Banker's Draft

by Clive Mullis

  ‘You given up resenting us?’ asked Cornwallis, an eyebrow raised.

  MacGillicudy nodded and then grinned. ‘I was pissed off, I admit, but now I’m a bit more philosophical. Weren’t your fault you got handed the case.’

  ‘No, it surprised me as well, but carry on, Jethro,’ said Cornwallis, though whether he meant the pint or the information was anyone’s guess, so MacGillicudy guessed both. It would seem the earlier antipathy had definitely disappeared.

  ‘Someone tried to torch the accountant’s office,’ he continued, as a stony-faced Frankie watched him down his beer. ‘I left Dewdrop guarding the back of the place, but then I heard an almighty kerfuffle. I went through and found a load of oil soaked rags in the doorway. Dewdrop said he went for a leak, so he didn’t see who it was, but I found your friendly cat sitting there and he told me what happened. Apparently, as soon as Dewdrop went out the gate some bloke walked in, carrying some rags, he then opened the back door and dumped them inside. The cat decided to stop it when the bloke tried to strike the match; he clawed him, and apparently, the man just turned and ran. I got there just as Dewdrop walked back in and he says he never saw a thing.’ He slapped the empty glass on the table and wiped his mouth. ‘Ah, that’s better. The arsonist left this with the pile of rags; must have dropped it when the cat attacked.’ He passed over a book of matches. ‘I reckon I’d prefer the bloody cat to join the force, it’d be a darn sight better than the shit I’ve already got.’

  Cornwallis picked up the book of matches and turned it over, looking at the picture on the front, a picture of the House of Assembly, the seat of government. He showed the front to Frankie and then slipped the matches into his pocket. ‘Thanks, Jethro. What do you make of all this?’

  MacGillicudy took a long breath before replying. ‘Make of it all? That’s your job now, but if you really want my opinion, then for what it’s worth, I think you’re playing with the big boys. The murder seems more of an amateur affair, but your accountant disappearing and then this arson attack, well, that’s had a bit more thought to it. They picked their moment and went for it. I’d bet my pension there’s a great deal of money at the bottom of all this.’

  Cornwallis nodded, thinking along the same lines, and this book of matches confirmed it. The matches could only have come from one place; the members bar at the House of Assembly. He saw MacGillicudy sit up straight and then watched as his face contorted into a kind of smile, he then felt a hand rest on his shoulder and knew whom the hand belonged to without even looking around; a warm glow of contentment eased right through him.

  ‘I’ve pulled my last pint now,’ said Rose, sighing in relief. ‘I’m now all yours and I can’t wait to get started.’

  If only, thought Cornwallis, if only that were true. ‘Jethro, meet Rose,’ he said, with a degree of pride. ‘This young lady is now part of my team. Rose, meet Jethro MacGillicudy, a sergeant in the feelers.’

  MacGillicudy couldn’t stand up fast enough. His chair crashed to the ground as his legs knocked it backwards; he turned, a little sheepishly, and picked it up, placing it back on its four legs. Brushing himself down a little, he leant across awkwardly and offered his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said. ‘Did I hear right, you are now working with Cornwallis?’

  ‘I am: as of tonight, I’m the junior member and I’m really looking forward to it. I’ve always wanted to do something like this; are you part of the team as well?’

  ‘Alas no,’ replied Cornwallis interjecting. ‘Jethro declined my offer of employment a few hours ago, something about a lack of sunshine; isn’t that right, Jethro?’

  MacGillicudy to his credit didn’t even blink. ‘Something like that. You know the force would fall apart if I weren’t there to keep it all together, Jack, and besides, what sort of pension would you give me, eh?’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right, Jethro. Shame though, I reckon all of us together would make a great team.’

