The Bookshop Detectives: Dead Girl Gone, page 20
Me: Where you at Picasso?
I’m starting to feel uneasy — I hate not knowing where people are — but tell myself to get a grip. He’ll be washing his paintbrushes: three million rinses for each brush.
I’ve just sat down to do some reordering for the shop when Stevie explodes into the room. He’s got something in his mouth. It’s the courier bag — the one in which the copy of See You in September arrived.
‘Stevie, come,’ I say calmly.
He looks at me, braced in the crouch that tells me he’s just about to take off again.
‘Stevie, leave,’ I say, lowering my voice and attempting to sound stern.
He scampers away, bag in gob, hoofing around the coffee table and hiding behind the old green armchair.
I shall have to resort to bribery if I want the bag back in one piece.
I go into the kitchen for a doggo treat and Stevie bounds after me, empty mouthed and triumphant. He receives his veal jerky or whatever horror Garth has bought for him, and we both go back into the living room and survey the small amount of carnage. Stevie looks pleased with himself — he has, after all, won on two counts — but doesn’t go to grab the bag again. He’s managed to shred quite a bit of it.
I pick up the first pieces of torn-up, slobbery mush and realise it’s too shiny and crinkly to be the usual package stuffing. It actually looks like . . . photo negatives. It is. It’s a whole load of strips of chopped-up film, mostly of people by the looks of it. Who the hell would pack a courier bag with that? I pick all the tiny bits of weirdly dismembered arms and legs and face, and put them in an old bread bag, for want of a more suitable receptacle. Garth’s brain will explode when he sees this.
Speaking of whom. I dial his number, but it rings out to voicemail.
All motivation to do the reordering has left me. Something’s niggling at the back of my memory. I open the file of photos we scanned from the ones in Tama’s lock-up, and flick through them, hoping something will ring a bell.
There’s Tracey: golden, hopeful. There’s Trent Meek: sober, fatherly. And there’s Oddbean and his two arty friends. There’s something about the three of them, so happy, so loving. I open the browser and google Oddbean.
Mickey ‘Oddbean’ McCaughey (born Michael Patrick McCaughey, 10 September 1956) was an artist, businessman and entrepreneur, best known for his nudes.
Nudes. Why doesn’t that surprise me? I scroll down to the bit that covers ‘Disappearance’.
McCaughey was last seen in October 1999. His final piece of work, a sculpture of a coffee bean, is displayed outside the café in Havelock North that bears his name. No sightings have been reported and police state that he remains an active missing person’s case. (Citation needed).
I click on images and get a few hits. Lanky, androgynous Oddbean draped around well-dressed, good-looking people, a bit like Bowie but not as handsome. A close-up photo of a probably drunk Oddbean, mouth wide open, pontificating and gesturing, left wrist draped in a chain with a little bear charm on it. Oddbean’s café. Oddbean and Franklin announcing a business partnership. And further down, that photo. Three happy, possibly drunk friends at an art opening or somesuch. I click on it and see that this image has a caption from a newspaper article:
Oddbean (left) pictured with friends at the launch of ‘Pills and Punk: The Lost Years’.
There are examples of the photographs from the exhibition, and Oddbean is clearly trying his damnedest to appear as cool as the photographer’s subjects. I get completely sidetracked by photos of The Damned and Ramones until a grumble from Stevie alerts me to the fact that time is passing and our home is still husband/dad-less.
I ring Garth’s number and again it goes to voicemail. There’s been no reply to my last text. This is really not funny anymore.
I stick my phone in my pocket, chuck on the nearest pair of trainers and head for the stairs. Stevie joins me as soon as he hears signs of an impending trip. We’re off to go find his dad.
Garth: 8 days until Isabella Garrante book launch
The semi-circle of Black Dogs surrounding me comes closer. Their heavy boots pound against the stained concrete floor, beating out a rhythm until they are at the edge of the large plastic sheet. I remain silent, trying not to shake. In the military when you were interrogated you were only ever supposed to give your name, rank and number. All other enquiries were to be met with the stock phrase ‘I cannot answer that question, Sir.’ You weren’t even supposed to answer yes or no for fear that saying yes to a question such as ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ would be skilfully edited for propaganda purposes as the answer to the question ‘Did you burn down that village and kill innocent civilians?’
