CALL MAMA (10 page)

Clara Blake made her way to the Correction Centre to visit her son.
Hate this journey. That place scares the hell outta me. Never know what you're gonna see…won't forget last time… that fight… two guys almost killed each other… wish to hell Sammy was outta there
. She waited in the visitor area. Her son shuffled in, escorted by prison wardens.

“Hey Mom, good you've come. Didn't think you'd be back after last time.”

“What the heck happened to your face, son?”

“Nothing, Mom, bumped into a door, wasn't lookin' where I was going.”

“Don't you stonewall me, Samuel Blake. I know a beating when I see one. God knows, I had plenty from your father. Who did that?”

“Keep your voice down, Mom,” he replied, looking furtively around. “I'm good, I'm ok, just some guy thought I looked at him kinda funny. No big deal. These things happen in here.”

“Son, I wish to hell you were home. This ain't no place for a boy.”

“Mom, you worry too much. I'll be out soon and I promise I'm gonna make it up to you. I'll get a job, I'll—”

“Yeah, Sammy, heard it all before.”

Clara returned home to find a letter in her mailbox. It read: “A warning.” Enclosed was a picture of her boy, which scared her so much she began to howl. Enclosed also was a copy of the agreement she had signed in the bar. Clara panicked.

She had missed two payments, had a false sense of security and put it to the back of her mind, until now. Highlighted was the rate of interest for late payment.

“Hell no. Oh my boy!”

She quickly sent off what she could afford, several dollars short of the expected payment. Some days later, she had a visit from two men. The terrified woman had no option but to admit them to her house.

“Clara, good to meet you again. You remember me? The guy at the bar who saved your butt? Gave you $2,000. Remember?”

Indeed, she remembered, but the smooth-talking, polite man she vaguely recalled no longer seemed so friendly.

“Umm, yeah, sort of…”

“Alf here wants to show you a few pictures of your cute kid.”

Alf laid out four pictures of Samuel: bruised, his left eye closed, his face almost unrecognizable.

She screamed in pain. “Leave my kid alone. I'll get your damn money.”

“Now, Clara, calm down. You know you ain't got a spare dime. We're here to help you out. Got a little job for you. You do it well and little Sammy here will serve his sentence in peace and we'll wipe the slate clean… no more repayments.”

He laid out clearly the task in hand.

“That's it?” she said incredulously. “You want me to hide a kid here for a few days and my boy will be ok and I don't have to pay no more money?”

“That's all that's to it, Clara, but you can't breathe a word to anyone or let the kid be seen. Don't let anyone into the house while you're looking after the kid. If you do, or mess up, well, Sammy boy…”

He made menacing signs with his hands, clear enough for her to fully understand. The two men left. Clara burst into tears, clutching the pictures they had left as a reminder.

***

Dale Greer, having lost all his savings after a bank meltdown, had his house foreclosed. His family moved in with his in-laws. He managed to find some menial, low-paid work and rented a cheap apartment, but was soon unable to pay his rent. The proprietor sent him packing. His wife, Cindy, found him after trawling one bar to another, hauled him outside where she berated him for his appearance.

“Look at you! An apology for a human being. You were supposed to be finding work to provide for us. My folks can't keep us forever. You disgust me.”

She returned to her parents' home worried sick about the future.

Dale sought solace the only way he could. While drinking in a bar, he was approached by the two loan sharks who took him aside, showed him pictures of his wife, leaving him in no doubt as to what would happen to her should he fail to repay his loan. He blubbered like a baby.

“Hey, man, no need to be upset, we're here to help you out. We have a job for you; do it right and we'll not expect any more payments from you… wipe the slate clean… what could be easier?”

His task was explained to him in detail. He was to collect a kid, escort her by long-haul bus to New York to a safe house. He was to tell no one about this mission.

“In case you think of double crossing us…” Alf held up a picture of Cindy, leaving it with the terrified man as he and his accomplice left the bar.

Dale waited several days for instructions to be given regarding his mission, which involved hours of tedious travel. After returning from his task, which cleared him of burdensome debt, he received several visits from police officers. The strain of lying to them to protect his wife and family proved too much for the distraught man. Dale could no longer cope. He left his makeshift camp and walked deeper into the woods, rope in hand. Relentless rain battered his broken body. He was unaware of anything but his guilt.

“Forgive me, Cindy.”

