Sam: A Novel Of Suspense (2 page)

“Is
this the bathroom?” Tim asked.

They
both nodded to him, still being silent.

Tim
grasped the doorknob and turned it.  Then he slid inside the room and looked
around.  The bathroom was nice: stone-tiled with an art-deco suite.  If
anything, the bathroom was a little bit too sterile for Tim’s taste.  It was
like a showroom at a DIY centre. It lacked the soapy odours of a well-used
washroom.

There
was an L-shaped bathtub at the far end of the space and Tim pointed to it. 
“This is where you say the taps ran with blood?”

“Yes,”
said the woman.  “It was coming right out of the hot tap.”

Tim
leant over the tub and placed his hand on the tap marked with a calligraphic
H.  He turned it clockwise and water immediately appeared in a steady torrent.
There was nothing unordinary about it.  “All looks pretty fine to-”

Suddenly
the plumbing began to clunk and rattle.  Tim looked closely at the hot tap and
saw that it was vibrating.  A viscous stream of brown-red liquid appeared and
began to fill the tub.

“There,”
said the woman.  “Just like that.  It’s blood!”

Tim
reached forward and allowed his palm to fall beneath the running stream of
liquid.  It was warm, the mysterious substance mixing with the hot water from
the tank.  Tim pulled back his hand before it started to burn and then raised
his palm to his face. He sniffed the substance, then he licked it.

The
husband grimaced.  “My God, man.  What are you doing?”

“It’s
not blood.  Tell you the truth, I don’t know what it is, but it’s not blood and
it’s not rust.  Tastes kind of sweet.”

“So
what do you suggest?” asked the woman.

“A
plumber,” said Tim, washing his hand in the nearby basin.  “Let me see where
you found the dog.”

The
garden was at the back of the house and was lit by a pair of floodlights
attached to the brickwork of the house.  The pond was set back about fifteen
feet from the house and sat amongst some flowerbeds.  Tim would have expected
to see koi or goldfish beneath the surface of the water, but the pond was
empty.

The
fern tree, from which the Jack Russell had allegedly hanged, was standing just
beyond the pond.  The woman pointed at it.  “Buster was hanging from the top of
there by his neck.  It was so horrible.  Probably the worst thing I’ve-”

Tim
cut the woman off.  “Where did you bury him?”

“What?”

Tim
looked around the garden.  The lawn was short and well kept.  “You said you
buried Buster in the garden.  Could you show me?”

“You
leave that dog be,” said the husband.  “My wife is upset enough.”

“I
don’t want to dig the dog up, sir.  I just want to know where you buried him.”

The
husband and wife stared at each other.  They seemed confused, but more between
themselves than by anything Tim had said.  It was as though they were trying to
conspire without saying any words.

“I
can’t remember where I buried him,” the husband answered.

Tim
huffed.  “Really?  Is that what you’re going with?”

“Look
here,” said the husband.

“No,
you look.  What are you up to here?  Why did you hire me?  Are you looking to
discredit me?  Are you writing a book or something?”

“I
don’t know what you’re talking about,” cried the wife.  “Why are you being like
this?”

Tim
laughed.  “And you, my dear, you almost had me fooled.  Bravo.”  Tim clapped
his hands sarcastically.  “This is all very well done.  The loose wiring to
make the lights flicker; the broken skirting board; the food colouring in the water
tank – all good stuff.  What really gave you away though was the dog.  This
lawn is perfect.  There’s been no digging or burying in this garden at all. 
This whole thing is a setup.  I don’t even think this is your house.  There’s
not a single photo of the two of you here, or even any toiletries or towels in
the bathroom.  Your acting was good, granted, but I think you failed to truly
become your characters – plus the age difference between you  two is a little
hard to buy into.  Now, perhaps you’d like to tell me why the hell you brought
me here.”

The
husband started nodding his head and a wide smile crept across his lips.  It
was almost as if he’d allowed a veil to drop from his face, revealing the
menacing, silver-haired figure underneath.  Tim suddenly worried.  His
Sherlock-Holmes scene of deduction had been satisfying, certainly, but now he
was alone with two people who had brought him there under false pretences.  He
was still yet to find out what those pretences were.

The
husband pulled a phone from his pocket and dialled a number.  He placed the
handset to his ear, still smiling widely like a lion about to make a kill. 
After a few seconds, the man spoke into the receiver.  He said, “Guy passed the
test.  What do you want me to do with him?”

CHAPTER TWO

Angela
Murs stared into the bottom of her whisky glass and felt her head spin.  At
forty-years of age, she was beginning to wonder if the time had come to spend
her evenings some place other than the grimy, student hangouts of the city. 

Wolverhampton
was a University town and the bars were packed every night.  It was easy to
disappear inside any one of them; easy to be alone amongst strangers.  The bars
were also student-prices-cheap and crammed full of eye candy. In fact, there
was a slender young thing currently propping up the bar beside her right now. 
The brunette’s legs went on forever, beginning at a pair of perfectly manicured
feet in open heels.  There was a tattoo of a rose on the left ankle that got
Angela’s juices flowing.

It
was unlikely the young girl was gay, but that didn’t mean Angela couldn’t
appreciate the view.  Most of the senior students knew Angela well and would
often direct any newly experimenting young girls her way.  As it turned out,
Angela got more than her fair share of dalliances for a forty-year old woman. 
Not bad for an ex-priest.

