Death & the City Book Two

by Lisa Scullard

  “She claims on her blog to have banged a number of senior superintendents and police detectives,” head office tell me, and I guess already from Flynn’s face that it’s not true. “More than likely it was part of the client’s fantasy role-play they were acting out, in order for her to try out her extra special tricks on them to gather imaginary role-play inside information. Canem never had any inside knowledge of any particular use. The only time he came into the station was on a basic documents provider to show us his car insurance and MOT certificate. He wore a tie and clean shoes and everything. It was all bravado for him.”

  Ash turns the monitor around to show me another Tweak as it appears. You have to wonder what the police are hiding, with their blank walls and bare corridors. No identity or individuality. I expect they are already brainwashed zombies, the Living Dead, controlled by the vampires who run the night.

  “Loony,” Flynn mutters.

  “Yeah, some of her clients were vampire fetishists as well,” head office confirm. “You’ve got to worry about the reality that girl’s living with inside her head to justify all of it.”

  “Mmm,” I ponder, non-commitally. A third Tweak appears. E=mcSQ4. Quid pro bono, non gratis personum.

  “What’s that?” Flynn asks.

  “Blogger gobbledygook,” James sighs. “Sounds important, means nothing. Some alien conspiracy expert will send her some fan mail now translating it for her, hoping to get a blow-job out of it. Female bloggers use it a lot thinking it makes them look better than each other, because they’re anonymous on the net, and can’t compete like normal by using fake tan and designer handbags.”

  “Pity she doesn’t know it,” I remark. “It very nearly says: ‘What’s the point, unwelcome bastard’. Although ‘illegitimi’ would be better pig Latin for that.”

  Head office are laughing at the other end.

  “She signs off like it quite a lot, looks like she copies her style from alleged anonymous lawyer bloggers. Very superficial ones, at any rate. And the fucked-up equations appear a lot too. She mostly uses them as code, for when she sees a hottie she fancies having a go on. Copied from astronomy and artist blogs.”

  “She fancies Officer Dibble?” Ash chortles. “Oh, my God. The only interviewer in the station who really did eat all the pies.”

  “Means the Latin suddenly sounds all the more poignant,” James chuckles. “She’s saying she fancies him, but it’s no good as he’s out of her league.”

  The three of us and head office have an unprofessional sniggering fit, while Flynn grumbles and retires to the kitchen again.

  “Keep an eye on Flynn while you’re there,” head office suggest. “He’s acting a bit ropey. Not keeping his feet on the ground as much as we’d like. Might have to get him to take some of his paid leave early this year.”

  “D’you want anything else on this girl?” I ask. “I don’t think she’s got anything real to hide. It’s like watching a cult member who doesn’t want to be de-mystified. She likes the reality she’s in much better than ours. I think the worst she’s got is a case of wagging tongue. Maybe with a bit of ringworm thrown in.”

  “Yeah, I think one of those cult de-brainwashers is what needs prescribing in her case,” head office agree. “If she’s going to come out with anything useful to us. But hold off running away just yet. This isn’t just psychology, it’s quantum physics. Observations based on the presence of different observers.”

  I glance at Canem’s phone on the desk. For some reason, it feels as though he’s still alive on it. I pick it up, wondering what it’s trying to tell me, psychometrically.

  If I was Canem, finding myself employing a loose-tongued exaggerating chatterbox like Alice, if I was smart I’d have fed her the same story he had. To hide what he was doing, giving her something of intrigue and mystery to exploit on the internet, and impressing strange girls she spoke to in toilets. But what was keeping her loyal to him, that meant she kept her stories to herself in front of the police, and didn’t feel in any danger herself?

  Officer Dibble is using a sympathetic approach to the interview, asking and checking frequently, in light of recent events, if she feels safe with the company she has been keeping. But she’s like a bad clam - won’t open up.

  “Yeah, you might get through to her that way eventually,” I say, opening the message folder on Canem’s phone. “But people are weird about their loyalties of choice. Especially when some psycho has tailored a fantasy to suit them. It takes a Hell of a third party to break through that kind of control. There’s always a short cut.”

