1911021494 (11 page)
Authors: Michael Hambling
Saturday Afternoon, Week 1
Anger, frustration and bewilderment all swirled around in Blossom’s head. He stood at the window of his small bedsit, looking out at the pouring rain. He felt safe here. He’d never told the Duff family, or anyone else, about this small bolthole near Bournemouth’s attractive town centre gardens. His tiny apartment was at the top of an old building. The other flats were all much larger and the occupants included an attractive, brunette accountant; a middle-aged male college lecturer; a newly qualified doctor; a dapper store manager and the rather overweight owner of a betting shop. He made sure he got on well with all of them. He always greeted them with a smile and a cheerful remark whenever he passed them on the stairs. This was his home, alongside normal people, not the twisted and mentally stunted types he had to work with.
Blossom had bought the small flat two years previously. Once Hazel’s illness became serious and she was incapable of moving out of her bed, he began to realise that she was the lynchpin of the whole operation. He guessed that things would probably head downhill once she died, hence his decision to buy the flat. He’d rarely stepped outside the twisted criminal world, and buying this little place had proved to be a pleasant surprise. Normal people, doing normal things. His neighbours chatted about the weather, the flower displays in the landscaped gardens, the state of the economy, and so on. Violence played no part in their lives. They were all innocents, and Blossom thought it was a wonderful thing.
He’d drifted into crime directly after leaving school. He’d been sucked into a life that revolved around lawbreaking and violence, and had never left it. The people here were a revelation to him, and he loved them. He was particularly fond of Jennie, an attractive accountant with a ponytail who had moved in only a few months ago. She was just a wonder. Blossom’s eyes twinkled at her whenever they met, and she smiled back. Not that he had any hope with her. He wasn’t stupid. He’d noticed how she juggled her evening dates between two boyfriends. He kept an eye out for her, to make sure she was safe. He also looked out for Agnes, the elderly widow who lived on the ground floor. She was a dear, and so trusting. She liked the fact that he was called Blossom. It was a nickname he’d been given as a teenager, when he’d had to read his only poem out loud to his class. He’d loved that poem, and so had his teacher, but the rest of his class had mocked him. He’d told Agnes that part of the story but not the rest. The ensuing fist fight had sealed his future. He discovered that he had a natural way with his fists. He seemed to be immune from any damage his opponents tried to inflict. Unlike his nickname, the punches and kicks just bounced off his stocky frame.
For a time he’d drifted between various unambitious and loose-knit gangs. Then Hazel, his rebel, tearaway cousin, had introduced him to her fiancé. Tall, bony Charlie Duff and short, stocky, Blossom Sourlie were made for each other. Blossom provided the muscle and Charlie the plans. Or so it seemed. Then Hazel had been struck down by her illness and Charlie’s nephew, Ricky, had started to play a more prominent role. Uncle and nephew began to make decisions that were just plain crazy. Blossom started saving hard, adding to the money left to him when his mother died. Now he owned this little flat and was able to walk away from the Duff gang. As he stood at the window, looking out across the rain-sodden flower beds, his anger faded and he felt something he hadn’t experienced for many years. Possibility. He could start afresh. He’d have to look for some kind of work. A bouncer at a nightclub? Or would that attract the kind of trouble he wanted to avoid?
The heavy rain shower was passing. Blossom decided to go out for some fresh air. He’d walk down through the Winter Gardens to the shore. Out in the fresh air, watching the pounding waves. Just what he needed. He was on his way down the last flight of stairs when Jennie, the ponytailed accountant, emerged from her flat.
‘Hello, Blossom. Haven’t seen you for a while. If you’re going to town, I’ll come with you.’
They walked out of the front door together and crossed the road into the gardens.
‘So what have you been up to?’ she asked.
‘Sorting out some work problems. I know I haven’t been around much recently, but I’m here for a while now.’
‘All okay, I hope? I think you said you worked in private security. Is that right?’
‘Yeah. I’m changing my job, though. I’ve had enough of that crew. Is there a word for lying, cheating, two-faced gits?’
