Cucumber Coolie (Blake Dent Mysteries Book 2)

by Ryan Casey

  I walked a bit further down the street. My heart pounded. I could taste something like metal, feel my nose stinging after my fall, but it didn’t matter. Danielle mattered. She was all that mattered.

  I chuckled to myself. Maybe I needed to drink more. Maybe this was why all the police detectives did it in the books, in the movies. Shit, if it was, then they needed to cheer the hell up about it. It felt good. Very frigging good.

  I burped up a bit of sick and changed my mind as I gulped it back down, the acid burning my throat.

  As I got closer to Danielle’s house, the thought of that poor girl, James Scotts’ wife, drifted into my mind. I felt bad for the kid. Bad for the kid who’d been left alone by his suicidal dad, his poor murdered mum.

  And I felt bad for the other person too, whoever it was. The other person on the second tape that Lenny had mentioned.

  I took in a deep breath of the chilly evening air.

  It wasn’t my job. Wasn’t my problem anymore.

  I had my Fun Funds. I had my nice flat. Groovy Smoothie’s business was good.

  And I had Danielle.

  I had to protect those things.

  I turned into Danielle’s garden path when I saw somebody across the street.

  Made me jump at first. After all, it was quiet. So quiet and empty that the only sounds were my footsteps, and the brushing of the wind.

  But somebody was standing at the other side of the street. Dressed all in black.

  He looked at me. I could tell he was looking at me.

  And then he turned around and walked away.

  He was carrying something. Something big. Something that had to be heavy.

  I shrugged and stepped down Danielle’s garden path. Least he was walking away from me and not towards me. I could pack a punch, but after five Coronas and a Fosters? Didn’t fancy my chances quite so much.

  I dodged the enormous hanging basket outside Danielle’s porchway, reached the white painted front door, and knocked.

  Shit. What was I thinking? She’d be scared shitless. I should’ve just gone back home. Gone to bed and come to see her in the morning. Or called her first, at least.

  I knocked again anyway. Drink had a way of making a person selfish like that.

  Still, nobody came to the front door.

  I peered through the frosted glass. It was dark inside. But hell—of course it was dark inside. It was way past one a.m. Danielle was hardly going to be up cooking pasta and watching the news at this time.

  I looked over my shoulder. Back down the street I’d walked down. In the distance, I could see the cars speeding past on the main road, and smelled the fat of takeaways drifting in the air.

  I looked the other way. Looked towards where that guy had been with the bin bag.

  Gone.

  My heart picked up. No way was I staying out here for the night. But the thought of walking all the way back to mine with all this beer bloating me… I wasn’t sure I wanted that either.

  Shit. Nice work, Blake. Very clever plan.

  I looked back at the front door, went to knock on it, and I almost jumped out of my skin.

  “Holy shit, Dani.”

  “Holy shit, me? What time do you call this?”

  Danielle was standing at her front door. She was wearing her white dressing gown, and had her blonde hair tied back. She looked so gorgeous without makeup. Damn, what had I become? Some kind of sap?

  “I just had to see you,” I said. I stepped towards her, opened my arms.

  She stepped back. Yawned. “You had to? Or did the booze have to?”

  “Haven’t had much,” I said. I walked a little further towards her, into her house.

  “Only so much that I can smell it on your breath. She’s a bad influence that Martha. Good friend, but a bad influence.”

  I smiled and nodded. Couldn’t think of anything witty to say.

  “You realise what time it is, don’t you? And that I have work in the morning?”

  I let my drunken mind process the correct answer. Saying “yes” meant admitting I was being selfish. Saying “no” meant lying and looking even more drunk.

  I nodded and said “no” at the same time.

  The way Danielle raised her eyebrow told me I’d given the worst possible answer.

  “Please, Dani. I just… walked a long way and need to talk.”

  Danielle looked over my shoulder. “Well I suppose I can find some room for you.”

  “In your bed?”

