Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Four - Part Fourteen

LONDON

 

 

 

Sam knew he was being watched through the peephole but they still didn’t open the door.

Half audible, a man’s voice in the background said, “Who is it?” A woman gave a mumbled reply.

Sam subtly shifted his expression, smoothing out the contours to appear more vulnerable. He slipped his tongue forward so that it would be just visible, held between his lips. He let his shoulders droop; each change separate and slow.

Mike was the man he worked most closely with at the insurance company; his partner. He was the oldest acquaintance Sam had, and he might know the current status of what was going on at work; with the men waiting outside Sam’s house.

The chain disengaged and the Yale lock turned. The door opened a crack, stopped, then opened fully. Mike’s wife Elaine was standing there, still nervously gripping the door: navy blue pleated skirt and crumpled blouse, her blond hair swept back under a hair band. She tilted the sides of her mouth up but her eyes remained dim and mournful.

They knew about what had happened at the insurance company. Sam tilted his strategy in his mind, renovating his approach.

“Hi Elaine,” he said, smiling wearily. “You look really nice.” He started to move past her through the door. “Have you heard about the palaver at work? It’s driving me crazy.”

“Hello Sam,” she replied, clearly edgy, her tension only slightly alleviated by The Lie. “Come in.”

Sam walked through to the lounge. Mike was just getting up from the sofa: very tall and narrow; thin black hair. He was dressed for the evening: jeans, shirt, cardigan, slippers. “How are you Sam? I heard about what happened. What the hell’s going on?”

Sam shrugged, grinning. “It’s all rubbish Mike, believe me. I don’t know what Masters is on about.” He pointed at the sofa. “Do you mind?”

“Course not.” Mike sat too; sofa and armchair at right angles around the television set. Mike took the armchair. “Could you bring in a couple of coffees sweetie?”

Elaine was lurking near the door. She moved sideways toward the kitchen, keeping her eyes on them. The room became quieter when she was gone. Mike leaned forward. “Come on then Sam,” he said. “Tell me about it. They say you’ve been screwing the system. Apparently Anna’s found evidence you’ve been doing it for years.”

Sam shrugged, keeping it light but serious. “I have no idea Mike, seriously. All I can think is that it’s some kind of mix-up. I don’t know, really.”

Mike squinted at him then he shook his head. “Come on Sam, tell me the truth. I know you. I know you’re hiding something.” Sam looked away, breathing in. He held the breath. He hadn’t anticipated this. “Sam, I know about your sister. It was on the news. They found her in that hotel. Is that something to do with this?”

Different angles were juggling in his head. He let all of them fall but one. “Look Mike,” he said, “I didn’t kill my sister if that’s what you’re thinking and I didn’t steal from the firm. I’m trying to find the person who took her from me. That’s why I came to see you. I need you to tell me what’s going on at work; what actions they’ve taken.”

“I can’t believe Lucy’s dead,” said Mike, “She was great. It’s horrible Sam. I feel terrible about it. Are you okay?”

“Yes; I’m fine. But I need you to tell me those things Mike. Come on.”

Mike shrugged and closed his eyes. “You know I won’t turn you in Sam; but they are looking for you. The police are in on it now. Masters won’t say how much has been taken. I don’t think he knows fully yet. Anna is heading the investigation. God Sam! It can’t be a mistake! They’re so sure!”

Sam shook his head. “It’s all a lie.”

Neither one of them spoke. Mike drew his cardigan across his chest. Elaine was still in the kitchen. “Look,” he said. “If they ask me I’ll say I didn’t see you; but what the hell are you still doing in London if it is true? If you’ve really taken that much money then why haven’t you gotten away from here? When you went away last week: why didn’t you go then?”

Sam interlaced the fingers of his hands, pressing his thumbs together. He stared at the little wrinkles around each joint. “I’m in serious trouble Mike. I need some help with a... personal investigation I’m involved in. I need an extra person to do the legwork so that I can resolve this quickly.”

Mike glanced at the doorway. Elaine had returned. She was watching them fearfully. “I’m sorry Sam. I can’t do that. It’s just that—“

“You don’t have to say anymore,” said Sam. He stood and walked toward the door.

“Sam wait! I’m sorry. You’ve got to understand that—“

“I do understand Mike.”

“Are you going to be okay?”

“I’m going to be fine,” said Sam. “I know who murdered my sister and I’m very close now to catching him. That’s all that matters.”

