Bubblegum Smoothie (Blake Dent Mysteries Book 1) Read online

  BUBBLEGUM SMOOTHIE

  The First Blake Dent Mystery

  ***

  Ryan Casey

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  ***

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

  ZERO

  When he hears her whimpering through her gag, he knows he is in for a treat.

  He listens to her shaking her handcuffs. Listens to her as she tries to scream, rapidly gaining consciousness in the pitch dark of his basement.

  He smells her fear. Smells the fear that they always feel, trapped in a nightmare that they’ll never wake up from.

  Except they do wake up.

  When he gets to work on his victims, they are more awake than they have been in their entire lives.

  He creeps over to her, squinting in the darkness, trying not to make a sound as his bare feet slip along the cool tiles. He doesn’t see her, but he can hear her, smell her, taste her sweat in the air. And it turns him on. It makes him tingle down below.

  The thought of the tears rolling down her cheeks when he switches the light on and shows his face turns the tingling to a full-blown hard-on.

  He moves closer to her. He feels the heat coming off her body as she shakes around in her chair. She is trying to shout something from underneath the gag. Trying to scream for help.

  He lets her try. He closes his eyes, listens, and waits.

  He wants to hear the hope rise in her voice.

  And he wants to hear it slip away.

  He moves his lips close to her neck, which stinks of sweat. He can smell piss. Bad girl—she shouldn’t piss in her panties. That’s naughty. That deserves punishment.

  He squeezes the handle of the knife in his sweaty hand and he creeps in front of her.

  He peers down at her. She is invisible in the darkness, but he doesn’t have to see her. He has waited so long for this. Planned it so carefully. He’s fantasised about it, dreamed about it, had beautiful nightmares about it for so, so long.

  He savours the moment. Savours the protestations from the woman. Savours every little detail, because no fantasy compares to the real thing.

  He leans in towards her with the knife when she goes quiet, her screams replaced by shaky whimpers. His erection bulges now, throbbing. And it will get what it wants soon.

  Just not yet. Not until he has done what he has to do.

  He holds the knife above her bare leg and then he brings it down, tapping her on her thigh.

  She twitches. Squeals. Tries to jump back, tries to rattle at her handcuffs, but it’s no use.

  Fuck. This is so fun. So fun.

  He repeats the action, only this time on her arm, then on her belly, and then on her head. She knows he is here now. Even though it is pitch black, she knows he is here, and that turns him on even more.

  She knows he is here, and she knows whatever is coming can’t be good.

  Well, not good for her. For him, it’s a different story.

  He reaches up above him, his heart pumping and his skin tingling. This is even better than the fantasies, and he hasn’t even got to the good part yet. This isn’t even foreplay compared to what’s coming.

  He grabs the cord of the light. Works it between his fingers. Savours the final few moments of darkness, the final part of the appetiser to the appetiser.

  And then he pulls the cord.

  The room fills with light. The woman, stripped down to her bra and panties, takes a few moments to adjust, her eyes squinting.

  But it doesn’t take him any time at all.

  He leans in towards her. Her eyes widen. The second she sees the knife, she shakes her handcuffs against the chair arms, rattles herself forwards and backwards and forwards again, shouting and screaming from beneath the gag.

  “Don’t scream,” he says. “Not yet.”

  She whimpers. Cries. Gives him those begging eyes that his victims always do. Begging eyes that just make him want to punish them even more for their naivety.

  He slips the knife underneath the gag and tears it from her mouth.

  She spits away a bloody, snotty globule of saliva. “Puh—please,” she says. “Please. I—I—”

  “You can start screaming again now,” he says.

  And then he pulls her little pinky finger out, presses the blade against it and gets to work.

  He has a busy day ahead.

  ONE

  When I saw Lenny Kole approaching, I knew right away that he wasn’t here to buy a smoothie.

  I stood behind my stall just off of Preston market when I noticed him walking down Friargate. The kid in front of my counter was saying things, muttering stuff and placing an order, but the demanding little shite could wait. Lenny Kole meant news. Not good news or bad news, not until he opened his weaselly little mouth. Just news.

  News meant money.

  I’d been waiting for some news for a while.

  “Excuse me?” A woman with dark hair who was barely taller than a dwarf craned her neck up over the counter of my Groovy Smoothie stall. She was holding a plastic container with a slimy blue concoction swirling around. She was clicking her mouth together, like she’d just eaten rat shit or something. Her tongue was blue. “I think this is off,” she said.

  I bit my lip and tried not to show my pissed-off face to this unsatisfiable troll as she slid the smoothie across the counter. Not another return. Bubblegum flavoured. A new mix of mine, perfect for the summer. No bubblegum in it, not really: just one banana, four large strawberries, one cup of orange juice and one Nature Valley Oats ‘n Honey pack. I added a bit of blue food colouring too for authenticity, but that was turning out a bigger mistake than the taste itself. The whole of Preston was on the verge of being taken over by some blue-tongued curse, and Groovy-bloody-Smoothie was the cause.

  I gave the woman her money back and poured the smoothie down the sink. An in-depth assessment of my financial situation and Groovy Smoothie’s trading future could wait. Right now, I had bigger things on my plate.

