Cries From The Grave

CRIES FROM THE GRAVE

by

BARRIE J. KIBBLE

WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

www.whiskeycreekpress.com

Published by

WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

Whiskey Creek Press

PO Box 51052

Casper, WY 82605-1052

www.whiskeycreekpress.com

Copyright Ó 2013 by Barrie J. Kibble

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

ISBN: 978-1-61160-608-9

Cover Artist: Gemini Judson

Editor: Dave Field

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

To my mate, Tom Stewart, a man who was beloved as both father and husband, and a friend to many; a dogged writer who refused to abandon his craft or relinquish his dream even during the tough times. Writing was one of his closest companions, and it brought him untold joy and satisfaction. I miss his friendship, prolific output and wry humor following his untimely death. "Tom, it is such a heartfelt loss that you had to lay down your pen and your life so unexpectedly."

Chapter 1

Was it a second before midnight or a minute past? The exact moment the baby plunged from the sixth floor of a Brighton hotel onto concrete could not be gauged precisely. Kristian Hunter averted his horrified gaze as the blanket-wrapped bundle struck the ground three feet in front of him.

There was no time to react.

All over so damn fast.

Hunter had stopped short of the swing doors to the Pier Hotel to check his watch and confirm the police raid on room 212, when a shrill noise like the forcing of a window or a distant cry made him look up.

Had to be a girl’s doll; he prayed it was, but closer inspection of the smashed infant ruled out that assumption with a heart-stopping finality.

He threw up.

An hour later on that freezing January night, still numb in mind and spirit, he stood unsteadily on the beach a stone’s throw from the hotel. He was oblivious to the mid-winter surf splashing his new black brogues, while the stiff breeze needled sand into his face and tossed his black hair into a frenzied dance.

Kristian, you bloody stupid sod, said a voice from behind. Good shoes don’t fall out of the sky.

Hunter would have recognized Inspector Scott Allen’s deep, measured delivery through the howl of a hurricane. I’m busy.

The baby was already in a coma, Scott said. The coroner reckons pneumonia on initial inspection. The couple panicked, simply got rid of the evidence when uniforms charged in.

Simply. Hunter’s scornful chuckle was smothered by the thunder of a crashing wave. Murder’s murder.

It’s not that I’m unfeeling, Scott said. A cop needs to be realistic, and you bloody-well ought to know that.

I’m not a cop any longer.

Dead is dead. Scott crushed pebbles beneath his feet as he drew close. And as sad and terrible as that is, neither of us can bring that precious little life back.

I used to spend hours staring at the sea when I was a youngster. Every chance I got I—

You’re not a kid anymore, you’re thirty-eight and counting.

Hunter grabbed a large stone and slung it into the sea. Aye, that’s the rub.

The rollers crashed relentlessly, sucking foaming water back through shingles as regular as a giant’s heartbeat. The eternal process evoked the tortured pleas of forgotten children’s spirits, strangled cries from the grave. Every one of them was a constant wrench in Hunter’s gut.

He was too late to save the toddler. He was forever too late; late for school, late for his wedding, late to save his own child. He’d probably be late for his own funeral. I should’ve acted earlier on my informant’s info.

It was good info, but there’s no precision bombing in this war.

Hunter turned reluctantly and peered at the burly inspector, who, despite the elephantine coat wrapping his huge frame, hugged himself against the all-consuming cold. What do you want, Scott? I’m busy contemplating the evil men do.

Babies die, people die. Everything dies. None of that’s your fault. Scott sighed. I’ll have your bloody shoes if you’re gonna stand here all night like bloody King Canute.

A wall of wind blasted the stupor from Hunter’s brain. He shuddered from head to toe, his feet cubes of ice as salt spray burned his eyes and tasted bitter on his tongue. He blew on his frozen hands. I...I take it you want a drink?

Need a drink, Scott said, and so do you. The whole bloody world needs one tonight.

How did you find—

You stood out from all the other sunbathers.

Hunter stepped back, collected another large pebble, turned and let it rip high into the coffin-black night. The wind dropped, and the missile’s splash buckled the peculiarly still air. I suppose there’s no point arguing?

