Out of Promises (7 page)

CHAPTER TWELVE

Parked at the side of the road rolling through a mental list of places she could start, Valerie watched the world go by for some inspiration.  People passed her on their way to a gridlocked city, leaving their loved ones at home, some of whom happy to be out of the house while others hating the thought of spending the day as a monotonous slave.

She thought of going to the church, Freddie’s apartment, or even back to the headquarters at Hellman’s, but only as a last resort.

She decided on the apartment.

Arriving at the apartment block made her feel like she was making progress, unlike Lucy’s which felt like a waste of time.

The area was a bit of a dive, the kind of place people lived with little money while still taking pride in their environment.  Not dirty, just in need of modernizing.

The door to Freddie’s apartment block wasn’t security locked like Lucy’s was.  Valerie recalled the day she helped him move here when he was in a bad place in his life, the weather was gloomy and they had to carry all of his stuff from the car through torrential rain.  She would never forget that night.

The apartment was on the first floor at the top of the stairs, and the door was wide open.  She wasn’t surprised given the circumstances she’d found Freddie in.

Stepping inside, she closed the door.

Someone had been busy.  The place was a mess with broken furniture, empty drawers, and stripped down cupboards.  She figured it had to have happened recently as there were no cops here yet.  An open apartment door at the top of a staircase wasn’t an easy thing to miss.

Ripped up newspapers covered the coffee table.

One article caught her eye:

Murder in Southbrook

Police today were horrified when a young boy and his babysitter were found dead.  It is thought child’s the horrified parents returned home from a night out to find them both beaten to death.  The name of the boy, the babysitter and the parents are undisclosed at this time.

A police source states: ‘We believe this tragedy is gang related and are doing everything in our power to find the murderer.  If anyone out there has any information whatsoever please call your local police station as soon as possible.’

I remember this.  Not surprised it still haunted him.

She dropped the article back on the table and looked around, although she didn’t know what she was looking for.  She did notice, however, that all the photos in the apartment were missing from the shelves and walls leaving pale squares on a blue painted background.

Who would want those?

In his kitchen underneath an upturned dining chair, she found his mail.  The rest of the kitchen was much the same as the living room with broken pots and damaged pans smashed in heaps across the floor and surfaces.

Bull in a china shop comes to mind.

Most of the mail was junk, circulars and coupons mainly, then something caught her eye: a note from an anonymous sender.  She figured it had been hand delivered or pushed under the door because it had no address, just the word ‘Freddie’ scribbled in the centre.

It read:

I CAN HELP YOU WITH MICHAEL.  MEET ME AT THE MEMORIAL IN PEOPLE’S PARK AT MIDNIGHT.

There were no other notes in the pile.

Then his phone started ringing.

She let the machine answer.

‘Hello?  Freddie are you there?’ It was Lucy.  ‘Freddie, come on, answer the phone.’ She sighed. ‘Well I need to see if you’re OK.  A woman came to see me this morning called Valerie, she said it was about you but didn’t tell me anything.  She just ran out of the building.  Freddie, I’m worried.  Call me when you can.’

Valerie looked at the answer machine.  The screen said ‘Two Messages’.  The second one was from Lucy, so she pressed play for the first.  A gentle male voice in a southern accent came on: ‘Message for Freddie regarding our conversation in the park.  So far I’ve been unable to find out much about Michael’s murderer, but I‘ll keep trying.  Call me to go through what I have so far.  You have my number.’

Who the hell was that?

She deleted both messages and looked around for another clue.

A desk in the corner of the living room looked promising, but it was also empty.  She was getting frustrated.  Being there in that apartment made her uncomfortable.

Deciding enough was enough, she headed for the door passing a cork notice board hanging on the wall covered in take-out menus and other things Freddie thought necessary to keep.  Pinned to the corner was a business card: Yates Private Detective Agency, Lord St. Southbrook.

‘A private detective?  Shit.’

She put the card in her pocket and walked out.

Elsewhere, at their headquarters, Sharpe exited the elevator, walking into the reception area to find a man sitting on the red sofa.  His name was Cook, a blonde haired man of just below six feet tall.  Seven years ago after a brief stint in prison for armed robbery, he’d been put in contact with Matherson by another inmate.  Although Matherson wasn’t one for recruiting ex-cons, he’d come highly recommended.  But it hadn’t been easy earning the trust of his peers, poking his nose in where it didn’t belong.  As the years went by that trust was earned, though the relentless mockery of being an ex-con never stopped with the same old jokes about dropping his soap in the shower or cuddling up to his cellmate becoming tedious, pissing him off.

‘You’re early,’ said Sharpe.  ‘You shit the bed or something?’

Cook laughed as he poured himself a cup of coffee from the machine on the table.  ‘You want some?’

‘No.  Has Mr Matherson said anything to you?’

‘Not yet, but I’ve not been here long.’  He sat back on the sofa sipping his coffee and watching Sharpe take his seat behind the reception desk, straightening his tie and smoothing his hair.

He said: ‘You take pride in your appearance don’t you?’

Sharpe stopped and looked at him.  ‘You can never look too smart.  That was my brother’s motto.’

‘You miss your brother, right?’

‘You want a heart to heart or something?  It’s too early.  Change the fucking subject.’

‘Relax.’  He took a sip of coffee.  ‘Just curious that’s all.  You don’t talk about what happened.’

‘There are lots of things I don’t talk about.  Now shut up for fuck sake.’

Cook stood up and sat on the edge of the desk.  ‘Like what?’

‘Like your homosexuality.’

