The Awful Truth About the Herbert Quarry Affair

by Marco Ocram

  I shook my head.

  “No problem.”

  Como looked up the number of the coffee shop, then leant against the wall while he made the call. Having asked for Jacqueline, he explained who he was, asked for—and took a note of—Marcia’s phone number and new address, told Jacqueline her sister wasn’t in trouble but we just needed to make a routine enquiry, thanked her for her time, and hung up.

  “Let’s go see what Marcia’s got to say.”

  Marcia’s new address was in Assumption Springs, and no one was less surprised than I when Como’s satnav told us to turn into the exact same housing development I’d visited five chapters ago when I called upon Marge Downberry. It could only mean one of two things in my book—either Marcia and Marge were entangled in the same conspiracy, or their geographic proximity was the product of an incompetent author too lazy to imagine new locations.

  Como pulled up on the drive of the house, a sprawling construction in the latest fusion style. Sustainably built from straw and sticks to resemble a giant shoe, it featured fairytale turrets, a Rapunzel tower, a hobbit door, Hansel and Gretel gingerbread bargeboards and fetching green gables. It was within easy reach of the N66 and the top local schools, while line G of the Clarkesville County Metro was a five-minute walk.

  “Someone’s come into some money,” said Como.

  We walked to the hobbit door and pressed the buzzer. About five times. No one was in. Evidently a recent delivery driver had encountered the same lack of response, because a huge bouquet had been left by the side of the door. Como picked up the bouquet and looked at the envelope attached to it—on the back was the address of a local florist.

  “Let’s go see the flower lady and find out who’s been sending big bouquets to Delgado,” he said, exhibiting the disgraceful sexism that remains a deep-rooted trait within our law enforcement agencies.

  “Not all florists are female, Como. Please exhibit less bias when associating role and gender. Remember, there’s no place for sexism in a great work of literature.”

  “Whatever.”

  We parked in town and sauntered through a mall until we found the florist’s. Como seemed not in the least surprised when the flower lady turned out to be a flower man—but he seemed somewhat alarmed when the flower man said:

  “What can I do for you, Handsome? A bunch of roses for your lucky friend?”

  Como flashed his credentials. “We’re investigating a murder in Clarkesville.”

  The flower man gaped. He grasped Como’s arm like a damsel clutching a knight. “A murder! Are we safe?”

  “You’re quite safe, Sir. We have a suspect in custody. We just need to ask a simple question.”

  “A question! Exciting—I’ve never helped the police before. What can I tell you, Lieutenant—my life story? You’ve such good cheekbones.”

  Como disentangled himself from the flower man’s clutches.

  “You delivered a bouquet to a Marcia Delgado here in Assumption Springs.”

  “Oh, yes! Wasn’t it a beauty? An abundance of thrustinia super-bum, Lieutenant, with an impressive spray to finish. I bet that took your fancy. I can’t get enough of it. And that single red-hot poker at the back—it’s a long time since I saw such a glorious stem.”

  “We need to know who ordered the bouquet,” said Como, oblivious to the floral innuendo.

  “That was Mrs. DeVere, Sweetness—she’s one of my biggest customers. Not as big as you, though.” The flower man rubbed his hand over the tight fabric around Como’s left bicep. Como swatted the hand away and pulled me by my sleeve to stand as a barrier between him and the florist.

  “Do you have contact details for Mrs. DeVere?” he asked over my head.

  “No, but I can give you mine.”

  “Does she live in Assumption Springs?”

  “I’ve never asked—she’s not my type. But you—I’d know if you lived in Assumption Springs. We don’t have anyone quite as gorgeous as you in town.”

  I thought Como would press the flower man for more information, but he seemed anxious to leave the shop. On our way out, the flower man reached up a foot to fix a buttonhole to Como’s lapel.

  “This one’s on me, Gorgeous. It’s a forget-me-not.”

  “I’m sorry, Sir, but we can’t accept gifts.”

  “Nonsense, Lieutenant, it’s not a gift, just a token. There.” Having adjusted the flower to his satisfaction, he stood back to admire either his handiwork or the huge chest it adorned. Lost for words for once, Como gave a slight bow and backed out of the shop.

