Stormfront

by R. S. Sutton

  Arms folded on the embankment parapet; Valerie looked across the water. ‘Did you ever meet your brother’s assistant?’

  ‘Jenny Lawson? Just the once, or maybe twice. Alan ran that side without much input from me. Like I said, much of my time was spent out of the country.’

  ‘What was she like?’

  ‘Oh, mid-thirties, I suppose. Brunette. Your height and weight.’ He put his foot on the low stone ledge, twisting it from side to side. ‘But as to her personality, I don’t know really. Why, what’s this all about?’

  ‘We can’t find her. Or at least…’ she stopped and, taking careful aim at the Houses of Parliament, flicked a pebble from the top of the wall, ‘the insurance company can’t find her. You may be in for a bit of a wait.’

  ‘Not worried about that, but I would like you to answer a question.’

  ‘Okay, if I can.’

  ‘Who are you really working for?’ Before she could say anything, he continued, ‘It’s not just Southern and East, is it?’

  ‘I’m working for the insurance company,’ she replied innocently. ‘They just keep adding more and more questions. Some of them stupid, like asking the same thing two different ways. There’s just got to be some middle-management jerk in there justifying their salary. I don’t mind, I’ve got them paying me a retainer.’ Following the pebble with a half-finished cigarette, she watched it drop into the water as the last few words drifted away on a stream of exhaled smoke.

  ‘You don’t trust me, Valerie.’

  She turned around and stroked his cheek. ‘I wouldn’t get into bed with anyone I didn’t trust.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘Blimey, Dennis, I’m beginning to think you fancy me,’ she said, answering her mobile. Her frivolous joking tailed off as she listened to what he had to say. ‘For Christ’s sake, Dennis.’ She nodded a couple of times and then said, ‘Yes, I’ll go now.’

  She put the phone away and popped a Tic Tac into her mouth, momentarily moving it around her tongue before grinding it between her teeth. ‘Sorry,’ she said, pushing her parted lips onto Preston’s. ‘The call of trouble.’

  ‘Tonight?’

  Valerie stroked Preston’s cheek and lingered over a goodbye kiss. ‘I’ll call.’

  ***

  ‘Down the steps,’ said the constable, looking at Valerie’s security pass. ‘Not a pretty sight.’

  To the right, six railway lines, flanked by a battery of signals, disappeared under a bridge. Across the other side, tall, discoloured tenements, topped by satellite dishes, shrouded the scene with a dark shadow. The noise of shunting wagons echoed from the left where the rails vanished around a bend.

  When she reached the bottom, another officer looked at her pass and called to a plainclothes man squatting next to a body skewed up beside the high sidewall. From above, a broken pipe dripped water onto the crumpled corpse.

  ‘Lady here with a security pass, boss.’

  The man got up, put his hands above his head and gently stretched his back. ‘What?’

  ‘Lady here; she’s carrying a blue card.’

  The plainclothes officer gave one more twist of his neck. ‘Getting too bloody old for this.’ His grey hair was thinning, and although the face was deeply lined, Valerie put him at no more than fifty. ‘What the hell do you lot want with this? The guy’s been hit by a train.’

  Valerie stepped around the victim’s legs and looked into the grey, lifeless face of Hardy. ‘How long’s he been dead, anyone know?’

  ‘Doctor’s gone,’ he said, waving a couple of men forward with a stretcher. ‘He reckons early hours of the morning, but we’ll know more when he’s taken to the mortuary. Anyway, what do you want with him?’

  ‘Oh, nothing special. Just a couple of loose ends.’

  ‘I’m Watkins, by the way,’ he said, taking a cheroot from a leather case. ‘DI Watkins.’ He lit the miniature cigar and held out his hand.

  ‘Stone,’ said Valerie taking his firm handshake. ‘Valerie Stone.’

  Standing to one side, they watched the two stretcher-bearers struggle back to road level.

  ‘You can’t tell me any more?’ said Watkins, looking around the trackside. ‘Or won’t?’

  ‘I presume there’ll be a preliminary look at the body when they get it back. I’ll call round, if that’s okay?’

