Burning Crowe

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Burning Crowe Page 9

by Geoff Smith


  4. Is Zack a suspect for the murder?

  Now you say in your email that Julia and I played God with the truth. Well, okay. We did. I apologise. It turned out to be the wrong approach. But now - and I want you to think about this one - you're doing exactly the same thing to me. You just can't give out these snippets of information and then just stop. Either we're full partners or we're not.

  And no, I have not spoken to any police.

  Let me give you some advice. And I know you won't want to hear this, but you're confusing facts with feelings. I know you're in pain. But if you start down this road of acting on your feelings, taking crazy risks, there will end up being Hell to pay for it. And if that's not a fact, then it's pretty damned close to one. If you can fix things in this case then great. But don't expect it to mend your life.

  Life's already dangerous enough.

  Let's talk. Phone me. I think that would be best.

  Granddad.

  20

  Eight forty five a.m. and Bart was dressed. No shower. No time to eat. He'd weather the hangover. He didn't feel up to moving out just yet, so he left a note at the desk asking for Barbara's bank numbers. He'd pay by transfer later.

  He'd received a text from an unknown number:

  [Zack Richards will be at the Turner Centre this morning at 9]

  He didn't want to be late.

  The Turner Centre was a big, white wedge of modernity, stuck to the coast, jutting out against the skyline, striking and powerful, like an invader from another dimension.

  It was perched on a steep incline and you could stand beyond the far wall above it and look down - a good view of the piazza without being seen yourself. He paced up and down on the concrete. It was half past nine. Nothing had happened and he was hungry. He eyed the cafes on the other side of the street.

  Time passed.

  His confidence diminished.

  And then, there she was. Lola Golden. Her blonde hair, her navy coat and her black wool beret. He backed from the wall a little and turned up his collar. If Lola saw him she'd think he was spying on her. Simple as. Golden's money was in his pocket and though he'd decided he would give the money back, and it made him feel sick when he looked at her.

  But he had a job to do, and so he edged back, closer to the wall.

  She was looking down at her phone the way unaccompanied people do in public places. According to the text she was half an hour late and still no sign of Zack. Maybe she was confiding her frustration to friends or sending Zack the news that she'd arrived. Whatever. If she was looking at her phone she wouldn't notice him.

  And it must have been Zack she was texting because two minutes later, there he was - Zack Richards - thin, average to tall, almost-white hair worn in a broad diagonal stroke across his face - just like in the photographs. And his skin was tanned and he was handsome - dark eyebrows furrowing to form an aquiline 'v', dark skin - Latinate. He wore black jeans and shoes and an over-sized Parka. Black, or a green that was almost-black. It's colour changed with the light.

  And for a moment, Bart forgot to breathe.

  And then he took pictures.

  Zack had a loose, swaggering gait. He crossed the piazza. Lola threw her arms around Zack's neck and she kissed him repeatedly.

  The hangover was making Bart queasy.

  With his arm around her shoulder, Zack and Lola headed for the entrance. Bart followed, jogging down the hill, up the concrete stairs. At the tall glass doors, he stopped and looked up at the building. It resembled a row of futuristic beach huts, just on a massive scale, like leisure space for hi-tech giants. He shouldn't go in. He should find a secluded spot and wait. If he found a good spot, then Lola and Zack would eventually come out and he could introduce himself, explain to Zack that whatever he thought of his mother, she cared enough to hire a detective to get him back on track, and maybe suggest that he owed her at least a small amount of, well, something anyway. He had the feeling it wouldn't work, and the more he rehearsed it the less viable it seemed. Still, it was better to wait. Wait and follow. Find out where Zack was staying - but his actions contradicted his thoughts, as against his better judgement, he tucked himself in behind a group of European students, and followed them inside.

  The foyer felt like the hollowed out inside of an enormous sugar cube. Zack and Lola were at the far side by the glass. He watched them with the self-facing camera on his phone, silhouetted by grey sea and sky. An enormous, spider-like installation hung from the ceiling - all tubes, grotesque angles. Zack was looking at it, gesticulating, and Lola was laughing. She continued to laugh as they made their way to the lift.

