Burning Crowe

by Geoff Smith

  'Yes Sir it is. I recognised that the case might be more complicated than I at first imagined. I wanted to ensure that you guys had the evidence.'

  Simmonds snorted and Bart could see the moustache hairs vibrating.

  'You do know that's not your decision to make, Mr. Crowe? You have heard of withholding evidence, yes?'

  Bart took a breath.

  'I deeply regret not informing the officers of the card immediately. Though, being honest, I do wonder whether you guys would have found it without me.'

  Simmonds raised his eyebrows. Stock glowered.

  'Sorry,' Bart said.

  Stock shook her head, her expression unchanged.

  'Tell us what's on the card,' she said.

  'Pictures of Feathers' partner Zack Richards and of some of his friends.'

  'Any of them significant?'

  Bart paused. He looked at Stock, then at the wall.

  'At first I thought not.'

  Then Simmonds leaned forward. He lowered his glasses on his nose and looked over them.

  'Go on, Mr. Crowe.'

  'Well,' Bart said. 'One of the pictures has a different author. Well, a few of them do actually, but there's one dated the early hours of the morning on the night of the fire at the Ten-Ten Casino.'

  Simmonds sighed.

  'This is old news, Mr. Crowe. Signed off and filed away. I ask you again, did any of the pictures strike you as significant - to this case?'

  Now Bart leaned forward.

  'Zack Richards' friend died in that fire, maybe Feathers' friend too. A lad called -'

  'Torin Malone,' said Simmonds.

  'Yes. And Torin is in loads of the pictures and then, obviously, he isn't. The casino was owned by Glenn Golden. Feathers once worked for Golden. And Feathers wanted this card enough to steal it.'

  'And who is it in the picture, Mr. Crowe?'

  'I don't know. It's too blurred. But it's someone above average in height. Male. They're standing in a doorway. And it looks sort of smoky.'

  Stock looked interested, but it was Simmonds, standing and facing the wall, who spoke.

  'And that is significant, how, Mr. Crowe, exactly? And I'll say this to you again. The investigation into the fire is over. So enlighten me. Why do I need to dig up old ground?'

  'Right. Okay. Well this is just a theory, but maybe - Well if the fire at the Ten-Ten wasn't an accident and that the figure in the picture is Zack Richards. Maybe in cahoots with his friend, Torin Malone, who is hiding in the building till everyone goes home.'

  'A Robbery?'

  'Yeah, maybe. So Malone lets Zack in the back. The two of them set a fire on the stairway to hide their tracks. They could leave straight away but they don't. They're having too much fun - breaking stuff, smashing things up - but Malone trips, and he hits his head, or maybe fractures a bone in his leg so he's immobile. Zack tries to move him but he can't, so he panics and he runs. He gets someone on the street to phone the fire brigade, but when the fire engine arrives it's too late and Malone perishes in the blaze.'

  Simmonds looked relaxed, leaning back, smiling.

  'That's a lot of maybes, but go on Mr. Crowe. You've come this far. You might as well finish.'

  'Okay. Well, when Richards gets home he checks his phone and there's this picture of him that Malone has taken without him realising. It's blurry. He doesn't think that anyone could possibly identify him from it. It scares him but he doesn't delete it because he doesn't know if Malone has sent the pic to anyone else, or if the phone will be recovered from the fire, and he wants to be able to explain it if he needs to. But he does take the memory card out of his phone, and he hides it in his room. Anyway, nothing happens for a couple of months. He thinks he's in the clear. But then he gets blackmailed, electronically, by someone who claims to have the photo and maybe more besides. And that's when Zack decides he'll disappear while he works out what to do. The blackmailer sees his chance to get the photo he only claims to have, and so he breaks into Zack's room and takes it.'

  Simmonds fingers drumming on the desk.

  'And the blackmailer is Feathers, yes?'

  'Exactly. Feathers is Richards partner in crime - if anyone would know about the picture, he would - he hadn't counted on being recognised at the school but he reckons it doesn't matter that much. Just blackmails Richards more openly. But Richards has got more guts than Feathers counts on, because he goes to Athelstan Road with a gun, and he kills Feathers to end the whole thing. Only Feathers hasn't told him the truth about where the memory card is, and Zack has to leave without it. He figures it's okay because even if someone does find it they won't have a clue what it is or why it's important. Except, then he finds out there's this Private Detective nosing around, who's showing around pictures that were taken on his phone -'

  Simmonds brow furrowed.

