Scorpio's Lot (49 page)

‘Ah policeman, can I help you?’
she asked in her broad English, wearing a grin that was reminiscent of a
Cheshire cat.

‘Certainly, we’re here to have a
word with Hassan if he’s home,’ Carpenter said.

‘Yes, he is home. Please come in.
I hope my boy is not in trouble.’

‘No, we need to speak to him
regarding the whereabouts of a certain person,’ explained the sergeant.

They were led into a large room,
occupied by at least twenty people. Amidst vibrant noise and jubilant
celebrations, two women rushed over to force food upon them.

‘No, thank you, were on duty,’
said Carpenter, whose response drew little or no reaction.

‘To refuse is to insult,’ Hassan
said from behind Carpenter. ‘Please eat and then we’ll talk outside where it’s
quiet.’

‘What do you call this food?’
Carpenter picked up what appeared to be a green saveloy.

‘It’s called
dolma,
which
is made from grape leaves stuffed with cooked rice, lamb and onion, and
marinated in olive oil and lemon,’ offered Hassan.

‘Sounds delicious.’

‘The dish is very popular in the
Mediterranean region. This particular recipe has been handed down from my
mother’s side of the family for many generations.’ Hassan was pleased to see
the two officers were now helping themselves to a second serve.

‘Very nice,’ complimented
Carpenter.

‘Help yourself to some Turkish
coffee and water on the table and we’ll take our drinks outside and talk.’

After retreating to an outside
gazebo, it was Hassan who directed the first question. ‘So what’s this all
about, officers?’

‘We’ve just paid Broadbent’s a
visit and Ferret hasn’t fronted at work. He failed to report in ill and there’s
no sign of him at home. Would you happen to know his whereabouts?’ asked Doyle.

‘Not at this very moment. I last
saw him at home around nine last night.’

‘That coincides with what his
neighbour told us. She claimed Ferret went out about ten o’clock and hasn’t
returned since. Does that strike you as being somewhat odd or even out of
character?’

‘Not really. Ferret can often be
out all night. My guess is he drank too much and has crashed the night
somewhere. He’s probably got a hangover today and has decided to sleep it off.
One thing seems strange, though. He usually does his serious drinking at the
weekend and not when he’s working the following day.’

‘Any idea where this somewhere
might be?’

‘No idea. He didn’t mention last
night about going out later. So why all this sudden concern for Ferret?’

‘For starters, we know he’s in deep
with this drug organisation,’ Doyle said. ‘We’re also aware of his contact in
Charlie and the demands the syndicate place upon him.’

‘Yes, I’m aware that your
Detective Forbes gave him a grilling at the station. We do talk to each other
about these matters you know.’

‘Your reasoning may well be
correct about his drinking bout, but there’s a degree of concern within our
ranks that Ferret has got himself into a corner. To what extent is anyone’s
guess.’

‘Until recently the syndicate
volunteered little information about their operation,’ Hassan said, ‘only ever
giving instructions regarding our clientele base and the expected weekly
returns. Charlie would only discuss business with Ferret and never with me for
some unknown reason. But more recently this same drug dealer advised Ferret
they intend downscaling their southern operation and there was something about
a big dude called the Keeper visiting Pedley during the carnival celebrations.
Apparently this one’s the head of the whole syndicate who lives in the city.’

‘We’ve been told of his intended
visit,’ said Doyle.

‘What scares me,’ Hassan said, ‘is
that we’ve been told about important matters that are not our concern. I would
prefer not to know. If something was to go wrong or there was a leak, they
couldn’t point the finger at us.’

‘What can you tell us about
Broadbent’s?’ asked Carpenter.

‘Not sure what to make of that
place. I mean, they seem to run a legitimate business and yet something doesn’t
seem right.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Charlie seems to come and go at
will, although he generally calls when Ferret’s working back at night.’

‘Go on,’ Doyle encouraged.

‘I’ve sometimes hung around
waiting for him to finish and seen Charlie suddenly arrive and call for Ferret
outside. Neville Bradbury, who’s the manager there, has seen Charlie interrupt
Ferret’s duties on more than one occasion, but he chooses to ignore their
little get-togethers. I mean, most bosses wouldn’t allow that sort of
behaviour.

‘You would think not,’ Doyle
said.

‘Sometimes I get the impression
that Charlie and Neville know each other, but it could just be my imagination.’

‘Interesting observation,’
responded Doyle. ‘Tell me, Hassan, would you have any idea where Ferret may be?’

‘I can think of only three
places, so give me a moment and I’ll phone them while you’re here.’

When Hassan retreated to the
house to use the landline, Doyle and Carpenter discussed any further possible
lines of questioning. Was Hassan being truthful or was there a possibility he
could be withholding a vital piece of evidence? At what level was his true
knowledge of the syndicate? With Ferret’s potential absence, would Hassan
resume his role?

Returning with a disturbed frown,
Hassan said, ‘Nothing. All three places have not seen him. Now I’m starting to
worry.’

‘Who else do you know of in this
syndicate operation?’ prompted Carpenter.

‘Charlie’s the only person I’ve
seen, but there’s been talk of some other men called Mick, Sol and someone
called the Piedpiper.

