by Geoff Smith
'Thanks anyway, yeah,' the first boy said, peeling away, Bobble-Hat's phone concealed under his magazine.
The second boy passed, and the first boy handed off the phone, moving off in opposite directions. The second boy was halfway across the arcade when Bobble-Hat realised what had happened.
'Little shit!'
He chased the first boy to the door and outside. But the boy had gone and he stood helplessly looking up and down the street.
On the other side of the arcade, the second boy was surprised when his trailing foot was hooked back. He felt a sharp jab in his back and he fell forwards, his head smacking on a Pac-Man console. A hand grabbed tight round his collar. And a knee came in. His face was forced onto the carpet. His pockets were being turned out.
And Bobble-Hat came back, breathing hard.
'Hey!' called Bart. 'Any of these yours?'
There were three phones on the floor and Bobble-Hat came over, picked one up and balanced it in his hand.
'Little shit!' he said. 'Should I call the police?'
Bart pushed down on the thief's back and leaned in close to the boy's ear.
'Listen to me now, okay. What are you, like thirteen or something? Year 9? I see you've got your school tie on the floor there - so I'll tell you what. I think you and your little friend should get back there before afternoon registration because I'm here all day, and if I see your ugly face, I'll call the school and this guy will call the police. And maybe I'll rough you up a bit more too, eh?'
He gave the boy's head a firm push into the carpet.
'All right,' the boy said. 'All right! I'll fucking go! Okay?'
Bart got off his back, and the boy stood, bending down to take one of the iPhones from the floor.
'That's mine,' he said, tucking it in his pocket. He turned slowly towards the exit. Then he spun and launched himself at Bart. His fist made only a half contact with Bart's chin. And then he walked quickly off. And he stopped at the door. He brought his hand to his mouth like a megaphone and he shouted.
'Cunt!'
He gave Bart the finger and left, speed-walking down the street.
Bart steadied himself, rubbing his chin, a grin forming on his face.
'Kids, eh?' he said.
But Bobble-Hat was not smiling.
'For God's sake!' said Bobble-Hat. 'You had him pinned! Why didn't you wait for the police? You actually had him pinned!'
Bart stared at him blankly. The words barely registered. And to be honest he didn't have a clue how to answer the question. Fortunately he was distracted by a tap on the shoulder. It was the skinny lad from the booth. He put an arm around Bart's shoulder and steered him to the back of the arcade where a middle-aged man stood beside an open door with his arms crossed.
The man was overweight. He had dyed black hair and a black leather jacket. The puffy kind with the elasticated waist. The euphoria of his triumph made Bart feel strange, and he moved towards him without thinking. And it was as if he were only watching himself as he disappeared down the dark passage at the back of an amusement arcade.
18
The middle aged woman in the small office dismissed him with a glare and the man in the black leather jacket shoved him forwards into a second office, a bigger office, with a functional looking desk, a Macbook Air and a stainless steel in-tray.
At the window, a tall man looked out through venetian blinds. He was broad shouldered and balding, checked shirt, navy chinos, suede loafers. The man stretched. He could touch the ceiling with his palms and looked like he did so often, just for fun.
The door closed. The man in the leather jacket no longer followed and Bart imagined him leaning against a filing cabinet and flirting with the woman in the office over milky mugs of tea.
The tall man didn't turn around.
'Take a seat, young man, take a seat.'
There was a black three-seater Barcelona chair and Bart flopped onto it. He regretted the move immediately. It made him look petulant and immature. And when the man turned, he towered over Bart. The man reached down and they shook hands. The big man's hand dwarfed his own. A big rough, hand, the kind you could really put some force behind. The man leaned back on the desk.
'Young man.' He looked amused. A noticeable brummie accent. 'You appear to have been throwing your weight around in my arcade.'
Bart nodded, trying to smile.
The man said, 'You know, I watched your little display out there on this thing.' He patted the Macbook gently with his fingers. 'Amazing what these things can do nowadays. You can see everything. Very impressive. My associate wasn't much taken with your technique, but you know, I thought you got the right result.'
