The Girl Under the Tarpaulin (Part Two)
Is Libby quite as innocent as Sirius believes, having given her shelter for one night.
Part one below:
Part Two: Sarah Moskwitch
As Sirius exits the shower, drying himself, he hears a piano being played, rather expertly, he thinks, and assumes his guest has gone snooping around the house, finding the living room, and the piano set by the window.
“Feeling at home, obviously,” he says lightly, entering as he finishes tying the knot in his tie.
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t help myself. It’s a lovely home, and this piano, its beautiful,” she says rubbing her hands appreciatively over the dark polished woodwork.
“Well, you’re a very good pianist for a vagrant,” he says, “very accomplished.”
Libby turns to face him, sitting on the piano stool. “I learned as a child,” she replies, “I always loved playing.”
Sirius, his tie thrust under his throat, comes closer, and brings down the piano lid softly. “Unfortunately, I live in a semi-detached home. My neighbors would surely admire your skills, but not at,” and he checks his watch, “2:45 a.m.”
“Oh hell, of course, I’m sorry. It’s been months since I played.”
“Let me show you your bedroom. It’s not made up, but I’ve put clean sheets and blankets on the mattress.”
Libby stands and has a little joke with him. “Will I get a chocolate left on the bedside table?” She asks cheekily.
“There’s a lamp, that’s about it. If you’d like water during the night, or should I say morning, you’ll find glassware in the kitchen cupboard. Help yourself,” he says scooping his uniform jacket off the back of the kitchen chair and pulling it on.
“You’re a strange cop, I’ll say that for you,” she says.
Sirius laughs, not unkindly.
“There’s no secret to me, since I’m a police officer. I prefer working alone, helping the community rather than busting people to earn a promotion,” he tells her. “Right, I better get going. Like I said, I’ll come home and do my best to be quiet. It would be great if, when you leave, you would leave my home as you found it.”
Libby salutes him. “Yes, officer.”
“Good. I’ll leave a few bob on the table. You can get a taxi at the railway station,” he tells her, picking up his helmet. “Oh, and I don’t want to catch you sleeping on railway embankments again.”
“Yes, officer,” again Libby salutes.
Sirius takes forty-quid from his wallet and sets it on the table. “You’re very funny, in an impolite way,” he tells her, smiling.
“Thank you, I really appreciate it. I’ll pay you back,” she says.
“Just go home,” Sirius responds and pulls closed the front door.
Libby picks up the two crisp twenty-pound notes, opens her bag and folds the notes into a side pocket, next to a PF-9, double action, semi-automatic. She slings the handbag over her shoulder and heads up the stairs to take a shower.
Walking back toward the underground station, Sirius is curious. Did she leave anything she didn’t want seen under the tarpaulin; he’s wondering.
Carefully edging his big frame down the embankment, he grabs the edge of the tarpaulin, pulling it clear of the area he wants to search. Shining the beam of his torch over the ground, he carefully looks around for anything that might be a clue.
After several minutes, he’s not found anything and is about to make his way awkwardly up the grassy slope when the beam of torchlight falls on a wallet lying on the ground. It’s not in the area of the tarpaulin but might have been thrown there. The wallet is dry, as if freshly lost, and on opening Sirius finds that it is empty, having no identification inside, no money, or credit cards. There is, however, a tatty edged business card almost hidden in one pocket.
Sarah Moskwitch
2297 Applegate Drive, Glouster Road. London. SW7 4RJ
Jewlery Design Consultant.
020.314.78..
Back at the house, Libby, fresh from a shower, pulls a large towel around her nakedness and carries her clothes down the stairs to the kitchen, looking for the washing machine. Not seeing one in the house, she openes the door that leads to the garage and a beautiful white coupe sports car. She doesn’t know what kind, just that it is white, sleek, beautiful, and definitely antique.
She looks around and finds the washing machine and a dryer and throws in everything she’d been wearing. The washing powder is on the shelf above and with everything set, she starts the wash program. Satisfied everything is working correctly, Libby goes back into the living rooms and takes an interest in looking around and comes to a tall, polished cabinet. Opening the top two doors, she discovers it to be a drinks cabinet. Hmm, she murmurs, Sirius is a brandy man.
Carefully removing a half full bottle opened brandy, she takes it through to the kitchen, pulls a glass from the kitchen cupboard situated above the dishwasher, and pours herself a large shot. Still with wet hair, Libby returns to the living room and sinks her towel clad body into an Edwardian style armchair.
Sirius calls in the address found on the business card. “Do we have anything on a Sarah Moskwitch, 2297 Applegate Drive, Glouster Road,” he asks, “there’s a phone number but I cannot make out the two last digits.”
“That’s a bit out of your patch, Sirius,” answers a woman working in dispatch.
“That’s true enough, Wendy. I just came across a wallet, its empty but for the name and the address I gave you. The card looks old. It’s probably nothing.
“I’ll get back to you, Sirius,” Wendy answers.
“Thanks, love,” and he shuts down the communication.
Satisfied there’s nothing else to be found in the vicinity, Sirius resumes his normal beat.
(((Briiinnngg))). The alarm clock wakes Sirius. Drowsily, he quiets the alarm with the palm of his right hand before burying his head for ten more minutes.
Following a routine, Sirius rolls out of bed wearing his Bahama Beach pajamas, crosses the landing into the bathroom, where he fills a glass with tap water and drinks it down.
Being Sunday, not having to get ready for a shift tonight, he feels a great sense of freedom. It’s been longer than three months since having a Sunday off and he’s been wanting to see the new Top Gun movie and will check to see if it’s still playing in Harrow.
