Bubblegum Smoothie (Blake Dent Mysteries Book 1) Read online

  “You’re putting a DVD in a CD player,” Martha chipped in.

  “DVD in a CD player. Right.” He took the disk straight out, like he’d known what he was doing all along, then investigated a pile of dusty old gadgets piled in the corner. “Portable DVD player should be somewhere around… here!”

  He yanked out a Medion—oh God, Medion—portable DVD player, and plonked it on the table in the centre of the room.

  “What even is this place?” I asked. I looked at the stack of gadgets. Old phones. Coats. A weird mismatch of items.

  “Lost property,” Lenny said, clicking “Play” on the DVD player as it booted to life.

  “Lost property,” Martha said, Lenny still ignoring her. “More like found property for you officers.”

  “Who are you again?” Lenny asked, his cheeks blushing as he struggled to look at her.

  Martha scoffed. “Wow. You told me he was a charmer, didn’t you Blake?”

  Lenny looked at me with hope. ”He said that? He did? He… Oh. Mr and Mrs Sarcasm. Or… Well, Mr and Mr/Mrs Sarcasm, to use the politically correct term.”

  I shook my head. “‘Politically correct.’ Brilliant.”

  The sound of moaning women filled the room from the tinny speakers of the portable DVD player.

  “Oh, shit,” Lenny said. He tapped at the pause button but nothing happened. In fact, the moaning only got louder. “Shit shit shit.”

  “I want you to cum all over my titties!”

  Martha and I tried our best not to smirk too hard. Lenny looked genuinely pissed off.

  “Quite a surveillance tape you’ve got there,” Martha said.

  “Knock that one up yourself with Ancient Jill and her four teeth?” I put in.

  “Just—just shut up,” Lenny said. He tapped at the pause button. Kept on tapping, the volume getting louder.

  “Sounds like some real surveillance is going on there.”

  “Cavity surveillance,” Martha added.

  “Give me that big cock. Give it to me.”

  “Obviously not Lenny on that tape then,” I said.

  Lenny bashed his fingers against the player, his face getting redder and redder. “The wrong damn DVD. The wrong… damn…”

  And then he stood up, picked up the portable DVD player and tossed it to the ground.

  Martha stepped back. “He isn’t actually gonna—”

  But he already did.

  Lenny’s foot cracked into the portable DVD player, cracked into it as the tinny speakers fizzled out, smashed it up, grunting every time his black shoe broke through the plastic.

  Eventually, there was silence. Silence, and a shitload of broken plastic and metal.

  Lenny stepped away. Brought a hand through his sweaty hair and adjusted his tie. “I er… I’ll go get another player and… and the right tape.”

  “Probably a good idea.”

  He scooted across the room and opened the door.

  “Try not to shag Ancient Jill on your way—”

  “Thin ice, Blake! Thin ice!”

  Martha and I waited around for what felt like forever for Lenny to return. I spent most of my time rolling my eyes at the shitty dated technology stacked up in here.

  “If you’re gonna tag tech from a con, why the hell would you tag an Alba sound system?”

  “Honey,” Martha said. “Not everyone’s as geeky as you.”

  “They should be.”

  “No. They really shouldn’t.”

  Lenny did come back, eventually. He had a slightly less dated black laptop in his hand, as well as a DVD with “Snow White” written on it.

  “‘Snow White?’” I asked, as he placed the laptop on the table.

  “Need some kind of a cover,” he said. “Couldn’t just be seen wandering into here with a blank DVD.”

  “So of course the first DVD you turn to is ‘Snow White,’” I said. Nodded at Martha. “Logical.”

  “Does Ancient Jill star in this version of Snow White?” Martha asked.

  “No, she—”

  “Do you spray Ancient Jill with your snow—”

  “Quit it, the pair of you,” Lenny shouted, his face flushing. “I’m—I’m a Detective Inspector. A detective inspector with morals, principles, authority.”

  I wanted to say, “The same morals, principles and authority that’s paying me one million quid to catch a killer?” but I figured I’d done enough Lenny-baiting for one day. Nearly.

