The Bookshop Detectives: Dead Girl Gone, page 6
I sort the boxes into which goes with what and lug the first three through to make a start. There’s another bloody split delivery and I’m pretty sure it will match up with yesterday’s. As predicted, Kitty spots the ‘new release’ sticker.
‘I’ll do stock. I’m in no mood for people after the morning I’ve had,’ she says.
I leave her to it and turn to address the family who have just poured in, some instinctively flowing right to Children’s, laughing at the quotes on the chalkboards and staring up at the Invisible Dragon currently in her birdcage on top of one of the card stands (she’s quite a small dragon).
Aha, they’re marvelling at things. I smell fresh blood and wander forth to beguile them.
Garth: 41 days until Isabella Garrante book launch
The steel tape measure retracts, rattling along the length of the bookshelf as Liam scribbles more numbers into his dog-eared notebook. He’s the owner of Village Timber and a good customer of ours, which is why I’ve asked him to quote for getting our bookshelves put on castors. I reckon we’re about the same age, late forties, although he wears it better, his stocky frame showing no signs of a paunch, and not a single grey in his curly black hair.
‘What do you reckon?’ I ask. We need to be able to move the bookshelves for the IFG launch to create as much floorspace as possible.
‘It’s doable.’ Liam grimaces: never a good sign before a quote. ‘It’s more work than I figured. With the weight of the books, castors are going to rip clean out of the MDF. I’ll have to build a subframe for each unit.’
‘Expensive?’
Liam nods. ‘Just because of the time involved. I reckon you could do it yourself though.’
‘Yeah, well, Eloise reckons if I haven’t managed to do a single bookcase in ten years I’m not going to get them done in a couple of weeks.’
‘Ah. Boss’s orders?’
‘Boss’s orders,’ I confirm.
‘Thing is, mate, we’re flat tack. Earliest I could drop onto it is October.’
Damn it. The whole launch gets more and more complicated by the day. I guess we could just lift all the units to the side of the shop for the launch and then lift them back after. We’d lose a day of sales but the number of IFG books we’d shift would more than make up for it, and the kudos of hosting the reclusive author in person would do wonders for the shop, so long as we don’t stuff it up. But therein lies the rub: so long as we don’t stuff it up. I’ve crawled up to unexploded grenades with an improvised PE4 bomb, not knowing if it’s going to blow up in my face; I’ve stood behind riot shields being petrol bombed; and I’ve walked into a pub full of criminals, pretending to be one of them. All of those I was trained for. The IFG launch is something else. We’ve never done anything like this. Hell, I’m not sure anyone has.
‘Email us a ballpark figure, Liam, in case Eloise wants it done anyway.’
‘Will do.’ He tucks the stub of a pencil behind his ear. ‘I don’t suppose Lars Mytting has anything new out?’
‘No. We’re still waiting. We’ve got a non-fiction called Elderflora which looks fascinating. It’s all about the world’s oldest trees and our obsession with them.’
‘Have you read it?’
‘Not had a chance.’ Despite an O-level in woodwork and a grandfather who was a genius with wood, I don’t share Liam’s obsession. ‘Maybe you could have a read and let us know what you think?’
‘Sure, I’ll give it go. I need something new.’
I grab a copy of the book and ring up the transaction, which isn’t so much ringing it up as scanning it into the POS system. ‘Hey, I don’t suppose you’ve had any dealings with Franklin White in your line of business, have you?’
‘Why?’ There’s an immediate cooling in Liam’s manner: not necessarily hostile but wary.
I smile as if I haven’t noticed the change. ‘Eloise was at a Business Association meeting and said he was talking about a new development up at the Redwoods,’ I say, because it seems like a better explanation than we’re trying to discover if he murdered Tracey Jervis.
‘I wouldn’t touch him with somebody else’s barge pole. Steer well clear is my advice.’
‘Really?’
Liam leans in. ‘Look, mate, this is between you and me, right?’
‘For sure.’ I hold a hand over my heart. ‘Booksellers’ honour.’
