Catchee Monkey: A Rex & Eddie Mystery (Rex & Eddie Mysteries Book 1)

by Sean Cameron

“What are you doing?” Rex said.

  “Taking us to the pub. We’re celebrating.”

  ***

  With the car dropped off at the office, Rex and Eddie were free to get a celebratory beer in town.

  “Despite Regal Repairs, it’s been a great day,” Eddie said. “I’m ecstatic to say we solved a case.”

  “Indeed, chin chin.”

  The pair clicked their beer glasses together and downed a splash of booze.

  “Seriously, Rex. I’m proud. We managed to catch a murderer. And we didn’t have to go near him. We just used our brains and systematic processing of evidence. We didn’t even get our hands dirty.”

  “What about when I was in the wheelie bin?”

  “Yes, well then. But I mean in a figure of speech way, we didn’t have to deal with Terry Palmer.”

  After a couple of beers, they left the pub. Both were in a state between being drunk enough not to need a coat while out in the cold, but not drunk enough that a reasonable person would take a taxi home.

  “All right mate,” said a voice in the darkness. It was Billy the Quid, the harmless beggar. He was tall, scraggly, and middle-aged, at least that was Eddie’s estimate; homelessness ages people.

  “Hello, Billy the Quid,” Rex said. He never understood that wasn’t Billy’s real name, but what he was called behind his back.

  “Can I borrow a pound?” Billy said.

  “Sorry, we’re all out,” Eddie said.

  “Just one quid. I’ll give it back.”

  “We got left over pizza at the office,” Rex offered. Billy frowned, thinking over their offer. This offended Eddie until he reminded himself the man’s brain was fried, possibly from drugs; although, it may have been a stroke. Eddie didn’t like to judge, but since he did, he assumed drugs.

  Billy nodded. “Yeah, OK.”

  Eddie admired Rex’s generosity; however, he was now stuck walking half a mile to the office with a homeless man. Rex could comfortably walk in silence, but Eddie always had to have small talk. Now he was stuck trying to work out what to talk to a homeless man about.

  “Did you have a good day?”

  “It was OK. You?”

  “I guess I did, we solved a crime today.”

  “Cool.”

  The silence returned, which killed Eddie.

  Eddie sighed. “So, what do you do when you’re not, uh, begging?”

  “I’m not a beggar. I borrow money.”

  “Oh right, sorry. I guess it’s like those micro loans, huh? Micro-micro loans?” Billy didn’t get the joke. Eddie couldn’t find the right social context. “What do you do when you’re not borrowing?”

  “It’s a full time job. Doesn’t leave much time for anything else. I do like politics though.”

  “Really? How’d you keep up to date with that?”

  “The library. They got free books, free newspapers, free chairs, free toilets; you can even use the Internet for free. You follow politics.”

  “No,” Eddie said with some embarrassment. Everything was a conversational dead end. Billy occasionally broke silence to ask passing pedestrians for a pound. Eddie felt guilty that he and Rex ruined Billy’s game a bit. The three of them made it more intimidating. One lady opened her purse to give Billy, Rex, and Eddie a pound each. They both gave theirs to Billy.

  They arrived outside the office building, and Rex went in to grab the pizza. Niceties inclined Eddie to talk to Billy.

  “You watch any sport?”

  “No.”

  “Yeah, me neither.” The silence continued. The street was quiet at this time of night.

  Eddie checked his phone. With no messages, emails or updates, he pretended to read to seem busy in front of Billy. As he fake typed, he was distracted by a noise, a whoosh, as if the wind shushed them.

  “Did you hear that?” Eddie said. Billy looked confused and a bit peeved. Red ran down his chest. “Billy?”

  Billy fell to the ground, and Eddie crouched to try to catch him. A second whoosh, this time above Eddie’s head, was followed by a chink sound. Behind him, the door's windowpane had spidered. The cracks in the glass led to a central bullet hole. Someone had shot at them. Eddie unlocked the door and barrelled into the office hallway as another bullet took out the intercom.