‘Could you identify the one
called Charlie?’ Carpenter asked.

‘That’s difficult because it’s
always been nighttime and the guy wears a long coat and a hat pulled down over
his face.’

‘Have you been totally truthful
with us in everything that has been discussed today?’ asked Doyle.

‘In every respect, detective. I
have no reason to feed you bullshit. Ferret and I are there to support each
other. You have made it clear it’s not the guy on the street you’re chasing. It’s
the big players you’re after, which hopefully will lead to the arrests of those
responsible for all these recent murders. I would appreciate you keeping my
name out of this.’

‘Very well. Is there anything
else before we finish?’

‘There’s one piece of information
which might be of interest. I’m not sure if it’s important, but the Piedpiper
apparently has a lover living in Pedley.’

‘What? You’re pulling my leg,’
Doyle said with a smile.

‘I’m deadly serious. I overheard
Charlie telling Ferret about it some time ago.’

‘A bit like Adolf Hitler and Eva
Braun, you could say,’ interjected Carpenter.

‘That’s an interesting
comparison, given his lover may well be privy to some of the Piedpiper’s
operational secrets,’ stated Doyle.

~ * ~

In
room 23 at the Sunseeker Lodge, Paul Marsh stood in front of a full-length
mirror studying his own reflection. Dressed in light-blue denim and sporting a
three-quarter-length, black, Italian-leather Giantenni coat, the detective was
satisfied with the image he saw. Now in his thirty-fourth year, he still
projected fitness and a confidence level that hovered somewhere between
cockiness and empathy. A splash of his favourite cologne and now he was ready
to visit the captivating Hungarian beauty.

Tonight would be special, for
Piochsa had offered to cook dinner for two on the condition that a bottle of black
Sambuca would manifest itself. George, her flatmate, had been called away
interstate on business and the Esplanade was not in need of her services on
this particular evening. Yes, the night that lay ahead had all the ingredients
to be memorable.

At seven pm Paul Marsh arrived at
the Finch Street address with a bottle of Shiraz and the Sambuca in hand.

The front door was instantly
opened by a welcoming hostess. ‘Good evening, Paul. I see you’re determined to
tantalise my taste buds tonight.’

‘Of course.’

Piochsa led the detective through
to the lounge, an unusual but functional room. The decor reflected a vintage
art deco theme - its straight lines were complemented by a series of
wall-mounted coastal landscapes painted by local acclaimed artist Naomi
Ferguson. The traditional L-shaped living quarters boasted a small dining room,
superbly decorated for the anticipated cuisine. On a wooden, oval table a
central flower arrangement took pride of place. Two highly polished silver
candlestick holders and a collection of fine bone china sat proudly awaiting
what would undoubtedly have a cognoscente’s seal of approval. Tonight Piochsa
had spared no expense to impress her detective.

‘A candlelit dinner,’ Marsh said.
‘How romantic. Something smells good in the kitchen.’

‘Uh-uh, no peeping, Paul. Can’t
spoil the surprise.’

Pre-dinner conversation was
mainly small talk - the weather and forthcoming carnival festivities. Marsh
could sense that Piochsa’s contribution was too careful and meticulous. She
needed to relax and not worry too much about a constant flow of conversation.
He realised and appreciated that she was determined to host the perfect night.
It was time to intervene. A drink was in order to shake off the anxiety.

‘Where’s the bottle opener? I’ll
crack the red.’

‘Try the drawer behind you, Paul.’

Following the pouring and
customary uniting of crystal glasses, Marsh could see the drink was beginning
to settle her nerves. Piochsa looked sensational in a yellow silk blouse that
accentuated every curve and contour of her upper figure. Her free-flowing,
chalk-coloured cotton skirt had sufficient length to tantalise the imagination.
Piochsa was indeed the complete package. Without exception, she always dressed
with a feminine flair. She would be a prized catch for some lucky bugger, he
thought. Perhaps me, if I play my cards right.

‘A good drop, Piochsa,’
acknowledged Marsh, peering at the label of the 2002 vintage Shiraz.

Piochsa arose from her lounge
chair and indicated that dinner was ready. The detective took his seat at the
dining table. He had just completed lighting the two candles when a sizeable
plate of oysters Kilpatrick was placed before him. Swimming in a high tide of
Worcestershire sauce, he raised the side fork and immediately dropped the utensil
on the table.

‘Bloody hell, that’s cold!’

Piochsa let out a huge laugh at
his unexpected surprise. ‘It’s a family tradition back in Hungary. We always
chill our forks.’

After some light humour and the
odd embarrassing moment, conversation gathered momentum. Piochsa was finally at
ease. It was time to tantalise her guest with the secret main course. She
placed a large oval plate on the table. It contained a multitude of ingredients
that had Marsh somewhat puzzled. This was not a meal he could quickly identify.
Sensing his deliberation, she decided to confess and reveal all.

‘There is probably no dish so
readily identifiable with Hungary than goulash. What we have here is a
traditional beef goulash recipe.’

‘Wow... it looks sensational and
the smell is awesome. What’s in it?’ He inhaled the cooking fumes.