Episode 8 - Out and About

"What are you going to do with your car, Cleo?" Robert fussed, as he always did when he couldn't think what to do for the best. "Do you want me to take you to the airport?"

"No thanks," said Cleo.

“How are you going to get there?” said Robert.

“I think Gary is organizing a driver.”

“Won’t you be cutting it fine, Cleo? Why don’t you collect the tickets at the airport?”

“I need a photo of Hatherton, Robert, and other printed information.”

“He could mail you all that.”

“Gary can’t mail me printed documents and I think he wants to repeat his instructions, too, Robert. Why don’t you phone him and ask?”

“No time, Cleo. I’ll just have to trust him.”

“He is definitely not going with me, Robert, if that’s what’s worrying you. More coffee?”

Saturday breakfast was always early because Robert opened his shop earlier, so it was always a bit of a scramble. This morning, you could have cut the atmosphere with a knife.

"I wonder if they have Bagels in Johannesburg," Cleo pondered.

"That's going to be the least of your worries," said Robert in a hurt voice. "What's going to happen to you, going off on a wild goose chase?"

"I rather hope it will be a wild goose chase," said Cleo. "I have no intention of doing anything beyond what Gary tells me to do."

"Well, stick to that, Cleo. There are people who need you here."

***

Cleo was moved by Robert's concern for her safety. She did not reveal that she had received a mail from the F.B.I. telling her that there had been a grave identification error on another topic. The dead man identified as her husband Jay Salerno after that cell brawl was in fact his cell mate, a guy named Joe Samson, dressed in Salerno's prison garb that was distinguishable only because there was an indelible name on the undergarments. The jacket only had the initials J.S. on it because it was not laundered. The dead guy was of similar height and build, and Jay Salerno had planned his escape to the last detail with him. Joe Samson had had a heart complaint and did not expect to live much longer. The prisoner assumed to be Joe Samson from the initials on his jacket had finished his jail sentence and left the prison for an unknown destination. His family, who had come to collect him, found him gone and raised the alarm.

After hours of panic and a thorough search of the prison, which could not lead to Samson being found alive, but to the knowledge that Salerno, now alias Samson, had gone, a bright young guard had the idea of letting them identify the corpse in Jay Salerno’s prison garb. Samson’s identity was duly confirmed by his family and a heart attack was taken as and proved later to be the cause of death. Salerno’s documents were found box along with photos and other possessions in a box under Joe Samson’s bed .

The F.B.I. was now looking for the real Jay Salerno, but due to the long delay in publicizing the false identity, presumably so as no one had wanted to admit to negligence, there was a chance that he had already left the country.

***

Putting her gravest fears on the back burner, Cleo set off for the Wellness Centre in her car and tried to decide if Jay could find out where she was. Would he go to Gloria and force her to tell him? Surely not. He could be traced there immediately. Too dangerous. But if he had left the U.S.A. and not headed for Mexico or got on a plane in Mexico, he could now be somewhere in the U.K. and it was only a matter of time before he caught up with her or her mother.

***

Cleo was meeting Gary at Police Headquarters after her visit to the Wellness Centre. Something must happen beyond parking a patrol car in front of her cottage. What kind of security did Gloria have?

Not surprisingly, Cleo's investigations at the Wellness Centre were off the boil.  Pamela Norton was waiting for her at the reception desk.

"Ah, here comes our private investigator," she called, as Cleo negotiated the revolving door with her sports bag, which was really Robert's and as long as the tennis racket it normally transported.

"Don't talk to me about investigations, Miss Norton. I don't know why people get married in the first place if they intend to pursue lives of singles!"

"Aren't you into crime, then?"

"No. That business with Laura Finch's chorus women put me off for good. That wasn’t crime in the true sense, but driving your chorus director to drink is near enough for me. If she had been in control of her senses, she would not have arranged to meet that mad Crighton fellow, for instance."

"You must tell me about it," said Miss Norton, warming to Cleo's tale.

"Gladly, but most of it will bore you to tears."

"Crime is never boring, Miss Hartley," said Miss Norton. This double entendre did not escape Cleo.

"Maybe not, but I'm not here for the crime," she replied using Miss Norton's rhetoric.

"Stay for a coffee after you've finished exercising."

Miss Norton wanted to steer away from muddy waters, thought Cleo.