  “What do you suggest?” they query, as I open her last message to Canem, and click Reply.

  “Kill the head vampire,” I mutter, typing on the keypad, into the message space. “Metaphorically speaking. Considering he’s already dead, particularly.”

  I press Send.

  “Aha,” head office muse, as the message evidently comes up on their monitoring. “See what you mean - Buffy.”

  James and Ash watch the interview room intently, as Alice takes out her phone and reads the message I’ve just sent her from Canem, post mortem.

  I’M SORRY, IT’S OVER. YOU’RE ON YOUR OWN. DON’T CONTACT ME AGAIN.

  We see her press reply and type, evidently along the lines of Why? But she hesitates before sending it, as the situation sinks in. Officer Dibble kindly asks if she would like a break and if she’s hungry. When she says, vaguely, she thinks she has low blood sugar, he goes out of the room. She sits and stares at her phone blankly. She deletes the last message and opens a new one, but fails to type anything. After a moment or two, she presses Cancel, and switches the phone off. Officer Dibble returns with chocolate and a jam doughnut, well known by the police and Women’s Institute for their ability to loosen tongues and relax inhibitions.

  “She’s broken the link,” head office confirm. “Looks like we might now have a chance to get something out of her.”

  “Yes. It wouldn’t be the first time a psychiatric case was being controlled via their mobile phone,” I say darkly.

  “Glad you can see the funny side,” they reply ambiguously. “Are you on Speakerphone?”

  “Yup.”

  “Switch to normal mode and follow Flynn for a minute or two. We want to eavesdrop. Got a theory going from one of the team to follow up on. Go make the Siamese Twins a coffee or something.”

  “Tea,” James interjects. “Sugar. Black.”

  “Orange squash, please,” Ash puts in.

  “Sure.” I switch modes, and head out of the viewing suite to the kitchen next door. “Who’s your informer?”

  “Normally we wouldn’t say, but you know each other - it’s your mate Connor,” they tell me, as I close the viewing room door behind me. “Put your phone in your pocket, we’ve got enhanced audio pick-up.”

  I slot my phone into a pocket, still connected to head office, and open the kitchen door.

  Flynn has both the semi-skimmed and full-fat milk open, one in either hand, and is sniffing them experimentally.

  “Are they out of date?” I greet him, finding a couple of clean mugs by the sink, and the orange squash on the back of the worktop, opting to make that first.

  “Not yet, but the twats never put them away half the time, so you never know,” he grumbles. “Seems passable, anyway.”

  He sloshes semi-skimmed into his mug, and spoons in sugar directly from the packet.

  “How’s business?” he asks.

  “Which one?”

  “New venue. The old town movie theatre.”

  “Oh, The Zone. It’s okay. A bit big for the town centre. I think it might struggle mid-week.”

  “Yeah, originally they were refused change of use unless it was going to have a restaurant as well that could open during the day, but the kebab shops and sandwich bars polled against another food outlet in the road, so it got reviewed and approved solely as a nightclub.” He stirs his tea and folds down the top of the sugar bag, taking his time on the creases, as
if constructing an origami paper-plane. “Got a big team there?”

  “The ones of us covering from The Plaza are temporary, until they interview more new guys. Some of them are recruited already, there’s a few I haven’t met before. New badges and stuff.”

  “Might mean more business for you, eh?” he suggests.

  “New doormen don’t necessarily mean more hit-men,” I shrug. “It’s not like there’s an additional recruitment drive with posters in the Gents’ toilets, like for the Royal Marines. Thought about making more money? Use your skills as a contract killer. That sort of thing.”

  “With the way news gets around on the internet and online gaming, there might as well be,” he remarks. “You ever do requests on the side?”

  “No,” I reply, and pour out James’s tea carefully, wondering if I should add cold water or leave it at scalding temperature. I’ll just warn him to let it stand for a bit. “That’d be shooting myself in the foot, to put it mildly.”

