Cucumber Coolie (Blake Dent Mysteries Book 2) Page 7
Besides, involving Lenny was only just police involvement, right? He was barely an officer, really.
Lenny pouted and whistled. “Well I think it looks very much like the mode operation of our pal Hose.”
“Modus operandi,” I said.
“Yeah, that. So basically what happens is this: you’ll get another tape tomorrow morning showing your pretty bird here being—”
“Okay!” I stood up and shook my head. “Lenny, I didn’t frigging invite you here to act an idiot. I didn’t invite you here at all. We need your help. Anything you can give us. But this has to stay quiet. This… news of this third kidnapping can’t break.”
Lenny narrowed his eyes. He moved his fingers across his closed lips, zipping them shut, then mumbled something.
My heart raced. The taste of menthol clung to my tongue. No amount of it would be enough to calm me today. “Have you… have you got any news on the first two girls? Like, anything? Witness reports, anything like that?”
Lenny mumbled. Kept his mouth shut.
Martha punched him on the arm. “You can open your mouth now, sugar.”
He unzipped his mouth. “So when I come to you for help with my promotion, you go all popstar on me and throw a diva fit? But when you need my help…”
“Lenny, don’t play this game. You owe me big time.”
“I think it’s you who owes me, Blake. And that goes for you too, Martin—”
“Martha,” she said.
“I gave you your career breaks. Paid you a million quid to share. And what do I get in return? Sidewards glances and… and pure rudeness.”
Martha went to speak, but I interrupted.
“This isn’t a game, Lenny. Someone I care about a lot has been taken. And I… every second we waste bickering about who the frig owes who is a second she—she spends in pain.” I took in a deep breath to stop my voice shaking. “I want your help. I’ll repay you with a bloody cake or something. Just please. Is there anything you can tell me about the case?”
Lenny squinted. “Lemon cake?”
“Five bloody lemon cakes if that makes you happy.”
He smiled. “Got yourself a deal. Right, the case. The old case…”
I felt the first smidgen of relief I’d experienced all day.
“Denise Scotts kidnapped early hours of Thursday. Hubby tries to solve Hose’s little cryptic clues himself. When he gets the second tape through showing his wife’s murder on Friday morning, he tops himself. Meanwhile, a second girl is kidnapped early hours Friday, probably after Hosey-boy murders Denise Scotts. Janet Wilding, she’s called. Pretty girl, actually. Nice ginger hair. Perky tits—”
“Ditch the details, babe,” Martha said.
“Sure. Anyway, her husband Dave, he decides to pay the police a visit. We look at the tape. Look for DNA on the tape, look for prints, CCTV outside their house, things like that.”
“And?” I asked.
“Nothing. Well, of course we see a guy dressed all in black wandering into the Wilding household around 1.30 a.m. Friday. Then leaving with a very heavy looking bin bag. But nothing on the DNA front. No prints. Nothing like that.”
I sighed. Squeezed the bridge of my nose. “So you’ve absolutely no idea what’s going on.”
“Oh we have an idea what’s going on. Judging by the two tapes, Hose likes… what was the fancy way Officer Bates put it? Ah yeah. Physically torturing his victims, psychologically torturing the victims’ other halves. Poetry, right? Pure poetry.”
“So he’s a game player, in other words,” Martha said.
“Game player. Yeah. I like that. Good one.”
Martha winked at Lenny.
He looked away and blushed.
“So nothing on the clues?” I asked. “Nothing on… on all this about the answers being nearby, and about ‘looking around’?”
Lenny shrugged. “Not really my department. We took swabs and blood from Dave Wilding, though. Pathologist took them from James Scotts’ body too. Figured we’d take a look what Hose injected into them. So that’s something you might wanna think about having done down at the station too.”
“No chance,” I said. “I’m not coming near the station. Not with Hose’s threat. Bad enough you being here.”
Lenny raised his eyebrows. “Compliments accepted. But hey, you’re a clever bloke. As are you, Mart… Martha. You’ll figure something out I’m sure.”