‘None that describes it the way you said. It sounds as though you’re better off out of it, if that’s how you feel. Have you found a new place?’
‘Not yet. I’ll need to start looking soon, but I’m fancy free at the mo.’
He looked across to the stream flowing through clumps of grass and bedraggled-looking shrubs. The water was almost overflowing its banks.
‘That was heavy rain this morning.’
‘Got to get used to the occasional wet spell, Blossom, living on the coast. Listen, are you doing anything this evening? I’ve been invited out to a bar in town. They’re people I don’t care too much for and I could do with some company.’
‘What about your boyfriend?’
‘Which one?’ Jennie laughed. ‘I know you know. Everyone in the house does. Believe it or not, they’re both away at the moment. I could do with someone reliable with me this evening. But don’t get the wrong idea, Blossom. Two boyfriends are enough.’
He grinned. ‘We wouldn’t fit. I’m only five two. And what are you? Six foot or more? Thanks, I’ll come. It’ll be great to get out.’
That evening Blossom sat in a bistro, chatting happily to the kind of people he might have considered mugging not so long before. He also landed a job. A close friend of Jennie’s owned a small business and was desperate to hire someone reliable to fill in as a security guard while their usual watchman was in hospital. Blossom could start the following Monday.
‘Not bad,’ said Jennie, as they clambered into a taxi for the short trip home. ‘I enjoyed it more than I expected, and you landed a job. We ought to celebrate. Coffee and chocolates at my place?’
Sunday, Week 2
‘Any luck with the photofits, Barry?’
Sophie had expected to be first in on a Sunday morning, but her DS was already present. He sat hunched over his computer with piles of folders and documents littered across the floor beside him. She perched on the corner of his worktable.
‘It’s possible, ma’am. There was no complete fit, but several looked vaguely similar. The most promising is the taller one we talked to. Do you want to check?’
He brought up three images on the screen.
‘I see what you mean. I’m not sure about the first. The head is too bony, but I’d agree that the other two are possibilities. Isn’t that last one a bit young, though?’
Marsh looked at the date of the picture.
‘It was taken more than ten years ago. He was lifted for drug dealing and suspected extortion.’
‘What happened?’
‘Suspended sentence for the drugs. The other charges were dropped because of insufficient evidence. One of the witnesses disappeared and the case fell apart.’
‘So who is he? Where was he based?’
Marsh ran a hand through his tousled red hair. ‘Richard Frimwell. Based in Bournemouth. But the address on his file no longer exists. It’s been redeveloped.’
‘So we don’t know where he is now?’
‘Well, it’s possible he might be in Poole, down near Sandbanks, but I can’t be sure. I’ve got a possible address.’
‘Well, if it is him, he’s moved up in the world. Or made some cash. What about the other one? He looks closer to the right age.’
‘Someone called Simon Brooks. But as far as I can tell, he’s locked up at the moment. That’s still to be confirmed though.’
‘Any luck with the short, thickset guy we saw? He was a bit older, wasn’t he?’
‘Nothing at all in any of the official records. I phoned a colleague over in Poole and he reckons it sounds like someone they’ve heard about but not come across. Apparently they’ve picked up whispers of someone who looks like him who goes under the name of Blossom, of all things. But he’s never been lifted, and they know nothing else about him. No name, no address, no details at all. But they suspect he’s a hard man who just has to show his face and things get done.’
‘Do you have an address for the younger one?’
Marsh nodded.
‘Well, let’s pay him a visit. I need to be gone by midday. We’re visiting my grandparents in Gloucester.’
‘I thought you came from Bristol, ma’am.’
‘I’ve just discovered my grandparents from my father’s side, Barry. It’s why I’ve been a bit preoccupied all week. And there’s an awful lot more that I’ve found out that’s left me reeling. I’ll give you the short version in the car.’
* * *
There was no answer at the small villa, and the place looked closed up.
‘Let’s take a stroll round the back,’ Sophie suggested.
They walked around the bungalow, peering in the windows. There were no signs of life, but the property was furnished. Sophie knocked at the back door but there was still no response. Marsh looked around the garden. It didn’t have much in it, but it was tidy.