‘Hey!’ he said, banging his fist on the desk.  ‘Fuck you.’

‘Why do you want to know?’

Cook wasn’t afraid of Sharpe like most other people in here and Sharpe respected him for it.

‘I heard a rumour.’ 

‘What kind of rumour?’

‘A rumour surrounding Northbrook Children’s Home.’

Sharpe stood up, matching Cook’s height. ‘Who told you and what exactly did you hear?’

‘Nothing in particular.  Just a word on the breeze that you had something to do with it.’

‘What does it matter if I did?’

‘It doesn’t.’

‘Don’t push it, Cook.  It was a gas explosion.  Understand?’

The intercom buzzed. Matherson said, ‘Sharpe, get in here.’

‘Listen,’ said Sharpe, ‘just drop the whole Northbrook thing, OK?  You don’t want to get into it.  Be careful what you say.’

He left Cook alone and entered into the office.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Eager customers hunting for a Christmas bargain filled the shops on both sides of Lord Street.  Even this early in the day Valerie watched mums and dads with their excited children moving from one place to the next while stressed commuters tried desperately to get to work through the morning rush.

With the shops occupying most of the street, other businesses had to open farther down – real estate brokers, lawyers, and private detectives.

Emerging from the traffic, Valerie found the office block that held Yates Detective Agency half a mile away from the shops and was lucky enough to squeeze into a parking space directly outside the entrance.  The building reminded her of old gangster movies set in New York with steps leading up to a door set a few feet back from the street, well maintained to the highest class giving out the best possible first impression.  She liked it.

A plaque with a list of companies to the right of the entrance told her everything she needed to know: Yates was on the third floor sandwiched between two lawyer firms.

She headed inside, into a dim lit, yet warm, square lobby.  Large indoor plants gave the place a more homely feel, though she thought that was a tad too much.  There were two elevators in the wall to the right separated by a bench, but she chose the stairs in the corner.

Thankfully, for Valerie, the stairs were wide and set at a relaxed angle making the climb to the third floor easy on the legs.

Throughout the building, signs guided her to her destination, to a door with an gold engraved plaque beneath a frosted glass window.

She knocked and waited.

Apart from the traffic outside, there was no sound.

God dammit.

After waiting a minute and debating whether to just leave or not, she pushed the door and walked inside.

The office was clean with a large desk sitting on a cream carpet in the centre of the room with two chairs, one behind and one in front.  A door to a bathroom was to the right while white walls propped up a plant growing in the far left corner.

Cosy.

‘Hello?’

No answer.

She took a seat on the soft chair behind the desk, a welcoming sensation after her car.  The desk drawers were locked so she thumbed through a pile of papers, unaware of the man at the door watching her.

‘Something you want, missy?’ asked a gentle southern Texas voice.

Jumping to her feet, she stared at a tall, handsome man with black hair in his mid-thirties wearing a brown trench coat and black suit with a white shirt and open collar.

‘Are you Mr Yates?’ she asked.

‘Call me Bill,’ he said, holding out a hand to shake hers.

She took it.

‘Bill Yates?’

‘William, but I like being called Bill.  Didn’t mean to make you jump little lady.’

The last time someone spoke her like that, she made sure he wouldn’t walk right for a long time.

She held her tongue and waited for him to continue.

‘What can I do for you on this fine day?’ he asked.

She showed him the card she’d found at Freddie’s apartment.  ‘I found this in a friend’s home.’

‘Who is your friend?’

‘His name was Freddie.’

‘Was?’

She didn’t answer.

‘Freddie what?’

She hesitated.

‘You all right?’

‘Maybe this was a bad idea,’ she said, turning to leave.

‘Hey, you came to me.’

She sighed.  ‘Fine.  He died this morning.’

‘That’s a little hazy ain’t it?’

She looked back him, snapping: ‘He was shot in the head last night and tied to a cross, OK?’

‘Hostile ain’t ya?  Yeah, I know who you mean.  He asked me to find out about the boy, but I can’t tell you anymore until you tell me who you are.  Got any ID?’

‘My name is Valerie.’  She showed her driving license.

‘Valerie?  Wow, Freddie liked to talk about you.  He never told me how pretty you are.’

She said nothing.

‘Didn’t realize that was Freddie though,’ he said. ‘Friend of mine told me about that this morning, an old colleague of the force.  Didn’t say it was Freddie Mason, though.  Just it was a revolver he was shot with.  Always liked revolvers myself.’

‘You were a cop?’

‘I think you’ll find most private detectives were.’

‘Can you help me or not?’

‘Yeah, missy, I can help you.  Take a seat.’

She preferred to stand.

He continued anyway, ‘I contacted Freddie after he sent me a letter about an incident a while back.  Didn’t like the secrecy myself, but the case intrigued me.  Been on the case about three months now.’

‘The incident was four years ago.’

‘Yeah, must have bugged him for a long time.  He sent me a sensitive letter asking for my help, asking me not to call him or go and see him, he just picked a time and place to meet.  The letter said he was in some sort of underworld organization and it was dangerous for him to be seen talking with me.  Why he took so long to contact someone about it I’ll never know.’

‘If he asked you not to call, why did you?’

‘Huh?’

‘I heard your message.’

‘Oh right.  I got worried.’

‘He mustn’t have got anywhere on his own.’

‘Shall we get some coffee to talk more comfortably?’

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

‘Hey, I won’t bite.  Can’t deny a man his morning coffee, surely.’

She sighed again.  ‘Fine, but not too far away, OK?’