Unfinished Business...
YOUNG Elliott and I needed an office to keep the stickybeaks out of our hair. Ironically, the only one available was Connie’s. We took it, reckoning she would’ve approved. We had our heads together for some time, trying to sort out who was up whom and what we should do about it.
My first order of business was to check Elliott’s reaction when I asked him who could have told Smith I’d traded the tape. Give him his due, he didn’t blink an eye when he said he had no idea. He did blink, though, when I told him it had to be either him or Collinson. Before he could answer, I added that I’d checked the odometer on my car – the one he’d driven to lure away whoever was supposed to follow me when I headed up-country. He’d driven little farther than around the block.
“What should I deduce from that?” I asked him.
He fessed up, righteously citing Neilsen’s line about the police force self-destructing if ‘something’ wasn’t done. He really believed that bullshit, so I had to give him a dose of naivete antidote. I told him we weren’t riding white chargers into the field to defend the police force, for Christ’s sake; we were trying to find the bastard who’d killed Connie. Then, while I had him on the ropes, I hit him with a low one.
“Tell me something. If McDowell’s minions didn’t kill her, how come whoever did do it knew so quickly she had the tape?”
That took him right in the privates, and he paled at the thought that his spying for Neilsen had condemned Connie. He realized then he was on the wrong tram. He practically laid his hand over his heart as he switched allegiance, and if he had been determined before, now he was resolute. Which prevented him from coming over all hurt when he found I hadn’t favoured him with the truth, the whole truth etcetera about dividing the tape.
“Just confirms the reason for the need-to-know policy, ” I told him. He had no answer to that.
“So,” I went on, “the point is, just how desperate is Neilsen to get hold of what’s left of it?”
“Enough to do a deal with you, for sure.”
I shook the head. “He won’t trust me to make any deals – at least, not any deal he doesn’t have control over. Nup, I think he’ll send in the hired help.” I took a quick glance at the door to make sure it was still shut. I extracted my door key. “Which is why I want you to do a little counter-espionage.”
I told him what I wanted, and he grinned. “When?”
“Right away would be nice. Just try not to be seen, OK?”
He stood. “I’m on it.”
“Before that,” I said, halting his exit, “that list of cars the Neighbourhood Watch bloke gave us. You still got it handy?”
Two hours later, I was in Sandra’s bed. She had called, asking me to help pacify Angela who, with that infallible instinct that most kids her age have, knew that ‘something’ was wrong. Not that she said as much. Instead, she kept up a barrage of repetitive questions. Questions such as “How long will you be away? Can’t somebody else do it? Why can’t I come?” All questions to ease her mind, except that Sandra’s answers didn’t fit her bill. Probably because they were white lies.
The plan was for Angela to stay with her aunt, out of harm’s way, while Sandra and I exploited the tape to smoke out Connie’s killer. Or at least try. If we failed, we’d go to Plan B; put the tape to air. There was plenty of risk involved, not the least from papa and pere Romano, but I couldn’t call myself a man if I didn’t have a go at it.
I skylarked with Angela in Sandra’s tiny garden, then popped her on my shoulders and walked to the shopping centre for a couple of double cones. We stopped at the local park to scoff them, at which time the questions reappeared. I did my best, asserting that mummy indeed had important things to do, things no-one else could do and yes it was a pity she had to do them alone. But what the heck? It shouldn’t take long and then I’d be visiting every chance I got. How does that grab you, Moppet?
It grabbed her fairly well. By the time we’d hopscotched our way home and meekly received Sandra’s ‘stern’ lecture about playing in the streets and eating junk food, she was almost restored to her usual self. The little mite almost broke my heart when, in her prayers before her afternoon nap, she asked God to take special care of mummy and Mister Mark.
It made our lovemaking just that much more urgent, more fevered. And when it was over, we clung together just that much tighter. Sandra snuggled her beautiful butt against me and clamped my hand over her breast. “I love you, Sergeant Mason.”
“I love you more,” I said.
She knew I meant it. She snuggled again. Then, after a few seconds, she turned her face to me. “Mark?”
“Mmm?”
“You think I’m right, don’t you, making Joyce Angela’s guardian?
Sandra had discussed her will with her solicitor. He was revising it to formalise what a court would have ordered in any case, and making sure Joyce would be well remunerated if she ever became Angela’s guardian, although I had no doubt she would do it for nothing.
“Damned good thing,” I said. “Even though you’ll probably live forever.”
“How can you say that? After the past couple of days?”
“You’re a survivor.” I grinned, trying to distance the pessimism. “I ought to tidy up my own affairs. Who should get my Inkspots CD? Might will it to McDowell as a sort of up yours. What d’you reckon?”
She didn’t reckon much. “Don’t you mention that man’s name in this house. I just hope he gets what’s coming to him.” She peered at me again. “Still no harassment?”
There hadn’t been. In the two days since our rescue, I hadn’t seen hide or hair of McDowell and his minions. No summons to the offices on high, not even a memo demanding a ‘please explain’. Nothing. Which was not to say that the bastards weren’t up to something.
I was a little mystified at Sandra’s virulent antipathy, especially after I’d pointed out that McDowell had twice jumped on the trigger-happy Heckle.
“Big deal!” she spat.
We made love again. It was wild and passionate, with the desperation born of an ever-present fear. There was an element of anger in it, too. There I was, a copper on his way to middle age and encased in cynicism, and what happens? I find love. I hadn’t expected to. I hadn’t even been looking, not sure it was fair to ask a woman to share the sort of life I followed. But I found it. Twice, if you count Angela. And now here I was, stone cold certain to lose both of them the moment my visa expired, which could be at any time. I dare say there was something ironic about it all, but I was buggered if I could see it, let alone appreciate it.
Eventually, and reluctantly, we got out of bed. Sandra watched me as I dressed, her eyes twin pools of worry.
“You be careful, sweetheart. Don’t trust that Neilsen an inch.”
“Rely on it,” I told her. “And remember I’ve got young Elliott helping me.”
At least, I was fairly sure I had.
It was about eight p.m. when I got home.
Smith was waiting inside for me.
I was surprised, I have to admit. I’d expected Neilsen to depute one of his lesser underlings to do the dirty work.
All of which was academic. Of more concern was the ugly little .32, complete with silencer, in Smith’s hand.
It was pointed at me.