Littlejoy’s waiting for us at Murphy’s Bar. His information’s hot, or so he says. Scott started for the promenade steps. I left him contemplating his ever hopeful rise from the journalistic gutter. The exacting climb taxed his breath as shingle hills gave way in landslides beneath his weighty strides. Damn it. He stopped at the sea wall and puffed hard. I make these arrangements and then you go AWOL. You aren’t making my life any bloody easier.

Okay with you if I drag my skeptic’s heart along?

Scott grunted.

The wind recovered with a newfound violence, tearing through Hunter’s sheepskin and summer-gray suit to bite marrow-deep. The squish of wet socks and shoes accompanied him up the steps toward the pavement where Scott stomped his size thirteens on icy flagstones.

Hunter loitered on the middle step to catch his breath while the stench of rotting seaweed clawed his nostrils. He toed a white crumpled bag of discarded kebab aside and it fell silently to the beach; fell like the helpless infant. The poor mite smelled of soap and lemon wipes—gift-packed for heaven.

Scott drummed his brown-gloved fingers on the metal guardrail. You gonna hurry? It’s colder than a penguin’s arse.

Okay, okay. Hunter hurried because his teeth chattered; hurried because a couple whiskeys might change his view of the world. Who was he trying to fool, Scott, the innocent victims, his incarcerated wife or himself? Like I said to that rookie copper who took my statement, if I’d attended the scene, those two bastards would’ve gone out the same window.

Sure they would. Let’s get in the warm and drink to the downfall of every bloody sodding bastard.

They crossed the road side by side, hunched and set like conspiratorial monks against the elements. The six-foot-three, bull-chest inspector with a boxer’s flat-nosed face overshadowed Hunter’s lean five-ten frame. But in Scott’s company, Hunter confidently felt his equal.

Scott was a gentle, generous-hearted man, but his profile sent the fear of God through innocents and criminals alike. Silhouetted beneath the yellow streetlight like an oversized gargoyle, he tugged open the door to Murphy’s Bar. You first, Kristian, or you’ll be back on that bloody beach. I’m not coming to get you a second time. For all I care you can—

I get the message, Scotty boy. You worry about that extra weight you’re carrying.

It’s all muscle, which accounts for most of your brain.

I bet Littlejoy’s all suck and no blow as usual.

Give it a bloody rest. Scott pulled him into the cloying warmth. You’re buying.

Nothing new.

The bar was a Mecca for ardent fans of film noir—its embossed maroon wallpaper melted into dark wood floor in a church-crypt-gloom that fused every angle into one tired landscape. Stale cigarette smoke choked the dim lighting and hovered like mist above the traffic-worn black tables and chairs. Any brave fool off the street who mentioned the smoking ban left with a bloody nose, man or woman. Murphy wasn’t fussy.

A handful of stalwart drinkers hugged the bar; street traders, antique dealers, thugs and nameless men of the night who could only face the world after a skin-full. He banned queers, drug addicts, transvestites and any other Protestants with a disregard for the natural order of things. Murphy’s exact words, and his reputation for liberally dealing out broken bones meant only hard men and hard drinkers frequented his dive.

And ’ow’s me favorite private eye? Murphy enquired with as much interest as a lump of flotsam.

Hunter smacked his wallet on the bar. The Inspector would like a double gin and soda, and I’ll have—

A large Famous Grouse with ice, said the Irishman.

Nothing gets past you, Murphy.

Not even ya sarcasm, Hunter.

Saun Murphy, six-foot tall and bone-skinny with a parrot’s nose, sported tiny inexplicable dents in his forehead as though someone had tried to get his attention by tapping an ice pick in it. He slouched when he walked. He slouched whatever he did. This Irishman invented slow motion. His partially closed left eye resulted from a murky past collecting funds for the IRA in Kilburn, North London. He stuck the second grimy glass under a whiskey optic. Will that be all, gentlemen?

You got a towel? Hunter asked.

Murphy chuckled. Would you be going for a bleeding swim then?

He’s been, Scott said, slipping out of his overcoat.

Hunter suppressed a smile. He knew his friend like he knew every bend and crease of his own black leather clip-over wallet, the last present from his wife before she became ill.