“But the police Sam. You have to get far away from here.”

“Not until I’ve found him,” said Sam. He walked out.

When he got into the corridor he sighed and leaned against the wall. It was meant to be a lot simpler than this. He should have been on a plane by now. Everything was going wrong. His enemies were closing in. The only good thing he had going for him now was that Jack clearly wasn’t wealthy. There was no chance that he could leave the country or anything like that.

There was nowhere Jack could go to escape.

Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Four - Part Thirteen

SAN FRANCISCO

 

 

“All that effort and trouble and then he went and died anyway before we could get a cent,” said Molly’s brother, leering as she closed the front door behind her. “And now our darling cousin gets it all.”

“Shut up Ruben.”

He was at the foot of the circular stairway, one elbow on the bottom of the banister, the other arm down by his side. She caught for a second the glint of a crystal tumbler hung loose from his fingers.

Molly raised her eyebrow as she started past him toward the rest of the house. “You taken up drinking now?”

He chuckled. “Nothing I haven’t been doing for fifteen years or more.” He raised the glass. “But this is ginger ale as a matter of fact. What did you expect; that I’d become a reclusive alcoholic after our nefarious schemes fell through?”

“I didn’t really care enough to wonder,” she replied and left him behind her in the hall as she moved down the main corridor. There was an opening in the wall on the right and down a couple of steps was the corridor leading to the kitchen door. She dropped down them and opened it. The afternoon light was very dull. There was barely any to speak of. She opened the refrigerator and took out some bread and chocolate spread.

“And what about you Molly?” asked Ruben, leaning now in the kitchen doorway as though he hadn’t moved at all to get there. He was wearing a black shirt and khaki slacks. His feet were bare. “How do you feel now so much time has passed? What if I told you what I overheard mother saying on the phone?”

Molly set the ingredients for her sandwich down on the worktop and started fishing inside the bag for the French stick. She didn’t reply to her brother at all or even show through her actions that she’d heard him.

“Because we’ll be selling this house soon,” he continued, “and be finding accommodation more in keeping with the amount of money we have. And your little sideline of translating is going to have to become a bigger earner fast.”

She finished slicing herself a chunk of loaf and slit it down the middle, then opened the chocolate spread and smoothed it onto the bread. “I don’t care Ruben. I really don’t care about any of it.”

He smiled. “That’s my exact problem. I just can’t visualise it actually happening. The change is going to be so big.”

She put the finished pair of half cuts onto a plate and poured herself a glass of milk from the fridge. “We knew it would come one day. It’s only ironic it’s come now.”

“Now that some cousin we’ve never met is about to take everything that should have belonged to us you mean?” he asked. Molly didn’t answer. “You need to start asking yourself what you’ll say to him when he comes to collect his prize.”

Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Four - Part Twelve

Sam slowed his car down and coasted past his house without stopping. There was something wrong.

He made a left and parked in the gloom between streetlights. He cut the engine and sat looking at the steering wheel, considering angles again. The air wasn’t cold as he got out. He scanned the street quickly: no-one in sight. Unobtrusively, and keeping in against the high hedge, he made his way to the corner, slipped his pocket binoculars out and raised them to his face.

There was a navy blue Ford parked opposite his house, two men in the front. The angle was wrong to see the house itself from where he was. He didn’t bother trying. Two men; plain clothes: they were definitely policemen. He dropped the binoculars back into his pocket.

Sam considered the efficiency of his plan; the secrecy of his stashes. No foolish hiding place in his own house. It was fortunate. He couldn’t get back in there now. He checked his wallet. Enough there for now, but he was going to have to drive by one of his stashes in the morning; pick up some emergency cash.

One more glance at the men watching. They hadn’t seen him. He backed up and walked to his own car. He wasn’t seriously worried but he was troubled. If the police were now after him then the stakes had got a lot higher. He needed information and he needed it immediately.

Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Four - Part Eleven

LONDON

 

 

“So you’re rich,” said Dominic.

Jack smiled a little, cupping his hot chocolate in both palms, looking down at the rising steam. “Yeah. I’m rich.”

They were seated in the bay window of their favourite café, not far at all from the solicitor’s. Dominic had a mug of coffee and a slice of cake. Jack wasn’t hungry though he hadn’t had a bite since his ice cream with Lucy by the bridge the previous day. It was starting to turn into dusk outside, the view through the window dimming as clear glass became reflection.

“So I suppose the question, young man, is: what are you going to do now?”