He stood up and walked across my lounge and to the door.
“So that’s it?”
Lenny stopped. “Well I don’t have anything else for you right now. And it’s nearly 12, and my stomach’s rumbling like mad for a Meatball Marijuana sub.”
“Marinara,” Martha said.
“That’s what I said. So yeah. Don’t fret. Take a chill pill, and all that. I’ll be in touch.”
He lowered the handle of the door.
I couldn’t help but storm over there and slam the door shut.
“Hey!” he said. His eyes widened as I stared at him. “This is kidnap, technically. I could arrest you for—”
“I’ve got fourteen hours,” I said, my heart pounding. “Fourteen hours to save somebody I bloody care about. Don’t screw this up, Lenny. Please.”
Lenny raised his hands. His stomach rumbled like mad. “When do I ever screw anything up, Blakey?”
I didn’t even want to start.
I let Lenny leave my flat and I walked back to the sofa and plonked myself down.
Martha was silent at first. She let me just sit there with my hands over my face. I was tired. Exhausted. Figured I’d never feel healthy again. Worst part of this case is that I was helpless. There was nothing. No evidence. Nothing to go on.
And yet, the killer said to “look around.” He suggested the answers were out there to be found.
There had to be something.
“You can have five minutes if you—”
“Load that tape up again,” I said. I leaned forward towards the camera. My eyes stung with tiredness.
Martha looked at me with concern. “Hun, I’m not sure another viewing will—”
“I need to watch it again. Just do it.”
Martha rewound the camcorder and started again from the beginning.
I stared intently into the static. Freeze-framed every little shot.
The approach to Danielle’s house.
The killer stabbing me in the neck with a syringe.
Then doing the same to Danielle.
I watched it all. Beginning to end, then beginning to end again.
It was only on the fourth viewing that I noticed something I hadn’t before.
It was on the back seat of the killer’s car. In the final shot, when he pointed the camcorder at Danielle, lying flat and partly covered by a bin bag.
“Ecstacia.”
“Hmm?” Martha said. “I have some in my handbag if you want some. It’ll knock you out for a few hours though. Strong stuff.”
“No, look.” My heart picked up. “The box on his back seat. Ecstacia. Right there, see?”
I froze the frame. Fast-forwarded through it as slow as I could, as the bold black lettering on the side of the box came into view.
Martha squinted at the shots. Colour invaded her cheeks. “Weird,” she said.
“Where did you say you bought this stuff? Online?”
Martha gulped. Looked me in the eyes. “Don’t judge, hun, but… well, it’s not exactly a legal substance.”
I shrugged. “Same with many herbal remedies. So did you get it online? Maybe we can—we can contact the website. Ask them about recent orders. That box, it looks like a load of the stuff. Maybe that’s what he’s using to put the victims to sleep. It has to be. It—”
“You can’t get Ecstacia online, Blake. It’s… it’s a local brew, let’s say.”
Martha lowered her head. Cleared her throat.
“Local brew? What does that mean?”
She looked me in my eyes. A half-smile crept up her face.
“There’s only one guy in the world who produces and deals Ecstacia. And I know where to find him.”
FIFTEEN
“I thought this drug dealer of yours was supposed to have a stall here?”
Martha sighed. “I told you. He’s not a drug dealer. He’s just a pill supplier.”
“Pill supplier. Right. Got that.”
We stood in the middle of Preston Market. It was filled with stalls selling knock-off DVDs, knock-off clothes, knock-off everything. Every day, the sounds of shouting radiated through this grim, closed-top area, the smell of pigeon-shit strong in the air.
“He’s usually just here,” Martha said. She pointed at a stall that was filled with old football programmes. Liverpool, Wigan, Bolton—loads of old programmes all from the seventies and the eighties onwards. A suspicious brown stain clung to the front of one of the Wigan ones. Very fitting.
“Well it doesn’t look like he’s here to me,” I said.