"I'd like that," said Cleo. "Better get the exercising over with now."

"Don't push yourself too hard," was Miss Norton's parting shot.

"She won't last long," she told Sheila, a receptionist who saw Pamela Norton as a role model and seemed to hang onto her every word. "Get Henry to put some pressure on her! We don't want her prowling round these premises."

"Good idea, Miss Norton. She might be harmless, but on the other hand she might not be."

Pamela Norton wondered if Sheila had suspicions about the centre. A clever girl finds things out very quickly. How much did she know about the Norton family? Was anything going on that she did not know about?

"What do you mean by that, Sheila?"

"Nothing in particular. Just speculating."

"Well, get Henry here and stop speculating," Miss Norton told her in a sharp tone of voice. "There's nothing going on here that isn't squeaky clean."

Sheila hoped she hadn't offended her role model. There had been rumours, after all, and Miss Norton's brothers were known to be gangsters.

Pamela Norton liked to give the impression that she was disgusted with her brothers' activities and was having nothing more to do with them, though in fact they had financed the Wellness Centre, having uses for it that had nothing to do with the wellness of customers and everything to do with the health of their bank balances.

Pamela Norton would not squeak on her brothers if they were to find a more lucrative use for the centre than styling witless women’s overfed bodies. Pam Norton would make sure that any employee who had the slightest suspicion that something apart from keep-fit and beauty went on would not last long at the centre.

Cleo went through the motions of getting fit, with Henry cajoling and bullying her in turns.

"Don't you have anything better to do, Mr Henry?" Cleo groaned. "I'd like to take my time over all this moving around.”

"Another ten minutes and you're finished for the day."

Cleo was inclined to take that literally.

"Would you like a manicure," he offered. "Nails to match your mood?"

"No thanks," said Cleo. "I'd really rather not."

"Well, don't say I didn't offer," Henry replied.

"Thanks for asking," said Cleo. "Can I get off this stepper now?"

"Two more minutes on that big clock over there," he said, pointing to a huge timepiece nailed to the wall where it was impossible to miss.

Cleo watched the second finger moving round second for second, peddling to match its rhythm and counting backwards from 120. She dismounted the walking contraption the moment the second finger had shunted itself around the clock face twice. After a quick shower, she dressed and made her way to Pamela's Office, which was signposted with red arrows, presumably to stop people wandering off in other directions.

Pamela Norton met her at the door. She was carrying her briefcase.

"I'm really sorry, Miss Hartley, but I got a phone call and have to leave urgently. Next Saturday OK?"

"Sure."

Under the circumstances it was a relief that Miss Norton suddenly had no time for her. Cleo drove thoughtfully back into Upper Grumpsfield then turned off at the roundabout to drive down Thumpton Hill to Middlethumpton. She had nothing to report to Gary Hurley except the uneasy feeling she had had in the presence of Pamela Norton. She had no genial intuitions, not even a hunch as to what might be going on there. She had not been able to mention Brent Burton, which was disappointing. She was sure that Pamela Norton knew exactly what she was up to. Dorothy’s cleaning stint the previous day had also been uninformative, except that she had said how awful the job was and how few women had bothered to exercise while she was there.

“I expect they were exhausted after their visit to the swinger club the day before,” Cleo had commented.

“I can’t understand why they don’t let men in when it’s a gym,” Dorothy had said.

 “It’s purpose-built for women,” Cleo had explained. “The Norton Brothers run two men’s sport clubs in Middlethumpton. I expect they wanted to do their sister a favour without losing their own trade.”

***

Gary approved of Cleo meeting Miss Norton the following Saturday.

"Not going there would definitely arouse suspicion, though with any luck, we'll have cleared up Burton's murder by then."

"You're right, Gary, except that another round of those physical jerks is not something I'm looking forward to.”

Cleo rubbed the calves of her legs, which were already feeling the strain of 20 minutes on the stepper.

“I agree. I can think of better ways of getting exercise,” he said.

**“

“Don’t distract me, Gary. “I have something urgent to tell you, but can we have something to eat first? I’ve no idea what they offer on the plane."

"I booked a table at Romano’s Are you sure you weren't followed here?"

"No. Miss Norton turned off in the direction of Lower Grumpsfield. I caught a glimpse of her car as I left the centre after cancelling our meeting. I came via Thumpton Hill and there was no vehicle behind me the whole way here. If there had been I'd have gone home and phoned you."

