Burning Crowe

by Geoff Smith

  'Are you going to stop that?' he said.

  'Stop what?' she said, not stopping.

  'You know what.'

  She lifted a hand and slapped it down on the table.

  'Ah, just screwing with you,' she said and she grinned, showing her unnaturally white teeth. 'Cheers Bart.' She lifted her beer. 'So, Lola Girl tells me that you're all right. She says you're trying to help Zack out or something. Well that's fine because I got to be honest, hun, I didn't even know he was missing.'

  Bart pushed his business card across the table and she took it. She was still inspecting it when the food arrived. He couldn't read her face. She was a strange one. She showed emotion, but she kept her feelings hidden. Then food smelled so fragrant and fresh. He breathed it in, filled his lungs. God, he was hungry.

  'It's even better in the evening,' Francesca said. 'They've got the whole menu on.'

  The fork was already half way to his mouth when he said, 'Can we talk in a bit? I'm starving.'

  *

  Pushing the empty plate to the side, he leaned back and he patted his stomach, and he watched the other customers leaving, the lunchtime customers ebbing away as the afternoon traffic buzzed hazily past on the road beyond the nets. The two women in front were standing, checking their handbags, and comparing appointments.

  Bart said, 'When was the last time you saw Zack Richards?'

  Francesca was still eating and she swallowed before she spoke.

  'Okay, and straight back into it then, I see. Well, I guess it was about a week ago, no ten days. Not Saturday just gone, but the Saturday before that. He's been my manager, but - well, you know that, yeah?'

  'And you've had no contact since then?'

  'Nothing.' And her face switched back into the expressionless stare she had used when she first sat down, her eyes dark and large.

  'You said has been, your manager,' he said.

  'Y-e-s,' she said.

  'Does that mean he won't be for much longer or he isn't any more?'

  She reached across the table and placed a hand on his. Her bracelets rattled. And she smiled and her head swayed a little.

  'Well aren't you clever?' she said. 'Look I'll be honest with you - between us - and this is confidential yeah, Zack has been great. I've loved having him around. He's got great connections. But I'm signed to a major now, and that's big league innit? I mean, a thing like this, it's only gonna happen like one time in a girl's life. I only get one shot at it, and it's down to me not to fuck it up. And I'm not saying that Zack would fuck it up exactly, but well, it's a major label! A manager's got to be organised and reliable, and well, not like money obsessed exactly, but they gotta have a handle on the numbers and they gotta have strategy. And all them things, like detail and strategy - well they aren't Zack's strengths, are they? I mean he's gorgeous and all, and he's passionate - but he is so not organised. So yeah, I'm looking.'

  'I think it's amazing by the way,' said Bart.

  'What?'

  'The music,' Bart said. 'I think it's amazing. You know? Doing you're own thing, pushing it through, making a success. I think it's brilliant.'

  'Okay then,' she said. 'Thanks.'

  She looked at him, amused, and her eyebrows flattened slightly.

  'Are you sure you're a detective?' she said.

  And his cheeks flushed.

  'The card says I am,' he said. 'Other than that. Well. I reckon you'll just have to trust me.'

  'I like you, Bart,' she said. 'I don't know why but I do. So come on, what's next?'

  'You've got a gig in Ramsgate the day after tomorrow.'

  'And someone's read the website as well! Well done.'

  'Yeah. So anyway, you've got this gig. Is Zack going to be there?'

  'Well yes, I mean I hope he'll be there. At the end of the day we can play just fine without a manager, and he's not at every gig, but really, we're only playing Ramsgate coz Zack is living there, so yeah, I'll be pissed if he misses it. Tickets are still available through reputable online sellers.'

  She winked and she smiled.

  'That's great. Really great,' Bart said, blushing. 'You said earlier that Zack isn't that organised?'

  She leaned in.