‘Back in the day, Franklin started a concrete company and I was stupid enough to do some work for him. He was a shoddy payer and I wanted to get my lads sorted for a timber framing job we’d done. It ended up in a bit of a barny, and next thing I know I’ve got a couple of heavies turn up at my business threatening to put me under the foundations if I don’t back off.’
‘Fark!’ I rest my hands on the counter. ‘What did you do?’
‘I backed off, of course. These were serious guys. Wasn’t worth the risk. We got paid in the end and I’ve never worked for him since.’
‘Good to know. Steer clear of Franklin.’
‘I mean he’s not John Gotti or nothing.’ Liam makes a half-and-half gesture with his hand. ‘But he’s a wrong-un and the cops never managed to pin anything on him.’
‘Thanks for the heads-up. Enjoy the read.’
‘Will do.’ Liam waves the book at me and heads out to his truck.
I gaze at the magazine pile, then slink away like Stevie with a slipper. Wandering between the shelves I straighten books and check for any new arrivals. My two great passions are crime and fantasy, but we are not big enough to have a dedicated Crime section, or indeed to subdivide our fiction into genres, although we have recently made a Fantasy and Sci-fi corner. It used to be the Harry Potter corner but after J.K. got more radical in the expression of her views we felt uncomfortable about the HP corner. Kitty, who runs our sci-fi and fantasy book club, used the disquiet to her advantage and commandeered the space for speculative fiction, relegating poor old Harry and friends to a single small bookcase. So now the only HP in that specific corner is Lovecraft, who one could argue has committed greater crimes, but that’s a conversation for another time.
‘Morning men, starboard ten,’ comes a shout from the front door as the Admiral strides in, his silver-topped cane tapping against the floor. His neatly trimmed white hair and beard glow under the shop’s fluorescent lights, as do his cheeks which have perhaps seen too many years of port and Pusser’s Rum. He’s not actually an admiral, although he’s certainly been in the Navy. Also, I am the only man who works at the bookshop, so men is not entirely accurate. Nevertheless, I emerge from General Fiction and throw up a salute.
‘Very good, carry on, please,’ says the Admiral, acknowledging my gesture. ‘What’s new in?’
The Admiral reads only military non-fiction, so I gravitate in that direction.
‘There’s a new Max Hastings, and we’re waiting on the latest from Damien Lewis.’ I don’t mention the Peter FitzSimons; it’s about Vietnam, which for reasons best known to himself the Admiral doesn’t count as a proper war.
‘I met Max Hastings. The Falklands.’ The Admiral’s gaze drifts into the distance. ‘Didn’t like the man.’
‘We have some new books on the Balkan situation,’ I venture. This is untested waters.
The Admiral takes one of the books I offer him and flicks it open. ‘Ah, yes. You can’t trust Johnny Russian,’ he says. ‘I went to Russia once.’ His blue eyes are full of mischief. ‘I was supposed to meet a possible defector at the Moscow State Circus.’
‘What happened?’
‘Blighter never showed up.’ The Admiral raises his cane, a hand at each end, and motions it back and forth. ‘So, I ended up spending a rather fine evening with a bottle of vodka and a trapeze artist.’
For the briefest of moments I see the Admiral not as an eccentric old man with a gammy leg but as Sean Connery in From Russia with Love. ‘What about the defector?’
‘Our spooks could find neither hide nor hair of him.’ The Admiral’s smile turns downwards. ‘Not until three days later when the remains of his leg turned up in a tiger’s cage.’
Eloise: 41 days until Isabella Garrante book launch
The shop feels like a different place when it’s closed, as if it breathes deeply and settles itself, encouraging its people to do the same. No wonder Kitty loves pottering about way after closing; it’s lovely to be alone but not alone, surrounded by words and stories and ideas and concepts quietly doing their thing whilst you’re doing yours.
I settle myself behind the counter, shop’s lights off, secret-squirrel style. Opening my laptop, I see that my old Detective Sergeant, Paula Taylor, is already in the Zoom waiting room. I leave her there for just a few seconds. I’m excited to catch up but afraid of what she might tell me.
