Scorpio's Lot (61 page)

Both men were now on the verge of
passing out from the trauma.

~ * ~

ow
in the hell do you get some service in this joint!’ bellowed a voice from the
office.

I must have jumped literally a
metre in being startled by this unexpected announcement. Could that be the
sound of my Celtic comrade? Entering reception, my expectations were
immediately confirmed, for there stood Hamish O’Connor with his ginger hair and
sporting an ear-to-ear grin.

‘Bloody hell, you do enjoy an
entrance. Scared the daylights out of me!’ I protested with an equally wide
smile.

‘Nothing like a good surprise.
Shakes the coggles in your cranial and gets rid of all the cobwebs, as they
say.’

‘What brings you to Pedley?’

‘Have some business to attend to
and wondered if you could put me up for a few nights.’

‘Of course. We can give you a van
complete with a shower and toilet. There’s been a cancellation so you’re in
luck,’ I responded willingly.

‘Nothing too fancy, Tom. You know
me. Something basic with a comfortable bed is all I ask.’

‘Did you bring Cain and Abel by
any chance?’

‘Yeah, the Dobes are in the car
waiting to lick you to death.’ Hamish chuckled.

‘Go and bring them in!’

‘And where’s that gorgeous wife
of yours? Come out, come out wherever you are,’ roared Hamish, giving the
impression he was about to play hide and seek.

‘You’re wasting your breath,
Hamish. Emily’s up the street doing some shopping. She should be back soon. She’ll
be pleased to see you.’

‘I tell you what, my friend. If
you weren’t married to Em I’d give you a run for your money,’ declared Hamish.

‘For Christ’s sake, would you go
and get the dogs?’

Within the space of twenty seconds
Cain and Abel came rushing through the open door, spreading their saliva on
every conceivable piece of exposed skin I could provide. In a frenzy of
affection their long red wet tongues drenched me in Doberman dribble. With the
pair finally settled I grabbed a nearby towel to dry myself.

‘This is all so unexpected, but
glad to have you and your two tongues onboard, Hamish.’

‘Tom, the truth of the matter is
I’ve been worrying about Brigit ever since you phoned. I do have some business
to take care of, but also felt the need to come over for a few days to see if I
can be of help.’

I gave Hamish a rundown on what
had happened since Brigit’s kidnapping, including Arthur Simpson’s account of
the underground network. ‘I’m not sure how you can help, Hamish, but just being
here has given me a boost.’ I replied, to the sound of Emily walking through
the back door. ‘Guess who’s here, my dear.’

Hamish and Emily became
reacquainted, with Cain and Abel seeking a piece of the action amidst the hugs
and avalanche of kisses. Emily was overjoyed to see our Irish friend.

‘Bloody hell, it’s a dry
argument,’ hinted Hamish.

‘Sorry, my fault. Got carried
away with all this sloppy greeting bullshit,’ I responded with a broad grin. ‘A
whiskey, Hamish?’

‘Is the Pope a Catholic?’

I poured from a bottle of
Jameson.

Hamish’s eyes lit up at the sight
of the amber fluid. ‘Here’s looking up your kilt. Cheers!’ He poured the entire
contents into his mouth. ‘Tickles your tonsils, tantalises your throat and
plays havoc with your heart. Pour me another!’

‘Hamish, there is a way you may
help. It concerns this old-timer Arthur Simpson I was telling you about. We’re
planning to take a trip to the city in a couple of days or so to investigate
this Pedley underground network. Would you like to come for the ride and
perhaps help out on a bit of research?’

‘Count me in. Nothing like a good
mission to get the adrenalin pumping.’

‘I doubt you’ll get an adrenalin
rush looking through some archives.’

‘So who do you plan visiting?’
Hamish raised his empty glass for a third.

‘Initially the Lands Department
and if time permits the city tabloids.’

‘Why not the local paper?’

‘We plan to visit the
Pedley
Advertiser
prior to the city trip.’

‘So Emily, what do you think
about all this?’ Hamish enquired.

‘Can’t say I’m overly happy about
the idea, but if it means the eventual rescue of Brigit then I guess I’ll make
allowances.’

‘While you’re in town, Hamish,’ I
said, ‘we could soak up a bit of carnival tomorrow. I’m sure we’ll find the odd
fiddle or two and enjoy a good craic.’

~ * ~

A
Monday morning meeting with Johnson at the Esplanade was not exactly Paul Marsh’s
ideal way of idling the hours away. After all, today was a public holiday and
the last opportunity to enjoy the carnival. Billed as the grand finale, tonight
there would be a masquerade ball in the town hall followed by a spectacular
firework display at ten o’clock. Frustrated at the thought of confronting this
arrogant publican again, he would have preferred to spend his time with the
captivating Piochsa. He sighed, knowing Forbes would not permit the sampling of
local pleasures, and besides, the Hungarian beauty was currently working the
pub shift. Accompanied by John Doyle, he approached the hotel office for an
expected confrontation.

