I spent the following day thinking about Frankie and the Bishop brothers. According to my father, Brydon and Brandon Bishop had a fearsome reputation; they were not men to tangle with. Although I was itching to question them, I recognized the potential dangers; to help counter those dangers, I required a plan.
Phase one of my plan entailed a search through my newspaper archive. From day one of my agency, I’d cultivated the habit of scouring the local newspapers for items of potential interest – details of missing persons, local crimes, known criminals and their social activities. In those early days, clients were scarce, so the archive occupied my mind and helped pass the time. These days, thanks to Faye’s influence, I also used the Internet. So, through a combination of my archive and the Internet, I managed to draw the Bishops into the light.
According to the media, Brydon and Brandon Bishop were pillars of the community. They were generous with their money and donated considerable sums to charity; they took an interest in the local sports clubs and were patrons of many; they mixed with celebrities and minor royalty on a regular basis; they were fixtures at high society parties. Furthermore, numerous photographs of the Bishops’ granite-hard faces revealed that they were indeed dangerous men.
That evening, while concocting a plan to confront Brydon and Brandon, I called on Alis, partly to say ‘hello’, partly to connect with Alan. I found Alis in the living room, sprawled full-length on the carpet, propped up on her elbows, eyeing her computer.
Hurriedly, she hit the keyboard, slinked gracefully to her feet then smiled at me. “I forgot you had a key,” she said.
“Sorry,” I said, “am I interrupting something?”
“No,” Alis insisted, though her words were rushed, unnatural, hinting at conspiracy. She adjusted her blouse, a lacy, off-the-shoulder number, then smiled at me again. “Faye told me that your wedding dress is a champagne colour,” Alis said, apparently eager to change the subject.
“That’s right,” I said.
“Come on; let me show you my dress.”
Without a second thought, I followed Alis into her bedroom where she revealed a light pink maxi dress, sleeveless with a halter-neck. The dress was simple, yet elegant. On Alis, with her youthful good looks, it would look stunning.
“What do you think?” she beamed.
“Are you supposed to outshine the bride?” I asked, fearing that she would eclipse me, send me into the shade.
“I won’t outshine you,” Alis laughed. “Not even Faye could outshine you,” she added generously. “Looks good though, eh?”
“Gorgeous,” I said. And with harmony restored, we returned to the living room.
In the living room, while sitting in armchairs, opposite each other, I asked, “Are you comfortable about me marrying your father?”
“Of course,” Alis said while leaning to her left, while sweeping her long, wavy hair over her shoulder. “You’ll be my new mum.”
I scoffed, “I’m hardly mum material.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, frowning with sincerity, “I think you’d make a lovely mother.”
“The mother from hell,” I said.
“No,” Alis insisted, “you’d be good. You’d put right all the mistakes your mum made with you.”
From the hearth rug, Alis’ computer groaned. Then it moaned in highly suggestive fashion. We glanced at each other, offered a double-take, then Alis bit her bottom lip.
“Shit,” she said, “I thought I’d turned it off.”
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Just surfing the web,” she replied defensively.
Mother-hen Sam felt compelled to look. So I climbed to my feet and wandered over to Alis’ computer. As my mother used to say, the sights you see when you haven’t got a gun. “That’s porn, Alis,” I said. “Hardcore porn. Very explicit.”
“It’s risqué,” she conceded with a blush.
“It’s porn,” I said
“Granted,” she admitted, “it is a bit extreme.”
“How did you find that site?” I asked, smoothing the back of my skirt, returning to my seat.
Alis switched her computer off with a firm press of her right thumb. Then she returned to her seat, her cheeks as red as her brightly painted fingernails. “A friend at art class gave me a password,” she explained.
“Password?” I frowned.
“Yes. It’s a secret site. What you see on the Internet is only the tip of the iceberg. There are thousands of sites the public don’t see. Secret sites, password protected, invitation only.”
I nodded, then asked, “Does your father know that you look at things like that?”
“Of course not,” she scoffed, averting her gaze, glancing at Alan’s portrait, an Alis Storey original in oils. “I don’t make a habit of it. But Melissa gave me the password so I thought, why not have a look...” Then Alis’ mobile phone buzzed into life and she nearly jumped out of her skin. “Shit...here he is...better make sure it’s switched off this time...”
“Switch what off?” Alan frowned, his image appearing on Alis’ mobile phone.
“The TV,” Alis said.
“The radio,” I said.
Then we offered each other a secret smile.
“You two been drinking?” Alan laughed.
“Only a crate or two of wine.” I sat behind Alis, on the edge of the armchair, so that we could both talk with Alan. “How are you?” I asked.
“Tired,” Alan conceded. “Looking forward to winding down. A few more days, then home. How are you; what have you been up to?”
Over the next few minutes, I brought Alan and Alis up to date with my search for Frankie Quinn, and with his brutal murder. Also, I explained that my father was a prime suspect in Sweets’ book.
“Who did it?” Alan asked, his tone and expression heavy with concern.
“My contacts have placed a few names in the frame, but I’ve no evidence, yet, no reason to favour one over another. Frankie was looking to shop someone and cut a deal with the police, so that seems the prime motive. But given Frankie’s background, it could boil down to a host of other things.”
“It’s a murder enquiry,” Alan noted, “maybe you should leave it with the police.”
Before I could reply, the screen froze and we lost the connection. Despite the recent thunderstorm, the air remained heavy, humid, and maybe that played havoc with the video link. Or maybe mice were gnawing away at the cables; who knows the truth of these things?
Alis’ phone sparked into life again and, with the connection restored, I said, “Gawain’s involved and Sweets figures him for the murder. I can’t sit back and allow my father to take the hit.”
“You’re convinced that he’s innocent?” Alan asked.
“You’ve met my dad. You’ve talked with him. Would you say that he’s capable of committing an act of gross violence?”
“Of the sort you described, no.”
“Someone with a disturbed mind murdered Frankie Quinn. Whatever the motive for the murder, it went beyond that, to something approaching sadism.”
“Sadism,” Alan mused. He sat back and caressed his chin. “Of course,” he said, “we no longer label sadistic people with sadistic personality disorder.”
“Why is that?” I asked.
“Because lawyers got wise to the label; they convinced juries that they should excuse sadists their crimes on the grounds of mental illness. Political correctness and the legal community have a big say in how we view people with emotional problems, some might argue too big a say.”
“How does a person become a sadist?” I asked.
“A single act of violence is unlikely to turn a person into a sadist. However, pleasure associated with a violent act is a slippery slope. The pleasure from repeated acts of violence can become addictive, leading to repeated and more extreme acts of cruelty. Sadism is like smoking; a hard habit to break. One more point,” Alan said; “sadists will not fight someone they regard as equal; their enjoyment comes from controlling and torturing people, people they consider weaker than themselves. If someone confronts a sadist, and the sadist regards that person as more powerful, the sadist will become submissive. All of this is a long way of saying, these people are dangerous; don’t tangle with them.”
I nodded then blew Alan a kiss. While I pondered his words, he turned to his daughter.
“How are you, Alis?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” Alis said. Apparently, still embarrassed about the Internet porn, she had no mind to chat with her father and so their conversation withered on the vine.
“I miss you,” Alan said to me.
“I miss you more,” I replied.
“I love you,” he said.
“I love you more,” I smiled.
“See you soon.” Alan blew me a kiss. “Take care.”
Then we lost the connection again and decided to call it a night.