1
SAN FRANCISCO
“He’s
on his way Molly, that’s all I’m going to tell you.”
She
sighed, running a lick of hair back over her ear and turned so that her cell phone
didn’t pick up the wind. She was on the seafront; the breeze was very vivid and
clear. It was a beautiful day. “Come on David, please.”
David
Eden paused. Molly pictured him there at her father’s house, wondering briefly
if he still kept his crisp black uniform on now that his employer was dead.
“He
has been found in London,” he said. “He made contact with Stephen Miles, the
attorney we contracted. Miles informed him of the inheritance and the current
situation with the estate. He also put him in touch with me here.”
Molly
let her little finger play with her lip. “You’ve spoken to him?”
“Yes.
Early this morning. He called from the airport in the UK.”
“And?”
“He
seemed very nice; what do you want me to say? He seemed well spoken and
friendly. Not the stereotype Englishman; just… nice.”
“Is
he coming here?”
“Yes
he is. He’ll be arriving after six tonight.”
She
didn’t say anything in reply.
“Molly?
Are you alright?”
“Yeah
David. I’m okay.” Her voice felt so low and sluggish. “I’m sorry about the way
I’ve been acting. It’s just... I don’t know David. I feel...”
“I
know Molly.”
“Everyone
thinks I’m selfish; and I am really. I am. But not in the way they think.”
“I
know.”
Two
women roller skated by with a dog between them on a leash.
“Are
you going to meet him at the airport?” she asked.
“Yes.
He’ll be very tired after his journey. It’s an eleven hour trip. I expect he’ll
rest up this evening. Tomorrow is the house sale.”
“The
what?”
“Your
father specified in his will that he wanted to sell all his things; his
collections, so that they could go to people who really wanted them. By
coincidence that’s tomorrow.”
“What
time?”
Eden’s
voice became stern. “I don’t think you should come here Molly. You should do
what I told you and forget all about it. There’s nothing positive that can come
of your actions.”
“What
time?” she asked again.
2
LONDON
Sam didn’t
know what gear he was in and he didn’t notice when his foot dropped off the
accelerator. The car slowed gradually, the lane was straight, then it started
shuddering violently as the engine struggled to keep turning over. Sam tensed,
startled, slamming down the accelerator and the brake. The car stopped with a
jolt. He stared through the windscreen at the mesh the branches made covering
up all the space on either side and above the lane.
He
had failed; completely. Jack Catholic had made it to the plane and was now on
his way to America; somewhere so vast Sam would never find him.
He took
his hands off the wheel and held them up in front of his face. He thought about
Lucy – her beauty; the way she laughed when she laughed at him – then he put
his hands back on the steering wheel and rested his head there in the centre
too and felt fatigue deeper than he had ever felt before.
His
mobile started ringing. Sam sat up sluggishly and reached into his jacket for
it. “Yeah.”
“Will
Harrison here.” The private detective.
“Tell
me you have something.”
“I’ve
got an address.”
“Too
late. I’ve already been there. He’s gone.”
“Wow.
Okay, great. Tell me again why you hired me?”
“What
else did you find?”
Harrison
cleared his throat. He had nothing more. Sam went to terminate the call but
stopped before he had. He put the phone back to his ear.
“Harrison,
I want you to do something for me. Jack Catholic has inherited a large sum of
money from someone in America. It strikes me that they probably found a lawyer
to take care of the English side of business. See if you can find the one who
did it.”
“Okay,”
said Harrison. “Are you alright?”
“I’m
fine.”
“What
are you going to do?”
Sam
paused, then he said “I have somewhere I need to visit.”
He
cut the connection, slipped the phone back into his pocket and started up the
engine.
3
Anna
Thorpe had half expected the call from her boss, Henry Masters, but now it had
come she still felt nervous.
