Cucumber Coolie (Blake Dent Mysteries Book 2)

by Ryan Casey

  “I’ve checked it out,” I said. I lifted my eyes from Martha’s, looked over her shoulder at Andy Scotts’ desk. “In the corner. By the stationery.”

  Martha frowned some more. Shook her head.

  “Just look, Martha. We don’t have time to fuck around.”

  She sighed. Turned around. “So what is it I’m supposed to be…”

  I knew she’d seen it too when she stopped speaking.

  “Is that…?”

  I gulped down a lump in my throat and nodded. Listened to Andy Scotts’ footsteps splash through the puddles outside.

  “If Andy Scotts isn’t in contact with his brother, then why does he have a blood-drenched wax hand on his desk?”

  THIRTY-ONE

  “I’m not sure about this, hun. I… What if he’s into making wax models too? A family thing?”

  “Just drive.”

  Martha sighed. She put her foot on the gas and kept on following Andy Scotts. He drove a red Mercedes. It was going dark, but his car was only a few ahead. Rain pattered down on the windscreen of Martha’s Audi TT.

  The wax hand. There had to be a link. There had to be something.

  “I’m just saying,” Martha said. Her voice was grating on me. Sick of her bloody complaining about every positive decision I made.

  But I couldn’t argue, because she was my driver.

  “Maybe Andy got his wax hand from somewhere else. Or—or like I say, maybe it’s a family thing. And here we are driving after him when there’s less than three hours to save Danielle. What if we’re wasting our time?”

  “Do you have a better suggestion?”

  Martha lowered her head.

  “I thought not. Now quick—he’s turning right.”

  I sucked on the Halls Soother I’d placed on my tongue after leaving Harvers’ garage. I’d gone way too long without menthol. Besides, there was nothing wrong with it. It calmed me down. Gave me a clearer head. Sparked some sixth sense shit.

  Either that or I just had really bad toothache from sweet stuff and was getting delirious.

  “And now a left,” I said, noticing Andy turning down a side road. A side road just outside of town. A side road with no shops, nothing like that down it.

  “I don’t like this, hun. We should contact Lenny. Even if I contact Lenny, so you aren’t technically getting in touch with the police—”

  “We’re one and the same in James Scotts’ eyes. Come on. Turn.”

  Martha whistled, and indicated. “One and the same? God help me.”

  We turned into this side alleyway. It was pitch black down here. Tramps rolled up behind big metal bins as we passed, peering at us, their breath clouding.

  “Get a bit closer,” I said.

  “Jesus, Blake—he’s right there in front of us. How many cars come down here? We hold back. Can’t go blowing our cover, hun.”

  Nerves jangled around my stomach.

  Andy Scotts. He knew something. He wasn’t being straight.

  “Did he seem shifty to you?” I asked.

  “Andy? Why? You met him.”

  “I know but I’m biased. Everyone’s frigging shifty to me. It’s what gives me a good investigative mind. You’re a softer touch.”

  “A softer touch? Babe, it’s a miracle I haven’t booted you right out my car by now.”

  “Just tell me. How did he seem to you?”

  Martha slowed the car. Cut the lights. Stopped the engine. She nodded ahead.

  “I think we’re gonna find out,” she said.

  I looked through the windscreen.

  Andy Scotts had pulled up just outside a small rectangular building. It looked closed, with barriers and grating over the entrance. Graffiti covered the side walls—drawing of cocks, telephone numbers sprayed in red.

  “This look the kind of place where Andy’s meeting his wife and kid to you?” Blake asked.

  Martha didn’t say a word. She just squinted ahead.

  We watched as Andy wandered around in circles. The rain splashed down on him, soaking his suit. He had his phone in his hand, and tapped around on the screen.

  “Sure looks twitchy about something,” Martha said.

  “Glad you’re finally seeing sense. Roll a window down or something? I want to hear if this guy’s on the phone.”

  Martha rolled the window down. It was scarily dark in this alleyway. Andy Scotts was the only one of the three of us exposed in light. That said, the homeless people behind us were getting twitchy, pointing in our direction.

