by Tony McHale
“What I forgot to mention,” said the Speaker, “was how much we raised on the auction. The total is one hundred and thirty-two thousand pounds. I think we should give ourselves a big round of applause.”
There were whoops and cheers from the diners who had paid eight hundred quid a head for the privilege of being there. With a big smile the Speaker left the stage and Charlie knew that all this effort must help someone, but at that moment in time it wasn’t helping him. What Wood had told him was paramount in his thoughts along with his father’s bank statements and the recurring payment of two thousand pounds.
Charlie snapped back into the present when one of the diners, Lloyd Butler, who had become so excited about the money raised, had decided to lead the way by standing on his chair and screaming his approval loudly. What he hadn’t taken into account was the amount of alcohol he’d poured down his throat that evening. This caused his sense of balance to be somewhat uncertain and after only a few seconds the overweight diner had started to wobble and in his efforts to try and stop himself from falling, he reached out to grab hold of anything. It just so happened to be his wife’s piled up hair-do. She reacted in a startled manner, after all her husband was aware of how much her afternoon’s coiffure cost and should have realised she didn’t want it destroyed by him, however drunk he was. In pulling away from him, it threw Lloyd further off his balance. He staggered forward, whilst leaning backwards. Somehow one foot slammed down on the table and the next thing Lloyd knew was that he was lurching head first onto the table. He crash landed, sending, plates, glasses and cutlery flying. The rest of his table let out an audible gasp, as people turned to see what was the cause of the commotion. Mrs Butler was horrified and backed off from the sight of her husband sprawled across the table covered in food and wine.
Before the waiters and the management staff at the Grosvenor could rush to his rescue, Charlie quickly snapped some photos. He knew the Charity wouldn’t want them, but Charlie had an inkling that these photos of a drunken Lloyd Butler, who happened to be Head of Commercial Banking for Barclays, might come in very handy.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
It was after three in the morning when Charlie arrived back at his apartment from the Charity Ball. Carl was right, getting back to work, getting involved in an evening like … that, was just what Charlie needed to motivate him self. But what Carl hadn’t banked on was what Charlie would be motivated to do.
He’d lost count of the number of events he’d covered similar to this evening’s knees-up. But tonight he’d seen it from a totally different perspective. He’d seen it through the eyes of someone who was hurting. Someone who was grieving. He saw the hypocrisy, he saw the shallowness and he saw the naked greed which was hidden behind a façade of caring.
Charlie hung up his tux and flopped on the bed. He was tired, but his mind was formulating what he was going to do next. As he lay there his mobile started to ring. Without thinking he reached over and picked it up knowing it would be Devika. It was always Devika at this time of night.
“Hey … how are you? Where are you?” It was his standard middle of the night greeting to her.
“Mr Ashton?” came the voice that certainly wasn’t Devika’s, but it was female. Charlie quickly came back to reality.
“Yes?”
“My name’s Sonia Bartella. I work for Lloyd Butler. Can I come up and see you.”
“You’re outside my place?”
“Yes … I know it’s late, but there’s something I’d like to clear up with you.”
“In the middle of the night?”
“I find if you leave things to the morning, it can often be too late.”
“Come on up then. I’m at the very top.”
Charlie released the door to the outside and waited for Sonia’s arrival. As soon as she mentioned the name Lloyd Butler he knew what this was about. His instinct was paying off.
Sonia still had on her evening dress. She must have been in her late forties, slender, with almost a school marm expression.
Charlie ushered her into the living room and offered her a drink, which she declined. She wanted to get straight down to business and so did Charlie.
“As I said I work for Lloyd Butler,” Sonia began.
“And you want me to destroy any photos I have of him sprawled over a table drunk as a skunk,” Charlie stated matter of factly.
“I see despite the late hour, you’re ahead of the game.”
“You don’t want them causing any embarrassment.”
“Banking at the moment isn’t the most loved profession in the world …”
“Not just at the moment …|” added Charlie.
“I know you were employed by the Charity and I’m sure they wouldn’t be too happy with you if you didn’t agree to destroy them.”
“You’re assuming I actually care about the Charity.”
Sonia smiled. She was used to people playing games and she quite enjoyed it.
“Okay … I’m asking you nicely, please destroy those photos.”
“No,” replied Charlie without a second’s hesitation. Sonia wasn’t sure what to say. Her smile had disappeared from her face and she was looking very serious. This was a situation and she wasn’t sure how she should handle it. Then she got a break.
“I won’t destroy them,” said Charlie, “but I won’t offer them for publication.”
Sonia looked at him wondering where this was going. Charlie continued: “I intend to keep them.”
“Why?”
“Because I need a favour from you. And as long as I have the photos you will be more inclined to grant me that favour.”