  “Anyway here we… here we go.”

  We all held our breath, Martha and I secretly praying that another porno would appear on screen.

  To our disappointment, it was just a shot of the station from the front.

  Lenny tapped on the screen. Tapped at the empty car parking space underneath the streetlight. “Here’s the vehicle parking space in question at nine p.m.”

  We stood and watched as the seconds and the minutes ticked by in real time. When it got to nine twenty-nine without incident, I was really craving a Halls throat sweet or nine.

  “You do know there’s a fast-forward button, don’t you?”

  “Ssh,” Lenny said, jabbing a finger out at me.

  I tensed my neck at Martha. “Quiet. Wouldn’t want to affect the contents of the screen by talking.”

  We waited longer. Waited, as the sky on the tape grew gradually darker. The number of people walking past lessened. Still no sign of the squad car.

  “Do you even know what time—”

  “There,” Lenny said. He poked a finger so hard at the screen that it discoloured.

  But when it readjusted, I saw it.

  The squad car moved slowly into the otherwise deserted car park. Pulled up right underneath that streetlamp.

  “This better be the right car,” I said.

  “Oh believe me,” Lenny said. “It is.”

  The car came to a stop. I squinted into the grainy darkness. Waited for our perp to step out.

  “Please tell me he’s not a fan of sitting around twiddling his thumbs,” Martha said.

  And right on cue, the driver’s door opened.

  We all went quiet. Went quiet, as the guy in the driver’s seat stepped out, as he opened the back door, pulled out the girl, placed her on top of the car. All in the eyes of the general public, all on show, right in the police station car park.

  And then he wiped his hands against his black hoodie, grinned, and skipped away out of the car park.

  “Now that, my friends, is a fat dumbass if ever I’ve seen one. I can’t believe I’m actually paying you a whole million to catch someone this inept. I mean, the police department could’ve caught this guy, for God’s sakes!”

  My heart pounded as I tried to get my head around what I’d just seen.

  Or rather, who I’d just seen.

  “That’s… that can’t be your perp,” I said.

  Lenny frowned. “What do you mean it’s not our perp? The fatso just lifted a dead girl out of a squad car—a stolen squad car, may I add—and plonked her on top of it. If he’s not our perp then—”

  “Get someone down to the Black Bull right away,” I said. “Get someone in there and get a man called Gus in for questioning. But don’t… It can’t be him. It can’t be.”

  Lenny looked from me to Martha and then back again. “What… who is Gus? Do you… what does Gus have to do with this guy?”

  I cleared the frog in my throat. Tried to wrap my head around everything, but it just didn’t add up, didn’t make sense.

  “Gus is that guy.”

  TWELVE

  “Get your bloody foot on the pedal. Quick!”

  “Alright, alright!” Martha struggled to start the engine of her Fiat Punto, then spun around out of the police station car park. “Why don’t you volunteer to drive next time?”

  The car sped out of the car park, and I resisted the urge to shout at Martha any more. I knew what she was getting at. I might have been a good bounty hunter, but one thing I wasn’t good at was driving. I’d only ever passed my automatic test, which caused a few problems when people asked me to reverse their cars for them, things like that. To be honest, I got the impression they did it on purpose.

  We sped down the A6 out of town. My mind raced with what I’d seen on the tape—Gus, the coin-stacking fatso, getting out of a squad car. Planting the body of a dead girl on top of it. Walking away grinning.

  “I think we can assume Gus isn’t our killer,” Martha said.

  “Try telling Lenny and the police that. You think he’s just going to cough up a full million if he catches and pins this guy himself?”

  “Normally, I would’ve taken a man’s word. But now I’ve met the guy…”

  “Exactly. Which is why it’s very important we get to the Bull very quickly. Do you have any… any sweets?”

  “Glove compartment to your left.”

