Chapter Twenty-Nine
Magee drummed his fingers on the hallway table as he waited for someone to answer the telephone at the other end. Finally, a voice came on.
‘Nick? Yes, it’s Magee. Have you been watching the news on television this morning?’
‘Erm, no, why?’
‘Another murder, I’m afraid.’
‘Who?’
‘Ronnie Nelson. Lived over in Preston Park Avenue.’
‘Shit!’
‘A friend, I take it?’
‘Yeah, Magee, he was a good friend.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Magee wanted to say I told you so, but couldn’t bring himself to add to Nick Price’s misery. ‘I assume he’s in the photograph.’
‘Yeah, he’s the one on the far right hand side, standing up.’
‘Does this news make anything clearer? We’re down to five men, including yourself that is. Does it narrow your suspicions?’
‘No, sorry Magee, it makes no difference. I can’t believe any of the others would harm any of the others. It doesn’t make sense. We were all mates, all in it together.’
‘And the remaining unidentified persons? Other than yourself, John Mansell and Sean Fitzpatrick, are you going to tell me who the other two mystery men are?’
‘No, Magee, sorry. No deal. Not yet anyway.’
‘Well, you know where I am if you change your mind. Bye for now.’
Magee put the phone down thoughtfully and went into the kitchen to make a strong cup of tea. He sat quietly, reflecting on the inescapable fact that the killer might want him back on the case. He took the photo out from his briefcase and mentally ticked off which ones were dead. Conners, Harwood, Harrison, Gibson and now Nelson.
‘Son of a bitch!’ he muttered as the blindingly obvious struck him. The killer had struck them down in order, as they were pictured in the photograph. Top row first, from the left. Just a silly game, he supposed. But why was the murderer behaving like this? Was the whole thing literally a game? Was it the murderer’s way of letting the remaining men know who was going to be next? If so, it seemed such a childish thing to do.
‘So, who’s next then?’ Magee posed the question to the photo. ‘Do you start the bottom line from the left or the right?’
Magee took a sip of tea, mulling the question over in his mind. Left or right? Left or right? How to decide? Assuming the killer started from the left, as he had done in the line above, then the next two victims would be the two mystery men. After that came Sean Fitzpatrick, then John Mansell. Then came the girl, Nick’s wife Mal, who was dead already. Last on the list was Nick Price himself. He focused on the mystery men. Who were those two? And why would Nick Price fear them so much?
Magee needed inspiration. He rubbed a hand right over his head and looked closer at the faces. There was something about them that seemed vaguely familiar. If only he could age their looks by eighteen years or so, fatten out the faces, add the odd touch of grey hair and make their eyes a bit baggier perhaps. Yes! It was those eyes! There was something about the eyes of the larger man that caught his attention. They reflected an arrogant, condescending, almost superior, attitude. What would a man like that have done when he returned home a millionaire? What would have suited the character of such an arrogant young man? Business? The City? Power?
Magee closed his eyes in thought. Yes, power. That would be his game, wouldn't it? The public eye, devotion of his life to the public good, striving constantly for more and more power to dominate others. Politics; that would fit. This mystery man would be suited to politics.
‘Oh, dear god! Jenny! Quick, come and have a look at this.’
Jenny appeared at the kitchen door and asked. ‘What on earth is it, Jack?’
‘This man,’ Magee said pointing to the photo. ‘He must have been about twenty-one when this was taken. Imagine him now, some eighteen years older, running to fat, a greyer complexion, hair thinner. Politics. A well known face on the television these days. Who do you think it is?’
‘Um, well, yes, he does look familiar doesn't he? Isn’t it what’s-his-name, the sly one that gives me the shivers?’
Magee rushed for his Daily Telegraph and thumbed through the pages. ‘Yes! Oh, yes indeed!’ Magee said as he tapped a particular photo in triumph. ‘There, look at that!’
‘Good Lord. You know, I think you're right. Yes, it's him isn't it, Geoffrey Rees Smith, the Home Secretary?’
‘And who was Geoffrey Rees Smith's best school friend? The one that fell out with him? The one who has hated him throughout his political life?’
‘Oh, yes! What's his name, that bolshy militant socialist MP I can't stand. McAlister!’ Jenny replied.
‘Desmond McAlister. I’ve found my mystery men, “Des” and “Jeff”. Gibson must have misspelled the name.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Nothing. Just thinking aloud,’ Magee muttered. ‘Well, well, well. That's why Rees Smith wanted to be kept informed right from the beginning. He knew what was going on even then.’
‘Was that it, Jack?’
‘Hmm? Yes, sorry. Thanks.’ His mind was working overtime. He wanted to shout for joy. He had just made a major breakthrough. He could now understand Nick Price’s reluctance to name the remaining victims. More importantly, though, he could now lay the blame for the disastrous episode with Somchai Polgeowit on the Home Secretary. He sat in quiet contemplation, mulling over the entire case and his predicament.
It was half an hour before his wife re-entered the kitchen. ‘You look lost in thought, Jack. How about a cup of tea?’
‘Please.’ He studied the back of his hand for a moment. ‘You know something, Jenny? This suspension, it stinks. I’m not going to take it lying down. It’s time to get even.’
‘Good for you,’ Jenny replied. ‘How?’
‘Never mind how. Dirty is all I’ll say. I’m going to show the Home bloody Secretary exactly what I’m made of.’
‘That’s what I like to hear. Be positive.’
‘Right then, Jenny, I must work. You're sworn to secrecy by the Official Secrets Act by the way.’
‘Oh dear! I didn't know I'd signed it.’
‘You haven't, I'm just warning you not to gossip. There will be trouble if you mention this to anyone. You could bring the government down with that tongue of yours, so please, not a word to anyone.’
Jenny Magee’s face turned bright red. ‘It’s not me that gossips in this house!’ she snapped. ‘You’ll be discussing this with all and sundry within the hour, as usual, I bet!’
But Magee was deaf to the accusation. ‘Now then,’ he muttered, ‘let’s start by phoning the BBC.’