Burning Crowe

by Geoff Smith

  Okay, so bad things happen to good people and good people suffer all the time, often through no fault of their own. It's true. But Bart, think about it - and tell me where to go if you want (and you probably will) - but you really haven't had it bad. You've had opportunities and experiences in your life that most kids can only dream about, and many that most of them couldn't even imagine. And you've had love too. And you still have it. And maybe you can't see that, but I know it's true.

  But now you're 'pissed' at me. Well, all-right. You know what. I admit it. You were right. I did know that Julia was going to leave. Guilty as charged. And yes, I agreed to stay on at the house, to look after you. Guilty again. I argued with Julia about it. Of course I did. I thought it was the wrong decision. But sometimes you have to let people do what they have to do. And if the same thing happened tomorrow, I don't think I'd do much different.

  The way I see it, Bart, you have to let people make their own mistakes, at least, if they insist on making them. So, if you're going to insist that this private investigation business is what you want, then do it. Fine. But I do have one condition: you make me a partner. Now I won't try and tell you what to do, but I want you to tell me everything. And you will contact me every day. This is a non-negotiable, and I am deadly serious about it.

  Like it or not, Bart, we're family, and Christ knows, you'll need to talk to someone sooner or later.

  And Crowes should stick together.

  So I'm afraid you're stuck with me.

  Love Granddad.

  11

  The grey-gold town buzzed with morning traffic as he walked down the front, past the arcades and past Arlington House - the cold, grey tower block that imposed itself so definitely on the Margate skyline - a reminder of a time before the new nostalgia. Beyond the tower block, the neo-Georgian facade of the railway station, and the cafe where he ordered his breakfast.

  Googling the fire at the Casino gave him plenty of results. The local online news site carried several stories, all following the same line. The fire had taken place on a Thursday night in July and a young man, employed as a glass-collector, had died in the blaze. The police hadn't commented directly, but the reports implied the young man may have started the fire himself, perishing in a blaze of his own making. The articles contained interviews with Malone's family and comments from the school stressing the boy's friendly and outgoing nature, his popularity, and how deeply he would be missed. The school had brought in grief counsellors and Torin's funeral had been attended by over two hundred mourners, which, apart from the glass-collector thing, was pretty much just as Lola had said.

  And then he found something that Lola had not told him. The Ten-Ten Casino was owned by a Mr. Glenn Golden. And it didn't take much to work out that Mr. Glenn Golden was Lola Golden's father. Maybe she was embarrassed, or she just felt sorry for her father, who maybe felt terrible about the whole mess himself. Or perhaps her father's involvement had caused tension between herself and Zack, tension she wanted to keep private, or tension between Zack and her father?

  He pushed the plate aside and ordered more coffee.

  Francesca Da Souza's Twitter feed had links to a ton of different magazines and TV appearances. They documented a number of London shows and prestigious support slots. She had recently signed to a major label. And though Zack's name was absent from the mainstream articles, the social media posts and tweets had plenty of pics with Richards in-frame. He was name-checked a bunch of times too. One photo had Francesca with Zack and his dad Mickey. All were beaming at the camera - the three of them happily drunk. He tried her personal Facebook. It was private, but her artist page had a couple of thousand likes and a whole bunch of fan comments. Things were looking good for Francesca Da Souza, and for Zack Richards too. It made the small-time dealing and the secret photos harder to fathom. After all, Zack wasn't a hopeless drifter like Raymond. In fact for an eighteen year old kid, exam results or no exam results, it looked like Zack Richards was doing great things.

  His third coffee and the cafe had gotten busy. Smart guys and smart girls dressed up like estate agents, white-van guys and misfit males. And Bart felt a weird swell of happiness, like somehow he belonged in this place. He was a part of something good, and if not good, real at least.

  He folded the laptop and left a tip at the counter.

  On the cold walk back to the hotel he looked out across the Margate sand, stretching to the distant sea. The clouds were torched meringues and the sun a low red. A couple paddled in the water - difficult to age - and pair of black dogs chased a yellow ball, writhing and wrestling, each hoping to grip the thing in its jaws and be the one to return it to its master.