I doubt the Black Dogs pay heed to the Geneva Convention and I suspect my silence will not be tolerated here. My mind races through myriad possible responses, none of which seem likely to get me out of this unscathed. There isn’t really any wiggle room; the thugs who came into the shop couldn’t have been any less ambiguous in their demands.
The Black Dogs stand silent, menacing, waiting for some cue from their leader. My heart pounds in my ears, light-headedness making it hard to focus, then a cheerful dinging in my pocket breaks the quiet: it’s an incoming text. At this time of day, it will be Eloise.
‘You’d better get that,’ says the boss. ‘Might be important.’
Even under normal circumstances I’m not the best at reading the room. In my current predicament I have no idea whether he’s serious. I ease my hand towards my pocket, half expecting to be king-punched from behind.
‘And don’t say fucking anything that I’m going to have to break your fingers for.’
I craft my response as quickly as I can, praying that Eloise will pick up that something is wrong. I turn the screen towards the boss for him to check. He waves it away, apparently not interested, confident enough in the power of his threat, or savvy enough to know that I really can’t divulge anything vital anyway. I press send, and with it offer a little prayer, although I’m not actually religious and expect the chance of the Elder God Cthulhu saving me is as unlikely as any other deity’s intervention.
‘Now kill it,’ instructs the boss.
I hold down the off button. It’s not like I have a choice.
‘Tracey Jervis. You were told to back off,’ he says again. ‘Only, that didn’t come from me, it was a fuck-up by a couple of Dogs who thought they could make a bit of coin on the side, barking to someone else’s tune.’
Behind me there is a disturbance, murmurings and the smack of a fist on leather. I want to turn and look, only I’m like a mouse transfixed by the gaze of a snake. The boss gives a little nod, lifts his chin and points to an oil-stained patch of concrete next to him. ‘You’re gonna want to get off the plastic for this.’
I hurry to where he’s indicated as the thug with slicked-back hair who threatened me in the shop is corralled onto the plastic sheet. I take several deep breaths. I may not be out of the woods yet, but at least the person about to be savaged by wild animals is not me.
The beating is brutal, and all the more so because the victim makes no effort to defend himself. He simply takes blow after blow that would surely kill me. Even when he’s floored, no longer able to stand, he doesn’t cover up as the kicks fly.
A particularly brutal boot lands between his legs. He makes a cry like a wounded animal, then throws up on the sheet. I turn to look away and feel the boss’s hand grip the back of my head, forcing me to watch.
‘You like books, right?’ says the boss.
I nod, my gaze still fixed on the beating, which appears to be coming to an end.
‘Good, because I want to tell you a story.’ He lets go of my head. ‘Once upon a time there was a king whose wealth came from selling magic beans. All was good in the kingdom until a bunch of bandits started selling their own beans, forcing the price up so the king couldn’t afford his next shipment. That was when the king’s most trusted warrior told him about a jester who sold beans for the king, a jester that said he knew somewhere else to get magic beans. The king gave the jester a hundred thousand, only the jester disappeared along with all the money.’
I take a moment to decode the allegories. ‘And how does Tracey fit into this story?’
The boss takes out a cigarette and places it between his lips. ‘That’s what I want you to find out.’ Flipping open a Zippo in a well-practised move which is actually as cool as the boss thinks it is, he holds the flame under the cigarette’s end and inhales.
I’m still uncertain about how his rambling story relates to our investigation and what’s expected of me. On the list of things I want in my life right now, working for the Black Dogs is not just at the bottom of the list; it’s scribbled out on the other side of the paper with many lines through it.
‘There might be no connection,’ I suggest hopefully.
The boss points the cigarette at me and flicks away the ash. ‘There’s already a connection. Franklin fucking White.’
