Sam's Song

by Hannah Howe

  Chapter Sixteen

  At the castle, I talked with Woody and he recalled the events at the party, though most of those events were still shrouded in a drug-fuelled fog. My notebook remained resolutely blank, so I phoned Sweets to ask if he was making any progress with the investigation. We arranged to meet up at Cardiff Bay and I was standing in the drizzle, looking out at the Bay, in the early afternoon.

  Cardiff Bay and the city itself had changed out of all recognition during my lifetime. It is possible to eat your way around the world at Cardiff Bay with restaurants serving food from many nations, along with traditional Welsh fare. From the Victorian era, we have the Pierhead Building, a striking structure with its red-hot brick and terracotta facade, to more modern developments, like the Millennium Centre, an iconic building and the premier arts venue in the country. The International Arena is another high-class entertainment venue and we mustn’t forget the Millennium Stadium, where our red-shirted, mud-clad sporting heroes often punch above our small nation’s slight weight – sometimes quite literally. Added to that we have Cardiff Castle, the National Museum, the National History Museum, a first-class shopping centre and the National Assembly for Wales – Power to the People! The city isn’t perfect and it still creaks and groans in places, but it is an attractive blend of old and new. I’m proud of the city and happy to say that it’s the place I call ‘home’.

  I was leaning on the railings, watching the mist as it rolled into the Bay, listening to the pleas of harassed mothers – “Johnny, don’t do that; Johnny, listen to what I’m saying” – as little Johnny and little Joanna jumped in and out of puddles, when Sweets wandered into view. With his trilby tilted at a rakish angle and a briefcase swinging in his left hand, he walked up to me and groaned.

  “What do you call 5,000 dead lawyers at the bottom of the ocean? A good start. And another...what do you call a lawyer with an IQ of 50? Your Honour.”

  I’m a polite girl when I’m on my best behaviour – and when I’m after something – so I smiled and commiserated with Sweets. “Not a good session in court?”

  Sweets grunted, a non-committal sound. He placed his briefcase against the rusty railings, then fished a pasty from his trench coat pocket and held it in front of my face. “Want a bite?”

  I wrinkled up my nose in disgust. “I only eat at the dinner table,” I replied primly; “eating on the run gives me indigestion.”

  He took a bite of his pasty while eyeing my petite frame. “You should live with my mother for a weekend. She’s in her late-seventies, but she still knows how to cook. She’d put some meat on you.”

  “I lead an active and sporty life, Sweets, that’s why I’m this slim.”

  “Four square-meals a day,” he munched, “detectives march on their stomachs, remember that.”

  I eyed his considerable paunch, protruding through his open trench coat. “If your stomach drops any lower, you’ll be true to your words; you’ll be marching on it.”

  With a snarl, Sweets took another bite of his pasty, then he sprayed indignant pastry flakes all over the quay. “Are you through with your insults?”

  “Only thinking of your welfare, Sweets.” I grinned mischievously. “And didn’t your mother tell you that you should never speak with your mouth full.”

  He delved into his coat pocket and produced a boiled sweet. “Here you are, Freckles; put that into your mouth and allow me to enjoy my indigestion in peace.”

  I smiled as I unwrapped the sweet. Then I popped the bonbon into my mouth and sucked as Sweets chomped his way through his foul-smelling pasty.

  The bonbon had melted and Sweets was about to belch when a newspaper drifted along the quay, blown by the moist western wind. The newspaper landed in a puddle revealing a front-page headline and a story about a politician. Surprise, surprise, the politician had been up to ‘no good’.

  “Where do you stand on the morals of our day?” I asked Sweets, as I stared at the newspaper headline.

  He followed my eyeline, then tilted his trilby back on to the crown of his head before rubbing his chin. “I was brought up in a different era. Back then, you were taught to respect royalty, respect politicians, even respect the police. Of course, times have changed and the amoral behaviour of some, the abuses of power, have brought disrespect, and rightly so. People in power, with authority, can be deceitful, and that’s where Joe Public loses respect, when he’s told ‘don’t do as I do, do as I tell you’. If I have any credo, it’s ‘truth and justice’. Seek out the truth and get justice for the victims of crime.”

  “And what about our current victim of crime, Mr McGill – any justice for him?”

  Sweets straightened his trilby. Then he allowed his eyes to wander. They followed an attractive, middle-aged woman as she swung her hips in a provocative walk towards the Norwegian Church.

  “Sweets.” I clicked my fingers, trying to recapture his attention.

  “Huh?”

  “I could get arrested for what you’re thinking.”

  He grinned. “No harm in a wicked thought.”

  “McGill’s murder,” I repeated patiently.

  “Woody still looks favourite, but we’ve got no evidence linking him to the scene of the crime.” Sweets stooped. He retrieved his briefcase then opened it. With some difficulty, he removed a cardboard file. “We’ve been sorting through McGill’s papers, and we came up with these – these are copies mind, and you’re not seeing them, understand.”

  “I am blind before the wisdom of my true love,” I intoned piously.

  “Bronte?” Sweets frowned.

  “I dunno,” I shrugged. “I think I just made it up.”

  Sweets pointed to the cardboard file and its contents of miscellaneous McGill papers. “You’re not seeing these, but we’ve spent hours studying them and got nowhere. You have a good analytical mind, Sam, look them over. If you have any ideas, come to me. Do not act independently and go running off half-cock. You clear on that?”

  I gave Sweets a mock salute. “If I think I spot a clue, I report it to you.”

  He curled his top lip, grunted, then leaned on the rusty handrail. “I should be locked up for leading an innocent astray.”

  I thought back to my mother and my ‘unconventional’ childhood. “I lost my innocence thirty years ago, Sweets. It would take a lot to lead me astray.”

  He looked me up and down in paternal fashion, then shook his head. “I guess you did, kid.”

  I hugged the cardboard file to my chest, shielding it from the damp mist and drizzle. “Thanks for the file, Sweets.”

  “Yeah, have fun.” He adjusted his hat and trench coat, popped a sweet into his mouth then set off along the waterfront. After four paces, he stopped, turned, and grinned. “A man approaches the Pearly Gates and seeks admittance. St Peter asks him if he’s ever done any good deeds. ‘Why, yes,’ says the man. ‘Once I saved a young lady from being attacked by a gang of Hells Angels. I ran my car over their bikes then kicked the chief biker in the nuts until he let the girl go.’ ‘Really?’ frowned St Peter, ‘that incident doesn’t seem to be in our records; when did it take place?’ ‘Oh, about five minutes ago,’ says the man.”

  I laughed. I was in a good mood. I was on the hunt for clues, something I enjoyed. Despite the grey, depressing weather, the day was looking up.