  And he was arriving at the counter in five, four, three…

  “Blake Dent!” Lenny said. He rattled his fingers against the metal counter and scanned the smoothie menu through his silver-rimmed Ray-Bans. “What can you recommend?”

  Lenny Kole was one of those people who you just couldn’t believe actually existed, and yet somehow were even worse for doing so. His dark hair was slicked back, shaven at the sides and longer on top. He had teeth stained so white that they’d glow in the dark, or blind you if the sun reflected off them and burn through your eyes. He was dressed in a dark navy suit, perfectly crafted around his well-toned upper body, but he’d weirdly opted for black trousers which were at least two sizes too big. A brown belt snaked around his waist, holding them up. Either he had a weird idea of fashion, or Mummy Kole had bought him another pair of discount trousers.

  Then again, who was I to talk? Not a day went by that I wasn’t wearing a checkered shirt. But hey. Checkered shirts were cool. They were “in,” apparently. I could rock the checkered shirt just fine.

  “Bubblegum,” I said. I threw a banana into a blender, followed by a handful of strawberries.

  “Bubblegum?” Lenny said. He twitched his nose. “I, er… simple banana smoothie will do
for me, fella.”

  I’d just started to pour in the orange juice when Lenny said this. Bastard was messing with me. Even though he quite obviously wasn’t here for a smoothie, he always had to screw me around.

  Just wait until I turn his frigging tongue blue.

  I scooped the strawberries out from the blender, brushing the banana with the hand I’d just used to scratch my ass, and I set the blender to work.

  “Roaring trade in the summer, I imagine,” Lenny said. He looked over at the fountain in the middle of the town square. No kids had slipped over today. Shame. Always was funny seeing a smart-arsed little sod end up bottom-up with a load of water spraying in their face.

  Even funnier when it happened to a parent.

  “It pays the bills,” I said.

  “Right. Right, of course. It pays the bills. Because of course, an economically troubled man like yourself needs a job like this to pay the bills.”

  I finished blending the banana and ice to mush and poured it into a clear plastic cup. “What are you getting at?”

  “I just think it’s funny, that’s all. I mean, like a man like you really needs to run a smoothie stall.”

  “Is there a point to this meeting or are you just here to drink a crushed banana?”

  Lenny whistled. He held out a hand and sipped on his smoothie. A moustache of yellow froth covered his upper lip. I didn’t bother telling him it was there.

  “Nothing wrong with an old friend paying another old friend a visit on a beautiful summer’s day, is there?”

  “I dunno,” I said. “Maybe I’ll ring the police station. See what they have to say about this friendly visit.”

  Lenny shook his head. His beaming smile came back on show, yellowed by the banana. “You’re a joker, Blake. A funny man. I like a funny man.”

  Almost in an instant, the smile dropped from his face and he reached into his inside pocket. He looked left and right, suspicion on his face as a six-year-old boy in a Manchester United shirt stared at him. When he ran away to his parents, Lenny placed a manila envelope on the counter, a bit of smoothie splodge dampening it.

  “Sure I’m safe opening this here?” I said. “Wouldn’t want any more six-year old spies ratting you out.”

  Lenny scratched his head. “Never can be too sure these days. Old friend of mine got ratted out cheating on his wife by the nine-year-old paperboy. Better to be safe than sorry.”

  I picked up the envelope and slid open the top. I wasn’t sure if Lenny was being serious or not.

  Probably was, knowing Lenny…

  “It’s a biggie,” Lenny said.

  “As long as it pays well and doesn’t incriminate—”

  “Oh no, I was on about the bloke over by the fountain with the manboobs.” The smells from a rival stall, Dan’s Donuts, attracted a new breed of punters—the fatties. “By heavens, I don’t think my ex-wife even had tits that big, and hers were pretty bouncy, I tell you. What I’d give for a suckle on…” Lenny cleared his throat. “Anyway.”

  I frowned and slipped the contents of the envelope into my hand.

  The usual barrage of text hit me. Five pages of thin inkjet paper, all stuffed with words and words and words. And yet the only word that mattered was right there at the top in bold.

  Only this time, the word read: HOMICIDE.

  I slapped the papers down on the counter and pushed them back over to Lenny.

  “Wow, aren’t you a speed-reader,” he said.

  “Lenny, you know my policy. Nothing too hard. Nothing that can—”

  “Alright, alright. Give the bounty hunter code a rest for now, would you? Have you even seen how much we’re paying you yet?”

  I sighed. Glanced back down at the paper, diverted my eyes to the second most important line on the entire document.

  …A successful delivery fee of ONE MILLION POUNDS…

  I have to admit my stomach did do a little jump when I saw that figure. I had to scan it again a few times, check I wasn’t imagining things. But no, there it was—one million Queen’s pounds, all for catching some homicidal nutter. One million pounds towards iPads, a new television. Shit—I could get a curved TV. Or screw that—I could get a new house with a fucking cinema room. A curved cinema room. A curved cinema. New business opportunity. New bill-paying venture.

  But I had to look away. I had a policy. All good businesses had policies.