  'But how did Zack find out about Feathers? He's in hiding.'

  'We don't know who he's in contact with.'

  Simmonds raised an eyebrow.

  'All right, go on.'

  'Well Zack can't shoot me himself, because he figures it will show him up for the whole deal, so he hires someone else to track me, scare me off, maybe even to kill me.'

  Simmonds frowned.

  'And that's who you think fired the gun on Saturday night? This anonymous hired goon? Can you give me a name at all?'

  Bart swallowed, leaned back and folded his arms.

  He said. 'I can't for sure. But there is this guy called Graham Cameron who works for -'

  'Can I just ask you, Bart. Do you know what a police detective does?'

  Bart tilted his head back. A tiles in the ceiling had been dislodged to reveal an empty space.

  'A detective investigates crimes. We prosecute criminals. And all this is based on evidence,' Simmonds said. 'You haven't got any evidence for anything. Now, Private Investigators, like yourself, what you do is find lost cats and love cheats, you see the difference?'

  'Look, I know it's sketchy but come on. It all fits.'

  Simmonds puffed his cheeks and exhaled a long, slow breath. And it was as if someone had flicked his irritation switch. He banged the table and stood.

  'You haven't got any bloody evidence, Mr. Crowe!'

  Bart looked down then back up.

  'I can prove that Richards had that photo on his phone. I can prove the photo was taken when the casino was burning. And you haven't spoken to Zack either, so you don't even know if he's got an alibi. And anyway, you must think there's something important about that memory card or you wouldn't be sitting here talking to me now.'

  'Standard procedure, Mr. Crowe. Thanks for coming.' He scratched the back of his neck. 'I'll drive you to the hotel,' he said. I've got business at that end of town.'

  *

  At the Seaview hotel, Simmonds opened the passenger door. Bart got out and the two men shook hands.

  Bart said, 'Thanks, for listening back there, to all that.'

  Simmonds turned and leaned against the car.

  'No problem.' He paused, and Bart was about to turn away when he spoke again. 'Just one thing before I go Mr. Crowe. Off the record as they say.'

  And Simmonds looked Bart in the eye.

  'Now don't repeat this to anyone, but forensics are suggesting that the bullets that killed Raymond Feathers and wounded Sophie Heath could have been fired from the same gun which strongly suggests a single gunman. Now I'd say he has unfinished business, wouldn't you, Mr. Crowe? So do take care.'

  34

  Red-bricks and brown-roofs, net curtains and faux farm gates, rich green lawns and hedges and right angles - Roselawn Gardens was the perfect cul-de-sac, a world within the world for semi-affluent old folk, and a place where Zack Richards, with his wild youth and art, his music and excess, would stand out like a curry stain on a fresh white shirt.

  The grey Smart Brabus was parked in one of several small car parks and it didn't look out of place. But the car parks presented Bart with a problem. Even with the GPS tracker, he'd still d
idn't know where Zack actually was.

  And so all he could do was wait.

  On his phone, he checked through the recent rentals and sales on the street. A couple of possibilities came up, but nothing very much, nothing to get him knocking on doors.

  So there was nothing to do but wait.

  And time plodded by.

  Residents came slowly, and they went, slowly, and each of them eyed him with suspicion - an unknown youth in a flashy red car on a managed estate - he would have suspected himself.

  It was two-thirteen p.m. when he saw Zack Richards. He came out from a door that was scarily close, and he had the hood of his parka up. Bart couldn't see his face or his hair, but the size was right and so was the walk. Bart ducked down and pretended to tinker with the music system. And he checked the tracking app on his phone and he waited for the Smart to move.

  But nothing happened.

  Nothing moved.

  And when he pushed himself up, Richards had gone.

  Pulling on his coat and his hat, he got out of the car and checked the Smart. It was definitely empty. The whole damned street was empty.

  He jogged to the end of the road and he looked both ways. Nothing. Two choices. Return to the car and wait, or choose a direction and walk.

