Fear No Evil (Debbie Johnson)

by Debbie Johnson

  I also needed to speak to D.I Jones, get hold of any case notes on Geneva Connelly, and make contact with Wigwam. Not to mention file two reports on cases I’d closed the week before, and send out a batch of invoices. Ideally all within the next hour. I felt a headache coming on, and badly wanted another whiskey. I resisted the urge. I was already too tiddly to drive – but I could at least still walk. A few more and Father Dan would be carrying me home.

  ‘Where are you staying?’ I asked, as the thought suddenly occurred to me. I didn’t really want him in my place if I could avoid it. I like my own space, and hate the idea of somebody hearing me pee in the morning. Tasty morsel he might be, but I’d lived alone since I was 19 – and I am a creature of habit.

  ‘With a friend,’ he said, ‘don’t worry.’

  ‘I wasn’t worried,’ I lied, ‘and who’s the friend?’

  ‘Are you always this nosy?’

  ‘Yes – are you always this evasive?’

  He gave me a slow, lazy, dimple-popping grin, and I felt a little sizzle between us. First time I’d had so much as a measly spark for months. I might go up in flames like one of those Australian bush fires if I wasn’t careful.

  ‘I’m staying with Father Kerrigan in Everton,’ he said, ‘we go back a long way. He has the entire Clash back catalogue, if you’re interested.’

  A punk priest. Who knew?

  ‘And does Father Kerrigan know you’re… a…’

  ‘Barking mad, demon-obsessed lunatic?’ he finished for me.

  ‘Well, yes, that’s a good way of putting it. Does he?’

  ‘He does. And he sympathises. He’s also seen some strange things in his time.’

  I bet he had, I thought, living in Everton.

  ‘Do you fancy another drink? Somewhere else?’ I said, standing up and trying not to wobble. First the shakes, then the wobbles. I was turning into a human jelly.

  He frowned slightly and glanced at his watch.

  ‘All in the name of detective work,’ I added, in what I hoped was a reassuringly professional tone.

  Ten minutes later we were standing in a back alley, looking at the closed-up doors of the You Craic Me Up. It’s an Irish comedy club, in case you hadn’t guessed. All their jokes start with ‘Have you heard the one about the English man, the Scots man and the Welsh man?’

  I leaned on the bell, and kept my finger down for a good thirty seconds. The place didn’t open until night-time, but I knew somebody would be around taking deliveries; probably the manager, Mickey Flynn.

  Dan was busy texting, which looked odd. What a thoroughly modern former priest he was.

  After another half minute of ringing, the door was yanked open, and I almost fell through. Nothing at all to do with the two JDs, honest. Mickey Flynn was staring at me, face like a block of beaten beef, tiny grey eyes screwed up in anger.

  ‘What the fuck do you want?’ he asked, in a Belfast accent so broad it could block the Mersey Tunnels.

  ‘Nice to see you too,’ I snapped as I pushed past him into the basement. Which took some doing as he’s the size of a baby hippo. The You Craic Me Up was dark, and smelled of disinfectant. There was a small stage, spotlights and PA equipment stacked in one corner, and framed posters of previous acts on the walls.

  ‘Tell me what you want and piss off,’ said Mickey, ‘I’m a busy man, I don’t need ex filth turning up to darken my day. I’m trying to run a frigging business here.’

  Dan leaned back against one of the walls, propping one foot against it. In his dark clothes he practically disappeared into the shadows.

  ‘I need to speak to Wigwam,’ I said, ‘so could you pass on a message, pretty please?’

  ‘No I fucking can’t. Do your own dirty work, you cheeky cow. Now get lost, before I chuck you down the cellars and set the dogs on you.’

  On cue, I heard the barking of Mickey’s two adorable Dobermans. Adorable in a Hound of Dracula kind of way. I’d heard tell that he starved them for days on end, then fed them human ears as treats. Probably not true, but you could never be sure with a man like Mickey.

  I saw Dan take a step forward in the gloom, responding to the threat. Sweet, but I didn’t need protection. Not from the likes of Mickey Flynn anyway.

  ‘Piss off Mickey,’ I said, shoving him in the chest as hard as I could. I thought my wrist might snap with the contact, but I kept my tough face on. I could cry in the loos later.

