Cucumber Coolie (Blake Dent Mysteries Book 2) Read online

  CUCUMBER COOLIE

  The Second Blake Dent Mystery

  ***

  Ryan Casey

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  About this Book

  About the Author

  Copyright

  ***

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  Cucumber Coolie is the second book in the Blake Dent series.

  If you'd like to read the first book, visit here:

  Bubblegum Smoothie

  The names, places and organisations referenced in this book are a complete work of fiction. Preston’s a lovely place really. Promise.

  ONE

  It would be so easy to murder the entire street while they sleep.

  He stands outside the tall detached house and he waits. The lights went out two hours ago, so he knows now is his time.

  He pushes open the creaky iron gate. The wind is strong tonight, blowing the apple tree in Subject A’s garden, sending leaves spiralling around the ground. He moves slowly down the concrete pathway, slippery with the late summer storm brewing away.

  He can’t slip. Slip, and he might break the most important tool of all.

  He reaches for the tall oak door. It is painted black, but crusting, decaying like everything in this world does.

  Decay is good. Decay makes his entrance easier.

  He stands there a few seconds. Stands there and lets his mind ease as he works out how to handle this first step.

  He looks down at his hands. In the right hand, he has his customised Southord lockpicking set. They sell good basic models, but every good basic model could be turned into a faultless tool with the right customisation, the right carrier.

  In his left hand, he has his Canon camcorder. An MD205. Not HD, or anything fancy like that. Just standard Mini DV tapes.

  But he likes the graininess of Mini DV. Gives his videos an authentic feel. A horror movie look.

  He smiles as he sticks his lockpick into the bronze door lock.

  He supposes it will be a kind of horror movie for the viewer. The scariest horror movie they’ve seen in their lives.

  To him, nothing more than a gripping comedy.

  After a few twists and turns of the lockpick, the door clicks open. He waits as it creaks. Waits to see if a burglar alarm goes off, or anything like that, but he is pretty certain it won’t because he has watched Subject A’s house lots over these last few weeks.

  He feels himself getting hard down below.

  He is going to have a lot of fun with Subject A.

  Before and after he kills her.

  He lifts the camcorder. Switches it on.

  And then he hits record. Might as well catch the setup. The setup adds to the experience, like the backstory in a porno.

  He pushes the door open, listens to it squeak. Behind him, the wind rages on. Rain splashes against his dark coat. Perfect. He knows that will sound great. He isn’t even trying for the horror movie effects here. Too easy.

  He clicks the door shut and creeps along the dark hallway. Looks into the lounge, points his camcorder inside. An antique clock ticks away. More atmosphere. This is going to be fantastic. He’ll definitely keep a copy of all this footage for himself.

  He creeps further along the plush red carpet. Angles the camcorder in every direction as he moves. Looks at the cute family photos on the mantelpiece, smells fresh lilies that remind him of his childhood.

  And no. His childhood isn’t filled with painful memories of abuse and rejection.

  Throw that cliché out of the bag from the off.

  He climbs onto the first of the steps leading upstairs. He feels his stomach tingling the more he climbs. Every crackling of thunder makes his smile widen. What a night for his fun to begin. He couldn’t have picked a better, more atmospheric night if he’d tried.

  He steps up the stairs, which creak under his feet. He gets closer to the top, closer to the three brown wooden doors.

  He reaches the landing. He already knows which room the bedroom is. He’s watched Subject A riding her grubby boyfriend’s cock from the comfort of his car every night for the last week.

  Last room on the right. Little night light shining under the door.

  He smiles, and he opens the first door anyway—the bathroom door. He points the camcorder inside.

  All part of the fun. All part of the game.

  He moves on from the bathroom to the second door. Points the camera inside this room, too.

  This room excites him like crazy. The little unoccupied bed with its Thomas the Tank Engine quilt. The mobile, little furry teddy bears hanging down from it.

  Quite morbid, really. A group of teddy bears with string nooses around their necks.

  Oh well. All adds to the atmosphere, to the “mise en scène.”

  He feels his body tightening up as he approaches the third door. He places his gloved hand on the circular golden handle, prepares himself to turn it.

  He knows what he must do if Subject A is awake.

  He has this under control.

  He turns the handle. Slowly.

  When he pushes open the bedroom door, the first thing he sees is the wooden white cot at the foot of the bed.

  And beneath the flowery, cream sheets of the bed, he sees Subject A.

  She is snoring.

  He smiles. Even more perfection.

  He points the camcorder into the bedroom and scans it, without really taking in his surroundings.

  He is too busy reaching into his pocket to concentrate.

  Too busy reaching for the syringe of sedative to care.

  He steps around the cot. Takes a peek inside.

  Aw, shucks. Cute little boy, could only be a few months old. Fast asleep too, sucking on his thumb and clinging his giraffe teddy.

  He turns the camera away from the cot. Points it at the bed.

  At least the kid is too young to understand what is about to happen to his mummy.

  At least he is too dumb to comprehend what’s coming.

  He steps to the side of the bed and stares down at them, heavy rain rattling against the window.

