3
I was
alone next morning. Helen was in Manchester. The Metropolitan Museum had had
problems with an exhibition of Persian antiquities and an old friend had approached
Helen as a last result. Luckily, a uni mate was now at the Iranian Embassy in
London. Helen had gone to make the introductions.
With the
place to myself, I cubby holed myself astern and worked through the company’s
inbox. Usual humdrum lot, trinkets and trifles and vintage champagne. Couple of
charities wanting celebrity items for auction. Helen would sort them no charge.
The one challenge was for ‘an HMS Glasgow error postage stamp’. I did some
reading and learnt it was from 1964, commemorating the 50th
anniversary of the Battle of the Falkland Islands. Instead of HMS Kent, HMS
Glasgow was pictured. Could go for £30k at auction, so I scooped out the
address books and started ringing numbers.
I was
having plenty of luck, all of it bad, when Helen’s sister dropped her dress back
from the dry cleaners. Ruth is yin to Helen’s yang. Alike in many ways, but
separate in style and temperament: High street elan versus charity shop chic,
the impulsive actress beside the tempered musician and business woman. Same
shock of gold that shines when the light catches it right though. Same full
lips too. Same nose. The Marr Nose they call it: All the kids have it.
We had a
drink and a catch up, and then Ruth said something that reminded me about the
day before. I asked her about ‘The Great Hiatus’.
“Does it
mean anything?” she replied, sipping mint tea. “I thought it was just a name,
like ships have names.”
“That’s
what I heard, apparently it’s supposed to mean something.”
“Google
it.” I did, finding nothing at first.
Then I enclosed ‘The Great Hiatus’ in inverted commas. Three of the first four
results were now about Sherlock Holmes. I clicked one at random.
“There.”
Ruth said, pointing to a list of contents, “6.1, The Great Hiatus.” Click:
Holmes fans refer to the period from 1891 to
1894—the time between Holmes' disappearance and presumed death in ‘The Adventure of the Final Problem’ and his reappearance in ‘The Adventure of the Empty
House’—as ‘The Great Hiatus’.
“Three years.” Ruth said, walking away. “The
Great Hiatus was three years.”
“That’s
what it says.”
“Helen disappeared
for three years. Went travelling with some Irish guy and didn’t tell anyone.
Final year of uni too. Only heard from her after like eight months and then
just the odd postcard from Tokyo and Shanghai and places like that.”
That would
explain the Eastern artefacts all over the place. “This guy Helen went off
with, remember his name?” She didn’t. “Was it Andy?”
“Maybe.
Yeah, that seems familiar. Why?” I told her about yesterday’s encounter. She
sneered. “Well you let me know if you see him again. That Andy’s still got a
lot of explaining to do.”
Ruth had
been gone twenty minutes and I was feeding bread to the swans (they come pecking
at the side same time every day, they don’t care what you’re doing), when a
frantic Helen called from the fast lane of the M62. “Sam meet me at the Royal
a. s. a. p. please. Explain when I see you.”
“Sure.
What’s happened?” but she was gone. I grabbed my keys, locked up and drove
down.
I caught
sight of her as I was finding a parking space. She was appropriately dressed for
her meeting in a knee length Persian green dress over black pants, fingerless
opera gloves and skull cap to match. She held her hands out towards me as I
arrived. “It’s Scot, he’s been shot.” I hugged her. “Damm it.” she snapped,
spinning away. “I shouldn’t have got him mixed up in all this again.”
“Now hey,
you don’t know this was down to you.”
“I know
it was Sam, I can feel it in my bones.” We went in, but couldn’t get in to see
the scroat. He was in a coma anyway. Helen made some calls and after a time a
very large man arrived. He looked out of place outside the gym and even more
uncertain crammed into an dark coloured suit. “Helen Marr?” he rumbled in the
coarsest Scouse. My thumb showed him the way.
“I’m to
watch the kid.” he boomed over Helen’s head. “Boss wants to see you. Starkey’s,
Rathbone Road.” Helen thanked him and she smiled and he went, as I had seen so
many others go, under her spell. I knew for anyone to finish the scroat off
they’d have to get through every ounce of Craig Murray’s eighteen odd stone.