  ‘I need to see Wigwam, and I guarantee he’ll want to see me. Give him this,’ I said, tucking one of my business cards into the neckline of his Fruit of the Loom T-shirt. ‘And tell him it’s about a large lake in Switzerland. Give the dogs a kiss for me.’

  I turned to leave, and Dan followed. It was only when I emerged back into daylight that I started to breathe again. Bravado could get you a long way in life – but it could also get you a broken jaw pretty quickly if you didn’t play it right.

  ‘Nice man,’ said Dan. ‘And who’s Wigwam?’

  ‘Yeah. Mickey’s a real charmer. He wouldn’t have kissed the Blarney Stone, he’d have headbutted it. Wigwam is… equally charming. He’s the head honcho for the Caseys, Geneva’s family. They live in a Scouse chateau in the south end, and are responsible for a lot of the organised crime in the city. Wigwam does the dirtiest of their dirty work for them.’

  ‘Why’s he called Wigwam?’

  ‘He’s gay. Openly. Camp as a row of tents, get it? His real name’s not much better. Lilt McIver.’

  ‘Lilt?’

  Dan walked alongside me as we navigated our way through the business district, small human cogs in a giant commercial wheel; banks, stockbrokers, office mansions built from the profits of trade.

  ‘Yeah, his Mum was a heroin addict, and a prostitute. I’m sure she was more than that once, but that’s what she was reduced to. She had a regular, a Jamaican cabbie, who used to drive her round to dealers for free, in return for the occasional quickie. A real love match. From this blissful union Wigwam was born. She was off her head, and called him Lilt – because of his Dad’s totally tropical taste.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’ he asked.

  ‘Everyone knows all this. But my dad’s a cabbie as well, and he knew Wigwam’s Dad from years back. Buggered off back to Jamaica and never been seen since, so poor little Lilt was raised without a father figure – until Eugene Casey spotted his potential and took him under his wing. Didn’t stand a chance really, but we all have a choice, don’t we? No matter how hard your start is, you have a choice. Wigwam made his, but I’ve always had the feeling he regrets it. That he has a…’

  ‘Conscience?’ suggested Dan.

  ‘Yeah. Exactly. A dangerous thing in his business.’

  We arrived back at the office, and I pushed the door. Open, as usual, even though I’d locked it. I was taking this ghost thing a lot more seriously now, after having my heart felt up by the bogeyman. I slammed the door behind me and looked round.

  ‘Fuck off, you arsehole!’ I yelled, at nothing in particular. ‘And if you’re not going to fuck off, do something useful for once, and take out the rubbish! Or clean the kitchen sink, will you?’

  Silence. Predictably enough. Dan raised a questioning eyebrow at me, then settled himself in the chair.

  ‘It probably doesn’t mean any harm,’ he said, ‘it’s just bored.’

  ‘Bored? Oh for Christ’s sake. Should I leave Radio 4 on so it can catch some debate shows while I’m out? Stock up on a few Sudoku books?’

  ‘Sorry I spoke. Anyway, the troops are on their way.’

  ‘Who are the troops exactly? People you work with? Do you even have a job anyway, a proper one?’ I asked, still snapping, as I checked my e-mails. There was one from Tish asking if I fancied a drink later. Did I ever. I started typing a reply, arranging to see her at the Panoramic for dinner. I’d take Dan and we could rope her in to our wicked plans. Just as soon as I knew what they were.

  ‘I do have a job, but it’s one that fits in with my other interests
.’

  ‘Battling Satan and all his minions, you mean?’

  ‘Yeah. That. I do some landscape gardening when I’m not keeping the streets free from evil. And I was left some money by a relative, so I’m lucky enough to take time off whenever I want to. And the troops are Betty Batty and Justin Lafarrouche. You’ll like them.’

  He looked at my frowning face and added: ‘Or maybe not.’

  Betty Batty. God. Imagine being saddled with a name like that. I just knew Betty was going to be some trout-faced, blunt-speaking Yorkshire woman who prided herself on ‘calling a spade a spade’. Being rude, in other words. And I really couldn’t conjure up a mental image of what a Justin Lafarrouche would look like. Except maybe he’d be dressed like the scarlet pimpernel.

  ‘I’ve got things to do, Father Dan,’ I said, sneaking a peek to see if it annoyed him. It did. Marginally. Good stuff.

