Attack and Decay, page 16
“Your personal phrase? We even put it in the lyric sheet.”
“There’s a lyric sheet?” I said.
Patrik gave the album an expert little tap with his fingernail near the top corner of its open end and a square of glossy white paper, dense with black text, came sliding neatly out. “Cost a lot of money to include this,” said Patrik, frowning as if this extravagance still pissed him off a little, then he slid the sheet equally deftly back inside.
“Where did the crow come from?” said Agatha. “Originally, I mean.”
“Oh, we were shooting a music video, out in the woods, and he just turned up one day. Everyone thought he looked like something out of Norse mythology, and I found he was very friendly, not to mention clever, so I adopted him. Or perhaps he adopted me. Anyway, we have been close friends ever since. He travels everywhere with me.”
Nevada hopped off the bed and went to one of the armchairs. “In this?” she said, picking up what looked like a large handbag made of transparent plastic. I could now see that it had breathing holes punched in either side and a thin wooden bar that could serve as a perch, running from one side to the other.
“And in this,” said Patrik, hastening to pick what looked like a large grey corduroy rucksack off the other chair. He flipped the cover open to show that this, too had a perch in its capacious interior. “This one has a sliding tray for easy cleaning. At the bottom here. Look…”
“Is that how you took him to London?” I said. Nevada shot me a quick look. I guess she’d been asking herself the obvious question.
“In something similar.”
“Hiram came for a visit with Patrik,” I said.
“Hiram?”
“It means ‘exalted brother’,” I said. “In Hebrew. Apparently, Hiram and Jaunty really hit it off.”
“Jaunty the corpse-faced—”
“Crow sitter,” I said.
We heard the sound of voices and laughter outside in the hallway, and then the door opened and a tall woman swept in, followed by Tinkler. The woman had blonde hair of a synthetic platinum hue worn in two big Minnie Mouse buns. In an asymmetrical splash of colour, one of the buns had a small purple and white bow in it.
The purple theme continued with her heavy purple eyeshadow and the purple and white paisley lining of her long black leather raincoat. She wore a black sweater and black leggings and high black boots laced all the way up to her knee. One set of laces was black, the other purple.
Just like Patrik’s desert boots. It was sort of sweet.
The woman had evidently hit it off with Tinkler. They were both still laughing. “Oh, look,” said Tinkler. “Here they are.”
The woman smiled at us. “Your friend is very funny.”
“Yes, everyone says that,” said Agatha.
“We met on the way into the hotel,” said the beaming Tinkler.
“This is my wife, Rut.” Patrik went and kissed her while Nevada and Agatha did a good job of not laughing out loud at the name.
“Ah, my darling, at last,” he said as he released her and held her at arm’s length to look at her. But there was something ironic in the way he said it.
“Apparently this place really is called Troll’s Cock,” said Tinkler.
“Yes, that’s correct,” said Rut. “The name Trollesko or Trollsko is a corruption of the original Trollskog, which means Troll’s Forest.”
“Trollskog,” said Nevada.
“Troll’s Cock,” said Tinkler happily.
Rut looked directly at me and I saw that her pupils were dark and enormous, suggesting use of recreational pharmaceuticals currently and perhaps generally. “Trolls do exist, you know,” she said.
“I see,” I said.
“And they are quite remarkable musicians.”
Patrik nodded as if in agreement with this nonsense. Oh, well; he was married to her.
“Not much good on wind instruments or as singers, trolls,” continued Rut. “But anything with strings they can play like a fiend. Excellent guitarists. Largely on acoustic instruments, but they’re very good on electric guitar as well. They tend to prefer a slack key, open tuning.”
“High or low action?” I said. Two could play at this game.
“High action. More comfortable for them to get their big gnarly claws around. Are you a guitarist yourself?”
“No, but I have a friend who is. And he explained the terminology to me. At length.” At considerable length, as it happened.
Patrik chuckled. “That’s musos for you.”
“Our friend is Erik Make Loud,” said Nevada, who was not averse to dropping names if there was any chance it might be to our advantage.