“Stay
close to me in here.” Helen warned on the drive to Old Swan. “Lenny helps me
out now and then, but he’s only got so much influence with Starkey’s crew.” She
needn’t have bothered. The boarded up windows and neat formation of bullet
holes in the entrance masonry told me all I needed to know.
You could
tell it was a Saloon Bar, ‘cause on entering all faces turned in our direction.
The smoking ban hadn’t dared take effect here. Wisps of smoke drifted through a blue
haze, giving rise to that authentic pub odour that’s already out of another
age. I saw at least one hand reach for something concealed in an elasticated
waistband.
“Helen.”
a voice called from a function room to our right. A bronze skinned man sat
punching numbers into a calculator in the corner. He wore a grey jacket, fat
gold necklace and signet ring on his left little finger. A pork pie cap sat at
one corner of the table.
“Helen ma
girl, how the hell are you?”
“Fine
Lenny, fine. And yourself?”
“Tres
bien mon cher. Bad business this with your boy. Shot outside Doyle’s so I
heard. Lot of bad boys drink in there.” Lenny smiled knowingly. “What was he up
to?”
Helen
wore a pained expression. “Don’t tease me Lenny, I feel dreadful. I’m trying to
find a friend of mine that’s gone missing and Scot was helping me. Girl named
Sarah O’Connor. Was shacked up with a guy called Lennox.”
Lenny’s
eyebrows shot an inch north. “You surely don’t mean the late Terry Lennox?”
“That’s the
one. What d’ya know Lenny?”
“Only
that he’d had his hands in the Nicholsons’ till for years. Went too far this
time. Stole something big, something priceless the way I heard it.”
“What?”
“Sorry
girl, no one’s saying. You know what a tight ship Brett and Kurt run.”
“Thanks
Lenny.”
We made
to leave. “I do know something about your girl.” Helen’s frown only made Lenny
grin wider. “If that
would be of any interest to you.”
She
was subdued on the way back to town. I can hardly say I blamed her after what
Lenny said (“Rumour has it your girl was working with the Nicholsons... Couple
walk into a bank, a jewellers, and before you know it staff are handing out
great wads of cash and twenty four carat diamonds and holding the door open for
them with a wave. You must have seen the CCTV footage, it’s been on
‘Crimewatch’ girl... No-one cared when it was happening up north, but last
month they hit London and now the Met are all over it.”). I dropped her back at
her car. She said something about running some errands and asked me to check
with Sarah’s dad where he’d got her address from. I left her looking deep in
thought and troubled.
I
went home, had a smoke, rang O’Connor and showered in short order. Jo rang
right then. Was good to hear her voice, the last week seemed as long as the
previous eight. She was very excited. The team had been down south where an entire
village had disappeared overnight. She said there were great rents in the
ground. No-one knew what had happened. She was exhilarated, and a little scared.
Still, she was missing me and wished she was coming tonight. I said I’d tell
the girls, Hi. I don’t know why I didn’t tell her about Sarah.
I
changed and drove into town. Helen and Ruth were waiting outside St George’s Hall.
They looked like something out of another age. Helen wore a Prussian blue,
backless silk ball gown, circa 1932, purchased from a little shop in what is
now Quiggins for a very reasonable price. Ruth favoured a green on white rose
print 50s summer dress. The girls had been looking forward to this night for
months, an unworn Charleston dress hung in the wardrobe at home. Even my suit
came from the Vintage Clothing section on ebay (1940s to complete the set). As
soon as we climbed the stairs and entered the Great Concert Hall, we helped
ourselves to complimentary champagne and toasted absent friends.
I’d
never been in the hall before. It’s a huge, long room, dominated by the raised organ
at one end and rows of colonnaded balconies running either side. A full
orchestra played a Strauss waltz at the opposite end. The carved, panelled
ceiling high above was lit blue by modern spot lights, as was the dance floor,
while two banks of chandeliers cast an orange glow between them. They fought
for supremacy, patches of competing light formed a mosaic across the wooden dance
floor. Long shadows moved between them, as couples drifted over the polished surface.
