by Syd Moore
‘Forensics,’ he explained. ‘You know – the policemen in white jumpsuits who analyse the crime scene.’
‘Or women,’ I added.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Them. They’re in the kitchen. I just saw one pass by that open hatch. And that guy over there,’ he directed my gaze to the double swing doors where another uniformed policeman stood to attention. ‘Is he on guard or something?’
It was all very intriguing indeed. ‘Break-in?’ I suggested.
Sam shrugged. ‘Do you think we’ll still be required?’
I had no chance to reply because at that moment the kitchen doors swung open, almost knocking the uniform to the floor, and a man in a light grey suit appeared. His eyes swept the restaurant floor, then, when they settled on us, he hustled over swiftly.
‘Detective Sergeant Jason Edwards,’ the bloke announced, before he was anywhere near the table.
‘Hello,’ said Sam.
I nodded.
The cop had some height on him and was dark and lean. He was also trying his damn best to look unharassed and in control. Only there was a vein pumping quickly above his eye, which suggested otherwise. He too, like the policewoman, was dog-tired, but seemed way more stressed, full of prickly energy. When he took a seat I noticed his shoulders were almost touching his ears.
Detective Sergeant Jason Edwards stifled a yawn then leant back and stretched his spine along the back of the chair. He blinked several times, rubbed his eyes then removed a notebook from his inside jacket pocket and tossed it on the table.
‘So exactly what have you come to inspect, Mr Strange, Miss Stone?’ he asked, clasping his hands on his lap. There was a hint of south London accent there. His voice was deep but strained-sounding like he was forcing himself through the motions, fighting off the exhaustion with only willpower. And he was dropping consonants left right and centre, which, I thought, probably signified approaching stupor – he certainly wasn’t drunk and was sharp enough to clock the lack of wedding ring on my fingers and address me accordingly. Though I preferred Ms.
‘Other way round,’ I said, lifting my chin up and smiling. ‘I’m Strange. He’s Stone.’
‘So you are,’ he said. The whites of his unblinking eyes were tinged with dark red veins. A cutting intelligence lurked behind them. Despite the outward signs of intense fatigue, the guy knew what he was doing. He was checking we were telling the truth, or had well-rehearsed fake names. I wouldn’t fake mine though, would I?
He breathed in again, shaking his head out, as if he were shrugging off an unwelcome thought, then abruptly stopped and eyeballed us. ‘As you were saying?’
Sam put his elbows on the table. ‘Possible supernatural phenomenon,’ he said.
I prepared to cringe and colour at the detective’s reaction. However to my utter amazement DS Edwards didn’t gasp or laugh. He dipped his head as if we’d answered the question correctly, his face expressionless.
‘Is that … a … fact?’ The words came out gradually.
I nodded again.
‘How timely,’ he said, and made a point of staring but not speaking for a full minute.
It was rather uncomfortable. I darted a glance at Sam who shrugged.
Edwards waited another moment more, then repeated Sam’s answer: ‘“Possible – supernatural – phenomenon.”’ This time he fully articulated all vowels and consonants. Like he was testing the words out. Like they struck a chord inside that big old brain of his.
‘That’s right,’ said Sam, a little hesitant.
‘And you’ve come all the way up from?’
‘Essex,’ said Sam.
Edwards looked at me and smiled slyly. ‘It’s the only way …’
I clenched my jaw and prepared to propel myself across the floor. This sort of talk touched a nerve, you might say.
Having been born and spent most of my life in the county, when I arrived in Leytonstone, aged fourteen, a prepubescent girl from just over the border in Essex, I found that I was unwittingly relieving Stinky-touch Simon of the mantle of class joke. Which was ridiculous as, my mum had told me, Leytonstone used to be in Essex anyway. But kids, well they’ll pick on anyone who’s different, won’t they? Just as folk did with the witches, actually, which is maybe why I seemed to have developed some sympathy with them. For four years, the stereotype was projected upon me relentlessly, converting faltering answers into hysteria-inducing howlers – evidence of my geographically accorded stupidity. The toe-testing of relationships became a clear indication that, true to form, I was indeed an Essex slag. And of course I became the unwilling butt of a seemingly endless supply of jokes like, ‘What’s the difference between an Essex Girl and a computer?’ ‘You only need to punch information into a computer once.’
