Cynthia spent the early part of the following day wondering if she should apologise to her friend for highlighting her previous career. When she’d finished her research before their taskforce meeting, she’d analysed the options for how they might move forward and come up with the obvious one based on logic. Any emotional content had been left way out of consideration. If indeed Shamira was the right Iqbal, she might respond to a reporter looking for a story. It was beyond the bounds of possibility that she would take any notice of a group of retired people bringing some adventure into their lives, so the reporting approach was the only viable one. However, one spoiler which she had never thought of until now was the nature of Gladys’s relationship with her previous editor. Nor would it have come up for consideration now had it not been for her friend’s reaction to Cynthia’s suggestion that she go back in time. It had been a mixture of… Cynthia struggled to define it… shock intermingled with irritation and hurt, yes, that was it, hurt. As she washed up the dishes after her breakfast, Cynthia wondered again for the first time exactly what had triggered Gladys’s abrupt change of career. The trouble was how to frame the apology. It would have to be done with a high degree of delicacy. Trampling on her toes had been easy—repairing the damage was much more difficult without stepping all over her feet into the bargain.
Cynthia was ruminating about all of this sitting out on her patio chair on another bright but cold day when the email arrived. She’d brought her iPad out with her with a view to writing some form of words down and trying it out sotto voce to herself before she was face to face with Gladys at coffee time. She was playing with the words when the device pinged to signal an incoming message. The sender’s name was enough to capture her attention. The message itself brought her up ramrod straight with surprise. Hello Ms Tilling, was Maria Willis’s initial salvo, prosaic enough if it hadn’t been from a sender from whom Cynthia had never expected to hear again. What followed was anything but prosaic.
Charlie decided he wanted to tell you the name of the man who gave the orders for him to plant the body. He is called Kelmert, sometimes referred to as the Grouper, the fish which swallows its prey. Charlie is putting his statement to you in writing and will sign it before he dies. I don’t expect him to live for long. Regards, Maria Willis.
Once she’d recovered from the shock, Cynthia decided the best course of action was to pass on the message to George and Gladys at once so that they could consider it before they had coffee together in the main hall. They would have well over an hour to collect their thoughts and would be prepared to have a discussion on what to do next. However, that plan was shattered straightaway by the instant answer which she received from Gladys, copied to George.
I’m going to be out today so see you later for dinner (and brandy!)
Almost immediately she heard a noise outside and got to her front window in time to see Gladys’s shiny red car cruise past and disappear out of sight round the corner in the direction of the main gate. If the message from Maria Willis had been a surprise, this was doubly so. It was almost unheard of for Gladys to miss lunch at the Village and on the handful of occasions when she had Cynthia always knew about it beforehand. She reasoned that the sudden departure must be connected with their conversation the previous day and felt all the worse that she hadn’t had the chance to deliver her wall-rehearsed apology. A ping on her phone announced a message from George.
I’m on my way to secure your usual table so we can chat.
She glanced at the clock and then slung on her coat before she went out to join him. When she arrived in the main hall slightly out of breath George was already sitting at the table with cups in front of him scrutinising his phone.
“Do you know where Gladys has gone?” he asked, lifting his gaze as Cynthia sat down.
“Not a clue—it’s very unlike her.”
“Hm, no doubt we’ll find out later on. What we have to concentrate on now is this news from Charlie Willis’s sister. You said he looked bad when you saw him.”
“Very.”
“In that case let’s hope he gets a move on with the statement. I had a lot to do in the past with this Kelmert he refers to. His full name’s Enver Kelmert. He was a well-known gangster at that time, came from Albania originally. The nickname the Grouper came from the fact that anyone who got in his way was swallowed up. He didn’t bother with chewing on the way.”
Cynthia shivered despite the warm glow of heating in the main hall. Temperatures inside always remained high at the Village in the winter season but what George had just said triggered an instant chill through her whole body. She would need another chat with David sometime that day to reinforce her courage.
George didn’t seem aware of her discomfort. “The Grouper would be an old man now if he’s still around,” he mused. “I’d need to check on that. It’s not impossible of course. He had a strong, powerful organisation. When I was just a youngster, we were in awe of ones like him.”
“In awe?”
“Yes, doesn’t sound right, does it? We wanted to bring him to book of course, but his battalions of lawyers would get him off in some way or another. He could afford to pay for the best.”
“How would Charlie Willis be involved with him?”
“Charlie was just a minion. The Grouper’s empire extended across legitimate businesses as well as criminal ones, so the drugs and money laundering could be easily concealed. He would have had plenty like Charlie to call on and the debt could as easily have been trumped up as been real—a drugs haul which went wrong for example. Then Charlie would have been at his mercy and when he had you, you did what you were told.”
“What possible connection could there have been between this awful man, Charlie Willis and Pennington and the Iqbals?”
“That’s what we have to find out. It may be time to call in the police.” As George bent his head over the table to take a slurp of his coffee Cynthia caught sight of the freckles on the top of it. They did look like a lighthouse, even though the sides had some splodgy bits.
“The police?”
