Whispers of the Dead (Tom Gabriel #2) Read online

  ‘Yes, but now you’re an OAP, and everybody knows that OAPs are pathetic drivers.’

  ‘Of course, I’d forgotten about that.’

  ‘There you are then.’

  He was quiet while she used her tablet to photograph each double page of three-letter codes from the notebook, the scrap of paper with Tamám Shud printed on it, and the three dry-cleaning tags. Then she sent everything by email to Lillian Taylor.

  ‘There – done.’

  ‘Good.’

  When they reached number 7 Water Street he waved at the camera and the electric gates slowly opened.

  ‘Very nice,’ Rae said.

  ‘As well as the satnav addresses, Harrison has a cell that’s missing. I’d like to take a look at his call records.’

  ‘I’ll need the cell number, this address and his network provider account number.’

  ‘We’ll ask his wife for those.’ He grinned. ‘Wait until you see the snake.’

  She pulled a face. ‘They have a snake? I hate snakes.’

  Barbara Harrison – wearing a white linen top that covered her breasts – welcomed them in and led them through the house to the sun deck at the rear.

  He introduced Rae.

  ‘A reporter!’

  ‘Don’t worry, Rae’s helping me with a few things. She has her own story.’

  ‘If you’re sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘I knew your father,’ she said to Rae.

  ‘That’s more than I did,’ Rae threw back at her.

  Tom broke the awkward silence. ‘Rae needs access to Roger’s car.’

  ‘I thought you searched it yesterday?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m a bit of a technophobe . . .’

  ‘A bit!’ Rae said with a laugh.

  He ignored her. ‘. . . And I’d like her to access the satnav information, if that’s all right with you?’

  She shrugged. ‘Of course. Whatever you think might help.’

  ‘Also, can you give Rae Roger’s cell and network provider account numbers, so that she can download his call and text details? There might be something there that could provide me with a lead.’

  Barbara nodded. ‘Follow me, Miss Raeburn.’

  He sat down at the table under the parasol, stretched his legs out and closed his eyes.

  It was peaceful. There were no traffic sounds from the road. The screech of a mockingbird pierced the silence, but it didn’t seem intrusive. He could vaguely hear a plane taking off from St Augustine Airport, and it reminded him that he’d have to fly up to New York soon to find out what it was that Joseph Fowler knew about the missing children. Three weeks had already been lost since Fowler’s death, so he couldn’t leave it much longer. He’d only had a quick glance at the rap sheet Mona had printed off for him, but it was enough to know that Fowler was a career criminal with a string of convictions – a low-life, but there was nothing in the details of his petty crimes, or hidden between the lines, to indicate how or why he might have been involved with the trafficking of children.

  He’d spent most of the day on Rae’s John Doe, but what about Roger Harrison – was he any nearer to finding the missing banker? What did he have? And what could he tell Barbara Harrison? He couldn’t tell her about the three-letter codes in the notebook – he didn’t really know anything about them anyway. He couldn’t tell her about the crash report for Rosalind Winter – he didn’t really know anything about that either. He couldn’t tell her about the double-bit key – which was something else he knew nothing about. Then there was the telephone number for Blanche Rainey that he’d found being used as a book-mark – he didn’t really want to say anything about that until he knew more. In short – he hadn’t made much progress.

  And what about Rae’s John Doe? Did she have a story? Why did nobody in the world seem to know who he was? What did Tamám Shud mean? Why was it sewn into a hidden pocket of the man’s spare trousers? Did the suitcase belong to John Doe? If it did, why was he carrying around a pair of slippers that were two sizes too small for him? Where were the man’s keys? Wallet? Identification? Were the dry-cleaning tags more than simply dry-cleaning tags? What about the shank? And the stencilling brush? Was it suicide? Was he murdered? What was he poisoned with?

  ‘Lemonade?’ he heard through the fog of his thoughts.

  ‘He’s not fallen asleep again, has he?’ Rae said.

