Napalm Hearts

by Seamus Heffernan

  Mackenzie shook his head. “No idea. But he has tattoos—epaulets on his shoulders.”

  “You sure about the name? No idea?” My stomach tightened, as my adrenal gland let loose a blast of the good stuff.

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know about the tattoos?”

  “I saw him in one of the films.” Seeing my eyes narrow he added, “Just for a moment or two. I was reviewing some new stock.”

  “What you saw—was it two men? And a woman?”

  Again, he shook his head. “No, just him and another woman.”

  “Who was the woman?” I pressed.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Grayle,” he said, stepping behind me to carefully restack the magazines I had been flipping through. “But it would appear we both have our information now.”

  I dropped my head in agreement. “You’re right. Deal’s a deal.”

  “Not quite,” he said, gesturing to his stockpile. “There was the promise of a purchase.”

  “Nothing’s really catching my eye,” I said. “Any old Sports Illustrated swimsuit issues knocking around?”

  Mackenzie smiled, but it was a bit thinner than the other one I had seen.

  “I was feeling nostalgic, is all. None of this stuff is really my speed, so how about something else, then?” I nodded towards the wine cellar beyond the hidden room’s threshold.

  “That could work,” he said. He stepped out, and I followed. “What were you thinking?”

  “Bordeaux, if you have it,” I said.

  He studied a rack and, after a moment’s consideration, pulled a bottle out, handing it to me. “Château Margaux,” he said. “2005. You won’t find much better.”

  “I’m not going to lie, I’m not much of an expert. How much?”

  “From the shop, about a hundred pounds. But for you—two.”

  I pulled out my wallet. “I’m apparently not much of a negotiator, either,” I said, handing over the cash.

  21

  Taylor Brock and I had become fast friends since I did some freelance snooping for him back when he was working for the Crown Prosecution Service. He had since moved into family law for a firm near The City. We happily bumped into each other occasionally—morning Tube rides, a jazz club in Covent Garden I liked from time to time—which is why he was here struggling with both opening a packet of sugar and telling me bad news.

  “The ex really got you worked up, eh?” he said finally. “She always did have a cold streak.” He took a gulp from the mug, the sugar abandoned to his left. We were outside, watching the world go by in the mid-afternoon sun.

  “A number of people have recently told me the importance of small talk in business,” I said.

  “Ah, she’s a good mother,” he said, undeterred. “Get her to write up something guaranteeing visitation throughout the year and take it. It’s Switzerland, not the moon, for Chrissakes.”

  “I don’t like flying,” I said, but had turned away. Brock couldn’t see my eyes behind my shades, but he knew me well enough to know I was either trying very hard not to be angry or not hard enough to avoid being glib.

  “You really going to kick up hell over this? You weren’t always so well behaved, if you recall.”

  I let that hang in the air for a moment or two, until I could visualise it drifting off on a current. “That was a long time ago.”

  “Not that long.”

  “I like having my kid around. I know she’s not, like, six anymore. But I like having her in my life.”

  “Sure. On your terms.”

  I bristled. “Oh, yes, please. By all means. Lecture me.”

  He shrugged. “You’re a workaholic. You just swapped your job for booze. Pretty common. We quit one thing but still need to fill the hole. The empty. And it’s a helluva lot healthier on your body, but not always great for your, you know, real life.”

  That is my real life, I wanted to snap, but caught myself. It was pointless. Petulant. And—sadly—a little too correct.

  We sat for a bit. I didn’t feel like talking.

  “How is work?” he asked. “All hell breaking loose, as per usual?”

  “Yeah.” I didn’t really want to think about the job and missing trophy wives, so I just shrugged. “You know how it is. Never going to go broke betting on people’s bad choices.”

  “Tell me about it,” he said, leaning back. “A lot of your work comes my way too, eventually.”

  “Ain’t love grand.”

  He extended his coffee cup, and I dutifully tapped my water bottle against it.

  “You still getting to meetings?” he asked, business and catch-up chat now wrapped.