“What sort of favour?”
“I’ll show you.”
Charlie started to leave the room, “Sure you don’t want a drink?” he asked as he left.
“Sure,” she said with a smile in her voice. She was still wondering where the game was headed.
Charlie went into his office. It wasn’t a small room, but it felt cluttered. On his desk were the copies of the bank statements he’s copied at his father’s. He picked them up and looked at them. The truth was he’d found nothing out of place on the business statements, but on the personal statements there was something that was troubling him. On each of the personal statements Charlie had underlined one payment. The payment went out on the same date every month – the 5th. The payment was always the same - two thousand pounds. The only other information was the number of the account the money was paid into. Everything else on the statement made sense to Charlie, but this two thousand pounds a month, twenty-four thousand pounds a year had him thinking. And his only thought was that if he had a child or children with someone else, then this could easily be payment. He headed back into the living room.
Sonia was standing looking out at the view over the Thames. She had a backless dress on and Charlie couldn’t help thinking her back looked really good, but the thought was purely aesthetic and totally sexless.
She turned as she heard him enter the room. He held up the statements.
“You’ve got money problems?” enquired Sonia.
“No. I’ve got money questions. I have a number of a bank account, I need to know who the account belongs to.”
Sonia looked at him, trying to figure out if he was serious.
“It shouldn’t take you too long and if I find out the name of the account holder, then the photos that are so worrying for your boss, will not see light of day.”
“That’s blackmail,” Sonia rightly pointed out.
“I prefer to look on it as a stroke of good luck.”
“Good luck?”
“I had this problem … and Mr Lloyd Butler’s antics tonight could solve them.”
“How do I know I can I trust you? How do I know you won’t go ahead and publish them whatever?”
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Charlie thought for a moment then said, “ Ask Genesis Brown.”
“The presenter?”
“Yeah – ask her if I can be trusted. Do you want her number?”
Sonia gave a little smile. She didn’t know what had happened between Charlie and Genesis, but she’d sat in too many meetings with people trying to sell Lloyd a line about some business venture or other to know when someone was telling the truth or not. In this case she had no doubt this was the truth.
“I need a computer,” she said.
“Will an iPad do?”
“Sure.”
Charlie picked up his iPad which was laid almost carelessly on one of the three sofas in the room. He opened it, tapped in his ‘Passcode” and handed it to her. Sonia took it and sat elegantly with it balanced on her knees.
“Did you enjoy tonight?” asked Charlie politely.
“Not really. I go because I have to,” she said as she tapped away on the iPad. “I’m a glorified carer for Lloyd.”
“He’s got a problem,” Charlie stated.
“Yeah – it’s called booze. I sometimes wonder what the public would think if they knew that this man was in charge of millions of pounds, but is rarely sober for more than a couple of hours a day. Let me look at that account number again.”
Charlie passed her the bank statement.
“This is the one for two thousand?”
“That’s the one.”
She tapped in the number.
“Besides I hate those events.” Sonia threw in the comment as she looked at the iPad screen, waiting for something to load, then: “Okay … the account belongs to a Farrah Gregory. Can I go home now?”
Charlie looked at her – stunned. Farrah! He was paying Farrah two grand a month. That couldn’t be for working at the The Black Dog, her wages would come out of the business account. Farrah had two children … Aaron and Belinda. Could either or both be his father’s? Belinda of course was dead. Maybe her death was what caused Caroline to find out? The marriage disintegrated and eventually his father lost his temper and killed her.
No … that’s just crazy. This whole thing is crazy. He could of course be paying Farrah for working behind the bar out of his personal account. Yes – that’s what this is. Twenty-four thousand pounds a year, good pay for a barmaid. No I know that’s not true … I’m trying to kid myself. There was no reason for him to pay her out of his own account. My father had a relationship with his barmaid. My father has a motive to have killed my mother. Farrah had a motive to kill my mother. Both of them together have a motive.
“Did you hear me? Is it okay if I go now … please?”
Charlie looked at her and just nodded his head.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
For the small population of Beck le Street it had been fairly universally accepted that they were not going to find the killer of Caroline Ashton or Kyle Pearson. These murders were going to remain unsolved. Normally village justice was swift. Either they caught the culprit in the act or they discovered who they were soon after the crime and they were dealt with. But this time the perpetrator was proving very illusive.
Some people thought it was the two youths they’d caught robbing Jenny Pearson’s shop and there was even a movement to head to Whitby, pick them up and see if they could beat a confession out of them. However the movement never gained any real momentum and it faded away. Others talked quietly, but only in pairs of Jed and Farrah’s relationship. A number of people in Beck le Street were aware of the affair, but it was another of those unwritten rules, as long as they weren’t hurting anybody, nobody said anything. But if Caroline had found out and there was speculation that she had found out, then things could have changed.
