by A K Reynolds
‘I’m retiring, Jo,’ he told me. ‘You could call this my farewell letter to my former life. I’d like you to have a copy.’
He thrust the book towards me. I took it from him and read the back cover. It promised explosive information, dark secrets known only to a handful of bent coppers, and more violence than a Lee Child novel. It was, of course, Muldoon’s autobiography. He’d dedicated it to me. I wasn’t altogether comfortable with that, but there was no point in protesting. It was already in print.
‘You saved my arse and I’ll never forget that.’
When I got the book home, I found Muldoon had written a message on the fly-leaf: If you ever need help, look me up Jo. I’ll have your back just like you had mine. Yours, Duke. Beneath it, he’d written his address, which, if I remembered rightly, was somewhere remote in the Peak District.
I needed to get to his place. If anyone could help me, Muldoon could. He knew how to deal with the criminal classes. He spoke their violent language. He’d be able to protect me. Moreover, there was no way anyone would be able to track me down if I stayed with Muldoon for a while. He wasn’t a friend or relative, so there was no reason for anyone to suspect I’d ever spend time with him. There was only one problem. I couldn’t remember that damned address he’d moved to.
When I searched online I couldn’t find him. That meant I needed to get hold of the book he’d written his address down in. The trouble was, it was in the Bohm storage unit in the front room of my house, and there was no telling if Hench or someone else with a similar lack of goodwill towards me would be patrolling the area. I’d have to take my chances and get it, even though it meant running the gauntlet of Bandana Man, Hench, and possibly others I didn’t yet know about.
A taxi would’ve been the obvious way to get there, but I didn’t dare use one. The risk that a local taxi firm might be a front for laundering drug money, with a hotline to Hench and his minions, was too big a risk to take. So I’d have to walk, a risk in itself. The one thing I had going for me was that there would no longer be a police presence at the house. Being in my line of work, I knew how the police operated. Once they’d got their forensic evidence, they’d have no more interest in the crime scene. And I knew they’d got it. I’d seen them collecting it. They would’ve completed that job within twenty-four hours of arresting me. So they’d be long gone by now.
I waited till dusk before setting off, in hope that the poor visibility would help me get there without being seen and identified. It was my good fortune that it was raining heavily when I emerged from the Lamb Inn, compromising my visibility even more than the lack of daylight, though I cursed when I found myself soaked to my goose-pimpled skin before I’d walked ten yards.
On a normal day it would have taken about two hours for me to walk from Albert street west to my house on Scales Avenue, but this wasn’t a normal day. I had to keep my eyes peeled and flee behind whatever cover there was whenever I saw a car which looked like it might be driven by a drug dealer (this meant anything expensive and vulgar, especially if it had tinted windows). I also had to take a roundabout route.
Knowing the area I lived in helped me. After dark, I was able to make my way into the back garden of a house on Cheltenham road. It was adjacent to the back garden of my own house, and separated from it by a fence made of panelled wood. The fence was about six feet high, and climbing over it was not a realistic option, due to the fact my feet would have little or nothing to get a purchase on, and due to the noise it would make. So I pulled the neighbour’s wheelie bin from where it stood on his tarmac drive up to the corner of his garden. This manoeuvre had to be done slowly and carefully because of the rumbling noise the wheels made on the tarmac. With the bin in place I was able to climb on it and vault the fence into my own back garden. As I landed, I bent my knees as much as possible to stifle the dull thud I made on landing. Then, crouching low, I scuttled across the lawn to the back door. As I expected, there was no police tape blocking it off, not that I would’ve let that stop me.