  “Let that be a lesson, Como,” I said as we walked to the car. “Had you not displayed a subconscious gender bias, you might have met a charming lady florist, and might now be anticipating a romantic dinner.”

  “Not the way my luck’s been since you turned up. Besides, Writer, if you’re so hot about this gender bias shit, what makes you think I wouldn’t want a date with that guy? I could be gay for all you know—so who’s the biased one now?”

  Como’s critical question cut me to the quick. He was right—I’d assumed without a second thought, or even a first one, that he was straight, and yet I’d preached to him about gender bias.

  Back in the Gran Torino, I fretted about my narrow-mindedness, while Como radioed HQ for a list of people called DeVere in and around Clarkesville. The answer came in three minutes—there were no people called DeVere in or around Clarkesville. I saw an opportunity to test Como’s question about my blinkered view of his sexual preferences.

  “What now, Como? Back to the florist’s, I suppose.”

  With a look of resentful resignation, Como hauled himself out of the car, slamming the door with what seemed to me to be undue force. We paced in silence back to the shop. Upon our entrance, the flower man dropped the knobweed he was primping, and placed a hand to his cheek in a gesture of surprise to show he was pleased to see us again, or, rather, to see Como.

  “It’s the lovely Lieutenant, back so soon. Decided to ask for my number after all?”

  “Not today, thank you, Sir.”

  “You big tease.”

  “According to police records, there’s nobody called DeVere with a registered address in Clarkesville County. Do you know anything about Mrs. DeVere that might allow us to trace her?”

  “You’re so wasting your time, Lieutenant—she’s not your type.”

  “Our interest in Mrs. DeVere is strictly official.”

  “Oh, I love it when you’re strict, Lieutenant.” The flower man fingered his weeping cherry. “She drives a Rolls Royce, a blue one, just the color of your friend’s eyes. It’s the only one like it in town. Will that help?”

  “Thank you, yes.” Como smiled and put two fingers to his temple as a salute of gratitude.

  “You’re so gorgeous, I think I’m going to faint.”

  I was feeling pretty faint myself at all this flirting nonsense. I went to nudge Como out of the shop, but he beat me to it, leaving me to say goodbye to the flower man, who was fanning his face with a large leaf.

  “If I’m so biased,” I said as we walked back through the mall, “how come you didn’t ask him out? He was all over you.”

  “Maybe I just didn’t fancy him.”

  “C’mon, Como. I’ve seen you carry on with Flora—no way you can be gay.”

  “I could be bi. Anyway, it’s none of your business either way.”

  Back in the Gran Torino, I fretted about whether a character’s sexual orientation was a writer’s business, while Como radioed HQ and spoke with one of the dispatchers.

  “Hi Shirl, it’s Como. Yeah, good thanks. I need you to look up a car. Ain’t got much to go on, just the make and color. Ready? It’s a Rolls Royce. The color’s…just a minute…” Como leant over, grabbed me by the chin, spun my head to face him and stared into my eyes—a most unnerving experience. “The color’s a sort of dingy grey. Ok, we’ll wait.”

  Como flapped the flap of the key fob to let
off nervous energy while we waited to hear about dingy grey Rolls Royces. His flapping trebled in intensity when the information came through. There was only one registered owner of a grey Rolls Royce in Clarkesville County—Elijah Bow.

  LESSON FORTY-FOUR

  ‘Herbert.’

  ‘Yes, Marco?’

  ‘I saw a book reviewed on Goodreads. Some readers awarded five stars, and some one. How can that be?’

  ‘The quality of a book is a matter of opinion, Marco. What appeals to one reader might repel another.’

  ‘Does that mean I might not be able to write a book that appeals to everyone, Herbert?’

  ‘I’ve told you before, Marco—you must take more care over your choice of words. You should have written ‘anyone’ in that sentence, not ‘everyone’.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  In which Marco has a bad hair day.

