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He tried to piece things together. He remembered leaving the house with his ill-gotten gains. He hotfooted it through the town, using all the back alleys and ginnels he knew about, and one or two he didn’t.
A light suddenly beamed inside Manny’s head. He’d passed the off-licence where some kind soul had left a bottle of three-year-old, oak barrel, aged French brandy out in the yard. It had either been forgotten, which he doubted, or the slack bastard that worked there had been intending to steal it. That was when Manny remembered the old saying “the Lord helped those who helped themselves”. So he did.
The trouble started in the early hours when he reached his home and deposited everything into the living room. In the kitchen he’d taken another can of Red Bull from the fridge and downed it in one. After eating a sausage roll long past its sell-by date he then opened the brandy and poured a glass, or two – or three. Fucked if he could remember.
Feeling more like moving he stood up – slowly. The sheet fell to the floor revealing everything Manny had, which wasn’t much. Prisoners of war from Belsen were in better shape than him. He was about to rinse his mouth but thought better of it. He glanced around the small bathroom: chipped tiles, flaky ceiling, no bath, only a shower with a curtain so old it would have made a better sieve. He continually had to dry the bathroom floor. Sometimes it was easier not to take a shower. Manny made a mental note to acquire another curtain.
It was time to try walking. He lived in a one bedroom flat in the old town in Bramfield, known as Carpenter’s Yard – so called because at the bottom of the yard there had been a dry dock where carpenters worked on the keels. It had been very busy down there in the early part of the last century. All that had gone now and in its place were two small flats – his and the woman’s next door. Hers had two bedrooms.
Each flat also had a garage. They were huge – even had lofts. Manny’s was full of shit – hers wasn’t. That was a matter of opinion. Mary had a pale blue VW Beetle. Bastard thing. Especially when she revved the knackers off it early in the morning, going to see her mother in the care home. It was a wonder she didn’t hear it, and that place was five fucking miles away.
The courtyard had been bricked, with two large gas lamps installed. A patio table and chairs had been dropped dead centre, and a set of gates closed off the secluded area from the world. A number of wooden barrels adorned the courtyard, all of which had been filled with flowers. Mary had bought a truckload of other associated crap like wooden wheelbarrows and gnomes and solar lights to brighten the place up.
Manny glanced into the living room as he passed on his way to the kitchen. Another mess. It was furnished and decorated mostly with stuff he had stolen. He had a small portable TV that he rarely – if ever – watched. No Sky – that costs money.
Strolling through to the kitchen, he opened the fridge, and spotted an energy drink. That’s what he needed. A tin of beans with a spoon sticking out the top came into view. He saw the yellow ticket but he wasn’t bothered. They’d been there a week anyway.
He took two mouthfuls, chewed and swallowed and washed them down with the drink. After a few seconds, his brain sent a message to every sensor in his body, informing him he shouldn’t have attempted that procedure so soon after rising.
Manny closed the fridge and held the edge of the sink, rigid, preparing himself. Seconds of indecision passed before he noticed Mary, his neighbour and current stalker, out in the yard.
“Oh fuck.” Manny ducked down. If she saw him, he’d never be able to shift her. He had a soft spot for her. She’d been treated badly by every man she had ever met. They used her because she was too nice, and rather plump. He would never admit to anyone that she was probably the only woman in his life. For reasons unknown to Manny, Mary would do anything for him. She often bought him little things – found any excuse to pop round to his flat.
But he couldn’t deal with her now.
Manny needed to inspect his latest haul. He threaded his way carefully around the furniture. He had bare feet. Any number of hidden dangers could spring a surprise. He never cleaned up; never had the time.
He grabbed the swag bag, noticing the Vans trainers. He was pleased with those. He was elated with the Fender. A red Stratocaster; bruised and scratched, it definitely had a tale or two to tell. That would fetch a few quid.
The contents of the bag hit the floor: a collection of Glam Rock CDs, a midi hi-fi, ornaments, jewellery... The watches he could fence, no problem. There was cash, a wad he’d found in the guitar case. That would certainly help his cause.
“This is all good, Manny, my old son.”
Running his hands through his hair he quickly reached for the box he’d found in the cupboard. What he’d seen inside in the early hours had been interesting, but he suspected a much closer investigation would be needed.
The clock on the wall read one-fifteen. His windfall had to be moved. To do that he needed a car, and a roll of black insulating tape.
A knock came on his kitchen window. “You ooh, Manfred. Are you up?”
Manny put the box on the floor and stood up.
Fuck it, Mary was here.
Chapter Seven
Reilly brought the pool car to a halt in the car park whilst Gardener quickly reflected on the morning’s developments. The undertaker had been and taken Jane Carter’s body to the morgue. Fitz had left. The scene had been locked down and the only people in the house now were the CSIs – hopefully collecting concrete evidence.
The police station in Bramfield was large and old-fashioned and resembled a town hall. There were four steps leading to the front door, flanked either side by Grecian pillars, with castellated mock battlements. Above the front door was a wrought-iron canopy with potted plants. The windows were old-fashioned wood and not double-glazed, and the exterior was surrounded by gas mantle lighting.
“Ah, now here’s a familiar sight,”
said Reilly, closing the door and locking the car.
The pair of them climbed the steps to the front door. Once inside, the smell of lavender and furniture polish was ever present. A middle-aged cleaner with blonde hair stood in one corner watering the potted plants. She smiled as Gardener passed.
The lobby was empty as Gardener approached the desk. Maurice Cragg came through from the back with a couple of files in his hand.
“Good to see you gentlemen again.”
