The Bookshop Detectives: Dead Girl Gone, page 9
‘Well!’ she says and bustles out of the shop as if I have just been incredibly rude.
I guess that’s one person we don’t need to worry about coming to the Isabella Garrante launch.
Eloise: 31 days until Isabella Garrante book launch
It’s been a glorious Sunday morning. Stevie is knackered after our early jaunt around the reserve and is now sleeping soundly. I’ve been looking forward to catching up with Paula on Zoom.
I log on only just before she does.
‘Watcha babes,’ says Paula.
‘Mōrena e hoa,’ I reply.
‘What?’
‘Good morning, my friend.’ I give a teasingly sweet smile. She’s always been prone to irritability when she doesn’t understand something.
‘Yeah whatever. It’s evening anyway innit.’ She sniffs.
‘How’s your dustbin death hunt going?’
‘Yeah, all right. Dead lad was a dealer. Intel says it was a couple of upstarts giving it all that trying-to-be-like-the-Krays or something.’ She takes a swig from a brightly labelled bottle. ‘Bloody gangs. Anyway, I have news for you from Belmarsh.’
I go cold as sweat breaks out on my forehead. I can’t speak.
‘You wanted me to find out what Pinter’s up to, right?’ says Paula.
I nod, get myself together. ‘Yes, absolutely. Go ahead.’
‘He’s nicely banged up, regular stints in separates for winding up other inmates, playing ’em off against each other. Idiot. Still likes to think he’s brainier than everyone else.’
‘Any comms in or out?’
‘Bits and bobs but nothing relevant to our interests.’ She pauses. ‘There was one odd thing, but I can’t link it directly to Pinter.’ She shuffles through a notebook. ‘I got my man to run a random search for calls and texts to New Zealand pinging off carrier towers in Greenwich. Someone in or very close to Belmarsh used a burner phone to make a call to a shop in . . . err . . . Pee-tone.’
‘Petone? Near Wellington?’
‘Yeah. To a bookshop, weirdly. Name of Mary’s Cat.’
‘I know it. So, Pinter’s in Belmarsh, I own a bookshop in New Zealand and he’s ringing a bookshop in New Zealand. What the fuck?’
‘Calm down. We don’t know it was him. Could be Julian Assange organising a Christmas present for his nephew or summin.’
‘Julian Assange has a nephew in Wellington?’
‘How the fuck do I know?’ Paula’s getting ratty now. ‘Point is, don’t go having kittens just yet. I’ll keep an eye on him, and you let me know if anything else weird crops up.’
‘All right. Hey, I really appreciate your help with this.’
‘So you should. Right, I’m off. I need another beer.’
And with that she leaves me with a great deal to think about, most of which I don’t want to think about. On the other hand, someone walking past Belmarsh could just have been messaging New Zealand, right? There are loads of Kiwis in London.
I have an appointment, or ‘coffee date’ as she calls it, with Danielle Bright, MP for the local area. She wants to know how things are going in the book trade in general and the retail vibe of the Village in particular. Havelock North is a high-end boutique shopping and restaurant destination, a draw card for the Bay and a high hitter in our tourism industry. Danielle wants what she calls ‘the word on the street’ and I call gossip.
We’ve arranged to meet at Oddbeans. I make sure I have a poo bag in my pocket and coax Stevie from his curled-up position on the green chair. We set out down the hill, and for once Stevie trots by my side. We pass the entrance to the boarding school, the landscaped grounds curving up towards a spectacularly designed arts centre. It’s a beautiful shape, like the rolling hills of the Bay, and is just as impressive inside: great acoustics, lovely auditorium, spaces for conferences and workshops. Today, there are girls in old-fashioned long skirts and boaters milling about fresh from chapel. One group of three are all teeth and ponytails, shoving and squealing, full of energy and confidence — they’re teenagers, though, so anything could be going on in their heads. A couple of loners move in and out of the centre like worker ants, quietly getting on with whatever they’re supposed to be doing. Which sort of kid would Tracey have been? She didn’t go to this private school with all its advantages, but she was in line to be Dux of the local high school. A worker, I reckon, keen to get on, make a difference.