“Oh, from the band Valerian,” said Patrik. “He’s very good.”
“If you like tinkly pop music,” said Rut. Evidently Valerian wasn’t heavy enough or metal enough for her.
“We also know Tom Pyewell and Jimmy Lynch from Black Dog,” said Nevada hopefully.
“More tinkly pop music,” said Rut. She and Nevada now exchanged a look of frank and cordial dislike.
“I thought Erik Make Loud did some good work with that Goat Aid project,” said Patrik, taking an emollient tone.
“That was all to do with the women from Blue Tits,” said Rut. “Nothing to do with him.”
“Anyway, as Rut says, they are fine musicians, trolls,” said Patrik. He was obviously eager to curtail any dispute. He struck me as a man who wanted an easy life.
“We tried to enlist one as our lead guitarist,” said Rut.
“One of the Blue Tits?” said Nevada innocently.
“A troll. But it didn’t work out.”
“That’s a shame,” said Nevada.
“They are very tied to their homes, trolls,” explained Rut patiently. “They generally stay very near their birthplace.”
Patrik nodded. “As a consequence, touring would have been highly problematical.”
“Remarkable musicians, though.”
“Certainly.”
This crazed discussion of troll musicianship was enough to break up the party, so to speak. I got my copy of Attack and Decay back—Patrik was markedly reluctant to hand it over—and then Nevada and I went back to our room with Tinkler and Agatha in tow.
As soon as we closed the door, Tinkler said, “I told you this place was called Troll’s Cock.”
“Trollskog,” said Nevada. “And that was many years ago. And obviously she’s completely nuts. They both are.”
“Or pretending to be nuts,” I said.
“Very convincingly pretending to be nuts,” said Agatha.
“I think he’s just humouring her,” I said.
“The trouble is,” said Tinkler, “you have to be nuts to humour her.”
“‘They generally stay very near their birthplace’,” quoted Nevada.
“Remarkable musicians, though,” said Agatha and they both laughed. Then Nevada turned to Tinkler and said, “Much more importantly than any troll nonsense, it turns out that Rut and Patrik have a pet—”
“Yeah, yeah, crow with a deformed beak,” said Tinkler. “Rut told me all about that. Does this mean the boyfriend is sprung from microwave purgatory?”
“It certainly does mean that.”
I said, “So I can have a coffee at the Notre Coeur?”
“More than one,” said Nevada.
“They’re on me,” said Agatha.
“Ida is going to meet us there,” said Tinkler, sounding even more pleased about this than about Trollskog.
* * *
We got our favourite table at the café, the one with the view of the tiny courtyard. It was already a dark winter evening. The lamp was shining down on the love seat as before, but tonight there were no bats circling. Snow covered everything.
We all squeezed onto the apple-green sofa with Ida, who was already there waiting for us. She was looking at me and smiling a warmly sardonic smile. “Welcome back to the Café Notre Coeur,” she said. “I understand you poured my coffee down the toilet.”
“I’m really sorry—”
“Don’t be sorry. I’ll get at least a paper out of this for my doctoral thesis. The crow as mythopoeic harbinger.”
“Hiram the mythopoeic harbinger,” said Agatha.
“But I’d like my thermos back,” said Ida diffidently.
“Of course,” I said. The loss of Ida’s no-doubt-excellent coffee was considerably softened for me by a cup of the real stuff, which I soon sat savouring. I could feel its magic working on my heart, brain and elsewhere. I told Nevada about Patrik and the little bird whispering in his ear.
“So he knows who we are,” she said. “And that we’re here on business.”
“I think Patrik Nordenfalk knows everything about us,” I said. “And I think the little bird who whispered in his ear is called Magnus. Do you remember when we had dinner with our client?”
“I remember Fanny did her little trick with him.”
“Yeah, he now thinks we should train her to do microsurgery.”
“Do you think we should?” said Nevada. “Train her as microsurgeon?”
