TWENTY FIVE
T W E N T Y F I V E
Carol Monk appeared to ooze confidence as she strolled into the offices of Gateway Cabs. It was a journalistic mask of course; professionalism often hid any deep personal anguish she might normally feel.
When she’d heard that Scott had been attacked in his own flat, she could have hardly believed her ears.
She’d rushed off to visit him earlier that day, and had to admire the way he seemed adamant not to let things drag him down.
He knew of course that the story they had written together had been dropped in view of the murders on Christmas Eve. The police had been made a laughing stock and there was no way Turner would allow the Gazette to follow suit. She had spent most of Boxing Day rewriting the story herself; still crediting Scott with his part in the ruination of an illegal boxing syndicate but making absolutely no suggestion that there had been any link with the murders. In fact, she’d even omitted the very theories that had caused the police to get it wrong.
Turner had always brown-nosed the constabulary far too much in her opinion, but for once she was in full agreement that, mainly for Scott’s sake, any items of embarrassment to the local plod would be left out. That could be left to the nationals, who loved to have stories of bungling and incompetence splashed all over their front pages.
Those same papers were interested in Scott, not for hero-worship (as previously suggested before the killer had made his ugly declarations of being very much alive), but to learn his role in the almighty mess. This, combined with the fact that Scott was now in hospital after nearly being killed by a vengeful thug who’s illegal fighting days were over, would certainly sell red-top newspapers that had already dubbed Abergavenny, ‘The Town of Terror!’.
And the suicide of the policeman in charge of the investigation had certainly not helped matters.
The Gazette would try to work around it but it couldn’t really ignore all this. Some things you just can’t gloss over.
Poor Scott! He was living proof of the old adage ‘curiosity killed the cat’ but then again, all good journalists were supposed to ignore that, weren’t they?
Regardless, for Carol, it was time to be the good hack now; time to forget that everything was turning into shit, and get on with the day’s work at hand.
The interview should prove interesting. Harry Tyler could provide answers to a lot of questions that intrigued her.
She gave a nice professional smile, as a youngish lad led her to an office up some stairs. She’d taken the trouble to wear a particularly smart outfit; in interviews presentation was always important, even if it was she who was conducting the interview. The more she impressed, the more answers would prove forthcoming and besides, she may be on the wrong end fortysomething but she could still look good when she wanted to, and if a little flirting got her results, then why not?
Her young escort knocked on the door, quickly announced her and disappeared off down a corridor like he had a plane to catch.
Harry Tyler, manager of Gateway Cabs, opened the door and smiled back at her.
“Please Mrs Monk, won’t you come in?”
She watched him shuffle a few papers on his desk, clearing some space before inviting her to sit down on a chair opposite.
“Thankyou for agreeing to this interview Mr Tyler, especially as I hear you’ve turned away a lot of the tabloids.”
“Well they can be a tiresome lot but I’ve no objection to talking to the local rag.”
“Do you mind if I tape us?” She pulled out a miniature tape recorder out of her handbag.
“As long as it’s not used in a court of law,” he joked. She smiled back, more out of politeness than genuine amusement.
“Well,” she clicked the device into action, “let’s start with the main question on everyone’s mind.”
“Which is?”
“Why haven’t you followed suit with your rivals and decided to close for business until the murderer is caught?”
“Have all the others shut now?”
She nodded, and then remembered the tape machine. “Yes.”
“Sorry, I didn’t realise I was the only operational taxi firm in Abergavenny. I knew Speedway and Carlton had closed but I didn’t know the other two had as well.”
“They shut after the Christmas Eve killings.”
“I see.” His jovial tone seemed to have dropped. Carol suspected that he was thinking about his fallen colleagues.
“Did you know Glen McCann well?” she asked, getting straight to the point.
“Unfortunately only too well, and poor old Idris.” He slowly shook his head. “It only seems like the other day I was playing cards with the pair of them - hell, it was the other day! Glen and Idris were particularly close. The tragedy is that Glen only kept on working so that he might have the opportunity of getting the bastard that killed Jonesy; looks like that bastard got him first.”
“So in view of the fact you’ve lost two drivers, why are you still operating?”
“Well firstly, there’s no guarantee the murderer will be caught, he may disappear only to later resurface in another town or he may stop altogether. Four days from now, Abergavenny, like any other place in the country, will be the venue for a bloody big booze up. Now, without a taxi service for those people from the villages who wish to celebrate the New Year in town, there’ll either be a lot of disappointments or even worse a hell of a lot of drunken drivers.
I think the overall effect would be devastating; if we can’t celebrate as a community, then what can we do? I personally refuse to let this whole town be effected just because one twisted sod has decided to go on the rampage. If I closed shop, like the rest, I’d feel like the bastard’s won and that’s the last thing I want. And more importantly, it’s the last thing Glen and Idris would want.
Secondly, I want to make it totally clear that no-one here is being forced to work, in fact many have taken time off, safe in the knowledge that the job will be waiting for them once all this has blown over.”
