Read The dark side of my soul Online

Authors: keith lawson

The dark side of my soul (9 page)

Breathing heavily she pushed me away, only to step out of her dress leaving her standing in her frilly black underwear and the stockings and heels. I fumbled with her bra and removed it. She slid down the panties and ripped off my clothes and we made love right where we were, standing in the hall against the wall. Our lovemaking was passionate and exiting, excessive and loud and I was still unable to believe that my quiet and demur wife had been transformed into a wanton sex goddess.

Before we were finished Sandra panted “the bedroom,” but we only got as far as the stairs before we stopped and resumed our kissing and touching. Our hands were all over each other, lingering in the most intimate places. Sandra had never been so wild and unrestrained and when we did eventually make it to the bedroom she became even more dominant. This was a totally new experience. It felt as if we had both let go of our old life and was charging into a new one.

 

 

 

Nine

 

 

 

The morning was miserable. A very fine rain fell steadily as I sat in the driver’s seat of my car that was parked on the opposite side of the road to Terry Bovey’s workshop. Terry’s place was in between two terraces of old Victorian red brick houses, the type that have little or no front gardens, their fronts right on the path. The properties on the opposite side of the street were exactly the same. It was probably one of the oldest parts of the town.

His was the only commercial enterprise in the area and it was really little more than a double garage with two wide swing-out green wooden doors that when opened blocked the pavement. When the doors were fully extended they could be pushed back on rollers against the workshop walls to avoid interfering with the carriageway. Today, however, they remained firmly closed.

Like the rest of the buildings in the street Terry’s was two stories high but in his case the upper floor was used for storage and a small office. The old forward sloping roof was missing a few tiles and looked in a pretty desperate state of repair, as did the top two tiny windows and surrounding brickwork. Next to the vehicle entrance was a shabby green wooden door that, if I remembered correctly, opened onto a narrow flight of stairs leading to the office upstairs.

It was almost eight thirty and children were coming out of some of the houses clutching bags and satchels and being ushered through the drizzle into the backs of their parents cars for the daily journey to school. Watching them, I couldn’t help but wonder what our life would have been like had we opted to have kids and a strange kind of sadness took hold. I probably would not have been sitting here now. Either Sandra or I would have been involved with the school run like all the other regular families but we had never wanted that, we had always hoped for something more, although what that mysterious goal was I don’t think either of us was quite sure.

I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel and turned my attention back to the workshop. I might have guessed that Terry wouldn’t be here today. After losing two offspring what kind of person would want to go to work but I didn’t know where he lived and I didn’t have his home or mobile phone number. I badly wanted to see him to find out exactly how much he knew about his son’s activities and this was the only place I could get hold of him.

Just as I was thinking of asking a neighbour, to see if they knew his personal address or phone number, a faint light came on in the room he used as an office. He was not open for business but someone was there.

I locked the car and crossed the road in the rain. The bell push on the side door was worn and loose and I couldn’t be sure if it was working but I pressed it anyway and waited. After half a minute I tried again and soon after the high pitched thin voice of Terry Bovey echoed down the stairs. “I’m closed.”

Halfway down the door there was a tarnished chrome letterbox. I pushed it open and with my mouth close to it, I called. “It’s me Terry, Harry Conrad. I heard the news. I’ve just come to offer my condolences.”

My call was met with silence and I wondered if he had heard me. I waited, debating what to do, then after a while I heard the sound of someone coming down the stairs. The door opened and Terry Bovey appeared, wearing his usual dirty blue overalls. He was unshaven and looked as though he had not slept for a week. Face to face the likeness with his son was obvious and again it occurred to me that I should have recognised it before.

His short dark hair was greasy and uncombed and the pointed nose stood out from the emaciated face adding to the hawkish appearance but the most noticeable feature was the dark, almost black eyes that studied me suspiciously. He remained perfectly still waiting for me to speak.

“I had to come to town today to sort out some business at the bank so I thought I’d pop around to see you and say how sorry I am to hear your terrible news. I saw it on the TV last night.” Another lie, it was becoming habitual.

“Bit early for the bank ain’t it?”

