Experiment With Destiny (12 page)

             
“This was my brother’s place.” John gazed around, as if surveying the room for the first time. “It’s pretty much as he left it. Even if I’d wanted to I couldn’t really afford to do the place up on my pension. That’s why I take in lodgers…tenants…just to keep up the mortgage payments.” Steven wondered where the tenants could be. There was no sign nor sound of them.

             
“How long ago did he pass away?” John looked perplexed. “Your brother?”

             
“My brother? No, he didn’t pass away. He signed the deeds over to me nearly a year ago, before he went bankrupt. Liked to gamble, did Jack. Surprised he managed to hold onto this place as long as he did.” John sighed. “Cup of tea?”

             
“No…thanks.” Goodness knows what state the kitchen was in. “So where does he live now? Your brother?”

             
“Who knows?” John smiled and sat in the other armchair. “He’s an exile now…a…what do you newspaper men call them?”

             
“Waste dweller?” Steven was shocked. How could he allow his own brother to live a life on the wastes? Surely they could have sold the house? Perhaps the debts were too large.

             
“Aye…waste dweller. Jack was first to admit he was a waster, so I guess it’s appropriate. I’m just glad dad wasn’t around to see it happen.” John fumbled with the lid of his cigarette packet, the tremble in his hand more pronounced. “Would have sent him to his grave. You don’t mind me smoking?”

             
“No! Of course not. It’s your house. Here…” Steven offered his own packet, growing impatient with John’s struggling efforts. “…have one of mine.”

“Thanks.” It took another minute, and a little help from Steven, before John’s cigarette was lit and the room billowed with blue smoke. Steven lit his own. “Not many of us left, now.”

              “What?” Steven rested his notepad against the arm of the chair and pulled a battered old tin ash tray in the corner nearer. “Not many of…”

             
“Smokers,” coughed John. “We’re slowly being outlawed.” He smiled toothlessly. “Anyway, you wanted to know about Eleanor.” Steven was delighted he had not been the first to return to his reason for being here. John was surely at ease now.

             
“Yes. The problem is we don’t know an awful lot about her, just that she was a corporal in the SAS…that’s the Special Air Service…and…”

             
“I knew it!” John burst, suddenly stretching forward, his chest wheezing loudly. “I never asked, too polite to, but I knew she was SAS. All she’d say was Army.” He coughed several times and caught his breath. “I was Navy. Signalman. I saw action in the Gulf, first time round, against the Iraqis. I knew she was SAS. Always the quiet ones.”

             
“So she never talked about what she did, in the SAS?” Steven began to wonder how enlightening John would prove to be.

             
“No.” John was shaking his head. “They don’t, you see. Ex SAS never talk about the regiment. It’s an unwritten rule, one of the conditions of membership. Eleanor didn’t talk about much at all. Kept to herself, mostly. Went out quite early, came back in the evening, fixed herself some tea and usually straight upstairs to her room. Never really mixed with the others.”

             
“So she worked?” This could provide a crucial new lead.

             
“Well…in a manner of speaking. She said she did voluntary stuff in one of those charity shops in town. I can’t remember which one.” This was getting frustrating. “She was retired, officially, medical grounds. Never said what the problem was but she did walk with a limp.”

             
“How old was she?” John raised an eyebrow.

             
“You should know you never ask a lady that…well not our generation, anyway.” He flashed his gums again. “Forty, at a guess. Maybe even mid forties. She was a fine looking woman. Such a shame. Car crash you said?”

             
“That’s right. The car she was in collided with a bus on Western Avenue. Friday evening.” Steven searched John’s expression, daring him to refute the truth. “I was there, at the scene,” he added, and in case further evidence was needed: “I saw her body.”

              “No, I believe you. I do.” John assured, stubbing out his cigarette. “The policeman must have got her mixed up with someone else. Difficult job they do, telling friends and family and all.” John stared into the carpet and the only sound for a moment or two was the ticking of the old clock. “The funny thing is I got the impression she didn’t want to go.” Steven’s heart leapt.