  “Pity,” he smirks ironically. “Would have made it worth your while.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I say, encouragingly, but he looks at his watch, not paying attention to my hint for expanded information.

  “I better head downstairs, got to show Alice in Wonderland out when her interview finishes, and review the reports,” he remarks. “Will probably see you again soon. I have a feeling you’ll be called back to overlook some of the other statements.”

  He heads out, and I step out behind him. He turns right and clatters downstairs, and I turn left and knock on the door of the Remote Viewing Suite again. James answers and relieves me of the two mugs, as I return back inside and shut it behind me.

  I get my phone out of my pocket.

  “Anything interesting for you?” I ask head office.

  “Yeah, the last bit,” they confirm, as I switch back to Speakerphone. “Keep cameras on Miss Cooper as she finishes up.”

  “You think Flynn might be contemplating an alternative to a quickie divorce?” I remark.

  “Knowing him, more likely contract out her lover and make her suffer the loss,” they tell me. “She’s banging a twenty-one-year-old doorman.”

  “I thought he was a bit ambivalent to see me,” I muse. Alice Cooper and Officer Dibble are still talking on screen, and her shoulders appear more slumped, as if her posture has dropped along with her performance. “Anyone I know?”

  “No, they met on Facebuddy. He’s not in your area, so she was being a bit secretive - not on her own doorstep, if you know what I mean. But Flynn’s definitely thinking about abusing his connections, by the sound of things. You better be on standby, in case he pops the question to someone else and they take him up on it.”

  They hang up. They’ve just hinted, my next target could potentially be an operative the same as me. A licensed runner, who already takes out other private contract hit-men. Set up by Flynn, of all people. I don’t like the sound of it. I hope it doesn’t turn out to be someone like Warren. I’d end up as meat paste in a Korean dog food factory.

  Alice has given Canem’s name before the end of the interview, saying he was someone who set her up on ‘dates’ with people he wanted information on, claiming they were the subjects of private investigations for an official detective agency. When Officer Dibble asks her whether she was paid for these ‘dates’ and whether she was expected to sleep with any of these ‘subjects’ - he quite cleverly says the word ‘clients’ accidentally, before she corrects him - she seems to falter a bit as her brain threatens to derail off the track of her hitherto-held belief system. But she regains momentum, and produces a business-card of Canem’s, that has both ‘CIA Africa’ and ‘FBI International’ printed on it.

  “Did you ever see a genuine identity badge or warrant card of this man’s?” Dibble queries. “Because this is just something a print machine can run off - nothing official.”

  She’s earnest, although she doesn’t recall seeing any formal I.D, that she believes he was genuine. She gives accounts of a couple of investigations he claimed to have been involved in, while with the FBI.

  “The X-Files, Season Two,” Ash mutters aloud, and James nods. No wonder she believed all the vampire and supernatural client fantasy stuff was real. She claims to have details of some of his mystery-solving locations locally, and Dibble makes a note, saying she might be called back to assist with further enquiries if she can show officers where these sites are. This cheers her up, as it evidently reinforces her fantasy detective role, and she shows signs of being eager to take an active part in that.

  I guess normal hookers have the same reality conflicts. I scroll through some other kiss-and-tell blogs on Ash’s internet, and click on a few at random. Girls meeting supposed Arabian princes and Bollywood stars in motorway services hotel rooms. Girls being promised private jet trips if they act to please. Escorts believing they’ve met Tom Cruise in Glasgow, and he’s a lot taller than you’d think, and is from Poland originally, real name Tomasz Kruz. Everywhere you look, clients living out a fantasy life, and girls ready to fall for it.

  I suppose in one way it’s an example of the kind of men who can play out a brief fantasy to get a girl into bed, rather than spin out a longer yarn to get her down the aisle. I remember Doorman Harry coming back from a mate’s stag do, after getting two nights of free lap-dances in top London clubs having claimed to be Gianni Meccano, heir to the children’s construction toy fortune. And how for ages Ryan convinced his girlfriend that he owned his own house and let his parents live with him, instead of the other way around. He only admitted the truth once she started hinting about getting engaged and moving in together, that maybe his parents would feel awkward sharing and he could find them a little flat to rent instead. On the one hand, macho comedy genius. On the other, women all too ready to fall for a bit of romantic entrapment.