How easy it was to get caught out with lies but I recovered quickly. “Oh I have some other stuff to do as well.”

Terry was watching me intently, as though the dark eyes were trying to bore into mine. “Come in,” he said at last and turned to lead the way.

I closed the door and followed him up the flight of steep, bare wooden stairs that led to his office. On either side the grey walls looked as though they hadn’t seen a coat of paint for half a century and there were marks and gouges on them where large heavy items had been carried either up or down.

When we arrived in the little room Terry pointed to a white plastic garden chair that was opposite a metal desk full of scraps of paper, manila files and God knows what else. I sat in the seat indicated and Terry fell into a beat up black leather chair behind the desk. He still didn’t speak and guessing that he was probably still in shock it was I who broke the uncomfortable silence.

“It must have been a terrible shock when you heard the news, I’m genuinely sorry.” For once I was telling the truth. “Do the police have any leads on who did it?” This is what I had really come for, to find out what he knew.

After a while he replied “Police don’t know shit.”

He fished around in a draw in the desk and pulled out an almost empty half bottle of whiskey. Draining the remainder of the contents into a stained tumbler that was hiding amongst the papers he continued, “They think the murders are drug related but my boys didn’t have anything to do with drugs. They weren’t angels. I’d be the first to admit that and they were a little rough around the edges but on the whole they were good boys, they always looked after their old man. Yeah, they got up to all sorts of scams but they didn’t touch drugs, I’m sure of that.”

He sipped the whiskey and stared mournfully at the glass in his hand. “Nah, the police don’t know shit.” Then he looked up at me and changed the subject. “How did you get on with that other business about your car? Did you get it repaired?”

“Sure, thanks to you; I took it to the guy you recommended up north. He did a good job.”

Terry took another sip of whiskey and those dark eyes burned into me again. He was still trying to work out why I had really come to see him. “The thing is, the police are slow, they have to do everything one step at a time, follow the correct procedure, do the paperwork, you know what I mean?”

I nodded, not quite sure where this was heading.

“But as you know, I’ve got plenty of acquaintances, that shall we say don’t necessarily play by the rules. They do things their own way. I’ve put the word out that I want this guy found. I think they’ll come up with something before the police do.”

My stomach gave a little twist but I covered it with a smile. I still had to ask the burning question. “So if the police are barking up the wrong tree, who do you think could be responsible?”

He finished his drink, burped loudly then banged the glass back on the desk. His gaze returned to me and there were long drawn out seconds of silence before he spoke again in what seemed to be an even higher pitched squeaky voice. “Don’t know yet but I’ll find out. My friends will find who killed my boys and then I’ll make ‘em pay.”

The threat to whoever had killed his sons was unpleasant but as far as I could tell he seemed to have no idea of my involvement. His sons could not have told him they were blackmailing me and at least for the moment that was a relief.

I stood up to leave but Terry started talking again. “At least I‘ve still got my daughter. Don’t see her much though, married some bloke twice her age with loads of money. Thinks she’s too good for me now. Only comes around now and then. Haven’t heard from her since the shooting but I guess she must know, Christ it was all over the news.”

“How many children do you have?” I asked.

“Just the three,” Then for the first time he smiled. It was a crooked sickly grin full of broken yellow teeth. “That I know of that is. There may well be others around that I don’t Know about. You wouldn’t think it now to look at me, but I got about a bit in my day I did. Christ I could have populated half of Folkestone.”

Somehow I couldn’t imagine him being every woman’s dream but he carried on without prompting. “My three kids were all by different women. The first two, my boys were from my first two marriages. The girl was from an affair, got a picture of her here somewhere.”

He pulled open another draw in the old metal desk and rummaged around. He carried on talking while he was looking. “She’s a real cracker is my daughter, beautiful girl, ah here we are.” Out of the draw he pulled out an old dog eared photo album. “This was taken a few years ago.”

Terry began to leaf through the pages. “I keep some pictures on the laptop but I still prefer real photos.” Finding what he wanted he handed the album to me open at the right page. I took it and could not believe my eyes. “See what I mean, beautiful ain’t she?”