Carol admired the passion in his speech, even if she felt it was a bit misguided. However, as a reporter she had to take the hard-line.
“What would you say to suggestions that you’re capitalising on these tragic events? I mean if you’re the only company still going, then it’s fair to assume that all the business is going to come your way.”
“I totally refute them. In fact, there will be no profit for me between now and the new year. In fact, I will actually be making a loss.”
“How would that be?”
“Well it’s no secret that I’ve been hiring in staff from outside the area. The only thing that’s been tempting this lot to risk life and limb, is money, and lots of it. I’m actually paying them way beyond what the actual fares are bringing in and will continue to do so until drivers feel safe again, and this town gets back to normal.”
He spotted her cynical expression before he continued.
“Look, I’m not saying I’m some kind of hero. I’m just standing up for what I believe in, for as long as I can afford to. It won’t last forever and yes, okay, I’m sure the publicity of what I’m doing now will place me in a better standing when it comes to competition, after things have settled down.
It’s not the main reason I’m doing this, but as a businessman I obviously can’t ignore the fact that many people of this area will be grateful, when they realise its Gateway Cabs that’s providing them with a service when they need it most. But I also think that whatever new customers I may gain in the future will only generate enough extra revenue to cover the amount I will lose on New Years Eve alone.”
“So what you’re telling me is that you’re doing this for the sake of the town?”
“Well that’s not quite how I would put it but yes, I am extremely fond of Abergavenny and anything I can do to help it, I will without question.”
“May I ask how much you’re paying these drivers?”
“No, but if you want to ask them please feel free to do so. I don’t think it’s right that I should broadcast their earnings without their say so.”
Throughout all of this, Carol had studied Tyler. She had been looking out for any signs of deviousness, any clever avoidance to her questioning and she had detected none. His simplistic manner, his ‘matter of fact’ nature, was somewhat refreshing and while he may have sounded like a politician, it was true there wasn’t an awful lot for him to gain. Okay, so maybe it was a publicity stunt but to what purpose? Even if he took all the business away from the other four cab firms, the taxi-travelling population of Abergavenny and surrounding villages would hardly make him a millionaire!
Besides, in the newspaper business she knew only to well that it was human nature to forget grand gestures and any prolonged sense of loyalty, as soon as a better offer came along.
Everything about him, told her that he was the genuine article. With all the unpleasantness of late, this man was a breath of fresh air in a stale environment. It was nice to know that there were still people like Tyler who could keep the true spirit of Christmas alive.
“That’s great Mr Tyler. That’s all I should need.” She switched off the tape machine. “If only there were more like you,” she added.
“Try telling that to my wife,” he beamed. “Sorry, I’ve not been a very good host; can I offer you a cuppa?”
“Thanks but no,” she replied getting up, “I’ve just got to interview a few of your staff, with your permission of course, and then it’s back to base to write this lot up.”
“Like I said, you’re more than welcome. You’ll find a few of them lounging about in the staff room downstairs.” He moved to shake her hand.
“Thanks,” she replied, meeting the gesture, “Sorry I can’t stop longer but as you’ll no doubt realise I’ve been pretty busy lately.”
Harry Tyler nodded sympathetically as he showed her to the door.
She had barely set a foot outside, when Inspectors Stoker and Brookes appeared.
She recognised Stoker straight away.
“Inspector? What are you doing here?”
“We’re here to find out why Mr Tyler is the only taxi operator left in Abergavenny.”
“Well I’ve just given this lady an interview,” replied Tyler, defensively.
“Well I’m sure you won’t mind if you let us question you too,” Stoker retorted.
“I’m sure everything you want to know is on this tape.” Carol showed the police officers her small hand-held recorder.
“Well we’d be delighted to listen to that a little later but at this point in time, if it’s all the same to you, we’d like to talk to Mr Tyler here. I assume you were on your way out, please don’t let us hold you up.” Carol wasn’t sure she liked Stoker’s tone. She quite deliberately glared at him and then at Brookes, who gave an apologetic half-shrug. Only after her wordless protest did she walk away.
“You’ll be able to read about it all soon anyway,” was her parting blow.
“Don’t worry Mr Tyler. No-one’s under suspicion of anything. It’s just that we have to explore every avenue.” She heard Stoker explain before the door to Tyler’s office was firmly shut, blocking out the conversation.
She’d dealt with Stoker before, on the odd assignment now and then. He’d always been a bit stiff in her opinion but today he’d been positively rude.
Getting to you as well is it? It occurred to her that everyone she knew, herself included, was becoming a bit short-tempered of late. Everyone seemed on the edge. How long before the anxiety and fear totally dominated them all and turned any such anguish into violence? Not long she thought. The people of Abergavenny, the police being no exception, just weren’t used to this kind of thing and were even less equipped to deal with it.
