by Gwen Gardner
We broke apart, looking rather sheepish, as only kids in trouble can. “Bloody hell,” muttered Simon, more scared than ever.
“In the car. Now.” Claire strode off, not looking back to see if we were following. We exchanged worried looks, but had no choice. We marched single-file, like prisoners of war going to the firing squad.
We drove to the pub in silence. I worried about not having a cover story. At the station, I stuck to the truth but didn’t elaborate. Clearly, the same story would not work on Claire Bagley.
It’s the parent thing. Not something I had to worry about recently. I felt the urge to giggle, but stopped myself. Giggling was not my friend right now.
We sat over in the far corner of the pub. Claire ordered burgers and soda pops, which we fell upon ravenously, not having had the opportunity to eat breakfast. It bought us time. Very little time. Now her prisoners, we didn’t have the chance of a private conversation to agree on a cover story, er, I mean to collaborate on, um, stuff. Have I mentioned I’m going to hell?
Riley hovered nervously near the bar, her ears perked in order to hear what we were discussing. She picked up and put down the same glass at least five times, trying to look busy.
When Uncle Richard came striding through the door, my heart stopped briefly. I shared a now we’re in for it glance with Simon.
Uncle Richard’s face was thunderous as he threw his raincoat over a chair back, loosened his tie and sat down. Seeing the anger cross my dad’s features on Uncle Richard’s face was oddly unsettling. My dad rarely ever got mad. His blond good looks and cheery nature usually diffused any trouble.
The bite of hamburger I had taken lodged in my throat, refusing to go down. I took a swig of soda and cringed at the sweetness. I rarely drank soda pop, but remembered that sugar was supposed to be good for shock. And I thought maybe I was in shock, given everything that had happened since that morning. We were probably grounded forever. Weren’t we too old to be grounded? My mind was everywhere except on the real problem. What were we going to say to Uncle Richard and Claire?
Chapter Thirty-One
Candy
Luckily, Simon was an accomplished liar. He did it effortlessly and smoothly, with no apparent guilt to give him away. He never blatantly lied, he merely never told the full truth. None of us did. He explained that when they chased Billy, they only wanted to talk to him about Bart’s car. They hadn’t meant him any harm, and in fact arrived home hours before the police say Billy died. All true. But we neglected to mention that Billy was a suspect in our private investigation.
Yep! Going to hell on the fast train. I wondered if God took into account the reason for the lie when he was determining whether or not I passed ‘go’ at the pearly gates.
Uncle Richard and Claire didn’t totally believe him, but they let it go. Out of guilt, I thought. Uncle Richard buried his grief in work since his wife Amanda, and son Bryan died. With the arrival of me to keep Simon company, he was relieved of his duty to his remaining son.
“So,” said Simon, hands on the table to lever himself up. “Is it okay if we go now? We had plans to do Christmas shopping this afternoon.”
Badger and I stood, too. I carefully did not make eye contact with anyone. Being a horrible liar, eye contact would give me away. I didn’t like lying, even by omission. But in this case it couldn’t be helped.
Eyes bored into my back as we retreated through the door. I shivered, like when I was being watched by spirits.
And speaking of spirits, I glimpsed Bart sitting in his usual spot at the bar on our way out. I had tried speaking with him several times before, but he was no longer aware of me. He was immersed in his newspaper, in his own world, his own reality. I would try again.
Once outside, we walked quickly away. Not headed anywhere particular, we wanted to put distance between ourselves and the parents. Riley, coming from the direction of the ginnel, joined us.
We hoofed it two more blocks before slowing to a stroll, as if window shopping. But the brightly lit Christmas displays held no interest for us. Christmas was a joyful occasion, and our lives held too much sadness to celebrate the season. Maybe next year.
When Riley’s mobile pinged, she pulled it out and opened the text message.
Her eyebrows went up as she scrolled and read.
“What?” said Simon, always impatient.
“Gerry Puttock has a record,” she said, stowing the mobile back in her pocket. “Apparently he beat up a hooker.”