Staring back at me in the skimpiest bikini was Julie, David’s wife.

“She’s a few years older now but she still looks as good.”

My eyes were glued to the picture. This complicated matters even further. Should I admit that I knew her? Would that implicate me in some way? I couldn’t see how, so on the spur of the moment I decided to tell him the truth. “I know her. The bloke she married is a friend of mine.”

“You’re kiddin’ me, well I’ll be damned.” He looked just as surprised as I was.

I handed him back the album. “I’d better be going. I can see my-self out.”

He was looking at Julie’s photo when he replied, “Okay, but make sure you close the door on your way out, I don’t want any damned customers today.”

Outside, after locking the entrance as requested, I crossed the road to my car. The rain had stopped but dark grey clouds still hung low in the sky. I was a criminal, hunted by the police, the Romanian travellers and now by some rather unsavoury friends of Terry Bovey. I was becoming the most wanted man in town and all for the wrong reasons.

 

 

 

When I got home Sandra was bursting with excitement. “I’ve done it,” She yelled, running down the stairs as I entered the house. “I’ve booked our dream holiday. Two weeks in Barbados, the Hilton hotel, it’s right on the beach and it looks great, I booked for May. January to April is the high season but I thought April this year was a bit too soon and I didn’t want us to wait until next year and May is also a good month so I booked it.”

It had been a long time since I had seen her so happy and it brought a smile to my face. Not wanting to dampen her mood I did not tell her that I had been to see Terry Bovey or that David’s Julie was Terry’s daughter, besides I couldn’t see how it would really affect us. She led me up to the computer in my office and showed me pictures of the hotel, the rooms and the beach. Only when she had finished explaining what a wonderful time we were going to have did she ask me about my trip to town.

I took a deep breath and decided to tell her about Terry Bovey and his sons after all. She would find out soon enough anyway from the television news or the internet and surprisingly she seemed to take it in her stride. The old Sandra would have fretted and worried and banged on about how we were bound to get caught but my new more relaxed and confident wife considered it and said, “mm, that’s interesting, a coincidence and something of a twist but it still doesn’t put us in the dock. I think we’re still okay.”

Later that day I tried to work but I didn’t get much done as I kept being distracted by the on-line news feeds and reports of the police’s progress on the case. There didn’t seem to be any new developments or at least nothing of any consequence and at one o’clock Sandra called me for lunch. We ate it in the kitchen and we had just finished when the doorbell rang. I was jumpy every time we had a caller and this occasion proved to be no exception. Nervously making my way to the door I wondered how long it would take me to settle down and be able to respond to a call without trepidation. On entering the hall I could see two silhouettes through the frosted glass of the front door, two men, but they did not appear to be wearing uniforms and when I opened the door I was relieved to see that it was Archie Haines with an older man.

“Hello Archie, not playing golf today?” I asked casually.

“No, I’m afraid not, too much on at the moment to get a day off.” There was no hint of a smile; his face remained the mask of inscrutability. Both men looked extremely serious and I knew something was wrong. Archie continued. “This is not a social call Harry. We need to ask you a few questions. This is Detective Inspector Armstrong.” My heart sunk. So soon, how come they were here so soon?

The Detective Inspector hardly moved his head in acknowledgement. He was a big thick set man with a head full of white bushy hair and strangely contrasting dark eyebrows. His face was rotund but not fat. In another situation you might have described it as a jolly countenance but now, as he stood on the doorstep, it carried a serious expression.

I stayed relaxed and tried not to look at all worried. “Yes of course, come in.” I led them into the lounge and offered them a seat but they both declined and remained standing almost side by side.

Archie spoke first. “I assume you have heard about the double murder in Lyminge forest yesterday.”

“Yes,” I replied, “it was all over the news.” Should I mention that I was in the vicinity and was stopped by a police car? Would they know that anyway? I decided to say as little as possible. I was going to have to be very careful and guard every word.

Detective Inspector Armstrong took over from Archie. “One of the victims was a man by the name of Neil Bovey.” In the brief silence that followed I felt the Detective watching me for any reaction. “Did you by any chance know this gentleman?”