  12

  From the basement window of the Seaview Hotel he watched, waiting for white trainers and skinny grey jeans. Raymond Feathers was over an hour late.

  'Should I just go?' Bart said.

  Barbara was stacking a cupboard with hot crockery. She spoke with drawling vowels.

  'Well, you could. But you wouldn't want to go and then miss him would you?'

  Bart didn't respond right away. Missing Raymond Feathers was, in a way, exactly what he wanted. He didn't fancy getting his head stamped for a second day in a row.

  'I'll give it ten.'

  Fifteen minutes later, and Bart was folding his coat over his forearm and tucking his laptop away. Barbara didn't look round.

  'Mrs. Feathers, Sorry but do you know anything about Raymond's friends at all? I mean, can I ask, do you recognise these people?'

  He touched her on the shoulder and held up the picture of Zack and Lola that Lori had given him.

  Barbara glanced at it.

  'Pretty girl,' she said. 'But I don't know her. Or the boy. I can tell you more about Raymond if you'd like to hear it. Obviously I'm busy but -'

  She looked at his coat pocket, the one where he had put his wallet.

  'So you don't recognise them, the people in the photograph?'

  'No, but there's lots to know besides. He used to be very athletic, you know? Football. Played for the county.'

  And her eyes strayed to his pocket again.

  'Thanks, Mrs Feathers, and thanks for arranging this,' he said. 'But I won't take up any more of your time.'

  He slipped her a twenty.

  'If he does get in touch -' he said.

  And he went up to his room, all alone, to look through the photos again, the party shots, the good times, and the blurry man. There had to be something. Even if the card wasn't what Raymond stole - and it had to be - hidden inside a trophy like that. There had to be something.

  In frustration, he phoned Steve Hasland. Maybe he would have some insights into Zack and the Torin Malone thing. But it went straight to voicemail. At this time of day he'd be teaching of course. So Bart left a message. Just his name and number. He called Lola. Got voicemail again. He didn't leave a message. He started typing her a text - something light and friendly - but he couldn't find the words and gave up.

  Then he fired off an email to the contact address on Francesca De Souza's website. He figured that as her manager, the note might go straight to Zack.

  [Hi Zack, I'm a private detective and I need to speak with you. Pls call 07907231888. Just want to talk. Thx]

  Then he checked the Internet, where he found Glenn Golden through Lola's Facebook. A personal page and one for his business, Golden Enterprise. He scanned back through to the posts in July, from around the time of the fire. Nothing of interest on the business page. Just a link to an online news article and condolences to the Malone family. His personal page made no mention of the fire at all. The casino had burned on the thirteenth. Golden had posted pictures of himself and a couple of other guys at a hotel in Dartmouth. All men in their fifties, all holding drinks. They looked to be having a good time. The next day, on the fourteenth, and the same men were playing golf, no mention of the fire even in the comments. No posts at all on the fifteenth, sixteenth or seventeenth.

  Golden Enterprise had a few other
local interests besides the casino. A bar in Broadstairs, an amusement arcade on Margate seafront. Bart tried to work out which number to call. It was too early for the bar so he rang the arcade. A woman answered. She sounded like she didn't get many calls.

  'Golden Enterprise, Golden Arcade,' she said.

  'Hi - I - I mean, my name is Bartholomew Crowe, of Crowe & Son Investigations, private investigators. I wondered whether it would be possible to come in and speak to Glenn Golden?'

  'What's it concerning?'

  'Okay, um, well it's about a missing person. I really need to talk to Mr. Golden.'

  There was a pause. She'd put him on mute. Then she clicked back.

  'Mr. Golden's not in. You'll have to leave your number.'

  He left his number and the woman hung up.

  13

  Murky brown pebble-dash and broken signage, heavy steel-braces and boarded windows, rubble and cans and boxes and glass, and no sign of anyone at the Bel Air Hotel. There were kids playing football in the street. On a Thursday, they should have been in school. The ball bounced off the wall where he stood. He controlled it with one touch, dribbled lazily across the road.