‘Ma’am,’ I say when a beaming face full of cheek and teeth fills my screen. My old DS is now DCI Taylor, Detective Chief Inspector. Her round face is still smooth, just a few crinkles around her deep-brown eyes. Lots of grey in her buzzed hair though.
‘Hahahahaha look at your pink hair, you silly old bitch. How are you doing, luv? Long bloody time no see!’
She’s already at work, though it’s only about 6.30am in the UK. She’s in a bland grey and white office with cubicles and a withered peace lily behind her. The air quality looks about 100 percent cleaner than on the first day I met her.
‘It’s been a while all right. I googled you. Major Crime no less,’ I say.
‘Yeah, East Midlands Special Ops Unit. Keeps me out of trouble. Googled you, too. Bookshop, punk hair and tattoos. Living the dream, mate.’
I feel such gratitude and affection towards this woman, and I’m so pleased to see her.
She cuts to the chase. ‘What do you want? I’ve got to get to work soon. Someone’s chucked a geezer full of stab wounds in a wheelie bin in Blackthorn.’ She seems remarkably cheerful at the prospect of a scene examination. In the swill of emotion lapping at me, I identify relief that I don’t have to attend it.
‘Pinter. Is he still inside?’
There’s a pause. Paula takes a swig from a mug emblazoned with the phonetic alphabet. It only takes a second for me to decode the message: foxtrot uniform charlie kilo oscar foxtrot foxtrot.
‘Yep, still inside. He ain’t going anywhere, is he. What the fuck you asking about him for?’
‘Something weird’s happened. A book was delivered to the shop . . .’
‘Lol, I know you’ve been out of the job a while but that doesn’t seem so unusual to me. It’s a bookshop, right?’
Cheeky bugger.
‘It came with a message for PC 60 Sherlock.’
‘Oh.’ This information shuts her up for a minute.
‘Paula, can you find out if he’s been contacting anyone out here in New Zealand? I know it’s not likely after all this time but . . .’
‘It’s fucking with your head, yeah? I’m on it. Look, I really have to go but I’ll be back to you asap, all right?’
We end the call and I’m not reassured by the speed at which she agreed to my request. Does that mean she thinks there could be something in it, or is she just trying to put me at ease?
It’s book club tonight, so I fluff about trying to get my head back into the present whilst simultaneously fretting about my old life coming to bite the arse of my current one. I get the chairs out and put the kettle on, doing my breathing exercises, staving off the sense of impending doom that I know full well is a symptom of anxiety. It will pass. It always does.
There’s a loud bang at the door: Lisa’s here, very early, as usual. For once, I’m thankful for the distraction.
I love Lisa, and she won’t mind if I carry on with what I’m doing whilst she puffs about, complains that it’s too hot or too cold, that she’s sore. She hasn’t missed book club in years, and she hasn’t read the book club book in years either. She’s loyal, voices gentle opinions on the conversation, and offers surprising insights every now and again.
‘Evening whānau,’ she shouts just as Garth and Stevie come in the back door with the wine and biscuits for the evening’s refreshments.
‘How’s life, Lisa?’ I ask, then direct, ‘Pour me a glass of that, will you?’ to Garth.
‘Ah, same old same old. I just went to the lad’s for tea and he’s starting a new job out at the port next week.’
We chat about family, mutual friends and acquaintances, and I make Lisa a cup of tea, white, one sugar.
Eventually, other book club members wander in.
Garth hands me the wine. ‘All good?’ he asks.
‘Yep. Still inside. Fill you in later.’
He ruffles my hair affectionately and in the knowledge that it will irritate me enough to distract me from worrying about the past infiltrating our perfect present. I give him a shove, and he laughs.
Most of the usual suspects drift in and I’m starting to worry that Chloe’s not coming when I see her ponytail flick round the door and swing through Non-fiction.
We’re discussing Catherine Chidgey tonight — The Axeman’s Carnival. I set the book confident there would be a great deal to discuss. The protagonist is a magpie, flitting, via a cat door, between human and bird worlds, watching, making sense of things, stealing as magpies do. Our conversation is animated, covering social media and the way it distorts the truth at the same time as exposing it, the way non-humans are a wonderful device for observing human behaviour, how the ending was deeply satisfying (me) or a tad harsh (Garth). Now it’s the bit where we go around the circle and talk about other books we’ve been reading. Notebooks come out, Google is made use of for forgotten author names and details. Hilda, a voracious reader, mentions a recent release about closed adoption in New Zealand.