My heart was starting to race but I remained outwardly calm. “No, I didn’t know him but I do know his father Terry, Terry Bovey.” I could see no harm in telling them that, in any case they would soon find out by speaking to Terry.

“I see,” the Detective seemed to consider my admission, “And in what capacity did you know the father, were you close friends?”

“Not really, I’m a financial advisor and I did some work for him several years ago, haven’t seen much of him since then.”

“I see,” the Detective massaged his rather large forehead with the index finger and thumb of his right hand. Archie Haines looked bemused. The Detective took a long deep breath, stopped rubbing his head and placed both his hands in his trouser side pockets before he resumed. “In that case do you have any idea why your home telephone number appears on Neil Bovey’s list of contacts on his mobile phone?”

That took me completely by surprise and I couldn’t help but delay my reply. “My number, er no,” I became flustered and annoyed at being caught out so easily. I had concentrated so much on removing all the evidence of being in the forest that morning that I had completely forgotten about the phone calls and the mobile that made those calls. The next question was inevitable and I had no answer.

“The victim’s phone records also show that he called you three times in the last week of his life. Why would he do that if you didn’t know him?”

I tried to come up with a plausible answer but the more I tried the more my brain seemed to shut down.

“Well, er…….,” I stuttered guiltily, stalling for time but my mind had completely frozen and not a single idea came forward. I could feel my face flush as the two policemen watched my reaction, their expressions stern and inflexible. The old grandfather clock in the hall ticked relentlessly in the cloying silence as I commanded myself to think, but with no rational explanation to hand a kind of wild panic set in, which only contributed to my obvious discomfort.

I should have known that I would never get away with murder. I was an accountant not a damned villain. I didn’t have the right criminal mind set, didn’t have the ability to deceive. I was a fool to believe that I could outwit the police.

Every empty passing second proved my guilt then Sandra breezed into the room, bubbly and full of confidence. “I am sorry but I overheard you from the kitchen. I took those calls.”

All three of us looked at her as she came over to me and said, “I am sorry darling, I should have told you but I didn’t want you to get involved.” She then turned to the police officers and addressed them directly. “Harry, my husband did a lot of work for a man called Terry Bovey some years back…….”

“Your husband has already told us that,” interjected an irate Detective Inspector.

“Yes, but what he hasn’t told you is that he virtually saved the idiot’s business. At the time Mister Bovey was on the verge of bankruptcy and Harry here managed to buy him enough time to pay off all his debts, and some of the people he owed money to were not very nice people. On top of that Harry, my husband never charged the guy a penny. Harry said Terry Bovey never had any money and there was no point in charging him.”

“What has that got to do with the fact that you were called by his son last week?” asked the Detective Inspector.

“Well, Terry Bovey must have told his son how Harry had helped him for free and so Neil, I think that was his name, thought he could get the same free help and advice. He must have got our number from his father. When he first called and said who he was and that he wanted to speak to Harry, I wasn’t happy. I didn’t want Harry to get involved so I told him that we couldn’t help him. Then, I think it was later that day, or it may have been the next day, I can’t quite remember, he called again and said that he really needed some urgent financial help. I knew what kind of people he and his father were and the sort of people they mixed with, so I said Harry was too busy and not taking on any more work. I think he tried once more after that but I gave him the same answer. I didn’t tell my husband.” She turned around to face me as she continued. “He’s such a sweet person that I know he would have ended up working for the guy for free.”

“I see,” the Detective Inspector was rubbing his forehead again. “Did this Neil say what kind of financial help he wanted?”

“Not exactly, although I think he mentioned something about wanting help in raising a large sum of money quickly.”

“Did he want your husband to lend him the money?” The Detective Inspector’s hand dropped to his chin.

“Oh no, nothing like that, he wanted advice as to how he could raise it, names of lenders I presume.”

“I see. Did he say how much He needed?”

Sandra appeared to consider that for a moment. “No, I can’t recall that he mentioned any particular sum, although wait a minute, there was a mention of seventy five thousand pounds. Yes that was it. He wanted to raise seventy five thousand.” Sandra smiled at me wickedly.