  *

  Cornwallis woke with a slight ache in his head. The clock on the wall showed it was still early but he couldn’t sleep any longer. He turned over and pulled the covers back over his head, blocking out the dawn’s early light. After tossing and turning for a while, he checked the clock again; Frankie and Rose were due to meet him here first thing this morning, and he idly wondered if Frankie’s head felt the same. They had taken in quite a few pints last night, a good few more than he intended. One pint had led to another and then he very nearly followed Frankie’s lead to indulge in one of Fossie’s finest — nearly, but not quite. He offered a silent prayer of thanks to whichever God saved him from temptation and his guts from exploding. He reluctantly swung his legs out of bed and stood up, tentatively rubbing his temple. The ache, now he was upright, turned into a pile driver smashing rocks in his brain. He caught his reflection in the full length mirror hanging on the wall and stared: not too bad really, he thought, as he took in the apparition. Red eyed and dishevelled but still human. He breathed in and tensed the muscles in his stomach alleviating the paunch. He let the breath out and the paunch reappeared. He’d been fit when he first started being an investigator: five years ago now, and then he had a washboard stomach, a six pack, each muscle honed to perfection. He’d had nothing else to do except keep the girls on his father’s estate, and those he met in the city, happy. Gods, he’d had to be fit to keep up with it all. He had everything: money, power, influence, and the inevitable seat in the Assembly to go with it. He still had the seat, but being an unwilling member, he’d sent in a proxy. He had tried to get out of it, but once elected only death or disgrace could displace him. He still sometimes wondered why he didn’t take up the option of a life at ease; the reason, he reminded himself, were the so-called friends and hangers-on: slack-jawed imbeciles, nothing between their ears, rich and with time on their hands; their only goal in life, their only ambition, being to have fun. All well and good up to a point, but as time wore on the point became stretched; and then people began to get hurt. The last straw was a game of Battleball. There were about thirty of them, and they used the streets as a pitch. Thirty young fit men rampaged through the city annihilating anything that got in their path, and Cornwallis watched from the side-lines as a young mother with a baby in her arms got caught up in the melee. It must have been fate that prevented him from taking part that day, because he would never have been able to live with himself if he had. The young men said it was just a game so the authorities put it down to high spirits; the mother’s family called it murder. Cornwallis found he had a conscience and vowed to distance himself from his so called friends.

  Being qualified to do nothing didn’t lend him much in the way of a career though, but he knew he had a sharp mind. He’d been intrigued by the investigative work of the feelers, but joining the force was out of the question; his background wouldn’t allow him to do a low paid job like that: but he could set himself up as a private investigator.

  Most of the work in the first couple of years had been mundane stuff, like following adulterous spouses, but it paid well and he managed to cultivate a network of informers for when the more exciting work did come in. Eventually even the feelers were putting work his way and his reputation slowly grew.

  He finished dressing and walked downstairs to the office. The coffee steamed on the stove and Frankie sat there with a smile on his face; the smell of the coffee battling against the strong odour of fish that hung all over the place.

  ‘For God’s sake open a window,’ whined Cornwallis, biting back the nausea. ‘It reeks in here.’

  ‘Ah, that’ll be the cats reward; picked it up on my way over. Do you know what time they start over on the wharf?’

  ‘Early, I would guess. Couldn’t you sleep?’

  ‘Slept like a baby, boss, nothing like a good nights’ drinking to set you up for the day. You look a little bleary eyed if you ask me; are we a little delicate this morning?’

  ‘Let’s just say I’ve felt better. Did I do anything stupid? I can vaguely remember MacGi
llicudy beating a hasty retreat after refusing to join you in a kebab, but after that it’s a blur.’

  ‘Ah,’ replied Frankie, with a knowing leer.

  ‘That “Ah” seems to be loaded,’ groaned Cornwallis, picking up the coffee pot and pouring two steaming mugs. ‘You’d better tell me now; I don’t want you to surprise me later.’ He handed one to Frankie and slurped at the other as he sunk down into the chair behind his desk.

  Frankie had a grin from ear to ear; he intended to savour this moment like a fine wine, swirling it around the glass and sniffing the bouquet, drawing out the pleasure in anticipation of a beautiful outcome. ‘Are you sure you want to know?’

  Cornwallis grimaced. He rubbed his head and then shut his eyes as the sun rose above the window sill, the light seeming to act like a dagger searing into his brain. ‘Yes, let’s get it over with.’

  ‘Well,’ began Frankie, rubbing his hands. ’You know old One Eyed Monty?’

  ‘The beggar?’

  ‘The same. Well, we were walking down Goshead lane when you decided you needed a leak, so you just turned into the doorway and flopped it out; me on one side o’you, Rose on the other.’

