Banecroft nodded as if agreeing. ‘Yes. Yes, you probably did. Now you have them in Scotland.’
‘But I can’t drive.’
‘I thought you were the one who could drive?’
‘No,’ said Reggie, pointing at Ox. ‘That’s him.’
Ox looked as if he’d just received the package in a game of pass the parcel and it was ticking.
‘What? No, I … I can’t … He’s the expert in, y’know, this stuff.’
‘That’s why you’re both going. And you can drop by and do a story on that spate of UFO sightings outside of Glasgow. That woman is still writing to us, isn’t she?’
He looked at Grace, who nodded. ‘Every week.’
‘Excellent.’
‘But I have articles to write up,’ pleaded Reggie.
‘You can do that while he’s driving,’ said Banecroft.
‘But I get carsick.’
Banecroft clapped his hands together. ‘Tremendous. Let’s consider that a happy bonus.’
‘Hang on,’ interjected Ox. ‘When am I supposed to get my articles written up?’
‘You can do it while he’s throwing up! This has all worked out perfectly.’ Banecroft picked up his crutch and hobbled towards his office door. ‘Good meeting. Now, whose leg do I have to hump around here to get a cup of tea?’
CHAPTER 9
DI Sam Clarke and DS Andrea Wilkerson leaned against the low wall and watched the SOCOs work as a train rumbled by overhead.
‘Are you sure he’ll want it?’ asked Wilkerson.
‘Yes,’ responded Clarke. ‘The yappy little sod can’t resist trying to show how much cleverer he is than everyone else.’
‘Right.’
A silence descended between the two of them, save for the sound of Wilkerson slurping at her tea and Clarke passing wind unapologetically. They were standing about thirty feet away from the area between the canal and the red-brick side of the building as the SOCOs needed space, and this particular crime scene was only about six feet wide. On the far side of the canal, a crowd of onlookers gawped. People never got tired of watching the police work, especially when there was a dead body in the offing.
There wasn’t enough room to erect screens, so they’d covered the body and Clarke had dispatched a PC to tell people there was nothing to see, when there clearly was. They’d already had to ask an office worker from the building to stick his head back inside the window. Couldn’t have some moron’s DNA appearing on the body because he’d dribbled on to it from a height in his excitement to see a real-life tragedy.
The corpse, one John ‘Long John’ Maguire, was a homeless guy known to the Greater Manchester Police. He had a history of alcohol abuse and a long list of convictions for petty, non-violent crimes. It was a cruel irony: people who had quickened their pace to speed by and ignore him in life were now fascinated by him in death. DI Clarke was not one of those people.
‘Still, guv,’ said Wilkerson, ‘shouldn’t I talk to the SOCOs and maybe get the canvass started?’
Clarke waved his hand about. ‘Look around you, Wilkerson. We’re in the middle of Castlefield. Where are you going to start? The apartments? Anyone who can afford to live here is at work right now, and besides, they didn’t see anything that happened at four in the morning because they were tucked up in beddy-byes. The vic was homeless – do you want to start canvassing that lot? Getting incoherent dribblings from a bunch of drunks and junkies who see spiders crawling across their skin half the time? Or would you like to go through the nearby CCTV and try to chase down the hundred pissed idiots it’ll give you who were seen “acting strangely” in the area? Pissheads act strangely – it’s what they do. I’m telling you, this is an unsolved waiting to happen and we don’t want it on our board.’
‘And Sturgess will?’
Clarke nodded. ‘Sturgess will.’
‘But—’
DI Clarke cut her off. ‘Because he’s a smart-arsed little scrote who thinks he’s better than the rest of us.’
DS Wilkerson jumped as DI Tom Sturgess appeared behind them. ‘Can’t imagine where I got that idea from.’
Sturgess was standing on the other side of the low wall, a bottle of Diet Coke in his hand. The bloke didn’t drink tea or coffee, which was weird for a copper. He also didn’t drink alcohol, which was damn near unprecedented. Slight of build, with long black hair and a full, trimmed beard, Sturgess had piercing blue eyes that’d set more than a few female hearts aflutter down at the station. There were rumours he was gay, but as far as Wilkerson could tell, those rumours came from a couple of people who always assumed as much when a man showed zero interest in them. Wilkerson hated beards personally and didn’t like men who took everything, including themselves, as seriously as Sturgess did. Still, if she were the corpse, she knew who she’d want working the case.