  ‘Sure, sure,’ he said, seemingly used to getting brushed off, ‘give us a couple of hours.’

  ***

  There was a marked drop in temperature as Valerie walked into the autopsy room.

  ‘Come and look at this,’ said Watkins, waving her towards Hardy’s body. He pointed at bruising across the shins and arms. Valerie stepped aside as the mortician started to remove blood from around the face, while his assistant measured and copied down the lengths of the bruises and gashes. ‘And this,’ said Watkins.

  Valerie flinched as she looked at the cluster of what looked like cigarette burns on his groin and penis. She said nothing.

  Watkins turned, leaning his backside on the table, and looked directly at Valerie. ‘Don’t get them on the local commuter run.’ Folding his arms, he kept his eyes locked on hers.

  ‘What killed him?’ she asked, deflecting his question.

  ‘Well, it wasn’t the six-fifteen to Potters Bar… was it, Miss Valerie Stone?’

  Valerie could tell his brain was whirring along, gathering information. He was clever. But, she wondered, was he straight? She had no idea of who she could trust and, although she thought it unlikely, that included David Preston.

  ‘No, it wasn’t the train,’ she echoed quietly.

  ‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on? Or are we going to go along playing independent blind man’s bluff?’

  She wanted help from someone and the inspector seemed of the old school. Was he old-school straight? Or old-school had enough of long hours and low pay?

  She was saved from a decision when a shout came from the other room. ‘Tea in here if anyone’s interested.’

  Valerie studied the inspector’s quizzical face as she sipped at a chipped Arsenal mug. ‘I know of someone else with similar bruising and burns. Not in the same place,’ she added hurriedly, ‘but similar.’

  ‘And this person, dead?’

  ‘No, not dead, but most likely would have been if…’ Trying to weigh him up, she scrutinised the experienced face. He wasn’t tall, barely her height. Maybe a stone overweight, but no more. He wore unfashionable round glasses. The little shrimp of a moustache, below a bulbous nose, looked as if it may scamper off at any moment. In shapeless trousers and checked sports coat, he was dressed like a favourite uncle. The drip of egg yolk on his tie had been vigorously scraped, but the shadow remained. Although pleasant, his aftershave was inexpensive. She noted the basic Seiko on his wrist and moved over to the window.

  ‘Tell me…’ She held the mug between two hands while pointing a forefinger. ‘Cars out there, which one is yours?’

  ‘What?’ he said incredulously. ‘Car?’ The last thing he needed was frivolous chitchat.

  ‘Humour me. Which of the cars in the car park is yours?’

  Watkins swung his eyes to the ceiling as he went over. ‘Bloody car… that one.’ He pointed to an old silver Ford Focus. ‘Jesus,’ he muttered, ‘car.’

  ‘You got an office here, somewhere private?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve got the use of one. Why?’

  ‘Lead on, Macduff.’

  She followed him down a short corridor and into an office cluttered with filing cabinets, boxes and, in one corner, a single table and chair.

  ‘Now what’s this all about?’ He leant on the table as Valerie dropped the door latch and handed him her jacket. ‘For Christ’s sake, steady on,’ he said as she peeled off her T-shirt. ‘What the bloody hell are you doing? I’m a married… Oh my sweet
Lord,’ he said as she turned her back. ‘Oh, my good God.’

  After pulling the top back on, she pushed her hair into place and held out her hand. ‘Jacket.’

  Watkins handed it over and sat down. ‘Jesus, I’ve a daughter your age.’

  ‘Hope she’s got a steadier job than mine.’

  ‘Okay, Miss Stone, or may I call—’

  ‘Yes, of course. Valerie.’

  ‘So where to now?’

  ‘We could go to the only place I know that’s connected with this business.’ Valerie opened the door as Watkins stood up. ‘You got one or two officers you can trust?’

  ‘Trust? Oh, bloody marvellous. We’ve got rotten apples in the barrel, have we?’

  ‘I know of one, and where there’s one…’

  ‘Yes, I’ve got some good ones.’