             
“Go where?” He could not hide the anticipation in his voice.

             
“To London. She was going to London on Friday. She must have been on her way home when it happened. Maybe she had a premonition. Maybe that’s why she didn’t want to go.”

             
“What was she doing in London? Did she say?” Steven leaned forward expectantly.

             
“No. She never said.” Steven’s shoulders sagged with disappointment. He stubbed out his cigarette. “She never said much at all. I only knew about it because she was doing some washing in the machine, out in the back room, on Wednesday night. She always did her washing on a Sunday. I poked my nose in, asked her about the break in routine, and she said she was off to London on Friday. Didn’t sound at all excited. Just said she had to get her smart blouse clean and dried in time. She was leaving early. I didn’t ask any more. Guess I wouldn’t make much of a reporter, eh?”

             
“It’s not rocket science,” Steven quoted Jerry. “What time did she leave?”

             
“Early. I get up around seven and she’d gone by then. Last time I saw her was Thursday night. She took a call in the television room…we’ve only the one phone. She popped her head round here, said goodnight and that was the last I saw of her.” John shook his head, shedding more skin. “Next thing, the police call on Friday night to tell me she’s dead, heart attack.” He sighed heavily, his lungs whistling. “They came again on Saturday to pick up her things. Said they’d pass them on to her next of kin. I asked about the funeral arrangements and they said they’d let me know. I don’t suppose she had many friends. Nobody ever seemed to pop by and see her and she never went out much. Surprising, a woman like her.”

             
Steven ran it through his head, then ran it through again. He had learned a little more at each stage and was edging, step-by-step, closer to the truth. In his heart he knew his progress was too slow. He was running out of time. He knew the identity of one of the three victims – Corporal Eleanor Gusso, a former SAS commando. He knew she had been to London on Friday, assuming she had told John the truth, and he guessed it was something to do with the medal, perhaps an official presentation, maybe even by Elton, or a senior minister. He knew that the car carrying Eleanor and one other passenger had crashed on its return to Cardiff and that someone, perhaps the police or, more likely, the military or British Eurostate Defence Department, had tried to conceal the fact. What he did not know was why. What was the big secret? Abamae? He felt sure that was the key. But how could he find out?

             
“How long had she lived here?” he asked, aware of the silence. He could check the city’s charity shops, one by one. Perhaps she was more talkative to her work colleagues.

             
“Six months, roughly. Maybe seven.” It would take a whole day to track down the right shop. There must be dozens spread across Cardiff. Perhaps one of the other lodgers knew her better. John was, after all, a little on the creepy side. “I could check if it’s important.”

             
“No, that doesn’t matter. Do you know where she lived before?” It was a long shot and could be equally frustrating.

             
“I think she lived at a pub, somewhere in Canton. The something Arms…” Heggie, of course. The connection, they were both in the SAS. Was Heggie involved in Abamae too? If so, why wasn’t he in the car? Heggie had suffered a stroke.

             
“The Stirling Arms?” John nodded enthusiastically.

             
“That’s the one. I got the impression she and the landlord were…” He grinned toothlessly. “Well, you know. It was just the way she talked about him, when she first arrived.” Heggie would not tell him anything, even if he went back to see him. There had to be another lead, another contact, another clue. “I figured she had to leave the pub in a hurry. Things went wrong, maybe. Such a shame. A woman like her.”

             
“What time are the other lodge…tenants back? I take it they’re out?” he glanced at the door, as if expecting someone to step through and prove him wrong. “Perhaps one of them might know what she was doing in London?”

             
“Oh, I doubt that. I really do.” John’s face wrinkled. “You’re welcome to hang around and ask, for sure, but she never hardly spoke to any of them. Just a hello and goodbye. I never got much more out of her, and I’m her landlord…was. They’ll all be down the pub right now. A Sunday tradition. I’d be there too, if it wasn’t for my legs.” He placed his weathered hands against his trousers, as if to emphasise his point. “I can’t get around too well these days. Arthritis.” Steven decided against staying and waiting for the lodgers to return. John was probably right. They would know less than he did about the secret life of Corporal Eleanor Gusso.

