Pauline Rowson: In for the Kill

I zipped up my sailing jacket, turned right into Landport Street and right again, or rather I would have done, if the road hadn’t been blocked by blue and white police tape, a stout copper and a small crowd. My heart skipped a beat. Almost instantly I knew why they were here. Suddenly the energy and optimism drained from me. It had to be Joe. If it was then there was only one reason why something should have happened to him now: me.

I craned my neck to see a police car straddling the road of terraced houses, small offices and council flats, its blue light pulsating. My flesh crawled. I glanced nervously behind me but the fair-haired man was nowhere in sight. I watched the white-suited scene of crime team come and go. A television cameraman and reporter were further along to my right.

‘What’s happened?’ I asked a black man next to me.

‘Man been attacked,’ he said.

‘Is he all right?’

‘If he is, he ain’t breathing none too well with the body-bag zipped up over his face. I seen it come out half an hour ago.’

‘Who is it?’

‘Dunno.’ He shrugged his broad shoulders, but the woman next to him said:

‘I heard one of the policemen say it was a private detective and that he must have been working on a pretty nasty divorce case to get himself killed.’

God! Where would this end? Would it ever end?

I hung around a bit longer but couldn’t pick up any further bits of gossip. Disappointed and worried I ducked into the nearest café, which was full of students. Nursing my coffee in as dark a corner as I could find I wondered what to do. If I came forward and told the police that I’d had an appointment with Joe they’d ask me why. Before I knew it I’d be in a police station answering questions, or, as they so euphemistically put it, helping with their enquiries, until they could eliminate me. I was out on licence. One sniff of trouble and they’d have me back inside before you could say porridge. The memory was enough to bring me out in a cold sweat and turn the contents of my stomach to liquid. But what if Joe had entered our appointment in a diary?

Did he keep a diary? Did his secretary?

‘You all right, dear? You looks a bit queasy to me.’

I glanced up to see a middle-aged waitress with blonde frizzled hair, tight cheap clothes, excessive make-up and a worried frown on her lined face.

She was wiping down the table next to me. She didn’t seem to fit with the café, which was full of youthful vigour, clear skins and trouble-free expressions. Still she wasn’t the only one: I hardly blended!

She said, ‘I expect it’s the murder round the corner; fair turns you over, don’t it. You’re not safe these days. I’ve heard it’s poor Mr Bristow.

Such a nice man, never did no one no harm.

Used to come in here regular like for a coffee and a doughnut, or a nice fry-up for breakfast.

Hard to believe.’

She smiled sadly before strutting off on heels that were ridiculously high and thin. Not for me it wasn’t hard to believe. Things happened to me and around me. Had my call to Joe warned Andover that I was on his trail? How could Andover have known that unless Joe’s phone was tapped? It seemed incredulous but then as Andover had managed to manipulate my computer files, a simple case of phone tapping certainly wouldn’t be beyond him. Besides, I’d learnt in prison that you could easily buy electronic listening devices on the Internet or by mail order.

I considered another possibility that had occurred to me more than once over the last few years. Could Andover be an electronics or computer expert? I didn’t know anyone like that.

At least I didn’t think I did. It could be someone I had been at school or university with, who might have entered one of those fields. If so it had to be someone who hated me because I had hurt him in some way. I couldn’t think of anyone who fitted the picture, except Steven Trentham, but that was impossible.

I turned my mind back to poor Joe. Why kill him? The obvious answer was because Andover was scared that Joe might tell me something.

Which meant there was something to tell. Then why hadn’t Joe already told it to me? Perhaps he had but its importance had eluded me. Time for me to go over the reports he had sent me, yet again.

I sat up. The reports! Shit! I hoped they were OK where I had left them on the houseboat. I almost hurried home then, but soon realised there was little point. If Andover was after them, they’d be long gone by the time I returned home.

Whichever way I looked at it someone had known I was coming here, and that someone had made sure that Joe wasn’t going to be alive when I arrived. Then a thought struck me, if Andover had listened in to Joe’s telephone calls, perhaps the police had too. Perhaps they had bargained on my coming to see Joe on my release, which meant they could already be looking for me.

I sipped my coffee racking my brains trying to recall how that conversation had run:

‘Joe, it’s Alex Albury. Do you remember me?’

‘Of course I do, Mr Albury. How are you doing?’

‘I’m out on parole. I’d like to come and see you.’

‘I’ve got nothing for you, Mr Albury. The trail was as cold as a freezer in Iceland.’

‘Maybe, but I’d still like to talk to you. I’d like to go over what you did, who you spoke to, what you found.’

‘I found nothing.’

‘Would Monday suit you, about eleven? I’ll pay for your time.’

‘OK, if it’ll make you happy. But don’t build your hopes up.’

If the police had bugged Joe’s calls, then I’d know soon enough.

I finished my coffee, paid my bill and headed out. I was early for Clipton’s funeral but I didn’t mind. It would take me a while to walk across the city to the cemetery where Miles had told me Clipton was being buried. I checked to see if I was being followed but the fair-haired man had gone.

By the time I reached the vast cemetery on the eastern side of Portsmouth the dark clouds were gathering overhead and the wind was snatching at the trees scattering the blossom from them like confetti at a wedding. I sat amongst the flaking and lichen-covered tombstones listening to the birds chirping and watching the squirrels’

antics. My mother had been cremated. I was glad.

I didn’t like to think of her flesh and bones rotting away inside the earth.

I shuddered and lifted my collar as the first spots of rain fell. With Joe dead my hopes rested on Clipton’s daughter giving me some answers to my questions. As if on cue cars began to pull into the cemetery. I glimpsed her black-clothed figure in the limousine behind the hearse. I followed the cars to Clipton’s grave and then ducked behind a large memorial angel, weathered in white marble, and made out like I was a mourner.

Either Clipton had a big family or he had been well liked, and this made me wonder if Joe had any family, perhaps a wife he had confided in. I knew he didn’t have a partner but what about his secretary? She must have typed up his reports.

Perhaps she could tell me something. Or was she in danger herself? I sincerely hoped not, but I wasn’t betting on it.

I scanned the crowd. The police officers weren’t hard to spot as experience and my cellmates had taught me how. There was no one I recognised. Not even Clipton’s softly spoken sergeant who had played nice guy to Clipton’s mean and angry one. I wondered what had happened to him. Even if he’d been transferred surely he would have been here. Perhaps they hadn’t got on.

The cemetery seemed deserted save for us. It was raining now quite heavily and the curate was having a job holding the umbrella over the vicar in the tempestuous wind.

My only chance of speaking to the daughter would be after the committal when the other mourners made their way back to their cars.