  I shook my head. “Nah, I’m good.”

  He cocked his head.

  “I can only hear so many stories of loss and devastation in one day,” I added. “I keep my own counsel now.”

  “Stop rationalizing. You’re making excuses.”

  “You’re not my sponsor. If I had one.”

  “No, but if I were you I would be thinking very seriously about having a good stiff drink right now.”

  Pause.

  “Would you?” I asked.

  “Been six years,” he said. “Most days it’s no problem. But everyone has a few days like you’ve had every so often.”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “The face isn’t helping, that’s for sure.”

  I took off my shades, giving him the full show, the rainbow spread of colours across my cheek and pooling around my eye. He shook his head, like a disappointed parent.

  “I had a couple of drinks the last couple of weeks,” I said, figuring I’d add to his disenchantment. It still felt like the admission it was. “Client’s place. And after I got knocked around I had a couple of whiskies with Ruddick.”

  “Be careful,” Brock said. “You still using that guy?”

  “For sure. He’s the real deal. Still thinks he’s poh-lice, I suspect. Doesn’t take no for an answer too often. Dude doesn’t need a badge to be the sheriff of wherever he is.”

  We both chuckled.

  “He was a good cop,” Brock said. “He could get a confession, that’s for sure.”

  “Oh yeah?” I was interested. Ruddick and I didn’t usually chat about his time at the Yard.

  “He was a talker. And if it was needed he could be a bit more. Good in the room. Why, he never talked about it?” Brock’s expression showed surprise. “Jesus, the ex-coppers I know, all they do is bang on about the good old days. Like they came back from war or something.”

  “Nah. Small talk with Ruddick is usually about organic produce or opera. We don’t really, you know, socialise.”

  “You need to get out more,” he said, jabbing a finger my way. “Being alone in that flat is not good for your headspace.”

  “I’ll have you know I own a plant. And solitude is doing wonders for catching up on all those books I kept putting off.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure you’re just burning through the Joyce and Tolstoy. You could also stand to start dating for real a bit.”

  An image of Nora, her hair framing her face as she leaned down to kiss me, flitted across my mind’s eye. I waved this and Brock’s comment away. “Look at me. I work crazy hours, and my job is depressing as hell. Not a great dinner companion. I mean, I don’t even keep up with the celeb goss. What am I going to talk about?”

  “You watch a lot of movies. People like movies. You’re getting really good at making excuses. Besides, your job isn’t depressing. It’s cool. You don’t even have to tell the truth about it. Just say you’re a private investigator. Women’ll love it.”

  “You’re on your third wife, so you’ll excuse me if I take your advice with a grain of the proverbial.”

  He snorted.

  “It’s not that easy,” I continued. “Sure, my social calendar isn’t full right now. But that’s OK. I’m figuring some stuff out. I don’t see the point of involving someone else in the process right now. Bit unfair, that.”

  “
That another excuse?”

  “Is it an excuse if it’s true?”

  He shrugged. “What do I know about true? I’m a divorce lawyer.”

  I smiled. “Send her what she needs,” I said. I took a breath. “Why drag it out, eh?”

  With that, I finished my water, buttoning the top button of my suit jacket as I stood. I extended my hand, and Brock shook it.

  “You know plenty,” I said. “You know enough that I trust you with this. Thanks for meeting up.”

  He gave my forearm an extra pat. “Anytime, mate. Play safe, yeah?”

  I nodded and walked towards St. Paul’s Tube. It was still Saturday. I slipped my earbuds in. I fancied a pizza for dinner. I wondered what flick would be on Film4 tonight. I made a note to sort my recycling and pick up coffee for the office. I tried to remember the last time I had spent more than a few hours not thinking about Lisa Claymore’s dead eyes this week. I couldn’t.

  22

  It was just past 3 a.m. when my phone buzzed. I was lying on my couch trying to get some reading done. I reached over to snag it off the coffee table, carefully navigating the Domino’s box and four empty cans of Diet Dr. Pepper. It was an unknown number. I was more intrigued than annoyed, really.

