The Bookshop Detectives: Dead Girl Gone, page 19
Again he ignores me. He dips the tip of the brush into the tin of paint and gets to work on one of the flattened cardboard boxes I’ve placed on the ground to catch any drips. And I am genuinely amazed. There is no hesitation or dithering; the brush flows across the cardboard with the confident, smooth movements of a true professional.
For the first time ever, I see Dafydd completely focused: he is a changed person, an artist. I’m mesmerised too. Because what he’s painting with such deft, delicate brushstrokes is a picture of the shopfront.
‘That’s fantastic,’ I say. ‘Can we keep it?’
‘Not finished.’ Dafydd holds his brush above the paint tin and stares at the picture. ‘Flowers.’
I look again at what he’s done. The flower trough in his picture is empty.
Dafydd re-dips his brush and works it across the cardboard once more. Only he’s not adding flowers; instead, he paints a stooping figure, knife in hand, cutting the blooms from their stems. The figure is not detailed, there is only so much that can be done with emulsion on cardboard, but even so the likeness is unmistakable. Caught red-handed, or more precisely painted red-handed, who needs CCTV when Dafydd can reproduce such a telling image?
Eloise: 11 days until Isabella Garrante book launch
I’ve finished chatting with an early-morning Jack Russell walker about the merits of compostable poo bags, and turned to see Dafydd wandering away and Garth staring, gobsmacked, at the piece of flattened cardboard box on the footpath.
‘What is it?’
I move closer and look down. A detailed rendition of our shopfront features a familiar figure. There they are, snipping the head from one of Kitty’s blooms, whilst another four stems rest nearby.
‘I told him to leave the brush alone,’ says Garth quietly, his expression a mix of wonder, guilt and incredulity.
‘Well, you weren’t to know. We’ve only ever seen him as he is now. He was someone’s baby once, and a little boy, and to skip forward quite a bit presumably he’s had some art training. I mean, look at the detail and the skill. There’s no mistaking the culprit.’
Garth, still fixated on the painting, just shakes his head.
‘Anyway, I’ll put this somewhere safe and think about what I’m going to say to Kitty.’ I take the cardboard from him. ‘You can get back on with the job. Do you still need my help? I can get the shop set up for the day and join in for a bit if it’s quiet . . .’
‘No no no,’ says Garth. ‘It’s very kind of you but you’d best man the till and break the news to Kitty when she arrives. I wouldn’t mind a coffee, though, if you’re making one.’
Of course I’m making one.
I ready the shop for the day, make the coffee, leave Garth in the clutches of an elderly gent who is regaling him with unsolicited painting advice, and await the bloom bandit who will turn up to collect a magazine as usual.
Kitty arrives, slightly late and a little flustered, trailing her morning’s haul from the Veggie Shed.
‘Kitty. I have something to show you.’
‘Oooo, what?’
I pull the cardboard masterpiece from its hiding place and rest it on the bench.
Kitty seems to have no idea what she’s looking at. She studies the detail, her eyes flitting over the scene.
‘Did Garth do that? It’s really good, but why did he do it on a crappy piece of cardboard? Very arty, I must say and—’
And there it is. She’s seen it. She looks up.
‘What the actual? Why did Garth paint this?’
‘It wasn’t Garth, it was Dafydd. A dark horse, that boy. I think he saw the theft in progress and he’s captured that moment for us.’
‘One of those moments at least.’
‘The wee bugger will be in this morning,’ I say, busying myself with the jug again, and busting out the book club biscuits. This is an emergency after all.
‘I’m not sure I should deal with it. I don’t know if I can get the words straight.’
‘Leave it with me, I’ll sort it out. There must be a reason, but it has to stop.’
As expected, a familiar rumbling roll announces the arrival of the flower thief herself. ‘What’s Garth doing? Is he any good at that sort of thing? Prince Harry’s on this week’s cover, isn’t he. I might have to get a copy for Susan next door.’ In she bustles, leg warmers pulled up over leopard-print leggings.
