Sins of the Father Page 3

  “You fear reprisals?”

  “A bit of that,” he confessed. “And you’re a classy lady. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  “I was brought up in the backstreets of Cardiff,” I said. “In fact, I brought myself up. I can look after myself.”

  The jovial smirk returned to Stan’s face. He licked a morsel of chocolate from his lips then said, “Like in the song, ‘Where Do You Go To, My Lovely’.”

  “Sort of,” I said. Then I leaned towards him and whispered, “A name...”

  “Not sure I want to,” he frowned.

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  “Because he’s a violent bastard, a right sadist.”

  I nodded then explained, “Another thing about being brought up in the backstreets of Cardiff; it gives you a nose for danger, keeps you light on your toes.”

  Stan turned away from the sea and the beach. He narrowed his eyes and stared at me. He ignored the sweat, which trickled down his brow, glistened on his pot belly, and said, “Okay; Naz.”

  “Naz?”

  “Yeah. Short for Nazi. You’ll find him at the Taff Green warehouse. But don’t tell him Stanley sent you, okay.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, to his ice-cream van. “I got a nice little business going here; I don’t want the Nazi to upset it, okay.”

  “Mum’s the word,” I said, tapping an index finger against the side of my nose.

  We turned our backs on the beach, strolled along the promenade, towards Stan’s ice-cream van. As Stan climbed into the van, he glanced at me and said, “Sam?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, that’s my name.”

  “Sam and Stan,” he mused, caressing his double chin. “It sort of goes, don’t it.”

  “Sort of,” I said.

  Stan smiled again and I sensed that regardless of life’s woes, he’d always find time for humour. He sniffed and said, “Shit, you smell nice.” I laughed, and with a chuckle he added, “Well, you do.”

  Chapter Five

  That evening, I drove to the docks, to the Taff Green warehouse, but Naz wasn’t there. So, I phoned my friend Mac, an ‘odd-job’ man who’d turn his hand to just about anything, and arranged a meeting; we’d get together at 9 a.m., at the Museum of Welsh Life, by the Celtic Village.

  Situated in St Fagans, the Museum of Welsh Life was a delight. Spread over fifty acres, the open-air museum contained dozens of original buildings from various corners of Wales, all skilfully re-erected to demonstrate how our ancestors lived. In addition, traditional livestock roamed the grounds while craftsmen displayed centuries-old skills. St Fagans Castle – a sixteenth century mansion house – formal gardens and fishponds also attracted thousands of visitors each year.

  The Celtic Village, a collection of Iron Age roundhouses reconstructed from the remains of actual buildings, was situated to the north of the museum, near the tannery. And there I found Mac, his bald head glinting in the sunlight, his huge ginger moustache bristling, the upper half of his muscular body daubed in woad. In his left hand, he held a spear, which he tilted towards me.

  He said, “You laugh, Missy, and I’ll drop you in the lake.”

  I grinned then laughed, unable to contain myself. “You look very fetching, Mac.” I laughed again. “You planning on wearing that to the wedding?”

  Mac turned away then shook his head in mock indignation. “I was thinking of wearing my kilt, but now I’m not so sure.”

  “So what’s with the robes and make-up?” I asked, circling him, ignoring the hubbub of activity that emanated from the Celtic Village.

  “I strolled along to watch my lover at work, didn’t I,” Mac explained. “Then the director casts an eye over me and says I’d be great as an extra, just wandering around in the background, waving a spear.”

  “A whole new career beckons,” I said, realizing that a film crew had commandeered the Celtic Village, that they were shooting a movie.

  “I quit after today, I tell you,” Mac insisted, thumping the haft of his long spear on to the hard ground. “All you do is hang around.”

  “A bit like our game, on stakeouts.”

  “Aye,” he agreed. “Has all the fun of a blister on your bum.”

  The director was orchestrating the next scene, so the film set was a hive of activity for some, yet a place of inactivity for others. In a calm, assured voice, he instructed the actors and technicians, while a small knot of onlookers nudged each other and pointed at the famous faces, many of whom were stalwarts of modern television dramas.