  The inspector grimaced when Valerie asked if they were authorised to carry firearms. ‘Jesus, we really are in the Secret Service. What are you, MI5?’

  ***

  ‘I’ll be your oppo,’ said Valerie as they approached the familiar house. ‘Not sure we’ll find anything, but you’re the professional.’ She quickly showed her security pass, which may as well have been gibberish for all the elderly woman knew. ‘Stone,’ she said, ‘Sergeant Stone. This is Inspector Watkins. May we come in?’

  From her first faltering words, it was clear the woman was totally clueless as to what had been happening. ‘How can I help?’ Not questioning their right or reason to enter, she hung on to the door as they swept in.

  ‘May we have a look around?’ Watkins glanced down the hallway. ‘There have been a number of break-ins. Expensive places like this. We’re trying to catch them, of course, but in the meantime we might be able to give some advice. Are you the owner?’

  ‘No, no,’ she stammered, ‘my husband and I are from a house-sitting agency. We only arrived a few hours ago.’

  ‘Don’t suppose you can get me one of those warrant cards?’ asked Watkins as they left the old lady in the lounge with her husband.

  ‘What, security?’

  Steadying himself on the iron rail, he followed Valerie into the cellar. ‘Thinking more of commissioner.’

  Valerie thought the inspector talented, but he was independent and had likely stepped on too many toes to climb further up the ladder. He was stuck and would stay at the same rank until he retired.

  ‘See what I can do.’

  Trying to rid herself of the memory, she rubbed the backs of her hands as Watkins held the door into the room in which she’d been kept. It was brilliant white, the smell of paint heavy in the air from redecoration in the last twenty-four hours.

  ‘Just like a couple of other places I’ve seen,’ she said, telling him of the boat and abandoned fort that had been scrupulously cleaned. Moving from room to room only revealed the same. The house was spotless. Even the carpet and table in the cards room had been replaced.

  Watkins sent the two constables around the grounds. Offering a cheroot, he listened to Valerie tell him everything since Rosemary Benson had walked into the office.

  ‘You know what I think?’ he said when she’d finished. ‘I think you’ve been hung out to dry.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh, not by the insurance company, but by whoever it is that has their claws into you. They lost a man on the inside and you dropped into their lap. Manna from bloody heaven. Who’s got you, MI5? Special Branch?’ Her only reply was a noncommittal shrug of the shoulders. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He blew un-inhaled smoke to one side as he watched Valerie draw deep into her lungs. ‘Whatever part of the haunted house has you in its grip, they’re all the same. By the way, I don’t think Preston is in on it. He’s had too many chances to throw you beneath the bus.’

  ‘I was hoping someone else would be thinking the same as me—’

  ‘Claude, it’s Claude.’ Seeing her amused look, he smiled. ‘I know, I know. There can be some devious stunts performed when families get together at the font.’

  ‘Suits you.’

  ‘Any more quips like that and you can work the rest out on your own.’ He dropped his cheroot to the ground as Valerie smiled at hers and kept smoking. ‘You’re the bait to tempt out the sharks. And we’re not just talking bent coppers.’

  ‘Think I worked that one out for myself. Trouble is, we’ve got two dead and, not counting me, another beaten within an inch of her life.’

  ‘Stakes are high, Valerie.’

  The two officers returned, shaking their heads. ‘Nothing, boss.’

  A moment later Valerie’s phone rang. It was Preston asking to see her. ‘I’m tied up at the moment,’ she told him, but he was insistent, almost fraught. ‘Sorry Claude, got to fly.’

  ***

  She was once again escorted up to the penthouse apartment overlooking the Thames. But this time she did manage a smile and quick “thank you” before Robins, pressing the button, disappeared below.

  Preston’s “sorry to call you away” and Valerie’s “this had better be good” got mixed together as she walked in.

  He handed her a large tumbler of ice smothered in Southern Comfort. ‘Think you’re going to need that.’ He took a drink of his scotch and pushed his lips together.

  Valerie sank into one of the wonderful leather chairs and let her head flop back as she closed her eyes. Wanting a few seconds to herself, she held up a hand while going through the ritual of washing the amber liquor around her mouth before letting it trickle down her throat.

