by Mark Ayre
Glancing down, James checked kitty had not been a distraction, allowing Mr Merc to slide the bag from his grasp. Maybe replacing the strap with a length of rope.
All good.
Reaching his car unmolested he slid in and slammed the door. For a second he sat, then flicked the locks, barricading himself.
Somewhere nearby, an engine revved.
Placing his hands on the wheel, he checked the gym bag was at his side, then watched the rear view, waiting.
Thirty seconds sloped by, James sitting still and silent as the nearby engine hummed.
Tyres twisted, headlamps swung across the road. Another few seconds and the Merc poked its nose beyond the block’s wall. It paused half in, half out. James could see nothing, yet knew the driver was watching.
Seconds ticked by. A minute. Two. James’ fingers went to the ignition, but he waited, needing the Merc to make the first move.
Three minutes, four. The Mercedes gave in, pulling out and turning right, away from James, driving into darkness.
Five more minutes passed before James found the strength to twist the key, firing the engine into life. On the way home his lips whispered, insisting it was a coincidence. The empty words became a meaningless mantra, repeated again and again as though this gave it validity. Muttered as he pulled into his block, spoken as prepared for bed, prayed as dropped his head onto the pillow believing, tired as he was, he would never find—
Sharp and clear, the knocking shattered his sleep, scattering the usual amalgamation of nightmares with each round of confident thumps.
The flash of his screen half blinded him before imparting the time: 7:45.
In a haze of groggy thoughts and misty memories, he wrenched himself up, groaning and struggling to regain control of his mental faculties. As these kicked into gear spasms of pain attacked his stomach and skull. With fingers so gentle he might have been being trying to pick up a fly without hurting it, he touched the dark swelling on his stomach and was rewarded with another buck of pain.
He needed a shower, at least four coffees and maybe a thousand painkillers, but knew as the knocking came again he would be given time for none. At least not before greeting his guest.
“Good morning, may I come in?”
James nodded with little more than a wince of pain and stepped back to let in the drawn, hurting mother.
“Would you like a drink?”
“Coffee, if you have it.”
“Instant okay?”
“Fine.”
She looked as though she needed it more than him. Her eyes were red and puffy, and she walked with the stiff step of someone who had gained whatever little sleep they’d had sitting up. Last night she had seemed lost as she continued to adjust to life beyond prison. But the power had been there—the strength. Harris’ death had stripped that, leaving a shell of Jane standing awkwardly inside the door.
“Please, take a seat.”
She glanced at the sofas as a cautious child upon bigger kids. Lowered into one as though her hips were resisting the motion.
The kettle boiled and James made two strong black instants, bringing them over with slightly trembling hands.
“I’m sorry, about Harris.”
He landed the coffee as he spoke, and was unsure if the thud on the table or the sound of her son’s name caused her flinch.
“Thank you.”
Her voice was croaky, distant. She took the coffee, and her hands shook. Perhaps wisely, she resisted the urge to sip.
Taking the creaking armchair across from Jane, James tried to hold the grieving mother’s eye and failed. His coffee offered a welcome distraction, and he made the mistake she had not, sampling while the water was boiling.
As though seeing the damage coffee could do and fearing it might burn her as it had James, Jane replaced her cup on the table. Looking into its surface she found no solace, so returned to James.
“He was such a good boy. So bright. My father and I have both been successful, but neither of us was particularly academic. Dad’s struggles in school made him bitter. Turned him from the legal pursuits of wealth to what he eventually became. When I had the same struggles, I looked to him as an example, followed his path. I don’t believe either of us was pleased with the way I went, and when he had Nina, and I had Harris, we decided things would be different. If they wanted to become crooks like their parents, fine, but they were going to have options. They would succeed in school. They would go to university and only then would they make their choice.”
She tried a smile, but it fled as though in fear of her devastated eyes. He saw the tears swell like inflating balloons and guessed by her reaction she felt them. Tilting her head away, she lifted a hand, sweeping away the invading symbols of sadness.
“I was lucky,” she said, straightening her neck. “Harris was academic. All round intelligent, and from an early age, he was debating with me over everything. Right and wrong, good and bad, up and down. When he was accepted to Birmingham University, I was so proud. Much as I loved having him close, I often dreamed of him finding some high powered job a long way from here.”
She sipped her coffee, decided it was cool enough, and took a gulp. Taking her lead, James took a swig of his own. Still too hot. It rattled as he smacked it on the table, as though in punishment for having the audacity to burn him. Jane ignored this and went on.
“Then I went to prison. He was midway through his second year, and everything changed. I was in the news. Everyone knew. He said he wanted to leave and, though I begged him to see it out, he was adamant. My departure had seen Tahir promoted to manager, so assistant manager was vacant. End of the academic year, he came home to claim it.”
She turned accusing eyes on James.
“I suppose that seems like nepotism.”
“Not at all,” James said, and Jane scoffed.