  And Bart followed.

  Close, stupidly close.

  'Come, come. Follow me. Enter my cave! Enter the glorious world of art!' Zack's voice was all mock theatre. 'Follow me, my darling. Follow me!'

  'Oh my God!' Lola laughed. 'You are such a dick!'

  Then the lift doors closed.

  Taking two or three steps at a time, he bounded up the stairs, where he heard them again. Her laughing. And his voice, deep and languid and not very rock-star. And when the voice faded he poked his head around the top of the stairs and he peered down the spacious, white corridor. He must have looked comical. The openness of the space lent a cartoonish quality to his snooping.

  The exhibition was called 'Entangled'.

  'Yeah, yeah,' Zack said. 'We met her - the artist - in this country actually. London. She's pretty wild. Hit the town with us, clubbing and shit. She's really cool. Not like an older person at all. You know, she's not even that old! She does likes her gin though. Kinda crazy seeing her stuff here. Small world, man.'

  Lola held onto his arm, her head on his shoulder.

  'You like it, then?' she asked.

  'Oh yeah, yeah. It's totally brilliant. I mean I wouldn't exactly buy something like that. Nowhere to put it you know - but she really is very talented.'

  Their voices faded into the dirge and Bart edged out nervously from an alcove. Following and hearing them again, but not so distinctly. Their voices mixing and mingling with the rest. Zack was still talking most - art, all the stuff he'd seen, the people he'd met or knew something about. But he was paying attention to what he saw. He evaluated each piece he came to, and he was enthusiastic and generous - not the sneering arrogance Bart had imagined. He heard Lola say that she missed him and she asked him to promise to stay close.

  'Maybe we should go back to yours,' she said. 'I'll cook.'

  He didn't hear Zack's answer.

  And then their voices were gone.

  A table of tiny sculptures in the centre of the next room, delicate frameworks, arcs and arches, all constructed entirely from grass, inter-weaved and airy and beautifully complex. Bart stared at them. He stroked his cheek and he kneeled down to get close. So small, so fragile. He stared until Lola's laugh snapped him from reverie. He got up and crossed to the next space.

  But when he reached it Zack and Lola weren't there - just a bunch of deconstructed Peruvian hats, a woollen reconstruction of Central Park and literally nowhere to hide. He felt exposed. In a gallery the visitors are also on show.

  Lola's voice.

  'My God, they're so weird! It's like Dr. Who or something!'

  'You don't even watch Dr. Who!' Zack said. 'Anyway that's what you're supposed to think -'

  At the corner of the brightly lit passage, papier-mâché models of children had been dressed as penguins and placed on a paper island, and Bart came face to face with Zack Richards and Lola Golden. He tried to duck past but Lola had blocked his way.

  Zack said, 'Wait. Do you two guys know -'

  Close up, Zack's appearance was even more striking. His tanned skin bled into his white-blonde hair and his flat nose and dark eyes had an almost mystical quality, eyebrows slanting down like an eagle or a witch-doctor.

  Lola broke the silence.

  'Yes. Yes we do know each other. He's called Bartholomew Crowe. He's the new kid at school. What a coincidence! Hi Bart. This is
Zack. Remember? I was telling you about him.'

  'Hi.'

  Bart held out his hand and Zack shook it.

  'And you two are friends?'

  'Yes, we're friends' said Lola, turning to Zack. 'We're friends. I told them I'd look after him while he settled in, you know, like a buddy.'

  'A buddy?' Zack said. He looked Bart up and down.

  'Yeah, and thanks for that, Lola, I mean like so much,' Bart said, hamming up the new boy nervousness. 'You've been really so helpful - um - really.'

  Zack took his phone from his Parka.

  He looked at the screen.

  'Well, time is flying guys, and it's looking kind of iffy for me to catch the next train. So hey. I gotta run, yeah. Great to meet you. Bart, was it?' And then to Lola, 'Seeya babe. Gutted but you know, gotta go. I'll call you, okay.'