“How does she do that?” Simon nodded his head at Riley. “How does she get all that information?” The amazement in his tone voiced the burning question we all wanted to know, but were too worried about the answer to push. As usual, the inquiry was ignored.
“The real point is that Danny was right about the prostitutes,” said Riley.
“That is totally creepy,” I said.
“And it proves he’s violent,” added Simon.
“But the real question is, how far would he go to get what he wants?” said Badger.
Exactly. Would Gerry have murdered Bart to have a chance with Claire, the substitute-Claire’s not being satisfactory? Gerry Puttock was definitely climbing up the suspect ladder at a rapid pace.
I didn’t like keeping this expedition secret from the boys, but Riley insisted. As a rule, she didn’t go out to investigate, but she wanted to speak with Gerry’s prostitute personally. Being in charge of the investigation, Badger would not have agreed to Riley and I traveling to that part of town, let alone walking the streets looking for a prostitute called Candy.
Late afternoon we walked through the park, crossed the bridge over the River Sabrina, and hopped the bus which took us across town. Riley’s source told her that Candy worked the streets in that area. Mostly run down and dirty, we passed more than one drunk sleeping on the sidewalk. I’m pretty sure I witnessed a couple of drug deals, too.
Dark was closing in, but plenty of people on the sidewalks and cars cruising the streets made me feel safe enough. Even so, we stuck close together as we asked the street walkers for information about where to find Candy.
After much walking, Candy was pointed out to us coming out of a ramshackle pub called The Spiders Web. Fully dark now, I wanted to get this done quickly and get home. I grabbed Riley’s sleeve and pulled her across the street, wolf whistles and catcalls following us. I approached Candy and introduced Riley and myself.
Candy had bleached blonde hair, wore heavy makeup, a faux fur coat and short black miniskirt with high, spiked heels.
“Can we buy you a coffee?” I asked.
Candy narrowed her eyes at us. “What are two nice girls like you doing on these streets? Don’t you know it isn’t safe?” Despite how she looked, I was surprised her speech was that of an educated woman. “And what’s this about, anyway? I don’t know you, do I?”
“It’s about Gerald Puttock,” I said.
Recognition lit her eyes. After a brief hesitation, she made up her mind. “You have ten minutes. I have to work and you’re breaking into my busy schedule. This way.”
She led us down the dark alley to where light streamed out of The Spider’s Web door. The red-painted brick wall had a huge black spider on a silver web covering the entire section to the left of the door. Riley’s eyes were huge and scared, but I tried not to show my shaky nerves. No way should we be here, in this neighborhood, at any time – night or day.
We entered the dark smoky pub. Music blared out of a juke box. Skirting around the small dance floor, we followed Candy down a hall where she pulled out a key and invited us into a small, tidy room. A day bed lined one wall, with a chair and little table against another. A television sat in the corner. I had the feeling this was her private sanctuary, a place where customers weren’t allowed.
“Have a seat.” Candy took her coat off and placed it on the bed, where she sat.
We removed our jackets, Riley sitting in the only chair.
“Believe it or not, it’s safe here. This is where I live. The owner
watches out for me, so you’ll be all right. Now what about Gerry Puttock? It must be pretty important if you two are coming into this neighborhood to find me.” She lit a cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke into the room.
“We won’t take up much of your time,” I said. “We know you’re...busy.” I coughed uncomfortably, kicking myself for inadvertently alluding to what Candy did for a living. “We understand that Gerry beat you up, and we want to know what happened. We’ve been told,” I said, looking at Riley, “that, um.” I hesitated.
“Let’s not beat about the bush,” said Candy. “For reasons beyond my control, I am a prostitute. When you’re hungry, you do things...anyway – on the night in question – I don’t do role-playing – he wanted me to pretend to be somebody named Claire-”
Riley gasped.
Candy turned to look at her, her painted arched eyebrows raised even higher. “Someone you know?”
Riley nodded. “My mum.”
