Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Four - Part One

LONDON

 

 

Dominic was looking at his watch when Jack saw him on the corner by the café where they sometimes met for lunch if they were both in the city. It was a noisy dark little place that played recorded jazz by day and live jazz by night.

He was slender and tall, wearing a suit that Jack had only seen him in a few times. His usual garb was a chequered shirt, slacks and slippers with a long cardigan; his white hair was always combed neatly back off his face as it was today. When he glimpsed Jack’s approach out of the corner of his eye he started walking in the opposite direction. Jack, who’d slowed down and started to reach to shake hands had to hurry to catch up.

“Where are you going?” said Jack. “I thought you wanted to eat.”

“We need to hurry. They close their doors at five o’clock sharp.”

Dominic was two and a half times Jack’s age if he was a day but he walked everywhere and it was a job to keep up with him. “Who closes their doors?”

“I’ll tell you on the way.”

Jack stopped. “Who are you taking me to see?” Dominic continued at the same hurried rate, leaving him behind. Jack started after him. “Is this what you told me about on the phone?”

“We have a meeting. I rang back the man who has been trying to track you down after we spoke this morning and arranged an appointment for this afternoon. I had to speak to your odorous landlord several times. He refused to take a message. In the end I arranged for an open-ended appointment. They were very keen to speak to you immediately.”

“You don’t have to worry about my landlord anymore. He kicked me out.”

This time it was Dominic who paused. “Really?”

“Yeah.” They resumed walking. “I’m out of money.”

“You should come to me when you’re running short Jack. You know I’ll always help you out.”

“Thanks Dominic; I know that; but it’s important for me to, you know… not need anybody else to help me to…”

“… be independent?”

Jack grinned. “I was going to say, screw up. But yeah. I guess it amounts to the same thing.”

Dominic glanced at his watch again. “It isn’t far down the road now. We should make it in time.”

“Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

“They’ll explain everything when we get there. I think it might be better if you hear it from them.”

“Hear what? What’s going on? Who’s been trying to track me down? Is it—Is it the police?”

“Why on earth would the police want to speak to you?”

Jack found he couldn’t form a response.

“A man has rung me several times,” said Dominic, “a private detective, trying to find you.”

“A detective? Hired by whom?”

“The man we’re going to see. They tried to find you through your parents at first.”

“A dead end.”

“Then through more long-winded ways that proved difficult because you don’t get paid from your work in a conventional way.”

“It’s called not paying me.”

“In the end they went back to the family route and found me through your mother’s side.” Dominic stopped at the front of a grand townhouse that had been converted into offices. The brass plaque on the right of the door said MILES & DAVIS with the word SOLICITORS in smaller type below . “We’re here.” He started to climb the steps to the front door. Jack grabbed his arm and stopped him.

“Dominic. Seriously. What are we doing here?”

The old man thought for a moment, came to a decision then descended to street level. “Perhaps it is better if you hear the first part from me.”

“What is it?”

“Your father’s brother went to live in America in his early twenties.”

“Uncle Robert. I heard about him. Never met him though. My dad went to see him over there once when I was a kid. He lived in San Francisco; worked in the movies, right?” Jack flashed his eyebrows as though it were terribly exciting. “My dad didn’t talk about him much. I think they fell out.”

Dominic placed his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “I’m really sorry to have to tell you this Jack, but he died. Recently.”

“Died?”

“I don’t know how. Some kind of accident.”

Jack looked across the street. There was a park in the centre of the block, fenced all round with black railings. Inside he could hear the laughter of children. He tried to picture his uncle from photographs he might have seen, an old cine-film he had watched as a child, but couldn’t. “I didn’t know him. I’m sorry he’s dead but I never even spoke to him once. I wish I had now. I never even saw a photo of him that I remember. ”

Dominic looked him in the eye. “Well he felt he knew you well enough to leave you something in his will,” he said.

Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Three - Part Ten

The elevator dinged when it reached the ground floor and Sam walked out into the lobby.