  “Hello?” I asked.

  “Is this Thaddeus Grayle?”

  “It is.” I still hadn’t worked my way to sitting up, and my voice was a bit lower, a bit rougher as a result. I cleared my throat politely.

  “This is Lotte Guyanpala,” the voice on the other side said.

  Lisa Claymore’s no-show, no-answer friend. I sat up.

  “Well, Ms. Guyanpala. It’s good to hear from you. Thank you for calling.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. Hold on a sec.” She passed the phone to someone else.

  “This Grayle?” the new voice asked. Male, and almost impossibly upbeat for this hour of the morning.

  “Yes,” I answered and allowed the first hint of impatience to creep into my voice. “Who’s this?”

  “Detective Inspector Eldon Calloway. How are you tonight, Mr. Grayle?”

  “Um,” I said. I had no idea who Calloway was—my police dealings were pretty infrequent. Despite my line of work, my area of specialty didn’t usually overlap with Scotland Yard. “I’m OK, Inspector. How are you?”

  “Well, it’s the damndest thing,” Calloway said, and I could tell he was just getting warmed up. Maybe even practiced a few bits of this before the call. “I’m here at Leyton Quarry. There’s been an accident, and this young lady is a witness. She says you’ve been looking for her.”

  “What’s the accident?”

  “You looking for a young woman named Lisa Claymore? Missing girl, wife of the esteemed Andrew Claymore?”

  I had already stood, heading to my closet to get a clean shirt before he finished the question. I slipped my arms into it and grabbed my jacket. “Yes, I am.”

  “And you’ve been trying to chat with Ms. Guyanpala here, right? The best friend?”

  “Yes,” I repeated.

  “You’re going to want to come down here, Grayle. Can you make it? I mean, now?”

  “Sure,” I grabbed keys and snapped my suit jacket over my tired shoulders. “But do you want to tell me what this all about?”

  “Lisa Claymore’s dead. So come on down. Have a chat.” He hung up. I stared at the phone in my hand, watching its blue light dim before it eventually faded away.

  23

  It was pushing four by the time I arrived. I identified myself to a uniformed cop standing next to the tape. He waved over a plain-clothed colleague.

  “Grayle?” he asked. I nodded and he waved me through, already turning away and expecting me to catch up. The flashing lights from the squad cars and ambulance splashed against the surrounding trees and fog. I could hear shouts below and angry sloshing water.

  “D.I. Calloway,” he said as I got to his side, walking me towards a car where Lotte Guyanpala stood by the passenger side. The door was open, and I could hear music coming from inside. She was medium-tall, slim with a too-short skirt for this weather. A cigarette hung loosely from between her fingers. Her eyes were tired but still quick—I saw them dart up as soon as I got near. Brief introductions were made.

  “Can I go now?” she asked Calloway.

  He shook his head. “Not yet. We’ll have a few more questions.” He motioned to a uniform who came over. Calloway told him to get Guyanpala a coffee and turned back to me. “That’s the best friend, and the last person to see Lisa Claymore,” Calloway said, as we stepped away. “She called it in.”

  “What happened?”

  “Jumped,” Calloway said, waving a hand at the darkness beyond. “Right in the water. We’ll be starting to drag it shortly.”

  “Why’d she jump?”

  “We’ll get to that.” He rummaged in his pockets.

  Up close, I realised Calloway, despite his thinning hair and creased forehead, was likely a few years younger than me. His body had the unhurried intensity of someone who could be physical when the moment called for it. He pulled a soft pack of Camels free, shook one loose and extended the pack to me. I shook my head. He lit up.

  “We just got off the phone with the husband, Andrew Claymore,” he said. Smoke wreathed his head in the red-blue light. “Said the wife’s been missing for about ten days. Said he hired you to find her.”

  “That’s right.”

  We looked at each other for a moment.

  “I didn’t find her fast enough, I suppose,” I finally said.