“Alright, alright, don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’ll call him.”
I looked around. Everyone in here except for me and Martha was wearing trackie bottoms, or missing a few teeth. They all seemed to be looking at us like we had a big “OUTSIDER” placard above our heads.
“I just don’t like this bloody place.”
“Oh you don’t like bloody anywhere so that’s no surprise. Yeah, Donny. It’s… it’s Martha. You in town?”
I folded my arms over my chest and leaned back against the stall. The sounds of shouting, the smells of piss and damp cardboard… all of it was just noise and stench. Just noise and stench, when I considered what might be happening to Danielle right now.
No. Not “might.” What would be happening to her.
I had to face up to that reality. I had to accept it.
And I had to do everything I could to stop it getting any worse. If I had to play this camera-wielding nutjob’s little game, then I was bringing my bloody top drawer performance.
“You have a problem, man? You retard?”
The voice came from behind me. I turned around, climbing off the stall.
I was greeted—loose meaning to the word—by a bearded man with short black hair and big ears. He was wearing a white Fred Perry shirt that had discoloured, and blue trackie bottoms that looked like they had birdshit on them.
“Oh, Donny—this is Blake. He’s the one who—”
“You don’t’a lean on my’a stall!” he said, in his weird Italian accent. Forced? Most probably.
“I’ll lean where I bloody want.”
“He won’t,” Martha said. She pinched my side. “He’s sorry. Look, Donny, we have questions. Big questions about—”
“You want’a more of the good stuff?”
Martha smiled. Shook her head. “No, Donny. I’m weening off it, as delicious as it is. But we’ve got a problem.”
“Then you buy a programme or you go. If you want’a no good stuff, you no business with me.”
I scratched my head. Great. Another lunatic associate of Martha’s. Like this was going to help.
“Donny, there’s been… something terrible’s happened.”
“I told’a you: side effects include the shitty-bum. Shitty-bum for days sometimes, sometimes weeks.”
“I’ve not got a shitty bum, Donny.”
“Then you have no’a problem if you have no’a shitty bum. So go!”
I clenched my fists and stepped up to Donny.
“My girlfriend’s been kidnapped. Heard about those little murders these last two days? Well believe it or not, mate, the victims were spiked with your little shitty-bum potion.” I wiped the dust off some of his programmes. “Say, you don’t happen to have an interest in camcorders, do you?”
Donny glared me in the eye. He shrugged. He really did look dense, in his defence. “I… I do a good photo if you want. Fifty pound, super sexy model shoot. Make’a you look very pretty.”
“He doesn’t want a super sexy model shoot,” Martha said. “Look, Donny—we need to know who you… anyone you sold any large boxes of Ecstacia to since it went on sale?”
Donny shook his head. “No. No’a way. Client confidence.”
I stepped closer to Donny. “The only thing you need to be bloody confident about is an arrest warrant coming your way if you don’t spill the beans. People are dying, Donny. People are being spiked with your product, and then they’re being killed. A white box. A box of the pure stuff, not the pills. Who’ve you sold to?”
Donny sighed. Muttered a few harsh sounding words in a language I swore was gibberish, glaring at Martha. “I sell a lot’a people. Lot’a batch of good stuff.”
“In big amounts?”
Donny looked from left to right. Scratched the back of his neck. “There was’a one man. But I er…” He wafted his hands over the programmes. “Need to shift some a these.”
Martha glared at me.
“What? Me? I don’t want a load of shitty programmes.”
“Just twenty,” Donny said. “Enough’a for my dinner.”
I reluctantly fished out my wallet and planted a twenty pound note down atop the programmes.
“Take’a your pick,” Donny said, wafting his hand out over the programmes.
“Oh no it’s fine. You keep your programmes. Now about this guy.”
He sniffed at the twenty pound note. “Ah yes. This’a guy. Very interesting guy.”
“Interesting in what way?”
Donny took a few moments to think. Tapped his index finger against his chin. “He was very… very wrapped.”