Officers sent to interview Dale Greer one more time could not locate him. His makeshift camp in the woods was intact, his tent and belongings left untouched. They asked around the local bars; no one had seen the dishevelled hobo, although they did know to whom they were referring.

“He's usually in here every evening, propping up the bar,” reported a bar owner. “He's not been in for two, maybe three nights now. I presumed he'd moved on.”

Local police were put on alert to extend the search and bring him in for questioning. Several days later, a couple exercising their dog in the woods came across a gruesome sight.

His distraught wife, Cindy, identified Dale Greer's body.

“I never thought it would come to this; I never stopped loving him, you know. It was just, well, the kids had to have a future and Dale couldn't provide that. It wasn't his fault, detective. Greedy bankers are to blame for my husband lying in that morgue, as sure as if they had strung him to that tree themselves. He was a proud man, worked hard in the textile industry, earned well and saved hard for our future.”

Carole Carr comforted the distressed lady. “Take your time, Cindy, you need to talk this through and unburden yourself.”

“You're right. I couldn't talk much to my folks. Guess I was too ashamed and they were doing their best for us, but I'll never forget the day Dale told me of the collapse of the bank we had trusted all our married life.”

“‘Honey,' he wept on my shoulder. ‘Honey, it's a disaster for us, all our savings, every damn dollar has gone.'”

Through tears, Cindy continued.

“Ma'am, he was a broken man, he aged overnight. The next few months were pure hell. I watched the man I loved crumble and weep like a baby. He couldn't eat, sleep or think straight. I had to be the strong one in the partnership and take charge of everything. My job as a dental receptionist didn't cover the mortgage repayments for long; we had to eat, other bills had to be paid, the kids needed shoes. Our precious house was repossessed, we sold what we could; we would have been better giving it away for all we got for our beautiful furniture. Vultures seem to sense when you are desperate and at your lowest ebb; people were offering ridiculously low prices, knowing we had no choice but to take their dollars.

“My folks gave the boys and me a home; we hoped it would be temporary. Dale opted to stay on in New York and look for work. He found a cheap place to live. After a few months, I came back to meet up with him and was shocked at his changed appearance. He earned enough to pay his rent but used the rest for drink. detective Carr, before this mess Dale never drank much, but he had totally lost it.”

Cindy sobbed for some time, before continuing.

“I went like a crazy woman, berating him like hell, so now I'm suffering guilt. I should have taken him back to my folks' place to sort him out, but I was so angry. Now I've got to live with that, knowing the kids will never see their daddy again.”

Carole Carr listened sympathetically to the distraught widow.

“From what we can gather, Cindy, Dale could no longer afford to stay in his rented accommodation, and the owner was objecting to his drinking, so he set up a campsite in the woods. He got himself involved with rogue moneylenders that he told us about when we interviewed him and thanks to Dale we have arrested one of the culprits. Your husband seemed to have been a good man, Cindy; don't beat yourself up about this. It just got too much for him.”

“Can I take him home for burial?”

“We will release his body to you in the next few days and we can arrange for counselling for you and your family.”

Detective Carr hugged the tragic woman before parting company.

Carr sat with Harvey in his office, trying to assimilate the stunning news from Brenda Mears.

“This is big stuff, what do we do? We can't go public, it could ruin an innocent man.”

“That is, if he is innocent,” replied Carr.

They discussed their options. Harvey was unusually perplexed as to how to proceed.

“How can we keep this quiet from the rest of the squad? The mayor and superintendent are on our backs to get this case solved, and quickly. I hate concealing stuff from the others, but it's too big to risk having some bigmouth telling his mate in the pub or pillow talk with the wife or mistress or anyone else for that matter. It's a mess. We'll have to speak to the super and the mayor.”

“Could we ask them to keep a lid on it till we've had time to locate the guy and eliminate him?”

“At the moment, Carr, we keep this strictly between ourselves. We need thinking time.”

Meanwhile, two undercover agents settled themselves at the bar of the Water Vole and sipped from pints of ghastly beer while surreptitiously noting the customers as they came in for their drinking sessions. As the evening wore on, the volume in the bar increased; a few arguments developed, alternating between loud chatter and raucous laughter. The agents, as instructed, began a conversation about the state of their finances.

“I'm getting into deep debt. These kids of mine demand the latest gizmos, won't wear anything unless it has a designer label, run up bills on their mobile phones and expect me to pay up.”

He put his head in his hands and continued.