'And you are?'
He shook his head theatrically.
'Oh come along, Sherlock. This is the Golden Arcade. I'm Glen Golden. Get with it. And my associate outside, before you ask, is Mr. Graham Cameron. Don't worry. He'll grow on you - like mould.'
He grinned at the joke.
Bart leaned forwards on his elbows, feeling no less like a silly kid than he felt before.
'So do you know who I am?'
'You're Bartholomew Crowe, private investigator, no less. I erm - I googled you when you called, Mr. Crowe. And look, next thing I know, here you are, in my arcade, in the flesh, coming in on a wet Wednesday morning and roughing up my clientele. All very intriguing.'
Bart took off his hat and stuffed it in his pocket. He moved across to the window, peeking through the blind at a brown brick wall.
'I have a proposition for you Mr. Crowe.'
'That's great, Mr. Golden, but I wondered if you might help me out first? Can I call you Glenn?'
Glenn Golden nodded.
Bart said, 'I'm afraid it's all a bit sensitive and I don't want to cause offence.'
Glenn Golden straightened. He put his hands on his hips.
'Go on son. I'm a straight talker. Say your piece.'
'I'm looking for a young man. He's called Zack Richards -'
Golden Snorted.
'He was in a relationship with your daughter, Mr. Golden.'
'And what? You think I can tell you where to find him?'
'Amongst other things,' said Bart.
'Oh! Amongst other things! The intrigue, Mr. Crowe! Well, all right. I'll throw you a bone. I don't like Zack Richards. I didn't like him when I met him and I don't like him now. And you know, if he's vanished, I hope it's permanent. And I don't care how much money his daddy's got. How's that for straight talking?'
'Where do you think he'd go?'
'Oh I don't think he'll be far, much as I'd love to think otherwise. That boy loves trouble. I'm sure he's having way too much fun annoying the school, upsetting my daughter. He'd love to know we were talking about him now, probably. You see the boy's an attention seeker, a shallow show off, nothing more. That's my opinion. What else do you want?'
'Torin Malone.'
Golden opened the drawer of the desk. He pulled out an ash tray and a packet of cigarettes. He offered one to Bart.
Bart held up a hand and frowned.
'Please yourself,' said Glenn. 'And I'll please myself too if it's all the same to you.'
And the cigarette fizzed.
Bart said, 'I want to know about Torin Malone. He worked for you at the Ten-Ten, didn't he? What was he like? I mean it's probably nothing but-'
'I didn't know the boy,' Glenn said breathing smoke. 'He was an employee. That's all. And a cheap one at that. I employ a lot of people, Mr. Crowe. Lots of staff, low wages, high turnover. You know how it is. Now this boy you talk about, he burned down my casino from what I can gather, but I didn't know the kid. I'd never met him. Obviously, it's a shame the boy's dead you know. Tragic. Are you done with this now, Mr. Crowe, because I'll be straight, you're beginning to get on my nerves.'
'You said you had a proposition for me?'
And Glenn breathed out smoke in a long, slow plume. He gestured towards the desk and Bart sat as Glenn lowered his heavy frame into the chair
opposite. He stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette.
'It's simple enough, Mr. Crowe. I am concerned for my daughter. I've heard about what happened with you both at the school the other day. And now I hear the police have found a dead body. You know frankly, I don't care about what happens to Zack Richards - but I do care about my daughter, and I do not want that little toe-rag bringing my daughter down into whatever he's involved in.' The left side of his face twitched. 'Now, I appreciate that you've got your job to do, Mr. Crowe. But I really need someone close to my daughter, for her own protection. And I want that person to report back to me if anything dangerous should happen.'
Bart ran his hands through his hair. He looked up.
'Did you know Raymond Feathers, Mr. Golden?'
Glenn took a deep breath and Bart leaned forward.
'No. No I didn't know him,' Glenn said. 'Would you like me to check through my records for him as well?'