Jack continued to gaze into his mug then slowly looked up at Dominic and thought, I’m going to tell you everything that’s happened; that’s what I’m going to do. Then you’re going to hate me forever.

He paused, then said, “I don’t know what.”

“Well you have the cash for it.” Dominic laughed. “More than enough to do anything! You could travel half way round the world staying in the best hotels, just on the interim payment they’ve arranged for you!”

He was right. There was more than enough to do anything and more still waiting in America. The bulk of it was invested obviously but there was still a vast amount of loose cash that he now had access to. It was as tempting as hell to go out right now and start blowing it. But not before he had spoken to Dominic; revealed to him what had happened.

Dominic smiled, his ageing face almost a closed circle of creases. There was no doubting one fact: he would never understand. He wouldn’t be able to entertain Jack’s wild notions of destiny for a second. If Jack told him the truth then Dominic would hate him forever.

And that meant something else. Whether he told him or not, the closeness of their friendship was over. Jack’s life, as it had been, was finished. This secret, the deed he had done, this strange spiritual destiny:– the “quest” he was going to have to undertake now… These were what made up his future. The sharing of ideas that he had loved with Dominic could never happen again.

The old man didn’t even realise it, sitting there, sipping his coffee. Jack himself hadn’t realised it until now but their friendship had died twenty four hours earlier in a little hotel room in Bristol. There was no point revealing what had happened and crushing what little pleasant time they had left together. It was better to enjoy these last few moments then let their friendship gently wither.

“Are you all right Jack?” asked Dominic. “You’ve gone quiet again. You’re not going to fall asleep on me are you? I know I was dull company but that would be plain rude.”

Jack’s eyes misted but he blinked it away. “Don’t worry Uncle Dominic. I’m not going to fall asleep on you. At least not until after you’ve paid the bill.”

Dominic chuckled. “I don’t expect ever to have to pay again with you around.”

Jack smiled but had to turn away. He swiped at the side of his eye and willed himself to be calm. “You’ve been good to me over the years Dominic. Especially after mum and dad died. That’s meant a lot to me.”

Dominic tutted and waved the sentiment away. “You don’t need to get all emotional on me. I’m not going anywhere.”

No, thought Jack, but I am, and you may never see me again after today. In a minute I’m going to walk out that door and that will be the end of it.

“I just want you to know that I’ll never forget how good you’ve been to me,” he said.

Dominic patted his hand. “Well, thank you. It has been a pleasure.” He gave Jack’s hand one more pat then straightened up. “On more important matters… have you decided what you’re going to do next?” asked Dominic. “With all that money?” His eyes twinkled.

“Have you ever thought about what your purpose is, here on Earth?” asked Jack.

“My purpose?”
“You know, why you’re here: what God wants you to do.”

“It’s crossed my mind. More in my youth than lately. You get to my age you’d better hope you’ve completed your purpose by now because you’re running out of time.” He chuckled.

“I’ve been… giving it some thought lately,” said Jack.

“Because of the money?”

“Among other things. I’ve got a theory.”

“Are you planning to share it?”

Jack nodded. “If you believe in God, it’s fair to think you believe that if he has a mission for you then he will be manipulating events to help you achieve that goal, right?”

“Yes…”

“For a while I tried to wrack my brain, trying to work out what my mission was.”

“You’re sure you have one?”

If only you knew. “But I realised I was going about it wrong. Because if God is really guiding us, we don’t need to worry what the mission is. It will just happen; because He has taken into account our personality and drives.”

“You’re saying—“

 “I’m saying that if I just do whatever I feel like doing then I will find my purpose. Whenever I reach a junction I just have to do what feels right and that will be the right choice; the choice that fulfils the mission.”

“So what do you feel like doing Jack? With all that cash?”

Jack set his cup aside. “I’m going to follow where the money leads,” he said. “I’m going to San Francisco.”

Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Four - Part Ten

SAN FRANCISCO

 

 

“If we want the money,” says Ruben, her brother, “we have to go and see him.”

Night in Molly’s memory.

“Come on,” he says. “He’s a thousand times richer than we are. You read the article. His will has it going to our uncle’s family in England.”

She stares out the window, through her own silhouette reflection in the glass. Across the slope of the garden the drive cuts back and forth before it reaches the gates. Ruben’s voice from behind her says, “If we don’t act soon then it will be too late. We have to go and see him; get in his good books; or we won’t get a cent.” Ruben puts his hand on her shoulder.