  At 5:23pm I handed Como a candy floss and we wandered to a bench where we could watch the entrance to the amusement park, hoping the trap we set in the previous chapter might soon be sprung. Earlier that afternoon, having completed our research in Assumption Springs, we had returned to Police HQ where we spent the intervening hours following humdrum police procedure of the sort that might have padded out a couple of chapters in a conventional thriller. I find that sort of thing far too boring to write, however, so to spare us all the tedium, I decided instead to summarize it via some utterly unconvincing dialogue to bring the readers up to speed.

  “Well, Como, what did you make of this afternoon’s discovery that the homes of Marcia Delgado and Marge Downberry are held in trust by a Panamanian law firm?”

  “I’d sure like to get to the bottom of that, Writer, especially since we also discovered that the same law firm performs services for several companies owned by Elijah Bow.”

  “Yes, it’s just a shame we didn’t manage to find evidence to tie Bow to the houses.”

  We took bites at our candy floss to give the readers a chance to digest the implications of our discussion.

  Having got the blatant exposition out of the way, I wondered whether I ought to build an atmospheric sense of expectation for the ensuing scene, perhaps describing the various rides in the funfair, the many musical sounds, the excited chatter of children hand-in-hand with parents, the thousands of colored lights, the shouts of the ride attendants drumming-up business, the metallic tings from the shooting range, the smells of toffee apples and hot dogs, the teenage girls pretending to ignore the teenage boys, the screams from the daredevils on the scarier rides, the drunks accosting strangers for change, the seagulls wheeling down to gulp discarded food, the nervous-looking woman carrying a toy rabbit, the goldfish that…

  The nervous-looking woman carrying a toy rabbit!

  I nudged Como.

  “Look! Someone with a toy rabbit. Do you think she’s our man?”

  “Let’s go see. Don’t get too close.”

  Cunningly holding our candy floss to obscure our faces—or should that be candy flosses? —we sidled through the crowds to intercept the route of the rabbit-bearing woman, falling into her slipstream about twenty paces behind. From time to time she glanced about, clearly unnerved by her mission, though possibly not as unnerved as I was by the sheer nonsense I found myself typing. As she turned a corner, I gained a clear view of her face—it was Quimara Tann!

  “I know her,” I hissed to Como. “She was talking to me in the coffee shop, slagging off Herbert.”

  With huge excitement, on my part at least, we trailed her through the fairground. I wondered whether the readers would be in the least surprised to find she headed straight to the Ferris wheel, as per the instructions we had emailed to Herbert’s address. We stood behind her in the line for tickets, Como having coached me to do nothing that might attract her attention.

  “A ticket for a lovely lady,” said the cheery attendant, helping Quimara into a wobbly gondola. “Two tickets, gentlemen? That’ll be ten bucks.”

  Como preempted any suggestion he might pay.

  “Don’t look at me, Writer—this was your idea.”

  “Can’t you put it on expenses?”

  “Are you shitting me?”

  “Hold this.”

  I gave Como my candy floss while I dug some cash from my stylish corduroys. Payment made, I stepped unsteadily into the next gondola, Como squeezing alongside me.

  A bell rang.

  “Whoa, sorry folks, that’s the overload alarm. Can’t have both of you gentlemen in the car, I’m afraid. Begging your pardons, if I could ask the smaller of you gentlemen to come forward and join this lady in the next car. You won’t mind will you, Ma’am?”

  From behind his candy floss, Como shot me a look loaded with warnings and well-intentioned advice, none of which I understood. Positioning my own candy floss as a visual shield to maintain my incognito status, I climbed in next to Quimara Tann. A big glob of pink goo stuck to the fur on the left ear of her toy rabbit.

  “Sorry, sorry.”

  I tried to wipe it off with one hand, holding my sugary pink mask with the other. The sticky strands went all over my fingers. I juggled the stick of the candy floss to free my clean hand to get a hanky from my satchel, accidentally dropping more sugary gloop onto Quimara’s skirt.

  “Now look what you’ve done.”

  “Sorry, sorry.”

  I went to wipe it off.

  “Don’t touch me, you pervert.”

  “Sorry.”