  ‘So have I,’ he answered. ‘I have to get some equipment together, go see Duane Kerrigan, and get out of these clothes. Shall we meet up later?’

  My brain didn’t know which direction to go in first – amazement at the thought of a priest called Duane, or amazement at the thought of Dan getting out of his clothes.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘there’s somebody I want you to meet tonight. Come to a place called the Panoramic at eight. You can’t miss it, just ask your way. And you need to wear something… different.’

  I shook my fingers at his clothes, a look of disgust on my face. I couldn’t be seen out on the town with a priest. Tish would piss herself laughing, and it wouldn’t do my reputation much good.

  ‘What? My usual stuff then?’

  ‘No!’ I said, ‘not your usual stuff either. No odd socks, no holes in T-shirts. Something… smart.’

  ‘Whatever you say, boss,’ he answered, saluting me and sauntering out of the door.

  Good riddance, I thought. Now I could concentrate on those invoices. One cannot pay the bills through the power of sexual fantasy alone, sadly. Or I’d be way in credit.

  Chapter 12

  ‘So, let me get this straight,’ said Tish, nibbling on the one breadstick she’d probably consume for the whole night, ‘he’s drop dead gorgeous?’

  ‘You’re not processing this information in the right order, Tish,’ I replied. ‘Didn’t you hear me say he’s a priest? And that the case I’m investigating is an alleged death-by-ghost?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I heard all that – I’m just more interested in the stud muffin aspects of the story. It’s been, like, years since you had sex.’

  ‘It has not! It’s been… okay, eleven months. That’s not years. That’s not even one year! And I’m not going to have sex with Dan – I mean Father Dan – so can you give up and focus, you pervert? I need your help here. I didn’t believe a word of it to start with but now… I don’t know. Something happened to me, Tish, at that place, Hart House. Something weird.’

  ‘Like what? Did you see an alcoholic beverage and not drink it? Did you actually remember to brush your hair, or look in the mirror while you put your make-up on?’

  I’m not a sloven. I do brush my hair, and wear nice clothes, and enjoy the odd mooch round the perfume counter at John Lewis. But compared to Tish, I’m a bag lady, and she never misses an opportunity to remind me. I’d hate her if I didn’t love her.

  Tonight, for example, I was wearing what I thought of as a very nice outfit. Black trousers, and a slim-fitting red sweater that was cut low enough to flash a bit of boob. I had red shoes on, which matched and everything. My dark hair was glossy and had some stuff in it, and I’d spent a good ten minutes doing the lippy and blusher thing. I’d been happy when I left the flat, but the minute I saw Tish I felt like I should be out emptying people’s wheelie bins for a living.

  She was five foot eight in bare feet, which meant she was permanently hovering around the six foot mark. I suspected she even slept in her heels. Her dad had been a ship’s doctor when he met her mother, a Filipino nurse, while he was docked in Manila. As a result, she inherited a glossy mix of east and west – smooth copper skin, high cheekbones, and piercing blue eyes. Her hair was long and black, styled with elaborate comb contraptions with glitter on them. The glitter on the combs was exactly the same colour as the stuff glinting off her eyelids, and perfectly co-ordinated with her nail varnish. She was wearing something she told me was from the Vivienne Westwood shop in town that involved bows and strings and a lot of action around her miniscule waist. She was the fairy queen – I was her ugly sister.

  I narrowed my eyes at her and went back to my drink.

  ‘Okay, okay, I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I’m being a prick. I’ll listen properly now. What happened at Hart House?’

  ‘I almost died, that’s what. I leaned on this window, and it was locked, then it wasn’t locked, and there was this ice in my chest, and I swear to God, Tish, even if I hadn’t fallen, I’d have choked up and dropped on the spot. I couldn’t breathe, or think, or move. I’ve been pooing my pants all day. So stop taking the piss, Cruella.’

  She paused, an olive midway to her perfectly pink mouth. I saw the change the second it happened: from Tish my airhead mate to Tish chasing a story. Now, I knew, the questions would begin.

  ‘Really? You’re not winding me up? You actually believe all this?’

  ‘Yes, I hate to say it, but I think I do. Or at least some of it. Dan says there’s all sorts of stuff out there we don’t know about – ghosts and ghouls and demons and —’

  ‘Vampires? What about vampires?’