Sensing something off in our unusual silence, Meryl looks up and comes to a halt in front of the counter. She looks from Kitty, seated in the corner but staring right at her, to me, eyeballing her from a mere metre away. I haul out the cardboard once more and slowly place it on the counter, making a deal of facing it towards the perp. Meryl’s face goes satisfyingly pale, her cheeks sag and she breathes out slowly.
‘Oh. It’s not what it looks like.’
‘Please explain,’ I say.
‘I’m so sorry. Well, I’m not really and you won’t be when you see. I had no choice. They had to be found, purloined, foraged, and it wouldn’t have been authentic if I’d asked you, would it?’ She’s close to hyperventilating. There’s rather a lot of that going on around here these days.
I shove a biscuit into her hand and usher her towards the comfy chair, the one there’s not much chance of getting out of unassisted.
Garth’s elderly painting expert approaches, eyeing Meryl warily.
‘Ah, Garth said the new Shepherds and Shearers was in. I’d like two, please, if possible. George’s bitch is in it.’
‘Yes, of course, just a sec.’ Going with the assumption that we’re talking sheep dogs, I move towards the magazine wall. My peripheral vision clocks Meryl attempting to heave herself out of the chair.
‘Don’t move, lady.’ It’s said sternly enough to ensure the art expert purchases his magazines with impressive speed.
I return to Meryl and take the upright chair to give me the advantage of height and formal posture.
‘Start at the beginning please,’ I say in the quietly menacing tone that I would use on young offenders.
Meryl nods obediently and clears her throat.
‘Pilfered Petals,’ she says.
‘Go on.’
‘It’s a guerrilla art project I’m involved in. The theme is flowers, but not as they’ve been represented before. The subject matter has to have been stolen, and I thought it would be wonderful to include you, make a good story, I know how you love good stories. Obviously, I couldn’t tell you. It had to be proper theft. And there’s to be an exhibition and I’m going to invite you all and I have something very special for you.’ She breathes in deeply, then deflates and stares at her hands in her lap.
I’m trying to remain appropriately cross with her, mainly for Kitty’s sake, but really, what an intriguing idea. I glance over at Kitty, whose face has lost its bereft look and is showing something more akin to interest. There’s a contemplative silence.
‘Where’s the exhibition? When?’ asks Kitty.
‘At the library. I’ve done something really very beautiful, Kitty, honestly I have, you’ll love it. It’ll all be worth it, I promise. I’ll bring the proper invitations in tomorrow.’
She looks to Kitty again, pleading, then she snaps her focus back to me.
‘You’re not going to call the cops on me, are you? Eloise, please no, it was for a good thing.’
‘No, I’m not calling the cops, Meryl. It was just some bloody flowers.’ There’s a sharp intake of breath from the corner and I hastily amend. ‘Very lovingly planted and nurtured flowers, and you really owe Kitty big time, but we can sort it out between ourselves.’
Her relief is like a ray of sunshine.
Kitty is not to be easily mollified. She ignores Meryl and goes back to riffling through her folder.
‘Who created that anyway?’ asks Meryl, peering closely at her painted image.
‘Dafydd.’
‘Oh my goodness. Teddy. Of course he did.’
Garth: 8 days until Isabella Garrante book launch
Today has been a good day, both with sales in the shop and with respect to the launch. Rose from the publishing company has got back to me, IFG is keen to use the big top and, better still, the publishers are going to arrange it; all I have to do is wait for a call from the circus to finalise details.
Relieved as I am that Sherlock Tomes is no longer the location for the actual launch, I’ve stayed late to finish sprucing up the shopfront. The big window is now all done, and the bright new pōhutukawa and gold looks fantastic. I managed to prep the other little window during the day so am getting stuck into painting it, too. By the time dusk is falling and the moths are pestering the fluorescent tubes outside the shop, I’ve finished the first coat. I’ll get another one done in the morning and then complete the look with the gold detailing tomorrow night.
I tidy my gear and prepare to leave via the back door. Eloise has taken the Tomato, so I’ve agreed to walk . . . A moment’s doubt grabs me: did I lock the front door? Yes, I know I did. But then again maybe I didn’t. I’m going to have to go and check. Otherwise, I’ll get home and be so anxious I’ll have to turn around and come all the way back.