  Rex ran down the stairs with the pizza box. He stopped when he saw Eddie crawl on the floor and bullets shatter the other window panels. Rex held the pizza box like a shield. Bullets fired through the cardboard box and into the stairwell. He chucked the box and jumped over the bannister towards Eddie. The pair shuffled on all fours to the back exit.

  TEN

  Rex and Eddie jumped into the Morris Minor. Eddie started the engine and turned to Rex.

  “Seat belt?” Eddie said.

  “Are you serious?”

  The metal clang of a bullet hitting the nearby lamp post rang across the car park.

  “Safety first.”

  Rex snapped in his seat belt and Eddie slammed his foot on the pedal. They didn’t slow down until the office was a tiny dot in the rear-view mirror.

  “Not bad for a car with a top speed of sixty-four miles-per-hour,” Eddie said.

  “Guess Tim’s uncle really did fix us up proper,” Rex said.

  Eddie hung his head. “Well, yeah, I guess.”

  As Eddie drove, Rex called an ambulance for Billy. In the rear-view mirror reflection, Eddie saw the black SUV behind them.

  “We’re being followed.”

  Rex hung up the phone. “I know, but what do a bunch of mopeds want with us?”

  Eddie checked his side mirror and found two mopeds in pursuit. In the passenger side mirror another pair of scooters drew closer.

  “Why’re they following us,” Eddie said.

  A green moped caught up to Eddie’s window. In the driver’s visor a pair of squinted eyes stared at Eddie.

  “What’s his problem?”

  The moped came closer so the passenger was face-to-face with Eddie. The passenger lifted his visor, it was Tim. He gave Eddie the finger.

  Rex waved. “Hi Tim.”

  Tim’s gang of scooters surrounded the Morris Minor, two on each side. They all kicked the car while driving.

  “Hey,” Eddie shouted. “This is dangerous.”

  Tim bashed Eddie’s side mirror with his foot until the mirror snapped off. On Rex’s side, the riders sprayed the car windows with spray paint. Rex stiffened.

  “Rex, are you there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t freeze up on me. I need you not to freeze up. In a second, I’m gonna tell you to run. You get out and follow me. Understood?”

  Rex gulped. “Yes.”

  Eddie braked to a halt and the mopeds sped off. The riders’ heads snapped back as they realised they’d lost the upper hand. One moped tried to hard break and spun out on the ground. Eddie then turned the car with a screech into a waiting zone parking spot outside Cloisterham Police Station.

  “Run.”

  They jumped out of the car and raced towards the police station entrance. Eddie’s new shoes rubbed against the back of his heel as they ran. The mopeds turned around and roared back towards the station. Down the other end of the street, the black SUV skulked closer.

  Rex and Eddie reached the automatic doors. They wouldn’t open. Eddie waved at the sensor above the door. Rex jumped up and down on the mat.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m jumping so it will sense our weight.”

  “It’s not automated by a scale you idiot.”

  “Fine, we’ll rely on your Jedi waves.”

  “I’m not being a Jedi. Just, look, look up there. That’s a movement sensor.”

  Rex continued to jump as Eddie searched for a way in. He spotted the open hours sign.

  “Just bloody perfect.” Eddie threw his hands up in the air. “Due to cutbacks this station will be open from nine a.m. to twelve p.m. and two p.m. to six p.m.”

  Rex stopped jumping. Through the glass doo
r, Eddie saw a policeman exit the toilet and head down a corridor.

  “They’re in there.” Eddie banged on the door. “They’re inside.”

  Tim and his gang parked next to the Morris Minor. They used tools to smash up the car’s lights and spray-painted graffiti on the side.

  “We’re on camera,” Rex said. He jumped and waved at the security camera. Eddie watched the black SUV crawl up the street as the four teens peed on the Morris Minor in unison.

  “The police aren’t coming, Rex.”

  Tim and his gang sauntered towards them as Tim took off his helmet.

  Eddie pantomimed a hint of recognition. “Tim, is that you?”

  “You didn’t know?” Rex said.

  Eddie elbowed him to shut up.

  Tim rolled back his shoulders. “Yeah, it’s me.”

  “Thank goodness. I thought you were some random thugs. I see now it was all a misunderstanding. How are you doing?”