  ‘Oh Gods.’

  ‘Yep, you could say Old One Eye got one in the one eye courtesy of your one eye; he was having a quiet sleep in the corner. I will add that Rose declined your kind invitation though.’

  Cornwallis buried his head in his hands. ‘What did I say, or do I want to know?’

  Frankie chuckled. ‘Let’s just say that you invited her to help, which is more than old Monty will do the next time he sees you. She helped the old boy back to the Stoat to dry off, which judging by the length of time you took, would’ve taken quite a while.’

  ‘Gods!’ Cornwallis’ head hit the desk and he covered it with his arms. If only the floor would open up and swallow him whole. It got worse then as the footsteps on the stairs indicated the imminent arrival of their new colleague, Rose.

  Frankie was enjoying himself immensely, an embarrassed Cornwallis was not an everyday occurrence and he vowed to make the most of it while it lasted; in fact he felt certain that he could get a good few weeks entertainment out of this, and he intended to drag it out for as long as he could. The footsteps stopped just outside the door and the handle turned slowly, the door began to swing back on its hinges and Rose breezed in. She stopped dead at the sight of Cornwallis cowering under his arms and Frankie sitting there with the biggest grin on a face that she had ever seen.

  ‘I take it he’s remembered what happened?’ she observed dryly.

  Frankie’s feet, which had been on the table, crashed to the floor. She had decided to forego the pale green low-cut dress of the night before and had replaced it with an outfit not unlike Cornwallis himself. White shirt, tight black trousers and jacket, black boots, and her hair tied behind in a ponytail. Needless to say, she looked far better than Cornwallis did. ‘Good morning, Rose,’ he said, her outfit having an interesting effect on him. ‘I can safely say that he is now aware of what happened, though he says that he can’t remember.’

  ‘I’m not surprised he can’t remember. Does he normally drink like that?’

  ‘Only on days that end with a “Y”.’

  She laughed, which made Frankie beam in delight. She went over and pulled up a chair to sit opposite Cornwallis, who still had his head in his arms. She slipped off her jacket and hung it over the back of the chair before sitting down. She winked at Frankie before holding up her left hand, and then waited for Cornwallis to look up. When two bloodshot eyes eventually did, she leant forward and waggled her little finger teasingly under his nose. Frankie roared with laughter; Cornwallis just groaned again and then reburied his face.

  ‘Okay, I behaved like a pillock,’ said the muffled voice. ‘I’m sorry, now can we leave it at that?’

  Rose patted his arm and leant back. ‘Of course we can — for now at any rate,’ she added mischievously.

  Frankie wiped his eyes and finally managed to control himself, but it took a lot of effort. Rose’s nose finally got the better of her and it twitched in distaste. ‘What’s that smell?’ she asked, looking around. ‘It seems like fish, but from the state of this place, it could be anything.’

  Cornwallis raised his head and tried to shake off the pounding between his ears, they had work to do, so the hangover would have to wait. ‘The smell is Frankie’s fish,’ he explained, his voice quiet so as not to disturb his head. ‘He picked up a box on the way here. I don’t know why he couldn’t have waited, but we are lumbered with it for the moment.’

  ‘A whole sentence; well done. You must be starting to feel better. I hope you haven’t got me here to clean this place up; look at the state of it.’

  All three looked around the office, but Cornwallis and Frankie couldn’t see anything amiss. Everything was where it should be; all the files were there, all the books, a couple of empty mugs. Granted there may be a little dust here and there, but it was a place of business, not a parlour.

  ‘What do your clients think when they come in?’ Rose asked, standing up and beginning to inspect the room. ‘It doesn’t create a very good impression. Where are all your records?’

  Cornwallis shuffled uncomfortably. He then pointed to the groaning shelf opposite, where files teetered on the brink, and stacks of rolled parchments oozed along its length. There were books scattered throughout to add to the weight and made the whole shelf bend like a broad grin. Rose wasn’t impressed.

  ‘So much for client confidentiality,’ she observed. ‘All that should be locked away neat and tidy. If you want me to work for you then you’re going to have to change your ways. You need a secretary to get all this in order; but before you say anything, it’s not going to be me. You can advertise for one, or if you’d prefer it, I can sort you out a nice efficient lady who will get this place organised in no time.’