Difficult to know what to do with that when you’re fourteen.
As an adult I decided I wasn’t taking this crap any more.
‘Essex Girls indeed!’ I said, not trying to conceal my outrage. ‘What’s bloody wrong with them anyway? That you cling on to the stereotype is more offensive than any so-called “Essex Girl”. Are you really telling me no one else in the country has sex before they’re married or enjoys a drink or three at the weekend?’
Detective Edwards stared.
‘And the “thick” thing?’ I went on, not giving an inch. ‘Well, people are just as stupid in London, I can testify, but you never hear anything about a “London Girl”, do you? Oh no.’
Sam was biting his lip and shaking his head ever so slightly. But he wasn’t stepping in.
I filled my lungs so I could deliver my punchline in one go. ‘The Essex Girl, Detective Edwards, is a dated 1980s concept that should have been laid to rest along with Cabbage Patch Kids and He-Man. The fact that people still mention it is testament to how dull and uninventive they are.’
Sam let out a hefty sigh and looked up at the ceiling.
I stood my ground and waited to see if I’d got through.
But Edwards merely yawned and rubbed his eyes, though truth be told, under his nose I could see the smallest kink on his mouth. ‘Oh yeah? You’re probably right.’ Then abruptly he sat up straight and pointed. ‘What’s in the suitcase then?’
That wrong-footed me. Usually I readied myself for at least a little bit of argy-bargy. The fact that he didn’t engage left me with my mouth open but nothing to say.
Sam cleared his throat and tapped the case. ‘Equipment – Go-Pro mounted cameras, infrared cameras, IR lights, audio and video recording devices. Also motion sensors and a pair of Tri-Field meters. There’s a Spirit Box, in there somewhere too. An SB-11.’
‘A Spirit Box?’ DS Edwards repeated.
‘Yes, it’s basically a radio frequency scanner that some people believe allows the voices of discarnate entities to manifest in between the static. Other investigators sometimes use Rem Pods. I don’t. I do, however, keep a few thermometers about the place, both probe and IR types.’
‘Is that so?’ asked Edwards and stood up.
‘And talc,’ I added.
Sam just shot me daggers and waited for the detective to respond.
When he did it was to smooth down the creases on his suit trousers. They disappeared quickly which suggested the weaves weren’t compressed. The suit was new. ‘You don’t mind then if I have a look?’ he said gesturing to the case.
It wasn’t a question.
‘Be my guest,’ said Sam and heaved it on to the table. Edwards ever so slightly nudged him out of his way with a deft movement of his hip. Alpha male, I thought, as he centred himself over the handles.
With two clicks the lid sprang open and he plunged his hands into the box, beginning to rummage and thus giving me the opportunity I had been waiting for to survey him for clues.
I liked the fact that he had chosen not to rise to my Essex Girl rant. It was refreshingly different. He was different. And still unfazed. He’d moved on to the next subject so rapidly, I found that my adrenalin was still buzzing round my body, all dressed up
with nowhere to go.
I decided to trot out a little huff and then channel my energy into interpreting the detective’s unconscious signals: I was guessing the recently acquired suit meant either a formal occasion had been attended or that he’d invested in some new clothes because he’d come into some money. The suit was slate-grey, so non-funerary. Did people wear grey suits to weddings? Possibly. Though this was a very standard style – nothing flamboyant or showy. Definitely more suitable for workwear. If I had to pick a background story I’d plump for a recent promotion. He obviously wanted to look good. And yet he had stubble. Not a designer type. It was more randomly located. Which meant he’d probably been up a long while and hadn’t had a chance to shave.
‘What’s this?’ the detective said, unsheathing a rectangular object with a rainbow of lights at one end. He held it as far away from himself as he possibly could, almost as if he thought he’d catch something off it.
‘An EMF meter. Please allow me demonstrate.’ Sam plucked it out of his hands and pressed a red button on the side. ‘This one is sensitive. Not cheap.’ The rainbow lights flicked on. ‘It measures changes and fluctuations in nearby electromagnetic fields.’
‘Uh-huh,’ said DS Edwards. ‘Are ghosts made of electricity then?’
‘There are many explanations for phenomena that seem on first inspection to be extraordinary,’ Sam began.