  “I appreciate the offer, really. But I can’t. Anything lighter and non-homicidal and I’ll be on it in a flash.”

  Lenny lifted his sunglasses and rubbed the sweat from the bridge of his nose. “Real shame, Blake. Real shame. Hell, if I could offer myself a million for catching this guy, I’d take it. Alas, an officer is only as adept as the rest of his police department. But you should at least visit the crime scene. You should at least see—”

  “Gonna order a smoothie or what?”

  The weird voice came from behind Lenny. A fat bloke with a fluffy patch of hair atop his head. He was holding a quarter-drunk carton of smoothie, and judging by the twisted features of his red face, he was pissed about something.

  “Ah well,” Lenny said. He pushed the documents back over to me, rattled on the counter again with his fingertips. “I’ll leave you to it. Keep those. You know where I am if you change your mind.”

  “I won’t,” I said, but Lenny was already scooting back down the street, back past the fountain and towards Friargate, grinning at randomers with his gleaming white smile.

  I thought about that sum of money. One million quid. Thought of all the things I could do with it. All the places I could go, and all the gadgets I could buy.

  A smoothie carton slammed against the metal counter in front of me, whisking me out of my fantasy.

  Angry fat guy. Only close up, I could see his lips and tongue were a nasty shade of blue. Shit—they even looked swollen.

  “Alright, alright,” I said, grabbing the unfinished Bubblegum Smoothie and pouring it down the sink. “Refund coming your way—”

  “Forget the refun-g,” he said, struggling to speak. “Twading Stan-gards. You’re officially cwosed as of now.”

  All of a sudden, the idea of a million quid didn’t seem too unappealing after all.

  TWO

  I wasn’t too pissed about the interfering shites from Trading Standards clamping down on Groovy Smoothie. They were inept as it was. All it took was a new name and a new location and I’d be back in business again in a month.

  No. I was more pissed off that I’d have to dip into my Fun Fund to pay my bills if I didn’t get opened up again soon.

  I leaned back against the sofa. Felt the softness of the brown suede against my skin, against my legs as I lay on it. This was the best part of the day, the best part of any day—the pay-off for a day of serving people too lazy to chew a piece of fruit. The reward for spending hours upon hours serving liquid gimmick-fruit and whacking extortionate price tags on it for the satisfaction of the moronic general public.

  I looked at the television and crunched on some popcorn. “Breaking Bad,” one of my favourite shows at the moment. Except it looked blurry. One thousand pounds on a SMART TV and six quid a month on Netflix and still, it looked blurry. If I could pay for non-blurry, I would, believe me, but technology had a way of kicking my ass, as much as I loved it.

  I paused the episode and reached onto the carpet for my iPad Air. Booted up Safari. Might as well have a look around at some Amazon deals. Amazon was the life and death of me. Amazon, Apple—you name it, I bought from there.

  And just think what a million quid could buy…

  No. I sent that thought right out of my head and typed in “Curved TVs.” I wasn’t getting a million quid because I wasn’t involving myself in a murder investigation. Not after last time. Only problem was that with Groovy Smoothie out of action for at least a month, I wasn’t in the healthiest financial state. And I wouldn’t be receiving any police bounties any time soon. Lenny was predictable like that.

  Real
ly, I should be pretty well off. I looked around the lounge. Looked at the pristine Bose surround sound system, 12.1. I didn’t even know they frigging made 12.1 surround sound until I added it to my Wishlist and Primed it straight to my door the following day. Could I tell the difference between this and my old 7.1 system? Could I hell. But it was better. It said on the Internet that it was better. Barry from Wales had given it five stars. A “cracking set,” he’d said.

  Trust in Barry from Wales. Trust in 12.1 surround sound.

  I tapped at the iPad screen, which was taking too long to load for my liking. I could hear rain splattering against my window outside, smell the distant fumes of a pizza place from the city centre. Maybe I’d order in. Maybe I’d treat myself to a takeaway.

  I treated myself to a takeaway most nights. High metabolism; eat your heart out.

  But then I remembered I was technically unemployed and I’d spent the bulk of the last bounty on takeaways, and 12.1 surround sound systems, and various earphones and video games and CDs that I couldn’t for the life of me name now. I thought about the rent of this place. £3,000 per month, give or take. Fine, but then you add in the Netflix subscription, the Prime subscription, the Spotify, Deezer, Kindle Unlimited, Graze, Sky Sports Plus Extra Movies Infinite whatever subscriptions.

  It adds up.

  I put my iPad down. I hated having to delve into my Fun Funds for bills. Fun Funds, the payments from my successful bounty hunts, were what kept me going in life. Some people wanted women, some people wanted marriage, and all that shit. And being in my thirties, maybe I should want those things too.

  But the thought of a woman watching frigging “Hollyoaks” on my SMART TV… Nah. A few more years of fun. A few more years of being technically retired until I needed some cash.

  I’d been saying “a few more years” since I was in my early twenties.

  I felt a tightness in my chest. A burning in my throat. Fuck—how long had it been since I’d had some? My mind would be going fuzzy soon. I’d be biting my nails, feeling even more hot and bothered than I already was.