Once inside, I made my way around the house by means of the light coming in through the windows. What I saw of my home shocked me. Drawers had been pulled out of chests and tipped upside down. Books and pictures were strewn over the floor. The place had been completely turned over. I’d known the police would search it and confiscate all our devices, but I hadn’t expected this. It amounted to vandalism. I felt myself becoming angry with the forces of law and order. Then it occurred to me that the police might not be responsible. They might have come in, done a search and made a mess, and later, Hench or someone else might’ve come in and made a bigger mess. I told myself anger was futile and searched the floor of the front room for Muldoon’s book. I was painfully aware that I was right next to the sofa which had become Tara’s deathbed two days before. Tears filled my eyes at the memory. Holding them back as best I could, I got on with looking for the book. When I found it I ripped out the flyleaf with Muldoon’s address on it and stuffed it into my pocket. It made me feel moderately optimistic.
The thought of venturing back out into the chill night air was not an attractive prospect. I was shivering and soaking wet. But I’d have to suck it up.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
FRIDAY
I was about to leave when it occurred to me I ought to listen to the messages on our landline. Sarina might have used it to leave a message for me. Faint though that hope was, I couldn’t ignore it, so I picked up the receiver and dialled the number to listen to our voicemails.
Sarina hadn’t left any messages.
Someone else had though.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
‘Hello, this is Marcellus Slater from Kite, Kite and Wax solicitors. I’m calling you in connection with the passing of Ms Tara Finnegan. First, let me say I’m very sorry for your loss. Second, I need to speak to Ms Josephine Finnegan in person, urgently. Let me explain. Tara contacted me a few days ago. She seemed agitated during our meeting, and she left something with me. Tara said I had to give it to her sister Jo in the event of her death, if her death was suspicious. My contacts in the police tell me Tara’s death was suspicious. Tara told me to give the item to Jo within hours of her passing. She said Jo would know what to do with it, and she seemed to think lives depended on it. Given the manner of Tara’s death, I suspect the item is extremely important. So, Jo, if you pick up this message, please get in touch with me ASAP to collect it. Make sure you bring evidence of your identity. Thank you. I look forward to hearing from you just as soon as you hear this.’
My hands trembled as I put down the receiver. Did Marcellus Slater have the thing I’d nearly been killed for? Was it the reason Tara was dead? I had to find out. But in order to do so, I had to get evidence of my identity to prove to Slater who I was. I went to rummage through my jacket to get my purse, the jacket I’d left on the newel post at the bottom of the stairs. But the jacket was missing, and with it my purse, my ID, and all the money I’d taken from Jenrack et al. The discovery chilled me. That cash, and possibly my jacket, would have DNA linking me to Jenrack’s death. This thought was swiftly followed by another, at least equally bleak thought: Longford and Doyle would have my DNA on them. In fact, traces of my DNA would be all over the ground floor of the so-called safe house they’d imprisoned me in. No doubt a lab somewhere was already preparing a report for the police that would send me to prison for the murders of Jenrack, Longford and Doyle.
I could plead self-defence when it came to trial, but would it wash when I’d killed a number of victims on separate occasions? Only if I was lucky enough to be tried in front of a highly credulous jury. Once is a mistake, as the saying goes, twice is carelessness, and as for three . . .
I was about to go looking for a form of identification elsewhere in the house when I noticed, in the darkness, a white rectangle on the doormat. It was an official looking letter. I picked it up and put it in my jacket. Then, placing my concerns in the back of my mind, went to the study, got on my hands and knees
and groped around in the darkness for a bill, any bill, with my address on it. I found the most recent electricity bill, a council tax bill, and my passport.
The sky was dark, a silvery glint hung low, betraying the hidden presence of the moon as I left by the back door. Dragging my wheelie bin to the fence, I used it to climb back over the wall by stepping onto the one I’d left on the other side. I skulked through the garden of the person who lived behind me to their drive and left the bin where I’d found it. From there I crept stealthily past their two cars and emerged onto Cheltenham road, then set off walking on a journey I’d normally have done by car. I was wearing a new disguise: a green trapper hat, which I’d bought during a holiday in America, pulled low with the ear-flaps down.