"OK. So what's the urgent news, Cleo?"

"The guy I am still married to, who was presumed dead after a prison brawl, managed to swap identities with his cell-mate and is now somewhere out there having been released as the guy named Joe Samson."

"So you aren't divorced from him after all, are you, Cleo?"

"No. It never came to that because news of his death -that turned out to be faked - put an end to divorce proceedings. I even have documents confirming his death."

"So you are not a widow, Cleo. How could such a case of mistaken identity happen in an American prison."

"Apparently the guy who bit the dust, a Mr Joe Samson, was due for release next morning. The brawl reported to have killed Jay was staged. Joe Samson's heart attack was not."

“He must have been able to exchange clothes with the dead guy,” said Gary.

“I wondered about that,” said Cleo. “Maybe one of the prison warders was helpful.”

"So the guy calling himself Samson is in fact…"

"Jay Salerno…"

"…and could be tracking you."

"Yes. I'm also worried about Gloria. What if Jay went to her apartment in Chicago and used force to get her to reveal my whereabouts?"

"I need her exact address – unless the US authorities have done something to protect her."

“She would have told me.”

Gary pushed a notepad and pen across his desk and Cleo wrote down the details. Gary found the Chicago Police Division website on the internet and phoned the emergency number given there, figuring that it would be faster to go directly to their department. A friendly telephonist took down the details and assured Gary that no time would be wasted. A patrol car could go there immediately, but she needed his phone number so that she could check first that it wasn't a phony call. She would call back immediately, which she did. The patrol car was now on its way.

“Let’s go to Romano’s for an hour or two. I’m entitled to a break, and you look as if you need a little TLC after those physical jerks, Cleo.”

“I do, but S.A. is calling.” said Cleo.

“If you are still married, you can’t marry Robert, can you? Isn’t now the time to get out of that mess altogether?”

“I wish I could.”

“Then do it.”

“I promised.”

“You don’t love the guy.”

“I do, in a way.”

“But not like you love me, Cleo.”

By now they were in Romano’s guestroom. A refreshing hot shower and an hour’s love-making work wonders.

“It might not be like this if I were free,” said Cleo.

“Don’t talk rot, Cleo.”

“Give me time, Gary.”

“We aren’t getting any younger. I want us to have children, Cleo.”

“I want that, too. We aren’t preventing them happening either, are we?”

“Should we?”

“No.”

“We’ll get Romano to bring us some lunch to HQ. We should get back there now,” said Gary.

“OK.”

"After ordering their favourite Tortellini al forno, they hurried back to HQ.

"Si si si, subito, presto!" Romano had said. He was used to Gary Hurley's orders. In fact, his little business thrived on Police HQ trade.

"Thanks, Romano. You're an angelo!

Cleo smiled at Gary's effusive prose.

"So there is an angel in your life, after all," she commented, on the way back to HQ.

"The question is whether there's one in yours, Cleo. Preferably one qualified as guardian. I can't think of a reason your gangster of a husband would want to find you, but you probably can.”

“He might want me to hide him, but I won’t. Gloria testified against him in court. She has good reason to be scared.”

“Is the guy out for some kind of revenge for something he thinks you’ve done?”

“I can’t think of anything. He brought on his latest prison sentence entirely without my aid. I wasn’t even in the country.”

“Why was he imprisoned, Cleo?"

"Brain deterioration of a punch-happy thug, I should think. He kept a low profile for a while and he really was a nice guy when he was sober, but his character changed thanks to his ever-increasing alcohol consumption. I often thought I’d driven him to drink, but I think I was just looking for an excuse. He abused women apart from me, picked fights at pubs, became notorious for his aggressive behaviour and blackmailed one or two politicians who had hired hookers he knew.

According to Gloria he had attacked a man the night he was arrested, but had been provoked, apparently, so Gloria was on the way to forgiving him. His criminal record ensured that he was put behind bars.

Jay trained as a sports teacher, but got in with a rough crowd at a boxing venue downtown. He was always a show-off – proud of his lithe body even when his looks were deteriorating thank to the drink . Then he started using his boxing know-how to beat me up. I ended up in hospital and that was the end of the line for me. But you have to remember that Gloria was on his side. She thinks a rotten marriage is better than none."

***

“Just one question, Cleo,” said Gary. “How come that a woman with your intelligence put up with the guy?”