She
walked to Masters’ office, smiling at the colleagues she passed on the way,
knocked and entered. Masters was inside, putting a file away in a cabinet. “Oh
good Anna; come in.” He walked back to his desk and sat down. Anna sat too,
wondering whether to point out that the smell of pistachio nuts on his breath
didn’t fully conceal the reek of brandy. Deciding not to, she crossed her legs
and looked at him pleasantly.
“I
wanted to start by thanking you for your help with the investigation of Sam’s
activities over the past few years,” said Masters. “You’ve been very…
thorough.”
“Thank
you.”
Masters
picked up a small model of a boat that his son had made and studied it. “It’s a
nasty business. You know it was eight years he was working here.”
“Yes.”
“Eight
years; and I counted him a pretty good friend for most of that time.”
Anna
held her tongue. She had known five years earlier what kind of man Sam was but
no one had believed her. It irked her that the truth had come out now and
everyone felt so bad that Sam had fooled them all.
“He
clearly wasn’t the person I thought he was,” said Masters. “Five and a half
million pounds taken from the company; and this talk that he may have murdered
his sister.”
Anna
leaned forward. “Why did you call me in here Henry?”
Masters
set the boat down. “The police investigation is ongoing into Sam’s criminal
activities. They are trying to find and arrest him. All well and good but they
haven’t done so yet.”
“No
they haven’t.”
“I’m
under a lot of pressure from the shareholders, especially being under scrutiny
from the audit review. I need to demonstrate that we are doing everything in
our power to get this matter in hand and attempt to retrieve the money that Sam
took.”
“You
want me to find him for you,” said Anna.
“Given
your history, I want you to work alongside the police to track him down. You
know him a lot better than they do. I reckon you might think to look places
that might not cross their minds.”
This
was exactly what she’d expected. “Track him down. And what happens if I find
him?”
“Then
call in the police and let them apprehend him. Don’t confront him yourself
whatever happens.”
Anna
echoed the words. “Don’t confront him myself.”
Masters
got to his feet, walked to the cupboard he hid his brandy in, touched the door
then thought better of it. “Will you do it?”
Anna
stood up. “Yes I will.”
“Do
you think you’ll be able to find him?”
“I’ll
do my best.”
Masters
grinned. “Great! That’s wonderful!” He shook her hand. “You’re sure the history
between you won’t get in the way?”
Anna
turned to go. “Why would it?”
“You’ve
investigated a lot of fraudulent insurance claims while you’ve worked here,”
said Masters, “but you’ve never had to track down your own ex-husband.”
CAMBRIDGESHIRE – ENGLAND
4
Sam
opened the back door, sneering at the lack of security, and went inside.
On
the kitchen table was a copy of the Sunday Times magazine. In colour on the
front cover was a photograph of his father, Henry Decker: Travelling Clergyman.
The blurb claimed he was on the verge of reforming the Christian church; on his
way to becoming a bishop. In the picture his father was smiling, arms folded
across his chest. The make-up and lighting tried to make him seem stylish and
mature; wise; but he looked like a fool.
Sam
made his way through the house where he had grown up: thick faded carpets, bookcase
after bookcase; a grandfather clock in the hall and one in the study; more
bookcases. He moved silently. The murmur of conversation came from the lounge,
and he moved toward it: his father’s voice primarily and making only rare
comments: his mother.
Sam slipped
up to the door, running the words through his head that Lucy had said to him
over the phone on the day she died as she arranged to meet him: that she had
come here to their parents’ house; that they had argued. She had been crying, inconsolable
until the whisper of her boyfriend in the background calmed her down.
Sam
listened at the lounge door.
His
father’s voice: “I’m very sorry... very very sorry that she’s dead.”
And
then his mother’s voice too low and simpering to hear.
“But
it was God’s will,” said his father, “and it was for the best.”
Sam
opened the door. “For the best?”
His
father got to his feet: grey shirt, dog collar, black trousers. Beyond him,
still sitting down, Sam’s mother in her dressing gown. “Sam? What are you doing
here?”
“For
the best?” said Sam. He walked to the centre of the room. Nothing had been
moved since he was a child. The same sofa set dominated the room in a giant L,
same red curtains, same expression on his mother’s face.