  I stuffed my hand into the glove compartment and pulled out a half-eaten packet of Lockets as Martha swung the car around a bend. I squeezed them all out, salivated at the thought of them. The last ones had worked their way out of my system so my throat was constantly tight. I took the wrappers off all of them and crunched down, an instant release pummelling through me.

  “Thanks for saving me some,” Martha said. “In fact you can add an extra 50p to my cut for that.”

  “Martha, you aren’t getting another penny from me. Let’s just get to the Bull before Lenny’s band of idiots do.”

  We sped up the A6. I couldn’t help myself scanning the area for squad cars. Wouldn’t have minded a police light and siren of our own at this point.

  “So what do you think?” Martha asked.

  “About what?”

  “About what? About Gus, you moron. Is he our killer?”

  I scoffed. “Do you think he’s our killer?”

  “No.”

  “Me neither. He’s… he’s obviously being used by our actual perp. Seems the sort of guy who’d do anything for a few shiny coins.”

  “And the sort of guy who’d find it very hard to defend himself if he were pinned for it.”

  “Which is why it’s very important we get our… Oh shit.”

  Martha’s car slowing to a halt was all the confirmation I needed of the shittest possible scenario.

  “Why the hell does traffic always stack up when you actually want to go somewhere?” Martha said. She slammed the steering wheel and slumped back onto the driver’s seat.

  I tried to breathe. Tried to keep my cool. I could see the Black Bull in the distance, beyond the mass of cars. It was swelteringly hot, too. Unbearable, even though Martha’s air con was on full blast. Note to self: buy a portable handheld fan from Amazon when you get your Fun Funds reinstated. Buy a top of the range one. One you can take everywhere.

  One you’ll probably only use once.

  “I mean, you drive to the doctor’s, there’s never any traffic. You drive to some shitty court hearing, there’s never any traffic. You drive to your bloody death, there’s never any… Wait—hey! Where are you going?”

  I was already half out of the car when Martha spoke. “I’m gonna run. Gonna take a look and see if I can get a head start. I’ll meet you down there.”

  “Run? But Blake, you—”

  I slammed Martha’s door shut. Stood in the middle of the traffic. The looming white-painted walls of the Black Bull beckoned me.

  Bring it on.

  I wove through pile upon pile of cars and got to the front of the traffic lights. People looked at me funny through their windows, but then who the hell were they and what did I care? I had important shit to do. I had to get to Gus. I had to question him before the police did. I couldn’t let Lenny lock him up for murder. Damn my stupid big mouth for blurting out his name to Lenny. If I’d really thought about it, I could’ve got to Gus in plenty of time.

  I moved towards the pavement between the steaming hot engines of cars and I realised the traffic didn’t stop at the typically offending lights.

  There was a gridlock. A complete gridlock, right in the middle of the crossroads. Cars honked at each other. The lights were green now, but nobody was moving at any real speed. A boiling hot day and everyone was stuck in a jam. What wonders that would have on the collective mood of miserable old Preston.

  I ran into the middle of the crossroads, through the gridlocked traffic, which barely moved. The Black Bull got closer. To look at it, the gridlock went on to there. Traffic was… well, it was moving much easier beyond that. Maybe something had gone down. An accident, something like that.

  I crossed over onto the pavement. Kept on jogging and remembered why the hell I’d given up jogging in the first place, as a nagging stitch gnawed at my ribs.

  Breathe deeply. Taste the Lockets. Let them guide you…

  The beer garden of the Black Bull was close. It was surprisingly empty for a sunny day like today. Emptier than it had been earlier. Which was strange, because more people would be finishing work now. More people would be…

  And then I saw him.

  I saw him in the middle of the pelican crossing. He was surrounded by a small crowd of people.

  I slowed down. Felt a twinge in my gut, although I couldn’t place it.

  Gus was lying in the road. The people around him, they were laughing. Jesus. He’d not passed out, had he? Had too much to drink? That would be just typical. Just perfect for his reputation.

  It was as I got closer that I realised that the crowd around him weren’t laughing at all.

  The cars causing the gridlock were outside the Bull. In fact, Gus was the one causing the gridlock. Everyone in those cars were staring through their windows.