“Of course it does, and he probably wouldn’t have got the job if it wasn’t for me so in a way it is. But he was treated no different, and he fast earned his place. Tahir told me he was an asset and Tahir is not one to mince words or sugarcoat the truth, even when talking to the boss about her son.”
“You must have been proud,” James tried. Jane gave the look of a teacher disappointed her favourite student is not quite getting it.
“Should I? He was a hard worker, but that isn’t all that matters. Harris rarely came to see me, but I had people looking out for him. When they brought me reports, they did so with nervous steps and bowed heads. They did not want to tell me the boy we had known had not returned from university. They thought it would upset me to know Harris rarely laughed and socialised with no one beyond his Auntie Nina at first, and later another employee named Michael.”
She drummed her knee with her fingers and gave James a hard look.
“They were right. It upset me because it was my fault.”
James’ instinct was to refute this, but Jane’s look deterred such impulses. She was not looking for consolation or comfort. This was a cathartic process, and James might as well have been a cushion for the input that was required of him. While that may have upset some, James preferred it. The less thinking needed the less stress he felt; the less talking required, the less chance of him tripping a conversational landmine.
“I had plans to help him,” Jane continued. “My sole focus upon release was to return him to the path of happiness, healthiness. Even if that meant him leaving this dreadful place and never returning.”
Such comments sent James scurrying to memories of his mother. The cold manner, the way she had despaired at everything he was. The way she had turned from him in the end, warning him to leave and never return, though not for his own good.
Prison or not, Harris had been lucky to have a mother like Jane. James might have said something to this effect, but Jane’s eyes had grown cold. She finished her coffee, and leaned towards him, indicating the therapy section of the conversation was over. It was time for business.
“Tell me everything.”
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He almost did.
Recounting his previous evening, he told how he had arrived and seen the date set up on the mezzanine, then found the body. How he had grappled with the killer. How he had searched the flat and found a bag full of money. How he had left to see a car waiting and how he thought the driver might have broken into Harris’ flat before James got there.
He did not mention the bracelet, and wouldn’t. Had it not been for the two glasses on the table he might have hidden that it had seemed Harris had been with someone. As it was, Jane would probably assume Harris had been drinking with his killer. That was okay. So long as Megan wasn’t brought into it.
Once he was done, Jane closed her eyes, tilted her head to the ceiling, and considered. James watched but didn’t dare distract from this process. Focusing instead on finishing his coffee until, without moving, Jane asked to see the bag.
“Sure.”
Being too tired to find a safe place the previous night, he had shoved it under his bed, and it came without fuss when he collected it now. It was more money than he had ever dreamed of possessing, but he was glad to pass it over. It felt hot. Cursed. The less involvement he had with it, the better.
Jane took her time perusing the contents. Examining each wrap of money as though it might offer something different to the last, checking almost every note as though for secret messages.
“I suppose there was nothing else? Nothing to indicate where this money came from.”
“No,’ James said, staring at the latest wrap of cash in her hands. “It’s a lot.”
She looked at him as though he were a simple child. Fair enough, given the comment, but it was not enough to exclude him from theorising.
“You have any ideas how he might have acquired it?”
This was difficult territory. Harris was dead only a few hours. His mother was grieving, and now she held a possible clue to what had happened—and James was supposed to comment on that. Comment when the most obvious theory was not one likely to be well received.
“It’s okay,” she said. “You have a free pass to say whatever you think. The theory that first comes to mind, I would guess, is that my son stole this money from me?”
“Given he was at the bar every night, and had access to your house,” James paused, nervous saying it, despite the permission. “It would provide him access to your money, I would guess.”
“You would be right,” she dropped the money into the bag. “But that isn’t what happened. It isn’t possible. Maybe if there were a few hundred pounds here or, given the couple of years he’s had, a few thousand, I might go for the same theory, but there’s—“ she opened the bag with a toe and glanced inside—“over fifty thousand quid here.”
James looked at the bag and guessed she must have pre-counted. No way she could know at a glance. Not that her ability to count at speed mattered. He looked to Jane.
“There’s no way he could have hidden it?”
“Not that amount. Not even if Tahir was helping. I kept an eye on the books, and there were no irregularities. Revenue was up since Harris arrived. No, the money didn’t come from me.”
He hoped it might be her turn to offer a theory, but she settled back, crossed one leg over the other, and watched him, waiting. Taking his coffee, he offered her a little more time to speak. When she didn’t, he realised he was going to have to guess again.
“I suppose the other obvious theory would be your father.”
It felt like a game, and he waited for the angry red buzzer to scream. But, to this suggestion, Jane bobbed her head left and right in a maybe, maybe kind of way.
“My father is as meticulous as me,” she said. “And you would not need to be a meticulous man to miss this kind of money. Still, it does not rule him out. It is possible he did not know who had stolen the cash, so was keeping it to himself. Or he did know and was keeping it to himself. He is a proud man. Not the sort to let anyone know when someone gets the better of him. At least, not until he has evened the score.”
Despite his best efforts, James was unable to ignore the implication, and the pressure of the silence soon had him questioning it.