As we get towards the Village centre I feel my blissed-out pupper tense up: he’s not a fan of crowds. ‘Good lad, Steve, that’s it,’ I say matter of factly, knowing that any sympathy will only double down on his conviction that there’s something to fear. If it was just Stevie and me, I’d probably have said ‘Don’t be a twat, Steve’ but we’re right in the Village and the shop has a reputation to uphold.
Danielle is already seated at one of the tables outside Oddbeans — I spy her as I’m dragged across the road. She’s impeccably turned out in a sharp suit and jacket, makeup, earrings, the lot. How do people do it? If my clothes are on the right way round, I’m happy.
She waves, tells me she’s ‘taken the liberty’ of ordering for me already, says all the right things to Stevie, who’s under the table, then dives straight into ‘the word on the street’ questions. I can only assume she has other sources of information, as I’m pretty useless on meaningful updates.
‘What about that homeless man? I hear he’s been getting a bit aggressive?’
‘Which homeless man?’ She means Dafydd, but I want to know if Danielle knows his name.
‘The one with the big coat. I spoke to Biffy at the homeware store and she’s pulling her hair out, says he’s been sleeping in the alley behind her shop and leaving, err, things behind.’
‘I think you mean Dafydd. Yes, I did hear that he’d made a nest in the alley. I think the police had a chat with him and got him to clean up a bit. What do you mean he’s been aggressive?’
Danielle goes on to describe Dafydd’s standard conversational behaviour in which only one of the participants is visible and audible. Various shopkeepers have complained to the police, and apparently to their local MP, that he’s lowering the tone and putting off customers. Danielle has the good grace to look a bit uncomfortable as she relates this.
‘I don’t mean to sound all self-righteous,’ I say, ‘but Dafydd’s a member of our community just as much as a person who lives in a big house up the hill. We have to take the slightly stinky with the perfumed, and I don’t think talking to yourself is a crime — if it was, we’d all be locked up, wouldn’t we?’
Danielle smiles and I see understanding in her eyes. For a politician she’s not a bad sort. But she’s starting to fidget. I leap in before she can scarper.
‘Hey Danielle, while I have you, I’m just wondering what you know about Franklin White?’
I’m rewarded with a small but visible shudder. Her pleasant smile freezes a little.
‘He’s running for council. He’s been out of the game for a while, so he’ll have his work cut out,’ she manages stiffly.
‘Do you like him? I know you don’t like his politics, but what’s he like as a person?’
She sighs and fixes me with her baby blues.
‘Off the record?’
I nod, hardly daring to breathe in case she spooks and dives under the table, à la Stevie.
‘The man makes my skin crawl. There’s never enough to pin anything on him but he’ll shake your hand and hold it too long, or make comments that you can’t prove are double entendres but clearly are. I’ve watched women who work with him, and they hold themselves differently, you know, all buttoned up and wary.’
‘Do you think that’s to do with Tracey Jervis going missing and his involvement with her?’
‘Gosh, that’s a long time ago. Maybe. There was talk, of course. Older man taking an interest in a teenager. He wasn’t one known for his philanthropy before he sponsored that poetry book . . . you know about that? . . . so tongues were wagging even before Tracey went missing. Then there were his extra-curricular business deals.’
‘What business deals?’
‘For years before he ran for office the first time, he was a source of, I don’t know, frustration, maybe? Intrigue? When his name came up at business group meetings I attended, there’d always be a bit of a cold breeze blow through, you know? Like people knew things about him and he made them uncomfortable.’
Like a Stevie with a bone, I push her a little further.
‘What sorts of things? More sleazy stuff?’
‘Yes and no. Rumours that if you wanted any illegal substances you’d best see what Franklin could do for you — just pop down to The Clubhouse, he’s bound to be there with his car keys in the pot, swinging. That kind of thing.’
‘Eww.’
‘Exactly. But of course it was never Franklin with the coke in his pocket. He left that to his mate, Oddbean. Why are you so interested anyway? Not thinking of voting for him, are you?’ Danielle lets out a laugh bordering on the maniacal, but manages to rein it in. Her eyes are wide and wary, though. I think she knows more but fears she’s already said too much.