  Better not blow our cover, or that’s the last time my Fun Funds were spent on a McDonalds for the hobos.

  Andy lifted his phone to his ear. I could see his mouth moving, like he was having a go at someone, but I couldn’t hear a word.

  I needed to hear.

  “I’m going out to see what he’s saying.”

  I grabbed the handle.

  “Woah—no fucking way are you! Blake, are you crazy? He’s only a few metres away. He’ll see you.”

  I looked ahead. Andy had his back to us. The rain was heavy, noisy.

  “Then he sees me,” I said.

  I clicked open the handle. The sound of the rain got even noisier.

  “Just think about this,” Martha whispered. “We can be patient here. We can—we can watch him. We can even—”

  “I’ve got this,” I said. “Really.”

  Martha shook her head. Smacked her fist against the material of my car seat. “Don’t fall in love again, Blake. It does crazy shit to you.”

  “Thanks for the well wishes.”

  I pressed the door to and turned to face Andy.

  He still had his back to me.

  This was my chance.

  I crouched down. Got myself into a Gears of War position. Crept slowly towards Andy. The closer I got, the more audible his voice became. But it was still muffled. Still just out of my hearing range.

  I suddenly became aware of just how bizarre my actions were. After all, what if Andy wasn’t involved? What if he just had a wax hand on his desk because he liked wax hands? Or maybe James Scotts had left it there. Maybe he’d left it there when he sneaked inside his office, and Andy just hadn’t noticed yet.

  Or maybe Andy Scotts was, in fact, in contact with his brother, and he’d bareface lied to me.

  I knew which option seemed likeliest.

  I crept further towards him. Rain soaked the bottom of my trousers, as the smell of car exhaust fumes from the busy nearby road filled the air, as did the sound of tires splashing through roadside puddles. I started to hear Andy’s voice.

  “Stop this. Stop this here… Yes, he was… He is…”

  My heart picked up in pace. No doubt Andy was on to his psycho brother. Shit—they might even be in cahoots. Well, fuck their cahoots. Their cahoots were going up their ass.

  Their cahoots ended, here.

  And then Andy pulled his phone away from his ear and looked right at me.

  I stood still for a few seconds. Still, in my Gears of War crouch, the rain pounding down onto me.

  He looked at me with puzzlement. With confusion. Like he recognised me, but he couldn’t figure out where from.

  I wanted to say something to him. Say something witty, something action hero. Something climactic.

  But he was the one to speak first.

  “Blake?”

  I rose slowly. Brushed myself down and cleared my throat, like being crouched down in this alleyway was completely normal. “Yeah? Oh, hi. Andy, wasn’t it?” Bloody hell. What was I doing?

  “Are you… are you following me?” He backed away slightly.

  I shrugged. Stuck my bottom lip out. “Depends on your definition of following. Do you like wax?”

  Andy’s head crinkled even more. “I… Blake I’m not sure I understand. Wax? What do you mean?”

  I stepped up to him. Felt like shitting my pants for doing so, but he looked backed into a corner. He was trapped, forced into answering me. “The wax hand. The wax hand on your
desk. James, your brother that you never speak to. He’s interested in wax, isn’t he?”

  Andy frowned so much that I swore his face was gonna implode. “Wax hand? Man, you… Did he leave that there? That fucking psychopath. Where did you find it?”

  I stopped a few feet away from Andy. The rain covered us both, coming down heavier than ever.

  “On your desk,” I said. “By the stationery box. He… Why are you here?”

  Andy shook his head. Smiled. “Oh, this place?” He stepped towards me. “I’m just here for the…”

  He stopped speaking and rammed a syringe into my neck and the next thing I knew I was on my knees.

  “I’m sorry,” Andy whispered, or maybe he said it loudly but I couldn’t tell because my mind was fuzzy and blurry and everything around me was going soft and cold and unsharp…

  “I really am sorry,” Andy repeated, as my head hit the ground, as the cold rainwater covered my cheeks, and as I slipped away into darkness.

