FEARLESS FINN'S MURDEROUS ADVENTURE (48 page)

The night we dispatched the Russians, I knew in my heart that they hadn’t kill Susie. I’d already worked out that they couldn’t have made the connection between Nakita Sylvina, me and Susie. I only showed my face around Galina Maksimovna’s apartment the first night in Moscow, when we went looking for Theatre Apartments. The thugs weren’t trying to kidnap Nakita Sylvina yet, and they can’t have spotted me. If they’d figured it out it would’ve been Anna they went after. So when I stabbed that first Russian it wasn’t for Susie. It was because of what they were about to do to the girls they’d just collected from the airport…and for all the other girls they’d forced into selling their bodies to strangers – to protect their loved ones at home in Russia. I've always hated pimps. Years ago I beat one to death in Dublin for slapping one of
his
girls. So I suppose there’s no point in losing any sleep over the
innocent
Russian pimps.

———

We landed at London’s Heathrow Airport, and Rory Mac Kyle and I made it through Customs and Immigration in no time. We’re getting a train to Buckinghamshire for the funeral, but Mac wants to take a taxi to Marylebone Station instead of getting the train into the city.

As I sat into the taxi it dawned on me that I don’t have a black tie to wear for the funeral. I asked the driver if he has any suggestions.

“No problem guv. There’s a Tie Rack shop at the station…cheap as chips they are too. Going to a funeral are we gents? Someone close, eh? Family is it?”

“Close, but not family,” I replied.

“Right guv….You might want to think about a wreath, eh? We’ll be passing a flower shop where I cut down to Marylebone. Do you want me to pull up there? Course, not so long ago I’d have recommended getting a bunch of white lilies off Buster Edwards, the Great Train Robber. But he’s none too well….And he’s gone an’ given up his pitch at Waterloo Station, ain’t he? Else I’d have run you over there, no charge. A gent is Buster…a real gent. Mark my words.”

“Please do stop driver, and thanks for the tip. You know Buster Edwards well then, I presume?”

“Not personal like, nah.”

“I see,” I replied, and switched off. He’s just another horse’s hoofer…a fantasist. I nudged Mac as we listened to the driver prattling on about how exciting it must be to rob a train, or better still…a bank.

We stopped at the flower shop and I bought a wreath of simple white flowers to take to the funeral. Mac said he wants to send flowers for Ingrid, but her body is still in the Canary Islands and Anna’s mother didn’t know when it will be back in Sweden.

I picked up a black tie at Marylebone Station before we boarded the train to Gerrards Cross. Susie’s funeral is in Chalfont Saint Peter Church of England in Chalfont Saint Peter, Buckinghamshire.

It’s perfect weather for a funeral – overcast skies and dark clouds threatening a downpour. Mac isn’t coming with me to the service and burial, but he’ll hire a car and drop me at the church. He’s going to drive to Jordans, a Quaker village about thirty kilometres from Chalfont Saint Peter. He says it’s very peaceful there, and with this news about Ingrid he can sure use some peace. Anyway, I don’t think Mac likes any church ceremonies – baptisms, communions, weddings or funerals. He claims that he doesn’t mind dispatching folks, but he isn’t keen on seeing them buried. The thing is that a funeral is the only church ceremony where Mac doesn’t look out of place. He’s far too big and fearsome-looking not to upset babies, communicants and brides.

———

A tall, round spire rises into the dreary sky above the castellated walls of Chalfont Saint Peter Church. As I approached the formidable granite entrance, a lone bell began to toll.

When the service was over I walked from the ivy-covered nave through an archway of ancient yew, wreath in hand. There’s a freshly dug burial plot in the church grounds, where they will soon lay my love to rest.

The name Butler is on the lichen-encrusted monument standing guard over the scarred black earth. I’ve just learnt the family name of a girl I’d loved…and thought I knew so well. I can’t believe it. God help me, I didn’t even know her maiden name; I never bothered to ask. Damn me! Susie died a Cooke, but she’ll spend eternity as a Butler. I wonder if she saw the humour of a Butler marrying a Cooke. Yes, I suppose she would’ve.

