for a break-in. At any moment he was certain that the kitten killer would find him, smash a window and then ‘assault’ him before taking the kittens away to certain death. He allowed Fluffy to sleep on the bed as a guard dog while the kittens were wrapped in a towel, which in turn was wrapped around a hot water bottle.
When morning came, Victor felt exhausted. To Fluffy’s disgust, they did not go for a walk after breakfast. Instead he was allowed briefly into the garden while Victor kept a sharp eye on the gate.
When nothing happened, Victor eventually risked a short stroll as far as the corner shop. The Clarion was piled high just inside the door and the headline nearly caused Victor to miss his footing. ‘Second Wanted Man Dies in Neighbourhood. Police Suspect Gangland Killing.’ Victor took a copy to the counter along with some more pouches of Doggybics for Fluffy and some tiny tins of special kitten food. Having paid, he hurried home to peruse the paper.
With a dry mouth he read how a second well-known gangster had died last night, mysteriously drowned in Shanklin Chine. No one had witnessed the accident, although a young couple passing along the path by the weir remembered seeing a sinister man with a small white dog. The victim had been immediately identified as Bernard ‘Mauler’ Maguire, who was wanted in connection with several gangland killings.
Surely, surely, this must be a huge coincidence and the man who had drowned was not the same man who had accidentally fallen into the water? Really, in spite of its speed, the water was not that deep. Victor was sure that he had had nothing to do with it. Although he had lost his balance and pushed against the man, he was so huge that Victor’s weight alone could not have unbalanced him. He wondered if perhaps he had hit his head and passed out. He should have dived in to save him. Passer By Rescues Man from Drowning!
His first thought was that he must go immediately to the police, but what would they say when they learned that he had walked away from a crime scene – only he hadn’t realised at the time that it was a crime scene. Various scenarios played themselves out. Supposing someone had seen him near the weir? Following so closely on from the other accident with the tree, the police might well be suspicious, even arrest him? He sat down quickly. At the thought of going to prison, his nerve failed and he reached out to smooth Fluffy’s curly fringe. Looking at the dog, a worst case scenario occurred to him. If he were arrested then what would happen to the little dog? He would be taken back to the RSPCA and when no one else came to claim him he would be put to sleep. He could never let this happen. There was nothing for it but to lie low and hope for the best.
The kittens, meanwhile, were tucking into a saucer of Kittychunks. Victor had found a seed tray in the greenhouse and filled it with dirt. With trembling hand, he carried the kittens to the soil and after they had eaten they dutifully performed. He praised them, assuring them that they were such dear little things. Here too was another reason not to be arrested. He had no idea whether they were male or female so he chose names that wouldn’t make any difference, Tabby and Puss.
The rest of the day passed in fretful anxiety. He heard more about the weir incident on the local news. It seemed that Mauler showed no signs of having suffered any violence other than some puncture wounds on his ankle that might be marks from a hypodermic syringe. The police were pursuing their inquiries. The journalist, clearly enjoying himself, wondered about the mention of a white dog in the neighbourhood and hypothesised that the Angel of Death might be in business again.
The next morning, there was another brown envelope in the post identical to the one before. Feeling alarmed, Victor opened it to find a cheque inside again made out to V Green. It was drawn on the National Bank of Jersey. It was for £25,000. This was just silly. He unfolded the paper and read: Next time, use a gun.
The news of Mauler’s demise reached Barry at The Earthly Delights. He read the Clarion’s report several times and the void in his chest felt increasingly huge. Mauler was one of their gang and he had no idea what to think. From the account it looked as if it might have been an accident, but the mention of the small white dog was worrying. Besides, what on earth would Mauler have been doing in the Chine?
The last time Barry had seen him he had been mumbling something about drowning some kittens, so perhaps he had gone to the ravine and fallen in? On the other hand, he could just as well have drowned them in a bucket. Barry shuddered. He didn’t like killing things. In fact, he went to great lengths not to do so, always opening windows for trapped insects and setting humane traps for mice. When he caught any he sent the chauffeur off to drive them into the countryside and let them go.
Try as he might, he couldn’t quite get rid of the feeling that Mauler’s death on top of Gruesome’s was too much of a coincidence. Assuming that before his brother Harry went to Spain he had indeed arranged for Vincenzo Verdi to take out Gruesome, had the Blues Brothers taken their revenge and hired someone to take out Mauler? Worse, if they had, then it must now be up to him to set in motion some sort of revenge, but what and how?
