4
The cops came and arrested us first thing. I thought about going in the full Bogart get up from the night before, but instead pulled on a pair of jeans and two-tone shirt from my bag. Helen had evidently gone for the theatrical look. She wore a white padded jacket over a green summer dress, pink headscarf and Marilyn glasses. There were no cuffs, no hands pushing us down into the car, we even travelled in the same vehicle, an officer sat between us. After they’d read us our rights they said very little else.
We
were taken to Stanley Road Police Station, just south of Bootle. An eyesore of
a building, all faded redbrick, concrete colonnades and midnight blue trimmings.
We were escorted through the back, buzzed in, then to a lift, up two floors, out
into a corridor, into an open plan office and finally into a big corner office.
“Well,
well, well.” a man said as we were shown in. “If it isn’t the troublesome
twosome. Well come in, come in, it’s not like you haven’t led us a merry dance
already.” He leant against a desk, palms at 90o, pipe in the corner
of his mouth. He had the moustache of a sergeant major and everything about him
screamed, ‘Cop’. He was one of the old school, you’d spot him from the other
end of the Smithdown Road. Even his wardrobe was of a palette I’m guessing hasn’t
be manufactured in about 30 years. There was a dark green wax jacket hanging on
the back of the door and I’d have been unsurprised to find a deerstalker in his
desk drawer (next to the Bells).
“Where
is she?” he pointedly asked Helen.
“Why
does everyone think I know where Sarah is? I’m not even looking for her.” She
sighed and gave the man the once over. “Is it Detective Inspector?” Nothing.
“Chief Inspector?” A slight tilt of the head. “Chief Inspector? Ok, well Chief
Inspector, Sarah’s parents are, naturally, worried about her. They want to know
she’s safe and they came to me for help and I said I’d see what I can find out
and if I can say she’s safe, job done as I’m concerned. I have no loyalty to
Sarah.”
“Then
why remove her clothes from the house?”
“Her
clothes? I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” She gave a huff. “Can we sit down?”
“Oh,
yes of course?” We sat in two chairs that looked like they’d been nicked from a
Sixth Form Common Room. “Now then,” Helen said, “you said something about
clothes being taken.”
He
sized her up. “When my officers attended the murder scene, the bedroom drawers
were stuffed with women’s clothes. Two days later, a neighbour calls the
station to report his catching of two people hopping his fence from the Lennox
place. My officers checked, noticed someone had been in through the back and
discovered the ransacked drawers.”
“So
the neighbour said these people were carrying bags of women’s clothes then?”
The
Inspector sat back, sucking on his unlit pipe. He sighed. “That they didn’t. I
suppose you’re going to try and tell
me that wasn’t you.”
“I
think it would be very foolish of us to deny that at this point.” I intervened.
“Everyone in this room knows it was us.”
I
almost laughed. Between us we were doing a fine job of pissing on his parade.
He looked crestfallen, but rallied, “And what business was it of yours
disturbing a crime scene?”
“Oh
I don’t know.” Helen replied. “Something about all of this didn’t add up. Where
was Sarah when Lennox was getting shot?”
“Well
I hope it was worth it. I hope you found something good.” His sarcasm was
getting a little wearing by this point. I guess Helen felt it too.
“I
found that none of your officers know how to pick a lock. Or know, logically,
where a man like Lennox would keep a key.”
He
smiled, pensively. “So that was you was it? I wondered how we’d missed that
first time.”
“Well,
we thought about relocking it, but figured that would be seen as obstructing an
investigation.” He made to speak, but she raised a hand. “It was wrong of me to
break in and for that I’m sorry. What can I say? I’ve had some bad influences
in my life. But I swear to you that those drawers were empty when we were in
there. Whoever took them, it wasn’t us.”
The
same dejected look. “How did you find us?” she asked, biting her lip to conceal
a smile.
“Two
people matching your general description were reported at the Royal Liverpool
yesterday afternoon. It was only when we pulled the CCTV last night that one of
my officers said, ‘Oh, that’s our Helen’. She married your aunt’s brother or
something.”
“Auntie
Val?”
He
nodded “And it’s only her glowing report that’s keeping you from the cells while
we decide what to do with you.”
“Hi
ya Helen.”
“Oh
hi ya Val.” Helen said, spinning around. “When did you come over?”
“Came
over last July.”
“Cool
beans. How’s Uncle Paul?”
“Yes,
yes,” the Chief Inspector interrupted, “if we can break up this mother’s meeting
ladies, back to the matter at hand if you don’t mind. Why are you involved with
the shooting of one Scott Gallagher? A known associate of Messrs Brett and Kurt
Nicholson. A former associate I was led to believe”
Helen
hung her head at mention of the scroat. I explained the situation.