  He kissed her on the lips, and then shrugged elaborately and walked away at speed. And then he was gone. Bart tried to read Lola's expression without success. Her eyes were open unusually wide and her lips were wide and flat.

  Bart said, 'Look, I should be going too, you know, if I'm - it's the job - um look - anyway - speak later.'

  And he touched her on the shoulder.

  'Stop.'

  Her voice was quiet but it was steely enough to let him know he had overstepped the mark. He threw up his arms and walked backwards.

  'Listen, Lola. I could find him. Right now. Where he's staying. I could let you -'

  'I said stop.' She spoke slowly but with crystal clarity. 'If you go now, Bartholomew Crowe, I'll text him and I'll tell him the truth about who you are before you even reach the door. And I'll tell him that you're working for his step-mother, which I think you are. You think you'll be able to find him then?'

  Bart's shoulders slumped.

  'Ah Lola! Please. Look, I could end it. I could tell you where he is. I don't have to speak to him yet. I just want to know he's safe, you know, just like you do. Come on, Lola. You've got to let me go.'

  'I told you to stop. If you go now, and he so much as catches a glimpse of you. Guess what he's going to think. He's going to think that it's me, isn't he? His stupid, possessive girlfriend. So you can't go. Sorry.'

  Bart checked the time on his phone.

  And he said, 'You already know where he is, don't you? And you won't tell me. That's it, isn't it?'

  'Goodbye, Bart,' she said.

  And she walked away. Bart watched her go and he shook his head and followed, but she sped up.

  'Lola?' he said.

  She ignored him.

  Trying not to look like a creep, he stood up straight and hoped people would think they were together.

  Across the piazza, down the steps, out on the promenade where the sun shone down and the sky was on the bluer side of grey and the tankers and the freighters slept off shore like dormant crocodiles.

  Lola stopped walking.

  'Are you serious?' she said, and there was anger in her voice. 'I mean, are you truly fucking serious? I mean, are you for fucking real or what? How are you even here?'

  'What?'

  'I asked how you're here. It's a simple question, Bart. Who even told you to come here today? Because I didn't tell anyone. I told no one. Not a soul. So I'll ask you again, how are you even fucking here?'

  Her eyelids hung heavy and her eyebrows were raised in the middle.

  Bart stared, mouth slightly open.

  'I'm just doing my job,' he mumbled.

  'My god, I suppose it didn't occur to you that the best person to talk to Zack might be me, did it? No? I guess not. You didn't for one second think, hey, Lola might actually find out where Zack is staying, all on her own, and then she'll tell me! Wow! I might not even have to do any of this silly, stupid, playground James Bond stuff at all. I suppose that didn't occur to you, did it?'

  He blinked hard and stared.

  Lola laughed.

  'So, come on,' she said. 'Answer the question. Who told you to come here?'

  'I don't know,' he said. 'I got a text. Unknown number.'

  He held out the phone and she snatched it from him. She checked the number against her contacts and passed it back.

  'I don't have that number,' she said.

  'I - I'm - er - I rang Francesca. She's interesting. I mean she - she has character.'

  And at that, Lola half smiled.

  'That's one way of putting it. We're really only friends because of Zack. We're not friends, friends, if you know what I mean?'

  Bart nodded.

  'So. Are you going to see her?' Lola asked.

  'I think so. She's checking me out she says. I'm not supposed to talk to her - it's a don't call me, I'll call you situation.'

  He forced a out a laugh.

  'I'll send her a text,' Lola said.

  'That would be great,' said Bart.

  Her face changed as she looked through the calls on his phone. Bart watched her. Even her frown looked good.

  'Have you been talking to my dad?' she asked.

  'We spoke.'

  'Did you speak about me?'

  He turned to the sea, counting the ships.

  'My dad really hates Zack.'

  'I got that, yes,' Bart said.

  'And did he tell you to look out for me?'

  Bart pulled the beanie tighter on his head. He played with his collar.

  'Yes. Yes, he did.'

  'And I suppose you're to report back to him, are you?'

  'It wasn't specified. No. He never said I had to do that, but he did say to let him know if you were in any danger. So no. Not really.'

  Lola threw her free hand in the air. Her lower lip dropped in disgust.