  'Gis it mate!' the smaller boy shouted.

  The boys were twelve or thirteen, and he held the ball out to the small lad. But as he came to take it, Bart dropped it, trapping it under his foot.

  The bigger boy came over, and Bart backed up and turned taking the ball with him.

  'Ah mate!' the boy said.

  Bart flicked the ball up, caught it and grinned.

  'All right lads,' he said. 'Just wondering how long you've been on this street? You seen anything unusual? Anyone odd?'

  'Just you bruv,' the smaller boy said.

  'No mate. We've seen no-one - you got skillz tho. Who d'you like? Arsenal?'

  The bigger boy was the clown of the two. Bart liked him. But it was the smaller one who stood in front of him, squaring up like a terrier.

  'Gi' us the ball mate, yeah, then fuck off.'

  Bart swung the ball behind his back.

  'Anyone gone down that alley?'

  'Aint seen nothing,' the bigger boy said. 'I like your hat. It looks cosy.'

  Bart tossed the ball up to the bigger boy and gave him a wink. He ruffled the smaller boy's hair and walked away towards the alley.

  'Beanie Prick!' the smaller boy shouted.

  And Bart pulled the hat down over his ears.

  At the entrance to the alley he looked back as a car pulled up outside one of the smarter houses, a guy getting out, leaving the engine running and barrelling up the steps. And Bart saw the two boys close in on the car. He doubted they would actually steal it. And whatever they were planning, he didn't want to get mixed up in it. It would definitely interfere with his breaking and entering. So he took a photo. And he ducked down the alley and left them to it.

  An old guy in his garden, leaning on a spade said, 'Nice day for it!'

  Bart faked a smile.

  'Yeah,' he said. 'It's lovely.' And he bowed his head and walked on quickly. He had to sort himself out. People were noticing him, and when people notice, they remember. He took deep breaths, coaching himself. Don't talk back, don't talk back.

  No padlocks on the gate this time. And he figured it for a sign Raymond might be home. It could even be Zack, or both of them. The gate swung open - it was loose, off the latch. He crossed the paved yard, past the heavy pot that still stood against the wall, where he'd left it the day before.

  The lock was gone from the side-door. Odd. It wasn't even properly shut.

  'Hello!' he called. 'Raymond? Raymond Feathers? This is Bartholomew Crowe. We were supposed to meet earlier.'

  The call bounced back off the walls.

  The silence worried him. Perhaps someone, Raymond maybe, would be asleep somewhere in some drug-induced fug. Perhaps. But still he was nervous. He looked around for a weapon, anything, but nothing stood out - same old mouldy sofas, the same old dirty cushions, books and trays, Rizlas and baccy. There were two pint-glasses on a side-table. The dust inside them glittered as he shone his flashlight on them. Then, standing back from the door, he beamed light into the foyer. Some of the lamps were on, some quite bright, others only a glimmer.

  The floorboards creaked as he walked.

  'Hello? Raymond Feathers? Hello, this is Bartholomew Crowe. We were supposed to meet.'

  He peered around the reception desk, shining the flashlight into every gap. But he found nothing. No-one. Some pictures had fallen from the walls since his last visit. Photos of a family and photos of a boat. The door to the bar was closed. He shivered. He pulled his hand back into his coat and pushed down on the door handle. He didn't want to leave a print. Then he cursed. He had been here just one day before. His prints would already be everywhere. He didn't know how long fingerprints lasted but it was a sure bet they lasted longer than a day.

  In the bar, chairs were turned over, plastic bottles on the floor, pizza boxes ripped apart. The lamps were on here too, but were covered in rubbish, where they glowed like embers under coal. The wooden box was on the bar. It had been flipped wide open. Little plastic bags scattered on the floor. Bart knelt down. Loose weed, the large block of ganja and the grainy white powder that looked like sea-salt and smelled of soap. And in the middle of the room, a mustard throw, and Bart didn't need the torch to see that there was something substantial beneath, or to see that it was darkly stained at one end, and that the dark stain wore the gloss of wetness.