Without turning she says, “I’ll come.”

Molly looked up, startled. The six month old memories incinerated.

Gaston was right next to her on the wide rim of the fountain, smiling in the sunshine. His smile was huge, lips closed, but creases at the sides of his mouth reaching up to his eyes. His wheat-coloured hair was thin and ruffled, his eyes grey and full of warmth. The lilies on the surface of the fountain drifted only as far as their stems would let them. Birds laughed and sang in the trees that circled the fountain. The sun was shining.

“God, Gaston; you scared the crap out of me!”

“You look so good when you’re frightened I couldn’t resist,” he said, French accent clear and undisguised. He leaned in to kiss one cheek then the other. Molly blushed as always when Gaston said stupid things he didn’t mean.

“How are you doing anyway?”

“Fine thank you Molly, though sad that we won’t be seeing each other again for a long time.”

“Yeah.” She nodded, feeling sadder suddenly herself than she’d expected to.

“You can come and visit little Celine and me in France though, if you’d like,” he said. “We’d be glad to have you. And I’ll be back to check if you’re translating my book correctly in a few months.”

“I’m hoping the threat of that will motivate me.”

Molly stared into the fountain water, through the surface reflection and down into the bottom. The cracked tiles were sprayed with wishes: tiny coins black against the pale green surface. “Money’s a crazy thing isn’t it?” she said.

“Hmmm?” Gaston was looking up at the sky.  

“It has a morality all its own... infecting people who come too close.”

“Depends,” replied Gaston. “Money never did much for me.”

“Isn’t that why you’re writing your book?”

“Not at all. It’s an intellectual exercise.”

“But such an offbeat subject.”

“What is offbeat about a travelling serial killer?”

Molly giggled. “Why nothing at all.”

“Why are you concerned about money now?”

She frowned. “I’ve been thinking about my father’s estate.”

“Angry that you aren’t getting any?”

Her frown deepened its crease. “Yes. Especially after...”

“What?”

She looked at him. “My brother Ruben tried to convince me to go and make peace with my father so that we could get his money when he died.”

Gaston listened to her attentively. When she stopped he paused, waiting for her to continue. When she didn’t he inhaled deeply. “This reminds me of something from my research,” he said,

“Oh?”

“It’s not in my book… Of the incidents I’ve attributed to my fictional killer, it really wasn’t one that could be shown to be a definite. A woman hated her father, just as you hated yours and when he died suddenly she began to suspect that a friend of hers (my killer) had taken pity on her sorrow and eliminated the cause. Just like that.” He clicked his fingers and laughed. “Easy. Never got caught. Never proved anything.”

It was remarkable how deeply into her stride Molly was taking all this talk. In the months since he had approached her to translate his semi-fictional book into English for the American market, the revulsion she had once had at mention of those things barely registered anymore. It was slightly worrying.

“How could anyone do it all those years Gaston?” asked Molly. “How could someone kill all those people and it not eat away at them?”

Gaston glanced at his watch. “I’m going to have to tell you another time mon cher. When I arranged to meet you I didn’t take into account the time it would take to check in at the airport. I have to go.” He reached forward and kissed her cheek once more. She liked the stubble against her skin. The sun was in her eyes as she looked up at him when he stood. “Goodbye Molly,” he said, “And do me a favour.”

“What?”

He turned to go. “Forget your father. He’s dead. And there’s nothing you can do now to get that money. It’s gone.”

Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Four - Part Nine

The entire staircase was filled with light from the paintings. When Sam saw them he felt agitation and suspense. This was the right place. He was minutes perhaps from finding out where Jack was. Which was fortunate; Harrison, his private detective, had just called. The electoral register was a dead end.

Directly on the other side of the front door the stairs reached down what looked like two storeys. The paintings covered every brick: black paint as a base then the images themselves in bright luminous and ultraviolet colours. Sam started down the steps.

It was the Apocalypse: the image on the walls and roof, a huge mural that stretched all the way down the stairwell to the cellar bar; a nuclear blast, tearing apart the bodies of men and women; of the children; the souls of the dead being ripped from their bodies. The pain and misery was captured perfectly in the medium. It was a stark work of clarity but was imbued with an abstractness as well. In the same moment the faces were perfectly realistic and transcendent. It was different from anything Sam had ever seen.