  He steadies his camcorder.

  Subject A is beautiful. Gorgeous brown hair, skin smoother than velvet. He could stand here and stare at her all day.

  Instead, he has better things to do.

  Because she is fast asleep, he figures he can take a risk. Add something else to the video. Something to increase its shock appeal.

  He pulls a thick green water hose out of his pocket and he dangles it over Subject A’s head.

  The hose is tied up like a noose.

  He holds it there for a few seconds. Makes sure his black-gloved hand is on show. Almost touches Subject A’s still, sleeping head with it.

  And then he pulls it away.

  Ten seconds is enough of a teaser. And besides, he’s getting hard for the real thing now. Getting excited for the main course.

  He puts the hose away and grabs the syringe again.

  He places the camcorder on the bedside table.

  Then he covers Subject A’s mouth and stabs the needle deep into her neck.

  She wakes. Her eyes open, wide and bloodshot. She struggles. Scratches at him. Breathes heavily.

  Her struggles get weaker.

  Her eyes flutter shut.

  And when the syringe is half-empty, she is sleeping.

  He steps away from the bed. Stares at Subject A as she sleeps. His heart pounds with delight at how
easy this has all been.

  He grabs the camcorder. Starts to turn it on himself. Gets so close to showing his face.

  And then he hits “Stop.”

  He has work to do.

  Work to do off camera.

  He takes out the pre-prepared envelope and places it on the bed beside Subject A where her husband sleeps when he isn’t working nights.

  Then, he covers Subject A up and lifts her out of her bed.

  He walks away.

  When he passes the cot, he sees that the baby has its eyes open. It is crying, clutching into the air, looking right up at him.

  “Shh,” he says. “You get some rest. Last thing your daddy’s gonna want when he comes home is a wailing baby on top of everything else.”

  He leaves the crying baby, leaves the bedroom, and he leaves the house with Subject A in his arms.

  He walks down the concrete path. Rain patters against him, wind blasts his face.

  Act One is over.

  But it is Act Two where things get even more exciting.

  When he could actually put his hose to use.

  His hose, amongst many, many other things…

  TWO

  “It’s not that I don’t want to see you, Dani. Nothing like that at all. Just I… I’m really busy this afternoon.”

  “You? Busy? Busy doing what?”

  I looked around the living room of my flat. The sixty inch television, which was the absolute centrepiece, was on. Sadly, nothing more than the Pause menu of GTA V was on show since Danielle had called me and asked me to join her for lunch. Dammit. I’d just been having a quality co-op game online with someone called Darkangel too.

  “Smoothie organisational things,” I said.

  Danielle tutted. “Smoothie organisational things. Blake, we’ve been dating for months now. I think I’ve known you long enough to know when you’re bullshitting.”

  I bit my lip and wondered why the damned hell I’d got myself involved in any level of commitment in the first place.

  “Look, Danielle, I—”

  “Is it me? Is there something I’ve done wrong? Am I not good enough for you, is that it?”

  “No!” I said. I shuffled around on my white leather sofa. It was getting pretty warm on here, especially considering I was only wearing my boxer shorts. But that was fine. The blinds that covered the huge lookout window were closed. Nobody would see me all the way up here on the forty-eighth floor of the newly opened Wilmslow Docklands Apartments.

  Not even Danielle and a pair of binoculars.

  “Then what is it? Why is it you always bail on me at the last minute? God, Blake—how long’s it been now? Two months? Two months and still I’ve only even been round to your flat once.”

  “It’s… it’s not you.” I was being honest, too. It wasn’t Danielle that was the problem, not really. “I just… I’ve told you before. I need a bit of time from time to time.”

  “Time from time to time? Don’t go all poetic on me.”

  “I just mean I—I like my home space every once in a while. It’s… it’s the way I’ve always had it. Just my comfort zone. I need my bubble.”

  “So you aren’t working on ‘Smoothie organisational things’?”

  Damn it. She had a way of catching me out, that was for sure. “Yes. I am. I am doing that. But that’s beyond the point—”

  “So you aren’t, I dunno, playing that new video game that you’ve been droning on and on about in every one of our last… four dates?”

  My cheeks got hot. I jumped up from my sofa and hopped along the cool wooden floor over to the kitchen area of the studio flat. Had to make sure I was far enough away from the television so she couldn’t hear the pause menu music, or anything like that. “No. Of course not. Frigging overrated game anyway.”

  “So you’re not mowing down civilians and spending lavish amounts of money at the strip club with Darkangel right now?”

  My knees went weak. How did she…?

  A sound bleeped from the PS4. A picture message from Darkangel.

  Danielle with her middle finger pointed at the camera, phone to her ear.

  I felt like a dirty cheating husband who’d just been caught with my dick in another woman.

  “When did… If you had a PS4, you could’ve told me.”

  “That’s not the issue here, Blake,” Danielle said.

  “Well I think it is an issue. You’re worryingly good at GTA Online.”

  “Stop it. Just stop.”

  I stopped.

