The Bookshop Detectives: Dead Girl Gone, page 5
‘It’s intriguing, though, isn’t it? You want to know what happened to Tracey as much as I do. And I had a thought . . .’
‘Oh here we go . . .’
‘There’s that lady at book club that you’re quite friendly with. Her husband’s a Detective Inspector, isn’t he?’
‘Chloe?’
‘Probably. Slim, kind of orangey hair.’
‘It’s called strawberry blonde and yes, that’s Chloe. She’s a doctor in the ED at the hospital.’
‘Useful.’
‘How did you ever describe people in police reports? You’re crap at recognising faces. I have to go through, like, twenty steps before you know who I’m talking about.’
‘I don’t know what you mean. Anyway, we had codes. IC1 and such.’
‘So, you know Dave Meehan, right?’
‘Who?’
‘Dave, the guy who orders the tractor magazine.’
‘Errr . . .’
‘IC1, quite short, swarthy. Wrinkly, you know, from spending so much time in the sun.’
Garth sticks his bottom lip out and shakes his head slowly.
‘Wears camo a lot of the time. Lent you that book about Malta in World War Two.’
‘Oh yeah, Dave! I really like him. Good bloke.’
I smirk, but it’s lost on Garth who is smiling and beginning a monologue on Operation Pedestal. I know I proved my point.
We’re silent as we tackle the last ascent, and I catch up with Stevie to get him back on the lead before the road.
‘This is my favourite bit, this last steep bit,’ says Garth through ragged breaths, sweat soaking his face. ‘Gives me a sense of achievement.’
‘It’s all downhill from here,’ I say, and we trudge on and Stevie strains homeward as the light fades. I watch my feet, negotiating tree roots and rocks, glancing up only occasionally to where lights in the distant Village are beginning to appear. Someone over there knows what happened to Tracey. I shiver. It must be the cool of the evening.
As we re-enter the Redwoods, I hear a blunt crunch from the direction of the boundary where the land gently rises to a hill.
‘What’s that, just through the trees?’ I whisper. ‘Is that a person?’
I weave carefully among the tree roots and pinecones, Garth instinctively knowing not to ask any of his silly questions and just follow.
A new fence has been erected and a sign reads: ‘Danger. Construction Area. Keep out.’ I spot Stevie happily snoofling in the leaf mould. The site hasn’t progressed much; there’s a modular unit in place as a site office, and a digger-type thing presumably responsible for the large swathe of cleared ground. A number of trees have been wrenched up, and trunks, branches and roots litter the edges of the site where survey pegs have been pounded into the earth.
Garth taps my arm. He raises his hand to his brow, then puts his finger to his lips. He points.
There’s a man digging with a spade, but he’s not a construction worker. He’s tall, athletic, wearing a royal-blue suit. His brown Chelsea boots are caked in mud, and as he turns in our direction I see he’s wearing a pale-lilac shirt and violet tie, completely incongruous for his task. He looks right at me through the deepening gloom. Instinctively, Garth and I make to fade back further into the tree cover. He slams his spade to rest upright in the dirt, pivots and walks unhurriedly over the hill.
It’s Franklin White.
Garth: 42 days until Isabella Garrante book launch
I’m back in my favourite corner at Oddbeans waiting for local historian and city councillor Nick Feather. He’s published a number of coffee-table books on the history of Havelock North, Hastings and Napier which have been good sellers in the shop, and I figure if anyone can give me some insight into how to do some digging around the Tracey Jervis case, it will be him.
My phone beeps. It’s a text from Nick saying he’s going to be a little late, some problem with a client’s IR330, which I presume is a tax form and not some new type of Mercedes. Nick’s also an accountant.
‘What do you think of Nineteen Eighty-Four?’ asks Kim as she sets down my latte.
‘The book or the year?’ I have no idea how old Kim is, certainly much younger than me and definitely not alive in the eighties.
‘The book.’ She gives me a quizzical look and I hear Eloise’s voice in my brain, ‘Weirdo’, which is a fair comment. I try to redeem myself by saying something eloquent about the surveillance state and Big Brother, but I haven’t read Nineteen Eighty-Four since I was in school and I don’t sound convincing even to myself. I was fifteen or sixteen and the main thing I remember is Winston and Julia shagging.
