by Geoff Smith
The conservatory contained mouldy sofas and mustard yellow throws, discarded packets of joss-sticks, stained cushions, countless cigarette butts. Bart picked his way through, through to the double doors that led to the foyer. A reception desk, stairs, and a bar. With the boarded windows it was pitch dark, only the light from the opened door creeping through, so he flicked on the flashlight of his phone. There was a small lift. He tried the door but it wouldn't budge. There were battery powered lamps all around the place, all switched off now, but all of them were new, expensive-looking rechargeables. He followed them through to the bar. He saw pizza boxes stacked beside a bean bag under the boarded bay window. And beside the boxes a kitchen bin overflowed with cans and plastic bottles, and, in the far corner of the room, a single armchair, and underneath that, a wooden box.
Bart sat in the chair and he slid the box out between his legs, unhooked the catch. Three trays inside. The top tray contained a set of scales and brass weights. One compartment was neatly filled with sealable plastic bags. The second layer contained a block of greenish brown hash wrapped in thick film that had been whittled down a bit but was still substantial - about fifteen centimetres by ten. The bottom tray was split into six sections with two types of weed in separate compartments and some rough, white crystals. He wondered if this was Zack and Raymond's main stash. If it was, then these guys were strictly small-time. Even if it was, they must have portioned bags somewhere too - their eighths and quarters and grammes. He considered ditching the stash, just taking it, dropping it in a bin somewhere. If nothing else it would piss Raymond off and after what had happened that morning, it would feel good to do it. But as he tucked the box back under the chair, and the temptation passed.
The walls in the bar were covered with luminous posters of cannabis leaves. Bart checked behind them. Nothing. There was a bong on the bar and three bottles of bourbon. All of the bottles were open. And there was something odd there too. A football trophy. Under 14s regional champions. Out of place in a hotel. Out of place in a squat.
Bart flashed the light at it. He picked it up. Lighter than he expected. The figure was plastic. The plinth too. It only had the illusion of weight. He used a butter knife to move the screw under the plinth removing the figure on a hunch. It loosened, then wobbled. Something small dropped from the gap. He scanned the carpet with his flashlight. And he found what he was looking for - a micro SD card. He stashed it in his wallet. He re-tightened the screw and placed the trophy back where he'd found it.
His pulse quickened, feeling strongly the need to get out. He pushed his hands deep in his pockets and he stretched, extending his neck. Then he began to make his way back through the mess. He tripped on a lamp and he kicked it away.
Outside, he refastened the padlock and made his way to the wall. Too damned high! No climbing it. On the other side of the yard there was a big pot, a stump of something dead inside. He began to scrape the whole thing over the paving slabs towards the wall, cursing every inch of the way. It was achingly heavy work, and worse, it was excruciatingly loud.
He should've thought of this.
Should've thought ahead.
9
Detective Sergeant Simmonds was a plain clothes detective with a 1970s moustache and thick-rimmed specs. And if it was possible for a man to look so much like a policeman that he didn't look much like one at all, then DS Simmonds was the living proof. At his side was a uniformed WPC, lumpy faced and heavily built. And beyond her, in the bay window of the Seaview Hotel, Bart could see Barbara Feathers' multi-coloured cardigan, hovering behind the nets.
DS Simmonds introduced himself and named his colleague as WPC Stock. The WPC said nothing and her cold stare had Bart squeezing at the edges of his wallet, checking on the memory card inside, as if the mere presence of the police officer might somehow magic it away.
'I don't know about you, Mr. Crowe,' said DS Simmonds, 'but I could murder a bacon sarnie.'
*
The cafe was nearby, on the main road into town. Bart and DS Simmonds sat next to each other at a bench table with a view of the sea and the patrol car where WPC Stock was waiting. A podgy young man with bleached hair and an earring place their plates in front of them. The bread was crusty and lightly toasted, and the bacon was thick, and the eggs were golden.
'Looks good,' said Bart.
Simmonds said, 'Go on then. Tuck in.'