The fact the police wanted to interview Tyler showed just how desperate they were getting. Still, could she really criticise? In their position, she’d probably be interviewing all the local cattle as well! She’d seen Stoker’s companion somewhere before too but not for a long while she surmised. Didn’t he used to be an assistant to Stoker’s predecessor? Yes that was it: Detective Brookes or something like that. Wonder what happened to Dixon?
She surfaced from the depths of her thoughts to find that she had inadvertently led herself to the garage below.
She spotted a small office in the corner of the vast parking area that could only be what Tyler had described as the staff room. As she headed towards it, she was preparing to ascertain whether these people were just brave, greedy, crazy or perhaps all of the above.
Hopefully, the two youngish lads that she could see chatting over a brew would provide some clue. They were both pretty well built; one had a skinhead and the other in contrast, sported bleached blonde hair.
The skinhead grinned as he noticed her approach the doorway. It was the kind of grin that suggested that he fell into the stupid and crazy category, and was a little unsettling.
It was then, no surprise that this same character let out a wolf-whistle as she entered.
“All right love. What can we do for you?” The grin was relentless.
“Steady on Mick, this is that reporter that Harry said might be coming down.” His companion offered her a chair, which she obligingly took, sitting awkwardly at the side of the table.
“Thanks,” she said, trying to project a serious journalistic look that was clearly wasted on the two men who were taking far more interest in her chest; even though (which she checked with a nervous glance) it was adequately covered.
“Well, your friend is right. I work for the Monmouthshire Gazette,” she said to Mick, the Cheshire cat.
“You want to ask some questions right?” he replied.
“Right.”
“Well fire away, sweetheart,” the other man interjected, finally bothering to look at her face.
She got the distinct impression that these two weren’t the kind of men, who took female professionals particularly seriously. One thing was for sure, they certainly lacked the charm of their boss.
Suppressing her own feelings of contempt for such backward-minded chauvinists, she pressed on.
“Well, I take it you’re both some of Mr Tyler’s new recruits?”
“That’s right. How can you tell?”
“Well your cockney accents are a bit of a give away. You certainly don’t sound from round here.”
“No we’re not, we’re from London,” the skinhead proclaimed, stating the obvious.
“Oh.” She knew there was no chance he’d pick-up on her sarcasm. “So what brings you here? Why are you doing this job when there’s someone out there trying to murder taxi-drivers?”
“I ain’t scared of nothing darling.” She could barely believe that at this point Mick, flexed his muscles. Oh for heaven’s sake Carol, just pretend to be impressed.
“To be honest,” said the more sensible of the two, “I don’t know about Mick here but I need the money. I mean I can pretty much handle myself too, so it’s worth the risk, especially for what Harry’s paying.”
“And how much is he paying?”
“Twenty quid an hour,” Mick boomed.
“And that’s whether we’re on standby like we are now or actually out on a job,” the blonde one added.
Twenty pounds? Christ, she wasn’t even on half of that! Tyler hadn’t been joking when he said he was losing money.
“So what were you doing before?” she probed, it suddenly occurring that they may not hold a private hire licence. There was a momentary silence, as the pair looked shiftily at each other. The blonde man spoke.
“The same job in the capital for a bleedin’ sight less.”
“Yeah, roll on the bloody murders, that’s what I say, good for me wallet they are!”
She decided not to pursue the matter any further. After all, if Harry Tyler was providing the town with a taxi service on New Years Eve, a service many would need, at great personal cost to himself then she would hardly be popular if she got him shut down because she exposed that he was using unlicensed drivers. Besides, that particular hunch could well be wrong. Either way, it wasn’t worth following up.
“Thanks for your time,” she got up to leave.
“Sure you won’t stay for a cuppa?” asked the less impolite of the two.
What was it with cabbies and their cuppas?
“No, I’d best be off.” She tried to make it look like she wasn’t too desperate to get out of the room. When she finally got away, be it to cries of “See ya sweetheart!” and “Bye love!” she found herself breathing a very large sigh of relief!
She hated the part of her job where she had to be nice to people in order to obtain desired information.
Still she had plenty to write about when she got back to the office.
Even though, it meant employing idiots like that, she for one was glad that Gateway Cabs was spitting in the murderer’s face.
She hoped it wouldn’t prove to be Harry Tyler’s undoing.
The two men she’d talked to, watched her through a side window, as she walked back to her car in the courtyard.
“Fucking tasty wasn’t she?” Mick’s eyes appeared to drool.
“Yeah but too classy for you son and too old.”
“I don’t give a toss, how old they are.”
“Yeah, but she probably does.”
“I’ll keep an eye on her, for later. Then, it won’t matter what she thinks.”
The blonde man whose name was Trev, looked stern.
“You’d better go and tell the boss she’s gone.”
“Why me?”
“Because I fucking said so.”
“Prick.” Mick grudgingly rose from his seat. His arse felt numb after sitting there for so long.
Before long he was outside Tyler’s office, knocking on the door. The boss answered and Mick walked in to find himself staring at two other men.
“Yes Mick?”