  He opened his eyes and sat up straight. ‘Lemonade would be good. And for your information, Butterfly Raeburn – I was thinking.’

  ‘Old-aged pensioners always say that when you catch them nodding off.’

  ‘Did you download the satnav information?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Barbara Harrison passed each of them a glass of cloudy lemonade. ‘Have you made any progress in finding Roger, Mr Gabriel?’

  ‘I went to see Mr Byrne at the bank . . .’

  ‘Yes, he called me after you’d left.’

  ‘You’ll be pleased to know that Roger didn’t have a secret bank account in the Cayman Islands.’

  ‘I’m not so sure I’m “pleased” about that. A secret account with a couple of million in it would have come as a pleasant surprise.’

  ‘We’re examining the satnav information from Roger’s car to see if that will help us. Yesterday, I wrote down the addresses, but without the details of when he went to each place it wasn’t much help . . .’

  ‘I’m his technological advisor,’ Rae said.

  ‘And that’s really all I have up to now.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Not very much.’

  ‘No, but I have a few other ideas.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll keep you informed.’ He put the half-finished glass of lemonade on the table.

  ‘Thanks for coming over anyway, Mr Gabriel.’

  She showed them out.

  Once they were through the gates and driving towards King Street to collect Rae’s car she said, ‘Barbara Harrison didn’t seem very impressed with your efforts.’

  ‘There’s a lot I can’t tell her at the moment.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Her husband has a safe deposit box . . .’

  ‘Oh yeah! Full of dirty little secrets I bet?’

  ‘The notebook was in there with a few other things.’

  ‘What other things?’

  ‘You don’t need to know.’

  ‘I won’t tell anybody.’

  ‘If you don’t know, you won’t be able to.’

  ‘I take it his wife doesn’t know about the safe deposit box?’

  ‘No. Anyway, what did you find out from the satnav?’

  ‘I haven’t looked at the other addresses, but he visited the car park at Riverside Shopping Centre last Thursday afternoon at two-fifteen.’

  ‘And he went missing on the Friday morning. Good work.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘We’ll go there tomorrow morning and see if we can’t get hold of the CCTV footage.’

  ‘We? If I’m writing daily serials, then I need to focus on my own investigation.’

  His face creased up. ‘Okay. Maybe tomorrow we could go our separate ways and meet up in the evening. You could go to the bus depot and the Yellow Cab Company to try and find out how John Doe travelled to Porpoise Point, while I visit Riverside Shopping Centre and do some other things I need to do.’

  ‘Okay. What other things?’

  ‘Related to the case I’m working on.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Nothing you need to be concerned about.’

  ‘You’re being very secretive.’

  ‘What about Harrison’s cell phone records?’

  ‘Got them as well.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I’ll print them off tonight and . . .’

  ‘I don’t really want to wait until tomorrow evening for them.’

  ‘If you had a tablet . . .’

  ‘I haven’t, so now what?’

  She pursed her lips. ‘I’ll drop them off at the hotel tomorrow morni
ng then.’

  ‘Early?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay. Did you see the snake in the garage?’

  Her eyes opened as wide as searchlights. ‘You never said the snake was in the garage.’

  ‘It was a red one.’

  ‘A red one?’

  ‘The car.’

  ‘The racing car?’

  ‘That’s right. It was a Viper.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ***

  After he’d dropped Rae off at her car and watched her drive away, he made his way back to the hotel.

  Before he carried out his security check, he decided to look in on Sara and Rochelle.

  He knocked on her door, but there was no response. He thought about ringing her, but found that her number wasn’t in his phonebook.

  Rae had said something yesterday about capturing the cell numbers of people who called him. He should have done that earlier when Sara had rung, but he hadn’t, and now he didn’t have her number. Maybe she was out shopping, job-hunting, or any number of other things. He had to get a grip of this new-fangled technology. Relying on Rae to help him out all the time was not the long-term answer. If he was serious about being a PI, then he had to face his fear.

