The Spook and
The Spirit in The Stone
by
Jilly Paddock
Copyright ©2012 Jilly Paddock All rights reserved
Cover design ©2012 TCO
Jilly Paddock asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior permission in writing of the author.
All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Everything bad comes in triplicate – that's written into the basic laws of the universe. I'd had the first instalment in the guise of the three a.m. urgent call, the kind that shatters sleep and kicks you into the bad dream. Since then, only inertia has kept me going. Ruthie is at the desk as I stumble into the station. She sees a mad-eyed zombie with a heart as dark and heavy as lead.
"Jeez, big fella, you look frayed around the edges!" Her pink-moist eyes peep over the top of half-moon spectacles. "Rough night?"
"Yes.”
"Don't care to discuss it, huh?" She shrugs and points out back. “Captain wants to see you."
"Urgently?"
"Like an hour ago."
Bad news. I go through the motions like a puppet; knock on the door labelled Captain Adam Vincenzo, enter when a wordless growl signifies permission and make a murmur or two of polite conversation. It isn't to be a bawling-out, since I get the armchair and coffee before the Captain gets down to business.
"Your partner's retiring, Jerome."
Sudden, but not a total surprise. Jake's only a year or two shy of being put out to pasture. "When does he leave?"
"Yesterday. He went into hospital last night." 'Cenzo makes a show out of shuffling a heap of printouts. "I told him to take sick-leave, but Jake's too stubborn to heed advice. Said he'd need so much time to recover after the op that he might as well retire."
"What's wrong with him?"
"The word is a stomach ulcer."
I'm no med-tek but I know enough to smell a red herring. "If it's major surgery it has to be a tumour, right?"
"As far as this station's concerned Jake's problem is ulcers, not cancer. Capiche?"
I nod. You have to agree with 'Cenzo when he starts throwing the mother tongue at you, it means things are getting serious. "So you're assigning me to someone else? Who?”
"I'm giving you a promotion, Jerome. Lord knows, you deserve one. You'll leave Fraud and go up to Homicide. That's three points on the salary scale, and with all bonuses and favours, it should add up to a tidy sum..."
He's selling it too hard, so I have to ask. "Who am I going to work with?"
"Lamont."
Detective-Inspector A. Afton Lamont. There are other names for her, only heard amongst the lower ranks, most of them unprintable. Nobody suffers Lamont for long; she rides her partners too hard. Bad news.
"You don't seem too distressed," ‘Cenzo observes.
"It was probably my turn."
He has the good grace to laugh. "You've got the morning to clear your desk and get your stuff down to the Pit. Meet Lamont at one over lunch at that new exotic restaurant down the street."
"Nice touch. Your idea?"
"Hers," he starts sorting the paperwork again. "Close the door on your way out."
"I want to put in for some leave," I say, quickly. "A week, maybe two."
That brings his gaze back up. "You kidding? Because of what I've just told you?"
"Nothing to do with that. Val died this morning." I’m still numb, in denial of the fact.
"Your flatmate, right?" he fishes in the desk drawer, unwraps a piece of gum and begins to chew on it, while I sit in silence, watching the slow, mesmeric movements of his blunt, stubby fingers, listening to the drone of the street outside.
"You got the leave," he says, finally. "After you meet Lamont. Okay?"
"Sure thing."
I'm halfway through the door before he speaks again. "Jerome, about your friend. I'd like to say I'm sorry."
Words that could have been empty, instead are well-meant and sincere. I lower my head so that he can't see the betraying glitter in my eyes. "Thanks, Captain."
What to say about A. Afton Lamont? Mind like a computer, fast and cold, stripped of all user-friendly software; body soft and apparently unfit, like any one of the thousands of dream-dead women who struggle through life on this middle-tech colony world, with no outstanding features and a sex appeal rating of zilch. These aren't my opinions, just a quick collation of views from the station's undercurrent of gossip and rumour. I've seen her, of course, in passing or across the room, but never looked too closely. We're all so blinkered, aren't we, concerned only with what impacts directly on our own lives?
I'm nervous about meeting her in the flesh, so much so that I'm scarcely aware of the stares and comments provoked by my arrival at the restaurant. I've never been in the place before, it's so new, and neither the staff nor the diners are used to the sight of me; not many of the population here are a touch over two metres tall. Lamont has picked out a table in the corner and she stands up as I approach. I find that she comes further up my chest than I'd expected, since she always projects the illusion of being short.
“Good afternoon, Detective-Inspector Lamont." I give a little bow, on my best behaviour.
"None of that crap! Call me Afton." She waves at the other seat. “Sit.”
Within the next handful of minutes we've ordered our meal, after a brief discussion about the food, then touched on Jake's sudden illness and the extremes of the weather. She's just as direct on every subject. I study her while we await the food; she has a wide, open face, treading a fine line between ugly and oddly attractive depending on the set of her jaw or the furrows on her broad forehead, the whole topped off with close-cropped brown hair and deep-set eyes that are more muddy green than grey. She wears a small gold stud in one ear and a trace chain about her neck, the end of which vanishes under her shirt. A locket, perhaps, although that seems too human a thing for her. The whole image is of hard-edged granite with no feminine leavening and I wonder just how much of a manufactured mask it is.