‘Ah, Detective Marsh, we meet
again. I see you’ve brought a friend along.’ The publican followed them into
his office.

‘Good morning, Mr Johnson. We
need a few moments of your time.’ Marsh introduced his colleague to the
offensive man.

‘So what’s this all about?
Thought I made it quite clear on your last visit there was nothing further to
discuss,’ stated Johnson abruptly.

‘We need to talk to your security
guards regarding an exchange of money and some information concerning a person
by the name of Brad Morgan.’

‘What exchange of money? And who
in the bloody hell is Brad Morgan?’

‘Morgan was the person who passed
a large sum of cash. I assume from that remark you don’t know the man.’

‘Never heard of him and what’s
this money all about?’

‘We suspect something illegal is
going on, Mr Johnson,’ responded Marsh.

‘That’s bullshit and let me tell
you -’

Marsh cut in. ‘I’m not
particularly interested in your objections, Mr Johnson. It’s security we wish
to speak to. Tell me, how many of these people do you employ?’

‘I employ five such people. Which
one do you want?’

‘Initially Gavin Jackson and
Angelo Caresso,’ Marsh responded. ‘Are they both in?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what are the names of the
remaining three?’ asked Doyle.

‘Ross Dwyer, George Trevaskis and
Gary Watkins.’

‘Would these three be here, Mr
Johnson?’ Marsh asked.

‘The only other on duty today is
Trevaskis due to the excessive crowds. Dwyer and Watkins commence their shift
tomorrow. What in hell are you implying with this so-called exchange of money?’

‘Settle down, Mr Johnson,’ Marsh
said. ‘We simply need to talk to these men about what this money represents and
to obtain some details about Brad Morgan. It would be appreciated if we could
interview Jackson in your office.’

‘I’ll get him, but I haven’t the
time to sit around and listen to your idle chatter.’

‘Thank you, Mr Johnson,’ Marsh
called out politely to the retreating publican.

The detective could see he had
hit a raw nerve. Johnson’s denial of Morgan didn’t seem overly convincing. He was
hoping security might slip up during interviews.

A giant of a man standing
six-three and weighing at least one-thirty kilograms entered the room and
lowered his large frame into the one remaining vacant chair. Doyle cringed as
he watched the bouncer sit down, thinking the seat might suddenly give way to
the excessive weight. Marsh immediately recognised the guard as being his
imaginary Tweedledee from the other evening.

‘Thank you for your cooperation,
Mr Jackson,’ Marsh said. ‘We need to ask some questions regarding an exchange I
witnessed some nights back.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘There was a vast amount of cash
passed to you by another individual. Would you please tell us how you came into
possession of this money?’

‘I won it on the races just like
the other man described.’

‘And the name of that other man?’

‘Henry Lloyd,’ claimed Gavin
Jackson.

The publican suddenly re-entered,
seemingly annoyed that his staff was not attending to their duties.

‘Time’s up, detective. I have a
business to run here and this line of questioning can be conducted after hours
at your police station,’ stated the publican with a raised voice.

‘Sit down, Mr Johnson, and shut
up,’ roared Marsh.

‘Oh, you’ve done it this time. I
will report this insolence to your superiors,’ Johnson retaliated.

‘I couldn’t give a shit if you
phoned the police commissioner! You will remain seated and listen to me.
Failure to cooperate with the police may result in a report to the liquor
licensing commission with threat of loss of licence. Do I make myself clear?’

Ben Johnson nodded and remained
still. Fight fire with fire and these aggressive types generally revert to a
more subdued behaviour, thought Paul Marsh.

‘Now back to you, Mr Jackson. You’re
claiming the money was won on a horse race and that the other man’s name was
Henry Lloyd. Is this correct?’

‘Ah ... yes.’

‘Do not take me for a fool, Mr
Jackson. I’ll give you one more chance to answer me truthfully. What will it
be?’

The security guard hesitated,
wondering how he should answer in the presence of his employer.

‘The truth please or I’ll arrange
to have these premises turned inside out,’ persisted Marsh.

Jackson continued to remain
silent, not wishing to cooperate with the law. The detective was seething. His
patience had now run out and he let fly.

‘You listen to me and listen
carefully. If you continue this way I will personally see to it that the
Esplanade is subjected to every conceivable raid, audit and search warrant I
can muster up. Now come clean, Mr Jackson, or this establishment may forfeit
its licence.’