Near the bottom of the stairwell were angels, gathering the souls into their arms, an image that could have seemed claustrophobic and dark but didn’t. The pain of the bomb meant nothing now to these spirits. They had escaped all suffering. It wasn’t a tragedy at all.

As Sam got down to the bottom of the stairs he reminded himself who the artist was. It wasn’t beautiful; it was filth; horror that had sprung from that man’s mind.

The pub was quiet; no more than eight people drinking or playing pool, apart from the barman. The bar ran round the opposite left corner; circular tables filled the lower floor area; alcoves around the entire room, each one lit up and filled with a picture, painted again right onto the black bricks. Sam didn’t look at them as he crossed to the bar.

Man in a suit serving: he looked out of place as though he wasn’t used to it. A woman was sipping from a wine glass and talking to him. Sam caught his eye. “Hi there. You the owner of this place?”

The man nodded and raised his eyebrows. “Yes I am. What would you like?”

“Actually I was wondering about these paintings. They’re amazing, aren’t they?”

“Yeah.” The man nodded, scanning the room. “I love them. I love this place actually. They’re the reason I own it at all you know.”

“Really?” Sam leaned onto the counter.

“Yeah. A fried of mine’s the artist who did it all. He gave me the idea of buying the bar in the first place. When I saw his paintings I just had this vision of how the place could look with his paintings in every alcove. So I hired him to do it when I bought the place.”

“What’s the artist’s name?”

“Jack Catholic.”

“Never heard of him,” said Sam, shrugging.

“He hasn’t made it big yet,” replied the owner, “but he will. Wait and see. And then this place’ll be worth millions.” He laughed. Sam laughed too, turning away to scan the other people for a second.

“You two talking about Jack?” The woman leaned closer to join in the conversation: thick black hair greying at the roots; red dress revealing the curve of her breasts and the smooth skin on her shoulders. She looked forty-five, plus or minus four.

“Yeah,” said the owner, “About the paintings.”

“They’re amazing aren’t they?” said Sam.

“Yes,” she replied. “Beautiful.”

“Does the guy who painted them still live in London?”

“Far as I know,” said the owner. “Haven’t seen him for a while now. I think he moved but he’ll be back soon enough. He always returns eventually.”

The fingers tightened in Sam’s fist. They weren’t going to be of any help in finding him.

“He’s got that girlfriend now,” said the woman; twitch of irritation in her eye. “That’s why we haven’t seen him.”

The owner shrugged. “If you’re interested in buying any of his work I could give him your name and number next time he comes in.”

Sam shook his head. “I don’t think I could afford anything like that at the moment and I’m not going to be in London long anyway.”

“Pity,” said the woman. “He’s an amazing guy.”

“Really?”

“Yes. He’s something really different. It’s like he isn’t just human like the rest of us, do you know what I mean?”

“Not really,” said Sam.

“Like he lives in a different sphere from the world that lets him paint the way he does. I can’t really explain it. You know what I mean Frank, don’t you?”

The barman nodded. “I’ve never met anyone like him.”

“And you never will again,” said Sam, turning.

“Say what?” asked the barman.

Sam didn’t reply.

Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Four - Part Eight

Jack’s perception of the room took a sideways step. He became acutely aware of random items of sensory information while other things became cloudy and vague. If the fourth dimension was time, it was as though he had shifted his perspective so that he saw a fresh set of dimensions. Time disappeared from his scope. There was suddenly no sense that it was passing at all. One of the physical dimensions seemed to have gone too, leaving the space around him flat. At the same time, his senses opened to two new dimensions. Everything was imbued by light and clarity. It felt like he had stepped out of the world into one of his own paintings.

In the frozen moment, the lawyer’s words remained motionless in his ear, rattling his eardrum almost to the point where the sense became meaningless – a perpetual droning hum.

You… are an incredibly rich man.

For a moment Jack felt himself standing on the railings of the suspension bridge again, about to leap forward: poised; frozen.

He looked at Dominic then at the solicitor. Both men were motionless for a moment, then everything started to move again with a lurch as if the timeline had been jump-started. The physical dimensions became crisper, losing their temporary effervescence. The input from his senses pumped, swelling, as they returned to normal. Dominic and the lawyer moved free from their frozen positions. They were watching him with expressions of concern. Dominic’s hand was suddenly on Jack’s arm. He realised that time hadn’t stopped anywhere except in his mind. These men had been talking to him and he’d zoned out, staring into space. They had asked him a question and he hadn’t even heard them speak.