He grabbed his glass and a bar towel and followed Scott to their favorite tent-of-meeting, a corner booth lit by a lopsided wall light shrouded with a nicotine-stained shade.

Frank Littlejoy, local crime reporter, late of a decent career and wayward wife, sat with his stubby pink hands glued to a glass of oil-black Guinness. With lifeless brown eyes sunk deep in a face hung like the jowls of a sick dog, the perpetual doom he embodied flowed thicker than blood in his arteries. He survived his pit of absolute despair in the hope of an imminent career-saving scoop. No news was bad news, and real bad news was the best news of all.

The splattered remains of a baby should have cheered the miserable sod.

Frank strained out a smile as if crapping a brick. So, Scott, you found our elusive Pimpernel?

Scott’s seat creaked under his bulk. Went for a swim, didn’t you, Kris?

Hunter scraped a chair across the floorboards, slumped down and tugged off his wet shoes and socks. What more do you want from me, Frankie? Scott must’ve filled you in while I was beachcombing.

Ooh no you don’t. Frank sucked excess beer from his upper lip. There’s more to this than an exploding baby.

Callous bastard.

Hunter took advantage of the prickly silence to wring a sock out in the plastic ashtray. The word, prostitute, could wait.

Frank tapped two fingers on the table as if accompanying some maddening beat of adrenaline in his head. Well?

Scott’s deep laugh shuddered through the booth. Don’t you love us anymore, Frankie?

Frank took a long slug of his drink, and then centered the glass on the soiled beer mat with a surgeon’s precision. Let me tell you two what we have here. He leaned back with a glint in his eye and folded his arms, which crackled the black leather of his well-worn jacket. A copper who’d like to be Chief Inspector before he pulls his pension and a sacked cop turned PI because his wife’s a criminal.

The barb bit Hunter deep, but he’d bide his time. After all, Littlejoy’s main function in life was to shoe-horn a reaction from people, and if he kept it up, that was exactly what he’d get.

Bare feet on the towel, Hunter studied the ugly appendages. God must have had a hangover when he made those lumps of meat, but when He formed Frank He left the details to the fairies.

Hunter stomached the press for the sake of information, but never for too long because of their scathing lies following his boy’s death. He glared at Frank. Let’s trade, and then you can crawl back into that—

I made two arrests at the hotel, Scott said, always willing to diffuse aggravation. Both illegals who slipped in from France on forged passports. Minnows, not sharks. End line traffickers who swap kids and make the final sale abroad. They don’t know the who, why or when of anything.

If Brighton wanted a frontrunner for the best stoic face, Frank had won. What’s your angle, Hunter?

Tracing a stolen child for a London client.

Frank fidgeted with excitement. You mean they go out as well as come in?

British babies command a high price, Scott said.

Frank looked genuinely disgusted. Sickos.

Hunter snorted. For once, the unfrocked reporter groped for the moral high ground It’s a tad late for compassion, Frank. And there was I believing nothing could pierce that rhino hide of yours.

This is big. Frank picked up his glass, took another long swallow and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Why in hell are you two playing the tight-lipped sheriff and deputy?

Scott chuckled. You like things big, don’t you, Frank?

Frank emptied his glass, and then toyed with it. Give me a name.

You give us something first, Hunter said.

I’ll give what I have to the inspector and Regional Crime. Those are the big players. You ain’t got the connections anymore, Hunter.

Frank... Scott said calmly, forget your lofty ambition for a moment.

Just doing my job, lads.

Hunter grew tired of the Ping-Pong match. He sunk the double scotch, and it burned down his throat, set his guts on fire, kick-started his emotions. You’re a has-been, he said. A discredited reporter sniffing around the trashcans of professional journalists.

Touché, Hunter. A mischievous glint flashed in Frank’s eye again as his meatless laugh failed to leave an echo in the booth. "How is that ex-wife of yours? Still peeing herself in the nut house?"

Hunter shot around the table. He grabbed the reporter’s collar, lifted the man and slammed him against the dark-wood boarding.

The wall light flickered.

Frank gasped. His ginger toupee slid to one side.

Scott seized Hunter’s arm. Kris, don’t be bloody stupid.

Murphy was quick for a sloth, arriving at the booth toting an aluminum baseball bat. Two brick-built thugs from the bar stood each side of him. Sort this, Inspector Allen...or I will to be sure.