  The last thing I thought about was Danielle. About holding her. About kissing her head…

  Alright, alright. Maybe I thought a little, tiny bit about a ginormous 700 inch HD television spread across the walls of my flat, swimming in a bath of menthol sweets, but you get the sentiment.

  THIRTY-TWO

  I knew I’d had a bad night’s sleep when I tasted the burning acid at the base of my throat.

  I knew I’d had an even worse night when I opened my eyes and saw I was on a concrete floor in the dark.

  I squeezed my eyes shut again. Tensed my jaw, tried to figure out how I’d ended up here. I could feel my pulse pounding in my temples. The room I was in, it smelled damp.

  Damp and rusty.

  Or bloody.

  I opened my eyes again, but it stung to do so, even though it wasn’t light. I looked around this room I was in. Looked at the dusty concrete floor, the dirty cream brick walls. I’d seen this place before. I’d seen a place like this. I’d…

  And then it clicked.

  Hose.

  James Scotts.

  Danielle.

  Three hours to save her.

  I lurched myself upright when I realised I’d been knocked unconscious, but I couldn’t move. My hands were stuck, as were my legs. I looked at them: metal cuffs and chains around them.

  Shit. My watch had gone too. I couldn’t even tell how long I had left to save Danielle.

  If I even had any time left to save her at all…

  I eased myself back against the wall. Took deep breaths, tried to steady my spinning head, tried to remember exactly how I’d ended up here.

  The garage. Andy Scotts, James’ brother. The wax hand on his desk.

  Following him. Leaving Martha’s car to creep up on him.

  And them him stabbing some sedative inside me and telling me he was sorry.

  Fuck. He was involved. All along, he was—

  “Blake?”

  The whisper came from my right. It made me jump, as it echoed against the walls. I looked at the other side of the room. Peered into the dim lighting, or maybe that was just my eyes playing up.

  But no.

  There was somebody there.

  Somebody chained up, like I was.

  And that somebody, they were…

  “Andy? The fuck are you doing in here?”

  Andy Scotts tried to edge forward. He had a bruise on his forehead. His tie had been ripped from his collar, and his suit was stained with brown liquid. I hated to imagine what it may be.

  “Listen, Blake—I’m sorry. James, he—”

  “Quit it with your bullshit,” I said. “You stabbed me. With a syringe. It’s cause of you I’m in here.”

  “And I’m here too. Look, Blake. My brother, he’s… he’s insane.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  “He kidnapped my—my wife. And my kid. Said he… said he’d kill them if I went to the police. Said to… to try and lure you here somehow. I didn’t want to, believe me. I… I kind of hoped you wouldn’t notice the wax hand.” He shook his head. Shrugged. “But here I am. And here you are.”

  I tried to get my aching head around what Andy was saying, my dry tongue crying out for some processed food. “How do I know you’re not lying? Not all a part of James’ bullshit little game?”

  “You don’t,” he said. “You’ll just have to take my word for it.”

  I swallowed some saliva in an attempt to dry my throat. Looked around this room. “How long was I out?”

  “Not long. Not even an hour.”

  Not an hour. Still over two hours to save Danielle.

  Still over two hours to find out what James Scotts really wanted.

  “He took my wife and my kid, Blake. His own fucking niece. Who’d do that?”

  I tugged at the cuffs on my chapped wrists, but it was no use. “You said it yourself. A nobhead is a nobhead, family or not. How did you end up here anyway?”

  “He knocked me down when I brought you in, which I’m sorry for—”

  “Okay, okay. We just… we need to work together here. Figure out a way—”

  The door slammed open.

  A gust of cool air blasted against me.

  And standing in the light was James Scotts.

  He smiled at me first. Looked at me, not even paying any attention to his brother. He was wearing a black leather jacket and a checkered blue shirt I swore I’d owned once upon a time. He also wore black jeans and white Converse trainers.

  “Blake Dent. You’re awake.”

  “Looking a bit casual,” I said, trying to keep the tone light.

  James Scotts smiled. Laughed. “Yeah, well, I’m my own boss. No uniform required policy. It works rather well.”

  He side-glanced at his brother. A side-glance of sheer disdain.

  “James, end this silliness,” Andy shouted.