“The
police have been here Sam,” she said, “wanting information. They asked us
questions about you. They say you were seen visiting Lucy around the time she
was killed. They say you’ve been taking money from your company.”
Sam
ignored her, walking up to his father. “What did you mean by ‘For the best?’”
“Don’t
be foolish Sam; answer your mother. What happened to Lucy? Do you know who
killed her?”
“Do
you Sam?”
He
turned to his mother. He stared at her and then at his father. “You’ve
considered the possibility that I did it haven’t you, just like the police?
Just because I was there, you think that I might have had something to do with
it.”
The
two of them looked at one another, then his father looked back at him. “I don’t
know why you came here Samuel, I can’t imagine that it was a social call, but I
think that you should go. If the police come back I don’t want to have to lie
to protect you.”
Sam
smiled. “I wouldn’t expect you to; but I came here to ask you something and I
plan to do so; about Lucy.”
His
father sighed. “All right Sam. What do you want to know?”
“Do
you care at all who killed your daughter?”
“Of
course we do,” said his mother, standing up, her eyes flicking nervously down
the length of his body.
“Well
that’s what I’m doing here,” replied Sam. “I’m trying to find her boyfriend
because he was the one who did it. Now I need to know from you if you know of
any family he might have had in America.”
“We
don’t,” said his father. “The police will find out all that. Just leave it. Go
in and talk to them. Straighten it out about Lucy and your work.”
Sam’s
phone rang. He looked at his father. “No.”
They
weren’t going to tell him anything. It was a waste of time coming here as it
always was. He turned his back on them and answered.
“Sam.
Harrison. I’ve got something.”
“Speak.”
“Talked
to a friend of mine. Apparently several private investigators have been
employed recently to find your boy by a firm of solicitors.”
“Because
of the inheritance?”
“I guess so.”
“Did
you get a name?” asked Sam.
“Yes,”
said Harrison. “I did.”
SAN FRANCISCO
5
Jack
walked out through passport control, marvelling at the busy disorder and the
superficial differences, even here in the airport, that meant he was on a
totally different continent.
Rolling
along in front of him he had a trolley packed with his paintings and two
suitcases. He wandered through the fan of other passengers, spreading out to
look for taxis or hire-cars or to meet their families and friends, then he saw
the old man who had to be David Eden.
He
was a lot shorter than Jack and very thin, with perfectly white hair brushed
back from a high forehead. He was wearing a black suit with a waistcoat only
just visible and he was holding up a plaque that said “JACK CATHOLIC” in
beautifully printed computerised script.
“Hi
there,” said Jack, pushing the trolley to the side and extending his hand.
“That’s me, I think.”
Eden
smiled and when he did so he looked appallingly like Dominic back in England, his
face a sea of jolly wrinkles. “David Eden,” he said, winking as he took Jack’s
hand in his and shook it. “Welcome to America.” Because of his appearance Jack
had expected his voice to sound like the typical English butler but the USA
twang was there creating a subtly different image. “Do you mind?” He jabbed his
sign in between the cases on the trolley.
“Not
at all,” replied Jack, “Where am I pushing this thing to?”
“Follow
me.”
6
“Tired?”
said Eden, “You must be.”
“No
not really,” replied Jack. “Not yet.”
The
navy blue Mercedes shot along the freeway, gliding with a grace and stability
that smaller cars could never have. Eden was driving. Jack enjoyed the
switchover of the steering wheel position. It was strange to sit in what in
England would have been the driver’s seat and not have any control at all.
“It
was a long trip and everything,” he said, “but I dozed a little and did a bit
of meditation; to try and stabilise myself and avoid as much jet lag as I
could.”
“Not
a bad idea.” Eden smiled. “You aren’t even a little like your uncle you know. I
don’t think you even look like him. Except perhaps for your hair colour.”
“Did
you work for him for a long time?”
“Twenty
four years or so. I’m not exactly sure. His daughter was about three at the
time, so, yes; twenty four years. Maybe twenty five.”