Three people partly responsible for Susie’s brutal death are standing around the grave: Fran Cooke, the erstwhile husband; Paul Wills, the traitor; and Finn Flynn, the deceiver. Paul Wills won’t look me in the eye, and when I try to catch his attention he finds something compellingly interesting in the empty hole in the ground. A gaunt Fran Cooke is staring dejectedly across the grave at me, but he seems puzzled. I suppose that’s no surprise, with all the electroconvulsive treatment he’s no doubt been given – to wipe the Clarrion Group information from his memory.

I re-introduced myself to Fran. He pretended to remember me from Hong Kong, but I’m not sure if he recognises me or if I’m just a faint blur in his memory. Evidently, he’s either forgotten, or never knew, that I was living with his wife…and that she was murdered in my home.

A French woman joined us by the grave and introduced herself as Marie-Thérèse Gullet, an ‘old friend of the late Susanne Butler.’ I corrected her, explaining that Fran Cooke was Susanne’s husband, and that for some years she’d been Mrs. Susanne Cooke.

“Merde
…shit! I am so sorry. Of course…you are Fran. I was Susie’s art teacher when you met. I hadn’t realised that you’d married. So sorry for your loss….Susie was such an incredible girl, such a brilliant human being. I’m sure you must miss her terribly.”

Trying to avoid any further embarrassment for the breathtaking Mademoiselle Marie-Thérèse Gullet, and the dumbstruck Fran Cooke, I jumped in with my two left feet.

“Mademoiselle Gullet, I recall Susie telling me all about you.”

“Call me Marie-Thérèse, please.”

“Susie told me about her school
experiences
…over late night glasses of wine in Hong Kong.” I hope I placed sufficient emphasis on the word ‘experiences’; I want to let her know that I know all about her lesbian love affair with the schoolgirl Susanne Butler. Why? I’ve no idea. Jealous of a former lover perhaps? Could be, I suppose.

A man with an air of authority and a distinguished shock of white hair approached the grave, accompanied by an older version of Susie. They were followed by four professional pallbearers carrying an oak coffin with brass handles to the bier.

As I laid my white wreath on the coffin I noticed the mound of earth taken from the ground to open the grave is covered in emerald green AstroTurf…fake grass…for feck’s sake. Susie would detest the whole thing.

Marie-Thérèse is squeezing my arm just below the elbow. “
Veuillez m’excuser, à des funèraliiles me font peur
…excuse me, funerals scare me,” she whispered.

“The only funeral that would make me nervous would be my own,” I whispered back, in an attempt to make light of her comment.

My remark’s had the desired effect. Marie-Thérèse relaxed her grip and her hand is resting where it had been squeezing. But when the ruddy-faced vicar mumbled ‘earth to earth, ashes to ashes’ the grip returned. I looked down at Mademoiselle Marie-Thérèse; the tears are rolling down her face and she’s making no attempt to wipe them away.

When I looked up I saw that my wreath has slipped off the coffin and fallen on to the earthen mound. The white flowers contrast starkly against the unnatural green of the imitation grass.

I shared a taxi with Mademoiselle Marie-Thérèse Gullet from Chalfont Saint Peter to Gerrards Cross. As we pulled in, I noticed Susie’s parents are temporarily re-united in grief. They’re standing at the front door of the Jolly Farmer Pub, greeting people arriving for the post-funeral refreshments.

“Rupert dear, this is Finn…Finn Flynn. He was so kind to our Susie after the incident with her silly husband. He offered her shelter in his home…which is where she met her untimely death,” said Susie’s mother.

Rupert offered me a limp hand, which I took gently in my rather larger paw. Then I assumed it’s my turn to be ever so English.

“Mister and Mrs. Butler, have you met Mademoiselle Marie-Thérèse Gullet?”

“Finn and Marie-Thérèse, do please call me Anne. I heard so much about you from Susanne…I feel I know you both already. Did you
come
together?” Anne Butler placed such emphasis on the word ‘come’ that I’m sure she knows precisely where myself and Marie-Thérèse used to fit into her dead daughter’s life – and she wants us to know she knows.

Mister Rupert Butler QC dismissed us both with all the derision it’s possible to convey in a single glance. This is probably an affectation he uses when cross-examining witnesses at the Old Bailey. I grinned at him; no, not a grin, more a smirk really. Marie-Thérèse fluttered her eyelashes in a disarmingly alluring fashion, considering she’s a dyed-in-the-wool lesbian…or so I’d been led to believe. Rupert suddenly found his highly polished shoes an irresistible attraction, and his reaction to Mademoiselle Marie-Thérèse was not missed by Anne Butler.