“Very wrapped?”
Donny smiled. “Yes, very wrapped. Covered’a up. Like, he has big black coat on. And he says, ‘I want whole box of pure Ecstacia.’”
“So you say…?”
“Okay, I say. I give you’a big box if you pay. And then he pays me in big fifty notes! Special notes I never’a seen in all my time in England.”
My stomach sank. “Great. So he paid cash. Of course he did.”
“Wait,” Martha said. “He paid in fifties?”
Donny nodded fast. “Yes. Fifties! So special notes that I’a like them a lot.”
“And did he… was this wrapped-up guy wearing gloves?” I asked.
Donny squinted. “Gloves? No gloves.”
“Did you bank the fifties?” Martha asked
Donny laughed. “Bank? No. I keep’a them. No bank.”
My awareness picked up. “Wait, you… you still have the fifties?”
Donny smiled. He reached under the counter and checked either side to see nobody was looking. “Here we go. No touch. All my fifties.”
He held five fifty pound notes between his fingers.
“You… We’re gonna need to see those,” I said. “Prints. The police, they can—”
“Wait, you not police are you?” Donny snapped the notes away. His face turned serious.
I shook my head fast. “No, we’re just—we need to see those—”
“You say police? You say you police?”
“I didn’t say I was—”
“He’s not police, but I am.”
The voice came from behind us. It was a voice that made my heart pick up, and my muscles tighten.
I turned around and saw a grinning Lenny, sunglasses on, standing there. Two other officers were beside him.
“Holy hell, Blakey! Didn’t realise it was you.”
“Lenny, you can’t… you can’t be with me. You can’t—”
“I’m not here, Blake. Invisible as they come. I’m here for Mr. Petrowski, anyway. Mr. Petrowski! How you doing’ old buddy?”
Donny glared at Lenny, then at the police, then at Martha and then at me. “You police. Pig shits. No more shitty-bum stuff for you, Mar-ta. No more.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Lenny said, stepping towards Donny. “You’ve got other things to worry about. Like why your product Ecstacia was in the bloodstream of Dave Wilding? You know, husband of Janet Wilding, second victim in the Hose killings.”
“The fifties,” I said to Lenny. “The… Hose, he paid Donny in fifties. They’ll have prints on them, Lenny. We can find…” I stopped speaking. Noticed the other officers looking at me strangely. They didn’t know about Danielle.
The police couldn’t know about Danielle.
Lenny winked at me. “We’ll check those notes out, Mr. Anon. Good tip.”
And then he zipped his mouth and turned away.
“Come on, Mr. Petrowski. Time to have a serious discussion about the types of people you’re dealing with. Ooh, a Wigan programme! Can I have this one?”
Martha and I walked away and watched as Donny was escorted away by the police.
“This could be it, hun,” Martha said, as Lenny stuck the fifty pound notes in his front pocket. “Fingerprints. DNA. This could really be it.”
I watched as Donny got into the back of Lenny’s squad car, listened as the roar of the market swallowed up my thoughts.
Thoughts of Danielle.
Thoughts of what she was going through.
“I hope so,” I said, as we walked away. “I really hope so.”
SIXTEEN
It feels strange to be out here in the open.
He smiles as he walks through the city centre. Smiles at a little old lady propping herself on her walking stick. Smiles at the two young boys chasing one another, giggling and shouting.
He is just like the rest of the city as he walks. Invisible. A face in the crowd.
A normal human being.
But he is not a normal human being. He knows that. He has always known that. His tastes, they have always been… different. And there was never any real reason for his differences in tastes. Not that he could think of.
He just enjoys ending lives. Always has enjoyed watching the light of life come to a flickering halt. Always will.
He scratches his face as he walks up towards the market. He doesn’t usually come out when he is in the middle of a killing, but today is different. Subject C passed out when he plucked out her fourth fingernail. But she was so gutsy. So resilient. So… untearful.
Which means he’ll have even more fun breaking her down.