  Tish had a longstanding obsession with the bloke who played Edward Cullen in those ‘Twilight’ movies, even though he was much too young and pale and serious for her. There’s no way he’d want to go on city breaks to Paris Fashion Week, never mind watch her boxed sets of ‘Ugly Betty’. What can I say? Love is blind.

  ‘No idea. Stay focused. So there was this girl, Joy Middlemas, and she died when she fell out of the same window in June. We have her diary, full of this awful stuff about how she was feeling in the run-up to it. Honest Tish, it’s chilling. Even you’d get shaken up if you read it.’

  ‘Can I read it? Can I quote it?’

  ‘I don’t know. You’d have to speak to her parents, and I wish you luck with the mother. She reminds me of Sister Margaret Mary.’

  I said the name of our former head teacher in a hushed whisper, and we both involuntarily crossed ourselves. It was like looking in the mirror and saying Candyman – even mentioning her might magic her up.

  ‘Okay – so we have a claim, as yet unsubstantiated – that our innocent young girl was shoved out of the window by a ghost. That could work for me. Ghosts are big business these days, people love being scared. And if I got the diary, it’d really tug at the heartstrings – was she pretty?’

  ‘Yes. You know, before her skull got smashed open on the pavement and all.’

  ‘A pretty girl killed by a ghost. Even better,’ she said, without a trace of shame. ‘The nationals might even pick this one up.’

  ‘Well, that’s nice for you,’ I said, ‘and obviously the only reason I exist is to supply you with stories.’

  She nodded in agreement. ‘Yes, of course. What other use are you? Apart from being my shoulder to cry on, drinking buddy and the only other single woman in her thirties I know who isn’t forever bleating on about nursery fees.’

  ‘Single? What about the Divine Richard?’

  The Divine Richard was her boss, the news editor at the paper. All they ever seemed to do was have huge rows, tell each other to fuck off across the newsroom, then get drunk in the pub across the road before having fabulous make-up sex.

  ‘I don’t like him today,’ she said. ‘So, are you sure little Joy was as innocent as you think? There weren’t any interesting mushrooms in her kitchen cupboard? And what about the police – did they mess up on this? I know you don’t like to diss your former brethren, Jayne, but it does happen.’

  ‘No. I’ve seen the Coroner’s Report. Nothing more ha
llucinogenic than a couple of glasses of red wine in her system, and the D.I in charge did everything right. There’s more to it as well.’

  ‘Like what? Was it the ghost of Elvis Presley, riding in on Shergar?’

  ‘The Caseys,’ I said, quietly. You have to watch what you say in Liverpool. It’s a village disguised as a city. The stranger sitting next to you in a restaurant can turn out to be your third cousin once removed. The one you once pushed into a pile of dog shit when you were four and still hates you for it.

  Tish leaned forward, and her bosom flowed onto the table like an extra tray of canapés. Her hair fell around her face, and her eyes had lost any sign of playfulness.

  ‘What about them? How are they involved?’

  ‘If I tell you this, you have to promise not to use any of it at all, until I say so. Is that very, very clear?’

  ‘Crystal. And yes, I know, you’ll kick my arse all the way to St Helens and back if I do, blah blah blah, so stop giving me the evils. What about the Caseys?’

  ‘Did you know Sean had a daughter?’

  ‘Er. Yuck. You mean somebody slept with him?’

  ‘His wife, actually. They had this daughter, and she grew up to be the brains of the family, and was training to be a lawyer.’

  ‘Interesting career choice,’ said Tish, ‘and I notice you said “was”?’

  ‘Yeah. She’s dead. Another fall, Hart House again, and she’d been telling her cousin she had problems of the supernatural sort.’

  ‘Shit!’ said Tish, leaning back again, gazing off into space as she went back to the breadstick. ‘Shit! That is a good story. Bet Eugene went nuts.’

  Tish had spent a lot of time chasing stories about the Caseys. One of the clan had been gunned down on his way to the bookies a few years ago, and she was given the enviable task of doing what she called the ‘death knock’ at the family home. Their lawyer Simon Solitaire had headed her off with an official statement, about the tragic death of this promising young ‘businessman’. Which in this case kind of meant drug dealer. She knew there was more to his death – and his life – and like the fearless newshound she was, she’d been itching to get at it ever since.