I walked towards Manchester centre slowly, on the alert for threat. It was gone 10 p.m. The streets were quiet and getting quieter, and I felt horribly exposed. My route took me past a cheap bed-and-breakfast place and I hurried inside, booked a room for the night, and did my best to sleep. Tired though I was, I struggled with this simple task. Everything I had on my troubled mind went round and round in my head. I woke up at 4.30 a.m. and by 6.00 a.m. was back on the streets, doing my best to look like a manual worker heading for her place of work.
Like many of the solicitors firms in Manchester, Kite, Kite and wax were based in St Peter’s Square off Oxford street. I got there embarrassingly early at 6.30 a.m. I found a newsagent and a coffee bar that were both open, and by availing myself of the wares of the first followed by the wares of the second, I was able to while away the time until the solicitors office opened in relative comfort.
Prior to reading the newspapers I’d bought myself, I read the letter I’d picked up off the doormat. It was from Barclays bank, and it informed me that I was behind with my mortgage payments, I hadn’t answered their previous correspondence, and if I didn’t get in touch soon to discuss the matter, they’d repossess the house. According to the bank I was mortgaged up to the hilt. The bank had clearly made a massive mistake. For one thing, I didn’t bank with Barclays and never had, and for another, there was no mortgage on my house. I’d paid cash for it, thanks to the generosity of my grandparents who’d given me a large sum of money. I put the letter in my pocket. Then I called the account I did use at Santander and cancelled my credit and debit cards.
It was broad daylight when I left the coffee bar and crossed St Peter’s Square, an impressive open area bounded on one side by the Manchester library, a structure resembling the Pantheon in Rome, and on the others by a collection of office buildings. Kite, Kite and wax were on the second floor of Century House, one of the Victorian buildings. It was six stories of Limestone grandeur with a mansard roof like that of a French chateau, and Doric pilasters that rose three stories above the imposing entrance. I went in via a massive panelled door and took the stairs rather than the retrofitted lift to reception.
A young woman behind the desk greeted me with a charming smile. ‘How can I help you?’
‘I need to see Marcellus Slater. Urgently.’
‘Have you an appointment?’
‘I’m afraid not.’ A frown creased her forehead. ‘But if you tell him who I am, I’m sure he’ll want to meet me right away,’ I added.
She didn’t look convinced.
‘And your name is?’
‘Jo Finnegan.’
Still frowning, she dialled a number on the internal line.
‘I have a Ms Jo Finnegan to see you. That’s right, F-i-n-n-e-g-a-n. Okay, I’ll let her know.’ She put the receiver down. ‘Please take a seat Ms Finnegan. He’ll be with you in a minute.’
There were a couple of grey leather sofas in a corner with a low table next to them which had a selection of newspapers and magazines on it. I sat on one of the sofas, made myself as comfortable as I could under the somewhat trying circumstances, picked up one of the newspapers, and read a heart-warming story in the Daily Mail about a cat stuck up a tree that’d been rescued by an off-duty fireman using a ladder supplied by a generous neighbour.
‘Ms Finnegan?’
Looking up from the pages of the newspaper I saw a slim bespectacled man holding a door open that led to a dark corridor. He had a grey suit, a grey Van-Dyke beard, and short grey hair combed into a neat side parting. Even his pallor looked a bit on the grey side. He looked as if he’d spent far too much time indoors hunched over paperwork.
‘That’s me.’
He made a beckoning gesture with his right arm, adding unnecessarily, ‘Would you like to come this way?’
Casting the newspaper to one side I stood up and followed him into the corridor. He led me to a room containing a small conference table and six chairs. I sat in one of the chairs and looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to sit down and give whatever he had for me. He remained standing.
‘Er, could I please see your ID?’
I placed my passport and bills on the table. He picked them up and left the room, mumbling, ‘Just have to copy these. Back in a mo.’
When he returned, Slater was carrying a brown manilla envelope and a sheet of A4 paper with a few lines of text on it. He placed the sheet of paper in front of me. It read:
I, Josephine Finnegan, of 4 Scales Avenue Chorlton Manchester, acknowledge receipt of a brown envelope, contents unknown, from Kite, Kite and Wax LLP solicitors of Lancashire House, St Peter’s Square, Manchester.