  'Understatement!' she said. Then she leaned back and laughed. 'I swear he literally doesn't keep a record of anything at all. And his bills, he just makes them up. I don't complain because we both know he's undercharging me, but business-wise, he hasn't got a clue. He is busy though. And don't get me wrong. He has done a great job for us - got us gigs and support slots we'd never have got without him, and he's got us studio time for next to nothing - and he got all those A&R guys down to see us an' all. But now he's got us signed. It's contracts and fine print now, innit? Zack don't do fine print. So I kinda need someone who does.'

  'You said he was gorgeous?'

  'What? Are you getting jealous on me now? I only said I liked you.'

  She rocked back on her chair. Fake indignation.

  'No,' he said. His cheeks felt hot. 'I just meant -'

  'I know what you meant. Next question, detective.'

  'All right then. How do you feel about Lola Golden?'

  She tilted her head looking serious.

  'That's the same question from a different angle,' she said. 'But all right. I'll play. She's a nice girl. We get on all right. Had some good times. I mean, we're never going to be friends exactly, yeah. We're way too different. She's the whispery secrets type, especially with - well- but I think what you're really asking me is am I fucking Zack? Am I right?'

  Bart scratched his neck.

  'Well -'

  She touched his hand on the table.

  'Well, let's just say, he's gorgeous, he's loaded, and I don't want a steady boyfriend. And I swear down if you can't read between the lines on that then you don't deserve to be a detective at all.'

  'Are you and he on good terms. I mean right now?'

  'Look Bart,' she said. 'It's casual. Just like, once every month, every two months, like five times total, tops. There's no bad feeling. And it ain't love, Bart. Not for either of us. It's just sex. That's all.'

  He said, 'Just sex?'

  'It is for me. Don't be a loser, Bart. I'll go off you.'

  'Who decides, you know, when the two of you get together?'

  'You're very nosey, aren't you?'

  She smiled without teeth. Stared at him.

  'Does Lola know - about you and Zack?'

  'If she does know, I certainly haven't told her. Look, okay, I don't think she likes me much. But she's never said anything to my face. Listen Bart, you know, if other people want to lie and cheat that's their business. So no offence, but I'm done with that topic now. You've driven up from Ramsgate, then?'

  'Well, Margate, but yes, yes I have.'

  'You wanna go out tonight. Just drinks, maybe clubbing, there's a few of us going. You should come.'

  He fought the instinct to turn her down. It could be really good, just what he needed - just strangers - no pressure - no judgement - and no Lola. He thought about the B&B and how he might not have one, how he might find his things on the street when he got back. But then, he didn't have a room here either.

  'I've got nowhere to stay,' he said.

  Francesca said, 'I like you, Bart. You're all right. So let's worry about that later, okay?'

  Document G

  An email from Bartholomew Crowe to Colin Crowe: 15/11/19. 10:13 a.m.

  Dear Granddad,

  Sorry I didn't call yesterday. I've been really busy - and you'll be glad to know that it wasn't all work related!

  First up, I haven't heard anything more about Raymond Feathers which I figure means I am not an immediate suspect. But I reckon that the police have got Zack pegged as one, what with them dealing together and Zack's not being around.

  So I didn't call last night because there's these two girls. They're both sort of involved in the case. And last night I was out in London with one of them. She's called Francesca De Souza. She's
a singer. Zack Richards is her manager. And Zack's been sleeping with her on and off. Cheating on his girlfriend (she's called Lola - more on her later). Anyway, I found out that Francesca's looking to move her management away from Zack and on to a bigger company.

  Francesca said she hasn't seen Zack for nearly two weeks, but I found out she's playing a gig in Ramsgate this weekend - so if Zack's going to show up anywhere, it's going to be there. Francesca thinks so too - so I've bought tickets.

  But like I said, there's this other girl too. She's called Lola Golden and she's Zack Richards' official girlfriend - the one he's cheating on. Her dad owns the Arcade that burnt down - I know! Too many coincidences. Anyway I told him (her dad) I'd keep an eye on her. Which was stupid of me. I wish I hadn't done it. Anyway, she found out (I admitted it). And I don't think she likes me much right now. But we were getting on okay before that, so we'll see what happens. I actually told her about Mum - she's like the only person I've told. I don't know how that happened exactly.

