Unravel a Crime - Tangle With Women (16 page)

He could have some fun here.
The Fiat was a feisty little car, and putting the engine into third gear, he
jammed his foot on the accelerator. The Hill had two lanes for ascending
traffic, and he found himself passing the more cautious motorists who were
prepared to let their engines slog away in a higher gear. He kept his foot down
on the bends and smiled to himself as the Pirellis squealed in protest. After
the first left hand bend he was able to keep his foot hard down. Perhaps this
was the sort of thing that Morrison did at Shelsley Walsh.

Damn, he had to ease off for
the second left hand bend, but then picked up speed and into fourth, reaching
the speed limit as he crested the Hill. He had left the remains of the Broadway
queue of traffic behind and had a clear road in front of him to Moreton in the
Marsh. He had enjoyed that. The first bit of fun he had had all week.

Where was he? Oh yes, Mel. She
had proved of incredible comfort to him, and, he hoped, he to her. The other
occupant of the shared house was Trevor, an academic from the Open University.
They didn’t see much of him.

He didn’t see that much of Mel
either. She said that she was a professional dancer in the musical theatre, and
was away quite often. Sometimes, when he had been at the house, he would hear
her come in late at night or the small hours of the morning. When she wasn’t
working she spent a lot of time in his bed.

She said that she worked
mostly in London, and chose to live in Milton Keynes, because she said it was
cheaper to travel to and from London than rent there.

She was divorced, as he was,
and had two children who had remained with her husband. She never explained
why, other than to say, “A girl has to make a living.”

It had been their similar
situations which had created a bond between them. Like he, Mel also had contact
with her children on Sundays. She and Brakespeare would compare notes, and cry
on each others shoulders over the pain of saying goodbye to them.

Mel seemed to be in either a
wonderfully happy mood, or depressed state. She didn’t seem to have an even
temperament. Sometimes when they met in the house, she would ignore him, or at
best find it difficult to speak to him.

On other occasions she would
fling her arms round him, and they very soon found themselves making love, only
it was not love. From his point of view it was definitely lust, and they were
able to use up each others pent up anger and frustration in mutual physical
pleasure.

“
Fuck Buddy” was an American
phrase that Brakespeare had once come across. That just about summed it up.

There was no question of any closer
relationship. While he enjoyed her slim brown body with it’s proud buttocks,
and her skin like crushed velvet, Mel herself did not belief in interracial
marriage. “I’m a Jamaican and I live in a tree, white honky” she would shout
with peals of laughter.

Brakespeare had noticed that
she only did that whenever he seemed to be unintentionally getting emotionally
close to her, whether he was telling her how good she looked, or was consoling
her for leaving her children with her husband. It was a defence mechanism to
keep him at a distance. Yes Mel lived in her own very self contained world.

He was realistic about that.
He was probably not the only man with whom she was sharing her body; not in her
profession, but it was something that he would rather not think about.

When they were together she
made him feel that he was the only one that mattered in her world, and he hoped
that he did the same for her.

Would Mel be in the house
tonight? What mood would she be in? He felt himself stir at the thought that she
might be wanting him.

Suddenly he felt thirsty as he
cruised into Moreton in the Marsh. He had only passed through the town on
previous occasions, but remembered that on the corner, where he turned into the
High Street, there was a pub. A nice pint of beer would relax him, and still
keep him under the alcohol limit to drive.

Sure enough the Swan Inn was
on the corner, and he turned into the car park at the rear, just before the
junction.

Instead of using the rear
entrance, Brakespeare walked round to the front of the Pub, glancing up as he
did so at the sign on the old building; an oil paining of two swans on a lake.

As he went in, he could hear
laughter from a boisterous group of men in the saloon bar. He glanced at his
watch. 7.15 pm. It had taken him an hour and a half to drive the fifty or so
miles from Worcester. A bit early for them to be so lively!

Still in a reflective mood, he
turned instead into the lounge bar. Although it was served from the same
counter, and he could still hear the group clearly, it gave him some privacy. A
large fat man came to the bar, and smiled and nodded without saying anything.
Brakespeare looked at the row of real ale pumps before him.

“
Pint of Hooky please.” He
asked, indicating the Hook Norton Brewery pump.

“
Jug or glass?” asked the fat
man.

“
Jug, please.”

The fat man wordlessly pulled
the brown and foaming liquid into the dimpled pint tankard, and limited his
conversation to asking for payment.

Out of the corner of his eye,
Brakespeare could see that the group in the next bar seemed to be looking in
his direction. Whatever it is, it’ll give them something to talk about, he
thought, and moved to a table near the window, out of their line of sight.

He took a gulp of the beer. It
had the unique tastes of real ale. A fore taste and an after taste, far removed
from the pasteurised lagers that the big breweries relied upon to make their
profit.

Now where was he in his
thoughts. Ah yes, Mel. Would she be waiting? Would she be wanting? He tried not
to think about her too much. It was rather sad really that the only person he
looked forward to seeing, apart from the kids, was a peripatetic dancer;
working in a world far removed from his own profession.

“
Well, bi Jaysus, it is yer
man himself.”

Brakespeare looked up as the
door of the lounge bar opened, annoyed that his peace had been disturbed. He
immediately recognised the plump and shambling figure coming through the door
and smiled.

“
Joe, what on earth are you
doing here?” he said rising to his feet, and extending his right hand.

