Cucumber Coolie (Blake Dent Mysteries Book 2)

by Ryan Casey

  But hey. Procedure was procedure. Just the way I had to work now I was in the spotlight.

  This guy let out some shaky breaths and shook his head, still up in my face. “No, I—Mr. Dent, I really need your help. I… I can pay good. I just… this tape and—and this letter. I can’t go to the police because—”

  “Look, sir,” I said, pushing him aside. “I’m very sorry but I’ve got important business to attend to right now. So like I said…” I pulled out a business card, which I’d crafted on my expensive new printer. “Here’s my business card. There’s my email address. Contact me. I’ll be in touch within twenty-four hours.”

  The guy’s eyes reddened some more. His cheeks went pale.

  I forced a smile at him then I walked through the rotating doors.

  “I don’t—I don’t have twenty-four hours,” he said.

  I ignored him and headed in the direction of Chiquitos restaurant just across the docks.

  The strong late summer wind blasted against me. Jesus, if I’d known it was this bad, I’d have brought a frigging coat. I looked back at the Wilmslow Apartments doorway.

  The guy was still standing there, holding that tape in his hand.

  He stared at me with a look of sheer wide-eyed grief.

  I turned away.

  He’d be fine. Besides, I couldn’t go helping every old shmuck who approached me in the street. I had a life of my own to live, too.

  The rain peppered against my skin and a storm cloud built overhead.

  He’d be fine.

  THREE

  I’d told Danielle a million times about my views on restaurants, but I think she just brought me to them on purpose to prove a point.

  “Chilli poppers are good tonight,” she said. She tucked into her starter, crunching away at the breadcrumbed cheese and chilli. My tongue stung from my attempt to do the exact same thing a few seconds earlier.

  “Dunno how you eat ‘um like that,” I said. Almost suffered death by hot cheese. I was lucky my trachea was still intact. If it was still intact, of course. But it was okay. I’d give the chilli poppers a good nine days to cool down.

  Danielle smiled and nodded.

  I wiped the corners of my mouth and sighed.

  “Danielle, you’ve… you’ve barely spoken to me tonight. If this is about—”

  “It’s not about the PS4, Blake,” she said. She looked me in the eyes now. God, she was hot. Blonde, wearing a loose cream cardigan with a cleavage-friendly red T-shirt underneath. What she was doing with a guy like me, I had no idea.

  Hey. I’d got lucky. Everyone deserved a bit of luck from time to time.

  “Well if it’s not about the PS4, then what is it about?”

  Danielle looked away from me. Stared at the waiters as they walked past, sizzling food and drinks on their trays.

  “It’s… Well it kind of is about the PS4.”

  “So it kind of is and kind of isn’t about my PS4?”

  Danielle shook her head. “Look, this is exactly what I’m talking about. All your little smart-arse comments. It’s impossible to have a proper conversation with you.”

  I crunched down on the chilli popper, allowing the boiling hot cheese to frazzle my mouth. I’d felt my cheeks heating up, so I figured it was better to feign pain than to look like she’d genuinely hit a nerve.

  “I just… I just need to know that you’re in this. Like, you and me. Because I’m in it. I just… I get the feeling your heart isn’t there half the time.”

  I forced the steaming hot chilli popper down my throat. Damned thing brought tears to my eyes and made me look even more ridiculous. I leaned across the table. “Danielle, I… course my heart’s in it. My life’s been a shit ton better since I met you.”

  “Poetic,” she said.

  I shrugged. Licked some loose cheese from out of my stubble. “If you want poetic, go stalk some artists or something.”

  She smiled. Showed off that cute gap between her teeth. “I just… I dunno. I like you, you know? You’re a good guy.”

  I couldn’t help but smile, which made me feel even more of a sap. “I guess I like you too.”

  “You guess?”

  “Oh you know what I mean.”

  Danielle rolled her eyes. The smile had dropped from it completely.