‘We’re being watched,’ he said. ‘Man in the garden on the right. I’m not sure he wants to be seen. Maybe he doesn’t want anyone to think he’s a nosy neighbour.’
The villa next door was significantly larger, with a bigger garden. The man was watching them through a gap in the hedge. He was standing several yards back, so it was difficult to make out his features clearly, but he was tall.
‘You know how I love nosy neighbours, Barry. Let’s have a word.’
Marsh waved and they went over to the fence.
‘Good morning. We’re from the police. We’re trying to trace the owner of this property. Can you help us?’ he asked.
‘Not sure I can,’ came the reply. ‘They’re away a lot and I hardly know them.’
‘Is the owner a Mr Richard Frimwell?’
‘Yes, but as I said, I haven’t spoken to them much.’
‘You said “they”. So if it is Mr Frimwell, he’s with a wife or partner?’
‘I think so. But I don’t know for sure.’
Marsh took the photo out of his pocket. ‘Could you just have a look at this photo for us, please? I need to be sure we are talking about the same man.’
‘He’s older than that,’ said the neighbour.
‘Yes, this is an old photo. But could it be the same man, eight or nine years ago?’
‘Hard to say.’ The man scratched his head and smoothed his thinning hair. ‘Could be, but people change with age, don’t they?’
Sophie, silent up to now, said, ‘You have a nice garden, sir. It looks oriental with that little pagoda by the pond and the small courtyard in front of it. Did you design it?’
‘Hazel. My wife.’ The voice was flat.
‘So she’s the green-fingered one, is she?’
‘She died three years ago. I pay someone to keep it up now.’ He turned to Marsh. ‘Is that all? I need to get on. Do you have ID? Anyone could say they’re police.’
Marsh flipped open his warrant card. ‘DS Barry Marsh. This is DCI Sophie Allen.’
There was a pause. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude,’ the man said to Sophie.
‘No, of course not. Your wife had a real eye for garden design, sir. You must miss her, Mr . . ?’
‘Black. Of course I miss her.’ His voice was dismissive.
‘Barry, could you look out a contact card, please?’ Sophie turned back to the neighbour. ‘We need to speak to Mr Frimwell quite urgently. Could you contact us if you see that he’s returned? Or if there’s anything else you think might be of help?’
Sophie looked again at the little garden within a garden. She began to intone:
‘No more footsteps in the moonlight.
The pavilion door lies ajar,
but the only sound is of dry leaves rustling in the courtyard . . .’
‘What?’ said the neighbour.
‘It’s from an old Chinese poem. It’s about the loss of a loved one. It always makes me think of a small courtyard in front of a pagoda.’
He looked at her as if she were mad. The two detectives made their way back around the villa to the small front garden.
‘What was that all about, ma’am?’
‘My mum says it was one of my father’s favourite poems. It’s based upon some old Chinese writings, and is about the absence the poet feels when he revisits the courtyard after the loss of his lover. Telling you about my dead father must have put it into my mind. When I saw that little Chinese area with the dried leaves and he told me that his wife had died, the words just popped into my head.’
Sophie looked at the neighbour’s house.
‘Look at the house name, Barry.’
‘Chez Lahar Lei. It sounds kind of Chinese,’ said Marsh.
‘His wife’s name was Hazel. It’s an anagram of the words Hazel and Charlie. Don’t you think he was a bit cagey? He was on edge for some reason.’
‘You were quoting Chinese poetry at him, ma’am. That would confuse the best of us. Maybe you’re just too suspicious.’
‘Goes with the job, Barry.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Let’s get back. I’ve got to get to Gloucester this afternoon, and we still need an hour or so back at the station.’
She spent the rest of the morning with Marsh, planning their strategy for the next few days. They intended to speak to as many street girls as possible, looking for a Romanian connection.
Sophie drove back to Wareham shortly before noon. Lydia Pillay had just arrived, ready to take charge of Nadia for the rest of the day. They had a hurried lunch together and Sophie, Martin and Jade set off on the two hour drive to Gloucester. Sophie slept most of the way.