  He turned left - into town, towards the sea-front. And he walked fast, hands in pockets. More people on the pavement than he expected. No sign of Zack. He paused at the top of an arching bridge, each car making a futuristic whoosh as it passed. Down the hill. His walk slowed. There was nothing, still, and he thought about giving up. There was a convenience store at the bottom of the hill and he decided he would buy a sandwich and head back to the car.

  Zack would have to come back sooner or later.

  He leaned against the shop window. He was sorting through the change in his wallet when Zack Richards came out of the shop.

  Bart almost dropped his change. Turning awkwardly away and hunched into the cash-point next to the door, he pulled up his collar and hid his face.

  Richards stood stock still at the kerb.

  He held a dark green box of cigarettes and pulled off the shrink wrap and dropped it in the road. He pulled out a cigarette. He lit it. He inhaled. Exhaled puffs of grey smoke. Then he looked both ways, up and down the road, and then he turned and walked into town.

  And Bart gasped and his heartbeat slowed. He hadn't realised he'd been holding his breath.

  *

  From the bus shelter, Bart peered through the dark windows of The Mechanical Elephant pub. His collar was still lifted and he hunkered his head down into his shoulders. Hating having to wait again and hating having to wait in the cold.

  And it seemed to take forever.

  Then there was a man in the middle distance, a familiar figure, a stocky man, black leather jacket and straight-cut jeans. Bart curled into the corner of the shelter. And it seemed to work, as Graham Cameron didn't see him as he strode past, all swinging shoulders and tough-guy strut. Ten metres down the road, Cameron stopped. He took a magazine from his jacket. He pushed it into a rubbish bin outside the pub. It seemed to take a fraction of a second longer than it should. Then, he took out his phone and tapped on the screen. Placing the phone back in his jacket, he zipped it up to the neck, did a 180, and headed back up the road, and towards the Golden Arcade.

  Less than a minute later Zack pulled the sprung door open and left the pub. He walked straight to the bin. He put his hand inside and he prised a black plastic package from the underside of the bin lid. He tucked the package inside his coat. He spun away and disappeared around the bend.

  Bart followed, reaching the corner just in time. And Bart saw Zack as he slipped down a side-street that was narrow and strewn with litter. It ran behind the shops, behind The Golden Arcade. Two men were unloading a Transit van at the far end of the road. There was no-one else, and no way to follow without being seen.

  So he turned back.

  And he ran.

  Ran along the beach, back to the cul-de-sac and the cars and the flat.

  *

  Bart was recovering from the run. He was breathing hard and tilting the driver's seat backwards when Zack Richards appeared at the end of the road, hood up, the way he had worn it when he left. The sky was grey, threatening rain. Then Zack passed and moved out of sight. Bart got out of the car and followed. From the corner of the nearest block he heard a door buzz. It clicked open, and he looked around the corner in time to see the black door swing shut. He ducked in by the window and he peered in under the net curtains. And he saw Zack's dark coat on the left of the foyer. A red door opening and the coat was gone.

  Zack was in a ground floor apartment.

  A stroke of luck.

  Bart photographed the buzzers and headed back to the car.

  He clenched his fist and said, 'Got him.'

  35

  And so all he had to do was get Zack to agree to a meeting. He could do that - Glenn Golden or the police - one or both would be enough.

  He'd wrote an email to Lori, giving her Zack's address and a request to keep tomorrow free. Then he sent a message to Lola Golden.

  [You wanted me to find him. I found him. Text me.]

  An hour later he was sitting in The Lifeboat pub, cool and rustic, an old-town place. A cold breeze fumbled to his seat. Lola had arrived. Her eyes swept across the tables and the kegs and the guys at the bar, and then she saw him, at table in the corner.

  She smiled a moment later.

  Her hair hung loose round her shoulders. It brushed his cheek when they hugged. Bart bought her a J2O. He slid in next to her on the bench and she touched his forearm, a single gold chain bracelet below the sleeve of a white, polo-necked jumper.

  She leaned in close. Her voice soft, a velvet shawl.

  'You need to know,' she said. 'You need to know that I couldn't see you before. Not after the shooting. You do get that, don't you?'

  And she stared at him so intensely that he couldn't hold eye contact for more than a second or two.

