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.