“I see,” said Candy. “Anyway. When I wouldn’t play, he beat me up. It kind of comes with the territory; I see all kinds of punters. But with this Gerry – stay away from him,” she said in earnest. “I’m not the first one. It’s going around on the streets that – well, never mind. That’s all I have to tell you.” She got up, smoothing down her mini skirt. “Now I have work to do.”
She led us back through the pub. The familiar prickling on the back of my skull alerted me to being watched, but my eyes had not adjusted to the darkness yet. A lit match briefly illuminated a familiar face, but I couldn’t quite place him. In any case, I was grateful to be through the pub and out the door without incident.
Back out on the street, we stuck as close as we could to the buildings, trying to evade anyone’s notice.
We arrived back at the Blind Badger and breathed a sigh of relief.
Bart sat at the long, polished bar, furthest barstool on the left. Resigned, I decided to try and make contact and hope for the best. I dreaded another scene like the snug storm, but if I could find out any further information or clue as to how he died, it would be worth it.
“I’ll meet you in the snug,” I told Riley, making like I was headed to the restroom. As soon as she disappeared down the corridor to meet Badger and Simon, I headed to the bar.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Clueless
Charlie the bartender busily chatted up a couple of women at the opposite end of the bar. His jet-black hair and gray eyes being quite the attraction, they paid no attention to me.
I approached the far left barstool cautiously, taking up a standing-only spot on the left corner of the bar, next to Bart. Leaning on my elbows, I glanced sideways at him. He didn’t look up. I cleared my throat. He didn’t look up.
“Bart,” I whispered. “Pssst.” No sign of recognition. “Bart, can you hear me?” Nope. This wasn’t working. How could I get through to him? I waved my hand in front of his face and got no reaction. I leaned in closer to him, my face next to his. “Look, Bart. How is this going to work if you won’t acknowledge me?” I slapped my open palm against the bar in front of him several times, trying to startle him into noticing me. No good. “I need to know if you’ve remembered anything. Dude, I’m clueless here. I need your help.”
I shook my head in frustration. “Every other ghost in this town can’t wait to speak to me, but not you. Oh no, you ask for help and then proceed to ignore me.” I leaned back onto the bar, wondering what to do next.
Glancing up, Charlie and the two women were staring at me, strange looks on their faces. Crap. So busted talking to myself. I smiled and waved. “Hiya Charlie!” What else could I do?
Simon and I left the pub at around 11:00 that evening, after having talked about what Riley and I had learned from Candy.
The wet streets glistened in the lamplights, reflecting back the striped black and white of the half-timber beams, wavy in the puddles like a mirage. We skirted the standing water as we walked arm in arm for warmth, and talked about nothing in particular, our voices lowered in respect for the lateness of the hour.
Our footsteps echoed the emptiness of the street, the buildings magnifying the sound. Tightening at the base of my skull alerted me to another presence. I increased the pressure on Simon’s arm and imperceptibly looked over at him. The look he returned was inquisitive.
“I think we’re being followed,” I whispered, in the same casual tone we had been using. I tightened my grip when he would have looked around.
“Where?” he asked, just as casually.
I became aware of more than our two sets of footsteps. The location of the third set was difficult due to the echo.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Can you tell?”
He listened intently for a minute. “No.”
“Okay, let’s stop. We’ll run if we have to.”
“But wait,” said Simon. “When we stop, let’s swing around, see if we can surprise him. You know, the element of surprise and all that?”
“And then what? Stand and fight, and all that?” Sometimes Simon didn’t think through the consequences. We couldn’t stand and fight if we didn’t know what, or who, we were up against. What if our follower had weapons, or was bigger and stronger than us? What if he wasn’t alone?
“If we have to,” he said defensively. “I’m not always the cuddly teddy bear you see before you.” Nervousness made him babble, so before it could go any further, I gave in.
“All right, we’ll try the element of surprise. But then we run like hell.” I took his hand. “On three – one, two, three.” We spun around, quickly scanning the street behind us.