So far Simmonds hadn't mentioned a crime. He'd asked about Margate, how Bart was finding it, about whether he'd ever been to Dreamland or the shell-grotto, and about the weekend's football. He didn't seem to be under arrest. And the detective couldn't possibly know about the Bel-Air, could he? Hasland could have reported what happened at the school. Or Lola maybe? Either way, he felt that Simmonds was toying with him, waiting to see what he would let slip.
The podgy lad with the bleached hair passed with a tray that he carried out to the WPC. A cup of tea and mushrooms on toast.
'WPC Stock is a vegan,' Simmonds said.
And Bart took a mouthful of coffee.
'Am I under arrest?'
Simmonds smiled, his grey-blue eyes peeking over his thick lensed glasses. It was a smile that didn't look as though it got out much.
'Oh dear, Mr.Crowe. I've been putting off the business-end of things again, haven't I?'
Bart's nostril flared, and his forehead tensed.
'Tell me, why exactly are you in Margate, Mr. Crowe?'
Bart swallowed down some bacon and eggs.
'I'm a private detective. I've got a job to do.'
'And what would that job be - exactly?'
'I'm looking for someone, a young guy. He's at school near here.'
'And when was this young guy reported missing?'
'He hasn't been.'
'Okay. And you'll forgive me here,' said Simmonds, 'but you were at the school, were you not, quite recently?'
'No comment,' Bart said on instinct, and he bit enthusiastically into the bacon and bread and hoped it hid his nervousness.
'Yes,' said Simmonds, pausing. 'I think you might have been there, and I think that you might have been in this young man's room - let's call him Zack, shall we? Hypothetically of course. And let's not go into the hows or whys - but I wonder if you might have had an altercation with another young man, and for the sake of argument, let's call him Ray or Raymond. Does that sound like something that might have happened, hypothetically?'
'Hypothetically. I reckon that's something that could possibly have happened, hypothetically,' Bart replied.
'Good, good,' Simmonds continued. 'I thought perhaps it might've done, hypothetically. Because of course there's been no crime reported. So while we're talking hypotheses, I'd like to say that were such a thing to happen, and you were to learn anything relating to this hypothetical young man, Zack, from any further enquiries you might make, then er, you might like to get in contact with me.'
He slid Bart a card. His direct number, An email.
Bart had loaded his fork but stopped. He looked at the card.
'Are you threatening me?' Bart said.
Simmonds looked affronted.
'No no, Mr. Crowe. No, no. Not at all - well - look I'll be honest here. I don't enjoy talking to private detectives, but I want to suggest to you that it might be in everyone's best interests if we proceed co-operatively.'
'Are you offering me help?' he asked.
Simmonds looked uncomfortable.
'No. I don't help private investigators. But I am here - for support, let's say. Look Bart. You're just a k-, I mean you're a young man, Mr. Crowe. What are you? Eighteen? Nineteen? I don't think you know what you're doing with this at all, do you?'
Bart sipped the black coffee and said, 'Being honest DS Simmonds - you're right. I really haven't got a clue.'
10
The music in the bar was too quiet to dance to but too loud to ignore, and the snares rattled in his head as he slotted the micro SD card into the laptop. The card was loaded with images. Hundreds of them. He opened the first
and began to flick through but nothing stood out. It must have belonged to Zack Richards though. He was in most of the selfies. But the pictures were nothing special. People out and about, people in town, the same people at gigs, at parties. Skewy pictures of PowerPoint projections from school. There were a bunch of pics of Zack Richards with his side-swept blonde hair and thin, flat nose - posing with a girl he didn't know, whose hair was an unnatural red, almost pink.
She looked sort of familiar.
'If you buy me a drink, can you put it on expenses?'
Lola was standing beside the table in a pink v-neck and a white t-shirt. She had friends at the bar. Two boys and a girl.
'I'll give it a try,' Bart said. 'What can I get you?'
'Vodka and Coke, thanks. A large one. Lots of Coke. Lots of ice.'