  “Shut your mouth, ‘brother,’” he said. “Always demanding, demanding. Same all your life. Ah well. Some people never change.”

  “Where’s Danielle?” I asked.

  James looked at me like he’d just heard a fly buzzing around the room. “Danielle? Oh you mean Subject C? Oh, she’s okay. Had a few, er… close calls, but she’s okay.”

  I bit my lip. Resisted the urge to call this nutjob every name under the sun. “What more do I need to do? I’ve… I’ve done everything you asked—”

  “Don’t play victim with me, hero,” James snapped. “It doesn’t sit right. Not after your little discrepancies so far. You know, your police friend, your little viral video…”

  “I was rising to the challenge. Like you wanted.”

  James Scotts stepped slowly towards me. His footsteps echoed against the solid concrete floor. “Well good work to you. Round of a-fucking-pplause.”

  He clapped sarcastically, drawing them out and syncing them with his footsteps.

  “Anne’s okay, isn’t she?” Andy asked. His voice was shaky, uncertain. “She… Anne and Jasmine. Please. Please tell me they’re okay.”

  James Scotts stopped walking towards me. He sighed, and rolled his brown eyes. “Excuse my brother,” he said. “Always been one for over the top melodrama.”

  He turned away. Walked towards Andy.

  “Yes, ‘bro.’ They’re absolutely fine too, this spawn of yours. Jesus, the pair of you make out like I’m some kind of psychopath or something.”

  Neither me nor Andy responded to that. Better not to feed the troll. Hopefully worked just as well in real life as it did on the internet.

  “You’ve done your job, brother,” James said. He crouched down. “You both have.” He looked back at me. Winked. “And you will get your wife back. Your daughter back. Your girlfriend back.”

  He patted Andy on his cheek. Stroked his face, as he exhaled strongly.

  “Well, one of you will anyway.”

  He walked into the middle of the room. I didn’t like how he said those last words.

  “One of us? What do you mean?”

  “Ip dip do
g shit…” James pointed from me to Andy to me again, like he was selecting us for something.

  I pulled against the cuffs around my wrists. “Quit it with your frigging games. Please. Just let us go. This can end here.”

  “… You… are… it… to… DAY!” James Scotts pointed right at me. “Mr. Blake Dent, looks like you’re the lucky man.”

  I stared at Andy. He looked just as wide-eyed, as pale-faced as I felt. I didn’t know what James’ idea of a lucky man was, although I figured it couldn’t be a good thing.

  He walked over to me. Crouched in front of me. I could smell the sweat coming from him. Takeaway Indian food on his breath. He smiled, and in the back of his mouth, a silver filling shone.

  “Fancy us meeting again like this,” James said. He reached into his jacket pocket. “Shoulda just helped me out that day, Blake. Shoulda just helped me ‘save’ my wife. Ah well. Still got a chance to be hero here.”

  He yanked a long, sharp blade out from his jacket pocket and pointed it at me.

  My stomach sank with the realisation of the inevitable.

  “James, don’t do this!” Andy begged. “You can stop this right away. You—you don’t have to kill anyone else. We can be a family again. Please, don’t kill him!”

  James Scotts’ smile widened. He tapped the long blade against my legs, making it sting with its weight. He started laughing. Actual, full on laughing, like a madman’s.

  Except he was a madman. That explained it.

  He shook his head. Reached behind me. I tensed up. Prepared for the sharpness.

  “Don’t flatter yourself, brother,” he said.

  He unclipped my cuffs.

  Placed the knife in my hands.

  Forced me to my feet, pointing something at my back.

  “I’m not going to kill him.”

  He kneed me in my right thigh. Forced me to step closer and closer to Andy, closer and closer to a realisation of what was happening.

  Andy frowned. He looked at me, and then at his brother, his frown growing. “What… what do… what are you—?”

  “I have an action scene to film. A twist to add to the masterpiece.” James Scotts pushed me forward so hard that I hit the ground, almost cutting myself on the blade in the process.

  And then he took out his camcorder. Pointed it at me. In his other hand, he had a big black device that looked a hell of a lot like a pistol.