  A lump rose in his throat, a convulsion in his chest. Long, deep breaths, and taking care not to touch the throw with his skin, he lifted the clean end.

  White trainers, grey jeans.

  He pulled the throw back from the head of the corpse. It was Raymond Feathers. Or at least he was pretty sure it used to be. It had the same build. The same clothes. It was lying face up - if lying face up was something you could do without a face. A cushion had been held over his head. A gun had been fired into it at point blank range, probably more than once. Fragments of skull and brain were mashed with synthetic stuffing from the cushion, and he thought he saw clumps of Raymond's dark hair, but really it could have been anything in all that blood and darkness.

  Suddenly giddy, Bart stood up. He looked around for something to throw up into. He saw the plastic kitchen bin. He grabbed it and he vomited.

  And he stood, taking long, rasping breaths. And more breaths again, and more, until he came back to himself - Bartholomew Crowe, private detective, leaning over a plastic bin in a dark room, with a faceless corpse with brains mashed into the carpet.

  And then he laughed.

  He laughed at the grotesqueness of it all, while on the bar, the chromed plastic figure, frozen forever, kicked an invisible ball into an imaginary net.

  14

  The interviewing officer was in his early twenties with thick black hair and skin that was paler than pale. He had a deep voice for a young man and he liked to show it off.

  'So, let's just wind this back a little,' he said. 'Are you saying Zack Richards is involved with this shooting or not?'

  'No. Look, I don't know. I mean, what I know is that this guy, Raymond Feathers - I saw him running away from Zack's dorm when I went to look in at St. Stephen's School. I talked to people and showed around a few pictures and I found out that Zack and Raymond knew each other. I got a tip off that they were working out of a place on Athelstan Road - which turned out to be the squat. I went there yesterday at about two o'clock but it was locked and I couldn't get in. You see, by coincidence I found out that Raymond was the son of my Landlady at the Seaview Hotel. She arranged for me to meet Raymond this morning. He didn't show, so I decided to pay him a visit. This time the gate was unlocked. I went in and I found the body. And that's when I felt sick and I threw up in the bin. After that, I left, came here. That's it. So I've got nothing on Zack Richards. Nothing but hearsay. I'm sorry Officer, but someone was going to find this body eventually. It just happened to be me. With the business t
hey were running there, maybe you should be glad it was me, and not, well, someone else.'

  The statement was dragging. But Bart had wanted to go in, get it done quickly, but instead they had kept him waiting for nearly an hour before they even made a start. And now this guy was dragging it out, questions, questions, making him repeat himself again and again, and always about Richards. He'd been honest where it mattered, but all that waiting, they'd given him too much time and he'd self-edited. He'd cut down on the incident at St. Stephen's, turned yesterday's visit to the Bel-Air into a mere knock at the door. He'd not mentioned the SD Card either. It felt weird, misleading the police, but somehow not as frightening as he had expected. He wondered how much of this stuff would end up in the actual statement? How much would be recorded in searchable text? He knew they had computers now that shared stuff like that, but did they transcribe everything? He'd have to ask.

  'And you mentioned Miss Golden. Had she been to the Athelstan address before?'

  'No. Look, I don't know. She just said that Zack had given her the address. That he and Raymond were there sometimes. I assumed she'd been there but, no she never said she had.'

  'And she didn't say how she came to be in possession of the address she gave you?'

  'No. I'm afraid that didn't interest me at the time. I'm really sorry Officer but honestly, I can't help with that one. Is there anything else?'

  And the vampiric officer curled his lip, Bart's formality appalling him, as if it were disrespectful somehow.

  He turned off the machine.

  DS Simmonds was waiting in reception. Brown corduroy jacket and beige slacks. The flashback cop. Simmonds nodded at the constable. When he saw Bart he opened his arms wide in fake welcome.

  'Mr. Crowe!' he said. 'I'd heard you were here. Let's do lunch. You like Thai?'

  *

  Seven minutes past three and Simmonds knocked on the glass door of the cafe, just as the owner of the cafe was turning the sign to closed.