“No. She could never fit it into her busy schedule. Anyway, Owyn told us then he had just seen Patrik Nordenfalk…”
Nevada nodded. “That’s right. And he said this record was so rare even Patrik didn’t have a copy.”
“Right. And I think Patrik was a little pissed off that Owyn was about to acquire an expensive trophy that he didn’t own himself. After all, it was his record. His own band’s record. And he didn’t even have a copy. So Patrik decided to put that right. So he’s buying one. And, ironically, it looks like he’s buying it from the same guy as we are.”
“Magnus,” said Nevada.
“Right, our friend Magnus. That’s why he had this crate of records out at his penthouse when I was over there. A crate full of exactly that record. He was getting it out because he’s getting ready to do a deal.”
“Another deal,” said Nevada.
“Right. He’s also selling a copy to Patrik.”
“The little tart,” said Nevada.
“Speaking of tarts,” said Agatha. “We’ve confirmed that Stinky Stanmer is in town looking to make a show about the Storm Dream Troopers. Sydney Reasoner confirmed that.”
“Wait a moment,” said Ida. “Did you say ‘Stinky Stanmer’?”
“Yes,” said Agatha looking at her curiously.
“Not Stinky Stanmer the disc jockey?” said Ida, her eyes suddenly wide.
“Oh Christ,” said Nevada. “You haven’t heard of him, have you?”
“He’s huge here in Sweden,” said Ida. Her eyes were even wider now as a note of besotted worship crept into her voice.
“My god,” said Agatha. “He isn’t, is he?”
“No,” said Ida, abruptly collapsing into giggles. “Of course he isn’t. Jordon just told me to play a little joke on you if the name ever came up.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” said Nevada. Both she and Agatha were shaking their heads, disgusted at being taken in. But I could see they were both also mightily relieved.
“Play a little joke on you,” repeated Ida.
“And you did it brilliantly,” said Tinkler, gazing into her eyes.
“Really? You really think so?”
“Brilliantly, my darling.”
The happy couple nuzzled each other, and then commenced smooching.
“Okay,” said Nevada in her most dry and matter of fact manner. “What’s all this about a juicer heist tonight?”
Ida broke off the smooch, leaving Tinkler hanging there in mid-air, pucker-lipped and shut-eyed. “Yes,” she said. “Jordon and I are going to Bo Lugn’s house tonight to get it back.”
“Not on your own, you’re not,” said Nevada, in a tone that brooked no argument.
“You’re going to help us? That’s very kind of you. Thank you so—”
“Where exactly is this house?” said Nevada, cutting her off.
“Well actually he has two, one in town and one out of town, but since he stole the juicer from me in town and he was on foot he wouldn’t have gone far. So I am entirely sure he took it to his town house, which is not far from where we are sitting now.”
“Have you ever been there?” said Nevada. “Inside the house?”
“Certainly. Frequently. He has had many parties there.”
“So you know the layout of the place?”
“Certainly.”
“And do you know anything about the security arrangements? Alarms, dogs, that sort of thing?”
“No dogs,” said Ida. “He is allergic to them. And as for alarms, he keeps forgetting the passwords and code numbers, so mostly he leaves the gates unlocked and the alarms switched off.”
“Is that right?” said Nevada. My darling was leaning forward, eyes gleaming, smiling a wolfish smile.
16: BIG ANIMAL
By the time we left the Notre Coeur it had been dark for some while. A cosy winter darkness, all the hard edges of the town softened by the sudden arrival of the snow. And still more snow was settling, slowly drifting down on the four of us standing in front of the café.
Me and Nevada and Tinkler and Ida.
Agatha had remained inside because she was going to meet Christer Vingqvist. The self-published priest had apparently sworn to make good on his promise and finally give her a proper interview to publicise Agatha’s crime fiction blog.
Consequently it was just the four of us walking through the clean empty streets, rendered even cleaner and emptier by the snow. Walking briskly beside me, arm linked in mine, Nevada seemed to have a spring in her step. She had been invigorated by the prospect of the juicer heist.
As we approached the vattentorn, gleaming in the night above us, we all slowed down. “Okay, we rendezvous in three hours’ time,” said Nevada.