He’s right, of course, but I make one last try to get out of this. ‘The police found nothing.’
‘Cops weren’t looking the right way, were they? A schoolgirl goes missing on the same night a drug dealer disappears. Which one gets priority? They didn’t fucking care about Oddbean. I don’t fucking care about Oddbean. But I do care about who took the hundred grand.’
‘Maybe Oddbean is living it up large somewhere with your money?’ It’s a possibility and surely one he must have considered.
The boss shakes his head. ‘A smart person, a careful person, a quiet person might be able to disappear. Oddbean was none of those things. If he’d taken the money, he’d have blown it on sex and drugs, and I’d fucking well know about it.’
‘You talked to Franklin?’ I actually make air quotes with my fingers, a gesture I immediately feel stupid about.
‘Franklin was the one with connections. We couldn’t touch him then.’
A hundred grand is a lot of money, it was even more so twenty years ago, but something about this still doesn’t sit right. The boss must know there’s no chance of recovering the cash now, so what is it he really wants?
I square my shoulders and shake my head. ‘I don’t buy it. The money’s gone. Why does it matter?’ My tone is firmer than before, not challenging but businesslike. ‘I need to understand the truth if I’m to have any chance of success.’
The boss fixes his gaze on me, and I recognise the killer in him. Maybe I’ve gone too far, been too assertive. The room has gone quiet, the only sound the rustle of plastic and the groans of the pummelled Dog. The silence lengthens and I fight the urge to fill it.
‘The truth.’ The boss finishes his cigarette, drops the butt on the floor and grinds it beneath his boot. ‘The truth is I wasn’t the king back then, my papa was. It was me who vouched for Franklin and Oddbean, but it was my papa that paid the price. I owe him justice, and for that I need you to find out what happened.’
I hold my hands out, placating. ‘We’ve not really got any further than the original police investigation with Tracey, and we don’t know anything at all about Oddbean.’
The boss’s eyes harden. ‘You’d better fucking get started then, because next time you won’t be walking off that plastic.’
Eloise: 8 days until Isabella Garrante book launch
Stevie and I have just pulled up at the back of the shop when my phone dings:
Garth: At Uncommon Room.
Meet me here.
Please. Garth.
What the hell?
‘Stay there, Stevo,’ I say as I clamber out of the car. For peace of mind, I need to check Garth’s not actually in the shop.
Following instinct, I try the back door. It opens — not locked. He must be in there then.
‘Garth? What the fuck is going on?’ I yell, wishing he’d just come noodling out, face covered in red paint splats, having made a right mess of the sink behind the counter.
There’s no response. I continue down the short corridor and into the shop proper. It’s dark but I can already see from the glow of the CCTV screen and the streetlamps out front that there’s no one here. I call out again to make sure, then head back the way I came in, locking the door behind me.
I get in the car, and Stevie steps up on the passenger seat. I notice a generous rubbing of his short, silvery grey fur on the side of the seat, and the useless thought that I should really vacuum the car penetrates the worry and confusion. I buckle my belt and dial Garth’s number.
‘Just come to The Uncommon Room and I’ll explain everything,’ he says.
I can’t remember the last time I felt such relief.
‘Okay, love, see you in five.’
In the main bar Garth is sitting at a round table, nursing a whisky. Seated opposite him is Hastings’ tiniest poet, Eleanor, looking bewildered. Stevie dives under the table and curls himself up in a safe position. I drop the lead and Garth hugs me around the middle from his seated position, not letting go of that whisky for love nor money.
‘It’s okay, love, I’m here,’ I say.
Gordon brings me a pint and buggers off again.
Eleanor looks at me. ‘Not a clue. He hasn’t said a word. I’ll be in the garden having a smoke if you need me.’
I didn’t know she smoked and wonder if she’s joking. My mind is already addled, so I sit opposite my husband, take a big swig of beer, and look at him. He’s scared and confused and clearly trying to figure out where to begin. His mind moves quickly at the best of times, and I can see he’s trying to pull out a swirling thought and articulate it.