Kim departs, leaving me with thoughts of my English teacher. He’s drumming nicotine-stained fingers on an old school desk that still has proper ink wells. His fingernails tap the graffiti-scarred wood as he drills quotes into us by rote: ‘Who controls the past controls the future; who controls the present controls the past.’ I take a sip of coffee, savouring the bitter milky taste, and muse on how apposite those remembered words from thirty-odd years ago now seem. Who might be trying to dig up Tracey’s past to control the future? And should we really be a part of it?
I am nearly done with my latte by the time Nick arrives. He is in his late fifties, wisps of grey hair clinging to the sides of his head. He sits opposite and I order more coffees.
‘You’ll get the jitters,’ says Nick, staring at my second cup.
‘I think I’ll be good.’
‘So, how can I help?’ he asks.
‘Long story short, I’ve become interested in the Tracey Jervis case and I wondered what you know about it.’
‘Not much, I’m afraid. It’s too recent history for my interests.’ Nick rubs a hand over his pate. ‘Ruined Franklin White’s chance of election, I remember that.’
‘Election?’
‘He was standing for Action Now that year. Had a good chance, too, until the rumours started flying.’
‘To do with Tracey?’ I ask, not entirely sure that I’m managing to keep up.
‘She was helping him out with the campaign, and rumours were she was helping out in other ways, too. Many reckoned that was why Franklin financed her poetry book.’
I take a moment to process. I knew that Franklin was a suspect, but now I see why.
‘Of course nothing was ever proven,’ continues Nick. ‘But politics is a fickle friend, no smoke without fire and all that. Action Now, big on law and order, and it just didn’t look good.’ He glances about as if to be sure we’re not overheard. ‘Funny you should mention it. I hear he’s intending to run for council this year.’
‘Is he still affiliated with Action Now?’
‘I heard that he bankrolled the local candidates at the last election, although he can’t be seen to be officially connected. Not yet at least.’
‘You reckon being a local councillor is a stepping stone?’
‘It’s worked for plenty of others and he’s desperate to get signoff on his new development, which will be a damn sight easier if he can’ — Nick makes air quotes — ‘bargain from inside.’
‘Tracey’s disappearance doesn’t taint him for that?’
‘It was a long time ago and he’s shrewd. Makes donations in the right places, has the local press onside, and some would say greases the right palms. I reckon he’s in with a chance.’
In with a chance unless someone digs up the past as a smear campaign. From what I’ve heard of Franklin White I’m no fan, but I don’t want to be played for a fool doing someone’s dirty work for them either. That said, I’m becoming more and more intrigued with the vanishing of Tracey Jervis.
‘Say I wanted to research the local papers from the time. How would I do that?’
Nick places his hands on the table and locks his fingers together as an almost miraculous transformation occurs. He changes from councillor and accountant to historian: his eyes sparkle, his shoulders lift, and he launches forth into the subject which he is clearly most passionate about.
By the time he finishes, his latte is still untouched; mine is empty once more and I’m infected with his enthusiasm. I’m all set to dash off to the library and riffle through the drawers of microfiche.
Nick takes his first sip of coffee and looks through to the giant coffee-bean sculpture outside. ‘It’s funny that you chose to meet here. Or was that deliberate?’
‘Deliberate, why? I just like their coffee.’
‘So not because Oddbean went missing at the same time as Tracey?’
‘Oddbeans went missing?’ I feel there is some vital fact I am lacking for this exchange to make sense. How can a café go missing?
Nick picks up on my confusion. ‘Back in the late nineties Oddbean, the person, was a local entrepreneur and artist of sorts. He had a studio and workshop down on Cooper Street.’
‘What do you mean “of sorts”?’ I glance enviously at Nick’s barely touched drink.
‘Well, he was a bit of a hell-raiser. The local lothario, if you believe the gossip.’
‘And he went missing when Tracey did?’