“Trev said to tell you that the reporter woman’s gone.” He didn’t like the two men staring at him; they had ‘filth’ written all over them!
“And did you answer her questions?”
“Yeah,” Mick replied, his eyes refusing to move away from Stoker and Brookes.
“Good. Better get back to work then.”
“Yeah.” He slammed the door as he walked out.
“Sorry about that Inspector. One of my new employees; not very bright I’m afraid. A good driver though,” he added. “Anyway, what were you saying?”
Stoker glanced cynically at his colleague before answering.
“How did you get to run this business?”
“Oh well, I own it.”
“Then how did you come to own it?”
“I bought it, let me see, just over five years ago now.”
“Do you know anything about the previous owner?” Brookes intervened.
“Only that the poor sod died in a fire here. I mean that was no secret. The fact that parts of the building needed repair brought the price down.”
“So why did you buy it?”
“I’ve always wanted my own business. I’d saved up enough, working as a driver myself and I saw the opportunity here and took it. I wasn’t worried about the damage. I’m a bit handy with a toolbox so I fixed most of it back up myself. Best decision, I ever made. Being at the wheel of a car is one thing, being at the wheel of a car-hire business is something else.”
“Are you sure you’re still going to have a business after what you’re paying these drivers?
“I appreciate your concern Inspector Stoker but I’ve got enough cash reserves to keep this up for at least a fortnight. By then, you’ll have this man caught I would like to presume?”
Stoker didn’t appreciate the dig.
“We’ll get him Mr Tyler, depend upon it.”
“I do,” the businessman replied.
There was something of an awkward silence before Tyler spoke again.
“Now is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No that’s about it.” The two detectives stood up.
“Thanks for your assistance,” added Brookes.
“Not at all. Let me show you out.”
“That’s not necessary,” replied Stoker, already at the door, “we can manage.”
“As you wish.”
Tyler was left sat at his desk in a state of reflection, as the two policemen headed towards the stairs that would provide an exit.
“What do you think?” Stoker was oblivious to the fact that this question was rapidly becoming his catchphrase!
“I think it’s another bloody dead-end.”
“Yeah, but you know, call me a cynic but nobody does anything for nothing any more. Did you swallow that caring for the community crap?”
“Well he did seem sincere, even perhaps a little too sincere. Maybe, he anticipates the publicity will help expand his business in the future. Maybe he really does have faith in the ability of his local plod?” grinned Brookes.
Stoker met the comment with the contempt it deserved.
Brookes ignored the handful of men watching them as they strolled through the garage. Stoker didn’t; he glared back.
“I’ll bet this lot have got a few records.”
“Who knows? I don’t think I’d want to meet any of them in dark alleyway, that’s for sure.” Brookes steered back to the subject. “The thing is though at the moment it seems that Tyler has absolutely nothing to gain from these killings but everything to lose. But I can’t help thinking the murder here five years ago and the ones happening now have to be down to the same guy.”
“I bloody well hope so. I’d hate to think there’s more than one elaborate killer in our midst. This does seem like another dead-end though. Time to concentrate back on White Farm, I reckon. Have we established whether Dorell was there yet?”
“Yeah, the dirt tracks found at the entrance matched the tyres of his car. The back door window had been smashed along with an upstairs wall that it looks like someone took an axe to. I thought you knew this though.”
Brookes opened the driver’s door of his car.
“I did.” Stoker massaged his temple before climbing into the passenger seat. “God, I need to rest a bit. I’m starting to ask questions I already know the answers to.”
“Makes a nice change from questions that you don’t know the answer to,” Brookes smiled, driving them out of the courtyard and onto the main road.
“Mmm, like how Dorell ended up with the same level of alcohol in him as the Skirrids did two weeks ago. Shit! I thought we’d solved that case at least.”
“I must admit, I do find it a little bit of a relief to know that had we not scared him out of that window, he’d have been dead within minutes from alcohol poisoning anyhow.”
“Christ, why does everyone keep dying. At this rate there’ll be no-one left!”
“What a comforting thought!”
“You want comfort you should have stayed in Solihull. Come to think of it, put me down for a transfer.”
“Come now Inspector Stoker, you can’t let this man beat you.”
“Yeah well, I just pray to God, he doesn’t strike again tonight. I need some bloody sleep!”
“And this is the man who said in the paper that he wouldn’t rest until the killer was caught.”
“That was Dorell!”
“Oh.” Brookes drove into the station car-park, dropping Stoker off next to his own car, which he immediately climbed into.
As Stoker drove away he watched the tired man disappear out of sight.
“Never mind,” he muttered to himself, “with any luck, it’ll all be over soon.”
He gave a deep breath that summed up his day and began following Stoker’s lead.
His tyres rolled over a stain in the concrete where the last man in charge of the case had cracked open his skull.
Brookes didn’t notice this, like Stoker all he could see was his bed. Unfortunately that particular piece of furniture lay a hundred or so miles away in Solihull but for now, the mattress in The King George’s Hotel where he was staying, would more than do.