“I see.” The Detective began to pace up and down. Well that might at least give us something to go on.”

Archie Haines agreed. “If he owed money, maybe he was meant to hand it over in the forest that morning and when he showed up with his brother and no cash-boom, we know what happened next.”

“Maybe,” Said the Inspector, still deep in thought. He stopped pacing and stood still. “At least it explains the phone calls and why your number was on his list.” His face took on a softer, more pleasant aspect. “Well thank you for your time,” then speaking to my wife he said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch the name.”

“Sandra,” she replied beaming at him a little flirtatiously “Would you guys like something to drink?”

I’m sure Archie was about to say yes but his boss refused the offer. “Thanks but we have other people to see.”

Sandra led them out as I stood marvelling and enthralled by her cool, calm act. She had got me off the hook, saved my life and done it with ease and style. Her performance was worthy of an Oscar, the old Sandra would never have been able to pull off such a wonderful piece of theatre. My heart returned to its normal pace and I heard her open the front door to see them out, then the Inspector said, “My, that is a beautiful old clock you have, would you mind if I take a look at it?” and I heard footsteps walking back along the hallway.

“I love these old clocks. I’m something of an expert on antiques you know,” he said to Sandra.

‘Oh great,’ I thought, ‘Just wonderful, that’s all I need, a policeman with a penchant for grandfather clocks.’ The gun was still tucked in the hidden compartment below the pendulum. I was going to find a better hiding place for it but like tidying the garage and clearing the loft I had never got around to it.

As in the forest my legs didn’t seem to want to move and I had to force them to go forward through the lounge and into the hall. When I arrived the Detective was studying the face of the clock. “Marvellous,” he mused “This is a really good piece. These are also known as longcase clocks you know. Look at the elaborately carved ornamentation on the hood surrounding the face and down the sides of the cabinet.” He ran his fingers appreciatively over the woodwork. “How much did you pay for it?”

Still calm and without hesitation Sandra replied, “It was left to me by my father on his death.”

“You are very lucky. This is a fine piece and it is in pretty good condition too.” The Detective eased down on his haunches. “The brass pendulum and weight shells are marvellous and look at the excellent marquetry on the base and the decorative cut out.”

His fingers were now tracing a line along the edge of the secret compartment with the gun inside. His hand was literally inches away from the murder weapon and my heart started to beat so loudly in my chest that I thought he would be able to hear it. His fingers seemed to hover over that compartment as though he knew what it contained and I thought that at any second he was going to pull out the draw. I found myself holding my breath waiting for the inevitable to happen and at that point I am sure I inadvertently let out a little kind of mewling sound as I envisaged the rest of my life in incarceration.

Then Sandra came to the rescue once again. She placed her hand next to his and also ran her forefinger along the edge of the secret section. “In here was a secret drawer but I’m afraid that in moving the clock from my father’s house it got damaged and we had to do away with it and glue it up.”

“Interesting,” said the Detective, “I’ve not seen one with that feature before, must be pretty unique. It’s a shame it was damaged but it’s not the end of the world. It shouldn’t detract from the value.” He continued to admire the carving and the workmanship “You certainly made a good job of repairing it. You wouldn’t know that it had been damaged.”

At last and with some difficulty he forced his big frame to his full height and turned to face me. “If ever you want to sell the clock let Archie here know and he can contact me. I’d love to be able to make you an offer.”

“I’ll bear that in mind but my wife won’t part with it,” my voice sounded shaky. I was willing him to move away from the damn thing.

“Wise woman,” he said and gave Sandra an admiring glance as he headed for the door.

When they had finally gone I leaned with my back against the wall, closed my eyes and took several slow, deep lungfuls of air. I was still a free man, at least for the time being and it was all due to Sandra. She was changing, becoming more confident, more assertive and dominant. My previously reticent, cautious wife seemed to be relishing her new life as a gangster’s moll. The term made me snigger and that eased the tension in my body.

“Thank you,” I whispered as after closing the front door she came back into the house. “You saved my life, you were unbelievable.”

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