But Edwards wasn’t listening to him. He’d moved on to something else – a silver video camera.
‘Ooh,’ said Sam. ‘Be careful.’ Tiny beads of sweat appeared on his upper lip. He ran a finger round his shirt collar to loosen it. ‘That’s quite fragile. It’s a—’
‘I can see what it is, thank you,’ he squinted down one end and tried a button. A side compartment popped out at his touch. ‘You’re still using tape? How quaint.’
‘We can’t afford to keep updating the kit.’ Sam pouted. ‘Not constantly. Though that one,’ he gestured to a small boxy camera mounted on a handle which Edwards immediately seized and turned over in his hands. ‘That’s thermal imaging,’ he announced proudly. Then unable to resist any longer, he reached over to relieve the detective of it. ‘Very delicate. And quite pricey too.’
‘So,’ said Edwards straightening his tie. ‘Who asked you to come and look at La Fleur?’
Sam stroked the camera and swaddled it in bubble wrap, then with very great care, like it was a little baby, he tucked it back into the suitcase.
When the camera was safe and asleep, he removed his jacket and folded it over the back of his chair. His face suggested he hadn’t enjoyed seeing the sergeant’s grubby fingers handle his belongings. Or maybe they were ‘ours’. I’d have to find out later.
‘It was Mr Boundersby who contacted us,’ he said finally answering the policeman’s question.
I jumped slightly – something had brushed against the back of my calf. A light pressure. Maybe a cat. No, it was too slimy, almost gelatinous. I bent over to look beneath the table. For a second, hanging there upside down, I experienced a slight dizziness and the fleeting notion that down here in this liquidy darkness things curled and slimed as they did in the murky depths of the Thames estuary, or as the day-trippers called it ‘the Toilet’. Still, I couldn’t see what had brushed me.
I considered the possibilities and unexpectedly let go an ‘Ew’, which surprised everyone including myself.
‘You all right there?’ asked Edwards.
‘Yes, fine,’ I said, breathing slowly and righting myself. ‘Something touched me. A cat, maybe.’ I could feel the blood pumping at the sides of my forehead. I bet I was unattractively ruddy.
‘Yeah?’ Edwards shifted in his chair and tried, badly, to conceal a shudder of distaste. ‘And? What was it?’
‘Only shadows.’
‘Mmm,’ he said, lip still curled, and cast a couple of quick glances at the floor. ‘In this place it’s more likely to be a rat.’
My cringe was as involuntary as it was immediate. ‘A rat! Why?’
Even Sam started to look shifty and crossed his legs twice.
‘I take it you don’t read SquareMileMeal.com?’
‘No?’ I raised my feet on to the crossbar between the table legs. ‘Why? Should I?’
‘Shirl Van Hoeden nearly shut this place down with her “Rat in Mi Kitchen” review. They had a bit of a problem here, I believe.’
I looked uncertainly at the floor again. ‘No. Doubt it was a rodent,’ I said. ‘It was right up the top of my calf, just under my knee. That’d be too big …’ An image flashed across my mental screen – a dog-high rat, rubbing friskily against the back of my leg. ‘Wouldn’t it?’ I trailed off and suppressed the urge to gag.
We all looked around till Edwards said, ‘But that’s not what you’ve come to inspect?’ He stuck his pen in his mouth and bit it. ‘Or is that a sideline?’ he added.
‘God no,’ I said, insulted. I mean, did pest controllers wear Cuban heels? Did they have dip dyes? Regular manis? Well, actually I didn’t know. They could well do. I started to give voice to another little huff anyway, but as it was halfway over my lips, it occurred to me that, really, we did kind of deal with pests. Or investigate the symptoms of infestation. Sort of. Well, Sam did. I was only coming along because I was pretty sharp when it came to reading people.
Derek, my line manager at work, reckons I’m the best he’s ever met. I don’t think that’s entirely true but, for sure, I can pick up on other things that people don’t generally notice. The way people talk but not with their mouths. The way they move themselves or shape their eyes. Eyes are the main thing though. And eyebrows. They tend to speak volumes. Though odour communicates a lot about a person too – how often they might be washing their clothes, hair, bed sheets; how regularly they vacuum and dust, or how much their household co-workers do. It can tell you about the quality and price of their clothes, which in turn suggests how much importance they place on appearance. Sweat reveals whether they exercise regularly, take drugs, booze, eat curry and that.