Front wall completely made of glass; plants everywhere of various sizes; combined reception and security desk; card-key operated turnstiles; a square of comfortable visitor chairs.

Masters reaction to his request was a setback but not a huge one. He had other contacts he could use that had aided him in the past and worst case scenario: he could do all the legwork himself.

Of greater concern was that they were already on to him because of the money he’d taken from the company. It was unclear how much knowledge they had to date but once they found information on one of his dealings it wouldn’t take them long to piece through the rest, especially if Anna was heading up the investigation. Either way, if they knew about him they would be calling the police imminently. His safe locations were dwindling. He had to find Jack Catholic now.

As he neared the security desk, one of the guards stepped clear and waved. “Good afternoon Mr Decker. How you doing?”

Sam smiled warmly. “Can’t complain Bob, certainly. Can’t complain. How are you?”

“Er, not bad. Look…” He stopped directly in front of Sam. “I just got a call from the fourth floor; from Mr Masters. Saying he, er, wanted to ask you something.”

Sam continued smiling. “Oh really? No problem. He want me to pop back up?”

Basement exit and fire escape at the back of the building.

“No. Er, Ms Thorpe’s on her way down apparently. She’s going to give you a message.”

“Fine,” said Sam, his eyes on the other security guard as he came away from the desk too and started to crescent round to Sam’s right. “I’m just going to light up a cigarette. Can you tell her I’ll be right outside?” He didn’t smoke but chances were, they didn’t know that. He moved gradually round to the left closer to the security desk. There was a plant pot on the nearest end of it containing a bonsai tree.

The guard was becoming increasingly nervous. “If it’s okay with you, he asked if you could wait inside.”

Sam grinned, gauging where both guards were. Then the grin dropped off his face. “What if it isn’t all right with me?”

“What?”  

Sam slammed his fist into the guard’s gut, doubling him over, then cracked it hard against the side of his face. The guard went down on his knees. That was enough. The other guard was older and fatter but he was still a threat. He ran forward as Sam grabbed the bonsai tree on the counter by its trunk and smashed it into his cheek. The pot shattered in an explosion of soil.

Sam started to run, throwing the remains of the miniature tree down. Somewhere behind him the lift chimed. He vaulted the security turnstile and sprinted to the entranceway. A man and woman waiting at reception scattered to the right. Behind him the lift pinged again. He stopped in the doorway and looked back.

Anna Thorpe came running out into the lobby. She assessed what was going on immediately and saw him, face furious and hot. This time Sam’s grin was real.

He gave her a quick two finger salute off his forehead then disappeared into the crowds.

Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Three - Part Nine

9 

 

 

There was a commotion coming from the staffroom next door to her office. Anna sighed, laid down the file she had open and made her way round, intending to ask them to keep it down.

It was a little room with no facilities beyond a vending machine, TV and several comfy chairs. The window only overlooked the blank wall of a neighbouring office building. A dozen of her colleagues were crowded in the doorway watching something on television. They seemed very excited.

“What is it?” asked Anna. “What’s going on?” Through a gap in the crowd she got a glimpse of the picture. It was the midday news.

“Sam’s sister’s been murdered in Bristol!”

“What?”

“Shhh!”

The newsreader was speaking. “The body of the victim was found yesterday evening. Police are seeking this man for questioning about the crime, caught here on an amateur video.”

The image became a blurred shot from a video camera, panning quickly round with several bangs in the background that sounded like gunshots. The picture jerked to a stop and showed a shaky view of a man standing on the balcony of a small hotel in a grey coat, firing a pistol. Anna couldn’t believe it. She recognised that face.

Someone said, “It’s Sam! It’s Sam Decker!” Then everyone was shouting. She couldn’t hear the newsreader anymore.

Surely he wasn’t capable of that; of murdering his own sister; but then again, Anna had seen his real face, the one he kept hidden most of the time. More than anyone else she knew what he was capable of.