“I
didn’t know he had any family,” said Jack.
“The
attorney in London didn’t tell you?”
Jack
shook his head. “Wait, no; he did. He told me my uncle had fallen out with the
family of his first wife. Is that them?”
Eden
nodded.
“Didn’t
they object to the will when he died?”
“No.
There was none of that.” He seemed to be thinking about something else for a
moment. Jack didn’t press him. “Have you decided what you’re going to do?”
“People
keep asking me that. That’s partly why I came here. I’m not exactly sure you
see. I’m not sure I received this inheritance just to blow it all on myself and
live the high life.”
“No.”
The
car drove in silence for a long while. It was air conditioned; perfectly stable
atmospherically. The engine seemed to make no sound at all.
“How
did he die?” asked Jack.
Eden
didn’t turn to glance at him. He didn’t respond at all for several minutes.
Once again, Jack didn’t press. He let the question drop, concerned that he’d
touched on a subject not surprisingly tender to the old man. Then suddenly, in
the quiet of the car, long after the question had come, Eden said, “He went
driving one night alone. He never came home. His car was found in the water at
the foot of a cliff several miles out of town with his body still inside.”
LONDON
7
Straight
off the street and in through the doors. The brass plaque outside was being
polished by a short man in blue overalls. It said MILES & DAVIS.
SOLICITORS.
Bright
green painted walls; pretty woman in a yellow dress on reception with very
short black hair brushed forward. She smiled pleasantly, preparing to speak.
Sam was already almost level with her desk but aiming past it to the right: two
doors; unmarked. He pushed the first one open.
Huge
desk, fake fireplace, red Turkish rug; thin man behind the desk, middle aged
woman sitting opposite. They both looked round, startled.
“Stephen
Miles?” said Sam.
The
lawyer started to speak; slight shake of his head. Sam turned on his heel, shut
the door and opened the one next to it. The receptionist was chirping but he
ignored her.
Similar
room; grandfather clock, bulky middle-aged man at the bookcase. Sam shut the
door behind him.
“Stephen
Miles?”
“Yes.
Who are you?” Glance toward his desk. “You’re not Mr Johnson are you? You’re
early if—”
“No.”
Sam turned the key beneath the door handle then he slipped out his gun and
pointed it at the fat man. The fat man gaped. Sam chambered a round.
“Because
I can’t be bothered to hear you stammering about confidentiality,” he said.
Miles
side-stepped. His hand dropped to his flank then rose immediately back up to
his face.
“Jack
Catholic,” said Sam.
Miles
stared at him.
“You
recently hired several private detectives to track him down because of an
inheritance he had coming to him in America.”
“Yes.”
“I
want to know the name and address of the executor of the estate as well as the
address of the deceased and any contact details you might have for Catholic
himself.”
“I
don’t know where he is,” stammered Miles. If there was any fleeting guilt about
revealing the information it didn’t show. “But I know he’s gone over to San
Francisco. I imagine he’s staying at the house.”
“Tell
me where it is,” said Sam.
8
There
were sirens coming as Sam left the room.
The
door was open to the lawyer’s partner’s office. The middle aged woman was gone;
the partner was not in sight. Miles followed to the doorway of his office as Sam strode into reception,
turning to make eye contact with the receptionist.
She
was standing right in the centre of the reception area, almost in his way,
staring at him. Her head was bent a little to the side, her neck straining,
eyes almost blank. There was not a sign of fear.
Staring.
Staring.
For
a moment he paused, sure it reminded him of something, then raised his hand and
pushed her out of the way.
He
ran to the exit, looked back and flashed his eyes at the lawyer. “Thanks for
the info.” Then he was out on the street, running. The sirens were getting
closer. When he saw the lights in the distance, he slowed to a walk. The police
car shot past and braked.
Sam
smiled, slipping his sunglasses onto his face. He went on toward where his car
was parked, not hurrying; not afraid.
He
knew where Jack was now.
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