Scott waved him off and sat. No sweat, high spirits, you can move along, it’s all over. He peered at Hunter. That’s right, Kris, isn’t it...it’s over?

Sure. Hunter released his grip. Littlejoy wanted a face to face exclusive.

A red-faced Frank slipped down into the bench seat and straightened his leather. Murphy’s bat hung loose in his hand as he slopped back to the bar muttering to the bruisers in his wake.

Hunter regained his chair. What an airhead stunt. Hadn’t he learned anything from his troubled life? Damn brainless reactions on the back of fragile emotions. Frank wasn’t the enemy; violence was best saved for scum who traded infants.

You’re as crazy as her, Hunter. Frank attempted to realign his wig. You ought to stick to clearing her name.

Scott narrowed his eyes. Mr. Frank Littlejoy, I learned all about hurting people during my time in the SAS. I could do all sorts of nasty things to you with one of my thick pinkies. Worse than any fist or baseball bat, and nobody would ever notice. Is that what you bloody want, my son?

Frank repeatedly stabbed a finger at his own chest. I got my pride, you know. I got my frigging pride.

Sure, we ain’t arguing that. Scott peered at Hunter. Are we, Kris?

Hunter shrugged. Frank looked peculiar with his toupee askew, his readjusted parting running from ear to ear. How could Hunter destroy a man who’d already lost his scalp? From deep within rose the vein of sarcastic humor lost contemplating bits of soft bone splattered across a hotel car park. I love you, Frank.

Frank studied the scored tabletop. Screw the both of you. He gripped the glass with trembling hands. We gonna do business or not?

That’s more civilized. I like civilized. Scott bent forward, his weight on his elbows. The Serious Crime Squad is falling over Immigration and the rest, including Interpol, and coming up with zilch. No leads, no names. Those we arrest are small time, mostly illegals, and they don’t talk because they’re scared shitless. The fear in their eyes would fill up that pint glass of yours and pour over the top. He glanced at Hunter. Kris?

Hunter wouldn’t give up a shred more than was necessary, but what he did have to offer was worth the trade. I got a name, a copper.

Frank’s eyes lit. Go on.

That’s why I came to Scott.

And where… Frank’s excited gaze darted between them. Did you get this copper’s name?

The creeps who tossed the baby out. Hunter tapped his nose. We want you to contact your sources in Brighton’s lowlife. Bring us solid info, and you get the scoop when this is over.

This is big, ain’t it? The newshound rubbed his hands. You two bloodhounds are onto something mind-blowing. Give us this name then.

Tillerman, Detective Sergeant Tillerman, Hunter said.

Frank’s eyes sparkled. Convince me this story will put me back amongst the lions.

Hunter leaned forward and whispered, If you mention Tillerman before we’re ready to move, I’ll feed you to the damn lions.

And I’ll help him, Scott said. "Anyway, if these traffickers find out you know something, they’ll sink you deeper than the Titanic."

Yeah, yeah, Frank said. Go on.

Tillerman’s Metropolitan Police. He interviewed my clients. The ones who had their baby kidnapped.

So what?

Tillerman took photos from the house for identity purposes.

And?

Scott took over. I picked up a sales flyer hidden on a maid who’d left their employ two months before and came to work in Brighton. She’d slipped the flyer inside her coat lining along with a bag of dope. The photo was an exact reproduction of the one Tillerman took from the house.

The maid could have had the photo copied, Frank said.

Doesn’t explain the connection between Tillerman and two other missing babies, Scott offered. I’ve done some digging. The babies only disappear on his division. Besides that, Tillerman’s sleazy reputation and coincidences don’t go hand in hand.

I need to talk to this maid, Frank said. Where is she?

Run over by a two hundred-ton train, Scott said with a policeman’s indifference. Suicide’s the official view. These creeps don’t leave traces.

The original source for a kidnap always ends up dead after the kids are snatched, Hunter added.

Frank nodded. What’s the connection that led to the hotel?

Come on, Frank, Scott said. It’s your turn.

There’s talk. Frank leaned back, averting his eyes from Hunter. Rumor in club land.

