Twenty-Six Years Ago
1859 Words
Twenty-Six Years Ago
In her apartment…
… Her old apartment…
… Her own apartment…
… Mitch paces endlessly.
Returning to the new apartment, the one he says is hers, is not to be considered.
Is that how he traps them?
Tempts them in?
?
Why bother?
Surely there’re easier ways?
Pain stabs through her temples.
The girls…
Chained…
Crying…
Trapped…
Her stomach tumbles. Vomit threatens to rise.
The police?
Would they believe her?
?
?
He’s important… Powerful…
He must have connections…
Someone must know….
Who?
She wants to tremble, to quake; to surrender to the panic that threatens to engulf her.
No!
The cloud of pain behind her eyes swells. Nausea rises again.
Take a couple of paracetamols?
No… Sticking plaster over the wound…
She goes to the kitchen, makes peppermint tea. Back in the lounge, cradling the mug in her hands, she sips at the tea. It doesn’t help.
Would wine be better?
And a hot bath…
Clear her head, then decide what to do.
How to get them out…
In her small bathroom, she sets hot water running, pours in oil, choosing her favourites to relax with; lavender-scented steam billows.
While the water runs, she turns on some music. Soft enough to settle her. Loud enough to block out the world. Back in the kitchen, she hovers between two bottles:
Red or white?
White…
Glass in hand, she retreats to her warm refuge, closes the door to keep in the heat and the scent. Sinking into warm foam, holding her wine, she closes her eyes, lets the music drift over her.
In the lounge, her phone rings…
*****
The bath helps. The wine helps.
Mitch is still jittery, uncertain; but the panic that threatened to overwhelm her is under control again.
Who can she talk to?
Who would believe her?
Her gaze sliding sidelong to her desk, she eyes the under-cupboard.
The key turns smoothly, and she extracts a card-file, heavy and well-used.
Who does she know?
Who is more than just a client?
And who has enough influence that people have to pay attention?
She stands, pours herself another small glass of the wine, then opens the file, flicking through a card at a time.
Accountant…
Businessman…
Priest…
Government official - low down the hierarchy…
She pauses at one…
Lawyer…
Then swings her head…
… Small time… Family practice…
… and replaces it.
Another…
Circuit judge… Jay… Nice. Likes her. He’ll believe her…
No phone number…
Expelling air, she slots the card back.
The next card she takes, she stares at, considering…
The Police Commissioner…
Klempner must know someone… Someone who keeps it hushed…
Could it be?
Too risky…
Blinking, she replaces the card.
Ahhh…
Max.
Just the man.
She copies down the phone number then replaces the card in its place in the file; replaces the file in its spot under the desk…
There’s a bang on the door; loud, more than a knock; the thump of a fist. “Police! Open up!”
She shrieks, jerking back, wine spilling over couch and carpet.
The banging comes again; the hammering of knuckles on timber. “Open up! Michelle Kimberley. We know you’re in there.”
Shrinking back against the wall, the farthest corner of the room...
Is it really the police?
The banging continues. “Open up or we’ll break the door down.”
Shaking, she huddles further into the corner. Within seconds, the hammer of knuckles turns to the crash of boots. With the wrenching of tortured metal and splintered wood, the door caves in on the end of the foot of a man in blue uniform.
He steps inside, strides towards her, followed by others. “Michelle Kimberley. You are under arrest on suspicion of the possession and distribution of narcotics. You have the right to remain silent…”
She screams and cries, protesting innocence as her wrists are cuffed. No-one listens to her protests as she is dragged from her home. In the corridor, faces watch from doorways; the dead eyes of the curious following the two officers restraining her, manhandling her away and out.
No-one speaks up.
Hey… That’s Mitch. Known her for years….
No-one tries to help.
In the hall to the stairwell, another officer stands looking out of the window, his back turned as the weeping Mitch is taken. The doors to the stairs swing closed behind them. The sound fades. He turns, nudging his cap back with his knuckles, then ambles to the apartment. There’s no urgency now.
One man remains, methodically going through drawers and cupboards. “Hi, Corby. How’re ya doin’? Didn’t know you were in on this? Thought it was just Drugs involved.”
“Hi Jack. Yeah, but it was one of mine put the word on her. And there could be an overlap with Vice. Mind if I take a look around?”
“Not at all. Help yourself. Looking for anything particular?”
“Not really. I’ll know it if I see it. You know how it is…”
“Yeah, I know. Let me know if you come up with anything.”
“Course.”
Bech moves casually around, watching under his brows where Jack rummages through cupboards and bookshelves.
Jack’s radio crackles. He straightens up. “Can you hold the fort for five?”
“Sure.”
Bech watches him out then, moving briskly, goes through to the bedroom, pushing an envelope under the mattress, fat with contents. Then though to the kitchen; a brief inspection of drawers containing cutlery, wash rags, greaseproof and foil. He slips a collection of small plastic packets, stapled and each containing a single tablet, between drying cloths. Then he relaxes.
Strolling through the apartment, his eyes graze surfaces, the bookshelves…
He pauses by the telephone, perched on a small cabinet, flips through a stack of directories and then checks the drawer underneath, combing through notepads, knick-knacks, and odd and ends.
With a grunt of satisfaction, he finds a filofax, quickly riffling through the pages before slipping the book into his pocket. Then, straightening up, he scans the apartment again.
The desk…
He opens the top drawer, fingering through postcards and pens, stapler and sticky-tape, paperclips and postage stamps.
Nothing interesting…
He stoops, opens the cabinet below.
Bingo!
Quickly, he scoops up the index file and heads out. Jack is still speaking into his radio. Bech tucks the index close, twisting so it’s out of sight; hails Jack with an arm. “Had a call. Gotta go.”