  Danielle ushered me inside and closed the door. “Ah ah. No chance. Not while you’re in this state.”

  “Oh come on—”

  “No way. You fart when you’re drunk.”

  I stood upright. “I do not fart.”

  “Yes you do. You were going like a trumpet when we’d been to Christina’s party that time. Didn’t get a wink of sleep. Every time I got close to dreaming… bam! Fart after fart after fart.”

  We went into Danielle’s living room. All the lights were out, and my head was spinning, so I tripped over a few stools and a sofa on the way.

  “And here in the Hotel Danielle tonight, we have a fine sofa with extra comfy pillows.”

  Before I had the chance to object, she pushed me onto the sofa.

  And to be fair, it was pretty damn comfy.

  “Now you get some sleep,” she said, stepping away.

  “Danielle please… Need to… to talk commitment and—”

  “Shh,” she said. She walked over to the living room doorway. “Leave it for the morning.”

  My mind spun with all the things I wanted to say to Danielle. With all the things I wanted to tell her.

  “Nice… girl…” was all I could manage.

  “Flattering. And that’s exactly why we should wait ‘til you’re sober to chat. Night, goofball. I’ve got a parcel delivery tomorrow anyway so at least you’ll be in and awake for that. Right?”

  “Nice…”

  My eyes drifted shut.

  I curled up on Danielle’s sofa. Listened to her footsteps creaking their way upstairs. Felt my head easing off, my legs relaxing after trekking all the way to Danielle’s house from Martha’s.

  “Talk in the morning,” I mumbled. “Talk… talk tomorrow.”

  My consciousness slipped, and I dreamed of videotapes and that man with the bin bag walking towards me; of stairs creaking and Danielle enshrouded in darkness.

  TEN

  He drives away, into the darkness, with a beaming smile on his face.

  He can’t believe how easy things are going for him. How smooth and without obstacles.

  Of course, he knows as well as everyone how inept the local police department is. But this inept? This easy to evade? Three kidnaps and two murders in forty eight hours and still not a sign of any chase?

  He looks in the rearview mirror. Looks at Subject C, sleeping across the back seat, her blonde hair dangling over her eyes.

  This one is going to be fun.

  The funnest of the lot.

  ELEVEN

  I woke up feeling even groggier than I had been when I’d gone to sleep.

  Hey. The nature of a hangover, I suppose.

  I stretched out my arms. Kept my eyes closed, not quite ready to look at the glaring light of day yet.

  If it was even daytime. Where was I, anyway?

  It came to me. Last night, I’d gone back to Danielle’s. Bloody idiot that I was, I’d walked all the way from Martha’s.

  I peeled an eyelid open. Saw that daylight was shining behind the red curtains. It took me a moment to adjust, but I knew where I was right away: Danielle’s bedroom.

  I closed my eyes again. Rubbed my fingers against my temples. My head was banging. No wonder I didn’t drink often—gave me way too much of a bloody headache. But hey, nothing a few Tunes wouldn’t sort out. Nothing some sweet menthol wouldn’t solve.

  I looked to my left. Saw Danielle’s side of the bed was empty. The red bed sheets looked flat too, like they’d been made. I
wondered what time it was. Obviously Danielle had got up and gone to work. Nice of her not to wake me up, as much as I…

  And then I remembered something.

  I hadn’t got into bed with Danielle last night.

  I sat up. My neck ached like shit. I looked around her room. Looked at the oak wardrobe. Looked at Danielle’s dirty underwear folded up and piled up neatly. I must’ve climbed in bed with her in the night. I used to have episodes like this as a teenager, especially after drinking. Beer brought the sleepwalker out in me.

  Well, that was my excuse for ending up in bed with a bunch of girls at parties back in the day anyway. Clearly, my old tricks were still solid.

  I leaned further forward. Figured I’d better get up and make myself useful.

  And by useful, I meant making myself a cup of tea to drink in bed.

  As I went to stand up, throwing the bed sheets from over me, I heard something clunk against the cream carpet of the bedroom floor. Probably my phone.

