You Can't Make Old Friends

by Tom Trott

  You Can’t Make Old Friends

  tom trott

  Second edition

  Copyright © 2016 Thomas J Trott

  Cover design & illustration by Thomas Walker

  All rights reserved

  ISBN: 1540745732

  ISBN-13: 978-1540745736

  for Nick, Simon, Joel, Tony, Will, George, Prash, and Matt, my Rorys

  THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION

  Names, characters, and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Places are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any incidents, companies, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  prologue

  in your house, your flat, or your cardboard box, there is a cupboard. You know the cupboard I mean. Somewhere to put all the things you don’t want to see. The things you don’t have space for anymore. The broken things you can’t bring yourself to throw away. At the back of your memory there is a cupboard too.

  And just like in your house, your flat, or your cardboard box, if you put too much in there, you can’t close the door anymore...

  Two boys scampered through the woods. Crunching on twigs. Swinging on branches. The mud kicking up onto their clothes.

  The sun was streaming through gaps in the trees, lighting rays of dust that, when you are moving at speed, flicker and dance like a zoetrope in the corner of your eye.

  They ducked under bushes, skipped over tree stumps, at lightning speed, following a well-worn path. The bigger of the two leading the way through cobwebs, over anthills.

  Soon clouds began to cover the sun, the rays of dust giving way to dim shadows and damp moss. Then it started to rain. First in small spots. Then a deluge. Although already drenched, they had made it just in time.

  The larger boy pulled back the canopy wall and they sheltered inside. Mud smeared. Dripping wet. Together they huddled by the tree stump that marked their den. And on it their sign:

  J&R

  Shivering, the bigger boy decided to wring out his clothes, so he peeled off his once-white polo shirt. As he did so the other noticed something: his chest was… different. He reached out a hand to feel, running his fingers over the ribs. It felt different too.

  Footsteps! Crunching, splashing footsteps announced the presence of others. They can’t have found this place! Not this place, their last refuge!

  Three bigger boys ripped apart the den. The rain and the mud flowed in. The smaller boy ran to defend the first but he was batted to the ground like an errant football.

  He could only lie there, winded, whilst they started pummelling his friend. He closed his eyes, he didn’t want to watch. But he could always hear it. Always.

  Even today...

  1

  I Always Knew I’d Find You Dead One Day

  shit. So I had slept in my office again. In my chair. In the same clothes. For the second night in a row. I smelled like a tramp.

  I could hear a bin van. Birdsong. It must have been early. What business did I have being awake this early? It wasn’t like me.

  My desk was experiencing a minor earthquake. I thought that was odd until I realised it was just my phone vibrating. That must be why I’m awake. I fished for it underneath yesterday’s Chinese takeaway tubs. Or were they the day before’s? Either way I needed to leave the office.

  It was a text, not that my phone could do anything more than texts and calls, and it was terse:

  “The beach. Now.”

  I didn’t have their number in my phone, hopefully they knew my business. Normally I wouldn’t respond to such a summoning, but I really needed to get out.

  The morning sun was spitting rays of dust through the blinds, and by this half-light I did the best I could with the dying electric razor that I kept in my desk. Nothing I could do about the smell though.

  The beach? To someone from Brighton that usually means the area between the two piers: the Palace Pier and the wreck of the West Pier. Or more realistically, wherever you can get a spot. I've been on the beach at two a.m. and found it just as packed as during the day. Full of people lighting pointless disposable barbecues and pouring vodka into a watermelon for no good reason.

  As I rode down through a sea-mist on my old Honda I prayed that there wouldn’t be a crowd, I wasn’t in the mood to be looked at by anyone. Wondering if the beach would be busy at this time, especially in this weather, I realised that I had absolutely no idea what the time was, and on a grey day like this there was no sun to give me a clue.

  The Palace Pier emerged out of the mist as I approached the seafront. I still call it the Palace Pier despite it being renamed years ago. Brightonians either call it the Palace Pier or just The Pier, but never, ever Brighton Pier.

  It is now the only pier, but there had been three for one brief moment back in the reign of Queen Victoria. The first was The Royal Suspension Chain Pier, but that was prematurely destroyed by a storm in 1896. It was already scheduled for demolition, having been outshone by the West Pier. “The West Pier is the best pier” people used to say, and I always wished I could have seen it in its heyday. There was a concert hall for heaven’s sake. There was also a magician and escapologist called The Great Omani who used to be tied in chains and thrown off the end into the water. When this was no longer exciting enough, petrol was added and the waves set ablaze. Apparently, one night Worthing Pier called up to warn them that the West Pier was on fire. They were about forty years too early.

  They say it was arson. It still stung me that someone would burn down a piece of history. A great piece of history. All that left was the Palace Pier, and that’s just for tourists.

  When I got to the seafront and cruised along Madeira Drive, I could see that the beach was as busy as my place on a Saturday night. That is to say empty. Empty as a politician’s promise. Empty as Barbie’s knickers.