Rows of chairs stood either side.
Helen
asked what O’Connor had said. “Said he heard about Bonjour from a golf buddy of
his.” I told her. “The golf buddy knows ya dad, does the karaoke with him or
something.” She seemed satisfied with that. “Well it’s worth checking every
angle.”
Of
course Helen being Helen, she knew everyone. And as the tickets were courtesy
of Ruth’s connections at the Post, they both did a fair bit of mingling.
I felt alone then, without Jo beside me, but Helen, ever the barometer of mood,
made certain I was kept entertained. All those dance lessons were put to use right
away as she introduced me to a triumvirate of partners (“Trust me, the hours
will fly by.” she winked), with Ruth taking a spin in between, at the end of which
I’d worked up a fine sweat and needed a sit down. I struck up a conversation
with Antonio, a wiry, hirsute guy from Portugal that I knew through Helen. We
were discussing his PhD thesis on municipal planning (he was boring himself,
but I was genuinely interested) when Helen floated over, a gloved palm held
out: “May I have the pleasure of this dance.” she asked with comic cuteness.
She
seemed happy as I guided her around the dance floor. Carefree, like I hadn’t witnessed
since the previous day. “Did I ever tell you how I met Antonio?” She hadn’t. “Was
when I was living in Mossley Hill and a
load of us went to Lisbon for New Year to this traditional folk dance, stroke
New Year celebration thing. Antonio ended up being my dance instructor. We got
talking and I found out he lived three doors down from me.” She laughed. “Isn’t
that mad? I travel hundreds of miles and end up meeting a guy I could have bumped
into on my own street.” She told me how the dance floor on which we stood was not
the real floor, but installed for such occasions, the actual base being a
sunken pit half a meter below. At one spot the flooring was a transparent
square, revealing the ornate tiling beneath. We stopped to have a look. I
agreed it was beautiful.
It
wasn’t a late one and before long we were driving Ruth back to her flat at the
edge of Sefton Park. I love this city, but at night is when it truly comes
alive. There’s an energy about it at night that is like nowhere else on earth. I
don’t know if it’s starlight, moonlight, sodium-light, or just the vibe of the
place, but something at night causes this city to luminesce.
My
dad’s side are all Scousers, I spent most of my childhood returning here for
family events. Like the time we went to my cousin’s christening on the Friday, Granddad’s
funeral on the Sunday, and between days sat in the Kop watching us win an
Anfield derby for the first time in five years. I remember what my dad said as
we were leaving the ground: “Well son, I guess two out of three ain’t a bad
result, all things considered.” Was only later I realised what he meant. And
when it came time to decide where I was going to uni, there was no competition
in my mind. We spent so many years moving around the country, Liverpool has
always been the closest thing to a spiritual home.
The
second we entered the alleyway back at hers, Helen sensed something was up. “You
may as well crash on the couch.” she was saying when her eyes went. We ducked down
and crept up to the gate. “Where’s Toby?” she whispered. I thought I saw movement
on the barge. A look at Helen confirmed she’d seen it too. “Wait two minutes,”
she whispered, “then creep astern.” scurrying off behind the fence before I
could object. I waited as she instructed, watched her shadow approaching the
bow, then found a shielded spot and hopped the fence.
I
saw the same shape moving aboard as I approached through rows of lettuce and
string beans. It seemed to be pacing. I doubled back and approached the stern
flat down the bridleway, removing the monkey wrench that Helen kept hidden for emergencies.
I heard a sound that I knew was the hatch at the bow closing. I slipped into
the wheelhouse, knelt and listened. Nothing. I stood up, gripping the wrench so
tight I figured my knuckles must be glowing. My left foot fell forward into the
darkness. I descended.
Is
there anything more frightening than being confronted in the dark by two Glock
touting scalies? I had barely hit the bottom rung when I felt something cold pressed
to my neck. “Don’t move.” a voice commanded with elongated vowels. Someone
emerged from behind the breakfast bar. I was disarmed. “Are-eh, it ain’t ‘er.”
The one behind pushed the barrel into the small of my back and steered me
towards the couch. I was span about and pushed down.