“I’m sorry,” said Jack. “What did you say?”

“Would you like a moment to collect your thoughts Mr Catholic,” asked Miles.

“A moment? Yeah. I think I would.”

Miles gestured toward a pair of French windows Jack hadn’t noticed over to the right. “I have a little balcony. Perhaps some fresh air might help?”

Jack got to his feet. “Yeah. Thanks. That would be perfect.”

He opened the door and went out, realising only then how warm the office had been compared to the cool afternoon air. The day had a refreshing chill to it. Down below and at the other side of the road he had a clear view into the secret garden he’d seen earlier, fenced right round the edge with a gate to allow only residents and the occasional vagrant access. Inside the fence was a high hedge, interspersed thickly with trees until the only clear view into the interior was from above.

An old man was sitting on a bench in the shade of a weeping willow while two of his grand children played nearby with a pair of delicate rackets and a shuttle cock. It was a common enough scene and one that Jack might have inserted himself into in his imagination in the past, seeing himself in his later years taking his own grandchildren to a park like this to play. But now his imagination couldn’t settle on an image like that without a dirty sense of ironic loss. He was a murderer. Ordinary pleasures like this, of an ordinary life, were lost to him.

Or were they?

An incredibly rich man.

With the kind of money they were talking about he could go anywhere, start a new life, away from the ruin his former path had become. But it wasn’t this thought that had stunned him in there, that some kind of artificial financial redemption could be bought, it was the strident certainty that had come over him, linked to the odd counsel of the man who gave him a ride from Somerset.

He had survived that plummet from the bridge and spent a night being carried unconscious downstream, defying all probability in doing so. He had survived miraculously when every fact he knew told him he should have died. And now, the very next day, he had inherited a fortune from an uncle he didn’t even know.

He couldn’t help but think…

A lifetime in the real world had conditioned him, as it did everybody, to think in real terms. It was an arrogance to believe the thoughts coming to him now, something fashioned from pride and a refusal to give up, but all the same…

What if some higher power…? What if God had kept him alive for a reason? What if there was some purpose he didn’t understand that he was being manipulated towards?

He had been kept alive when by rights he should have died and now a vast sum of wealth was about to be set in his lap. He had never been closed to the possibilities but neither had he possessed a convicted belief in anything spiritual or majestic. He wasn’t a natural church-goer and doubted he ever would be. But these things had happened, things that broke the natural law… There had to be a purpose to them; a reason that this greater power had chosen to save him from death.

When Lucy had died he was convinced that his destiny had been stripped away.

Now though… Now he was sure – absolutely sure suddenly – that he had been wrong. He had been kept alive for a reason. He was being given this money for a reason too. 

All he had to do now was determine what that reason was.

Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Four - Part Seven

Jack and Dominic sat in front of Stephen Miles’ enormous desk, coffee in hand, while the lawyer himself stood against the tall window, playing with his lower lip between first finger and thumb. He was middle aged and respectably overweight, the cut of his clothes expensively designed to tone down the girth around his middle. Jack wanted to ask questions but there seemed to be an etiquette at work that he wasn’t familiar with.

“I’m sorry to say that your uncle, Robert Catholic, died in the United States several months ago, just outside of San Francisco in California,” said Miles.

“How did he die?” asked Jack. “I don’t even know how old he was. Was he ill?”

Miles rotated his seat away from the window behind his desk and sat down, giving a brief sympathetic smile. “He was killed when he lost control of his car. It ran off the road.”

Jack’s imagination created a vague series of images of a car accident: a blue BMW on a cliff-side road being knocked by a little sports car and sailing off the cliff edge into the sea.

“The services of this firm were retained by your uncle’s solicitors in San Francisco with the aim of contacting your father to enable distribution of his share of the inheritance. Unfortunately—”

“My father died recently too.”

“Indeed Mr Catholic. May I offer my condolences.”

Jack nodded and gave a weak smile. “Thanks.”

Miles made a steeple of his fingers and laid it horizontally across the desk in front of him. He paused, either to gather his thoughts or allow Jack a moment of reflection. “How much do you know about your uncle Mr Catholic?”

“Almost nothing: he worked in the film business but wasn’t ever that successful; got married more than twice. I remember that because my mum thought it was disgusting.” He chuckled. “She said a man should work at a marriage, not just keep trying new wives out for size.” Miles chuckled too, politely. “That’s about it. He and my father had fallen out; or I always assumed they had. They didn’t seem very close.”