  “No, I suppose not,” he said, blowing sideways. “Anyhow. Lisa Claymore and her friend here had been out enjoying the town. They pull in here, likely to get high. Guyanpala says Mrs. Claymore got upset, emotional. Talking about how she’s let everybody down, how she’s no good.”

  “So she jumped?”

  Calloway nodded. “Guyanpala said she tried to stop her but still had her seatbelt on. Slowed her for a second. Claymore just opened the door, took a few steps and then… gone.”

  I considered this for a moment. “Did Guyanpala say anything else?” Calloway shrugged. “Some of it was pretty personal.” A pause. He regarded me for a moment.

  “What do you know about Lisa?”

  “That she was missing and her husband hired me to find her,” I said.

  Calloway had his hands in his overcoat pockets and swung them left and right for a second. He was almost smiling. “What you just said there—that is true. Do you want to maybe expand on it a bit, though?”

  “I’d need to talk to my client first.”

  Calloway nodded, a curt dip of his chin. He dropped the near-dead cigarette and pressed it into the earth with his toe. “Are you even going to ask me why you’re here?”

  I stayed quiet.

  “Andrew Claymore is worth more money than most countries’ GDP.” He had another cigarette out. “His wife… excuse me, his markedly younger wife, goes missing. This man, however, does not call the police. He calls, instead, you. You, who have no real missing person experience and have spent the last seven years photographing couples through motel windows and rummaging through trash bins for dodgy credit card receipts.”

  “I actually have a guy who does most of my motel photo work.”

  “Oh good, thank God. They said you were funny.”

  “Look, what do you want?” I said, my own irritation spilling out a bit. “I was hired to do a job, one which—clearly—did not work out. So why are you here, excuse me, why am I here having you give me the business in the middle of this goddamn night?”

  “Because, Grayle,” he said, biting at my name as it left his mouth, “before Lisa Claymore jumped to her death she had a lot to say about exactly how and why she had let a great number of people down, people who especially included her husband.” He hadn’t yet lit the cigarette but instead was using it to poke the night air. “Your investigation means you likely know a lot about that and might even explain why a man, one allegedly of sound mind, decides to not
call the cops in his situation.”

  “I don’t have a lot of proof about anything,” I said, my voice rising slightly. “And frankly, since his wife is already dead I’d rather not start making this all the messier for Andrew Claymore.”

  I could hear him breathing a little hard. My heart was pumping a bit quicker, too. The two of us waited for a moment. Our tempers reset.

  “Go home,” he said. “We’ll be in touch.”

  I nodded. “I’ll call if I have anything that might be useful. Just give me a day to talk to Claymore, and I’ll review my case notes. You got a card?”

  Calloway finally lit the second cigarette and turned away. “Don’t worry about it,” he said over his shoulder, heading to Guyanpala’s car. “You’ll be hearing from me long before you decide to maybe get around to calling us.”

  24

  The afternoon was unseasonably warm, but I still left my overcoat on when Claymore ushered me to his back terrace for tea the next afternoon. It was bright and clear.

  “What did they ask you?” he said.

  “Only what I knew.”

  He poured two cups, nodding towards the cubed sugar and milk. I shook my head, and he handed it over. I felt the heat through the china. “Which is to say, not much,” he said, sitting down with his own. It didn’t sound like an accusation. More like resignation.

  “I’m afraid not, no. I sent you my report this morning.”

  “Yes, I got it. Thank you for your promptness.” He took a sip. “So we know that this Napalm Hearts business is simply some DVD swapping?”

  I nodded. “Probably amongst London’s rich, young and bored. In my opinion, it’s likely more tawdry than dangerous, Mr. Claymore. I think your wife simply got involved with the wrong people and made some bad decisions.”

  He considered this, looking at the teacup he held in his lap. “She should have just come home.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “And the friend? What did she have to say about all this?”

  “She didn’t say anything to me,” I said. “She talked to the cops. Who will no doubt be looking to question you very shortly.”