“And
are you both aware that Mz O’Connor
is wanted in connection with a number of high profile robberies?”
“Yes.”
“But
you want to know she’s safe? Has it ever occurred to you that she’s probably safe
in a Nicholson safe house? Her partners in crime.” Helen admitted this had been
a possibility before the events of the previous night. “A bluff!” he replied on
hearing our report. “To throw you off of the scent.”
“Possibly,
but I don’t think so somehow. Though you are right about one thing, wherever
Sarah is, I’m sure she’s safe, laughing at everyone.
“The
young lady has plenty to laugh about. Unofficially they’ve stolen £9 million
over an eleven week period. We’re still not sure how they do it.”
“I
suppose you’re sure Sarah is involved.”
“Quite
sure. Auntie Val, have the TV set brought in here if you please.” A TV and DVD
player were wheeled in on a wooden-metal frame. It was becoming more like
school by the second. Val plugged it in at the wall and inserted the disc the
Chief Inspector handed her.
We
saw a series of CCTV extracts. The images were grainy, but the chain of events looked
similar in each location. Sometimes it was a bank camera, but more usually a
jewellers. A couple walk in. The guy is wearing a golf shirt and Kangol hat,
but they don’t suit him, you can tell he’s dressing above where he feels
comfortable and it’s adding to his stress. He never once looks relaxed. She, on
the other hand, is in total control. Sometimes she’s wearing jeans, sometimes a
dress, but always does all the talking. It’s usually a man at the counter, occasionally
a women, but the speed at which it happens is phenomenal. She talks to them,
engages in some light physical contact and before you know it the assistant is
removing items from beneath the counter or emptying the till of cash and
watching as the couple load up. A couple of times the assistant even puts the
jewels straight into the woman’s bag.
And just as Lenny had said, the assistants do indeed hold the door and wave them
on their way. I looked at Helen. She had her best poker face on.
“I
think we can agree that that proves that.” the Chief Inspector said as the disc
ended.
“I
agree it looks bad for Sarah.” Helen replied. “But like I said, if I can say
she’s safe, job done.”
He
leaned back in his seat a moment. “I won’t deny I could use your help. But I
need to know there’ll be no more secrets between us.”
“Agreed.
What do you need?”
“Well...”
The phone went. “Hello. Yes, she’s here now. He’s what? Oh is he now. Ok, we’ll
be right down then.” He had that stern look again. “Well it seems that young
master Gallagher has regained consciousness and is asking to speak to Mz Marr.” Helen beamed like the dawn
breaking. “Sergeant, kindly arrange transportation to leave immediately.” The
officer left the room, while Val and a male colleague milled around. The Chief
Inspector turned to his paperwork, pipe in the corner of his mouth. No one
spoke.
Helen
ducked her head to catch the Inspector’s eye. “Can I ask how the investigation
is going? Do you know if the same person killed Lennox as shot my friend yet?”
“I
doubt it.” he said, guffawing.
“Meaning?”
He
pulled out a gruesome picture from a file. “Meaning that this is the man we
suspect of having executed Lennox. Hi name is, was, Daniel Kitson. Wanted in
connection with a number of killings in the North West. Must have had an attack
of guilt. On Thursday morning he put a gun in his mouth and pulled the
trigger.” The image showed most of the back of his head was gone.
“Oh
god, that’s horrible.” said Helen, a hand over her mouth.
“Agreed.”
he said, returning the picture. “The curious thing is where Mr Kitson chose to end his life.” We looked blankly at him.
“Does Maple Avenue mean anything to you?” We smiled, looked at each other, then
shook our heads. “No.” we said. “It’s where Sarah O’Connor’s parents live.”
“My
god.” I said. “O’Connor mentioned that at the boat.”
“Yes.”
Helen replied, guardedly. “Very curious.”
The
sergeant came back and we were escorted in reverse through the maze and out to
the carpool. We waited for the car to arrive. The Chief Inspector exchanged
banter with a colleague.
I
watched Helen. She was in her own world. I said, “Weird that guy killing
himself near the O’Connor’s, eh? Funny coincidence.”
“There’s
too many coincidences here Sam.” The voice came from the same distance as her
expression. “Something still isn’t right. Why can’t I see it?”
We
were whisked away to the hospital, the Chief Inspector riding shotgun, the same
officer sat between us. It was a short ride down to Prescott Street.