Angela
hadn’t left the clergy because of her sexuality (although it had perhaps made
it inevitable). It had more to do with the church itself.  Her years there had
shown her that it was an institution run by hypocrites and politicians.  They
couldn’t even decide on what to believe in themselves, let alone what everyone
else should.  Some priests supported homosexuality (or were even gay
themselves) while others derided it.  Some vicars were kind, decent souls,
while others were judgemental pricks.  The more time that passed, the less Angela
believed her colleagues were on the path God truly wanted.  She had decided to
leave, three years ago, to follow the Lord in her own way.  But things hadn’t
turned out as planned. Somehow, she’d devolved into the exact kind of hypocrite
she’d once detested.  Even if God did condone homosexuality, Angela knew that
he would not support her drunken, debauched ways.  She wore Sin around her
shoulders like a comfortable cloak.

The
slender brunette noticed that Angela was staring at her.  The girl smiled, but
awkwardness tainted her thin red lips.  She was no doubt wondering why a woman
twice her age was eyeing her up. 

“You
from the University?” Angela asked, trying to sound breezy and aloof.

The
girl nodded.  “I’m studying Creative Writing.”

“Oh,
great.  You plan on being a writer?”

“I
guess.”

“Go
for it.  Nice way to make a living.  So you made many friends yet?”

The
girl’s awkwardness grew.  “Yes, a few.  I should probably get back to them.”

Angela
watched the girl walk away and realised she’d done so without placing an
order.  Had Angela really become so creepy that strangers had now started to
flee from her?

She
glanced around the bar at the random faces and noted that she was the oldest by
far – a full two decades on most of them.  A pathetic sight, she must seem, propping
up the bar all night alone.

Time
to drag my carcass home I think.  Maybe if I’m lucky I’ll fall asleep before I
notice how cold and empty my bed is.

Angela
slunk away from her barstool and took a second to make sure her feet were
steady on the floor.  She was drunk, but still capable.  Her tolerance for whisky
was enough to put most men to shame.  In fact it was a rarity that she was ever
truly inebriated.

On
her way over to the pub’s exit, she nodded to a group of young lads who were as
regular at the bar as she was.  The grins on their faces made her wonder if
they’d been laughing at her – making comments about how pathetic she was. 
Angela lifted her chin and strode right past them.

The
cold air hit her cheeks as soon as she stepped outside.  April was a month that
could go either way: sunny and dry, or wet and damp.  This particular evening
was dry, but biting with a sharp chill at the same time.

Angela’s
usual place to catch a taxi home was the Civic Hall car park, which was just
past St Peter’s House church.  She headed there now, passing by numerous groups
of giggling students conducting their own journeys to clubs or parties on
campus – they were still blissfully unaware of the boring grind that would one
day enslave them all.

The
looming spectre of the cathedral fell over her and the passing groups of
teenagers thinned out. Eventually she had the streets entirely to herself.  The
city was heavily built-up and lacking in much greenery at all, but in the
shadows of the evening, the tall, red-bricked buildings were quite beautiful. 
They were like great sentinels destined to outlive the generations of people
that would come and go through their corridors.

Angela
took some short steps downwards and realised there was someone walking behind
her.  If not for the concrete jungle of backstreets making the stranger’s
footsteps echo, Angela would likely not have known they were even there – or
that there were two of them. 

She
glanced back and caught a glimpse of their shadowy figures.  Their movements
seemed hurried, as if they sought to catch up with her. Angela picked up speed.
The echo of the strangers’ footsteps increased also. 

The
Civic Hall was not far now, and with it would be crowds and taxis. She would
feel safe once she got there.  But she wasn’t going to make it in time.  The
two strangers would be upon her any second.

The
footsteps got closer, their pace quickening. 

Angela
bolted left into an adjacent side street and broke into a run.  Her body was
intolerant of exertion and she huffed and puffed immediately.  She reached the
far corner of a nearby building and jinked left around it, then quickly slid
inside an entrance alcove of an office block.  Hopefully she’d been quick
enough to lose her pursuers.

If
they’re even following me in the first place. I’m probably just being
paranoid. 

Then
why did they speed up when I did?

Angela
remained where she was in the alcove, backed against the brick wall, and
listened.  The footsteps had stopped.  Either her pursuers had gone in a
different direction, or they’d halted somewhere.

Are
they trying to figure out where I went?

Angela
realised she was panting.  She took in a deep breath and held it, let it out slowly,
tried to regain control of her lungs.  It was unlike her to get so rattled, but
a bad feeling had descended over her that put all of her senses on high alert.

Or
is it just the booze messing with my head?  Why on Earth would anybody be
following me?  I’m nobody, just another drunk in a country full of them.  This
is all really stupid.  I’d be laughing at myself right now if it wasn’t so
pathetic.

It
was a full five minutes later when her breathing returned to normal and she
felt like herself again. She stepped out from behind the wall, ready to head
for the taxi rank and put the whole thing behind her, but instead she found
herself face-to-face with two large men.  They blocked her path and seemed
ready to grab her at the first sign that she might run.  She could smell the
acrid odour of their cologne. It stung the back of her throat.

“What
the hell do you want?” she demanded.

One
of the men offered a handshake.  “We’d like you to come with us, Reverend
Murs.  We need your help.”

CHAPTER THREE

In
defiance of every ounce of sense she possessed, Angela allowed herself to be
led to a black-windowed saloon, parked-up on a nearby road.  The night was too
dark, and her knowledge of cars too small, to recognise what brand of vehicle
it was, but it looked extravagant and expensive.  Once she’d taken a seat
inside, it was even more evident that the vehicle must have cost a small
fortune.  The seats were soft, stitched leather and the furnishings were
understated in chrome and aluminium.  Angela settled into the comfortable rear
seat while her two chaperones climbed into the front.

Angela
cleared her throat.  “So, will somebody tell me what this is all about,
please?  I can’t believe I even let you talk me into getting in the car.”