  'It's okay,' he said. And than he said, 'I missed you.'

  The sentence was unexpected and it made him shiver.

  Lola looked surprised, and then her eyebrows raised, she smiled and exhaled - a long, slow, relaxing breath.

  'Well - here I am,' she said.

  'Did you promise Zack you wouldn't see me?' he said. 'Just asking.'

  And she looked down at the table.

  'Oh Bart,' she said, 'I was scared. I am scared now - for Zack. And you too. But you must know me by now - I don't make promises.'

  She touched his upper arm. For a moment he wanted to take her shoulder, pull her close and kiss her. But it didn't feel right. Instead he straightened his back, squeezing his shoulders together.

  'Well,' he said,'I found Zack.'

  And he stared straight ahead and he tried to look professional and nonchalant.

  'Where?' she said.

  'I can't tell you.' And she edged away and frowned. 'But I can take you there,' he said, glancing her way, the muscles tensing on the side of his face. 'I need you - to persuade him - to meet my client.'

  She tilted her head and she pursed her lips and she said, 'Well, I suppose that depends who your client is now, doesn't it?'

  'His mother.'

  'Mother here, or mother Argentina?'

  'Here. I mean, his mother here. It's Lori. Lori Cole. The step-mother.'

  There was a pause. She looked down.

  'You do know he hates her guts?'

  He nodded.

  'So why should he see her?'

  'Well I don't know - maybe because she's his mother? You know, whatever he thinks about her, she is his step-mother, and she's worried enough to pay me to find him. And she just wants to talk. That's all. I mean, I think she has the right to talk to him, don't you?'

  Lola reached out. She stroked his cheek and whispered, 'Bart. You're getting a little loud.'

  Bart coughed and said, 'Sorry. The thing is, I am going to tell Lori whe
re he is anyway. It's what I've been paid for. She could just go down there and knock on the door herself if she wanted to. And she doesn't want anyone else involved - and I'm pretty sure Zack would rather keep things low key. I mean there are people Zack might not want to see.'

  'What people?' she said.

  'Well the police for one. Look, I can't - She just wants to talk. Okay? A meeting.'

  'And you're sure she won't call the police if he meets her?'

  'Yes,' he said.

  'And if I go will you tell my Dad?' she said.

  Bart snorted.

  'I'm not telling your dad anything.'

  Lola smiled at that, a confident, close mouthed smile.

  She stroked his hair and said, 'You don't like him, do you?'

  Bart said, 'Look, it's not a question of liking him or not liking him. It's just really important that he mustn't know what we're doing.'

  Lola took a sip of her J2O, and when she spoke she didn't look at him.

  'Don't worry. I don't mind if you hate him.'

  Bart put his hand on hers and he looked into her eyes.

  'I mean it Lola. Your dad mustn't know. Zack's safety depends on it.'

  Document K

  Text messages from Sophie Heath to Bartholomew Crowe: 20/11/19. 20:45 p.m.

  [Bart - can we pleeeease STOP talking about forgiveness and all that sorry stuff, okay? No more. Promise?]

  [Much more important than that - I still haven't seen you! It's been FIVE DAYS! ]

  [So come see me! Forget about being an ace P.I. for a bit. And do it quick because - NEWSFLASH!!! - I am going home!!! Seriously, I literally can't wait! A couple of days they say and I'll be back in my room - all my stuff! I can hardly imagine it. They say I'm doing well by the way, I mean, apart from the pain from the stitches, and the disgusting wound - totally gross - and the CRUSHING tiredness! Apart from that I'm fine!]

  [Anyway, I've been doing some thinking since I've been here - yes, actual thinking!!! So concentrate. Okay, so this hole in my side, it's made me think how fragile stuff is, how close the bad stuff in life really is - and I think that's why we - not you - but the rest of us - work so hard. School and education is like a race. And at the end of it the prize is the best chance you're going to get to get some control over your life, you know? School is our chance to lift ourselves out of the chaos. Except that of course there's some people can't escape it, no matter how hard they try. And that's so not fair. But then there's you, Bart - you're throwing yourself right down into the chaos instead of getting away from it - and I think that's weird and I think it's pointless - so there!]