  'Never said you have to! Jesus Bart! Did he pay you?'

  Bart raised his shoulders.

  'How much?' she asked.

  He wanted to put his arms around her. He moved closer, half a step, a quarter. But she backed away, matching him and raising him a step each time.

  So Bart turned back to the sleepy ships in the middle distance and he said,'Yes he did. He gave me money. A grand.'

  'I knew it!' she said. 'I bloody knew it!'

  She threw her arms in the air and walked over to the edge of the promenade.

  'I'm going to give it back!' He stood behind her. 'Look, you can have it. Here! You can give it back to him for me. Or keep it.'

  There was a tear on her cheek and she pushed him away with both hands.

  'Unbelievable! Just who do you think you are, Bartholomew fucking Crowe? I helped you. I stuck my neck out for you, I mean I properly stuck my neck out and I helped you! And what do you do for me? You accuse me. You spy on me. You wreck the only chance I get of finding my fucking boyfriend. You stalk me! Who the fuck do you think you are, Bartholomew Crowe? You know, you act like you're this sweet, kind guy, the private detective, the innocent righter of wrongs. But all you ever do is stuff everything up! What are you even for, Bart Crowe? Oh fuck off!'

  21

  The Mini hit eighty, then ninety, then touched a hundred. The speed blocked his thoughts of the Turner Centre, his thoughts of Lola Golden. He slowed, played bad songs too loud, floored it again and forgot about art.

  He reached Stratford at just after noon. Buses, cars and suits, grey high-rises and new red brick, and in among the plate glass and the concrete and the weathered wood panelling was The Pie Crust Cafe, an anomaly - Victorian brick, with flaking paint and dated typography.

  Bart stood close to the window. He tried to peer inside but he couldn't see past the net curtains. It looked pretty busy. He hoped that Francesca De Souza would already be there. He couldn't be sure she'd turn up. He'd checked her social media feeds. As a singer there were plenty of pictures, and of course there were the photos on the SD Card too. He felt sure he'd recognise her even without the cerise hair.

  The cafe was just as dark on the inside as it looked from the outside. There were pictures on the wall of Asian men in military uniform without names or explanation, and the diners who huddled
around the thin topped tables were equally anonymous. Men and women of working age, dressed in office clothes, and media types in smart casual and converse - but no Francesca De Souza, just the clear, crisp confidence of affluent London.

  There were two menus, British and Thai, the chicken and ginger mixing it with the eggs and the bacon. Bart ordered a coffee from the lady at the counter. She was the oldest person in the place. Her face was lined with experience way beyond his understanding. She muttered to herself as she placed the white mug on the counter. A group of perfectly preened guys peacocked out, all banter and back-slaps, and Bart took their table, squeezing into the seat nearest the wall. Behind him a mixed group laughed about the night before, and two women sat in front, comparing business trips, clients and short-sighted bosses.

  The table had been cleared and his coffee was two-thirds gone when Francesca Da Souza walked in. Scarlet mini-dress, purple leggings, and red ballet pumps. Her bright, bright hair, was redder than expected. And a thick plait fell down one side. She was a striking woman, all the more striking in the flesh, and Bart was not the only one to notice. She turned heads. Bart tried to stand and wave, clattering the chair of the man behind. He apologised quickly, and he raised his hand from where he was. And when her eyes met his, she gave the faintest of nods.

  He admired her economy of movement.

  'Bartholomew Crowe?' Her accent contradicted her manner. East London, bawdy and brash. 'Well I don't know about you but I'll have the chili prawns thank you very much. You still paying?'

  She turned to the counter. When he turned back she plonked two beers on the varnished surface.

  'I'll have yours if you don't want it,' she said.

  She tilted her head back and massaged her neck with her fingers. Then she took a short swig of beer. She laid both hands on the table. She stared at him. He looked away, but she kept right on staring. Her eyebrows were neat and thin. Her lips were turned down at the edges, giving her face the appearance of a permanent frown. She leaned in towards him and she rested her chin in her hand, and kept right on staring, eyes that burrowed into his soul.

 

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