And as they flicked through the pictures, Lola named all the people that she could. She didn't know everyone in the early pics, but the further they got the better she did.
'Where did you get these?'
'They're pictures from Zack's phone.'
He wanted to see her reaction.
She leaned back and folded her arms.
'So I suppose you're working for the family then?'
'That's a direct question - you should have my job.'
'Maybe I should.'
'You know,' Bart said. 'I reckon you must be pretty sure that Zack still has at least one phone with him or you'd have asked how come I'd got your boyfriend's phone. You've had some contact since this morning haven't you?'
She smiled a slow smile.
'Maybe.'
And she slid her phone across the table. The same string of messages he had seen at the school. But there was a new box on Zack's side of the conversation.
[Don't worry babe, all good. Thnx for all the texts! Pls don't reply to this. I'll be back soon. Love. Xxx]
'And you're sure this is actually from Zack?' Bart asked.
'Is that supposed to be helpful?' she said.
And she turned to the glass and looked at her reflection in the window.
'Sorry,' he said. 'Listen. Do you mind if we keep looking through these? I mean, you're really helping, and I'd like to know about all the people closest to Zack, and I can't think of anyone I'd rather ask to help me.'
Her eyes softened a little and Bart felt a tightness in his cheeks. He took a sip of his beer and scrolled to the next image.
'I'm afraid - I mean I'll warn you I haven't checked through these,' he said. 'So if there's anything weird on here, okay?'
'Go back to that last one,' she said. 'The selfie. Yes. The girl with the red hair. That's Franny. It's from before I met Zack. You know he's only been here since April?'
Bart said, 'April. You're right. But you have met Franny, haven't you? She was in that pic with you I saw in the dorm.'
Her lips thinned and her eyebrows furrowed.
'Franny's a singer. You know she's actually really talented, and she's just got a contract, a proper one. And Zack helped her get it. You know Zack's dad is famous?'
He nodded.
'Good. So you should. Anyway, Zack's been doing music management for about a year and a half. And he's managed Franny since last Summer. He's had such a crazy life because he knows like, a lot of people in music and art and theatre too. So cool. And he's really determined as well. When Zack sets his mind to something he doesn't stop. He manages a couple of other acts, but Franny's the biggest by far. She and Zack are actually quite close. She's been down here a few times and he goes up there too.'
'Up there?'
'London. She's got a flat. I suppose London's where you have to be for music, isn't it? But she's from there too so - sometimes we go up at weekends. Like I said, Zack knows a lot of people and being there feels a bit like being famous. We get free entry to places and I get to watch Zack being, like super confident with all these amazing people. And there's clubs. And we eat out like all the time.'
'You think Zack might have gone to Franny's place?'
She sipped her drink.
'I don't think so. You see I phoned her up after Zack had been gone for like a couple of days. I didn't tell her anything exactly, but I dropped loads of hints about Zack. But it was like she didn't even know that he was missing. I was listening for any clue he might be there but I couldn't hear anything, so -'
'So you and Franny aren't that close? Because in the pictures -'
'Anyone can look that way in pictures,' she said.
She leaned forward and she put her hand near to his. Her wrist was slim and her nails matched her jumper.
'Honestly,' she said. 'I don't actually like Franny that much. It's just jealousy really. I won't deny it. Zack insists that he isn't sleeping with her. Just music buddies. But I think I don't like her anyway. She's cold, you know? Like she doesn't need anybody. And I don't think you can trust anyone that self-sufficient. Everyone needs somebody, don't they?'
Bart said. 'I don't suppose you have her phone number? And an address?'
Lola tapped through the apps on her phone.
'Yes. Sure. Here's the number,' she said. 'I've got the address at home somewhere. I'll text them to you.' She moved her hand over his and she fixed him with a shot of her pale blue eyes. 'You will let me know if. Well, if he's there, won't you?'
'I will,' Bart said. 'I Promise.'