  “So,” I said while gazing at the film crew, at the actors and technicians, at the incongruous blend of ancient and hi-tech modern, “which one is your lover?”

  “Over there.” With his spear, Mac pointed at an incredibly handsome man, a man blessed with jet-black hair and a set of brilliant white teeth. “He’s sort of a chieftain in this picture, a minor role to be sure, but an important one all the same.”

  “Is this a cinema release?” I asked while admiring the actor’s sensual, statuesque physique.

  “TV film. They’re recording it in Welsh and English, would you believe.”

  “Your lover speaks Welsh?” I asked.

  “He’s learned his lines, nothing beyond that. He’s from the States, but I reckon I told you that already.”

  “Handsome,” I said, noting that Mac’s lover was the centre of attention, eclipsing his fellow actors, including the star.

  “Aye,” Mac grinned, standing tall and proud, puffing out his chest. “He’s a helluva hunk. Gets lots of fan mail from the ladies, even though he’s gay.”

  “Is this film his big break?”

  “A stepping-stone. After this, he’s auditioning for the lead in a sci-fi series, The Guards of Magog. If he lands that part, he’ll become public property.”

  “How do you feel about that?” I asked.

  Mac grimaced. He thrust out his bottom lip then licked his huge ginger moustache. “I’m not thrilled, but it’s his career. He puts up with me and my shenanigans. Who am I to deny him his claim to fame?”

  Most of the actors were daubed in woad so the make-up lady scurried around them, adding fresh touches of blue dye, including a swirl over Mac’s lover’s hairless chest.

  While eyeing the make-up lady, Mac continued, “He’s a good actor; he’ll get the part, and I can live with that; I guess you’d call that love, eh, Missy?”

  “True devotion,” I said.

  “Aye,” Mac grinned again. “I think he’s the one.”

  Someone on the film set, maybe the assistant director, yelled ‘quiet, please!’, and the onlookers fell silent. Not wishing to evoke anyone’s wrath, we wandered away from the Celtic Village, south, past the tannery, towards a corn mill.

  As we walked along a tree-lined path, Mac asked, “So, you here to pick up filming tips for the wedding?”

  “Faye’s taking care of all that,” I explained; “she’s hired someone.” We paused to admire the corn mill, a splendid, whitewashed building. A museum piece now, a water-powered corn mill would have been a common sight for our Victorian ancestors, an essential landmark in the community landscape as the mill turned grain into flour for human consumption and animal feed.

  “I’m looking for an ex-con,” I said, “someone who still dabbles, Frankie Quinn.”

  Mac frowned. He shook his head. “The name doesn’t ring any bells.”

  “Gawain ‘Madman’ Morgan?”

  Mac nodded. “Aye. I’ve heard of him. He has a certain reputation amongst the criminal fraternity. A bit of a lad in his day, but retired now, so I believe.”

  “He’s my dad,” I said.

  Mac paused. He looked at me askance. “‘Madman’ Morgan?”

  “Yes. Gawain Morgan is my father.”

  While a handful of visitors wandered around the corn mill, I regaled Mac with details of my father and the fact that I was working for him.

  “Well, you certainly know how to pull a rabbit out of a hat,” Mac said, running a shovel of a han
d over his bald head.

  I shrugged. “Maybe that explains who I am and what I do; what do you think?”

  Mac examined the tip of his spear, which glinted in the morning sunlight. “Is the good Dr Storey aware of this fact?” he asked.

  “He is.”

  “Then maybe you should discuss it with him.”

  “He’s in Australia,” I explained, “attending a psychology conference.”

  Mac nodded. He said, “So Morgan’s your dad and client, and you’re looking for Frankie Quinn.”

  “That’s the size and shape of it. I have a lead, a bloke called Naz.”

  “The Nazi,” Mac scowled, knitting his eyebrows together, gripping his spear with violent intent.

  “Heard of him?” I asked.

  Although Mac adjusted his grip, he continued to hold the spear with aggressive intent. “Naz the Nazi, an unpleasant man, as his name suggests, a very unpleasant man, the sort of guy who’d like to reintroduce the gas chambers for everyone who isn’t white, male, able bodied and heterosexual.”

  “A right bastard then.”