I’m clueless about her personal life and the gossip I’ve heard from my colleagues doesn’t help. They say she was married once, until her husband ran off with a sexy, blonde biochemist, or maybe it was her wife who eloped with a pretty, rich toy-boy. Further hearsay whispers that her life-partner, whichever gender they were, had been murdered and, although Lamont had been a suspect, her alibi was solid and no evidence linked her to the crime. The most poisonous of all the station rumour says that she’s as emotionless as the constructs we use in the uniform ranks, a robot, as dead and soulless as any machine. Now, face to face with A. Afton Lamont, I don’t believe any of it.
"Jerome?" With one word she calls my attention back. "You got a first name?"
"Jerome is all the name I have."
"You're one hell of a tall guy. What world do you hail from?"
"I'd rather not say," I reply, as pleasantly as I can.
All traces of boredom drain out of her expression. I've finally engaged her interest. It feels like looking into a set trap.
“Judging from the muscles you've got hidden under that loose jacket, it was a heavy-gee planet," she counts each item off on her fingers. "As for the skin colour, I've only ever seen that particular shade of intense red-brown in people from the Cluster. If your eyes were crimson or purple, instead of almost black, I'd say you had to be a native of Triamond."
"I could look it up in your file," she says, quietly.
"You won't find an answer there. All biographical data was wiped from my records. Clause thirty- five."
"An exile, eh? You poor bastard! What did they chase you off your birth-world for?"
"Please understand that there are some things I don't care to discuss," I tread carefully. "Such as my past. It isn't relevant to my work, I can assure you."
"Whatever," she shrugs, but I can see that she's merely filed the mystery away for later investigation. "If it's that important to you, we'll let it lie."
A rescue arrives then, in the shape of lunch; tacos as crisp and light as starched kisses, re-fried beans and a chilli hot enough to give Hell a run for its money. Afton demolishes her helping as if she's starved for a week, then finishes mine, and doesn't even have the good grace to sweat. I drink a lot of ice-water and wonder if my palate will ever recover.
"I thought this afternoon I could talk you through the cases we’ve got on our books," Afton says, over coffee. "Nothing recent, of course, but several lines of inquiry are still open."
"I can't..." there's no painless way to tell her, so I have to spit it out. "I've taken some leave."
Her face doesn't change on the surface, but the muscles under that skin mask go rigid. Not with anger, I sense that much. Contempt. All she says is, "Why?"
"My flatmate died this morning, after a long illness. I have to make all the funeral arrangements. There isn't anyone else on planet to do it."
Lamont's expression softens a fraction. "I'll give you a lift across town, if you like. I've got a car from the pool parked out back."
I nod to that and it's only as we leave the restaurant that it registers that she hasn't pretended any sorrow at my loss. The ride passes in silence and is thankfully short.
"What's burning you up?" she asks, as we pull into the kerb.
“That's too personal a question."
"And I'll answer it myself. I was supposed to show some sympathy for your bereavement, isn't that it? For somebody I've never seen or met? Hell, I don't even know her name.”
"I'm sorry for you, if your sympathy comes at such a high price."
"Smart answer," she smiles to herself in appreciation. “Catch me at the station when you're back from leave."
I slowly open one eyelid and it's so heavy that I wonder if I've been transported home, and I'm lying in the foetid darkness of one of the Temple's cells, broken and bleeding after another beating. There's a sharp, persistent ringing in my ears and it takes me several minutes to realise that it's the door-chime of my flat.
“Butterfly," I say, thickly, this week's release code for the lock. Faraway, a door opens and clicks shut again, then I hear somebody picking their way through the mess in the living room, crunching broken glass underfoot and kicking empty cans. I don't care who it is or why they're paying a visit, so I let the eyelid drop again.
I think I must have slipped back into a doze, because the next thing I'm aware of is the sound of a mug being gently placed on the table beside the bed. The fragrant steam of hot coffee hits my nose, and my brain begins to reboot and run the wake-up program.
"What was it out there, a terrorist attack?"
It's a woman's voice, a gravelly alto, and for a moment I can't place it, then I do. Lamont. I download some short-term memory and find it laced full of holes; no surprise, given the amount of drink and quasi-legal drugs it took to push me over the edge and into oblivion. "I lost control. Doesn't happen often. Is the damage bad?"
"Superficial. You broke some glass and smashed a couple of pictures, that's all," she can't screen all the amusement out. "And I hope you weren't too attached to that ugly coffee-table. You tied its metal frame into a knot."
I take her word for it. All I can remember is the dim echo of my anger, now sunk in sea of numbness.
"You look like you could use your stomach pumped," Afton observes, with a distinct lack of sympathy.
"Twelve hours ago, maybe. Not worth it now," I reach the threshold of minimum coordination required to pick up the coffee, only spilling a little on the way to my mouth. Afton stands there, as patient as a monolith, staring at the naked plateau of my back. In this light the scars are visible as a mesh of narrow lines, thicker and more distinct along the length of my spine.