Paul Wills backed into me inside the pub, and when he realised his bad luck he launched into how he’s just leaving. He mentioned he was only home for his mother’s funeral yesterday, and that she died after a long illness. I thought his family lives in Wales, but apparently not.

“You have some explaining to do my friend. I can’t see how you’re going to talk your way out of this one. If it wasn’t for your delightful daughter you’d be dead already. On your way back to Hong Kong, you better think about what you’re going to say….And forget about your 14K pals, they’re about to be charged with murder,” I whispered in his ear.

No matter what he thinks up on his way back to Hong Kong, I already have a plan to repay Paul Wills for his treachery. Like all good plans, it will kill two birds with one stone, as the saying goes – a lot more than two birds, I hope.

I swapped telephone numbers and addresses with Marie-Thérèse, and I was heading out the door when Anne Butler cornered me. “Don’t tell me that you’re leaving already Finn. I had hoped to persuade you to come to the house. It’s so lonely there…without a real man about the place. Do say you’ll come with me.”

Being the perfect gentleman, I took her hand and raised it to my lips…as she slipped her personal card into my shirt pocket. Some mother, eh!

BUCKINGHAMSHIRE and LONDON, UK

Everything seems so
unreal…Mum’s dead, Susie Cooke’s dead…and I’m surprised I haven’t joined them yet. How did I get myself into this? It’s bad enough being into the 14K Triad up to my neck, and now I have a half-crazed Paddy after me.

Finn Flynn could be an IRA assassin for all I know. Brilliant you see, bloody brilliant! When Finn’s stockbroker was murdered just days after I told Finn about the Securities and Commodities investigations I had my suspicions. And Roger Wynne warned me to tread carefully where Finn Flynn is concerned.

I tell you, I’d swear on the chapel Bible that I wish I’d never started gambling. This sorry mess I find myself in started with the gambling. It was no problem you see, as long as the 14K Triad made money piggybacking on my share trades for George Han. But the 14K went berserk when Clarrion shares were suspended after Fran Cooke’s articles appeared in the
South China Morning Times
. The way they talked, you’d think I wrote the pieces exposing George Han and Clarrion myself.

I knew the 14K couldn’t find Fran Cooke – to make him pay for their losses – and I’d heard whispers that they were looking for Susie. I wanted to tell Finn I was worried that they would ask me about her, but he wasn’t around Hong Kong and no one had seen him in weeks.

The 14Ks grabbed me outside Exchange Square when I was going home from work. They drove me to a tea shop in Queen’s Road Central, and they were the angriest I’d ever seen them. They didn’t exactly beat me up, but it’s fair to say they roughed me up. They got in a few sharp jabs to my ribs as they threw me into the car.

“Paul, young man, we have been told that you are a friend of Fran Cooke’s wife, and that you can tell us where she lives. Is this correct?”

“Susie Cooke lives in the penthouse in Citizen Tower,” I blurted out before I realised what I was saying. Never for a moment did I imagine that they’d kill her!

Any hope I had that Finn Flynn wouldn’t find out it was me who told the 14Ks where Susie lived vanished this afternoon, when he looked at me across the grave. I’ve never been so scared in all my life.

I nearly pissed myself in the Jolly Farmer when Finn told me I have some explaining to do. He said if it wasn’t for my daughter I’d be dead already. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! What am I going to say when I see him in Hong Kong? All I can think of that might save me is my Mei-Xiu; he seemed genuinely taken with her on his Mud Olympics trip. Maybe he won’t leave Mei-Xiu without a father. I haven’t even seen Mei-Xiu lately; she’s in Singapore with her maternal grandfather, my boss.

Oh God! I’m scared shitless. I should never have gone to Susie’s funeral, but when I read the death notice in the
Buckinghamshire Examiner
I felt I had to go…what with being at Mum’s funeral the day before. Dad didn’t want to miss his favourite programme on TV that day, so he stayed at home, but all Mum’s brothers and sisters made the journey from Wales for her funeral. They’re all railway workers at Fishguard Harbour, so at least they didn’t have to buy their train tickets.