‘Sturgess, didn’t see you there,’ said Clarke.
‘Well, observation has never really been your thing.’
‘Do you work at being this unpopular or does it just come naturally?’
‘There’s an extra course we can take. I’m surprised a go-getter like you didn’t know that.’ He nodded towards where the SOCOs were working. ‘So, what are you trying to dump on me this time?’
‘One of these days,’ said Clarke, throwing the remnants of his cup of tea into the canal, ‘that mouth of yours is going to earn you a slap.’
Sturgess raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that right? And who will you be getting to do that?’
As Clarke turned and squared up to Sturgess, for one brief moment Wilkerson wondered if something was going to happen. Instead, Clarke grinned a humourless grin and nodded towards the corpse. ‘John “Long John” Maguire, late of this parish. Reported by a jogger who noticed him from the far side of the canal, and then found by PC Marcus Raven this morning at seven thirty-five. Took SOCO a while to get here because of that thing up in Moss Side – a dead homeless guy being, well, y’know.’
‘And?’ said Sturgess.
‘And,’ continued Clarke, ‘on examination by the paramedics, injuries were found to the chest and the back of the head, which had been smashed in. Nasty way to go. Initially they thought he’d somehow got on to the roof and fallen, but, well … Take a look.’
Sturgess turned to where Clarke was pointing – the wall of the building above the body. Fifteen feet up was an indent in the brickwork. It looked as if something had hit it hard – really hard. Sturgess scanned the surrounding area. Wilkerson could see him making the calculations – the train tracks were too far away, as were the nearby buildings. There was nothing that could explain how a body could possibly have made contact with that section of the wall.
‘The building manager assures us there was no damage there prior to this. They had someone in last week about something else – swears he would’ve noticed. Anyway—’
Sturgess spoke, his eyes fixed on the indent in the wall. ‘I’ll take it.’
‘Maybe I don’t want to give it to you.’
‘Yes, you do. I’m here because you’re trying to dump it, just like that thing last year up at the Mill, because you like easy tap-ins. I said I’ll take it, now get your lazy arse out of my crime scene.’
With that, Sturgess strode off towards the SOCOs.
‘Obnoxious little … Who is he calling lazy?’
DS Wilkerson said nothing.
Sturgess stopped and turned around. ‘Oh, and DS Hadoke is off with an impacted wisdom tooth, so I need a DS if I’m to take this.’ He looked pointedly at Wilkerson.
‘No,’ said Clarke. ‘She’s working with me.’
‘I don’t mind,’ said Wilkerson, which earned her a glare from Clarke. ‘I mean, if Hadoke isn’t available …’
‘Fine,’ said Clarke, looking at her as if she were something he’d just scraped off his shoe, before turning and striding in the direction of his car.
Wilkerson turned to look at Sturgess, but he had already spun back around and was staring at the inexplicably
damaged brickwork fifteen feet above the body of Long John Maguire.
CHAPTER 10
Paulo nodded.
‘I mean,’ continued Leeohnel, ‘this salt lamp just has a wonderful energy to it and I think the negative ions it releases are just vital. People don’t understand the word “negative” in this context is actually a positive thing. A lot of technology produces “positive ions”’ – he formed the bunny rabbit ears in the air with his fingers – ‘which are actually really negative. They can lead to insomnia, mental illness, cancer …’
Paulo nodded again. He really hated hippies, which was ironic, as his shop’s primary purpose was to cater to them. Supposedly. People hold a lot of false assumptions about hippies. For a start, they’re not the relaxed individuals people imagine them to be. If you were to leave two of them in a room for long enough, you could guarantee a heated and bitter argument. They all have remarkably entrenched ideas about how the world, the human body, and damn near everything else works. The only thing a lot of them have in common is a fevered certainty that the world would be a better place if everyone just listened to them. Only two weeks ago, he’d had to separate two middle-aged women who had come to blows over the Dalai Lama.