A figure stepped out of the shadows of a building less than a half block away. He walked slowly toward us.
With our hands still clasped, we waited. I still had not made up my mind whether to make a run for it. The man seemed familiar.
Simon pried his hand out of mine and maneuvered me behind him. A chivalrous move, but not the right time to remind Sir Lancelot that I ran faster than he could.
I recognized the voice that reached us out of the darkness.
“A word, if you don’t mind,” said D.S. Robbie O’Boyle. When he stepped into the glow of the street light, Simon recognized him, too. Dressed in burglar-black, the ginger hair poking from the hoodie was unmistakable.
I breathed a sigh of relief, although still wary. Why had he been following us?
“What about?” said Simon, still blocking me behind him. “We already told you everything we know.”
“Except,” replied the D.S., “why Miss Eady here,” he pointed at me, “was seen in the company of a well-known prostitute in a seedy pub in an equally seedy area of town.”
“That was you!” I exclaimed, coming around Simon. “You were the man hiding in the dark corner checking out everyone who came and went.” I was indignant. “Why are you following me?” I demanded.
“Why were you with that prostitute?” he countered.
“She’s a friend, if it’s any of your business,” I crossed my arms over my chest.
“A prostitute?” O’Boyle said incredulously. “You,” he stabbed a finger in my direction, “are a very bad liar, Miss Eady.”
“Hey!” said Simon, taking a step closer to the D.S., effectively cutting off his access to me. “You’re out of line, O’Boyle.” He then stepped back, took my arm and turned me around. “This conversation is over,” he threw over his shoulder, striding quickly up the street, his arm linked through mine.
“Not by a long shot,” yelled O’Boyle to our retreating backs. “We’re watching you! We know there’s more to this!”
Chapter Thirty-Three
An Arrest
An hour later, Simon and I were comfortably settled in front of the cozy kitchen fire when Uncle Richard trampled down the back stairwell. He burst into the kitchen in stocking feet and shoes in hand.
“What’s happened?” said Simon, jumping from his chair.
Uncle Richard sat in a kitchen chair, putting on and tying his shoes qui
ckly. “It’s Claire. She was attacked. I have to go to her.”
We exchanged worried glances.
“By who? Who attacked her?” Simon said, grabbing his father’s arm.
“Gerry – she said Gerry, but I don’t understand what she was doing over there or why he would attack her.”
“We’re going with you,” I said, reaching for my boots by the back door. “Riley – Badger – the kids – they might need us.”
“All right – come on, then,” he said.
Gerry’s pub was total chaos. The area was blocked off with police tape. Policemen swarmed around the area like angry bees, including Detective Inspector Longstaff and Detective Sergeant Robbie O’Boyle. Crime scene technicians in their white coveralls and booties moved in and out of the area.
Uncle Richard spoke to a police officer who led him to a white van. Riley came out of the same white van, and I called her name.
“Riley!” I shouted, waving. “Riley, over here!”
She turned at the sound of her name, and strode our way. We ducked under the police line and ran to her. She walked straight into Simon’s arms and burst into tears. Her eyes were puffy and tear-stained, her nose red from crying. She wore pajamas with faux fur-lined boots, topped with a hooded sweater.
“Dear God, what’s happened?” I said. “Where is she? What happened to your mom?”
“She’s okay – he didn’t get the chance to hurt her.” Riley wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands and sniffed. I reached into my coat pocket for a clean tissue and handed it to her.
“But what happened?” With so many policemen and officials around, it looked like a major crime scene. Yellow plastic tape reading, crime scene, do not cross, surrounded the area.
“She went over to borrow a tap – somehow ours are all broken or lost – and he was acting strangely, she said, over-familiar, like they were lovers. Before she had time to react, he had grabbed her arm, dragged her upstairs, and well...she screamed the house down.” Riley leaned in closer and whispered. “It turns out he thought she was one of his prostitutes! My God, we should have said something sooner. Who knows what might have happened?!”