  I didn’t know what to say, really. I mean, life was good. Groovy Smoothie was running… smoothly. I had plenty of money in the Fun Funds to spend/waste (depending on your perspective) on all kinds of electronics that I’d use once or twice.

  And hell, I was dating a hot blonde ten years my bloody junior. I should be in heaven.

  “I guess I’m just not used to, er… to this.”

  I pointed around the restaurant.

  Danielle reached over. Grabbed my hands. “I know you’re not bloody used to this. You wear a checkered shirt every pissing date, for heaven’s sakes.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with—”

  “But life’s about taking chances. About taking risks.” She pulled her hands away. “So take a risk, Blake. For once in your life, step out of that little bubble of yours and take a risk.”

  I wanted to throw that one back at her. My bounty hunting was hardly risk-free, after all. Far from it. But she’d say what she always said: “Your professional life and your private life are separate things, blah blah blah.”

  “You’ve ordered Bambino chilli bean burger every frigging time we’ve been here,” I said. “Hardly think you’re one to start lecturing me on risks. But sure. I’ll wear a non-checkered shirt next time, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  She narrowed her eyes, but I could see she was smiling. “Watch yourself, matey. We only get a few chances in life. What d’you think you’ll remember when you’re old and grey? Your iPads and your 4DTVs or the little moments you spent laughing with people you… people you like?”

  I narrowed my eyes in turn. Tapped my chin.

  “Dick,” she said, laughing.

  I went with the laugh. In all honesty though, I wasn’t sure what I’d look back at. My beautiful tech would be hard to look past.

  Maybe Danielle would run a close second in the memory bank.

  Sorry.

  Not sorry.

  Our main meals were served. I’d opted for a chilli con carne, while Danielle went for her usual.

  The meat was way too chunky. Way too slimy. Roll on my Dominos later.

  Except Danielle didn’t like Dominos. Said it was unhealthy. Said it was a rip-off. Said it was an unhealthy rip off.

  “Everything’s bloody chilli something in here,” I said.

  “Tends to be the case in Mexican restaurants,” Danielle said. She wrapped her mouth around a burger that was nearly as big as her face.

  I crunched down on my tortilla chips. Wondered how things would be if Danielle and I ever did take things to the “next step.” Would I still be allowed to play PS4 when I wanted? To sit around in my pants eating takeaway food? To spend hours organising my collectible vinyl that I never took out of the shrink wrap?

  I felt my phone buzz and jolted out of my thoughts.

  “Just a second,” I said, lifting my phone out. “Ah, Martha.”

  “Oh how is Martha?”

  I widened my eyes and pointed at my vibrating phone.

  “Oh okay smarty-pants.”

  I answered the call.

  “Afternoon, Mrs.”

  “And a good afternoon to you, sir.”

  Martha and I chatted for a few minutes. Martha was the closest thing I had to a best friend, I suppose. I used to collaborate with her in bounty cases back in the day, before an accident in ‘07.

  Oh, and Martha used to be a man called Mart. Don’t ask.

  “Still on for tomorrow, hmm?”

  “Tomorrow?” I asked. “What’s… what’s tomorrow?”

  Martha gasped. “Now don’t tell me you’ve gone and forgotten your dear friend’s birthday.”

  I felt my stomach sink. My cheeks went hot. “Of�
�� of course not. Happy birthday for tomorrow!”

  “My birthday’s today, Blake.”

  “I knew that. Totally knew that.”

  Martha tutted. “Ah, whatever. Just another wrinkle on the forehead to mark it with anyway. As long as you’re at mine for drinks tomorrow evening, we’re all fine and dandy.”

  My stomach sank even further. I’d been planning a night in on my own doing an Expendables trilogy marathon. Never seemed to get any bloody time to myself nowadays. “Ah, sure Martha, sure. Listen, I’m just out at the moment so I’ll be in touch tomorrow. Have a great birthday, though.”

  “Me and my friend Merlot will have a smashing party indeed. Laters, hun.”

  She cancelled the call.

  “All okay?” Danielle asked. Damn, she’d nearly scoffed her entire ginormous burger in the space of my phone call. Better keep an eye on that. Don’t want her getting fat.