He tapped a few keys on the laptop and Golden's eyes widened a little, just for a moment.
'What did you find?'
A short pause.
'All-right, so he did used to work here briefly, as it goes. In this very arcade, about a year ago. I sacked him. Smoking on the premises. What can I say? Low wages. High turnover. I'm afraid I don't remember the lad.'
Bart drummed the desk with his fingertips.
'I'm sorry Mr. Golden. I mean, I'm busy. And anyway, I think there's a conflict of interest here. You know, I'm might need Lola's help for the case I'm already working. So I really don't think I can.'
'There's no conflict, Mr. Crowe. You don't have to tell me anything about Zack. Just be there for her to call on, you know, if you're needed. I'd like you to report anything that could put her in danger back to me. Nothing more. It's not surveillance, it's protection. Look, I'm a single parent, Mr. Crowe. This is what fathers do. And of course if I can help you in return - in any way at all.'
And he slid an envelope across the desk. It was stuffed with twenty pound notes.
19
The door of the BMW whumped shut. Graham Cameron stepped on the accelerator and he whooshed away on the wet tarmac.
Bart was glad to be back out in the rain, water soaking into his coat as he stood on the steps of the Seaview, taking the air, while inside, Barbara's TV blared out a daytime antiques show. He could see her through the window, her untidy spaghetti hair spilling over the side of an armchair, a supermarket bottle of whisky on the side-table, three-quarters gone.
He went in, pushing the door to her apartment, the handle creaking.
'Hello?' he called in, not shouting, but loud enough to stir her. 'Barbara? Just wondered if there's anything I can do, you know, to help out?'
Her head slumped in the chair and she started to snore. Bart didn't want to frighten her, so he closed the door and left.
As he climbed the stairs to his room his phone buzzed. A text from Lola. She'd sent him an address for Francesca De Souza to go with the number she'd given him already. He began to tap out a reply but he deleted it. He didn't really know where he stood, and the envelope of Glenn Golden's cash felt stiff and bulky in his pocket. He started the text again.
[thanks]
The best he could manage. Not gushy or snarky, just flat.
In the dark bedroom, dust glittered in the light that filtered through the curtains. Barbara's already low standards had dropped still further since the shooting. Understandable. And the bed had, at least, been made. In the middle of the duvet was a sheet of A4 paper, and on it, Barbara had written in red felt-tipped pen, 'PLEASE LEAVE!!!' He was taken aback. She couldn't know that he was the one who found her son's body, could she? Maybe the police told her enough for her to add two and two together and, well, she had known that he'd wanted to see Raymond that day. Maybe that was enough.
Beside the scrawled note was an invoice.
She'd overcharged.
Bart sat on the bed and he called Francesca De Souza's direct number. It went to voicemail. He rang again. On the third try someone picked up.
'I swear down, if this is another sales call you better hang up or I'll stick this hand right down this phone line and throttle ya.'
The voice was female, young sounding, a strong London accent. It was low-pitched for a girl and a little rough around the edges.
'Francesca De Souza?'
'How about you tell me who you are?'
'I'm Bartholomew Crowe -'
'Cool name.'
'Thanks. I'm a private detective -'
'Cool job.'
'Yes. And I'm trying to find -'
'True happiness?'
'No.'
'True love?'
'No.'
'The lost city of Atlantis?'
'No. No I'm looking for someone who doesn't interrupt all -'
'Bummer,' the voice said and she hung up.
He rang again.
'You're persistent.'
'Thanks. Hi. So -'
'You're welcome.'
'Okay. Listen. You're going to have to stop doing that or maybe I will enter this phone number on every seedy marketing list that I can find and you can spend your time interrupting them instead.'
At the other end of the line the voice laughed.
'Ah mate!' she said. 'I'm sorry. It was funny though. Who are you again? I'm afraid I'm in one of them moods. This is Francesca,' and she switched into a cheesy American accent. 'So what can I do for ya, Detective?'
'Can I start from the beginning, please?'