Coming from the bathroom he thinks he can smell coffee and it takes a moment for his sleepy thoughts to wake up. Wait a minute, I didn’t fill the automatic coffeepot last night?
Walking into the kitchen — he’s convinced a mirage is seated at the table. It takes him a moment to remember the stray he’d picked up the night before. What the hell is she still doing in his kitchen— but first, he needs some java.
“Morning, love the PJs,” Libby says, sitting across from him. She pours his coffee. Sirius forces his sleepy brain to function but it usually takes two cups before he can string three consecutive words together.
The two sit in silence until Sirius finishes his second cup, and is coming wide awake. As soon as a light shines in his heavy eyes, Libby begins.
“Sirius, the truth is I broke up with my boyfriend, Terry,” she starts. “It was at that bar down the street from the station. I’d followed him and caught him cheating. I tackled him straight up in front of the floozy he was with.”
Sirius listens. “That doesn’t explain why you were sleeping under a tarpaulin.”
“No, I suppose not. Well, the argument broke into a bit of a scrap, I wanted to pull his hair out. After that public display, Terry asked me back for the credit cards — everything is in his business name, including taking back the car keys, my company cell phone, also on his business account, so I guess I knew it was over. That damn woman can have him,” she continues, “it wasn’t until I left the bar that I realized Terry had taken all the money from my wallet. I was upset, couldn’t think straight, I had no money, no credit cards, no phone and no way to get home. It wasn’t until I got to the underground station that I realized he’d taken everything from me, and I was screwed. Naturally, I was upset, and mad.”
Sirius comments, not flirtily. “It’s hard to imagine a man cheating on you.”
“Thanks,” Libby says, “he was more furious about being followed than being caught with another woman.”
“Terry, you say. His surname?”
“Reynolds,” she answers, “we… he, lives at 29, Wiltshire Lane, Hounslow. But why? He didn’t hurt me, not physically, it’s not a crime to break up,” she says.
“The same Terry Reynolds who owns Reynolds Used Cars.”
“Yes, you know him?”
“I know of him. But surely, the guy is a lot older than you?” He suggests.
“Fifty-five, he just had a birthday in November. Twenty-five years difference,” she adds.
“You’re thirty-five?”
“What do you think?” she says, flirtingly, holding her arms out and giving a twirl, “pretty good shape, don’t you think?” She says, grinning with white teeth all in a perfect row.
Sirius is not deflected. “You know the guy has a record as long as your arm,” he tells her.
“Later, I did, yes, but not at first. We were together for four years. He treated me well, gave me money, credit cards to use, and a Jag to drive. But yes, I heard that in his past he had sold stolen cars, but that was years before I knew him. He’s a reputable businessman these days, has garages all over London, all selling used cars,” she tells him.
“That black eye, that was him?” Asks Sirius.
“No, it was his floozy, wearing her fancy jewelry. I called her a whore and she took a swing at me before Terry got between us.”
“Do you know her name?”
“No, she had an accent. Called me a jealous bitch,” Libby says.
“No name?”
“No idea.”
“But she was wearing fancy jewelry, you say?” Sirius confirms. “What happened then?”
“That’s when he grabbed my bag, emptied it, and told me to take a hike, we are done!”
“In those shoes?” Sirius remarks, seeing her high heels at the side of the dishwasher.
“You just left?”
“Not exactly,” she says.
“What do you mean?”
“I flung myself at him, tried scratching his eyes out. But there’s something else, something I haven’t told you…”
“Go on…”
“Terry carries a gun. I don’t know if it's illegal or he has a right to carry, but in the struggle, I reached for it, and grabbed it from its holster under his jacket. I don’t think he felt me take it, but I stuffed it into my empty bag and ran out. I knew he would come after me. I fled up the hill and ducked down the embankment.”
“Where’s the gun now?”
“In my purse,” she says, moving toward it.
“No, Libby. If there’s a gun in that handbag, you’re in a lot of trouble,” Sirius says.
“I’ve never done anything, just stole it off him,” she says.
“Is it loaded?”
“I don’t know,” she says.
“Okay, I want you to stand up, move over to the door. I’ll get the gun,” he says in a demanding tone which causes Libby to stiffen.
“You say he always carries a gun?” Sirius asks.
“Yes, he was so furious I was afraid if he caught me, he’d use it on me,” she tells Sirius.
Libby stands in the doorway to the living room. Sirius removes her handbag hanging on the back of the chair. Before opening the bag, Sirius reaches for a tea towel which he uses to retrieve the gun from her purse. He checks it out. It’s fully loaded.
“A PF-9, semi-automatic. This isn’t a toy, Libby. A guy only carries this around if he has bad friends or bad intentions.”
“He never went anywhere without it,” she says, as Sirius unloads the weapon.
“Okay, we’re going to the station. Forensics will take a look at this,” he says. “You’re sure you have nothing else to tell me?”
“Station, the cops! You know if this gets reported he will come after me, Sirius. I thought I could trust you just to get rid of it?”
“You thought wrong, Libby. Get your jacket. My car is in the garage,” he says.
When Libby returns from the hall carrying her jacket, Sirius offers to help her on with it. As she turns her back, Sirius grabs both wrists and puts them in handcuffs.
“Sirius, what are you doing?”
“I’m arresting you for possession of a firearm, Libby. The details we can work out at the station.”
“But I’ve told you everything. I trusted you.”
“I’m a cop, Libby, not an ear to share your troubles with. Let’s go.”
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