I’d already picked up that Edwards’ breath was unclean. He had tried, almost successfully, to mask the sulphuric farty smell with a Fisherman’s Friend. It had nearly worked, but there were still base notes evident that suggested he hadn’t drunk enough water today. Possibly hadn’t eaten enough either. Which, summed up, indicated that he had been so caught up in his work he hadn’t been conscious of his body’s demands. Something big had gone down.
I looked back at Edwards to find him staring at me expectantly – eyes all round and momentarily goggly.
‘Ray Boundersby,’ Sam was explaining, ‘came to see us. At the museum.’
DS Edwards blinked, brought his peepers back in a bit, edged on to his seat and regarded the pair of us from beneath well-shaped black eyebrows. I think they were natural although he might have gone in for a bit of DIY tweezering.
‘When was this?’ he asked, relinquishing his gaze to hunch shoulders over his notebook. Here then was the nub: Boundersby.
Sam shot me a quick puzzled shrug and said, ‘Yesterday.’
Edwards’ pen squeaked slightly on the paper as he wrote. He was pressing down on it hard. The bloke was really tense. ‘Only yesterday, you say?’
What was with this ‘only’? I wondered. I corrected Sam’s explanation, ‘Mr Boundersby was meant to come down to the museum yesterday but cancelled. My auntie Babs had made the appointment for him the week before.’
He lifted his pen to scratch the stubble on his chin and waited for an explanation. ‘Your auntie Babs?’ His gaze was continuous and piercing.
I took it and returned it. ‘Yes. Babs also lives in High Wigchuff.’
One of the sergeant’s eyebrows went up. ‘High what?’
‘It’s where Ray Boundersby lives some of the time,’ I explained. ‘My uncle Del runs a scaffolding company and had done some work on his country house.’
Opposite me, Sam tutted to himself.
Edwards’ eyebrow, meanwhile, lowered itself ba
ck down to a more comfortable height. ‘Ah, I see. That’s not long ago. Had he made overtures to you before then? Mr Boundersby?’
‘We were otherwise engaged for another client,’ Sam interjected.
‘I work in Benefit Fraud,’ I said, though god knows why.
Jason Edwards dutifully wrote it down. ‘Benefit Fraud. Is that relevant?’ he asked.
I could see Sam rolling his eyes.
‘Not really,’ I admitted. ‘I keep saying it out of habit.’
To my surprise, the sergeant let go a little snicker and nodded. ‘Yep, I get that too. When I’m tired. Which is all the time. Occupational hazard.’
He met my eyes again and grinned loosely. Oo-er, I thought. He was actually quite attractive.
Sam coughed.
‘Sorry,’ said the sergeant for no reason and went on. ‘So your boyfriend was saying that you couldn’t respond to Mr Boundersby earlier than Saturday because you were busy?’
Very quickly, possibly a little too quickly, I answered, ‘He’s not my boyfriend.’
Sam pushed his chair out so abruptly that it squeaked against the floor. Edwards and I turned to the noise.
‘We were on business for the museum,’ Sam said, and pursed his lips. ‘Both of us.’
‘So,’ the DS addressed his remarks to him, ‘can I just confirm that the earliest that you two,’ he looked back at me, with a slight smile on his lips, then returned to the curator, ‘could make it was yesterday? Together?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Sam nodded. ‘Rosie works during the week, as she said.’
But my working hours appeared of no interest to Edwards. ‘And you say that Boundersby had highlighted his, er, problems a week ago?’
‘Indeed.’ I came in again, leaning forwards on to the table, wresting his attention back. ‘To my aunt. Babs. Barbara.’
Edwards flashed me a stunning smile – wide and full of strong healthy teeth. ‘And what’s this, er … museum that you mention?’
‘I’m the owner of the Essex Witch Museum,’ I said, with a proud little head wobble. Which was kind of weird, as I hadn’t felt particularly delighted about it till now. I think I had literally just realised how impressive it sounded. ‘Owner’. Yes, that was nice. ‘Sam is my curator,’ I continued, then immediately regretted using the possessive pronoun. That was bound to wind him up.