Meanwhile, the takings from the Bird of Paradise refused to add up. When Barry challenged the manager he threatened him either with his resignation or violence – ‘take your pick.’ Barry couldn’t afford for him to leave and, as the bloke
was built like a Centurion tank, he managed to calm him down, taking the figures back to his office to check them again. With luck the mistake would turn out to be his, so he wouldn’t have to sort out this particular problem.
He hadn’t heard from Harry or Gary since they left for Spain so he had no idea when they were coming back. Whenever it was, he needed to present them with a smooth-running outfit, not one with resignations and revenge killings. Sitting at his desk and twiddling nervously with his pen, he thought: whatever happens, I’ll have to do something soon.
EIGHT
Constable Alan Grimes was plagued by heartburn. In the past he had noticed that it was always worse when he was worried, and just at the moment it looked as if trouble was brewing in the neighbourhood, or as Charity had put it, ‘Looks like there’s a turf war on your manor.’ She really did read too many detective novels.
The death of Mauler Maguire had aroused the interest of the national press. Being a henchman for the notorious Island gang known as the Pretty Boys, Mauler had a long record of violence and mayhem. His death, so close after that of Gruesome Hewson, a heavy regularly employed by another local gang known as the Blues Brothers, suggested that Charity might be right and that professional hitmen had been brought in to dispose of the gangs’ artillery. If this was the case though, their methods were bizarre in the extreme. In any case, Alan knew for certain that Gruesome’s death had been an accident and anyone less like an assassin than Victor Green was difficult to imagine.
By sheer coincidence, it seemed that Mauler had also met with an accident. Normally Alan did not believe in coincidences. He toyed with the possibility that one or other of the gangs was planning to take over the other’s outfit – but if they were, they were using some very inventive methods. He was also disturbed by the tiny detail that a small white dog had been present at the scene.
It was quiet at work and Alan, on desk duty, consulted the files, looking first for anyone who had a connection with the Blues Brothers. The list was a long one.
The brothers themselves were born to a Spaniard, Alfonso Rodriguez, and raised in Balham. Their mother Josie came from a well-known gang called the Enforcers and her marriage to Alfonso had been seen as an alliance, a deliberate step to strengthen gangland loyalties. Her boys, twins Reggie and Randy, were now in their thirties whilst the youngest, Roger, known as Dodge, had appeared on the scene some ten years later. They were what Alan always thought of as a collective nasty piece of work. Only Dodge had avoided prison and this was largely because he was too soft to be of much use as a gang member.
Looking up their present whereabouts, Alan discovered that both Reggie and Randy were doing time – one in Parkhurst and the other in Camp Hill because, being identical twins, there was a good chance that they would pull some identity swap scam. Among their known associates had been Gruesome Hewson.
Alan sat back to think of the implications. With Reggie and Randy both behind bars, perhaps someone had decided this was a good time to take over their operations. He checked to see if there had been any rumours of a new gang moving into the neighbourhood but found nothing.
Among their other known associates were Fingers Kilbride, so-named because he had lost two digits in an accident with some gelignite, and Nicos the Greek, who had a good line in drug smuggling. It struck Alan that here, in this beautiful paradise of the Island, was a veritable United Nations of rogues.
He thought again for a few moments about Victor. He was such a worrier, one of those little nervous men who wouldn’t say boo to a goose. Not very prepossessing, young Victor – a nice lad, though. If more were like him there would be less crime in the world.
Victor had checked the telephone directory and Yellow Pages but there didn’t seem to be any branch of the Banque Prive Suisse or the National Bank of Jersey in the area. That meant that the nearest place was probably London. He toyed with the idea of ringing Directory Enquiries but they would only give him telephone numbers. What he needed were addresses so that he could return the cheques by post with a note of explanation. Perhaps he should treat himself to a little holiday and actually go to Jersey and Switzerland? The idea perked him up and for a while he imagined the rugged coast of Jersey where people spoke French, and the Swiss mountains with chalets and cowbells tinkling in the wind and the people yodelling to each other from valley to valley. Then he realised that now he had Fluffy, he couldn’t just up sticks and go. Perhaps in the future he could put him into kennels for a few days, but certainly not yet when he was so unsettled. Another time he might be able to ask that Charity if she would take Fluffy in for a week, or even come to stay while he was away. The thought of her in his cottage, perhaps sleeping in his bed, was too disturbing and he carefully stored the second cheque along with the first one. Use a gun next time. Whatever did that mean?