He had seen Joe Gargan but
rarely since he had left the C.P.S.. Red faced, and with dark hair over the top
of his ears where it had rested since the 1970’s, Joe Gargan considered himself
a typical Irishman and tried to speak like one. The problem was that he was
born and bred in Birmingham, and beneath the pretence had the accent to prove
it. He claimed to be related to the Kennedy clan in the U.S.A., but no-one had
ever seen any evidence of it. He would frequently talk about “the cousins”
having done this or that, but nobody took any real notice, and feigned giving
attention by nodding in feigned interest.

He had been a couple of grades
below Brakespeare in the office, despite being at least a decade older.; a
plodder who was almost permanently allocated road traffic cases. He had joined
the C.P.S. from a local practice where he had dealt only with domestic
conveyancing, and rumour was that he had been encouraged to leave the firm,
rather than be made a partner.

He was a devout Catholic, well,
he said he was, and went to Mass on Sundays. At the last count he was the
caring father of four children, with one on the way. Brakespeare had never
regarded him being anything more than an office acquaintance; in fact he
regarded him as the office buffoon.

Joe was one of those people
who would engage people in conversation about the most trivial of matters, and
be totally oblivious of any disinterest. To an extent Brakespeare admired
people like Joe, who could spin out long stories about nothing. It was a gift
that he himself lacked. His own boredom threshold for small talk was low.
Usually had had groaned inwardly when Joe appeared, but now he was more than
happy to see someone he knew.

“
Ah, begorrah, it’s the Hockey
Club. We’re down for the weekend for our tournament.” He indicated in the
direction of the group into the saloon bar.

Brakespeare remembered that
oddly enough for his size and apparent lack of fitness, Joe had been a keen
hockey player with one of the Birmingham clubs, and apparently, while not the
fastest of runners, was a skilled hand with the hockey stick.

“
We arrived at lunchtime”
volunteered Joe.

“
I thought that things seemed
well under way. Well how are you; how many kids is it now.” He gestured to the
seat opposite him. Joe accepted the invitation with alacrity. It was obviously
a change from the throng next door; here he would have a captive audience. He
plonked his own almost full glass of Guiness down on the table.

“
Six.” He said proudly.

“
Six? Is anything left of your
wife?” No-one had ever met Mrs Gargan, and Brakespeare had the vision of an
Irish washerwoman, with a wrap-round pinafore and a turban, elbowing her way
through her children to do her domestic duties.

“
Ah, she’s fine, mind you,
that’s it.”

“
That’s it?”

“
I’ve had the snip.”

“
A vasectomy? Does the Pope
know?” The question slipped out before Brakespeare had time to retrain himself.
Typically, it seemed to wash over Joe, as did most jokes.

“
Well, I didn’t tell him. I
did confess it to the priest.”

“
What did he say.”

“
He said that God already knew
about it, and left it at that.”

“
Well I think that you’ve done
enough for the population Joe. So how’s work?”

“
Something a man has to do.
Not a lot’s changed since you left. Never does in the C.P.S.. Still I’m
building up my pension fund. And how’s you. Are you back in harness yet?”

Joe had been swift in turning
the conversation. That would have been his motive for coming into the lounge
bar; to find out what Brakespeare was up to. That would give him fuel for a
week’s conversations back at work.

“
Yes, just got back on my
feet.”

That was not enough for Joe.

“
Locally?” indicating the
immediate countryside with his head.

“
No Worcester. I’ve just
finished my first week there. I’m on my way home to Milton Keynes. I moved out
of Birmingham after….” He was trying to think of an elegant phrase to cover his
situation, but Joe nodded in understanding.

“
What are you doing? Crime?”

“
General litigation, but only
as a locum. I’ve only got one criminal case. Funnily enough, or not funnily,
depending on how you look at it, it involves the National Bank.”

Joe looked surprised. “They’re
not in trouble, are they.”

Brakespeare laughed. “Well
they may be if our defence succeeds. No I’m acting for a surveyor involved in a
big mortgage fraud case.”

Joe was silent. Brakespeare
waited.

“
Was the chap called
Blackberry or something?” asked Joe, searching for a name.

Brakespeare looked startled.
“Newberry, yes.”

Joe looked at him seriously as
he always did when he thought that he had a prime piece of useful information.

“
That’s a load of rubbish.”

“
How do you know Joe.”

“ ’
Cos I handled the case,”
said Joe pompously.

“
You what?” said Brakespeare
unable to hide his incredulity. Unless things had changed, Joe would never have
been allowed near such a case.

“
Yes, when the case came in
for advice, they gave it to me to look at.” He was now fully aware that he
would have Brakespeare’s earnest attention.

“
And?”

“
As I said load of rubbish. No
evidence that your man ever did a dodgy valuation.”

Brakespeare thought a moment.
“Let me get this straight Joe. The Police brought the case into Birmingham
C.P.S.. to look at; the file was given to you, and you said that there was no
case to answer?”

“
That’s right. I went through
all the tests. We could never have secured a conviction. Mind you I thought yer
man was a bit shady.” He looked disapprovingly as if it was somehow
Brakespeare’s fault.

Brakespeare thought rapidly,
and rubbed his upper lip with his tongue.

“
Joe if you don’t mind me
asking, how did you get the case.”

Joe didn’t mind. In fact he
was flattered to be asked, because he obviously had a story to tell.

“
Well you know that Clive
Masters?” he asked, knowing full well that Brakespeare did. He received a nod
in response. Joe lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper.

“
Well he and the Boss are both
Freemasons – and in the same Lodge.”

Brakespeare involuntarily
raised his eyebrows.

“
Did you not know that, my
man?” asked Joe, delighted to have scored a hit.