“Where’s
da Marr bitch.” said one, same shaven head, same Primark shell suit (did Harry
Enfield do nothing to shame the scaly fraternity I wondered?). I said nothing.
The next sound I heard was two weapons being cocked. “I said, where’s da
bitch.”
“My
name is Helen!”
She
stood in the doorway. She was dressed in full Samurai armour. The daisho, the
long and short swords, were held in each hand. It was the same suit that stood
in one corner of her bedroom. Later she explained the stand was rigged for instant
access. The scalies were speechless. Then they trained their weapons on her.
She
tapped at the ornate mask which obscured her face. “Kevlar guys. Bulletproof,
so unless you get a lucky shot through an eyehole, I’d say you’ve got thirty
seconds to get off my boat before I start hacking off limbs.”
“Where’s
da O’Connor bitch?”
“As
Nicholsons, I’d of thought you’d know more about that me.”
The
talkative of the two aimed his gun at my chest. “I said, where’s da O’Connor
bitch.”
“And
I said I didn’t know. I also said you had thirty seconds to get gone before I
start slicing. As for any threats to my assistant...” she shrugged through her
armour, “go ahead, I’ve got people queuing ‘round the block to help me.”
She
advanced a pace and they backed off. Their weapons were raised, but it was a
face saving exercise. She sliced the air with the short sword and they backed
off all the way up the stairs and out of the wheelhouse. She followed them, followed
them all the way up the alley and remained until their tail lights had faded into
the distance. I was a little shaken, but stood beside her, now armed with
something sharper than a wrench. Satisfied they weren’t coming back, she
sheathed her weapons and removed the mask.
“Sorry
about what I said in there.” she said. “Had to convince them you meant nothing
to me or they’d have used you as leverage. I couldn’t have that, not when I
have nothing to tell them. That sounds really bad, I didn’t mean it like that.”
I told her it was ok. “Well Sam, what do you think now about Sarah being with
the Nicholson’s?” We passed through the gate.
“Yeah,
I might have been wrong about that. Not getting very far are we?”
“No,
we are, just not as quick as we’d like.” She stopped at the edge of the
bridleway. “Look, we know that at 3.30 on Wednesday, someone, probably hired by
the Nicholson’s, shot Terry Lennox dead on his doorstop. We can also be fairly
certain that about 50 minutes before that, someone got into a fight with Lennox
in his living room and took Sarah with them when they went. We now know that person
wasn’t working for the Nicholsons or they wouldn’t be sending their goons to
intimidate us. Wherever Sarah is, I’m sure she’s fine, but her parents want to
know she’s safe so we keep going until we know for sure.”
At
that moment Toby came lolloping from wherever he had been hiding. “Toby!” Helen
cried, squatting to greet him. His yelping echoed on the night-time air,
spinning himself in circles as Helen patted him. “Hello little man and where
have you been. Not much of a guard dog are you? Ah well, at least you’re safe.”
She lifted him on deck and he scurried down the steps, wagging his tail.
“Well
if I wasn’t staying before, I certainly am now.” I said, standing under the wheelhouse
tarpaulin. Helen was beside me, frozen. She
stared out into the blackness, chin high in the air with a look of
concentration, watching for movement. “Sorry?” she said, absentmindedly, her
body turning towards me, head static. Then the trance was broken. “Yes, yes, of
course.” she enthused. “well you should have figured out the bed settee by
now.” She stared back out into the night and muttered something that I swore
sounded like, “Thanks Andy.”
“What
was that?”
“Nothing.
Well he did design the stand for the armour. And the armour itself as it goes.”
“So
what, he’s some kind of designer.”
“I
said to forget about Andy. But yes, amongst other things, he is a designer. An
inventor really. The suit is designed to allow instant access in an emergency.”
She was energetically enthused, then caught herself and her mouth closed with a
barely audible pop. A wry smile played on her lips. She span me ‘round. “That’s
very kind of you.” she said. “I’d love a cup of cha.” pushing me gently in the
small of my back. For the second time that night I descended into the darkened room.
The rustling of Kevlar followed me down.
Get it done.
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