Hunter pressed a bare foot against the radiator and immediately jerked it back from the red hot iron. And?

Frank peered furtively around as if his enemies lurked in the shadows. Some idiot got pissed and was mouthing off at a place about the owner being involved in slave trafficking. The bouncers kicked the living shit out of him. When they eventually threw him out, a booklet fell from his pocket.

So he liked to read, Hunter said.

The corner of Frank’s mouth twisted with scorn. The book was crammed with kids’ pictures.

You got this document? Scott asked, leaning forward.

Frank reached into his pocket and placed the cellophane-wrapped package on the table. Scott went to pick it up; Frank slammed his hand on it. Hey, I want to know how you traced the two bandits to the hotel. He broke a smile, mouth stretched like a clown. Don’t tell me, Hunter tipped off your lot.

Scott lifted Frank’s hand and took the package. Frank, my son, you’re quicker than Murphy.

Frank’s boisterous laugh turned heads at the bar. So’s a whore’s climax.

Hunter took stock of his sodden brogues bought two weeks ago for an arm and a leg in London’s Bond Street. His late stepmother said good shoes were the measure of a man, and though he’d never fully understood the phrase, it didn’t stop him buying new shoes every six months. I was searching hotel registers. Looking for a couple with a baby who’d booked in for one night. These people look for fast turnarounds, and the couple would head for Portugal through France. It’s January, tourists are almost non-existent around here, so it wasn’t that difficult.

Frank wagged a finger. Your damn snout told you. But why Brighton?

Lowest denominator, Hunter said. Coastal town with easy access to ferries and the Channel Tunnel.

Why not Dover or Newhaven direct?

Too obvious. Everyone knows everyone else’s business.

I’ll buy that, Frank said. So then you rang Mr. Allen.

That’s it, Frankie, Scott put in. The rest is unwritten. His chair groaned as he leaned forward. Who gave you the pamphlet? He grinned. Unless you were actually there and picked it up?

Course I wasn’t. Not that night, anyway. Frank’s voice fell to an almost inaudible tone. A friend. A female. That’s all I’m saying.

Scott removed the paperback-sized pamphlet from the wrapping. About this club then?

The Legend, Frank said. West Street. Talk to—

Tony Logan, Hunter said.

Frank nodded.

Scott raised an eyebrow. Know him. Petty villain, apparently going straight. Well, he ain’t been done for anything lately.

Hunter placed his socks on the Victorian radiator. They catch this idiot’s name? The one who got rolled by the bouncers?

Frank stared at the rising steam. I wish life was that easy.

Amen to that. Scott flitted through the pages of the pamphlet, whistled through his teeth, and then handed it to Hunter.

He examined it. Cheap in-house publishing, like garage porno presses. Slipshod pages full of black and white images of naked young ethnic women, numbers for names as if they were second-hand furniture lots, but no babies. The document didn’t reveal telephone numbers or details, which wasn’t surprising. Contact would be by word of mouth. Can I keep this?

Frank’s features tightened, the ruts on his forehead converging into one anxious furrow. How about some guaranties?

What? Hunter chuckled. You want a damned receipt?

You’ve got my word, Frankie, Scott said. You know that’s set in granite.

Frank stood, placed his Trilby on his head and straightened it. Seeing as you two tight sods aren’t gonna buy me a drink, I’m pissing off.

Thanks, Frank, Hunter said begrudgingly.

Frank regarded him with disdain. You got my number, so don’t forget it. And don’t lose that priceless booklet. That’s my ticket out of this two-penny shit-hole.

He was gone, and forgotten as quickly as his crime column in the local rag.

Scott tackled the remnants of his gin. When you’ve finished your bloody laundry, we’ll give this Tony Logan a spin.

Mafia Tony ain’t too keen on me, Hunter replied.

Then we’ll have to renew your membership.

Scott’s beliefs and methods were stuck in pre-sixties mode. He liked women to stay home and clean house; he preferred baggy trousers with turn-ups and plain V-neck pullovers, sex in the missionary position, only listened to Frank Sinatra and liked cases where criminals killed each other. What he enjoyed most was nicking villains like Logan; what he loved most was his wife.

That’s what I like about you, Scott, determination against the odds.

That’s you, Kris, or was.

