The Third Shadow

Nineteen

~~~~~

As he sipped at his pint, Marston would go on to inform me how Bracewell's mini chain of boutiques had been cleared for reopening within a month of the firearms being discovered.

"He was careful to keep the two things separate - you know, his legal enterprises and those a little more... shall we say, nefarious? Different bank accounts, everything."

Unlike the usual way with these things, the shops hadn't simply been some money-laundering facade. They'd been there first, the firearms a recent, additional sideline; it had only been going on for six months or so, authorities believed. Bracewell had got hooked up with some dodgy Albanian type through his coke dealer, supply line via Scandinavia and the port of Hull.

Marston shook his head sadly. "Stupid sod had it all, everything most blokes can only dream of. Successful business, flash car. Studio flat, trophy wife. He wanted more though, didn't he? Wanted the city. Wanted bloomin' Nottingham."

The scourge of ambition. He wasn't the first man to make his own downfall this way, I reflected, nor would be the last.

Apart from state confiscation of one of Bracewell's various bank accounts, there was little the authorities could do. As his wife, executive control of the boutique chain had passed to Olivia.

"Anyone go down for it?" I asked.

"Old schoolmate of his out in Mapperley. Had a spare set of keys for the lock up, let potential clients in to have a look at the wares."

"And the guy who helped run the shops?" I tried to remember the name: "Locke?"

"Danny Loacke you mean." Loacke, yes: the recipient of Bracewell's last known telephone call, if I remembered rightly. "He was as surprised as anyone else they reckon," continued Marston. "Like I said, Bracewell kept the two worlds separate. When the shops reopened Olivia kept the guy on as general manager. Always was the brains of the operation they say. Bracewell had the money and the front but Loacke it was who chose the clothes, the look of the shops."

It made sense: successful entrepreneurs are often flanked by some kind of technical expert hovering there just outside the spotlight.

"Doing better than ever so I've heard. Opened another boutique just last month, that big shopping centre up near Sheffield." There was a smirk between gulps of lager. "The notoriety hasn't hurt much I don't suppose."

"So Olivia's still in the studio flat?" I surmised out loud.

There was a nod. "And still driving round in her missing husband's BMW."

"Been keeping tabs on her then?'

He gave a casual shrug of the shoulders. "When I get the chance. You know - slow news day, might have a drive past, park up nearby for a while."

Thus far he'd been more than forthcoming, but I now sensed a certain reluctance. He knew something he wasn't prepared to share, a little journalistic gem he was keeping all to himself.

"And?" I prompted.

"And nothing." His red-rimmed, hard-living eyes avoided mine.

Something; oh yes, the guy had an interesting little snippet alright.

Perhaps it was time to up the stakes a touch.

"The interview with Olivia," I began, "after we worked out that Lee had come back that night. I can remember it clearly. If I was pushed, almost word for word maybe..."

Now his eyes were on me - widened, taking the bait. A second or two, then they narrowed a little again, smile lines snaking out from their corners.