Charity was bored. Vacuuming the house, putting things in the washing machine, planning a nice vegetarian meal for herself and her father nowhere near filled her time. Until she found a job she needed a hobby, something to exercise her mind. The death of Gruesome Hewson and the discovery of Mauler Maguire were just the sort of mysteries that inspired her. It wasn’t that she had no faith in the local constabulary. On the contrary, she knew from her father that they were busy with a campaign to catch speeding motorists and another one to tackle litter louts. While they were thus engaged, she would see if she could discover anything that might help them with their enquiries.
As soon as she had finished her chores, she set off for Shanklin Chine to see if she could find any evidence the police might have overlooked. Walking along the footpath she felt a frisson of anxiety. This was the sort of place where people could easily lie in wait for innocent targets, tumbling them into the rush of the water. She fought down her anxiety and stood on tiptoe to see as far down as she could, but it was dark down by the water and there was nothing she could identify. For all she knew, another body might lurk down there. She stopped to listen in case someone might be calling out, but all she could hear was the peremptory command of a blackbird and the swirling hiss of the water. Walking on, she passed a place where a bench rested in the lea of some trees. Two young people sat on it, holding hands. They watched her progress until she had rounded the bend where the water emptied into the stream below. Here she was confronted with blue police tape, roping off the area. This was the point at which Mauler had been dragged from the water and given the kiss of life – to no avail – by a young constable who would rather not have done so. Apart from scrape marks on the bank there was nothing of interest, so Charity walked back the way she had come.
The young couple had gone, and opposite the seat she noticed footprints and stopped to examine them. It looked as if someone had been stamping around; then at the edge of the bank there were scour marks, as if somebody might have dug his feet into the ground to keep his balance. Could it have been here that Mauler stumbled into the water? She remembered that the newspaper had mentioned puncture wounds to his ankle. Perhaps he had been injected with anaesthetic so that he couldn’t fight back. The mud at the edge of the bank bore other indentations – human shoes and what looked like a tiny dog’s paw, or possibly a fox.
Pleased with her discovery she went across and sat on the bench, staring at the chasm and hoping for inspiration. The bench was quite rough and a close examination revealed a variety of threads caught in the wood from various garments.
The trouble was, hundreds of people might have rested here. There was nothing to suggest that Mauler’s murderer had been one of them, other than the report by the young couple that they had seen a sinister man with a white dog. To her mind, sinister men were tall and skeletal, clothed in raincoats and hats with brims showing only their wild, deranged eyes. She glanced over her shoulder in case anyone of similar appearance was creeping up on her. Rubbing her hand along the bench, she found some fine white strands of what could be fur. She placed it in her palm and it curled gently around. Perhaps this was a clue? The paper had mentioned a white dog. The coup
le mentioned in the paper had seen a sinister man with a dog. Could this possibly have come from the Angel of Death? Wrapping it in a tissue and slipping it into her handbag, she quickly stood up and hastened for the safety of the village. Whether she had discovered anything worthwhile she had no idea. Perhaps this detection lark wasn’t as easy as she had at first imagined.
At the station, Alan had come across an interesting connection. The night before, one of the local old lags, Bertie Rhodes, had been brought in for vagrancy. It was really a humanitarian act on the part of the constable on the beat, because it had been an unseasonably cold night and Bertie was found huddled in a doorway looking rather the worse for wear. He wouldn’t be charged. After a night in the cells and a cooked breakfast from the station canteen, he would be released with a caution – until next time.
Alan had had many dealings with Bertie over the years. To his knowledge, the worst that he had ever done was to nick a packet of fags from the corner shop. He felt sorry for the poor old boy. His release was usually accompanied by a handout of a fiver to get himself something to eat later in the day, and an encouragement to book a bed at the local hostel.
It was Alan who took Bertie what he thought of as breakfast in bed. The old man was curled up in his blanket, blissfully snoring.
‘Wakey wakey.’ He made a business of unlocking the cell door and took a deep breath of comparatively clean air before entering the foetid enclosure inhabited by the old man. Bertie grunted and grumbled and managed to sit up. He was not a pretty sight. A bath, a haircut and a change of clothes would go a long way to improving his appearance, not to mention his smell.