  Despite himself, Mac grinned. “Missy, you have such an eloquent way with words.” He added, “You planning to meet Naz?”

  “I was thinking of it.”

  “Want me to tag along?”

  “Thanks,” I said, “but I can look after myself. Besides, if you wander through the streets of Cardiff looking like that you might instigate an uprising.”

  Mac ran an eye over his Iron Age attire. On most modern men, the daub and plaid clothing would have looked ridiculous, but I had to concede that the costume suited my friend. He said, “That’s the trouble with Britain – never had a revolution. Most civilised countries have had at least one, to break off the shackles of the past, to purge the class system from their system. Britain is still tied to the past; in reality, we haven’t moved on from the mud huts, from the Dark Ages.”

  “Speaking of which,” I said, “you’d better get back to Taffywood before your director starts calling. But when you’re through filming, put the word out will you that I’m looking for Frankie Quinn.”

  Mac nodded. “I’ll do that.” As he turned away, he glanced over his shoulder and said, “And Missy, if you do encounter Naz, you take care.”

  Chapter Six

  Cardiff Docks, or more precisely, the West Dock, opened on 9th October 1839. On that day, thousands of people lined the procession route from Cardiff Castle to the dock, including children, artisans and the nobility. In the 1850s, coal made the journey from the Rhondda Valleys to the dock and by the 1890s, Cardiff was Britain’s largest coal exporting port, distributing over ten million tons in the year before the First World War. The industrial boom attracted workers from Europe, the Middle East, the Far East, the Americas and Africa. In a far-sighted act of social development, the planners hoped that people from various social backgrounds would settle in the area. No chance. As the transport system developed and new suburbs spread, the middle and upper classes moved out, leaving the workers isolated in a community known as Tiger Bay.

  After the Second World War, industrial decline set in leading to redevelopment. Some of those redevelopments were short-sighted and ugly – get-rich-quick schemes for the developers – while others had a lasting, beneficial effect. Furthermore, many of the dockside warehouses fell into disrepair and were demolished while those in prime locations took on a new lease of life.

  With my sunglasses perched on my nose, shielding my eyes from the bright morning sunlight, I made my way to a redeveloped warehouse, known locally as Taff Green. The warehouse was situated beside the River Taff, near a patch of waste ground and a mass of riverside shrubs and trees.

  Inside the warehouse, a long, green building with a grey, corrugated iron roof, I discovered an assortment of sports and exercise equipment, some encased in packing crates, the rest on shelves or freestanding. I also spied two familiar faces, Harry ‘the Hat’ Pearson and Nudger Nicholls. Harry and Nudger had spent their lives on the dark side, so I sensed that there was something crooked about the warehouse, that the merchandise wasn’t legit. With that in mind, I stepped towards an office, a glass-panelled cubicle at the rear of the building.

  Inside the cubicle, I spied a busty brunette and a man in his early thirties. The man had dark, narrow eyes, nothing more than slits, a shaved head and a full, fleshy face with dark stubble on his chin. His arms were heavily tattooed with swastikas and military images, images that ran from his wrists to his neck. He wore a brown, short-sleeved shirt, a narrow white tie and black trousers. His shoes were chunky, with metal toecaps.

  “I’m looking for Naz,” I said while tapping on the office door.

  “Who are you?” the man asked.

  “Sam. I want to talk business, sensitive business; private.”

  He eyed me for twenty seconds then glanced at his female companion. “Okay, Cassandra,” he said, “go file your nails someplace else.”

  Cassandra slipped off her perch – she’d been sitting on the edge of a desk – gave me an unfriendly glare, then strolled into the warehouse, swinging her hips in provocative fashion. The man, presumably Naz, watched her go, offered a lecherous leer.

  At Naz’s invitation, I closed the door and entered the office. Instantly, two Rottweilers growled at me. The Rottweilers were chained to the wall, either side of the desk. Behind the desk, Naz had decorated the wall with posters: Hitler, in a familiar manic pose, Goring and Goebbels. I also noticed a poster depicting men and women in wheelchairs; the wheelchairs were rolling towards a gas chamber.