The picture became a grainy close-up of Sam’s features. The newsreader said, “The police have warned that this man should not be approached. He is considered armed and dangerous.”

Someone said “Where is Sam? He’s on leave isn’t he?”

“No, he’s here. I just saw him. He’s in with Masters.”

Anna ran out into the corridor.

Everyone else on the floor was busy working. They had no idea what was going on. At the end of the walkway Masters door was closed. She jogged toward it, suddenly feeling an ugly quiver of fear. What if Sam was in there? What was she going to do? She needed to call the police. She slowed down to do that but thought better of it. If he was in there then Masters could be in danger. By the time the police arrived it might be too late.

She pushed open the door. Masters was slouching in his chair alone looking shocked, his face pallid.

“Henry, are you okay? Where’s Sam? Is he here?”

“He just left.” He spoke in short breathless bursts. “It was odd. He acted so strangely; aggressive; angry. It wasn’t like him at all.”

“We have to find him,” said Anna, “The news says he murdered his sister. How long ago did he leave?”

Masters looked flummoxed. “His sister?”

“Henry! When did Sam leave!”

“A moment ago. Less than a minute.”

Anna turned in the doorway then paused and looked back. “Call the police and get building security on the phone. Tell them to hold him in reception. I’m going down!”

Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Three - Part Eight

8

“Where you been?” A heavy hand came down on Jack’s shoulder. It grabbed him and spun him round.

For a moment he knew it was a policeman as certainly as he’d known he was going to die as he fell from the bridge, then he recognised the voice. Jack stared into the darkness, trying to piece what light there was into an image as his eyes became accustomed.

“I said, where you been?” His landlord released him, pushing him back.

“I was out of town.”

The glimmer from the front door was behind the man. His body drew the shadows in. They intensified in his chest and in his lowered face as he stepped to the side of the corridor. “Yeah. Well, you’re out of here now.”

Jack raised his eyebrows. “What?”

Jameson’s features were becoming clear. The darkness was taking shape into the familiar odorous wood veneer and damp-stained walls around him. His arcing forehead was much clearer in the gloom than the pit of his brow or his eyes. “Rent’s not been paid dipshit! You’re out!”

“What do you mean?”

 “The rent’s not been paid! You’re out! That check of yours was worthless!”

“God, really?” said Jack, genuinely surprised. “I’m sorry.” He reined himself in, the impossible situation nonetheless begging him to let his anger come. It wasn’t as intense by far as it had been in that little hotel in Bristol but it was made from the same substance, as though that first outburst had opened a sluice gate in his mind to a reservoir of anger he hadn’t known existed. He drew in a long breath, consciously eliminating the tension in his voice. “Look, there must be some money left in my account. I can’t believe—”

“If you’d wasted less time painting it wouldn’t be coming to this. I’ve already chucked out all that rubbish.”

“My pictures?”

Jameson sneered. “It was all crap anyway.”

“Could you give me some more time?”

“You’ve had your time.”

A frightening thought came to Jack suddenly: that it didn’t matter now if he killed again. He was a murderer. Nothing could change that. Would it really make a difference if he took another life? Each possible response rose in his mind, the angry ones still jostling for recognition. It would be weak to back down; to turn away; he would be giving up. There were voices in his head: friends, books, his father, Dominic. They told him how to react with perfectly conflicting moral clarity. He maintained his gaze with Jameson; then he smiled warmly. “You want me to leave right now?”

Jameson nodded. “All your stuff’s gone already.”

“Okay Mr Jameson.” He crossed to the front door.

“Oh yeah,” said the landlord, “I forgot.” He pointed a meaty thumb over his shoulder at the pay phone on the wall. “Been taking bloody messages for you while you been gone and that ain’t my job neither.”

Again there came a positive guilty dread that the police had been calling.

“That uncle of yours. Rang four or five times. Called just now. I’m sick of being your answering service.”

“But you do it so well.”

 “What you say?”

Jack smiled. “Not a thing. Was there any message?”

“No.”

