I was worried about my father. Understandably, as the prime suspect in the Frankie Quinn murder enquiry, he felt tense, nervous, on edge. So, I decided to call on him. Also, I required more background information on Brydon and Brandon Bishop.
When I arrived at Gawain’s Rest Bay home, I discovered a swarm of police and onlookers in attendance. Sweets was there, talking to his mate, Detective Inspector Hopkins. Hopkins was a handsome man. However, he seemed positively gorgeous today. Hormones, Samantha...wait until Alan gets home...you’re in need of some tender, loving care.
Hopkins disappeared into my father’s house. So, I elbowed my way through the crowd then asked Sweets, “What’s happened?”
“Your dad has done a runner.”
“Shit!” I swore.
“Any idea where he might be?” Sweets asked patiently, eyeing me with deep suspicion.
“No, none at all,” I replied truthfully.
“Sam...”
“It is the truth, Sweets. If I knew where he was, I’d tell you, honest.”
“Just like you told the truth at the murder scene.”
“Okay,” I sighed, “at the longhouse I told a white lie.”
“Gawain was with you?”
I nodded, “We called on Frankie.”
“To shoot him?”
I scowled and, mindful of the onlookers, resisted the urge to shout at Sweets. “To talk with him.”
“I see.” Sweets surmised, “So you started to talk, then the gun went off accidentally. Twenty-one times.”
Twenty-one times. New information for me. The carnage suggested a greater number, though if you fire a gun twenty-one times you’re hardly looking to wound someone.
“A handgun?” I asked.
“Uh-huh. A .44 Magnum.”
“Which can hold up to seven rounds,” I said.
“Which suggests three guns.”
“Or three gunmen,” I mused.
“Gawain, you and Mac?”
This time, I did raise my voice, which brought scowls of protest and looks of interest from the bystanders. “You think I’m capable of something like that?”
“A couple of years ago,” Sweets said, dragging me away from the crowd, to the corner of the house, “you put four bullets in a woman.”
“In self-defence,” I said.
“Four bullets, Sam.”
“I know, but four bullets is a long way short of twenty-one.”
Sweets shook his head, in exasperation. He whistled softly through the gap in his two front teeth, nudged his trilby on to his crown. The trilby was the original, patently a favourite. I identified that fact from a small fawn feather, pinned to the crown.
“Gawain looks guilty,” Sweets said, “especially now he’s done a runner.”
We paused while Sweets popped a bonbon into his mouth and I reflected on the worrisome nature of my father’s situation. I sensed that Gawain was feeling the heat; nevertheless, his disappearance offered his cause nothing but harm.
I followed Sweets into the house, into the snooker room. The coloured balls were scattered over the table, the cues placed on the green baize, against a side cushion. There was no sign of violence in the house, no disturbance, so at least we could rule out attempted murder or abduction. Another thing: the windows and doors were all closed. Indeed, the heat in the house resembled a physical presence – when you opened a door and walked into a room, you felt as though you’d bumped into a wall. Everything about the house suggested neatness and order, that my father had walked out of his own volition.
As Sweets stared at the snooker balls, I asked, “Did Frankie hand over any evidence?”
“We were getting to that point when Gawain, or persons unknown, cut him down.”
“What sort of evidence?”
“Swag, maps, plans, instructions, surveys, all crafted in Gawain’s neat hand; enough to put him inside and throw away the key.”
“You’ve been after Gawain for a while,” I said.
Sweets rolled the bonbon around in his mouth. He sucked then nodded, “Almost from day one.”
“You’d love to believe that he pulled the trigger.”
Sweets picked up a snooker ball, the yellow, and threatened to crush it in his right hand. “I want the truth, Sam. Whoever pulled the trigger, I want that man.” He stared at me. “Or woman.”
“I didn’t do it,” I said.
Sweets rolled the snooker ball across the table; it kissed the blue and sent that ball trickling towards a centre pocket. “So we pass on that for now.”
“Gawain didn’t do it,” I said.
“So you say.”
“Why are you being so vindictive?” I asked. “Are you jealous, or something?”
“Jealous?” he frowned.
“Because Gawain’s my father.”
“This is purely professional, Sam.”
“So feelings don’t enter into it?”
Sweets swallowed his bonbon. He reached into his trouser pocket and fished for another toffee to suck, another pacifier. His cheeks were red, flushed. He rolled his shoulders in agitated fashion, a sign that his joints were playing up, a sign of distress.
He said, “You think I’m a robot; that I want to see you suffer?”
“Then remove the blinkers; remember, Frankie Quinn was a life-long con artist, with lots of dodgy friends and many dangerous enemies. Other people wanted to talk with him, besides Gawain.”
“Give me a name,” Sweets said.
“I’ll give you two; the Bishop brothers, Brydon and Brandon. Maybe you should talk with them.”
“Maybe I will,” Sweets conceded.
“Maybe I should talk with them.”
“No.” Sweets took a step towards me, barred my exit from the snooker room. He said, “The Bishop brothers don’t belong on this planet; they belong on the dark side of the moon; they are way past psycho.”
“You’d like to put them away?”
He nodded, “Be safer for everyone if I did.”
“Then why don’t you?”
Sweets removed his trilby, fanned his face and sighed, “A little thing called evidence.”
“And maybe Frankie was going to offer that evidence, incriminate the Bishop brothers?”
“And maybe that’s just a convenient theory,” Sweets said.
“So, you’re still gunning for Gawain.”
He nodded, “Until Gawain Morgan can establish his innocence, he’s the prime suspect.”
“I’ll establish his innocence,” I said. “And I’ll bring in the guilty party.”
Sweets almost smiled. “You sound as if you’ve walked into your wardrobe and walked out as the Lone Ranger.”
“Watch and learn, Kemo Sabe,” I said. “And don’t try to warn me off, because I ain’t going away.”