“Do you want us to synchronise watches?” said Tinkler.
“We don’t need sarcasm tonight, Tinkler,” said Nevada. “If we are going to help you out by doing this, then we need other things. For example, punctuality.”
“Okay, right, right, three hours,” said Tinkler. “We rendezvous in three hours. At Creepy Elvis’s pad.”
“Chez Creepy Elvis,” said Nevada. She really was in a good mood. It was the thought of sundry nefarious doings ahead.
Ida laughed. “Chez Creepy Elvis,” she repeated.
Then she and Tinkler headed off to the vattentorn. Looming over them, illuminated as it was at night, it looked more than ever like something out of a fairy tale, the lonely snow-clad tower of a lost fortress.
Our hotel looked pretty good in the snow, too. With its gothic gables festooned, it appeared to belong not in a fairy tale but in an agreeably creepy kids’ book—The Penumbra Inn Stories. Our footsteps were muffled by the snow as we approached, then rattled crisply on the stone steps as we went up to the front door. I punched the keycode and in we went.
Nevada was ahead of me, and I stopped suddenly as I came in through the door because she, too, had stopped suddenly. She was staring up at a figure standing on the landing halfway up the gleaming wooden staircase.
A figure standing holding Tinkler’s trunk. Holding it in the sense of desperately grappling with it in an attempt to prevent it remorselessly crushing him.
It was Stinky Stanmer. He saw us and shouted, “Help me!”
“Stinky,” said Nevada. “Well, well, well.”
“Quick, before this thing falls on me. I just brushed past it. I swear I just brushed past it. This thing is fucking lethal. It’s a fucking death trap.”
“There was absolutely nothing wrong with that trunk,” said Nevada, suddenly staunch in defence of the honour of Tinkler’s trunk. “It was perfectly safe before you came along. And it could have remained safe after you came along. But I suspect you had to mess with it. You didn’t just ‘brush past it’, did you, Stinky? You were messing with that trunk, weren’t you? Perhaps trying to look inside?”
“I just thought it looked like such an interesting piece of luggage…”
“Was the most interesting part our friend’s name on the luggage tag?”
“I never noticed that. I swear. Please help me.”
“I’m sorry,” said Nevada. “I didn’t quite catch that.”
“Help me.”
“Help me what?” said Nevada.
“Help me please.”
“No. What is my name?”
“Oregon?”
“Nope,” said Nevada. “Guess again.”
“I don’t know the answer,” wailed Stinky. “I’m sorry.”
“You are allowed to call a friend.”
“What?”
“Feel free to call a friend to ask them if they know what my name is.”
“Okay, great, nice one, thank you. Can you help me hold the trunk while I make this call?”
“No.”
“What?” said Stinky. He’d begun to relax fractionally in his effort to keep the trunk safely poised—as opposed to disastrously in motion with him in its path. “Sorry?”
“No. You have to make the call while you’re holding the trunk.”
“No. What? That’s impossible.”
“I’m just going upstairs to our room,” I told Nevada. She nodded. “I’ll be up in a minute, love,” she said. “Just as soon as this business of Stinky and the trunk is resolved one way or another.”
“Wait, one way or another?” said Stinky. “What does that mean?”
“See you soon,” I said.
“In a minute,” agreed Nevada. And then, to Stinky, “It’s absolutely your choice, but I really do think calling a friend is the best option. Although I admit ‘friend’ is probably not the most apt description in this particular case.”
“I have friends,” said Stinky. “I have lots of friends. It’s just impossible to call anyone while I also have to try and keep this thing from fucking falling on me.”
“Not impossible but certainly quite difficult,” said Nevada. “Quite a challenge to achieve without considerable personal injury, that’s true.” She was saying this with simple warm sincerity—even generosity—as I edged up the stairs past Stinky, taking care to stay out of the potential doomsday path of the trunk if he should lose his grip on it. His increasingly sweaty grip on it.
“Please,” said Stinky, “mate…” as I eased past him.