  “You messed up my ride.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The paint,” Rex whispered. Eddie elbowed him harder.

  “You poured paint on my Benz.”

  “Why would I do something like that?”

  “I dunno. Death wish?”

  “Ha, ha. Good one. No seriously. Someone painted your car?”

  “Not someone. You. I saw the paint can in your boot when I fixed your motor.”

  “Uh yes.” Eddie bit his bottom lip. “And that paint was stolen, that’s why we're here at the police station.”

  Rex winked at Eddie. “Yeah, stolen.”

  “Yeah, you got the same paint on your shoes.”

  Eddie glanced at the paint on his new shoes. “Oh that, yes well—” He ran to the station’s glass door and bashed at it. “Help!”

  Tim and his gang stepped forward.

  Eddie swallowed. “They’re just gonna let us die out here?”

  “We just have to get their attention,” Rex said.

  “How?”

  “Commit a crime?”

  “We’ve got about ten seconds to get arrested before we’re either beaten or shot, or both.”

  Rex let out a long loud scream like a human horn. Eddie covered his ears, shocked by Rex’s unlimited source of air. Tim and the gang backed up, reading each other’s faces. Rex waved his hands in a circle motion, egging on Eddie to join in. He took a deep breath and gave it a go, but it turned into a high-pitch squeal, and he gave up.

  The black SUV edged closer. Rex took off his blazer and threw it on the floor. He undid his shirt and tossed it on the ground. The teens backed away.

  “What are you doing?” Tim said.

  Rex waved his arms and nodded at Eddie, encouraging him to follow suit. Eddie backed away as Rex threw his trainers at the security camera and unbuttoned his jeans.

  “Sod this.” Tim and his friends jumped on their bikes and drove off. “You’re freaks.”

  Tim’s driver started the moped. As they drove past, Tim shouted, “I don’t mean that in a gay way.”

  Their bikes hummed off past the approaching black SUV.

  Rex jumped faster and shouted louder as he pulled his jeans down. The automatic door slid open and an officer, tall and surly, stood on the other side. “What the hell do you think you’re playing at?”

  Rex stuck his arms out ready for the handcuffs. “Arrest us.”

  “You want me to arrest you?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Eddie nodded in agreement “There's a man trying to kill us.”

  “I’ll kill the pair of you, you carry on like this.”

  Rex buttoned his jeans back up and picked up his other items.

  Eddie held his hands together like he was praying. “Please Officer, he shot at us, and he’s following us.” The black SUV drove by. “That’s him in that car.” The SUV carried on down the street.

  “Doesn’t look like he’s following you to me.”

  “Because we came here.”

  “What for?”

  Eddie’s jaw dropped. “Uh, Protection.”

  “You ring nine nine nine?”

  “No.”

  “There is a standard procedure. You have to respect the procedure otherwise society would be madness.”

  “Please, can we come in.”

  “I don’t think so boys. You best be on your way.”

  Rex raised his hand. “They shot Billy the Quid.”

  “Of course they did.”

  “They did. We drove right here.”

  “That your parking is it?”

  Eddie turned to the Morris Minor, wedged in the loading zone with its back end still in the street.

  “Uh, no we came in a different car.”

  “What are you talking about, Eddie?”

  “Now, you fellas be straight with me. You been drinking?”

  “No,” Eddie said.

  “Yes.”

  Eddie turned to Rex with clenched teeth. “No. We haven’t.”

  Rex cocked his head in confusion. The officer watched them for a few seconds.

  Eddie waved his hands in defeat. “He’s been drinking. But I drove.” The officer leaned in and smelt Eddie’s breath. “OK it was two drinks, but I was under the limit, and I’m pretty sure the adrenaline from being shot at means I could drink an entire bottle of vodka, and still have my wits about me.”

  The officer stepped back into the station. “Clear off, the pair of you.”

  “Terry Palmer is trying to kill us,” Eddie said. “You’re not going to take that seriously?”

  The officer leaned towards the pair. “Terry Palmer?"

  “Yes.”