  Anyway, Zack's been in contact with Lola, and she's been helping me - at least she was until I wrecked things.

  And all this comes from yesterday morning, when I got this tip off sent to my phone - someone who knows my number and knows who I am. The tip off was a good one. I found Lola and Zack meeting in secret at the Turner Centre. But I got caught. My fault. I was an idiot. I should have kept my distance but I acted on emotion (just like you said I would - hands up, guilty), and I'm sorry now, because she's angry with me for spying. I should tell you I took some money from her dad to keep an eye on her (£1000). Feel stupid about that too. Shouldn't have taken it. Didn't really want to, even at the time, but I just sort of did. I didn't exactly agree to anything specific, but money is money, right? And now I feel like he has a hold on me.

  I'll take the money back next chance I get.

  And you're probably shaking your head as you read this (and rightly too. I screwed up). But I figure private investigation is like a learning curve like everything else. And I've got to tell you Granddad, I feel like I'm closing in on something. Something that is going to make a difference - maybe not to me directly, but well, to someone at least. Time will tell.

  I'll phone soon. I promise. Like I say, I didn't ring last night because I was out on the town with Francesca and her mates (it was really good - thanks for asking).

  Oh, and the gang from home are coming down this weekend, so we can all go down to the gig together!

  So, okay all in. Making progress. Don't worry. Everything's fine.

  Speak soon.

  Bart.

  22

  He held to a steady sixty as the road swelled in and out of focus. Mid-afternoon, and he wanted to zonk out and sleep. And, staring at the road ahead, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was somehow moving backwards.

  At the services he opened the laptop and flipped once more through the photos on the SD card. Francesca De Souza. Francesca in a sequined mini dress, Francesca in jeans and a vest top. Maybe they'd meet up again at the gig tomorrow night. He scanned the other images too. Something. Some connection somewhere and somehow between the break in, the assault, the accidental death, the fire, and the murder.

  Something.

  Walls of glass and electric light on his right, the outskirts of town, a city of greenhouses, tomatoes and peppers and cucumbers growing the whole year through. And then the town itself, Margate, then out and beyond, the hospital and the school, and then on and into Ramsgate. He parked the Mini outside The Music Hall, and he got out and stretched. The venue was smaller than he'd imagined. It looked like a building where you might keep a fishing boat except there weren't any fish and it wasn't by the sea. It was painted white and had the name carved into the stone and it was very definitely closed.

  It was evening and the sun had started to set. Shops winding down. No one much around. Even the coffee shops were empty. And down at the harbour, the main road arced up and funnelled the traffic upwards out of town, headlights streaming like fireworks. And then there was the harbour where he had met Lola Golden just four days before, its pubs, bars and takeaways glowing under a string of white lights.

  Halfway along the marina, the King's Head had everything a proper pub should, George-Cross flags, CCTV, bottle-green Victoriana. And open all day with the heating set to Summer. There was a couple in the corner, play-fighting, drinking and flirting in that way that would likely lead to sex or violence by the end of the night. You'd be a brave one to call it.

  There were two guys at the bar - the first tall and fat and jowly, and the second, skinny, with a short back and sides and a lazy eye.

  The fat man called out to the landlord, 'You starting up a youth club Darren?'

  And his jowls wobbled when he spoke.

  'Funny,' Bart said.

  He sat on the stool next to the big man and he laid his driving licence on the bar.

  The landlord was late thirties or early forties. He was carrying a bit of weight in his paunch. His checked shirt was recently ironed, and his thinning hair had been recently cut.

  Bart bought a pint of lager.

  The skinny man was talking about his neighbours and some trouble he was having with his drive. And the fat man must have heard it before, because he turned to Bart and introduced himself. When Bart told him that he was a private detective, the man didn't laugh in his face. He would laugh about it later no doubt. Still, Bart appreciated the courtesy.

  'So, you on a case now?' the fat man asked.

  'I've got a couple of things I'm looking at. The main thing is I'm looking for this guy.' He showed him the picture of Zack Richards. The men didn't react. 'Any of you seen him?'

  The fat man shook his head slowly.