  “So,” Naz said, sitting behind his desk, placing his heavy boots on its deeply scarred surface, “you want to talk business.”

  I nodded. “I’m an enquiry agent. I’m looking for Frankie Quinn.”

  “Why come here?” Naz asked. He stared at me through narrow, hostile eyes; absentmindedly, he removed dirt from under his fingernails with a playing card.

  “A friend of a friend said you and Frankie are close.”

  “Your friend of a friend is wrong,” Naz said. He tossed the playing card, the seven of diamonds, on to his desk, then leaned back in his chair, resting his head against the wall. “I don’t know Frankie, got nothing to do with him.”

  Once again, I allowed my gaze to wander over the posters on the wall. Nearly a hundred years since Hitler came to power, nearly a century since the world tolerated, then opposed, his evil. Enough time to make a legend of the man, enough time for people to look away and ignore. History repeats. We forget that at our peril.

  While gazing at the posters, I asked, “Do you believe in that crap?”

  Naz leaned forward, a violent act, catapulted by the springs in his chair. While snarling and jabbing a finger at me, he said, “Hitler’s the man. He got it right; hit the nail on the head. It’s time we introduced his ideas.”

  “And murder the innocents.”

  “If a man can’t pull his weight, he’s got no business on this planet. Burn ‘em, I say!”

  “And you pull your weight,” I said.

  He waved an expansive hand towards the warehouse. “I run my business.”

  “Is it legit?”

  He offered me a twisted grin. “Why do you ask?”

  I shrugged, “I don’t know; maybe I’ll buy some equipment.”

  “You lift weights?” he asked, while eyeing my slender frame.

  “I run, occasionally.”

  “Shall I set the dogs on you,” he grinned, “see how fast you can run?”

  The threat, presumably made to many, acted as a cue and the dogs began to snarl. I sensed that a lot of snarling went on in this office, from man and beasts. However, Naz raised a hand to pacify the dogs and, while eyeing him, they fell silent.

  “My business is legit,” he insisted. “Wanna see my tax returns?”

  I offered a casual shrug of my right shoulder. “So you know a dodgy accountant.”

  “You trying to wind me up?” he snarled. See, I was right about th
e snarling; Samantha Smith, ace investigator, reading the crease lines on ugly faces a speciality.

  On the subject of wind-ups, I held my tongue. Instead, I said, “So you haven’t seen Frankie Quinn.”

  “Don’t know the guy,” Naz insisted, leaning back again, placing his boots on his desk.

  “I understand that Frankie was a big man in his day.”

  “He was small fry,” Naz scoffed, “still is.”

  “Thought you hadn’t heard of him,” I said, my tone innocent, my expression angelic; butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth.

  “I have heard of him,” Naz said, sighing, speaking slowly, “but I don’t know him, right.”

  “And he’s a nobody,” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  “And you’re a somebody.”

  “Yeah. I’m going places, me.”

  “This is Vincent Vanzetti’s patch,” I pointed out.

  “You know Vanzetti?”

  “Like I know my own father,” I said; a statement that was painfully true.

  “So you’re connected,” Naz shrugged, “hence the brass.”

  “In a manner of speaking, yeah.”

  Vincent Vanzetti, the local Godfather, was well known to me, though we were hardly bosom friends. However, it wouldn’t hurt to offer Naz the impression that Vanzetti and I were big buddies.

  “Vanzetti’s past it,” Naz scoffed.

  “You reckon?”

  “Vanzetti, Rudy Valentine, the Bishop brothers...has-beens.”

  “I’ll tell them you said that.”

  “You do,” Naz snarled. On reflection, the snarl served as Naz’s default expression. I could picture him in the morning, shaving his head, practicing his snarl in the mirror. “Those has-beens have ruled the roost for too long, stifled up-and-coming talent, like me. It’s time for a new generation to put the old farts in their graves.”

  “You plan to elbow Vanzetti et al aside?” I asked.

  “Who’s Et Al?” Naz scowled. “A Spaniard? Bastard Europeans. Bastard foreigners.”

  “Et al,” I explained, “it’s an abbreviation, meaning ‘and others’; originates from the Latin, et alii.”