'Shoot.'
'Okay. So my name is Bartholomew Crowe. I'm a detective. I'm trying to make contact with a Zack Richards. I believe you know him quite well?'
'Y-e-s.'
'So. Well I was wondering. Have you seen Zack Richards at any time in the last week to ten days?'
'Who gave you this number?'
'Lola Golden.'
Pause.
'Look. No offence - Bartholomew Crowe - but I don't know anything about you. Are you in London?'
'No, but I can get there.'
'Good. I'm going to hang up now. And I'm gonna check you out. And if I think you look all right, I'll text you a time and place and we can meet, yeah? One condition though.'
'What?'
'You're paying.'
'Sure.'
'Oh, and if you don't hear from me, don't bother to call again. Cos I'll block your ass and I'll report you. Ta-ta now.'
And she hung up.
Emptiness filled him. Nothing to do once more. Golden's money in his pocket. He buttoned up his coat and headed into town for a takeaway and a four-pack of lager.
*
'Yea-he-ello.'
It was dark and he held the phone awkwardly, the empty cans and takeaway boxes crunching under his feet as he swung upright.
'Bart? Is that you? Were you asleep? You sound weird.'
'Sophie!' he said. 'Ah wow, it's good to hear from you. I was just thinking about you guys actually.'
'Were you? What were you thinking about us?'
'I was just thinking - all right I wasn't really thinking anything. I might be a little bit drunk.'
'And you hide it so well. It's quiet there. Are you on your own?'
'Yeah yeah yeah. All alone. Completely alone. A bit drunk. Did I say that? And guess what, Soph? Someone's been murdered!'
And he laughed.
'That's not funny, Bart. What really though? Actually murdered?'
'Yes. Murdered. Shot in the head. About as proper as a murder gets! And guess who found the body? Ah God, it was totally disgusting. I'm not gonna lie. And I don't know who did it but it looks like -'
'And is investigating the murder your job?'
'No, but -'
'Well I'm glad to see you've always got room for a bit more macho bullshit in your life. Have you found the person you were looking for? Remember him? The one you're being paid to get back into school?'
'No. I haven't found him yet. But -'
'Oh Bart, will you get real? Murd
ers are dangerous! And murderers are really, really, really dangerous. And I know it's like stating the obvious, but they actually kill people. We're just kids, Bart - you and me, Connor, Noah. And you're my friend, you're not Jack Reacher. I care about you, okay? So find this guy of yours. Do what you've been paid for. But please, stay away from murders and stay away from murderers. Promise me will you?'
Bart grunted something that sounded a bit like a yes.
'You're not listening to me. I can tell. Look, I'm scared for you, Bart. I think you should come home.'
'Ah, Soph. You know I can't. I can't just carry on like before. Things are different now. It's like Julia said, you know, old things end, new ones begin.'
'And what about us, Bart? What about me, and Connor and Noah? Are we old things? Are we supposed to just end? Are we from before too? Is that a part of your grand plan? Well I'm sorry, but we're not letting you go - none of us. You know the reason I actually rang was to tell you that we're coming down to see you, the three of us. Connor's driving. Saturday morning, then overnight. Now you'd better promise to stay away from murderers until then, or I'll be chewing your ear off the whole time.'
'Okay.' And Bart felt suddenly dizzy. 'All right I promise. Almost certainly, I mean definitely. No murderers.'
'You sure?'
'Sophie?'
'Yeah.'
'Thanks Soph. For calling, for everything. You're a proper mate.'
Document F
An email from Colin Crowe to Bartholomew Crowe: 13/11/19. 23:35 p.m.
Dear Bart,
I read your email and frankly I'm a little frustrated.
First you say you'll tell me everything and then you give me only the parts that will make me worry, and none of the details that I might be able to work with. Here are my immediate concerns:
1. How are the police viewing this death?
2. Are you a suspect?
3. What about this 'Zack'? What's his situation? Do you need to get him back with his mother? Has he run away?