Craig
Murray stuck out on the ward like a badly suited rhinoceros. The Chief
Inspector, or Reynolds as we discovered he was called, approached Helen’s goon,
but Helen reassured him of Craig’s usefulness. “Takes a thief to catch a thief.
Besides, I trust Craig more than your officers at this point and I can’t have
Scott coming to any more harm because of me.”
He
made to object, but it was half hearted and Craig stayed where he was. We went
to ICU, everyone remaining outside expect Helen, who washed her hands, steadied
herself, and was taken to a bed halfway down the room. The scroat was all
hooked up to machines and fluids and didn’t seem to be moving. Helen covered
her mouth with a hand as she approached. She knelt beside his bed, touched his face
with her other hand, then kissed him on the forehead. He stirred and I could
see his eyes opening and looking at her. His lips moved, but I guess she
couldn’t hear, ‘cause she lifted her ear to his mouth. It was only a flash, a
brief wave that passed over her face. Most anyone would have missed it. I saw
it.
She
kissed the scroat once more and walked out to us. “What did he have to say?” Reynolds
asked.
She
didn’t look at him for a moment. Then she gave a relieved smile, “He just said not
to blame myself.” I watched her. “Chief Inspector, do you need anything else
from me today? This whole thing has left me exhausted and frankly I’d like to go
home and have a good cry.”
He
tensed. “Well I suppose there’s nothing more we can achieve today.” He pointed
his pipe at her. “But you hear anything and you contact me immediately, you understand?”
She nodded and he handed her a business card. “My Sergeant will arrange a lift
back.” He wandered off down the corridor.
For
a time there was silence. Then, out of the blue came, “That’s right, he asked
about her.” I looked at her. “Sorry.” she said. “Forget I said that.”
Only
the driver came back with us, Helen sitting behind him, me riding shotgun. She
stared out of the window all the way, glacial in her stillness. I didn’t know
what the scroat had told her, but I could see her mind was racing.
Arriving
back, she shuffled down the path behind me. Then the car drove off and she came
to life, rushing off ahead to the boat. I was confused, coming down the stairs
to find her leafing through address books, throwing the rifled ones to the
floor. Finally she found what she was looking for, took out her mobile phone
and started ringing numbers:
“Hi,
this is Helen Marr. Who’s that? Oh hi ya Fran, how’s Dawn? Cool beans, listen
you haven’t got anything new in have you? No? Ok, thanks. What, ok email me the
details and I’ll let you know. Bye.”
She
went through this routine three times, plugging in her hands free earpiece,
doodling on a pad on her lap. I paced the room. On the fourth call, I heard,
“You have. Yes, that’s the one. Came in last Friday? No, that’s brilliant,
thanks.” She hung up. “Right, I need to go out.”
“Ok”
I said. “You don’t want me to come?”
“Not
this trip.” she said, heading determinedly for the stairs.
“What did the scroat really say?” I called. Halfway
up she stopped.
Her
shoulders dropped and she gave a huge sigh. Then she jerked her head back at me.
“He said it was Sarah that Lennox was stealing. Sarah is what the Nicholson’s
are after.” Then she was gone.
I
paced the living room, boiled some water, checked the inbox and picked up
Helen’s notepad. The inbox confirmed we’d bought two more ‘Do It Yourself’
covers from the seventy or so versions that were released of the Blockheads
album. I made a note to ring Phill. The notepad was mostly the usual scribble.
At the bottom she had virtually scratched the word, ALP in thick lettering. I
retrieved the address book from the chair, still open at the right page, and
rang the fourth number down. I got through to Birkenhead Docks. I asked if Alp
was there. “You mean the A.L.P.? Sure, same berth as always.” I took the
details, paced some more and finished my tea. I went to my car, thought for an
age about what I was doing, then punched the postcode into the satnav and drove
all the way to the Queensway Tunnel and over (under) to Birkenhead.
Of
course, the satnav stopped working in the tunnel, took an age to reload coming
out and then sent me the wrong way. I found the docks using the dying art of
reading a road sign. I soon spied Helen’s car, but she was nowhere to be seen.
I parked up besides the Micra and walked towards the Mersey. There was no one
about that I could see. The dock was wide, I counted eight ships berthed, seven
steel hulled crafts and one wooden sailing boat up ahead of me. I don’t know
why, but I walked towards the wooden one.
I
saw her hiding herself as I approached. She was crouched down behind a van. I
concealed myself behind a wall and checked she hadn’t seen me. She was starring
fixedly at the ship. It towered above us. Written in ornate gold lettering across
its stern I made out the words: ‘Anna Livia Plurabelle’. “A.L.P.” I mouthed.
Get it done.
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