Still holding a beacon for my unrepentant soul?

Get a bloody grip, Mr. Private Eye. He wagged a finger at Hunter. Don’t pull that standing-in-the-bloody sea stunt again. I froze my balls searching for you. If you’re not careful, one of these days you’re going to end up in a nut farm yourself and... He emptied his glass and peered thoughtfully at it. Sorry, that was out of bloody line.

All men get tired; tired of chasing promises, hopes and leads, tired of wallowing in filth and death, and Scott was no exception. What are friends for if they can’t be honest?

You want another drink?

Yeah, socks should be cooked by then. I think these shoes have had it though.

Scott shook his head. You’re a first class prat, do you know that?

That makes two of us...if you still believe in Kristian Hunter.

Hunter watched the big oaf walk to the bar. Scott was an honest copper and the sort of friend he could shoot, and then apologize to, and the daft giant would forgive him.

Scott wanted him to rescue something good from his fractured life, and yes, he needed to prove his resilience to the hammer blows of life—to himself, to his dead boy, to his shattered wife, and to every parent who lived in the hope of seeing their children outlast them.

The creased pamphlet weighed heavy in his hands. He was closer to his prey but didn’t feel so. The dead toddler at the hotel wasn’t his client’s, but it could have been.

He shut his eyes, and his heart rate doubled as he pictured the tiny bundle tossed out of a window like a used cigarette packet to hurtle silently through air: a hundred feet, sixty, twenty, ten...the dull crack of an egg bursting.

Chapter 2

Hunter wrapped his sheepskin tight to his body. Two a.m. outside Murphy’s and the icy wind hadn’t relented one sodding isobar. With his Ford Mondeo parked a quarter mile down the road, Scott offered to drive to The Legend Club. They walked to the Renault, twenty yards up the deserted and silent street.

Frank sure came up with the goods this time. Scott pointed his key fob at his car. The sharp electronic beep echoed off the dark-brick walls of the tenements. It pays to massage his vanity.

He gave in to your threats. Hunter rubbed his hands against the cold. SAS? He chuckled. You weren’t in the Special Air Service. You were a butcher before you joined the police.

Scott smiled wider than a clown. Same difference. Anyway, it put the wind up Frank.

I reckon slamming him against the wall helped.

That method’s okay, if you’re not a cop who wants to keep his job. Scott laughed. But I admit it has its advantages.

How do we handle Logan?

I’ll grill Tony Logan, he said, driving off. I don’t want him bloody-well clamming up because a private dick ain’t got the full weight of the law behind him.

You want me to stand there like an Eskimo without a hole to fish in.

And in your ruined shoes, too.

Thanks. Hunter studied the salt-white stains on his brogues. He regretted standing in the freezing surf. He still couldn’t fathom the why of it; a watershed in his life, a moment of epiphany, or just plain stupid. He’d seen many a corpse, babies included, so there had to be more to his weird moment by the sea.

Scott switched the heater to full. When you seeing Penny again?

He didn’t want to answer; didn’t want to think about it until the cock crowed three times, but Scott had become more of a brother than a friend. In the morning. He stared out the window at a drunk slumped in a doorway. Fat lot of good I am to her.

Scott patted his shoulder. She’s been through the furnace. Give her time.

Time? We buried... I buried Peter over a year ago.

Brighton offered nothing alluring in the early mornings. Old fish and chip paper and Styrofoam cups blew about, and the regular wail of police and ambulance sirens didn’t do justice to the city’s proud daylight bustle.

Scott’s silence rang loud.

Why couldn’t he say something, anything? Talk about dead babies, stolen kids, maybe Hunter’s dead kid. At least Peter James Hunter died naturally, despite what a damned expert expounded on at great length in a court festooned with diagrams and photographs. She sits and stares at me as if I just stepped off Pluto. They’re drowning her in drugs.

You want me to come with you? Scott offered. I’d like to do something to help.

Hunter needed to get away from a problem that he deemed unsolvable and bite into a problem he could tackle, make his footprint on the world again. You know I appreciate it, but let’s concentrate on Logan.

No problem, Scott said. You’ve obviously met Logan before?

"I call at his club for info once in a while. Chasing down errant husbands and runaway