  He set off on his security check of the hotel, found a drunk Englishman wearing Union Jack shorts and a torn t-shirt wrapped round the base of a banana tree, and had a couple of the hotel staff carry the man to his room. Other than that, the place was as quiet as a church on Sundays.

  That was, of course, until he reached Allegre’s rooms. No sooner had he appeared than Rattlesnake began snorting and barking at him.

  ‘Well, if it ain’t Mister-family-man-Gabriel-with-the-daughter-come-to-visit-an-all,’ Allegre said, between puffs of the Black Cavendish tobacco in her corncob pipe.

  ‘Hello, Allegre. How are you on this fine evening?’

  She kicked the other chair on the veranda. ‘Rattlesnake sure don’t like you, but come and sit with me a spell, Mister-on-site-security-man-Gabriel.’ She gave Rattlesnake a kick. He stopped barking, but continued to spit at Tom. It wasn’t just him, Rattlesnake didn’t like anyone other than Allegre.

  He sat and waited for her to speak.

  ‘You want a Jamaican Rum to keep ole Allegre company?’

  ‘Very kind, but – if you recall – the last time I took you up on your offer they had to carry me out of here in a body bag.’

  She laughed like a hyena that had been left on its own to guard a carcass. ‘I remember all too well – can’t take your liquor. If I’d have been paying you to be on-site security I would have docked your wages.’

  ‘What can I do for you, Allegre?’

  She got right to the point. ‘How long this daughter of yours with her ankle-biter stayin’?’

  ‘I don’t know. Could be a while.’

  ‘I ain’t particularly happy ‘bout you movin’ your family into my hotel, Mister-hardly-on-site-security-Gabriel.’

  ‘I can understand that, Allegre. I should know more soon. If she is staying, I’ll sort something more permanent out.’

  ‘You better. End of the month. That’s how long you got. Then I throw you all out on the street.’

  ‘You’re all heart.’

  ‘I is, ain’t I?’

  The sound of her cackling laughter and Rattlesnake’s snorting and grunting followed him as he finished his security check.

  Sara still hadn’t returned, so he went to the restaurant and ate a meal of Jambalaya empanadas with fries and slaw washed down with three refills of coffee.

  It was eight forty-five when he knocked on Sara’s door again. This time it opened.

  He barged in. ‘Where the hell have you been?’

  ‘Don’t talk so loud – Rochelle’s asleep. I met an old friend. We had coffee, talked about life and stuff and the time seemed to fly by.’

  ‘You could have called.’

  ‘You could have called me.’

  ‘I haven’t got your number.’

  ‘You didn’t add my number to your phonebook when I called you earlier, did you?’

  ‘I didn’t realise that you were going to go missing for days on end.’

  ‘A couple of hours.’

  ‘It’s like being your father again.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘And it’s like being your daughter again. I’m thirty years old, and married with a daughter of my own now, dad.’

  ‘Well, you should act your age then. It wouldn’t hurt to let me know where you’re going.’

  ‘I can see moving back here would be a lot of fun.’

  ‘I was worried about you.’

  ‘I know, but you needn’t be. I’m not a mindless teenager anymore, I’m an adult with my own life.’

  ‘And you can stop stealing my expressions, young lady.’ He’d called both her and Misty “mindless teenagers” when they’d got themselves into trouble many years ago.

  She grinned and hugged him. ‘Coming back here brings back so many memories. The old friend I met was a girl I knew in school – Heather O’Donnell – she has four children now.’

  ‘Four! That’s terrible.’

  ‘No, she loves being a single mother.’

  ‘Single mother! Where’s the father of those four children?’

  ‘Fathers apparently. Each one has a different father.’

  ‘That’s terrible.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Have you decided what you’re going to do yet?’