Carol Monk appeared to ooze confidence as she strolled into the offices of Gateway Cabs. It was a journalistic mask of course; professionalism often hid any deep personal anguish she might normally feel.
When she’d heard that Scott had been attacked in his own flat, she could have hardly believed her ears.
She’d rushed off to visit him earlier that day, and had to admire the way he seemed adamant not to let things drag him down.
He knew of course that the story they had written together had been dropped in view of the murders on Christmas Eve. The police had been made a laughing stock and there was no way Turner would allow the Gazette to follow suit. She had spent most of Boxing Day rewriting the story herself; still crediting Scott with his part in the ruination of an illegal boxing syndicate but making absolutely no suggestion that there had been any link with the murders. In fact, she’d even omitted the very theories that had caused the police to get it wrong.
Turner had always brown-nosed the constabulary far too much in her opinion, but for once she was in full agreement that, mainly for Scott’s sake, any items of embarrassment to the local plod would be left out. That could be left to the nationals, who loved to have stories of bungling and incompetence splashed all over their front pages.
Those same papers were interested in Scott, not for hero-worship (as previously suggested before the killer had made his ugly declarations of being very much alive), but to learn his role in the almighty mess. This, combined with the fact that Scott was now in hospital after nearly being killed by a vengeful thug who’s illegal fighting days were over, would certainly sell red-top newspapers that had already dubbed Abergavenny, ‘The Town of Terror!’.
And the suicide of the policeman in charge of the investigation had certainly not helped matters.
The Gazette would try to work around it but it couldn’t really ignore all this. Some things you just can’t gloss over.
Poor Scott! He was living proof of the old adage ‘curiosity killed the cat’ but then again, all good journalists were supposed to ignore that, weren’t they?
Regardless, for Carol, it was time to be the good hack now; time to forget that everything was turning into shit, and get on with the day’s work at hand.
The interview should prove interesting. Harry Tyler could provide answers to a lot of questions that intrigued her.
She gave a nice professional smile, as a youngish lad led her to an office up some stairs. She’d taken the trouble to wear a particularly smart outfit; in interviews presentation was always important, even if it was she who was conducting the interview. The more she impressed, the more answers would prove forthcoming and besides, she may be on the wrong end fortysomething but she could still look good when she wanted to, and if a little flirting got her results, then why not?
Her young escort knocked on the door, quickly announced her and disappeared off down a corridor like he had a plane to catch.
Harry Tyler, manager of Gateway Cabs, opened the door and smiled back at her.
“Please Mrs Monk, won’t you come in?”
She watched him shuffle a few papers on his desk, clearing some space before inviting her to sit down on a chair opposite.
“Thankyou for agreeing to this interview Mr Tyler, especially as I hear you’ve turned away a lot of the tabloids.”
“Well they can be a tiresome lot but I’ve no objection to talking to the local rag.”
“Do you mind if I tape us?” She pulled out a miniature tape recorder out of her handbag.
“As long as it’s not used in a court of law,” he joked. She smiled back, more out of politeness than genuine amusement.
“Well,” she clicked the device into action, “let’s start with the main question on everyone’s mind.”
“Which is?”
“Why haven’t you followed suit with your rivals and decided to close for business until the murderer is caught?”
“Have all the others shut now?”
She nodded, and then remembered the tape machine. “Yes.”
“Sorry, I didn’t realise I was the only operational taxi firm in Abergavenny. I knew Speedway and Carlton had closed but I didn’t know the other two had as well.”
“They shut after the Christmas Eve killings.”
“I see.” His jovial tone seemed to have dropped. Carol suspected that he was thinking about his fallen colleagues.
“Did you know Glen McCann well?” she asked, getting straight to the point.
“Unfortunately only too well, and poor old Idris.” He slowly shook his head. “It only seems like the other day I was playing cards with the pair of them - hell, it was the other day! Glen and Idris were particularly close. The tragedy is that Glen only kept on working so that he might have the opportunity of getting the bastard that killed Jonesy; looks like that bastard got him first.”
“So in view of the fact you’ve lost two drivers, why are you still operating?”
“Well firstly, there’s no guarantee the murderer will be caught, he may disappear only to later resurface in another town or he may stop altogether. Four days from now, Abergavenny, like any other place in the country, will be the venue for a bloody big booze up. Now, without a taxi service for those people from the villages who wish to celebrate the New Year in town, there’ll either be a lot of disappointments or even worse a hell of a lot of drunken drivers.
I think the overall effect would be devastating; if we can’t celebrate as a community, then what can we do? I personally refuse to let this whole town be effected just because one twisted sod has decided to go on the rampage. If I closed shop, like the rest, I’d feel like the bastard’s won and that’s the last thing I want. And more importantly, it’s the last thing Glen and Idris would want.
Secondly, I want to make it totally clear that no-one here is being forced to work, in fact many have taken time off, safe in the knowledge that the job will be waiting for them once all this has blown over.”