  I heard the doorbell chime. Dammit. Danielle had said something about a parcel delivery, I seemed to remember. But here I was, billy-butt naked and stinking of booze and sweat. I was hardly presentable.

  I threw on my jeans, which had fallen off the bed, and half-buttoned up my checkered shirt. Ran downstairs, adjusting my hair, and opened the door, which was weirdly already ajar.

  A boggly-eyed, thin-faced man wearing a green CityLink shirt glared at me. “Parcel for Miss Danielle Stevenson?”

  “Yeah, I’ll take it,” I said. I tapped at the screen and did my best attempt at a digital signature.

  “You, erm, you know your door was wide open, don’t you?”

  I looked at Boggly Eyes. He was scratching at his chin sheepishly. Like I might’ve done if I was feeling terribly guilty about something. Maybe this bugger had tried to get in. Maybe he’d thought nobody was home so he’d creep inside and take something. Bastard.

  “Yes,” I said, hoping to call his bluff. “Yes I did know that. Problems with… with the lock.”

  “Right,” Boggly Eyes said. He took the signature device away and nodded at me. “Have an excellent day, sir.”

  I glared at him. “You too.”

  I watched him scuttle down Danielle’s garden path, scraping his feet along the ground. He opened up his van door and hopped inside, whistling all the way.

  He drove off, and he didn’t look back.

  I put Danielle’s parcel down beside me and took a look at the door. Figured there was nothing wrong with it, and that jammy deliveryman had just been trying his luck. I’d clocked the reg of his van, so I’d report him later. I’d…

  Weirdly enough, there was something wrong with the door.

  The door didn’t click when I closed it. Even though the handle was in its stationary position, it just wouldn’t shut, no matter what.

  I leaned down, which gave me an even more searing headache. Took a look at the latch.

  “Holy shit,” I said.

  The latch was nonexistent. The part attached to the door was perfectly smooth, like the latch had been sliced away completely.

  I stood upright. Wondered how this could possibly have happened. It wasn’t like that last night, was it? And Danielle was always extra-crazy about safety, security, all that. She even closed and locked her front door when she went out to water the bloody plants, for frigs sakes.

  I pressed the door to and placed the parcel in front of it to stop a draft blowing through, and I walked into Danielle’s kitchen, the silence of the house adding to the weirdness of this morning.

  I made myself a tea, still unable to get that door latch out of my head. No matter what I came up with, I couldn’t work out why it might be completely nonexistent like that. I looked around the kitchen, around the lounge, but nothing had been taken. Nothing had been trashed. That ruled out a burglar, at least.

  I sipped at my over-sugary brew as I climbed the stairs.

  Something was still not right. Something was just… off.

  I walked back into Danielle’s bedroom. Ah well. Whatever the hell was “off” could be pondered while I slept off this hangover. At least I had no Groovy Smoothie to go to today. Damn—I might even order a Dominos for lunch while Danielle was out. Couldn’t stop me if she was at work, right?

  Besides, I couldn’t think of any better hangover cure than a Mighty Meaty with extra BBQ sauce.

  Screw it. Might as well order it for brunch.

  I went to reach for my phone that had fallen off the bed when I saw my phone was on the bedside table.

  Weird. I’d definitely heard something pretty weighty fall off the bed when I’d got up. And I was renowned for sleeping with my phone. Seriously, I’d slept with my phone more than I’d slept with any one woman in my lifetime.

  My iPad ran a close second. She was getting jealous.

  I grabbed my phone, the thought of Dominos making me salivate, and I looked down at my feet to see what had fallen off.

  I froze for a few seconds. Froze, phone in hand, trying to understand what it was.

  It was an envelope. A white envelope, or rather a jiffy bag. Medium sized. Just big enough to fit a couple of DVDs in, something like that.