Signed: ____________________ (Josephine Finnegan)
Date: __________
I devoted approximately a second to reading it then signed with my customary flourish and inserted the date. Slater put the envelope in front of me on the desk. On the front it had the briefest of messages handwritten in blue ballpoint pen. I recognised the handwriting as Tara’s.
FTAO Jo Finnegan from Tara Finnegan.
The envelope was a mere three inches wide by four inches long, with a distinct bulge in the middle. I picked it up. Something solid and flattish with rounded corners was inside. Slater moved to the door and held it open, clearly a hint. I got to my feet and followed him out.
The sun had emerged while I’d been indoors, making St Peter’s Square an attractive place to linger, had I not been a hunted woman with a mysterious envelope in my pocket. Somewhat incongruously, given that the weather was getting distinctly warmer, I began walking back to the coffee bar I’d spent over two hours in. I ordered a black coffee and sat at the same table as before, as it gave me a good view of any potential threats that might walk through the door. Then I pulled Tara’s envelope from my pocket, opened it, and took out the contents.
The objects it contained turned out to be a small mobile phone – a Galaxy Mini – and a note on white paper in Tara’s handwriting, written using the same blue ballpoint pen she’d used on the envelope.
Dear Jo,
I hope you never have to read this. If you do, it means something’s happened to me, probably because of James. Ultimately, Martin Von Koss is the cause. I have to warn you that the information on this mobile phone could blight your life. But someone has to do something about it. I wasn’t brave enough. I think you might be.
With all my love and more than a few regrets, Tara.
Did this mean Tara had died because of her boyfriend James? If so, what had he done? And how was Martin Von Koss involved? Von Koss was Tara’s employer. He was a prominent businessman who knew everyone who was anyone in Manchester. He was famous for the parties he threw which were attended by footballers from Manchester’s high-profile clubs, members of its city council, musicians, actors, members of the police force, and the occasional Tory MP. He was also well-known for his portfolio of environmentally friendly businesses, all of them run on a zero-carbon basis. I hadn’t expected Von Koss to play a role in this. I’d assumed Jake Devlin was behind everything. Devlin surely had a part to play, but what was it? And why hadn’t Tara mentioned him in her note? I couldn’t put the pieces together.
When my coffee mug was empty, I walked with my he
ad down to Barclays on Mosley street. It had an ashlar stone frontage and a fortress-like appearance that was most appropriate to its business. All the bank tellers were occupied so I joined the long line of customers waiting to be served. I kept my head bowed as I inched my way forwards in the queue. I was served after ten minutes by a man about the same age as me with a nametag on his pale blue shirt. He eyed me through the plexiglass screen separating us with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. Given the way I looked, that wasn’t so surprising.
‘How can I help you?’ he said.
Reaching into my jacket I pulled out the letter about the non-existent mortgage that I’d found on my doormat earlier in the morning.
‘It’s about this.’ I pushed the letter through the gap at the bottom of the screen.
He picked it up and stared at it. After a moment he said, ‘What seems to be the problem?’
‘There has been a mistake. I’m being threatened with the repossession of my house because I haven’t paid my mortgage, but I don’t have a mortgage. What’s more, I’ve never banked with Barclays or used any of their financial products in my life.’
‘And you are?’
Pushing my passport towards him, I said, a tad tersely, ‘Jo Finnegan.’
‘I see.’
His fingers moved over his keyboard and he frowned. Then he lost the frown and looked at me, keeping his facial expression neutral. Even so, I could tell from something in his eyes he secretly thought I was unhinged.
‘I’m sorry, there’s no mistake. It’s all correct, Ms Finnegan. You do owe the bank a substantial sum of money, and proceedings will be taken against you if you don’t pay the arrears on your mortgage within the next seven days. Alternatively, you could make an appointment to see an adviser and agree proposals to bring your account back in line with where it should be.’