Carol admired the passion in his speech, even if she felt it was a bit misguided. However, as a reporter she had to take the hard-line.
“What would you say to suggestions that you’re capitalising on these tragic events? I mean if you’re the only company still going, then it’s fair to assume that all the business is going to come your way.”
“I totally refute them. In fact, there will be no profit for me between now and the new year. In fact, I will actually be making a loss.”
“How would that be?”
“Well it’s no secret that I’ve been hiring in staff from outside the area. The only thing that’s been tempting this lot to risk life and limb, is money, and lots of it. I’m actually paying them way beyond what the actual fares are bringing in and will continue to do so until drivers feel safe again, and this town gets back to normal.”
He spotted her cynical expression before he continued.
“Look, I’m not saying I’m some kind of hero. I’m just standing up for what I believe in, for as long as I can afford to. It won’t last forever and yes, okay, I’m sure the publicity of what I’m doing now will place me in a better standing when it comes to competition, after things have settled down.
It’s not the main reason I’m doing this, but as a businessman I obviously can’t ignore the fact that many people of this area will be grateful, when they realise its Gateway Cabs that’s providing them with a service when they need it most. But I also think that whatever new customers I may gain in the future will only generate enough extra revenue to cover the amount I will lose on New Years Eve alone.”
“So what you’re telling me is that you’re doing this for the sake of the town?”
“Well that’s not quite how I would put it but yes, I am extremely fond of Abergavenny and anything I can do to help it, I will without question.”
“May I ask how much you’re paying these drivers?”
“No, but if you want to ask them please feel free to do so. I don’t think it’s right that I should broadcast their earnings without their say so.”
Throughout all of this, Carol had studied Tyler. She had been looking out for any signs of deviousness, any clever avoidance to her questioning and she had detected none. His simplistic manner, his ‘matter of fact’ nature, was somewhat refreshing and while he may have sounded like a politician, it was true there wasn’t an awful lot for him to gain. Okay, so maybe it was a publicity stunt but to what purpose? Even if he took all the business away from the other four cab firms, the taxi-travelling population of Abergavenny and surrounding villages would hardly make him a millionaire!
Besides, in the newspaper business she knew only to well that it was human nature to forget grand gestures and any prolonged sense of loyalty, as soon as a better offer came along.
Everything about him, told her that he was the genuine article. With all the unpleasantness of late, this man was a breath of fresh air in a stale environment. It was nice to know that there were still people like Tyler who could keep the true spirit of Christmas alive.
“That’s great Mr Tyler. That’s all I should need.” She switched off the tape machine. “If only there were more like you,” she added.
“Try telling that to my wife,” he beamed. “Sorry, I’ve not been a very good host; can I offer you a cuppa?”
“Thanks but no,” she replied getting up, “I’ve just got to interview a few of your staff, with your permission of course, and then it’s back to base to write this lot up.”
“Like I said, you’re more than welcome. You’ll find a few of them lounging about in the staff room downstairs.” He moved to shake her hand.
“Thanks,” she replied, meeting the gesture, “Sorry I can’t stop longer but as you’ll no doubt realise I’ve been pretty busy lately.”
Harry Tyler nodded sympathetically as he showed her to the door.
She had barely set a foot outside, when Inspectors Stoker and Brookes appeared.
She recognised Stoker straight away.
“Inspector? What are you doing here?”
“We’re here to find out why Mr Tyler is the only taxi operator left in Abergavenny.”
“Well I’ve just given this lady an interview,” replied Tyler, defensively.
“Well I’m sure you won’t mind if you let us question you too,” Stoker retorted.
“I’m sure everything you want to know is on this tape.” Carol showed the police officers her small hand-held recorder.
“Well we’d be delighted to listen to that a little later but at this point in time, if it’s all the same to you, we’d like to talk to Mr Tyler here. I assume you were on your way out, please don’t let us hold you up.” Carol wasn’t sure she liked Stoker’s tone. She quite deliberately glared at him and then at Brookes, who gave an apologetic half-shrug. Only after her wordless protest did she walk away.
“You’ll be able to read about it all soon anyway,” was her parting blow.
“Don’t worry Mr Tyler. No-one’s under suspicion of anything. It’s just that we have to explore every avenue.” She heard Stoker explain before the door to Tyler’s office was firmly shut, blocking out the conversation.
She’d dealt with Stoker before, on the odd assignment now and then. He’d always been a bit stiff in her opinion but today he’d been positively rude.
Getting to you as well is it? It occurred to her that everyone she knew, herself included, was becoming a bit short-tempered of late. Everyone seemed on the edge. How long before the anxiety and fear totally dominated them all and turned any such anguish into violence? Not long she thought. The people of Abergavenny, the police being no exception, just weren’t used to this kind of thing and were even less equipped to deal with it.