"My past," I say, before she can ask. "Old pain that I've dealt with. Talking about it only brings it up to the surface –"
"I understand," she interrupts. "I know all about emotions, Jerome, I read about them once. Mind if I help myself to some of your java, while you resurrect some humanity from that mother-of-all-hangovers?"
"What for? I'm not going anywhere."
"Listen to me and try to get one little thought into your thick skull. In an hour, we're going to a funeral."
"Today's the twenty-third?" I cover my eyes and groan. How do you lose five days?
"Take your time," Afton says, with unexpected kindness. "I'll wait in the next room."
I apply hot water, patent anti-headache pills and clean clothing to various parts of my abused body, then shuffle out to face my audience.
"A miracle!" Afton applauds, but quietly. "You look very smart. Subdued, but not too sombre. More coffee?"
"Please.” I'm taken aback that my superior is willing to fetch and carry for me, but, hell, don't knock it. Mark it down to pity and be thankful. While she's in the kitchen, I survey the wreckage of the room. She's right, all I did was rattle the surface, although that coffee table is a goner. The house-shrine is undisturbed, draped in purple, with two candles of that colour and an offering of Turkish delight topped with a little paper parasol.
"Are you religious?" Afton asks, emerging.
"It's a habit I picked up from my mother, appeasing the lesser household deities. This week it's dedicated to La Perdu, demi-goddess of fool's errands, lost causes and mislaid umbrellas," I retrieve Val's portrait from the floor and shake the broken glass out of the frame. For a moment I stare at his easy smile and the warmth in his hazel eyes, the sunlit contentment of the image, and sorrow twists like a knife in my heart.
"Here," Afton offers me the full mug. "Good looking guy. A friend of yours?"
I didn't expect to reach this bridge so soon in our partnership, but now we're here, what else to do but cross it? I look Lamont straight in the eyes. "He was my friend, the one I'm going to bury today. That's Val, my flatmate. My lover."
She drops the coffee and I manage to catch it as it falls past my hand, discovering reflexes I didn't know were conscious yet.
“And the City pay me to be a detective?" She slaps her forehead. "Shit, Jerome, you must think me a blind, stupid bitch! I'm sorry, I didn't know you were gay."
"Not gay. The word for me is bisexual." Three syllables is a bit ambitious in my present state and I take them one at a time, "Sexually ambivalent, if you like, although some people would say I was plain confused. I like women as well, but men are less complicated."
She lets out half of a laugh, then bites it back. "What do you mean by that?"
"When it comes to relationships, the experts say, all of us are trapped in an endless cycle of mistakes. I have a weakness for strong, well-muscled men, but I prefer my women small-boned and delicate." I can't continue to meet her level gaze. "And, as you see, I'm not always gentle enough."
“Have you ever hurt anyone?" Lamont demands. "Or are you just afraid you might?"
"Is this an interrogation, Inspector?"
I hear her sigh. "No, it's your personal life and none of my business. Consider the subject closed. Now, let's get moving. You have some important goodbyes to say. Do you want to pick up some flowers on the way to the chapel?"
"I suppose that you'd consider giving flowers to the dead a sign of weakness?"
"What the hell does my opinion matter? It's your loss. You have to handle it in your own way."
I cry like a babe through the service and
Afton makes no comment, keeping up a constant stream of paper tissues. It's a short affair, a handful of words and some of Val's favourite music. When it's over, I nod and share the usual platitudes with the few other mourners in evidence, then Afton steers me back to the car.
"Could I impose on you to take me home?"
For the second time this morning she's fazed. "Sorry, Jerome, I can't do that. Vincenzo cancelled all leave yesterday afternoon. I had to call in a bundle of favours to persuade him to leave you alone until after the funeral."
I turn in my seat to look at her directly, this granite-faced woman that most of my colleagues would say hadn't a kind bone in her body, and realise that my mind-set has to take a jump to a higher level. "Thanks. What kind of shit is going down for the Captain to pull the plug on our civil liberties?"
"If you'd tuned in to all the news channels, you'd still be ignorant of this. We've got a full media blackout. Do you remember a kidnapping case around eighteen months ago, little Katie McGuire?"
"Didn't her parents pay the ransom and her abductors kill her anyway?"
"Technically she was still alive when we got her back, for an hour or so anyway." Afton scowls, kicking the car through the traffic with unnecessary fury. "Three days ago we were called in on another abduction. Vincenzo thinks it's either the same gang or a copycat."
"First time I've ever heard of Homicide getting in on the ground floor of a kidnap."
"This one has the potential to be as nasty as they come. The victim is nine years old and the daughter of a diplomat. An ambassador, no less."
"From which planet?"
"The Mother-world, Terra itself. A lady called Celia Crispianou, who just happens to be step-sister to Earth's president of the moment."
"Sounds like the plot of a bad holo. We got any leads on the child's whereabouts?"
"A big, flat zero, unless Forensics can pull a miracle out of the hat." She spares me a rapid glance. "You're coping with this far better than I thought you would. When did you last eat some decent food, if that's not a dirty word at the moment?"
The Spook and the Spirit in the Stone Page 1