‘Not my type of bloke in any way, shape or form, Danielle, don’t you worry. I’m just being nosy. Someone mentioned him in the shop, and I thought I should be better informed. I knew you’d set me straight.’
‘Yes. Well, for god’s sake don’t quote me on any of that.’ There’s the strained laugh again. I decide to put her out of her misery.
‘Not my style to drop people in it, Danielle. I appreciate the info.’
Her shoulders relax a little. What must it be like to have to watch your every word and thought in case someone uses it against you? Bloody exhausting.
Danielle stands to take her leave, mucking around with her handbag, smiling fondly at Stevie. Then she stops and looks at me.
‘Be careful around Franklin White. Bad things happen to people in his orbit.’
Garth: 30 days until Isabella Garrante book launch
It’s Dungeons & Dragons night, a chance to escape into a world of fearsome monsters, dangerous dungeons and evil necromancers as a bit of light relief from the worries of the IFG book launch, the mystery of Tracey’s disappearance, and the pervasive seeping shadow of Pinter. I actually play in several D&D games and run a D&D podcast, Kiwis and Dragons, but tonight’s game is one of the most chill. For a start it takes place in my favourite pub, The Uncommon Room in Hastings; even better, the pub is closed on a Monday night, so we get it all to ourselves, courtesy of the manager Gordon who is also our GM (Games Master). In more innocent times, when I first started playing, the GM was referred to as the DM (Dungeon Master).
The Uncommon Room is long and narrow with high ceilings, mural-painted walls and long velvet drapes to the rear of a small stage where bands often perform. Arches of rebar mesh held up by industrial-looking brackets and interwoven with fairy lights festoon the ceiling, and a faux skeleton left over from last year’s Halloween reaches through the metal grid as if trying to escape. Above the bar, stained-glass windows reclaimed from salvage yards hang on chains. With the lights turned down low, the place has the feel of a bohemian private club.
On the stage a long table and chairs have been set up. Running down the middle of the table is a map of a medieval fantasy village, with blacksmiths, herbalist and the all-important tavern. At the edges of the map stand painted miniature figures that will represent the players in the game and serve to mark their locations. A cardboard screen decorated with magical sigils is at the far end of the table to hide the GM’s notes. This is the domain of Gordon.
There’s a theory that there are only six degrees of separation from you and anyone else in the world. In New Zealand, it’s probably about two. Before The Uncommon Room, and before I even knew that Gordon played D&D, I worked with him at Corn Evil, a haunted maze where actors dressed as horror-film characters lurked in the corn and frightened all who dared to pass through. I was a ‘stalker’, the nickname for the maze’s security. Dressed from head to foot in black and with our faces covered in black face paint, we’d slink between the stalks, keeping an eye on any potentially troublesome groups and ensuring that the other actors were safe. Gordon played a crazed psycho with a pair of machetes, and it was a thing of beauty to watch the punters run screaming along the dark paths, chased by the faux-blood-covered Gordon scraping metal blades together with vengeful glee.
‘What can I get you to drink?’ Sim stands behind the bar pouring himself a craft beer from one of the taps. He is one of The Uncommon Room’s bar staff but tonight his main role will be as Pan, a gnome bard with questionable decision-making skills.
‘I’ll just have a water.’ I grab a glass from the bar and fill it from an urn in which float mint and lemon slices. I’m not a big drinker and generally won’t drink anything at all if I’m driving, having witnessed the life-ending carnage caused by drink drivers first-hand. Telling an expectant mother that her husband and firstborn have been killed by a drunk driver is something that sticks with you.
I take my place at the table and greet Nelly, who works in PR for Hard Core Apples. ‘How’s it going?’ I ask.
‘Great. I’ve got some new dice.’ She upends a small velvet bag, spilling a selection of brightly coloured dice ranging from four- to twenty-sided. I’m not a superstitious person — my education is science based, so I tend to look for the rational, logical explanation in any situation — but I swear that Nelly’s dice are cursed. And it’s not just me. None of the other players in the group will let Nelly even touch their dice.
‘Cool. You think these ones will roll better?’ I ask.
‘Doubtful,’ she says, and gives one of the dice an experimental roll. It shows a two.