I walk through the darkened shop, grab the front door handle and give it a good shake, ensuring it’s locked, and then for good measure say, ‘I’ve rattled the door.’ Which is the code Eloise and I shout to each other when we lock up of an evening to prevent us going through this rigmarole.
I exit into the service area where we and the other adjoining shops and businesses have parking and take deliveries. This late at night the car park is mostly empty, with only a few cars parked up near the cinema and a couple of motorbikes occupying a space nearer the shop. One of them has those weird handlebars like Eloise was on about. What were they called again? Monkey bars? No, that’s a swingy thing on an assault course . . . Racking my brain, I turn to the back door and fumble the key at the lock. That’s it! Not monkey bars, ape-hangers, that’s right—
I’m congratulating myself when gravel crunches behind me and a voice says, ‘Fuckin’ bag him.’
A fist slams into my back and pain explodes through my right kidney. My knees buckle. Only my palms on the flat of the door keep me from falling. I rasp in a shallow breath, struggling for air. What the fuck? Is this Pinter’s doing?
Hands like clamps grab my arms, forcing them behind my back. Rough material drags across my face; a thick black sack is thrust over my head. My wrists are pressed together, and plastic cuts into my flesh, zip-ties yanked tight around them.
I should shout to Mei at the dairy next door for help, but I can hardly breathe and with the adrenaline rush chilling my veins it’s all I can do not to puke. I don’t know how many assailants there are, but they’re dragging me away from the shop now, my feet scuffing over the asphalt, my legs struggling to support my weight. The metallic ring of a van door sliding open bleeds through the bag. My shins collide hard with the vehicle’s sill, and I’m bundled inside. My hooded face smacks into floor and I roll onto my side. The door slams shut behind me with a definitive clunk.
The van begins to move, smashing over the pothole near the cinema that no one seems willing to fix. Motorbikes roar to life, their exhausts loud over the rumbling van and my own ragged breathing. Maybe it’s the adrenaline kicking in, but I experience a moment of calm, a serene clarity where everything falls into place: this is the Black Dogs, and I’m well and truly screwed.
Sucking in several deep breaths I try to expand the clarity and force away the oncoming panic. I focus on the pain in my kidney, then on the noise and motion of the van. We’ve turned right out of the car park and gone over two roundabouts; if we hit a third, it means we’re going towards Hastings. Yes, a third roundabout and the smell of the McDonald’s confirms this.
I’m unsure how this information will help but it makes me feel better that I know where we’re heading. I cast my mind back to my escape and evasion training in the Marines. Rule one, don’t get caught. Well, that ship has sailed. Rule two, escape at the earliest opportunity. The longer you’re captive the harder it gets for you to escape, as the systems for keeping you secure become more robust.
In the police, during riots, we used plasticuffs for securing prisoners. These were like giant zip-ties and had been specifically designed for the task; they were a bugger to escape from. Fortunately, despite what the movies would have you believe, shop-bought zip-ties are easy to snap. Unfortunately, violent action is needed to break them and I’m certain that at least one person is sitting in the van with me.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask, trying to keep the fear from my voice.
‘Fuck up.’
A booted foot hits me in the chest for emphasis. It’s not a full-blown kick, but it’s going to leave a bruise if I get out of this alive — which is perhaps a rash assumption.
I move my head slightly, trying to peer through the bag. The material is thick and the van’s interior is dark; I see nothing.
‘Keep still, or I will fuck you up.’
‘I can’t breathe.’ I add extra distress to my voice, hoping that now I’m secure in the van my captors might remove the bag if they think I’m going to die.
‘Not my fuckin’ problem.’
I cough as if I’m choking. ‘It might be if I arrive dead.’ Logic suggests that I’m supposed to reach my destination alive or they would have shanked me at the shop.
‘You’re gonna fuckin’ arrive dead if you fuckin’ carry on.’