The journalists had slowly drifted away along with the police. Interest had waned in the press with the common belief that it was a robbery gone wrong. Caroline heard the thieves, as did Kyle in the cellar. Kyle was stabbed and fled, Caroline was taken onto The Moors and killed. And that was it. So press attention had switched to the double homicide of Chief Superintendent Sam Naylor and his wife. There had been quite a number of people brought in for questioning, but nobody had been charged. Wood was convinced that the murders were linked to the murders in Beck le Street, but what that link was he couldn’t find out.
There was however, another tension brewing in the village. Or more specifically it was fermenting in Samsons’ cottage.
“How did the press find out about Georgie?” It was a question that came from nowhere. They hadn’t mentioned it for days, but Cassie knew it was bubbling away inside Tyler and it was only a matter of time before it spilled out like a pan of milk boiling over.
“No idea,” replied Cassie with a full stop in her voice.
But Tyler wasn’t going to let it go.
“I want to know who told them?”
“Maybe they worked it out,” she said optimistically hoping this might end it.
“You fucking what? How could they work it out? They’re not fucking Psychic Sally. No … some fucker told them.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You know don’t you … you fucking know.”
“Course I don’t know. If I’d have known I’d have told you. And will you stop swearing.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want Georgie growing up with a sewer where his mouth should be.”
“He’s not even here.”
“He’s in his room and he may have a lot of things that don’t work properly, but he’s not deaf.”
“I just need to know … okay?” said Tyler grabbing his jacket.
“Where you going?”
“For a drink … you coming?” said Tyler as he left the cottage.
“Georgie …!” she yelled in the direction of his room. “Your dad’s going for a drink … you want to go?”
“Yeah – course,” came the reply.
“I’ll get your wheels.”
As she moved to get the wheelchair, there was the sound of a horn blowing twice.
Ten minutes later Cassie, Tyler and Georgie rolled into The Black Dog. The place was quiet with just Farrah serving on behind the bar. Old Atkinson was in his usual place and there were a couple of other villagers enjoying an early evening drink. Tyler got the drinks and Cassie pushed Georgie over to a table near the dartboard. Tyler stayed at the bar.
“Hey Farrah …” he began. Farrah knew he was after some information, because when he wanted something this was how Tyler always started.
“What you after?
“You were here when the press started asking questions about Georgie, weren’t you?”
“About Georgie?”
“You know …”
Farrah really didn’t want to get into this and she could feel her heart start to race.
“Yeah. I was here.”
“Did he just come out and say it …”
“I don’t know … I don’t remember.”
“Come on Farrah, if you don’t tell me, you know I can go to a dozen people to find out.”
Farrah looked away from him for a moment as if she was thinking about what to do. Then her eyes suddenly whipped back. She knew there was no point holding out.
“They started by asking Charlie how he got on with his parents and why he hadn’t been back here for sixteen years.”
“What did he say?”
“That it was just one of those things and him and his parents got on great.”
“Yeah – right.”
“Then this journalist suddenly came out with it …’Then it was nowt to do with getting a girl pregnant?’ Charlie went white. You could hear a pin drop.”
“This journalist – did he say anything about where he got his info?”
“No. But he kne
w Charlie’s name was on the birth certificate.”
“Do you remember the name of this journalist?” he asked ignoring her last comment.
“No.”
“Do you remember what he was like?”
“A bit like all the rest. Why? What do you want to know for?”
“Someone told him about Georgie’s father … he didn’t just stumble on it … And I want to know who.”
“What for?” Farrah knew what for. Somebody had broken the rules.
Tyler just smiled at her and she knew he knew she knew.
Taking his drink he headed over to join Cassie and Georgie. As he did so into the pub came Lucas and Amos. They exchanged greetings and were about to order their drinks when Tyler stopped them.
“You were in here, weren’t you?”
Lucas and Amos both looked at him, wondering what he was talking about.
“When that journalist asked Charlie Ashton about Georgie,” continued Tyler.
“Yeah,” said Lucas and Amos just nodded.
“Do you know which journalist it was? His name … do you remember his name?”
Lucas looked at Amos with concern in his eyes. Tyler wondered why. Amos kept his cool.
“No … can’t say I do,” was Amos’s steady reply.
“Shame.”
“What’s worrying you Tyler?” Amos’s question wasn’t as even as his reply.
“Somebody gave him the info about our very own David Bailey being Georgie’s biological father. I want him to tell me who.”
“Maybe he just found out,” Lucas said clumsily. He then looked at Amos for approval. None was forthcoming. Amos wished he’d just kept his mouth shut. Tyler picked up on the tension between them.