             
“Would it be okay if I took a quick look at her…room? Just to get a feel for the sort of person she was.” It was worth a try, Steven considered. He was fast running out of options, short of ringing up Elton himself.

             
“Like I said, the police took all her stuff yesterday.” John shrugged. “There’s nothing left to see. I’ve stripped the bed and…” He sighed. “Well, no harm, I guess. Put your mind at rest, if nothing else.” John pushed himself wearily to his feet, wincing. “You reporters, eh?” he led the way back into the dark hall. “I’ll not come up, if you don’t mind. Room three, left at the top of the stairs, next to the bathroom. It’s not locked.”

             
“Thanks.” Steven began to ascend, the boards creaking loudly beneath his shoes.

             
“Will you have a cup of tea…or maybe a whisky, while you wait for the others?” John made his way further along the hall.

             
“No thanks. I’ll be fine. I’ll just take a quick peek and I’ll be off.”

             
“As you wish.”

              Eleanor’s room was dark, damp and bare. Its gaudy floral patterned walls bore the deepening stains of mildew and there were patches of spores on the yellowing net curtains of the window, which overlooked the street and the river beyond. The curtains were gold and red, originally, but they had seen better days and were in dire need of a wash. The carpet, the same paisley pattern, was equally threadbare as the one downstairs. There was a metal-framed bed, the mattress slightly soiled, and a large wardrobe. Its door refused to close properly. There was a chest of drawers with a freestanding mirror on top, and an armchair, the pre-packed self-assembly type he was familiar with. Steven could not picture Eleanor living here. Even though he did not know her, this room, this house, her landlord, all seemed totally incongruous with the person he imagined her to be. Eleanor Gusso had either fallen on very hard times or she was trying very hard to remain anonymous, unseen. Steven suspected it was a case of the latter.

So why go to all this trouble to disappear, then take a trip to London to take part in a presentation ceremony? Steven edged around the room, checking the drawers, cupboard and even beneath the mattress. If the answer ever was in this room it was not here now, he admitted to himself. There was nothing left to indicate Eleanor had been living here until just three days ago. Whoever had come to collect her belongings yesterday had been thorough.

             
Steven sat on the corner of the bed. His mind’s eye conjured the harrowing images of Friday evening’s roadside scene. Three bodies lay on the cold tarmac, each shrouded in a blanket. As far as the outside world was concerned they were waste dwellers, criminal exiles who had cruelly taken away the life of a city bus driver. Nobody was interested in their story.

             
One of those bodies was that of charity worker Eleanor Gusso, once a corporal in the feared and revered Special Air Service. It had taken Steven the best part of two days to find that out, but he still did not have the hard evidence to prove it. The identities of the other two bodies remained a mystery. Who they were and what they were doing in a Eurostate car with Eleanor, he was no closer to finding out than he was when he stood beside their lifeless bodies on Friday. Steven had failed to make them live again through the pages of the newspaper, he had failed to unearth and retell their stories. His investigative skills had let them down.

             
Even if his pictures had been wiped by accident, even if Elton thought the second hand inquiries from a journalist were of no consequence, and even if Jerry was prepared to give him another few days to try to stand up the story, Steven knew in his heart he had run out of time. They, whoever they may be, were prepared to switch corpses in an effort to keep Eleanor’s death, and the deaths of two others, a secret. What other measures were they prepared to undertake to ensure that their secret remained so? Why did he care? Ego? He’d had ‘Exclusive by Steven Elan’ on the front pages numerous times. Principles? He had never tried to fool himself that he was a defender of democracy in the past. Ambition? Would International News Broadcasting really pay any attention if he did manage to break this story? It was beginning to dawn on him that his weekend had been pointless, expensive and unnecessarily stressful. What was Jerry going to say about his expenses claim when he failed to produce a story? All he had to show for his efforts was a couple of dodgy printouts and a medal.