A heavy boot lands on my neck, pushing my face against the van’s floor. I don’t struggle or complain further. I’ve broken one of the key teachings of resistance to interrogation training: be the grey man, unimportant, unnoticed, unthreatening. It was worth the gamble; if the bag had been removed, I’d be in a better position to make a run for it. Cuffed and blindfolded as I am, the escape option is rapidly vanishing.
The van slows and turns before coming to a stop. The engine dies and unintelligible shouts sound over the rattle of a roller door closing. A strong hand grabs me and hauls me into a sitting position.
‘You fuckin’ try anything in front of the boss and you’re fuckin’ dead.’
My eyebrows raise, although thanks to the bag no one can see. The thug has let slip some information that may prove useful. I’m going to see the boss. Of course, there are going to be a number of different bosses depending on the thug’s status in the organisation, but from the way he said it I get the distinct impression that this boss is important.
The van’s door slides open and a second set of hands hauls me out. Not knowing where the ground is, I stumble, like you do when you miss the bottom step of a flight of stairs in the dark. Fortunately, the gangster’s grip on my arms stops me from falling. Instead, he and his mates half guide me, half drag me along until I hear the rustle of plastic beneath my feet. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckety fuck. I’ve watched enough Guy Ritchie movies to know what this means.
I’m never going to see Eloise again. Have I told her enough that I love her? And what about poor Stevie? He’s not going to understand where I’ve gone.
‘Ditch the bag and cuffs,’ instructs a voice.
The sack is ripped from my head, and I blink instinctively in the fluorescent-tubed light, even though it really isn’t that bright. A blade clicks behind me, then the plastic zip-ties digging into my wrists fall away.
I’m in some sort of industrial unit. Chains hang from the iron girders, and on a peg board on one wall hang a variety of power tools, or torture implements: the two are pretty much interchangeable to the enlightened criminal.
Five massive Black Dogs stand in a semi-circle around me. To my front is an older man leaning on a rusted oil drum and smoking a cigarette. He has greying shoulder-length hair and what in other circumstances might be described as a kind face. Like the other Black Dogs, he wears a patched leather waistcoat. Unlike them, he is wiry rather than muscle-bound, not that I take any comfort from this fact; it’s a bit like when you see a small bouncer, you know they have to make up for their size with skill or a well-honed violent streak.
The man looks me up and down and takes a long pull on his cigarette before discarding it in the oil drum. He blows a stream of smoke into the air, then says, ‘Tracey Jervis. You were told to fucking leave it.’
Eloise: 8 days until Isabella Garrante book launch
I’m home putting the finishing touches to a book review that’s due for the local rag tomorrow when my thoughts turn to cooking something decent for dinner given that Garth will have fuelled himself on coffee and biscuits whilst painting.
Me: Shall I get the tea on?
Garth: Yeah won’t be long. Looking forward to seeing my Tonks x
Huh? What’s up with him? How will I know he’s the sender if he doesn’t sign his name at the end? Odd that he said Tonks and not Stevie, too. Lovely Tonkawoo . . . it’s been a while now . . . but odder still that there’s a kiss. The paint fumes must have gone to his head.
I chop garlic, onions and ginger, chuck a bit of coconut oil in the pan and soften it all up a wee bit, huffing in that golden smell. In go cauliflower, chickpeas, coconut milk, tomato paste and a big dump of garam masala. Smells amazing. I’ve tried to resist cracking open a beer but to no avail. There’s nothing quite like a cold beer whilst cooking a curry. Or eating it for that matter.
I clean up as I go, and stick the rice on. That bloke of mine better be home soon if he doesn’t want soggy cauliflower and a wife two beers in.
Stevie sits right behind me as I stand at the sink rinsing and scrubbing what no longer needs to be used. He helpfully leans against my legs so I know he’s there and don’t fall over him or boot him one by accident. I can see the driveway from the kitchen and expect to see Garth every time I look up. But nope, just the neighbour’s weirdly silent electric car gliding by, like Stevie when he wants to slink off in secret.
I turn the hob off. Soggy cauli and rice and two beers it is then.