  I crouched down, reached for the jiffy bag. Why would there be a jiffy bag on my bed? Had Danielle left me something? Maybe it was something to do with the front door. Maybe it was a replacement latch that she wanted me to fix on my day off. It sounded pretty weighty when it hit the carpet, so that was a possibility.

  I grabbed the jiffy bag. Lifted it up.

  When I looked inside, I knew right away that it was something to do with the broken door.

  But it wasn’t a replacement latch.

  My heart pounded as I stared inside the jiffy bag. My palms went sweaty. The thought of the taste of Dominos drifted away, made me feel sick, dizzy.

  I reached inside. Pulled out the first of the contents: a neatly folded piece of white paper.

  A piece of paper I’d seen very recently.

  I gulped. I didn’t want to look at this note. I didn’t want to see what the damned hell was written on it, because I had a feeling I knew already.

  Karma’s way of kicking me in the nuts for turning a blind eye on what was staring me in the face.

  I steadied myself. Tried to hold on to the piss that was almost creeping out of me.

  I unfolded the note.

  My stomach dropped completely.

  I have your girlfriend.

  I will kill her in twenty-four hours if you do not save her.

  If you go to the police, I will kill her.

  I am making her life a misery. I am torturing her.

  I will torture her even more if you do anything stupid.

  Twenty-four hours started at 2a.m.

  Look around.

  The route is nearby.

  Use your mind.

  —Hose.

  PS: I’m expecting big things from you, hero. ;)

  My vision clouded. The whole room around me seemed to drift away. My breathing intensified. I looked at my phone screen. Nine a.m. Shit. Seven hours gone already. Shit, shit, shit.

  I wanted to get out of this house. I wanted to get the police right away, but the letter told me not to.

  I wanted to understand why this was happening to me.

  But all I could do was empty the second thing from the jiffy bag.

  A Mini DV tape hit the bed.

  TWELVE

  I ran back to my flat at the Docklands without even thinking about it.

  My mind raced as I put one foot down in front of the other. My entire body felt numb, like every muscle had been coated in a layer of ice. Rainwater splashed up under every step, covering my scruffy jeans, but I didn’t care.

  All I cared about was that note.

  All I cared about was Danielle’s disappearance.

  All I cared about was the Mini DV tape shaking around in my pocket.

  I turned the street towards the docks and almost ran out in front of a car,
which honked at me. I’d tried calling Danielle. Tried calling her a few times, but no response. Answerphone. “Welcome to T-Mobile, the person you are calling is unavailable…” over and over and over again.

  I tried to think properly as I ran back to my flat, the late summer rain sprinkling over me. Tried to work out whether to go to the police station, or whether to just get back and watch the tape. Try and work out the answers for myself.

  My breathing was shaky.

  I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know who to tell.

  I crossed the road again, by the roundabout this time. More cars honked at me, but it just went over my head. Usually, I’d have stuck a middle finger up at the bloody things, but today wasn’t the day for that.

  I’d screwed with karma enough as it was.

  I will kill her in twenty-four hours if you do not save her.

  I clenched my fists.

  I am making her life a misery. I am torturing her.

  That’s it. I needed to go to the police. I needed their inept ruddy help.

  If you go to the police, I will kill her.

  Police idea drifted out of my mind.

  I approached my apartment block. In the corner of my eye, I saw a newspaper stand. The words “VIDEO KILLER CLAIMS SECOND VICTIM” were splayed out across it.

  The second tape. The second husband had failed.

  The second wife had died.

  I couldn’t let Danielle become the third victim.

  I reached the rotating doors of the Wilmslow Docklands Apartments. Felt sick to the stomach when I thought of seeing James Scotts there, desperate for my help.

  I could’ve helped him. I could’ve tried to save his wife.

  I could’ve stopped him killing himself.

  I could’ve stopped the killer before he kidnapped Danielle.

  My bottom lip quivering like hell, I charged through into the reception area. I stormed past the desk and jogged towards the stairs. Didn’t have time to wait for the bloody lift today. Besides, the idea of small-talk was a frigging grim one, that’s for sure.