“Well, yes.” George smoothed down his beard. “It’s either now or we wait until we get the written statement, assuming she sends it to us, the sister I mean. That could be days or weeks, so now is probably the right time.” He picked up his cup further away from the saucer to finish off his coffee, so Cynthia didn’t get another view of the lighthouse. “Would you like another? I saw them just bring another pot. It might be hotter than the first one.”
“Yes—yes please, I would.” Cynthia struggled with what she’d just heard as she watched his departing back. An interview with the police would be another large, unpleasant step in this unfolding saga. She knew George was police or had been, but that seemed different somehow. George was a comforting presence and a person whom she had to say she liked and respected, very different from an amorphous organisation which could yield up anyone to come and see them.
“Don’t worry,” George said when he returned and plunked down two more cups on the table. “I’ll organise it all. The coffee’s hot this time.” Cynthia noticed there was steam rising from the cups. “And don’t forget that as it’s Saturday, there’s brandy tonight.”
“How will you organise it—not the brandy I mean, the police?”
George tapped the side of his head. “I’ll make a few calls,” he said importantly.
**
Cynthia didn’t hear Gladys return until gone six and there was no communication after that until they got together for dinner at the usual time. Then both Cynthia and the other two ladies who shared their table with its stripy cloth took a second look. Gladys’s hair had a light brown sheen which Cynthia was sure she hadn’t seen before and it was bobbed up higher than usual. She was wearing a green and white dress which looked new. They weren’t really able to talk until they were closeted at the corner position in the bar which George had secured with the Saturday rations of brandy in front of them.
“You’re looking good, dear,” Cynthia gave out the compliment and really meant it.
“I had to make an effort—being back in the real world, I mean.”
“I wanted to say sorry…”
Gladys held up her hand to stop the flow just as she might have done with an errant schoolchild who’d gone off on the wrong track with the conjugation of a French verb. “No need for any of that. I got out there and...” she gave a satisfied smile, “I have the commission.”
George raised his glass and took a large slug from it, the brown shiny liquid edging round his lips. “That is good news.”
“Well, it’s a first step. It’s early days. We have to verify Shamira’s identity. And there’s no money yet or mention of it but the magazine will take a look at the interview if we get it and, if they like it, they’ll use it. I’ll need a photographer.” She turned to Cynthia. “That’s where you come in.” She savoured her brandy, with evident amusement creasing up her eyes at her friend’s confusion.
“Me? Why me?”
“You’ve still got your camera, haven’t you? I know you have because you told me you brought it here when you moved. You used to take great pictures.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“So was my last article, but we’re re-inventing ourselves, aren’t we? It won’t look professional without a photographer and the magazine will expect the shots. Don’t you agree, George?”
George was busy doing semaphore at the bar person to ensure they all had a second round. “Agree? Of course I agree. Now, drink up ladies, this is only twice a week and they’ll put the top on the bottle at the least provocation, probably a padlock too. Ah, here it comes.” The bottle was produced and George encouraged the flow into the glasses with exaggerated hand movements which reminded an amused Cynthia of an animated seal.
“There’s no timing put on this,” Gladys went on as she took another snifter, “but now we have the commission we should get on with it.”
“Excellent,” exclaimed George and then lowered his voice as one or two heads turned to look. “How do you plan to proceed?”
“We have a choice of email or phone. I’ll give Shamira a call on Monday morning. It’ll give her less chance to say no.” The others nodded, perhaps glad they didn’t have to make the approach.
“That’s good,” George said. He was drinking more slowly now as he knew from experience that two rounds were the absolute maximum they could expect. “We’re going to be busy tomorrow as well.”
“But tomorrow’s Sunday,” Cynthia objected.
“And this is a murder enquiry.” He emphasised the gravity of the utterance with a solemn shake of the head. “We’re meeting the police. I had a word as I told you I would earlier on.”
“I don’t know anything about this,” Gladys put in.
“But you’ve seen the message which Maria Willis sent to Cynthia. I decided now was the time to pass on what we know.”
“We don’t have the written statement yet.”
“No,” George conceded, “we’ll have to pass that on when we get it. This meeting is to prepare the ground. I thought it would be a good idea to arrange it away from the Village.” He took a glance around. “We don’t want to stir up interest. Our fellow inmates here have too little to think about as it is and policemen have a habit of looking, well, like policemen.”
“Do you include yourself in that statement?” asked Gladys with a grin.
“I’ve been retired too long—I’m just an ordinary chap now and I threw out the hobnailed boots.”
“So where’s the meeting going to be?” Cynthia was already wondering about the extent to which the day was going to be disrupted.
“At the Forester.”
Cynthia pictured the old half-timbered pub in her mind. It was located diagonally across the road from the memorial ground and steps away from the Village.
“At twelve,” George went on, thus forestalling the next question, “when they open.” He put his empty glass down on the table with the air of a man who was already looking forward to the next one. “It’s a DS Andy Croft whom we’re seeing. He lives round here so he was open to a drink on a Sunday morning. I don’t know him that well—he’d only just started when I finished—but he seemed capable. I’ve already mentioned the Grouper to him so let’s hope he’ll come prepared.”
Mention of the Grouper conjured up unpleasant images in Cynthia’s mind of a large, bloated entity swallowing down its prey. She shivered again. She decided to forego the last drops of brandy in her glass. George gave them a longing look as they got up to go but didn’t make a move.