  “That’s a serious accusation. You better come in.” Rex and Eddie stepped forward. The officer raised his hand. “But not until he is fully dressed.”

  ***

  “So let me get this straight,” the Detective Inspector said, “you’re private detectives?”

  “Yes.” Rex nodded rapidly.

  “Kind of,” Eddie said. “Isn’t this room for interviewing arrested people?”

  “It’s for recording purposes.”

  The Detective Inspector’s name was Brown. He wore plain clothes, a suit with a dark blue raincoat. Brown had a youthful face, but the grey speckles of hair and yellowed eyes meant he was either a stressed young man, or an older man who moisturised. Eddie didn’t think it was polite to ask.

  Rex poked the audio recording machinery with curiosity. “This is cool.”

  Brown slapped Rex’s hand away. “Don’t touch. Can I see your P.I. Licence?”

  Eddie gawked. “Pardon?”

  “Your private detective licence.”

  “Pfft, we don’t have one of those,” Rex said.

  Brown sighed, turned to the officer and grimaced. The officer shrugged his shoulders.

  Rex thumped his fist on the table. “I demand to speak to the chief of police.”

  Brown focused on Eddie. “No licence?”

  “On us,” Eddie said. “We have one, of course. Are we, uh, meant to carry it on us?”

  Brown paused. “Yes, at all times.”

  “I’ll make sure to do that in future. Right, Rex?”

  Rex could sense they were in trouble but not what for. Feeling trapped in the room he neurotically scratched himself.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Brown asked as Rex furiously scratched his neck.

  “He’s fine. He’s just nervous. So about us getting shot at—”

  “I’m itchy.”

  Brown leaned back. “Should we be worried?”

  “I should think so,” Eddie said. “There's a murderer out there.”

  “I mean is the itching, contagious?”

  “No.”

  The officer crinkled his face with disgust. “Do we need to disinfect the interview room?”

  “Can we please stick to the reason we are here?” Eddie said.

  “Indecent exposure,” the officer said.

  “No, Terry P
almer. Trying to kill us.”

  “Ah yes.” Brown nodded. “Wasting police time.”

  “What? No, we were shot at. Call the hospital. Check on Billy the Quid.”

  Brown turned to the officer.

  “Billy the Quid is in hospital with a bullet wound,” the officer said.

  “He’ll corroborate our story.”

  “You want us to treat a homeless man, who’ll do anything for a pound, as a reliable witness?”

  Rex furiously scratched his lower shoulder blade.

  Eddie winched. “Yes, please?”

  The officer sighed. “Billy is unconscious, and in a critical condition. We won’t hear from him at all for the next few days.”

  “We could be killed by then,” Eddie said.

  Brown placed his elbows on the table. “You say Stacey Lawrence has all your evidence. You didn’t back it up?”

  “No. In hindsight, that would’ve been a good idea.” Eddie turned to Rex and shook his head.

  “What you looking at me like that for?”

  “We tried contacting Miss Lawrence. She isn’t at the address you gave, nor did she answer her phone.”

  “I bet she ran away as soon as she realised who murdered her father,” Eddie said. “Are you still investigating that?”

  “It was suicide,” the officer said.

  Eddie’s jaw dropped. “He was shot in the back of the head. How is that suicide?”

  “Do you know the percentage of deaths we’ve seen where it turns out the writer just killed themselves?” the officer said.

  Eddie sneered. “No.”

  “Well, neither do we. But it’s a lot. As in, a lot of writer deaths are suicide. In terms of Cloisterham’s total deaths, there are very few writers committing suicide.”

  “I thought that was implied,” Brown said.

  “I just didn’t want them to think most deaths were writers.”

  Brown groaned. “Did you think that?”

  “I don’t think I should share what I’m thinking right now,” Eddie said.

  “Just so it is clear,” the officer said. “Do you understand that although the percentage of writer deaths is low in the grand scale of deaths in Cloisterham, the number of writer deaths that turn out to be suicide is considered high.”

  “Are you finished?” Brown said.

  “And those aren’t exact numbers,” the officer added.

  Eddie’s eyebrows lowered. “Those weren’t numbers at all.”