“Right. Well. Thank you for your sensitivity and charm.” Jack took the worn brass front door handle in his fingers, feeling it as the key to homelessness that it was; the key to poverty. He glanced back and as kindly as he could manage said, “Goodbye.”

He closed the front door and walked down the steps onto the pavement. There was no way now to put it off. He had to go and see Dominic, to find out who was trying to find him and why.

As he walked away the metaphorical jaws of the huge bear trap that was only pretending to be a house quivered, but did not snap closed.

Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Three - Part Seven

7

Sam stood across the street, looking impassively at the front entrance to the office building he had been working from for the past eight years. He was calculating his chances of running into trouble.

For a couple of minutes he considered the other possibility: walking away as he had planned to do before Lucy died. Every second he spent here was a risk. He’d covered his tracks well enough but the audit review had already set a deadline on his closing ties and leaving the country. It was possible that pre-audit checks might bring to light what he had done. Every day that passed made it riskier that they would piece things together and realise; especially with him not there to cover up any issues that arose.

On the other hand he needed help if he was going to find Lucy’s killer quickly. It was a double edged sword: try and find Jack on his own and give them longer to wise up to his crimes or work with them to find Jack, risk their knowing his movements, but find Jack a lot quicker as a result.

It was foolish to even be here. He had the money now. Why not just go?

But he pictured Lucy’s corpse again and knew that wasn’t an option.

He started to cross the street, blocking the memory of the crime scene. Now wasn’t the time to be sentimental. He kept his eyes slightly unfocused so that his peripheral vision could keep watch for oncoming cars as he looked ahead. He mounted the pavement on the other side of the road and pushed through the revolving doors.

He stepped out of the lift on the fourth floor and walked between the cubicles to the central corridor then stopped. Anna Thorpe was near the end of the corridor, her back to him, one hand on her hip, the other on her shoulder bag: grey calf length skirt, pale tan overcoat, boots, blond hair tied back in a French braid. His direct superior Henry Masters’ office was beyond her, the door just closing. She was the last person he wanted to talk to.

Anna started to pivot. Sam crossed into the sub-passage between the cubicles in the open-plan area and started to cut round, keeping an eye on the top of her head, visible above the partition, as she made her way back to her office. Some of his colleagues greeted him warmly, asking why he was back in from leave. He flashed The Lie impatiently, grinning and cracking little jokes, careful to keep his voice low. Anna vanished inside her office and closed the door. Sam hurried across the rest of the floor, ignoring any further pleasantries. He cut into Masters’ office and shut the door behind him.

Sam walked right up to the desk. It was cheap; fake oak. He didn’t glance to the sides but ran subconsciously through his mental inventory of the room: book cases lining the two side walls; cupboard behind and to the right that he knew contained liquor; a filing cabinet.

“Sam,” said Masters, clearly off balance, “I’ve... been wanting to see you.”

“I’m sorry Henry,” replied Sam, pressing Masters to relinquish control of the conversation, “I have something I would like to talk to you about that’s very important.”

Slightly befuddled, Masters said, “What is it?”

“I’ve worked here for some time. Some of the men and women I’ve worked with have proved themselves more than competent. I would like to borrow two of them to help me in a personal investigation. Mike and one other. Anyone except Anna. I would also like you to make available certain resources I require.

“Wait a minute,” said Masters.

Sam raised his finger and pressed on, leaking enough information out to keep his boss off-balance. “I have given eight years of my life for this firm. Now I want something in return. My sister’s been murdered Henry and I’m asking for your help as a friend.”

Total control; the Lie was perfect. Masters was reeling with conflicting motives. “I don’t know,” he said, “Something’s come up Sam. I’m worried about—”

“My sister,” broke in Sam, “I need the company’s resources to help me find out who did it!”

“But look—”

“Just help me out you fat idiot!” snapped Sam and then froze, his confidence faltering. The Lie was failing him. It was failing him again. He took a step backward. Both were silent. Masters stared, the pain of a slap in the face evident in his expression. Sam cleared his throat, his own feeling of self-control again unsure.