  'Nah,' he said. 'Don't ring any bells.'

  'Give us a look at them pics, mate, will ya?' the skinny man said. Bart passed them over. The skinny man looked at them and considered them and passed them back.

  'Anything?' Bart said.

  'Well, I don't know him,' the skinny man said, and he swelled like a bad comedian setting up a punchline. 'But he don't half look like that fella over there.'

  Bart looked over. Blonde hair and green-black Parka, moving from table to table, laying out flyers. Zack Richards was right there! Bart turned back to the bar. He didn't want to be recognised.

  'Oi! He's over here, mate!' the skinny one shouted.

  Bart blushed, and he raged at the skinny man.

  Zack stopped. He stared at the skinny man for a second then carried on laying out the last of the flyers. Then he headed for the exit.

  'Go on then,' the fat man whispered. 'Follow him.'

  And Bart moved towards the door, but his foot caught, and he fell face first onto the carpet. His heart raced and he looked up to see the skinny man standing over him.

  'Nice trip?'

  'Funny,' Bart said.

  Out on the street Bart looked for Zack Richards. The harbour was slowly filling with revellers and the slow, winter tourists who walked and stopped, and walked and stopped. To his left he saw a shock of white-blonde hair duck into a bar. Following, he waited, standing against the railings opposite. The flyer he'd grabbed from the pub was advertising Francesca's gig. He put a note on his phone to remind himself to sort out tickets when he got back to the Seaview. You certainly couldn't knock Zack's industry. He was working to make the gig as successful as he could.

  Two and a half minutes and Zack came out. On to another bar. Bart watched the boats in the marina and checked the doors of the bars with his self-facing camera. In the darkening night the quality was still good enough to spot Zack's blonde hair as he emerged from each doorway.

  After ten minutes outside The Belgian Bar, Bart was starting to worry. No sign of Richards. And, becoming impatient, he pulled down his hat and he turned up his collar, crossed the street to the window - but he couldn't see beyond the condensation on the glass. He thought he saw him - was it? - someone blonde - he craned to get a better view.

  A tap on his
shoulder.

  He jumped.

  'Jesus!'

  'You're Bartholomew Crowe aren't you?' The voice, languid and cool as wind on a still sea. 'I think you're looking for me.'

  About an inch shorter than Bart, Zack's dark brown eyes were tough, and they oozed both confidence and charm.

  'So, um, let's talk,' Bart said, and he extended his hand.

  Zack's grip was neither assertive, nor weak.

  'Agreed,' Zack said. 'Follow me, Bart.'

  And Zack steered Bart away from town, along to the sandy beach and down, towards the lapping sea.

  Zack said, 'You know, I really kind of admire you, buddy. You know, all this detective stuff, well it's really kind of wild, isn't it? It's individual. I like that. I can relate to it, you know?'

  And Bart adjusted his collar and he said, 'You've been talking about me?'

  'Lola's my girlfriend, buddy. What do you expect?'

  'One of them.'

  Zack smiled at that. A big, broad, slanted smile, malice and mischief. He looked like a pirate.

  Bart said, 'What has she told you?'

  Zack said, 'Can't tell you that, buddy - it'd be breaking a confidence.'

  And he took his hand from Bart's shoulder and he hopped down onto the dark sand. Bart wondered whether Zack was drunk.

  'Come on. Over here, Crowe,' he said. 'Come on buddy. Let's talk where it's private.'

  Bart trudged across the beach, and he hoped the wet sand would stay out of his shoes.

  'I'll start,' Zack said. 'How did you know I was here? And how did you know I'd be at the Turner this morning? And don't roll out that shit you told Lola about the unknown number because I don't buy that.'

  Bart said. 'The Turner was a tip off. Anonymous. Believe it or don't believe it. But it's the truth. I showed Lola the phone and I'll show you if you want. And as for tonight? Well, tonight's a total fluke. Pure and simple. So my turn. Why did you kill Raymond Feathers?'

  Zack's laugh was full and rich.

  'Oh my God! I was not expecting that! Fucking Raymond! Fucking shit!'