“Robert Catholic was married three times, however he had severed all ties with his first and second wives and his first wife’s family,” said Miles. “His third wife died recently. He had no other close family in America Mr Catholic. Your father, his brother, aside from a small number of staff, was his only beneficiary.”

“Like I said; my father is dead. My mother too.”

“Yes,” replied Miles, stepping daintily again. “This leaves you the sole beneficiary.”

Jack wasn’t sure what to say. He glanced at Dominic who had remained, so far, completely silent. Dominic glanced at Jack but made no other response. “Beneficiary to what?”

Miles appeared nervous. He straightened several items on his desk, again playing for time. “Your uncle did indeed work in the film business; he had done all his life from what I’ve heard. But he… was not a failure. On the contrary.”

“You’re saying—“

“He was a very successful film director Mr Catholic. You may not have heard of him. I hadn’t when I was first contacted. But he has done a lot of work; directed over a dozen major films in the last fifteen years. He was… an incredibly rich man.”

“You mean…”

Miles smiled, calculating the scope of it visibly behind his eyes. “Yes Mr Catholic. That makes... you… an incredibly rich man.”

Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Four - Part Six

Sam’s foot slapped down on the snail’s shell, shattering it instantly. The jagged fragments cut into its slug body as his toe ground half of its mass into the step. Still alive but utterly doomed, the tiny creature shuddered in slow motion.

He slammed the door open into the building and ran up the narrow stairs. The entrance was in the alley off the main street and was hard to see. The paint on the door was ragged and flaky; the stairs directly inside were worse; the rot out in the alley and on the door was echoed inside on the carpetless wooden steps; but it was out of the way and low profile and that was what he needed.

There was a raised voice coming through the door from the only occupied office of the first floor corridor. Sam paused outside: obese man sitting on the broad veneered desk, stumpy legs not reaching the floor; two filing cabinets either side of the window; no curtain or blinds. Will Harrison, the man named on the plaque outside, was sitting in the old fashioned chair behind the desk: red faced; angry; holding it in; afraid. The fat man was shouting.

Sam didn’t bother to listen to his words. He opened the door and walked straight up to the desk and the two men. Harrison saw him first: surprise, recognition, relief, anxiety; a glance at the fat man. The fat man stopped shouting and turned to face Sam. He started to speak but Sam cut him off.

“I’m here to see Harrison.” He glanced at the fat man’s shoes; at his briefcase. “You’re his landlord.”

The fat man started to speak again, talking of rent overdue. He stopped as Sam withdrew his wallet; then stared, blinking repeatedly into his face.

“How much is he overdue?”

“Six hundred pounds.”

Sam counted out the money and handed it over. “Now get out.”

The fat man slipped off the desk. “I don’t like the way you’re talking to me,” he said.

“Then leave fatso.”

Harrison laughed. The fat man left and the detective’s posture changed instantly, his anxiety gone. “Great to see you Sam,” he said, “but you don’t have to do me a favour like that.”

Sam took a seat opposite. It was as shabby as Harrison’s chair but more modern and worse because of it. “I didn’t,” he said. “That’s your payment up front.”

Harrison sat forward in his chair. “What’s the case buddy?”

“I want a man found,” replied Sam, “but I don’t have much to go on.”

“What have you got for me?”

“A name: Jack Catholic; fragments of a painting he was working on; miscellaneous information let out in conversation with my sister.”

“Your sister?” Harrison chuckled. “What’s this all about?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Sam. “I just want the man found.”

“What is he, her boyfriend?”

Sam nodded. “They’ve been seeing each other for two months. He murdered her last night in a hotel in Bristol.”

“Shit, really? Jesus Sam, are you okay?”

He smiled. “I’m fine.”

Harrison pushed his hair back off his face. He was approaching his late thirties and retained slovenly good looks that had proved useful in the past when Sam needed someone to help out in one of his investigations. He looked drained by the news of Lucy’s death, unable, as Sam was, to see its current irrelevance.

“You said miscellaneous information,” said Harrison. “What have you got?”

“Snippets,” replied Sam. “He’s twenty-seven years old; blond; an artist. My sister described one of his paintings: a saint, wounded and dying. I have no recollection of other details.”

“Anything else?”

“Good looking; parents from out of town; this:” He held up the magazine he’d found in Lucy’s flat.

“What is it?”

“They published a picture of his.”