“I’ve asked myself that many times. Loneliness? Physical needs? Biological instinct? I just hope this new exploit will have convinced Gloria that he’s a bastard!”

“We'll find out exactly why he was in jail. Chicago police will let me have any information I ask for. You and Gloria may need protection."

"Thanks, Gary. I hope it doesn't come to that. I never want to set eyes on him again."

"I hope you don't have to."

"Let's hope that food comes soon. I need to get to the airport."

***

“I would have told you before if you hadn’t been so troubled about your ex. S.A. is off.”

“What?”

“The trip’s cancelled."

"Would I only have discovered that change of plans at the airport?"

“Of course not. I called you but your phone wasn't answering."

"Sorry. Switched off at the Wellness Centre. So you don't want me to chase up the Hatherton guy?"

"Hatherton was spotted at a gaming club in Birmingham last night. I didn't find out till this morning. We'd distributed his photo over the police intranet and a clever young detective trying to track down juveniles using the club spotted him and raised the alarm.”

“How did he recognize him?”

“A photo online and a cop with a photographic memory.”

“You could use a cop like that here, Gary.”

“I’m working on it. Hatherton is now in custody for questioning, but I don't think he can be mixed up in Burton's murder."

"How come?"

"I’m sure his alibi is watertight. Diamond traders aren't ordinary criminals, and some of them are not criminals at all. Getting you to go to S.A. was clutching at a straw."

"Was Hatherton searched?"

"Yes. Clean as a whistle."

"I can't say I'm sorry I'm spared a wild goose chase. I'll just phone Robert."

"Are you going to tell him about Joe Samson alias your husband? You are still married to him, Cleo."

"But at least I'm not a bigamist. We both would have been if our wedding had gone ahead as planned,” said Cleo. “I can hear your friend Romano singing his way down the corridor."

"Bella figlia dell'amore…" Romano sang full-throatedly. He had played the Duke of Mantua in an amateur production of Rigoletto and rather fancied his singing prowess. The Italian tenor swept into Gary’s office and set out the meal he had supplied, including tablecloth, cutlery, napkins, glasses and a bottle of valpolicella. "Buon appetito!" he wished them with a bow that would have done any operatic Duke proud.

"Thanks, Romano," said Gary, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket.

"Grazie! Molte grazie!" said Romano, pocketing the bank notes. No sign of any change, however.

"Thirty pounds, Gary? You gave him a fat tip," remarked Cleo. "Let me pay half."

"I won't hear of it," said Gary. "It'll go on my expenses sheet."

"If you insist," said Cleo, tucking into the piping hot tortellini. "But I won't have any wine. I'm driving".

"Take the bottle with you. I have a cupboard full," said Gary, grinning. "I don't drink on duty. I save the wine for the Christmas party. My contribution."

Not very generous, considering his expenses had paid for it, thought Cleo.

"You'll be glad of that wine when you break the news of Samson's escape."

"Meaning Salerno. He only borrowed Samson's identity."

"Whatever! Escaped convicts are all the same in the dark. Keep your eyes skinned. You never know."

"And Hatherton?"

"It would be nice to get him for something."

"I wonder when he was last in Jo'burg," Cleo speculated.

"Two weeks ago. According to him, he visited friends and only came back a couple of days ago. The airport colleagues are checking on that. Hatherton might not be a killer, but he could have contact to people who are. I don't want you connected with him in any way. We've got enough on our plate without having you followed by gangsters. It was one of my less astute plans."

“Quite a confession, Sweetheart.”

“I wouldn’t talk like that with anyone else.”

"You should. It suits you," said Cleo.

“No one would take me seriously if I owned up to weaknesses.”

“They would and they’d love you for it.”

“I’ll think about it.”

"I’d better go home now."

“You thanked me when I should be thanking you, Cleo. When can we meet again?”

“Soon, Gary. I need you.”

“You can’t go home until we've checked your cottage and office premises, so you have an hour or two to go shopping or…."

Gary made some phone calls. Romano’s apartment was not far away, but neither was Gary’s flat. They chose the latter and went there in separate cars so that Cleo could drive home without going through the centre of Middlethumpton.

“I don’t usually consort with married women,” said Gary.

“Make an exception then,” said Cleo. “I’d sure like to know what consorting is.”

So he did.