  Staring with horror on their faces as they looked at the man on the ground.

  And the people surrounding Gus. They weren’t laughing. They were crying.

  I gulped as I got closer. Gulped a nasty regurgitated Locket, which wasn’t quite as tasty coupled with what was in front of me.

  I looked down at Gus’s body. Looked down at the blood pooling out from underneath his mass of weight.

  “He’s—he’s dead,” a pale-faced man with greasy, curly locks said. “He’s… his pulse. He’s dead.”

  As “Move On Up” blasted from the sound system of a nearby car, I stared at the pile of shiny coins spilling out of Gus’s static hand, out onto the road.

  THIRTEEN

  He speeds down the road and he can’t stop smiling and laughing.

  His car bounces with the booming sound of “Move On Up.” He plays it over and over again, louder every time, each listen just getting more and more joyous.

  But the joy is for what he is about to do. How he is going to finish off the third victim. How much fun he’s going to have with her.

  He looks at the pocketknife, wrapped in clear plastic, on his passenger seat. He didn’t want to kill the fatso, not really. Now don’t mistake this for sentimentality—he had no problems killing anyone. And he always knew he was going to kill fatso at some point. But he’d been an easy ticket. An easy part of his jigsaw puzzle—easy to bribe. And he’d helped get him his knife, helped with the girl on top of the squad car. He’d been a great help.

  “Rest in peace, fatso,” he says, and lifts an imaginary glass into the air.

  But as he turns onto his street, something niggles away at him. Dissatisfaction.

  And that dissatisfaction comes in the form of the greying, checkered-shirt-wearing snoop and his disgusting he-she itfriend.

  Just the thought of him makes his heart speed up. Makes his palms clammy. Because he wasn’t a part of the plan. If he hadn’t been snooping around, maybe fatso wouldn’t have had to die just yet. He is a problem. A problem that needs to be dealt with in the same way as all problems.

  Carefully but ruthlessly.

  He pulls up into his driveway and hits a button to raise his automatic garage door. It lifts, he pulls in, then he gets out of the car whistling along to “Move On Up,” used penknife in hand.

  He closes the garage door, watches the light slip away.

  And then he opens the manhole in the middle of his garage and he climbs down.

  When the smell of sweat and blood hits, he is excited again. He listens for her mumbles. Listens for her wails of pain. He needs to have more fun with this one. Needs to have more fun with her because what happened with fatso was unplanned. Unplanned, reckless, but necessary.

  What happened with fatso will put him even more in the spotlight. The moment the numb-headed police saw fatso putting the second victim’s body atop the squad car, the game changed.

  But it’s okay. He’ll be finished way before they can stop him. He is one step ahead.

  Or two and a half.

  He climbs down into the darkness. Hears her mumbling behind her gag. Smells piss and shit, and fuzzes inside at the thought of cleaning up after her.

  He clenches his Killswitch knife in hand. Walks over to her. He can hear her shaking in the darkness. He wonders if she thought that maybe he’d gone forever. That maybe, someone would come to help her while he was gone.

  He hopes so.

  He leans right into her face. Listens to her heavy, shaky breathing. Smells her sweat.

  “Hello, lovely,” he says. “Time to work on the other fingers.”

  He clutches her finger and she screams out beneath the gag as he presses against her bony hands.

  All the time, the sound of “Move On Up” dances around his head.

  And all the time, as he cuts and as the screams get louder, the irritating-as-hell face of that grey-haired, checkered-shirt nosey bastard scratches at his mind like a cat’s claws.

  He knows what he has to do.

  Careful but ruthless.

  FOURTEEN

  I’d barely been working this case a day and already I was wishing I hadn’t been working it at all.

  I sat with Martha in the Olive Press in town. Italian food, decent prices. To be honest, I didn’t really enjoy restaurants. I found the atmosphere forced, the appreciation of average food overwhelmingly annoying.

  But hey. Normal people ate in restaurants. I had to blend into the crowd every now and then.