“Sure. Catch you later. Beer?”
“Yeah… see you at Marco’s.”
Lips pressed in a tight smirk, Bech leaves.
*****
In the privacy of his own apartment, Bech, beer in hand, he cracks off the cap against the edge of the table then, leaning back on the chair, swings his boots up onto the top.
A swallow of the beer and then he riffles through the card index, brows rising at some of the names: Taking a card at random, he reads:
Alex Bergerman
Accountant. Interested in stocks. Wife 2 kids boy + girl
Likes corsets, big hair. Gets off on dirty talk
A pencilled note at the bottom of the card: Ask him about the Planet Levanti merger. Good investment?
Flipping the card over, Bech checks the back: a list of a dozen or so dates about a month apart. Each partnered with a money amount.
Payments to the w***e?
He sucks in his cheeks, then digging the filofax from his pocket, checks the most recent date. Then the previous one. He grins.
He takes another random card,
Daimon Crevier
Banker. Unmarried. Nerd: model trains. Talker. Likes flattery and head
With a smile that has nothing to do with humour, he puts the card back in its correct place, then taking the frontmost card first, starts methodically to work through. Occasionally, he draws in a whistle as he reads a name…
*****
Some hours later, several more bottles have accumulated on the table top and have now been joined by a coffee pot. Several cards have been removed, paper-clipped to attached notes. Bech tugs at his lower lip with thumb and forefinger.
What to do with the information?
The great and glorious of the City…
Journalists…
Judges…
Celebrities…
Doctors…
The Police Commissioner…
Quite a client base…
All those dates…
Payments made…
All that written evidence…
He picks up one of the cards, set apart from the others; re-reads it.
Larry Klempner
Businessman. Travels. Not local
Likes threesomes, conversation. No apparent family
Pencilled note - cross-ref Frank Conners
Musing, he drums fingernails on the card.
‘Likes conversation’…
Not too much info there though…
At least he hasn’t completely lost his sense of discretion.
And then another card:
Frank Conners. Real estate. Finder for Larry Klempner
Likes threesomes.
Thinks he’s funny.
*****
Back at the station, Cappelli has the b***h in interview, a suit in the next chair. Bech watches from behind the mirrored glass.
She doesn’t look so good now: makeup streaked, hair a mess, face swollen and puffy.
A good scare will shut her up for now…
His gut grinds a warning.
Who’s going to miss one more w***e?
Would it be easier to get rid of her?
Worry about Klempner later?
He shudders.
Not that suicidal…
Cappelli sits back in his chair, tapping his teeth with the end of a pencil. “It’s all very well Mitch, trying to claim you’ve done nothing, but you admit to taking money for s****l favours? You’re a prostitute?”
She folds her arms, juts her chin…
Defiance…
Fake…
She’s scared shitless…
… “It's not illegal. I've done nothing wrong”
“Selling cocaine is illegal. Giving free samples to kids is illegal. The report we have…” Cappelli flips open a file, stabs the pencil onto a sheet inside… “… says you've been seen selling to minors at the school gate...”
“No!”
“… f**k the father while the kids are snorting behind the bike-shed. Is that the plan?”
“I don’t sell drugs.”
“So that stash we found was all for personal use, was it? Single tablets? Individual zip-bags. What about the money we found? That’s a lot to keep at home.”
“It’s not mine. I only keep a bit of cash in my purse. Someone planted it.”
Cappelli nods. Yeah… Right…
Bech watches and listens. The lawyer sits beside her, arms folded, face a blank as he listens, occasionally interjecting if Cappelli gets too pushy.
Who’s the suit?
The lawyer tries to cover it, poker-faced, but he’s pissed about something…
Not happy about being here?
The w***e is denying everything of course. It doesn’t matter. The evidence will do the job for him.
He eyes the lawyer again. They all look much the same of course: white shirt and three-piece, polished shoes. But the cut of the clothes, a couple of expensive-looking rings, diamond studded tie-pin… He looks higher up the food-chain than the average.
“I’d like a word with my client in private.”
Cappelli tosses the pencil down with a rattle. “Sure. Ten minutes?”
“That should be adequate.”
*****
Bech pushes a vending machine cup at Cappelli. “What’s she saying?”
Cappelli hooks a thumb into a pocket “Never gets any f*****g better does it? Denying everything of course. Says she’s being framed.”
Bech barks a laugh. “Of course. Just another victim of a tragic miscarriage of justice.”
“Aren’t they all? Still, looks like that lawyer of hers is going to get her sprung. Bail’s set high but the judge is allowing it. No previous. And it looks like they share a school tie.”
Fuck!
“Who is he? He looked pretty high-class to be the legal for a hooker.”
“Theo Aldred. Subs for Max Devlin. From Hofferman and Partners…”
“Hofferman’s? The prosecutors on the Romani Family case?”
“Yup. Don’t envy him that one. They’ve got all the wits under protection and the judge and lawyers have full surveillance.” Cappelli sucks at the coffee, pulls a face. “Stone-cold… You’re right though. You’d not think he’d turn up for the likes of that one would you?” He tilts the cup at Bech. “I’m going to the machine for another. Want one?”
“Thanks, but no. I’m off in five.”
*****
So, the b***h got herself sprung…
Back in his apartment, Bech paces, curses, bangs his fist on the wall. Then…
The blindingly fuckin’ obvious…
He checks the card index,
And sure enough…
Maximillian Devlin. Lawyer. Married twice. Son by previous.
One daughter by current marriage - favourite topic of conversation. Likes rabbits and pink. Got a pony. Gymkhana. Head girl at Ponterbury.
*****
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