  I scratched the back of my neck. “Yeah, erm… It’s Martha’s birthday today.”

  “And you forgot?” she said, sticking a chip into her mouth.

  “Thanks for making me feel even more terrible about forgetting my friend’s birthday.”

  Danielle shook her head. “Like I said. You need to get your head out of the iCloud and into the real world.”

  “Head out of the iCloud. I like that one. I really like that one.”

  Danielle and I exchanged a smile.

  “I’ll make a bigger effort,” I said. “An… an effort to—dammit, what is it with this phone?”

  I felt it vibrating again. Lifted it out of my pocket.

  “It’ll be Martha again. Just give me a sec… Hello?”

  The line was quiet.

  “Hello? Martha?”

  “Mr—Mr. Dent?”

  The man’s shaky voice took me by surprise. “Speaking.”

  “Mr. Dent we… we met earlier. My—my wife. I got a tape and I… I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know who else to talk to. Please help me. Please.”

  “We met earlier?” I tried to think back to people I’d seen today. Drawing blanks all round.

  “In front—in front of your apartment block. You… you gave me a business card and told me to ring the police then to ring you. But I need to speak to you.”

  And then it came to me. The floppy fringed nutter who’d approached me outside my own home earlier. “Ah yeah. It’s… I remember vaguely, yeah. Look, have you contacted the police?”

  “I can’t contact the police. They… I can’t. They won’t let me. They won’t—”

  “Look, sir, I… I’m sorry but I’m really busy with a… with a client right now.”

  “I—I saw you in Chiquitos. Followed you there. I know you aren’t busy. Please. Please help me. Please.”

  My cheeks burned. The muscles in my arms tensed up. Jesus Christ, this guy was stalking me? Who was this guy to stick his nose in my personal business? “Contact the police. Please do not ring this number again or I will contact them for you.”

  “But I can’t, I—”

  “Have a nice day, sir.”

  I cancelled the call. Whistled out a breath of relief.

  Danielle poked her head over the top of the desserts menu. “Trouble?”

  “Weird nutjob following me around and asking for help. Says he can’t contact the police.”

  “Standard junkie by the sounds of things.”

  I smiled. “Hey! You’re learning. Good one. So, er… where were we?”

  “Commitment,” Danielle said.

  “Ah yes. Commitment. That old chestnut. I… Look. I’ll do what I can. I… I’ll try harder. Try to figure this shit out.”

  “I’m sure you’ll figure something out. Hey, you heading to Martha’s tomorrow?”

  I searched my mind for the right answer, from the perspective of someone good with girlfriend stuff. “I… I think I should even though I’d rather not. You can come along if you want.”

  Danielle chuckled. “Pro tip: don’t ever make a girl feel like a tagalong. But no. You go. Have a boozy night with Martha. It’ll be good for you.”

  I raised my eyebrows and ate the last of my tortilla chips. “Good for me? Have you seen the speed Martha drinks at?”

  “Well I’ll be round to nurse you with a bacon buttie and… whatever else you want in the morning.”

  She nudged my leg under the table.

  I grinned.

  Maybe this commitment thing wasn’t so bad after all.

  FOUR

  He looks at his watch.

  12.54 a.m.

  Six minutes to go.

  He crosses one leg over the other and stares at the black metal box opposite him. He is disappointed with how little Subject A’s husband has attempted to fight back. He listens to his watch tick away, wonders if Subject A’s husband has called the police.

  He smiles. Course he hasn’t called the police.

  It’s all fun to imagine, anyway. Fun to hypothesise.

  He hears shuffling in the black metal box. Shuffling and struggling. He almost sympathises, as he sits there and waits for the time to come. Seven hours locked away in that box was unimaginable.

  Even worse was seven hours of being locked away in that box preceded by all kinds of experiments.

  Fun for him, though. All part of his tests.

  All part of his movie.