She moved her hand to the laptop and scrolled back to the first image. As the carousel passed in front of them, Lola visibly relaxed. St. Stephen's. The East Kent Coast. And herself in more and more of the pictures. And it was she who was closest to Zack now, and Franny was relegated to the edges of the frames. Other than Lola and Francesca, and Zack himself, it was Torin Malone who was in more images than anyone else.
'At the school this morning, you mentioned Torin Malone,' Bart said.
'Yes, I said he was a beautiful person.'
'What happened? I mean what do you think happened when he died, in the fire?'
'Torin was a beautiful boy,' she said, 'and a loyal friend. He was popular at school and funny, but he took too many drugs. He was a boarder at the school, like Zack was, and I suppose that sometimes he felt a bit forgotten, by his parents. I mean, he'd see his grandma a lot. They were close. But I don't think he ever saw his parents in term time, not even once. Bart, you should know that Torin was on stuff for so much of the time that even the teachers thought it was normal, just what he was like. I think we all did too. But he was sweet even so. But he had this habit of falling asleep, like wherever, like narcolepsy, I suppose. Just click, and out like a light. I suppose all that speed and ket and the weed and the coke, it has to do something to you in the end, right?'
Bart nodded. He wasn't sympathetic. After all, he'd been forgotten by his parents too, but he wasn't going off the rails like Torin Malone, the self-indulgent druggie.
'So what happened at the casino?'
'Well Torin had a job as a croupier. He was good-looking and well spoken - military family - he could be firm when he needed to be. So anyway he was working there -'
'Where? I mean what was the casino called?'
'The Ten-Ten Casino. And Torin had been there for a couple of months. He was only seventeen. I don't know how he wangled it. So he was near the end of his shift and he goes off, but he falls asleep on the toilets. At least that's what we think. It wouldn't be the first time. And I suppose everyone thought he'd gone home because they locked the place up. Well that night a fire starts in a waste paper basket, from like a cigarette or something, and the whole place burns down with Torin inside. People at school think Torin probably started the fire himself, like by accident, lighting a spliff, but -'
'You don't think that's what happened?'
'I don't know. I suppose it's the most likely thing isn't it? Zack never thought so. Thinks there's something we're not being told.'
'And what did he think that was?'
'Listen. What happened to Torin, it was awful. It was really, really bad. But going over it's not going to bring
him back, is it? No one ever comes back, do they? And some mysteries don't get solved.'
She looked round at her friends at the bar, who were pointing at their watches and phones and beckoning her to come.
'C'mon Lola'
'Time to go.'
'Taxi's waiting!'
She looked at Bart, a tear on her cheek.
'Sorry,' she said and she brushed it away with a finger. 'Listen. We're all off to a club. Canterbury. Come along if you want. It'll be fun.'
Her blue eyes had an energy that showed that she meant it. He was tempted. And it could be good. But there was so much more to ask, and he was pretty sure that talking business about Zack Richards was not what Lola had in mind for the night ahead.
'Thanks,' he said, 'but - you guys have fun.'
He scrolled forward to the next image. It was a picture of a man, taken from a low angle. But the shot was dark and blurry and he couldn't make it out.
Document D
An email from Colin Crowe to Bartholomew Crowe: 11/11/19. 21:13 p.m.
Dear Bart,
Thanks for texting me that address. Your hotel looks interesting. Mixed reviews is an understatement. I Googled it.
Of course, you must know that I'm tempted to drive down there and bring you back. And I'd like to think that's what your dad would've done if he were still with us. But I'm not your dad and I know that - and that changes things - so I won't. Not yet.
I've told the school you won't be back for a while. I've said you're struggling to cope with you dad's death. They've been very polite and very understanding. But remember, they won't keep your place open forever. I know you have this fire inside of you right now, but remember, school is a game like everything else, a game you're lucky enough to be good at. And it's a game you have been winning. But still, it's a game you will lose if you're not playing.
And I'm not saying you won't make a halfway decent private investigator one day. Maybe you will. Time will be the judge. But you should be sure you know what you're throwing away.