  The hangover prevented Cornwallis from arguing at the moment, he just wanted a couple of hour’s peace so he could suffer in silence and die quietly. A secretary and a discussion about it was the last thing he wanted at the moment. ‘We’ll talk about it later,’ he said, rubbing his eyes. ‘In the meantime you and Frankie will go to the accountant’s and get all the paperwork in the building safe and secure somewhere. The arsonist must have thought that there’s something still there, so we need to find out what it is. You also need to speak to all the people again, Frankie, see if you can get them to talk this time. You can then follow up on this hire-carriage that took Roland Goup away, see if you can find out where it came from and who hired it.’

  ‘Right, boss,’ replied Frankie crisply, ‘and what will you be doing while we’re doing all the work?’

  ‘While you pair are doing that I will need to follow up on this book of matches, and also to get Rose an Investigator’s license; that is when I’ve finished sawing my head off.’

  Frankie smashed his hand down on the table and stood up; he looked pleased with himself as he saw Cornwallis wince as the sound reverberated around the office. ‘Come little lady,’ said Frankie, offering his hand to Rose. ‘Time to show you how a real detective works; we shall leave his highness to his misery and venture forth into the great outdoors, and once there, we will go and kick arse.’

  Rose stood up and accepted Frankie’s hand, giving a little play-curtsy at the same time. ‘Thank you kind sir, it makes such difference to meet a real gentleman.’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ screamed Cornwallis. ‘Will the pair of you just sod off.’

  A grinning Frankie picked up his box of fish and then stomped over to the door and wrenched it open. Rose whipped her jacket off the chair and quickly followed after. Cornwallis opened one eye to watch them leave; hangover or not, she really did have a very shapely bottom.

  Once outside, Frankie adjusted his grip on the box and began to stride down Grantby Street, with Rose falling into step beside him. The sun had climbed higher now and bathed the city in a warm comfortable glow. People emerged from their h
ouses, filling the streets with early morning conversation as they made their way to work or to the shops for the day’s supplies. An argument raged, as a dray and a cart tried to negotiate the crossroads further down. Gornstock was coming alive.

  ‘The first rule of investigating…’ began Frankie, as they passed the two drivers arguing, ‘…is to never investigate on an empty stomach.’

  They watched as one threw a punch and drew a copious amount of claret from the nose of the other. The horses seemed oblivious to the fight raging in front of them and just stared off into the distance as a crowd began to form. Straight away bets were changing hands as the onlookers sized up the combatants. The victim got up, wiped his nose with his sleeve, and then aimed a vicious kick to the groin of the other. There came a sickening soft squelchy sound as the kick went home, the recipient doubling up in pain and falling to his knees.

  ‘Around the corner is one of the best places in all Gornstock to get a proper bacon sarnie,’ continued Frankie.

  Nose-bleed was just about to lash out again with his foot, into the undefended head of his adversary, when the groaning man lunged headfirst into the belly of nose-bleed. They both tumbled to the ground and rolled around flailing punches as the onlookers cheered them on.

  ‘Shouldn’t someone stop them?’ asked Rose, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘Gods no, that will totally spoil their fun,’ replied Frankie, peering into the dray and whipping two bottles away and into the pocket of his coat. ‘They’re at it most mornings. They both try and get the timing right and cut each other up. It’s been going on for years. You can’t stop them, goes against the city charter, freedom of expression and all that. They’ll finish soon and will chalk up who’s won fer today.’

  The fighting men rolled under the rear of the dray’s horse, and sure enough, the equine took the opportunity to express its opinion. A great dollop of steaming shit splattered onto the heads of the two drivers, followed up by a great roar of approval coming from the watching crowd. A ripple of applause began at the entertainment, and the two horseshit-covered men spluttered to a stop. The applause continued, and like well-seasoned actors, the men rose from beneath the horse and bowed to the crowd. The cart’s driver tried to jab a last sneaky elbow into the face of the other but the cart’s horse, seemingly acting as referee, lurched forward and ran the wheel over its owner’s foot. The man screamed and hopped around in agony, swearing at everything in general, and horses in particular.