“I can't bring myself to tell Joanne that I've lost my job. I go out in the morning as if I'm going to work and hole out somewhere until it's time to come home. It's stressing me out, don't know what I'll do at the end of the month when there's no paycheque.”

“Hell, man, you sure are in a mess, worse than I thought. What are you going to do? I can't even help you out, buddy. Beth's surgery emptied the bank book, sorry, mate.”

“Can't think of any way out, can't try for a loan with no regular paycheques to back it up; who will lend
me
money?”

The two continued to commiserate, feigned drunkenness, got louder as they consoled each other and agreed to go home, sleep on it and meet the next day, “same time, same place”. They were about to leave when they became aware of a man standing at their side.

“Sorry, guys, couldn't help overhearing your conversation.”

“Who the hell are you?” mumbled the “drunken” agent.

“I could be your saviour, buddy. I couldn't help but listen to you, this place is so packed out there's nowhere to stand without hearing other folk's conversation. Hey, maybe I could help. I know a reputable moneylender who might be able to get you an instant loan, small number of repayments till you get yourself sorted out.”

Unknown to the guy, one of the agents had switched on a tape and was recording the entire conversation.

“Tell me more,” stuttered the drunk.

“Come over here where it's quieter and I'll explain how it works.”

The two drunks, holding each other up, staggered to a quiet corner where their new friend explained how the distraught guy could borrow up to $2,000, paid back at $10 a week and more anytime he had a bit spare.

“Hey, let me make a call.”

He returned to his victims.

“Meet here, same time tomorrow, for a courier to bring the cash. His name is Les. Sorry, guys, I can't stay around and talk, I've a flight to catch. Hey, it's been good talking to you. I'm sure things will work out just fine for you, buddy.”

Faking tears of relief, he grabbed his rescuer by the arm, offered to buy him a drink, thanked him profusely, and wept on the guy's shoulder. The man called it a night and left the pub, glad to be out of the hellhole of human misery.

After some time, the colleagues left arm in arm, staggered along the street to avoid suspicion and when they were sure the coast was clear, “sobered up” and got into a crap car parked some way off.

“Did you record it then?”

“Got it! Now we're nearer to unmasking the loan sharks and their outfit.”

The following evening as planned, the scruffy agents, beer splashed about their clothes, returned staggering to the Water Vole, pretended to drink several pints and waited.

A full hour passed before the expected courier appeared, beckoned them over to a corner table and produced a bulky, brown package. He opened it just enough to show the dollar bills inside, taking care to conceal it from view of the public.

“You're one lucky guy. We don't give these specials to just everyone. There's 2,000 bucks here. You sign right here, buddy, and your troubles are over.”

The drunken agent continued to role-play, fawning over his new buddy and offering him a few drinks in gratitude.

“Hey, man, you've no idea how things will change now. My sweet Joanne will be—”

Just then, a shadow fell over the trio as two officers of the law approached the guy and cuffed him before he had time to draw breath.

As he was led away, he spat at the two agents, yelled profanities and struggled with the arresting policemen. Officers cuffed Lesley Jake Soubry, put him in the back of a police car, read him his Miranda and drove him to the precinct where he was interviewed by Harvey.

“I want my lawyer,” demanded the prisoner.

“You got something you need a lawyer for, then?”

Les kept quiet, not exactly sure where this interview would take him, wondering too what this detective knew of his dubious life.

“So, sir,” began Harvey. “I see you're a jailbird, one of our regulars.”

“Don't mean nothing, 'cos I've done time. It don't mean I've committed a felony now.”

“That's true, sir,” continued the detective. “So, tell me, what's your involvement in the abduction of Lucy Mears?”

“Hey, you can't pin that on me! I know nothing about that kid. Ok, I admit I've helped a guy out a few times, nothing illegal like, but no way am I into this crap.”

“You've heard of Lucy Mears, then?”

“Sure, hasn't everyone? The kid's picture's in every newsstand, on every TV channel. Who's not to know of Lucy Mears?”

“Les, you don't mind me calling you Les? Let's keep this kinda friendly, then you can go home. You see my problem. This kid's missing. Her mom's mega rich, willing to pay big bucks for the kid's return. You could earn a bit of bread, mate, I mean loads… just help me out here.”

Les fell for the soft approach, thinking how he'd love to get his hands on enough cash to take off somewhere and have a good life.

Harvey continued. “Let me get you some coffee, I could do with one myself.”

He sent a young duty officer to fetch the coffee.