The fact the police wanted to interview Tyler showed just how desperate they were getting. Still, could she really criticise? In their position, she’d probably be interviewing all the local cattle as well! She’d seen Stoker’s companion somewhere before too but not for a long while she surmised. Didn’t he used to be an assistant to Stoker’s predecessor? Yes that was it: Detective Brookes or something like that. Wonder what happened to Dixon?
She surfaced from the depths of her thoughts to find that she had inadvertently led herself to the garage below.
She spotted a small office in the corner of the vast parking area that could only be what Tyler had described as the staff room. As she headed towards it, she was preparing to ascertain whether these people were just brave, greedy, crazy or perhaps all of the above.
Hopefully, the two youngish lads that she could see chatting over a brew would provide some clue. They were both pretty well built; one had a skinhead and the other in contrast, sported bleached blonde hair.
The skinhead grinned as he noticed her approach the doorway. It was the kind of grin that suggested that he fell into the stupid and crazy category, and was a little unsettling.
It was then, no surprise that this same character let out a wolf-whistle as she entered.
“All right love. What can we do for you?” The grin was relentless.
“Steady on Mick, this is that reporter that Harry said might be coming down.” His companion offered her a chair, which she obligingly took, sitting awkwardly at the side of the table.
“Thanks,” she said, trying to project a serious journalistic look that was clearly wasted on the two men who were taking far more interest in her chest; even though (which she checked with a nervous glance) it was adequately covered.
“Well, your friend is right. I work for the Monmouthshire Gazette,” she said to Mick, the Cheshire cat.
“You want to ask some questions right?” he replied.
“Right.”
“Well fire away, sweetheart,” the other man interjected, finally bothering to look at her face.
She got the distinct impression that these two weren’t the kind of men, who took female professionals particularly seriously. One thing was for sure, they certainly lacked the charm of their boss.
Suppressing her own feelings of contempt for such backward-minded chauvinists, she pressed on.
“Well, I take it you’re both some of Mr Tyler’s new recruits?”
“That’s right. How can you tell?”
“Well your cockney accents are a bit of a give away. You certainly don’t sound from round here.”
“No we’re not, we’re from London,” the skinhead proclaimed, stating the obvious.
“Oh.” She knew there was no chance he’d pick-up on her sarcasm. “So what brings you here? Why are you doing this job when there’s someone out there trying to murder taxi-drivers?”
“I ain’t scared of nothing darling.” She could barely believe that at this point Mick, flexed his muscles. Oh for heaven’s sake Carol, just pretend to be impressed.
“To be honest,” said the more sensible of the two, “I don’t know about Mick here but I need the money. I mean I can pretty much handle myself too, so it’s worth the risk, especially for what Harry’s paying.”
“And how much is he paying?”
“Twenty quid an hour,” Mick boomed.
“And that’s whether we’re on standby like we are now or actually out on a job,” the blonde one added.
Twenty pounds? Christ, she wasn’t even on half of that! Tyler hadn’t been joking when he said he was losing money.
“So what were you doing before?” she probed, it suddenly occurring that they may not hold a private hire licence. There was a momentary silence, as the pair looked shiftily at each other. The blonde man spoke.
“The same job in the capital for a bleedin’ sight less.”
“Yeah, roll on the bloody murders, that’s what I say, good for me wallet they are!”
She decided not to pursue the matter any further. After all, if Harry Tyler was providing the town with a taxi service on New Years Eve, a service many would need, at great personal cost to himself then she would hardly be popular if she got him shut down because she exposed that he was using unlicensed drivers. Besides, that particular hunch could well be wrong. Either way, it wasn’t worth following up.
“Thanks for your time,” she got up to leave.
“Sure you won’t stay for a cuppa?” asked the less impolite of the two.
What was it with cabbies and their cuppas?
“No, I’d best be off.” She tried to make it look like she wasn’t too desperate to get out of the room. When she finally got away, be it to cries of “See ya sweetheart!” and “Bye love!” she found herself breathing a very large sigh of relief!
She hated the part of her job where she had to be nice to people in order to obtain desired information.
Still she had plenty to write about when she got back to the office.
Even though, it meant employing idiots like that, she for one was glad that Gateway Cabs was spitting in the murderer’s face.
She hoped it wouldn’t prove to be Harry Tyler’s undoing.
The two men she’d talked to, watched her through a side window, as she walked back to her car in the courtyard.
“Fucking tasty wasn’t she?” Mick’s eyes appeared to drool.
“Yeah but too classy for you son and too old.”
“I don’t give a toss, how old they are.”
“Yeah, but she probably does.”
“I’ll keep an eye on her, for later. Then, it won’t matter what she thinks.”
The blonde man whose name was Trev, looked stern.
“You’d better go and tell the boss she’s gone.”
“Why me?”
“Because I fucking said so.”
“Prick.” Mick grudgingly rose from his seat. His arse felt numb after sitting there for so long.
Before long he was outside Tyler’s office, knocking on the door. The boss answered and Mick walked in to find himself staring at two other men.
“Yes Mick?”
