Almanac Fiction: Swifty Taylor and the Dead Coach (Episode 10)

 

His headquarters were in an old building in Newport, just off Mason Street. There were no advertising hoardings or livery on the external walls. Big Jack Shepherd was not one to blow his own trumpet in that manner. In fact, one could saunter past and think, not unreasonably, that people might be sleeping rough just inside the door. I pushed open the said door and was confronted by a sleek, modern reception area.

A slim woman entered from a door behind the counter. She walked with the easy grace of a waiter chasing a ten-dollar tip. “Is Shep in?” I asked by way of introduction. “And you are…?” she inquired. “Swifty Taylor,” I answered impatiently. “I have urgent business with Jack, and it might just be a matter of life and death”. I added the last part for dramatic effect. But, not knowing Laura’s current state of mind, there might have been some truth in the words. The receptionist looked me up and down and decided that I was worth putting some faith in. Maybe my luck was changing. She was showing a modicum of concern, but not too much: “Jack has gone for his morning walk around the lake. You have just missed him”.

Until about thirty years ago, the Newport Lakes park was an abandoned quarry. It had been popular with those wanting to dispose of vehicles that were no longer worth the cost of their registration. It was rumoured that dozens of beat-up jalopies were pulled from the silty waters during the beautification process. There was no word of any boot having concealed a skeleton. Jack Shepherd’s office backed onto the lakes, and it seemed that most days, he took a morning constitutional in the park. I bid the desk clerk a good day, returned to the outside world, and set off along the closest path. The midday sun was just beginning to poke its nose through the sullen cumulus clouds. Winter had just commenced, and I was over it already. The park and paths were eerily quiet for a late morning. Though totally understandable, given this cold front had brought with it a strange sense of foreboding.

I was humming the words to the old Twilights tune “Needle In A Haystack”. Because I was starting to think that the song was exactly the situation confronting me as I trooped along the gravelled paths around the lakes. But just as I began to consider heading back to Shep’s office, a garbled murmuring wafted toward my ears. I slowed to a shuffle until I could make out the voices of a man and a woman. I kept walking until the path opened out into a rocky clearing some twenty metres or so above the water. On the edge of the outcrop stood Jack Shepherd. And at arm’s length from Jack stood Laura May, brandishing a knife that would have put Crocodile Dundee’s pocket knife to shame. I attempted to keep my thoughts as steady as I could, but it was proving difficult when my brain was bouncing like a beach ball in Bay 13.

 

 

Both Jack and Laura glanced in my direction. I suddenly felt like I had gate-crashed the world’s worst party. The murky water shimmered below, and the Reichenbach Falls vibes were strong. In an imploring tone, big Jack asked “Swifty, can you control your girlfriend?” Before I could speak, Laura responded testily: “I’m not his girlfriend!” At that moment, right there and then, she could have driven the blade through my heart, and I wouldn’t have cared. “She is out of control,” Jack continued, “It was all just an accident. Dean fell overboard. I didn’t kill him.” He was admitting to being there when her brother Dean died. Stunned, I merely let his words fall to the ground and be blown away in the prevailing westerly.

Laura had an anger in her eyes that I had seen only once or twice previously. On both occasions it was when I had returned home late after all-night benders. I was suddenly feeling as stiff as an egg-shell, and just as brittle. “Give me the knife, Laura, and we will let the authorities sort this out.” She harrumphed. “The cops had their chance. They knew this joker’s boat was moored nearby. It’s his turn to jump now.” But her resolve was weakening. She turned to me and handed over the knife. There was a cleansing feeling of relief all round. I knew that she possessed a good ear for music, but it was pleasing that she also listened to reason.

 

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