‘He did, but no one seemed that bothered. It didn’t make such a good story as the disappearance of a Dux student schoolgirl, and to be honest most people were glad to see the back of him.’
‘Why? What had he done?’
‘Well, if the rumours were true, most of the female clientele of The Clubhouse in the Village.’ Nick glances sideways and lowers his voice. ‘And some of the males, too.’
Pretty much everyone in the Village has heard rumours about The Clubhouse being a swingers’ bar, but I’ve always been sceptical, putting it down to idle gossip and the need to make Havelock North seem more cosmopolitan. Maybe I’m wrong and there’s a historic basis for the speculation. ‘Do you think he was involved in Tracey’s disappearance?’
‘Really, I have no idea. I didn’t mix in those circles.’ Nick sits back as if distancing himself from any suggestion of impropriety. ‘But lady-killer by name . . .’
‘The police must have looked into it.’
‘I suppose so, but if they ruled out any connection with Tracey, they may have been happy to let it slide.’
The police never have enough resources to do everything properly, so I can understand that the case of a missing lothario is likely to be considered less worthy of attention than that of a missing schoolgirl. However, the expression ‘happy to let it slide’ is an odd one and suggests there’s something more, something Nick’s not telling me. I fish for more detail. ‘The police were happy to see the back of Oddbean?’
Nick leans closer. ‘The other rumour about Oddbean and The Clubhouse was that he hung out there because he could fix you up with whatever drugs you wanted. Some said that was how he got the ladies, because he certainly wasn’t a looker in the traditional sense. Quite effeminate really.’
I’d encountered similar attitudes in my own policing career — hell, I was probably guilty of thinking the same when one low-life pusher murdered another. ‘One less dealer on the street wasn’t a problem they were too concerned about, then? A bit of summary justice saving them a job.’
‘It’s just conjecture. As I said, I didn’t really follow either case at the time.’
I look down at my empty cup and realise that I have missed the whole point that started this thread of conversation. ‘So, the café is named after this character Oddbean?’
‘He’d started to roast coffee at his gallery and had generated a good following. I’d heard from another accountant that it was making more money than his art. Franklin White had heard that, too, and bought this place with the intention of going into partnership with him. When Oddbean disappeared, Franklin found another roaster and went ahead anyway.’
‘But he still named it after Oddbean?’
‘Franklin and Oddbean were old school buddies. At one point they were thick as thieves. I guess he felt like he still owed him. That’s why they have that concrete monstrosity outside.’
‘The giant coffee bean? I quite like it.’
Nick dabs at his lips with a napkin. ‘It was Oddbean’s last creation before he disappeared.’
Eloise: 42 days until Isabella Garrante book launch
I’m ringing up the transaction for Sharon’s usual TV Guide when the back door slams and a voice calls ‘Only me!’
Kitty comes through dragging a veggie bag with her. Celery leaves wisp from the top, mirroring Kitty’s tawny hair, long strands of which have escaped from her scrunchie. A lovely fresh smell emanates from the bag; it makes me feel healthy by association.
Kitty is a fabulous bookseller whom we recruited from book club. Though naturally quiet and contemplative, she is able to infect customers with her love of reading and willingness to talk plot and character at length. She’s also quite tall, which comes in handy for reaching books on the high shelves behind the counter.
‘Oh, lovely pants,’ says Sharon, alluding to Kitty’s blue cords adorned with sunflowers and an orangey bloom I don’t know the name of. ‘I was just telling Eloise about my hyacinths. I’m growing them indoors and the smell is amazing, but they keep flopping over.’
‘Ah,’ says Kitty, dumping her bag in the general dumping zone in the stock room, retying her hair up into a ponytail as she emerges. ‘It must be too hot for them.’
That’s my cue to pass the talking stick to Kitty and wander off. I tinker with the emails and call out to a couple of other customers. They’re happy to browse.
Sharon’s leaving and Kitty, now armed with her little watering can, walks with her, clearly intending to give her flower box outside the shop window the necessary motherly love. I’ve only just turned my back to put the kettle on when I hear a shriek from the front door.