“There have been some irregularities,” said Masters, coughing. “Irregularities in your paperwork. Something Anna highlighted to me.”

Sam glanced at the door. He was calculating his chances if this turned bad.

“I know how long you have been here Sam,” continued Masters, “I would like to give you the benefit of the doubt. But insurance can be a tempting game; especially for old hands like us.”

Sam walked swiftly round the desk. He grabbed Masters’ lapel and screwed it in his fist. “I need the resources of the company to track my sister’s killer,” he said; slow, deliberate words. “You are going to help me.”

There was fear and confusion in Masters’ eyes. “You’ve never acted like this before Sam. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” He released him.

“I was just going to discuss these allegations with you Sam but I don’t know. I’m going to have to suspend your service to the company until a full investigation can be levelled. The police may need to be informed.”

Sam stared at him. He stared. His head was throbbing. Then suddenly and completely he broke off. His pulse lowered. He looked out the window at the clouds; at the London skyline. He forced his pulse to slow until it was absolutely normal.

Then he said, “I resign,” and left the room immediately.

Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Three - Part Six

6

Jack found himself suddenly reluctant to climb out of the van when it pulled up at the front of his home in Hounslow, an outer suburb of London.

He lived in an upstairs flat that was part of a Victorian house with a raised front door at the top of a short flight of steps. It was remarkable luck to have hitched a ride with a driver more than willing to drop him at home, but Crazy Geoff had enjoyed the company enough to stretch it out with a pretty major detour. Most of the journey had been a spiral retelling of Crazy Geoff’s glory days on the open road in the seventies and eighties. Jack listened to it with grateful good humour, saying thanks but no thanks to the occasional offered spliff when Crazy Geoff stopped to stretch his legs.

The journey in that heap, surrounded by such pleasantly nostalgic clutter and conversation had let Jack temporarily forget his situation. Now he was back it thumped to the centre of his conscious thoughts once more.

There were no police cars parked by the steps of his building, strobe lights flickering alternately. At first glance there didn’t even seem to be a suspicious stakeout vehicle containing a pair of heavily armed plain-clothed policeman. Having said that, the street was lined with cars as it was at any time of day or night and he couldn’t be sure.

Crazy Geoff was still talking, rounding up the latest story but rude as he knew it was, Jack had tuned out. He couldn’t focus on that now because here at last he had returned to a place where he could be found. If the police were after him – and surely they had to be by now – then this house was an open trap, either seconds or hours away from snapping shut around him, but certainly no more than days.

Should he tell Geoff to drive on; become that fugitive he had imagined? On the other hand, he was a fugitive already. These were fugitive thoughts he was thinking; the reasoning of a murderer.

He should go straight to Dominic’s; find out who was after him; but he was weary. He needed a respite, even for a little while, and more practically, he couldn’t rely on Geoff to be his chauffeur anymore; crazy or not. Before he could muster up enough doubt to stop himself, Jack thanked Crazy Geoff for the lift and opened the door.

“You have a happy life,” said Geoff, showing a smile that was missing its two front teeth.  Jack climbed out and shut the door, sending back a nod through the open window. “Thanks. You too.”

Crazy Geoff revved the engine of his hippy-mobile and flashed his eyebrows then pulled off down the street surprisingly fast. Jack stood where he was for several moments, waiting for the trap to close – for a couple of chubby men in navy blue suits and creased shirts to approach him and ask if he was Jack Catholic and would he mind accompanying them to the station.

They didn’t appear. The street was empty.

But what did that mean? That he was in the clear? Not at all. This house was still only pretending to be a refuge. Behind the bricks and windows were jagged metal teeth and a steel spring, just waiting for the moment when they would snap shut. He hadn’t tripped the trigger mechanism yet, that was all.

Again he had the compulsion to walk away; but he didn’t. He walked up the steps to the front door and flicked the key in the lock. The shadowy blackness inside swallowed him up as he went in and slammed the door.