“Trev said to tell you that the reporter woman’s gone.” He didn’t like the two men staring at him; they had ‘filth’ written all over them!
“And did you answer her questions?”
“Yeah,” Mick replied, his eyes refusing to move away from Stoker and Brookes.
“Good. Better get back to work then.”
“Yeah.” He slammed the door as he walked out.
“Sorry about that Inspector. One of my new employees; not very bright I’m afraid. A good driver though,” he added. “Anyway, what were you saying?”
Stoker glanced cynically at his colleague before answering.
“How did you get to run this business?”
“Oh well, I own it.”
“Then how did you come to own it?”
“I bought it, let me see, just over five years ago now.”
“Do you know anything about the previous owner?” Brookes intervened.
“Only that the poor sod died in a fire here. I mean that was no secret. The fact that parts of the building needed repair brought the price down.”
“So why did you buy it?”
“I’ve always wanted my own business. I’d saved up enough, working as a driver myself and I saw the opportunity here and took it. I wasn’t worried about the damage. I’m a bit handy with a toolbox so I fixed most of it back up myself. Best decision, I ever made. Being at the wheel of a car is one thing, being at the wheel of a car-hire business is something else.”
“Are you sure you’re still going to have a business after what you’re paying these drivers?
“I appreciate your concern Inspector Stoker but I’ve got enough cash reserves to keep this up for at least a fortnight. By then, you’ll have this man caught I would like to presume?”
Stoker didn’t appreciate the dig.
“We’ll get him Mr Tyler, depend upon it.”
“I do,” the businessman replied.
There was something of an awkward silence before Tyler spoke again.
“Now is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No that’s about it.” The two detectives stood up.
“Thanks for your assistance,” added Brookes.
“Not at all. Let me show you out.”
“That’s not necessary,” replied Stoker, already at the door, “we can manage.”
“As you wish.”
Tyler was left sat at his desk in a state of reflection, as the two policemen headed towards the stairs that would provide an exit.
“What do you think?” Stoker was oblivious to the fact that this question was rapidly becoming his catchphrase!
“I think it’s another bloody dead-end.”
“Yeah, but you know, call me a cynic but nobody does anything for nothing any more. Did you swallow that caring for the community crap?”
“Well he did seem sincere, even perhaps a little too sincere. Maybe, he anticipates the publicity will help expand his business in the future. Maybe he really does have faith in the ability of his local plod?” grinned Brookes.
Stoker met the comment with the contempt it deserved.
Brookes ignored the handful of men watching them as they strolled through the garage. Stoker didn’t; he glared back.
“I’ll bet this lot have got a few records.”
“Who knows? I don’t think I’d want to meet any of them in dark alleyway, that’s for sure.” Brookes steered back to the subject. “The thing is though at the moment it seems that Tyler has absolutely nothing to gain from these killings but everything to lose. But I can’t help thinking the murder here five years ago and the ones happening now have to be down to the same guy.”
“I bloody well hope so. I’d hate to think there’s more than one elaborate killer in our midst. This does seem like another dead-end though. Time to concentrate back on White Farm, I reckon. Have we established whether Dorell was there yet?”
“Yeah, the dirt tracks found at the entrance matched the tyres of his car. The back door window had been smashed along with an upstairs wall that it looks like someone took an axe to. I thought you knew this though.”
Brookes opened the driver’s door of his car.
“I did.” Stoker massaged his temple before climbing into the passenger seat. “God, I need to rest a bit. I’m starting to ask questions I already know the answers to.”
“Makes a nice change from questions that you don’t know the answer to,” Brookes smiled, driving them out of the courtyard and onto the main road.
“Mmm, like how Dorell ended up with the same level of alcohol in him as the Skirrids did two weeks ago. Shit! I thought we’d solved that case at least.”
“I must admit, I do find it a little bit of a relief to know that had we not scared him out of that window, he’d have been dead within minutes from alcohol poisoning anyhow.”
“Christ, why does everyone keep dying. At this rate there’ll be no-one left!”
“What a comforting thought!”
“You want comfort you should have stayed in Solihull. Come to think of it, put me down for a transfer.”
“Come now Inspector Stoker, you can’t let this man beat you.”
“Yeah well, I just pray to God, he doesn’t strike again tonight. I need some bloody sleep!”
“And this is the man who said in the paper that he wouldn’t rest until the killer was caught.”
“That was Dorell!”
“Oh.” Brookes drove into the station car-park, dropping Stoker off next to his own car, which he immediately climbed into.
As Stoker drove away he watched the tired man disappear out of sight.
“Never mind,” he muttered to himself, “with any luck, it’ll all be over soon.”
He gave a deep breath that summed up his day and began following Stoker’s lead.
His tyres rolled over a stain in the concrete where the last man in charge of the case had cracked open his skull.
Brookes didn’t notice this, like Stoker all he could see was his bed. Unfortunately that particular piece of furniture lay a hundred or so miles away in Solihull but for now, the mattress in The King George’s Hotel where he was staying, would more than do.