“Les, the mayor would be happy to wipe the slate clean for you. No past criminal convictions to burden you. You seem like a good guy who deserves a break. What do you say to a fresh start? Hey, you could take off, do some travelling.”

Harvey gave the gullible guy time to digest what had been said.

“Ok, what you wanna know then?”

“Anything you care to tell, buddy. You can start at the beginning, take your time, no rush.”

“Well, I guess it started with a call from a guy I knew in jail. He knew I was in New York and wanted an errand done; ‘nothing bad,' he told me, ‘just deliver some cash to a client, get a signature for it, and fifty bucks is yours.' Well, I couldn't refuse an old ex-con, and fifty bucks would sure keep me going. I delivered a wad of notes, about $2,000 to a guy in a bar, and got him to sign something. Easiest fifty bucks I ever earned.

“‘Don't even think of double-crossing me,' I was warned, ‘'cos I, and now you, work for Barclay. Remember him from prison?' he asked me.”

“Good, Les, you're doing just fine. Here's the coffee. Officer, get this gent a snack.”

Les continued to spill the beans as if relieved to be free from pressure.

“Tough guy was Barclay, could break your arm with his bare hand without him feeling a thing, detective. I sure remembered Barclay, everyone gave him a wide berth, gave him respect.”

“Tell me, Les, do you remember names of any of the folk you delivered cash to? Or any information at all?”

Les thought hard. “Yeah, there was this lady, sad lady, drunk out of her mind – most of them were – signed the paperwork, almost kissed me; I backed off smart like. She stank of stale beer.”

“You remember her name?”

Harvey's approach had the desired effect on the naïve man.

“Yeah, Clare something, no, Clara, that's it, lived not far from me, had a kid in juvie.”

Harvey forced himself to keep calm. Here was the breakthrough they needed. Maybe this guy knew more.

“Good stuff, Les. The mayor's sure gonna thank you. Now, any other names you remember?”

“A guy from Chicago, got to know him real well, George North, gave him a bundle of dollars, 2,000. He was in a bar in downtown New York, said he needed the cash for computer stuff. There were loads of others: Stu Collins, Alan Campbell, Dale Greer—”

Harvey interrupted. “Tell me about Dale Greer.”

“Not much to say, just another lowlife down on his luck, something to do with bank troubles, went on about his wife and kids. I only met him once.”

“You say you got to know George North. How come? Did you deliver more money?”

“No sir. Hey! I hope I get protection for this, can't risk big Barclay finding out I've been telling you guys this stuff.”

“Don't worry, son, we'll protect you. Now, you were saying about George North…”

Harvey kept calm, hoping for a major breakthrough from the gullible man. Maybe this guy could help bring the crime to a swift conclusion and lead them to Lucy Mears.

“Yeah. Well, Alf, that's my ex-con buddy, he got me a job flying a private plane for some rich person. I had to pick up George North from airports, different ones each time, and fly him on to an isolated airfield where he was picked up by car. I had to wait for instructions to fly him back. Sometimes, it was days later.”

“Oh yes, I see from the files here you were a pilot.”

“Yeah, damned fine one too. Got caught pinching a few bottles of booze from the airline… everyone did it… I got jailed.”

Harvey didn't expand on this. He knew the accused had been jailed for being drunk on the job and that drugs were found in his flight bag.

“Les, you've no idea how much nearer we are to finding that kid thanks to you. Tell me, where exactly did you fly George North to?”

Les, fired now with praise and enjoying being the centre of attention, told Harvey all he could recall about his flying assignments: the location and the airfields where he landed and took off from.

“Man, you should have seen the plane, pure luxury, a Gulfstream G150, great safety record…”

He continued to recite the dimensions, fuel consumption data, relating every small detail of the plane, his great love for flying clearly in evidence.

“Les, I think we could cut a deal here. I'll call the mayor and tell him what an ace guy you are. There's something we'd like you to do…”

Harvey briefed the buoyant Les as to what he was to do with regards to help locate the abductors of young Lucy.

“Top secret stuff, Les. Just between us, and think of the reward and your future life! Keep this number handy for anything you hear. I'm sure, like the rest of us, you want this poor kid found and returned to her rich mom. Hey, before you go, here's a ticket for a parking violation, not a real one, you understand. It's in case your buddies want to know why you were here in the precinct.”

Les Soubry left the precinct dreaming of wealth and travel.
Might get me my own plane if the rich mom is grateful enough.