“I might call and see if they’ll give up an address.”

“No go,” said Sam. “I already tried. They wouldn’t give out the information and they’re based in Dublin. One thing they did tell me: apparently there’s a bar in London that Catholic decorated with his artwork.”

“Really?”

“I’m on my way there now.”

“You mentioned fragments of a painting,” said Harrison.  

“I… damaged it when I found it. There are only pieces left now. A self portrait; unfinished. There’s not enough detail to form a clear picture. I don’t have a photograph.”

“Okay,” said Harrison, getting up. “I’ll start with the electoral register, do a bit of asking around; see what comes up. It shouldn’t be long. You still got the same mobile number?”

Sam shook his head. “No. Here. New number.” He wrote it down. “Thanks.” He shook hands, a little off balance at the warmth he felt for this man suddenly. Harrison was his only ally; his only friend. It took a conscious thought to banish that idea from his mind.

Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Four - Part Five

 

So this was it. This was the moment after all when he would be arrested then shoved in front of a judge and sentenced to prison for the rest of his life.

Jack didn’t move. He kept staring away so that the policeman wouldn’t see his face, aware of how tense and probably obvious the gesture was. He blushed. Any moment now, Dominic would notice how oddly he was acting and ask him why, drawing even more attention; though that probably wouldn’t make any difference. The policeman had to be here for him. It was too much of a coincidence. Any moment now he would feel another hand on his shoulder, just as he had when he entered his home, except this time his fears would be real.

But a full minute passed and there was still only a gentle murmur of conversation coming from the doorway that had just opened. There wasn’t even the clink of handcuffs whistling through the air toward his wrists. Another minute passed, then Jack risked a look. He relaxed his body, smoothing out the ridges his muscles had made then slowly and casually turned his head.

The policeman was just shy of the doorway, dressed in a black stab jacket and short sleeved shirt, radio attached to his chest, utility belt round his waist. The man in the suit was standing next to him gesticulating as he talked but Jack didn’t spare him a glance. He looked right at the policeman. And the policeman looked right back at him.

His arms were folded, legs spread level with his shoulders, his body square on to Jack. The hand movements of the man in the suit flashed in front of his chest or his face but he seemed not to be listening. He just looked at Jack, right in the eye, his expression blank.

There was no outrage or overt jolt of recognition in the policeman’s features, his mouth was at rest, but he didn’t look away from where Jack was sitting, half-concealed by the tall ferns at the edge of the waiting area and Jack couldn’t take his eyes away from him.

He couldn’t be there for an arrest – now the moment of panic had passed, Jack was sure of that – but the fact remained that Jack had killed a girl the night before and his picture could well be open, if not to public, then police-viewing.

Still no jolt in the policeman’s features. The more time passed, the more Jack became sure the policeman didn’t know him, but each ticking moment still made that recognition more possible if there was a picture in circulation.

Jack knew he had to break eye contact, to go back to waiting innocently for his appointment, but he found the simple turn of his head excruciatingly difficult. He was locked in place. He knew there was a coffee table in the centre of the little waiting area, almost touching his and Dominic’s knees. There were magazines on it. He could see the bright colours in the side of his eye. He should reach for one; innocently flick through the pages; but he couldn’t.

The policeman’s expression changed but instead of charging forward, reaching for his truncheon, he broke eye contact with Jack, looked to the man in the suit and smiled. He turned his body to face him and took his hand, shaking it then started walking toward the exit. He hadn’t recognised Jack at all. He hadn’t been lying in wait. It was only happenstance and paranoia. Jack smiled to himself and shook his head.

“What’s so funny?” asked Dominic.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Just me being dumb.”

Dominic went back to his magazine. “No change there then.”

The policeman left, saying goodbye to the man in the suit. As the man started back toward his office the receptionist piped up. “Dominic Draper and Jack Catholic are here to see you Mr Miles.”

Miles glanced at his watch then turned and covered his face in smiles. “Mr Catholic!” He extended a warm handshake. “Thank goodness we’ve found you at last! You’ve proven to be quite elusive.”

Jack stood up and shook hands. “Well this is your lucky day, cause here I am.”

Miles backed up, drawing Jack with him. Dominic was on his feet. “Come through. Please.” He gestured to the receptionist. “Jane. Would you do me a favour and bring through some drinks? Coffee?”

Dominic and Jack nodded. “Thanks.”

“Please; come into my office. We have a lot to talk about.”