The final member of our party hurries in and dumps a fast-food bag onto the table. ‘Sorry I’m late. Server glitch.’ Noah, the youngest of our group, works in IT, doing something complicated with network security that none of us understands.
‘Right,’ says Gordon, ‘let’s get started.’
We all lean closer.
‘As adventurers of local renown, you have been summoned by the Captain of the Guard in the small town of Nadbury.’ Gordon holds up a map and points out Nadbury. ‘With a serious look upon his battle-scarred face the dwarven captain welcomes you into his office at the guardhouse and bids you to take a seat. Once you are all settled, he closes the door, locks it behind him then addresses you.’ Gordon takes a swig of beer to lubricate his vocal cords, then puts on an accent that meanders somewhere between Welsh and Pakistani: ‘Three days ago the mayor’s daughter went missing. She was supposed to meet a friend at the harvest festival celebrations but never showed up . . .’
I miss the next details, my mind immediately drawn back to the disappearance of Tracey Jervis. It seems that even in the sacred escapism of my D&D game I am not, in fact, going to be allowed to escape.
Our characters spend the next hour bumbling around the town of Nadbury looking for clues and getting into fights with the local thieves’ guild, who seem to have an unhealthy interest in the fate of the mayor’s daughter. And proceedings go even more off track when we visit the local herbalist.
‘Wi wa sum herb?’ says Noah, who plays a more or less permanently stoned druid who tends to drop in and out of patois.
Gordon puts on a high-pitched voice for the bemused elven herbalist. ‘Ah yes, I have wolfsbane, belladonna, mugwort, sweet wood—’
‘No. Di special herb.’ Noah pretends to hold a blunt to his mouth. ‘Ya feel me?’
‘The touching of clients is never part of the transaction.’ Gordon holds his hands to his chest as if mortified. ‘You want the Naughty Nymph in the Sinner’s District.’
‘Aye. That sounds like fun,’ I say in a Yorkshire accent. ‘My axe needs a polish.’
Noah reaches out an arm, his fist clenched. ‘I grab the front of the elf’s jerkin and haul him over the counter.’
Gordon smiles, which is generally never a good sign for our characters. ‘From a back room emerges the largest orc you have ever seen. His muscles have muscles and they all bulge as he unsheathes a wickedly serrated sword the size of an ironing-board.’
‘I strum my lute,’ says Sim, doing a fine impression of playing an imaginary instrument. ‘Magic swirls from the strings as I cast a spell over the orc, charming it to do our bidding.’
Dice clatter behind Gordon’s GM screen and he smiles again at the result. ‘Well, we’ll see whether that works after we’ve had a break.’
I push my chair back and stand. Beers and water are refilled, and conversation turns to the more mundane matters of work and everyday gossip. I wonder whether to broach the subject of Tracey but decide against it: D&D is creative fantasy. Then Nelly says, ‘This quest reminds me of that girl who went missing back in the day.’
‘What girl?’ Noah probably wasn’t even born when Tracey disappeared.
‘Can’t remember her name, which makes me feel a bit shit.’ Nelly takes a sip of her beer. ‘I was in my first year at Havelock High and it was a big deal.’
‘Tracey Jervis,’ I say, grateful that in our quiet corner of New Zealand there isn’t a slew of missing girl cases to choose from.
‘That’s right. Tracey Jervis,’ says Nelly. ‘It proper gave me the creeps at the time. I wonder whatever happened to her?’
‘They thought it was her schoolteacher, didn’t they?’ says Sim.
‘That was just goss.’ Nelly absent-mindedly rolls a couple of dice: a one and a three. ‘My older brother was going out with a girl in her class. He reckoned her friend had something to do with it. She was a weird emo chick, and she packed a sad about Tracey seeing some older guy.’
‘Yeah, the schoolteacher,’ says Sim, apparently unwilling to let go of the idea.
‘Bent Trent? I don’t think so.’ Nelly flushes red and holds a hand to her mouth. ‘Sorry, it’s what everyone called him at school,’ she says between her fingers. ‘I know it’s inappropriate now, but this was twenty years ago.’
‘It was probably inappropriate then, too,’ says Sim.