‘Black Dogs came to the shop. Got me. They want to know where Oddbean is. I was at their pad or somewhere. Then they dropped me here.’
‘Okay. Drink your whisky.’ So it was the Dogs. I’m momentarily relieved, then angry, then scared.
Garth takes a large gulp as instructed, and winces. ‘Oddbean disappeared at the same time as a hundred thousand dollars of Black Dog money. From what I can gather from the head Dog, son of the previous head Dog, Oddbean and Franklin were dealing drugs and Oddbean disappeared at the same time as a wodge of their money. Head Dog Junior wants payback.’
‘What’s this got to do with us and Tracey?’
‘We are now tasked with finding out what happened to Oddbean.’
‘Well, aren’t we in demand?’
This gets a smile. ‘It would appear we have quite a bit of non-book-related work on.’
Gordon appears with another whisky and a sizeable silver bucket of hot chips. He pats Garth on the shoulder and buggers off again.
‘Can we move in here?’ Garth asks.
‘Sure. Are you okay, really?’
‘Think so. We need to scour Tama’s paperwork for everything we can find on Franklin and Oddbean.’
‘We’re working for the Black Dogs now, too?’
‘I don’t see as we have much choice.’ Garth adjusts the positioning of the sauce in relation to the chips. ‘Besides, I reckon it’s all linked in with what happened to Tracey anyway.’
‘Okay. I have several things to tell you. Eat some chips whilst I talk. I think we need to tell Tama about what just happened. And Stevie found something odd.’
I fill Garth in about the negatives in the courier bag, and am treated to a front-seat view of a surprised open gob half full of masticated chips.
‘Close your mouth, please. Now I reckon we need to talk to Meryl as soon as possible. She told me she’s known Dafydd since they were teens. It would be good to find out what happened to him and how much they both know about what Oddbean was up to.’
Garth nods and thinks. I take his hand and he gives mine a squeeze.
‘I’m all right. Sorry to have worried you,’ he says.
‘Yes, well. Next time you go rampaging off to gang pads you could at least let me know. That cauliflower will be inedible by now.’
‘That is indeed the nature of cauliflower.’
Eleanor comes back into the bar and takes the empty chair at our table.
‘Glad to see beer and chips are still the cure for what ails you.’
‘And whisky.’ Garth is still clinging to his glass for dear life.
‘I have Tracey’s poems with me. I’ve been carrying them around since the other night, moping about Tracey and dwelling on if I did enough to help her.’
Eleanor rummages in her huge red leather bag, pulls out a folder and hands it to me.
‘I put the two that I thought most of interest on the top. They’re not her best, but I found them rather illuminating. And they’re mercifully short.’
I read aloud. Garth doesn’t have his glasses on and the light is dim. ‘It’s called ‘Trapped’:
‘The bear prowls but he’s outside the cage,
His demands ever present, ever increasing, ever there.
There’s no escape, no rest,
He prowls and growls
Incessant, repressant,
Claws grasping, breath rasping,
Always there, the unbearable bear.
‘That’s a pretty bad last line,’ I say.
‘Harsh,’ says Garth.
‘It’s not the worst daddy-issues poem I’ve ever read,’ says Eleanor.
I put the poem aside and read the title of the next: ‘Green’:
‘He holds me like a precious new leaf,
My fragility in the palm of his hand.
I am a new thing: green.
Green as his grass,
Fresh and precious but soon,
Inevitably, we fall apart,
And I swap one prowling bear for another.
The green has worn away,
Richness fading to rust.
With green I escape.’
‘That’s not too shabby. I like the call-back to the bear motif,’ says Garth.
‘Hmm,’ says Eleanor, wrinkling her nose. ‘I’ll leave them with you. That’s enough nauseating juvenilia for me.’ She gets up and goes back out into the garden.
‘Green as his grass. Tracey knew about the drugs,’ I say. ‘Did she nick off with some of the drug money?’