“Even if it was your father’s money. You can’t think he would—“
Back to the coffee, taking a sip as if he had been so desperate to quench his thirst it had rendered him unable to finish his sentence. Somehow he doubted Jane would be fooled by the move.
“One would hope not,” she said, and although she kept her tone level, her voice betrayed how unsure she was—a horrifying thought.
“Like that, though?”
“A good point. In usual circumstances, my father would be more clinical.”
Usual circumstances? James resisted asking the question, allowing Jane to proceed.
“Emotions get the better of us all occasionally, don’t they?”
This James knew all too well and was not something he wanted to address. He went to use his coffee as a distraction once more, only to find it empty. Rejecting the possibility of pretending to drink, he aimed for something useful to say.
“Harris didn’t strike me as the kind to be motivated by financial gain. Not to the extent of risking stealing a large amount of money, anyway.”
Jane nodded, encouraging him.
“But, he did seem the sort to be emotionally led—the kind of guy who might steal not because he wanted to get rich, but because he wanted to hurt someone. As you said, emotions get the better of us all, but it doesn’t have to be only the killer who was emotional. If there was a fight—both sides might have been worked up.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Jane said, after only a couple of seconds consideration. “A murder like this—“ she closed her eyes, seeing it and, for a second, James thought the grief might overcome her. Then she was back. “A murder like this has all the hallmarks of one born of passion or rage or both. If the money is related, and there is nothing to say it is, I would say you are right—it would have been taken not for financial gain, but to inflict pain.”
It all made sense, and they took a few moments to process before James found the strength to contribute again.
“Would there be then—“ he paused, feeling the nerves tingle up his back—“a reason your son might want to hurt your father?”
Jane took a long, deep breath. The strength began to crumble, and he saw the weak, helplessness in her eyes. Lifting her hand she placed a long finger and thumb on her temples, blocking her eyes. A few seconds was all she needed to cover the pain with composure; then she was ready to go again.
“How much do you know about my arrest and imprisonment?”
The question, which seemed quite the non-sequitur, threw him, and he needed a few seconds to recall what he knew.
“Nina told me—“ he stopped fast, remembering what Nina had said.
For the first time, Jane gave the ghost of a real smile.
“It’s okay; I know my sister. You can say.”
“She said you got three years—and deserved longer.”
Jane almost chuckled.
“That’s about right. Truth is the police have been looking for ways to get me for nearly a decade. For my father, considerably longer. Had they got me on anything substantial, I would have been looking at fifteen years plus, and believe me, they tried. There was even talk they had a case built. A strong one that might be able to sweep up my father and me.”
She drummed her fingers on the side of the chair. Returning to that time. He saw a twitch of annoyance and felt uncomfortable as she turned her glare back to him.
“Rumours, I think. Or perhaps the case collapsed from under them before they managed to put the chains around our wrists. Whatever happened, a little over three years ago, this case supposedly went away. We were told we were in the clear, so long as we continued being as careful as we had always been.”
“Which I guess you were.”
“We were, but sometimes care is not enough. Or at least, care in your actions is not enough if you have be
en careless when hiring. As it turned out, we had a rat in the organisation. So it was that two months after the case dropped, the police burst into my home, clipped the shackles on, and dragged me away.”
Turning her wrists, Jane glanced at them, as though the handcuffs were still there. Perhaps, to her, they were. James thought of the river that always seemed to run through his mind and wondered if, even now, Jane could feel the steel against her skin.
“The rat’s identity was protected,” Jane went on. “My father and I tried to find who it was but to no avail. I was given a 40-month sentence, and that was the end of that. At least for a while.”
Her eyes returned to the bag, as though she suspected it of planning an escape. For his part, James was working through what she had told him, putting the pieces together.
“A while. So you did find the rat eventually?”
“Yes. Well, my father did.”
Still, James played it through. Tried to link it to Harris being angry at Davis. A few clutches of the conversation floated at him.
“Harris lost a friend a couple of months ago. This would be the guy who worked for you? The only person he was close to other than Nina.”
Jane nodded.
“Michael Fisher. He had worked for both of us. He betrayed both of us. Now he has gone.”
“Where did he go?”
Jane gave a bitter smile.
“My euphemism wasn’t clear?”
A flush appeared on James’ cheeks as he realised his mistake. Gangster talk. Michael had not swanned off on extended leave, but taken the rather shorted trip into the ground. Rallying, James considered the timeline.
“So Harris has become introverted anyway. He spends most of his time focused on the bar. The only social life he has is courtesy of this Michael Fisher. His one and only friend. Then, one day, a couple of months ago, that one friend is discovered to be the man who put Harris’ mum—um, you, Jane—in prison and as a result he is, uh, disappeared—“
“By Harris’ grandfather, no less.”
“That’s got to hurt.”
“I’m sure.”
For James, this was personal experience talking. He had been there. One friend. His only form of social life, and how he had treasured it. Until said friend had betrayed him and then… well, he had disappeared. Only difference was that had been James’ fault. This had not been Harris’.