While the exchange Paulo was currently involved in was nominally about the £140 Himalayan salt lamp, it was really about something else. Leeohnel, with his long hair, ridiculously sculpted beard and an earring that looked like a fishing lure, was paying a tenner for a lump of pink salt rock with a dodgy bulb in it. The other £130 was the unspoken price for having to listen to him bang on.
Leeohnel was a regular customer. Paulo knew from taking credit-card payments that the guy was really called Lionel and had contrived the whole Leeohnel persona. Paulo had seen him a couple of times up on Deansgate in a suit, heading into his job at an insurance company.
He’d been running Paulo’s Emporium for nearly ten years now, and he wasn’t sure how much more of this crap he could take. Day after day of people droning on at him. He kept having a recurring dream where he beat a customer to death with an aboriginal spirit carving. He had dozens of the things; a bloke in Bolton cranked them out dirt cheap. He’d opened the store as a cover for his other activities, but it actually turned a very healthy profit.
Paulo was surrounded by dreamcatchers, wind chimes, all manner of crystals, indigenous carvings, and so on and so on. Every time he brought in a new line, a small part of him hoped that this would finally be the useless bit of crap that would make his dedicated – if demented – customer base finally realize it was all nonsense, but they just ate up every fad. Trying to fill whatever hole life had left them with.
Leeohnel pushed his curtain of hair back behind his ear and Paulo noticed the spider crawling in it. Experience had taught him not to mention such things. Leeohnel was probably letting it live there in the hope that somebody would ask him about it. Paulo wasn’t paying any attention to the man’s monologue – he didn’t need to in order to nod in the right places. It was a conversation in name only. He’d give him another two minutes and then hit the button under the counter that made a fake phone ring in the back office. It was comfortably Paulo’s best ever purchase, and was unique amongst the things in the outer shop in that it actually worked.
Paulo’s eye was drawn to the shop’s door as the bell above it rang. A bald, portly man had just entered. He was looking around with a smirk on his face.
Paulo forced himself to tune back in to Leeohnel’s rambling stream of consciousness for a moment.
‘… balance really is the key. So much of modern life is out of balance with the natural world.’
‘Absolutely,’ interrupted Paulo. ‘Well, I hope you enjoy the lamp, Leeohnel. It does have a wonderful energy to it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I love our chats but I need to assist this customer.’
Leeohnel glanced over his shoulder at the other man and, with an undisguised look of disappointment on his face, said, ‘Right, of course.’ He picked up his linen bag containing the lamp, brought his hands together and bowed. ‘Namaste.’
‘Namaste,’ said Paulo, mirroring his actions.
Leeohnel moved off towards the wind chimes and incense, and Paulo smiled at the new customer.
‘Good afternoon, sir, and how can I help you today?’
The man stepped up to the counter and returned Paulo’s smile. ‘Well now, that depends …’
He spoke with an American accent, which was unexpected, but not as unexpected as what he did next. He placed his left hand on the counter and, with his index finger and thumb tucked into his palm, tapped the tips of his other three fingers on the counter three times. Paulo raised his eyebrows in surprise before giving the man a subtle nod.
‘I’m sure we can help you, sir.’ Paulo looked meaningfully to where Leeohnel was still perusing the incense. ‘Take a look around and we can talk later.’
‘I’m in kind of a hurry.’
Paulo looked in Leeohnel’s direction more pointedly. ‘I appreciate that.’
Paulo didn’t care what kind of a hurry this guy was in, protocols were there to be followed for a damn good reason.
The man sighed. ‘Fine.’ He walked directly over to Leeohnel and engaged him in conversation.
Paulo couldn’t hear what was said but Leeohnel went an even paler shade of white, turned on his heel and fled from the shop. Paulo watched him scurry up the lane, his shopping bag clutched to his chest. He dropped the deliberately spaced-out tone he typically adopted in the shop and threw up his hands. ‘Ah, for fuck’s sake, don’t run off the civilians.’