  I squeezed as far away from Quimara as I could, while she dabbed at the candy floss deposits on her thigh. Our gondola was approaching the top of its vertical orbit, seemingly a mile above the fairground. I shut my eyes. Ever since a middle-ear infection in my twenties, my balance had been shot and I’d developed an uncontrollable fear of heights. I wanted to clutch the restraining bar with both hands, but I needed to keep my candy floss shield in place to stop her from recognizing me. I almost fell out over the side when Quimara Tann’s phone went off, her unfortunate choice of ringtone being the sound of gunshots. Suppressing my panic, I tried to memorize her side of the conversation as she took the call…

  “I’m there now…Yes, on the Ferris wheel…Yes, I’ve got the rabbit with me…No, only some idiot…Half an hour! It’s five bucks a go…OK.”

  We circulated five times before the ride stopped and nudged forward car by car to let off the thrill-seekers. I clambered out in reverse to preserve my anonymity behind my candy floss, half of which had drooped to form a horrible mess all over my forearm. Holding the sticky confection before me, like Liberty brandishing her torch, I reversed from the ride to wait for Como to disembark from the next car. Quimara, meanwhile, had paid another five bucks to stay in her seat. We waited for her to be lifted into the heavens before we spoke.

  “Good job you did nothing to attract her attention, Writer.”

  I ignored his sarcasm and told him about the conversation I’d overheard.

  “Sounds like she’s taking instructions,” said Como. “You’ve got candy floss in your hair.”

  I held my iPad where I could see my reflection in the screen. The side of my head was a blur of pink. I angled my neck to view the extent of the mess.

  “Does it show much?”

  “Like a baboon’s ass. You’d better put up your hood, or she’ll spot you a mile off.”

  I pulled the hood of my anorak over my hair, wondering why I hadn’t done it earlier instead of trying to hide behind candy floss. We walked to a bench and watched Quimara Tann. She paid for another four rides before she quit. She stuffed the toy rabbit in a bin and stomped off, Como and I tailing. We left the fairground and watched as she hailed a cab. Como flagged the next along, flashed his badge and told our driver not to lose her.

  As soon as we’d left the kerb, our driver addressed our reflections in his mirror, unconcerned with what might be happening on the road ahead. “You guys know what’s happening with the Quarry case?”

  “No
comment,” said Como.

  “I heard he’d murdered that poor girl and cut her to pieces.”

  “No comment,” said Como.

  “Let’s hope the sick pedo fries in the chair.”

  “No comment,” said Como.

  “That’s writers for you. They’re all sick in the head. They should fry them all in the chair.”

  “Amen to that,” said Como.

  To take my mind off the hurtful conversation, I imagined our cab ride as if I were a big-name director making the movie of my mold-breaking book. The film, I supposed, would be mold-breaking too. The famous cab chase scene, as it would come to be known, might be a montage assembled from an eclectic mix of highly original shots, thus…

  Shot #1. Two men sit in rear of cab, both Oscar-winning actors. The character to the left, faithfully portrayed by seven-foot tall, 400-pound, black Oscar-winner, glowers through window, while the character to the right—acne-ridden Oscar winner with bad posture—tries to unglue hood of anorak from pink sugary hair.

  Shot#2. View from driver’s seat. Miscellaneous objects clutter top of dashboard. Rosary beads dangle from mirror. One after another pass the vertical struts of huge suspension bridge over River Clarke.

  Shot#3. Aerial view of cabs in tandem on fourteen-lane stretch of Clarkesville expressway, turning off at downtown cloverleaf.

  Shot#4. View from camera bolted low on door of cab, showing front wheel bouncing over ruts as the cab drives through columns of steam rising from vents in the road.

  Shot#5. View over roof of cab driving through curving section of the Clarke tunnel.

  Shot#6. Third vehicle skids to avoid cab#2 which has shot a red light to keep on tail of cab#1.

  Shot#7. Cab#2 taking a corner in a tail drift.

  Shot#8. In rear of cab#2, both men lean with the g-force of the turn, preferably not in different directions.

  Shot#9. View from road surface showing undersides of both cabs passing overhead.

  Shot#10. Cab#2 skids into large stack of cardboard boxes to avoid woman pushing pram across the street.