  ‘Okay,’ she said as the glow spread through her chest, ‘I can see the apartment’s not on fire.’

  Taking the seat opposite, Preston leant forward, his elbows on the armrests, and, as if afraid someone might hear, whispered, ‘Had a phone call.’ Not sure of how to proceed, he got up and walked to the balcony.

  Remaining seated, Valerie said nothing, watching the thick liquid as she swirled it around. ‘Who the hell are you, Valerie?’ A perplexed anger flushed his face. ‘And I don’t mean a minor innocent investigating an insurance claim.’

  Draining her glass, she followed him to the balcony. ‘Suppose you tell me what has happened,’ she said, taking out a cigarette. Nodding his approval, she flicked the Zippo and inhaled. After the small Davidoffs, the smoke failed to give the same satisfaction.

  ‘Someone phoned and told me to call off my new girlfriend… that is if I didn’t want to see her floating down the Thames.’

  ‘Bit late for that,’ she murmured, blowing smoke out into the evening air.

  ‘What?’

  Dismissively, Valerie shook her head. ‘Nothing, nothing, just muttering. Take no notice. Mention me by name?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ he said sarcastically. ‘Got girlfriends everywhere, running all over the south coast and getting their secretaries beaten up. Everyday occurrence.’ Once again, he lowered his voice as he ground out the rest. ‘Course they mentioned your bloody name. What the hell’s going on?’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, going back inside and pouring another drink, ‘pulling the roof down on top of us isn’t enough? You want to go all out for the bloody jackpot?’

  Trying to keep this new side of Preston calm, she continued quietly, ‘Tell me what else.’

  ‘The call was on my personal mobile. There’s no more than a dozen people got the number. Only close friends, one or two business contacts, that’s it. Only people I want to talk with.’

  She smiled. ‘Is that the number I’ve got? Am I one of the chosen few?’

  ‘Course you are… arrogant bloody cow.’

  ‘Come on, what else? Everything you can remember.’

  ‘It was short. Told me, no, ordered me to stop you doing whatever it is you are doing.’

  ‘Did they say what?’

  ‘No, they were as bloody aggravating as you. Not a bloody thing, just stop. Bugger
off to paradise and set up home with me.’ He managed a half-grin while offering Valerie a refill. ‘Must say I agree with that bit.’ She shook her head, looking around for somewhere to put her cigarette. ‘Said they knew where your office was. Knew the car you drive. Curiously didn’t mention where you hang your hat. But I don’t suppose many do. And that includes me.’

  ‘And the killer punch, David? What else?’

  Preston spoke slowly and deliberately. ‘I told you I’d only met her a couple of times, so I can’t be sure, but it sounded like Alan’s assistant… I know it doesn’t make sense. The thing is, you’re in something rather nasty right up to your pretty little neck. What are we going to do?’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Yes, we. You’re telling me nothing, but I’m mixed up in this, one way or another… whatever it is.’

  ‘Think I’d better get going.’ She dropped her cigarette into the only ashtray and selected a bottle of mineral water from the fridge. ‘May I?’

  ‘I’m coming with you.’

  ‘That’s very sweet, David,’ she softly stroked his cheek, ‘but I don’t even know where yet.’

  He disappeared into the bedroom before hastily returning with a backpack. ‘I’m coming with you,’ he repeated firmly.

  ‘Okay, okay, but like I said, I don’t know where.’

  ‘My place in Poole.’

  ‘They know you, they know where your house is,’ said Valerie.

  ‘Okay, I’ll drive while you look up a self-catering cottage somewhere; should be plenty at the moment, schools aren’t on holiday.’

  ‘My place first, need to pick up a few things.’

  As well as toiletries and a few clothes from the houseboat, she wrapped the Glock and ammunition in a towel before stuffing them into the bottom of a grip.

  One night in the car was not a problem but wanting to keep her injuries from Preston for the two nights at the cottage, Valerie gave him the usual excuse by patting her abdomen and saying, ‘Sorry, cramp, time of the month, I’m afraid.’