The American shrugged. ‘I didn’t do anything except tell the man some home truths.’
‘No, no,’ said Paulo. ‘I don’t know how they do it where you come from, but this is not how this shop does business. Get out.’
The man took something out of his pocket and tossed it on the counter. Paulo managed to resist the urge to gasp as the gold coin rolled around on the table top. When he spoke again, his tone was guarded but a lot more friendly. ‘I, ehm … Is that real?’
‘It’s real,’ said the man. ‘Test it if you don’t believe me.’
Carefully, Paulo picked it up. He had held something like this only once before in his forty-eight years, but it had the feel of real Grandon Gold. It was cold to the touch and had the tell-tale subtle vibration to it. The value of the coin lay not in the gold, but in the energy the gold contained.
‘I, ehm … I might have a bit of difficulty breaking this.’
‘I’m looking to spend it all.’
Paulo nodded and licked his lips. ‘Right, well, we’ve got a lot of potion ingredients, thaumaturgical objects. Either we’ll have what you need or I can get it in if you give me a little time.’
The man laughed. ‘Yeah, I’m trading that for some herbs and knick-knacks. Maybe throw in a wind chime while you’re at it.’
‘OK,’ conceded Paulo. ‘Well, what do you want?’
The man placed his hands on the counter. ‘I need a Knife of Carathan.’
Paulo felt his stomach lurch. ‘We wouldn’t have anything like that.’
The man smiled. ‘Sure you do.’
Paulo shook his head vigorously. ‘Absolutely not. Under the Accord, blood magic is illegal and punishable by—’
‘Believe me,’ said the man, the smile falling from his lips, ‘I know how it is punished. I also know you’ve got the knife, so let’s make a deal.’
‘Vinny,’ called Paulo.
From the back office, the sound of furniture straining under an immense weight reached them, and Vinny lumbered through the beaded curtain. Paulo kept him out of the way because he had a tendency to scare the civilian customers. He also kept him close at hand for when it came to dealing with the more awkward elements of the Folk. Most just wanted ingredients and powered objects, but to run a shop such as Paulo’s really was, you had to have protection.
‘Problem?’ said Vinny in a sonorous growl.
He stood at six foot ten and
was the size of a small van. His hands were like baseball mitts on a normal human. The food bill alone to employ him was enormous, not to mention the cost of the breakages he was responsible for before Paulo had banned him from going beyond the counter. He worked a nightclub door some nights too – looking human enough that the normals wouldn’t question it.
‘Got yourself a troll,’ said the Yank in a disconcertingly cheerful tone. ‘Very sensible to have some protection in your line of business.’
Paulo nodded. ‘He’s just one of the many layers of protection this shop enjoys, so don’t get any stupid ideas.’
‘Hey,’ said the man, holding up his hands. ‘I come in peace, buddy. Just trying to do a little business.’
‘I recognize him,’ said Vinny, his lightning-sharp mind not being the reason for which he was employed.
‘What?’ said Paulo.
‘He was at my boxing gym. Last night.’
Paulo had a sinking feeling in his stomach. ‘Oh Gods, you didn’t …’
The American put his hand in the pocket of his overcoat and pulled out something. Paulo caught the briefest flash of a small brown figurine before Vinny’s massive hand clamped around his boss’s throat. He looked sideways to see Vinny’s mouth drop open, his face a picture of confusion.
Paulo’s voice came out as a croak. ‘Vinny, you moron!’
‘What’s happening?’ asked Vinny, a note of terror in his voice.
‘Well, Vinny,’ said the Yank, holding out his hand, palm up, where the small figurine, all of three inches tall, now stood. ‘I’d imagine your boss would tell you – if he were more free to speak – that if you engage in pugilism and end up bleeding, it really is very important to dispose of the blood properly. You see, if a powerful practitioner’ – he pointed to his own grinning face – ‘were to get hold of it … Well, let me put it this way: punch yourself in the face.’
Vinny punched himself in the face with his free hand. His mouth remained open as his head swivelled from his boss to the Yank and back again. ‘Sorry, Paulo.’
The Stranger Times Page 8