  He taps his black loafer on the tiled floor and whistles. He looks at his watch again. 12.55. God, why does time go so slowly when he is waiting for something? Why can’t it go slowly when he’s enjoying himself with the subject? When he’d taken her out of the box before and beat her almost to the point of death, why did that have to go quickly?

  Ah well. Just the way of the world, it seems.

  He rubs his hands together and waits. He tries to think of all the other last bits of fun he can involve himself in before one a.m. arrives. He could have another go with his knife. Or he could even bring his hose out to play.

  No. He has to prepare. He has to ready himself for the big event.

  He hops from the wooden bench and walks over to the rusty old tap. With every step he takes, he can hear her muffled screams, her bound hands scratching her fingernails against the metal box that she’s inside.

  That pleases him. He wants her to be aware of the next step.

  The final step.

  He attaches a green hose to the rusty tap. Unravels it, his heart pounding as he gets closer to the box. He hopes the hose reaches. He owns many hoses, and some always came just short. Shit. He’d better have brought the right hose along. He’d better have brought it, or he’d just have to settle for strangling her by hand.

  The hose reached the metal box.

  He sighs. “Phew.”

  Death by hand is totally underwhelming compared to what he has planned for Subject A.

  He rests the hose beside the metal box and he steps back. The box shakes slightly from side to side. Her scratches get more intense, her muffles turn to cries.

  “Nobody is coming for you it seems,” he says. “But the next husbands will learn their lessons. They’ll learn to play the game. Learn to stick to the rules.”

  Her scratches get louder. Her cries turn to drowned out screams.

  He shakes his head. If she just accepts her fate, this whole procedure would be a whole lot easier on her.

  Death is only difficult when the mind makes it so.

  And, okay. When it’s fucking painful.

  Which it is going to be.

  He glances at his watch. 12:58. He has to time this right. Get this wrong by a minute and his entire schedule goes to pot. And he isn’t a man for breaking routine.

  He zips up his black coat. Checks to see his black gloves are still on, that the plastic hand protectors are on underneath. All on. All clear.

  “All ready for lift off.”

  He reaches down for his Canon camcorder.

  Dims the lights to add to the mood.

  And then he points the camera at the black box, so
mythical, so beautiful in its absurdity.

  He hits record.

  He walks slowly towards the box. Moves the camera around the room, showing off the smashed tiles on the floor, the filth on the walls that he has added himself for effect. Tomato relish, not blood, in case you’re wondering. As for choosing relish over ketchup—more gooey bits in it. Adds to the authenticity.

  He steps forward. Moves the camera to the left, to show off the hosepipe attached to the tap.

  And then he moves the camera away from it, back to the other side of the room. Towards the spanners. The hammers.

  And then back to the hosepipe.

  Just teasing.

  He creeps over to the tap and he turns it on. Just as he does, he hears Subject A shout out, loud and clear.

  Perfect timing. She should be an actress. A horror movie star.

  Hmm. Funny, really. She kind of is already.

  At least, she is definitely going to be in the morning.

  He follows the green hosepipe, follows its snaky trail, and he ends up opposite the black box.

  He points the camera at the box. Presses it up against the front of it as the scratching continues inside, as the moans go on.

  He reaches down. Picks up the nozzle of the hosepipe. His hand shakes when he imagines the husbands watching his tapes. The way he has organised it, it is genius. Because although he is filming this part now, after all the torture and all the… modifications, he has made sure to edit it in a more effective order.

  The husbands will see the death of the subjects first.

  And then they will see the highlights of the last twenty-four hours, if they can stomach them.

  He rests the nozzle of the hosepipe at the side of the black box. Checks his watch.

  1 a.m.

  Time to work.

  He opens a hatch at the front of the black box.

  “Hello again,” he says. He speaks through a vocal modifier, so everything he says will be impossible to comprehend by the police, by anyone.

  Subject A stares back at him and shouts. Screams.

  He points the camera at her. Points it at her bloody, shaven head. Makes sure all her facial cuts are on display, makes sure that the bruises around her neck from the hose fun are on show.