‘What is it, Kitty?’
‘My babies,’ she whispers, pointing.
I hurry outside, and my heart sinks. Her latest display of marigolds have had their heads chopped off. Same thing happened a couple of weeks ago to the pansies. Once is mischief; twice is beginning to look like a pattern.
I survey the scene carefully. It’s neat and tidy; the blooms having been lopped with surgical precision. Hmm. So the perp is someone who knows how to use a sharp blade — maybe a doctor or a butcher. Still, there’s no clue at all as to motive.
Kitty and I wander back inside the shop.
‘Anything on the CCTV?’ I ask.
Kitty scrolls through folders, trying to find the overnight footage.
‘It wasn’t recording,’ she says, throwing her hands up in frustration.
‘Damn it.’ I fiddle with the buttons, but she’s right; there’s nothing. Garth was supposed to have looked at it last week but clearly he’s forgotten. I’m going to have to nag him until he’s fixed it. No more flower babies will fall victim unrecorded. A functional CCTV might also, I realise, have picked up the person who dropped the mystery envelope on the doorstep. Double damn it.
A sniff from Kitty pulls me back to the present.
‘I’m so sorry for your loss, Kitty. Do you want to pop up to the garden centre now and get some more?’
‘No. I need time to grieve. I’ll go tomorrow morning on my way in.’ As she walks away, I notice there is one golden petal laid gently on the book she’s been reading. It makes my throat tighten.
Our CCTV is great for the inside of the shop and has proved invaluable. Last Christmas a lady swore blind she’d left a bag of expensive cashmere stuff at the counter and made me check our footage. In she came with the bag, and out she went with it 15 minutes later — no abandoned cashmere in the bookshop. Another woman had a whale of a time shoving board books down her coat until I leapt around the corner yelling ‘Put them back!’ She did, and ran off, and then I spent too long overthinking why she would want to steal books for babies and feeling terrible for being a capitalist pig.
I get to wondering what CCTV evidence was found when Tracey went missing. It should have been able to track her if she was in the Village. How many cameras would there have been in Havvers? Some at least, surely? There are even cameras at Te Mata Park now.
A familiar scent wafts my way. Dafydd is over in the art section. He’s flushed and sweaty, probably been sunbathing on the Green. There’s a pie wrapper sticking out of his pocket, so at least he’s had something to eat. He’s addressing an incorporeal friend as he peruses the shelves. ‘Working knowledge of plant morphology . . . observation of the growth habit . . . ontogenetic transitions . . .’ Dafydd accentuates his words with gestures, waving his remarkably slim, elegant fingers around like tendrils on the breeze, albeit quite earthy ones.
He stops, mid-flow, tendrils frozen, and looks over at me.
‘Morning, Dafydd. Did you notice that Kitty’s flowers have been damaged?’
‘Desecrated. She should just buy some.’
‘Yes, she’s getting a fresh lot in the morning.’
‘Hmm. Art is theft though, I suppose.’
He turns back to the art books, hands now still by his sides, cryptic conversation over. That’s all I’m getting out of him today.
A golden and glossy young woman strides down the centre aisle of the shop, stopping short and coughing when she gets a whiff of our other patron’s special scent. Staring at Dafydd, she opens her mouth to speak, and to save any awkwardness I hop down the steps towards her.
‘Mōrena. Do you need a hand with anything?’
She aims her glittering smile at me and asks for the new book by a popular Instagrammer who has apparently been blabbing about it on her page. I explain it’s not in the shops until October and Ms Golden says she would like to pre-order it. I grab the folder, take her details, and notice her looking at Dafydd; my over-protective hackles rise. Her face relaxes and she calls a soft ‘Good morning, Dafydd.’ He offers a shy smile and bolts for the door. I check my prejudices and mentally re-christen Ms Golden, Ms Heart of Golden.
Next in is our favourite courier, Fetu, dumping about ten boxes of what look like new releases. That’ll perk Kitty up. He peers into the lolly bowl Amelia leaves for him and him only, and finds treasure. He lets out a whoop and grabs a mini-Crunchie.