  I grabbed a pack of Lockets from the top drawer of the kitchen cabinet. Longed to swirl them around my mouth, for the menthol to soothe me, calm me down. Yeah, some detective-cum-PI-cum-bounty hunters were addicted to booze; some of them were addicted to hard drugs. Me? Give me a Halls Soother over those destructive alternatives any day.

  Sure, they were slowly making my molars smooth, but I was still young.

  Okay. I might be grey and totally not young-looking, but my point stood.

  “We need to talk,” Danielle said.

  “Isn’t that what people say on films when they’re about to end relationships?”

  She sighed. “Look, meet me for lunch at Chiquitos. Yes, the one just opposite your flat. Wouldn’t want to force you to catch a bus, or put you out of your way at all.”

  Ouch. That one stung a little. What was her problem with me not owning a car?

  And only being legally qualified to drive automatic?

  And in my thirties?

  Okay. Maybe that was her problem.

  “But Dani I—”

  “Be there, or you’re dead.”

  “Bit harsh.”

  “On GTA, I mean.”

  “Oh. Okay. Bit more reasonable.”

  Danielle cancelled the call.

  I lowered down and squeezed my phone, tapping it against my head. Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Danielle. What wasn’t there to like about a hot blonde ten years my junior with an interest in me?

  It’s just my bubble. I wasn’t lying about my bubble. Just the way I’d always been, the way I probably always would be.

  I slipped three Lockets into my mouth and inhaled, the coolness tickling through my chest. Since I’d been paid half a million quid in the Chipps case, my Fun Funds had enabled new levels of serious investment. Televisions in every room, iPads for every chair arm.

  I deserved rewards for my “heroic actions.” Not my words, but the words of the internet, which seemed weirdly infatuated with me nowadays. Especially the Lancashire News. Some kind of frigging local hero or another. “Superman Without the Abs,” they once called me. Wasn’t sure what to make of that one. I always thought my abs were alright.

  I opened my mail. Bills. Letters about Groovy Smoothie ideas. Groovy Smoothie is my smoothie stall I run in the middle of town. Yes, I might be a wealthy bounty hunter, but no bloody way were any of my bounty earnings going down the drain on tax and bills.

  My solution? A smoothie stall. And it did alright. It covered the costs of bills.

  It left me with a nice pot of funds to spend on electronics and a whole manner of geeky items.

  I pushed the mail across my kitchen counter and walked into my bedroom. The air conditioning flicked on the second I stepped inside, something I don’t think I’d ever get over the coolness of. Ha—coolness. Get it? Cool because it’s amazing, and because it blows cool air.

  I chuckled to myself. Maybe I should try out standup someday.

  I put on a red and white checkered shirt, some grey jeans, and my dark blue Converse trainers. I supposed I should go for lunch with Danielle. See what she had to say. Truth was, I liked her. I actually liked her. But I wasn’t sure she “got” me yet.

  Then again, my transgender best friend Martha didn’t even “get” me, so that was saying something.

  I had to up my game. Show her I cared. ‘Cause it was rare I did care, so it had to mean something.

  Besides, she was really frigging goo
d at GTA Online. I’d only fallen even more in love with her since her Darkangel revelation.

  I turned off the PS4, then told the television to “switch off” via voice control. Voice control—so cool. The future. Almost foolproof.

  “You requested: ITV.”

  “No, off.”

  “Volume: up.”

  “No, off.”

  “I am already switched on.”

  I reached over and flicked the “off” switch.

  Like I said: the future. Just not the “now.”

  I walked out of my flat and caught the lift down. Had it all to myself, which was a nice relief. Wasn’t one for lift small-talk. You could guarantee one of the following topics would come up: weather, how warm it was in the corridors, or something sports related.

  If one of those topics didn’t come up, then there was usually something very wrong with the person.

  The doors opened up with a gentle “ping!” and I walked out into the light, airy reception area.

  As I walked through reception, chilled music playing, the smell of disinfectant in the air, I noticed someone by the rotating glass doors.

  It was a man. He had dark hair, which flopped onto his forehead like he was from a nineties boy band. He was wearing a white Fred Perry shirt inside out, but that wasn’t even the weirdest thing about him.

  The weirdest thing about him was the way he was looking at me.

  Lips quivering.

  Hands rubbing one another.

  Tears in his bloodshot eyes.

  I took a deep breath and lowered my head. Didn’t have time to deal with a nutjob admirer of my bounty hunting work right now.

  “Mr—Mr. Dent?”

  I half-glanced at the guy. Nodded and smiled, picking up my pace.

  He stepped out in front of me. Pulled something out of his pocket—a little tape about a quarter of the size of a VHS. “Mr… Mr. Dent, I—I need your help. I—”

  “I can give you a business card,” I said, looking over my shoulder. Sure, most of the city respected me, but my work was only barely legal. “But if you’ve got a problem, I’d recommend trying the police first.”

  I didn’t really recommend trying the police first. The police were idiots. People wouldn’t come to me, a bounty hunter, to solve their problems if the police were up to scratch. Hell—even the police themselves wouldn’t come to me anymore.