“Well you have given me a lot to think about, Superintendent Church.” Dean Hudson said, his voice friendly and civil again, “Oh yes, and so have you, Sergeant Vernon. I better not take up any more of your time. I know you’ll both be very busy soon. Goodbye.” He favoured them both with an empty smile and left. While he didn’t exactly go skipping gaily out of the police station he walked with a quick and sure purpose.
“I wouldn’t worry.” Bill Church said, reassuringly, “It was bound to end like this anyway.”
Bernadette McLaren strode into Victors nightclub with the same purposeful determination Dean Hudson had strode out of the main police station.
The club was, of course, closed at this time of day and the cleaning staff, all women, all young, and for the most part, Polish, with a few Hungarians and Czechs thrown into the mix, went about their business as she entered. A few of them looked up. Bernadette didn’t recognise any of them and it must have been very strange for them to see a female vicar, complete with dog collar, enter a club such as this at any time of day.
“Cześć.” Bernadette said pleasantly. The women smiled faintly and said hello back in their own language, mostly Polish. No doubt they not only spoke English perfectly, but knew several other languages and had university degrees in business studies. But here, in England, they cleaned the floors and tables of night club owners.
Bernadette completely ignored the very existence of Blank Frank.
He’d been stationed by the door, no doubt having been told to stand there and allow no one except the cleaning staff in or out. But Blank Frank Addams knew exactly who and what Bernadette McLaren was. When she came through the main doors he quietly, surprisingly quietly for such a huge man, slunk into the corner and stood there, his arms loosely dangling, head looking at his big, metal capped working boots.
Unlike the rest of the staff, when they were here, Blank Frank didn’t wear the smart suits, the coloured shirts and fancy ties. He was in very baggy, loose fitting jeans and a T shirt under a denim jacket. It was probably a surprise that clothing came in his size, never mind the fact that the jeans were even capable of being baggy on someone as big as he was.
Blank Frank didn’t speak. He never spoke. You only had to look at him to know why. At some time in the past, and it must have been a very long time in the past judging by the healed scars, someone had taken a razor to his face. There were scars on the big meaty hammers that he had for fists. Scars as old as the facial ones. White and faded but still very clear. No one knew who had swung the razor so viciously and so many times but the story was that it was one wild, desperate, and ultimately failed, attempt, to prevent to stop Blank Frank from strangling the poor sod to death with his own, big meaty, and bleeding hands.
Blank Frank was huge, ugly, brutal and stupid. Anyone who had any common sense would be afraid of him.
As Bernadette McLaren passed by, the huge, scarred, misshapen head (it was also rumoured he suffered some kind of trauma at birth), was turned down but the heavy lidden, dull, dark eyes watched her and showed, if anyone were foolish enough to get that close, an emotion that approximated to fear.
Bernadette pushed her way through the door marked Private, Strictly No Entrance, behind the empty bar, and walked down to the office at the end of the narrow corridor.
She entered without knocking.
“Do you mind?” said Camilla Ruthven. She was sitting on the desk talking to a tall man in a smart dark suit and a goatee. His name was Martyn Westland and he was Victor Monk’s head of PR.
“Get out.” Bernadette said without looking in his direction. Then she continued to talk as if she imagined Westland would obey without question.
“I want to know what is happening with Eddie Symes.” She said as the door closed behind her. Westland had left without either questioning the order or saying anything.
“You heard about that did you.” Camilla Ruthven said. The women were oddly similar and strangely different. They were both red heads. Though Camilla’s red came out of a bottle while Bernadette’s was a fiery natural from North of the border. Her Scottish accent was only slightly noticeable. They both were deceptively expensive clothes. Though Camilla’s skirt was bordering on indecently short. Bernadette’s black designer jeans would have set a family on low income back about a month’s wage.
She glared at Camilla with intensely green eyes. She knew full well that red hair and green eyes, in centuries past, were considered a sign of a witch.
“Everyone has heard about it, or don’t you watch a programme called The News?” Bernadette said, “It’s on the internet. It’s national news. If the entire world wanted to find out about what happened they could.”
“I’ve seen the news.” Camilla said, “It shows your friend, Sergeant Vernon, using Harry Sanford as a football. Now, what can I do for you?” Camilla wasn’t as intimidated by Bernadette as she probably should have been.
“These men, Sanford, and Harris.” Bernadette said, “Where are they?”
“Harry is in police custody.” Camilla said, “I expect Sergeant Vernon is kicking his kidneys to bits even as we speak.”
“No she isn’t.” Bernadette said, “How about Harris?”
“That I don’t know.”
“Camilla……” Bernadette’s voice became harsher.
“I don’t know.” Camilla said very slowly. “We’re not looking for him. We don’t need to look for him.” Which was, of course, true. Eddie Symes has to find both men. Or monk would simply take two at random. Then she nodded, “You want us to look the other way as he slips quietly out of town.”
“Two men are already dead.” Bernadette said, “There’s no need for any more.”
“Unlike you, Victor Monk isn’t under any obligation to love his enemies, forgive their trespasses or even show mercy for their wicked ways. He lost two men. Therefore Eddie Symes must lose two men. The two men who committed the murders, Bernadette. A pair of killers.”
“We know who did the killings.” Bernadette said, “And it wasn’t Sanford or Harris.”
“We know no such thing.”
“No, you can prove no such thing, but you know. You know full well those men are innocent.”
“Don’t try and tell me what I know. Also, if I wanted to describe those two men the word innocent wouldn’t be one I’d use so freely. You do know Harry Sanford probably killed his own father by pushing him down the stairs? His friend, Charlie Harris probably helped cover that up. Have you come for any other reasons, because I am very busy at the moment.” She continued and relax on the edge of the desk and look as unbusy as anyone could without actually laying down.
“I want this to stop.” Bernadette said.
“It will stop.” Camilla Ruthven said, “As soon as we deal with these two men it will all stop.”
Chapter Three
Harry Sanford complained all the way to Dransfield.
The distance between the two towns wasn’t great, a matter of some fifteen klix or so but Harry made it his business to complain. He wasn’t happy in the back on the van. Why was he wearing cuffs?
“I’m not a prisoner, you know. Am I? Bloody hell, I’m helping you. I said I would help you.” He waved his cuffed hands in the air, “What do I need these things for when I’m helping you?” He smiled. It was a big