  Maybe it’s a win-win situation, I think, perusing the blogs, as women describe their exploits in over-glamorized detail. If both are getting what they want out of it, whether it’s funny conquests to share with the lads, or an unlikely and seductive life-story to share with the rest of the electronic world, who says either of their perceived realities matters?

  Breaking a reality for a normal person, as seen in divorce cases, often means walking on eggshells for everyone around them. For someone with a personality disorder, where a number of realities are running parallel, they can be interchangeable, with each being a safety-net for another. It can be a while before anything is actually diagnosed. Particularly as one of the ongoing ‘fantasies’ may be actual reality, at least for the individual.

  I remember my Godmother ‘Miss Haversham’ who I lived with between the ages of seven and fifteen (while my real mum liberated dangerous wildlife in Canada), was a dreadful gossip, inventing a foreign boyfriend for me so she had something to compete with at Women’s Institute afternoon tea-times. She would update me on what she’d told everyone, so that I had to play along if we were ever out shopping and bumped into one of them. Maintaining my own perception of reality parallel to her fantasy convictions was almost as challenging. I recall having a big re-consideration of what constituted sanity at the time. I tried telling the Vicar about my Godmother’s fantasy world, and he just said she was entitled to a little fun and attention if there was no harm in it. I don’t think he’d have said the same if he saw the massive strop she had, when I refused to have my picture taken with her ‘Community Service’ gardener so she could pretend he was my fiancé. My reason was that he was on Community Service for burglary, stealing mainly lawnmowers from the sheds of the Women’s Institute. They’d recognise him, and she’d be made a fool of. She sulked for a week, threatened to take an overdose, was put on Prozac, and next time one of her tea parties came around, I heard afterwards that apparently my imaginary ‘betrothed’ had disappeared while rowing across the Bering Strait, and she never mentioned my love-life again. Fortunately she now had the enormous subject of depression and medication to use as her attention-seeking tool, and I was mostly
forgotten. Except at those times when I did bump into the tea-and-scone Raffia Mafia, and they gave me sympathetic looks and asked if there was ever any news of Vladimir or whatever she’d named my fictional romantic hero. I’m sure he was straight out of one of those books she kept under the bed. The kind of books Elaine described when I was telling her about Warren.

  Dog meat paste, I think on autopilot, and hope I don’t have to speak to Warren alone any time soon. Particularly if he’s heard the same about Flynn, and thinks I might also be looking to increase my own shoe fund on the side. There wouldn’t be enough of me left to fill a tin of dog meat, let alone a nice pair of shoes.

  Pondering for a moment, I consider doing a search for hit-man blogs, and decide against it. I don’t know if I’m worried I’ll find someone pretending to be me, or find Connor blogging about what it’s like trying to get me into bed. Some stuff I guess I’d rather not know about. I’m sure head office are way ahead of me on that one. I’m pretty sure Phil Preston was a blogger, the big fat gay wingman guy I popped in The Dog Star recently. He was into Double Life internet virtual reality stuff and all that. I’m sure he said he owned a virtual sex shop for the Double Life alternate reality game. He tweaked his Twaddle updates more than any self-publicizing celebrity. He probably had some anonymous blog out there in cyberspace, about the exploits of a gay overweight contract killer into macho contact sports and reading modern philosophy, probably called something like Migration Of The Lone Killer Whale. Something I’d think was contrived and pretentious if I saw it on an Otterstone’s bookshelf. I’m a bastard to please in bookshops. Probably because there’s not much out there for me to identify with. Escapism is all very well, but there needs to be an element of yourself in the story to make the escapism feel possible. The words ‘target demographic’ have a lot to answer for. I’m outnumbered as an individual by office workers, who read on trains commuting to work. Lucky them.