  ‘I’m going back to him, dad.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘My life is in Grand Junction, Colorado now. I have a house, friends, and a car. I’m going to go back to work and make sure I can look after myself and Rochelle if he ever does cheat on me again. He won’t get a another chance. If he betrays me again, I’ll throw him out.’

  ‘I could come back with you and slap him about a bit – make sure he gets the message.’

  ‘Did people ever do that?’

  ‘Oh yes. I remember one time when Mule Mulligan . . .’

  They talked until way past midnight, but it was the best night he’d had in a long time.

  ***

  Thursday, October 11

  He opened his eyes.

  It was still dark, but the light from the moon bounced in through a gap between the curtains. Cassie – his dead wife – was sitting cross-legged on the other side of the bed watching him.

  ‘Hello, Thomas.’

  ‘You know I love to see you, Cassie, but can’t you come visit at a reasonable time?’

  ‘There are rules.’

  ‘You and your damned rules.’

  He reached out to switch the bedside light on.

  ‘No, don’t,’ she said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘There’s no need. I’m not stopping.’

  ‘More rules?’

  ‘You’ve done all you can for Sara. Now she needs to go back to her husband.’

  ‘I know, but I’m not happy about it.’

  ‘And don’t you dare go to Philadelphia.’

  He didn’t say anything.

  ‘Promise me.’

  ‘I can’t promise you that, Cassie. You know I’m going to go. It’s who I am.’

  ‘Then promise me you won’t kill him.’

  ‘I can promise you that.’

  ‘You look tired.’

  ‘That’s because it’s two-thirty in the morning.’

  She reached out to touch his face.

  ‘How’s Sally?’

  ‘In trouble.’

  ‘Because she told me about Joseph Fowler?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sally’s my kind of girl.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Tell her . . .’

  ‘She knows.’

  Then Cassie was gone.

  Tears welled in his eyes. He never had enough time with her. If it had been up to him he would have put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger, but she’d stopped him, said he had “
unfinished business”.

  ***

  He was sitting at his reserved table in the hotel restaurant looking out over North Ocean Boulevard and beyond that onto the Atlantic Ocean.

  Manuel had already served him pancakes with maple syrup. Now, he was waiting – less than patiently – for his three strips of bacon with eggs overeasy, hash browns, toast – the whole works. There was nothing he liked better than the whole works with coffee – lots and lots of coffee.

  When he’d woken up he felt as though he hadn’t been to sleep at all. In the mirror, his face appeared baggier than usual, with more lines, creases and furrows. It had taken him an age to shave. He’d nicked himself a couple of times and the water had turned blood-red – it was no wonder he felt anaemic.

  Mabel hadn’t helped. Usually, she remained at the bedroom window waiting for her husband to return, but this morning she’d come into the bathroom and stood behind him.

  ‘Hello, Mabel. To what do I owe the pleasure?’

  Mabel never spoke, but she communicated in other ways. This morning she had decided to write in the condensation on his mirror: “Be careful”.

  He shook his head. ‘I’m very grateful to you, Mabel, but could you give me a bit more information?’

  She hadn’t, of course. Messages from ghosts were always cryptic, elusive and vague. “Be careful” could mean anything. Wasn’t he always careful? As a favour to Mabel, he’d be extra specially careful today.

  Rae arrived at the same time as his breakfast.

  She sat down in the booth opposite, passed him Harrison’s cell phone records, and signalled for Manuel to come over and fill her cup up with coffee.

  ‘The other addresses in the satnav seem to be regular clients, but I’ve listed them down.’ She slid another couple of sheets of paper across the table.

  ‘Okay,’ he said between mouthfuls. ‘Order yourself a breakfast – I’ll pay.’

  ‘Very kind, but I’ve already eaten.’

  ‘Sara’s going back to Colorado today.’

  ‘She should buy a gun on the way and shoot the bastard.’

  ‘That would be fine if she didn’t get caught, but she’d get caught, and then you’d have to look after Rochelle.’