‘I’m adopted,’ says Lisa.
There’s a lull whilst we all process what she’s said. I rapidly overthink my response and decide that as Lisa’s brought it up she’s okay talking about it.
‘Did you always know that, Lisa? Growing up?’ I ask.
‘Nah, I found out when I was in my teens. All Mum and Dad knew was that my biological mum was a young woman from Fiji and couldn’t afford to keep me. Probably pregnant when she got here.’
‘That sounds really hard, Lisa,’ says Chloe.
‘It is what it is. I would like to have known more but it’s not easy getting information out of authorities like that.’
There’s a bit of thoughtful quiet and a few noises of agreement. Lisa sniffs as if to end the conversation and it duly meanders elsewhere, but we collectively wrap Lisa in extra love for the rest of the evening. We all have our secrets and our hurts, and they quite often come out at book club. That’s books for you.
The meeting officially closes at about 8.45, once the next book has been set. Poor People With Money by Dominic Hoey, a shocking omission from this year’s book awards, in my opinion. We’ll see what the rest of the club think next month.
Garth potters about stacking chairs, Chloe gathers glasses and cups. I’m keen to corner her before she leaves.
‘How’s work going?’ I ask.
‘It just doesn’t stop really. There are a few quiet moments in ED, I’ll get called away for something and then boom! It’ll all kick off again. Everyone’s so exhausted . . . and I want to say “after Covid” . . . but really it hasn’t gone anywhere.’
‘So it’s as bad as the media give out?’
‘Sometimes not, but mostly yeah. I’m getting too old for this shit.’
We laugh at Chloe’s terrible Danny Glover impression and I notice she is carrying an extra weariness about her.
‘It must be the same for Tama though, eh? Police never get a break. I’ll bet you’re ready for a holiday, the pair of you.’
‘Oh yeah, Tama. I don’t know if he’s been in the force too long or something’s happening at work, but he’s been a bit low, to be honest. He’ll snap out of it. It blows hot and cold, bit like my job.’
‘It’s got to be tough. I only did ten years but that was enough.’
I hesitate, not wanting to exploit Chloe’s easy confidence but, as usual, my sticky beak wins out.
‘Hey, I was wondering if Tama, or you for that matter, could tell me about Tracey Jervis? You know that teenager who went missing back in the day? Her name came up and, I know it’s morbid, but my interest was piqued.’
‘Gosh, I haven’t heard that name in a while. Tama did work that one, yeah, just before he was promoted to Sergeant, I think. It really sat with him when they couldn’t figure out what had happened.’
‘Is it still an active case, do you know?’
‘I’m not sure, I haven’t thought about it for so long. I’ve been meaning to invite you and Garth over for a while now. How about you come for dinner and you can needle Tama about it? He needs something to pick him up — he’s been so flat.’
I can hardly believe our luck.
‘That would be great! I promise to keep it light, though. Sounds like he has enough on his plate.’
We all have cases like that, the ones that got away. My thoughts, never far from Pinter since that bloody envelope appeared, shift his way once more. After all this time he’s still controlling, still manipulating, revelling in his mind games. But only if I let him.
Garth: 40 days until Isabella Garrante book launch
Hastings Library is bright and welcoming, assuming you’re not a gang member. No, that’s unfair, I’m sure they are equally welcoming to everyone; however, since a recent spat between the East Kings and the Black Dogs where someone got thrown through a window, or defenestrated as Eloise informed me is the correct term, they’ve enforced a ban on gang patches being worn in the library. Fortunately, my burgundy hoodie with gold magnifying glass and Sherlock Tomes insignia does not fall into that category.
I am no stranger to the library, having worked with its staff on many joint ventures. Some people think this is odd, and that the bookshop would be in competition with them, but I believe we are kindred spirits, both serving our community of readers. I am, though, at a bit of a loss when it comes to the subject of doing research in the library.