  I could see only one group on the beach, a couple of hundred metres east of the pier. I parked up next to a small smattering of cars, by the statue of Steve Ovett, and took a look.

  A cold, wet winter always strips the city back to its foundations. And so much of the city’s reputation is surface. The clubbers, the Pride marchers, the eco-warriors are all summer creatures. In the winter the city is just another grey, miserable seaside town like all the others. The same shut-up shops, the same graffiti, the same kids. The same neighbourhoods you avoid, the same streets you don't walk down at night. The same problems. Sure, Brighton is paradise, if you're white, middle class, and were born before 1980. Maybe that's being too harsh. Sometimes you can get away with just two of those.

  As I stepped over the old Volks Electric Railway line I got my first view. Well, well, well... look who wants me back, I thought. I could see the unmistakable high-vis jackets of uniformed police officers. High-vis that seemed especially pointless standing in the middle of an empty beach. It could be a lollypop lady convention.

  They were right by where the Chain Pier would have been. And as I crunched onto the pebbles, stepping over strands of dead, black seaweed, I could make out CSI men in coveralls, which must mean a body. Or at least a body part. That would explain the group of seagulls hovering above their heads. Not even flapping their wings, just riding the wind.

  Even with the mist, the sea this morning was shimmering enticingly. I often have the urge to just dive in and swim to France for the afternoon, but apparently it isn’t that easy. Maybe I could make it just as far as that fishing boat or something or other on the horizon. They say the horizon is about three miles if you’re standing at sea level. I could make that. I could definitely make that. But there were police waiting for me.

  As the only person for what seemed like miles around, I hit their radar pretty fast. And then I saw George, wearing high-vis and one of
those ridiculous shower-cap things that uniformed officers wear when it’s raining to keep their silly hats dry.

  ‘Morning,’ he called.

  I just nodded. This was enough for the officer on guard to let me through the cordon. The CSI guys were taking photos. It made me laugh to see them still in coveralls, even with the little covers they put over their shoes, despite them being on the beach. They’re not supposed to disturb the crime scene of course, but the tide was doing it regardless of their best efforts. George said something to them and they were persuaded to take a break. This gave me my first real look at it.

  There it was: a naked, bloated body. Pale white, glossy like ivory, streaked with a coppery green. A man was about all I could tell. Poor bastard. George gave me a running commentary whilst I tried not to gag. I’ve seen worse, believe me, but when it's that early in the morning and all you have in your stomach is yesterday’s Chinese it’s a bit more difficult.

  ‘Washed up this morning. Been in the water about three days, best guess.’

  ‘Best guess?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, the doctor’s not here yet so that’s coming from these guys,’ he looked toward the CSI men all taking a fag break, ‘but they’ve seen enough of these to be reliable.’

  ‘What about his face?’

  ‘Some kind of acid, they think.’

  My mind reeled. It was just a lumpy red mass.

  ‘Post-mortem,’ he added. Thank god for that.

  I looked down at the hands. I almost went again: his fingers were all missing.

  ‘Fingers are seagull food by now.’

  I don’t think George had any idea how close to vomiting I was when he said that. And the constant screaming of seagulls in my ears didn’t help. They were waiting for us to leave so that they could have the body. Vultures have nothing on Brighton seagulls, they’ll eat your hand just to get to the chip you’re holding.

  It was clear by now that whoever had done this didn’t want the body identified. And if they had gone to this effort you could bet his DNA wasn’t in the database.

  ‘Dental records?’ I asked.

  He reached down and opened the man’s mouth, which wasn’t what I was asking for, and I could see that he didn’t have any teeth. Not anymore, anyway.

  ‘Age?’

  ‘About the same as you, we think.’ Which was to say early thirties.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Afraid not.’

  He shrugged as if to apologise. Don’t apologise, I thought. I like the difficult ones.

  ‘This one’s going to be impossible,’ he said.

  That’s why they called me.

  I took a step back. So what did we have? Male. Early thirties. Very long, scraggly, wild hair I could see. Sort of ginger. And his chest… I reached down, touching the cold, rubbery body. Running my hands over the ribs. I could feel... something.

  It couldn’t be. Could it? Various parts of my mental cortex began to fire, but I was interrupted:

  ‘Who the fuck are you!?’

  I looked up to see a sharp blonde in a tight trouser suit. It was slate grey with slight pinstriping, and very serious looking, which matched her face. Flat shoes too, which was a good thing on the pebbles. The brief sketch I got of her face was of dazzling sapphire eyes on top of pale, thin lips. Her nose had a perfect ski-slope profile to it, and her blonde hair would probably be quite stunning if it was allowed to sway and bounce seductively, but she had pulled it tight into a ponytail until it looked like it was begging to spring free. I could see she had done everything possible not to be as attractive as she was in a profession where that was still a hindrance, male or female. It was a miracle how I got away with it. That last part is of course a joke: I never got away with it.

  She must have been freezing, given that she was slender and without a coat, but she didn’t show it. From her introduction I got the distinct impression that she was one of those female officers who swear a lot to make up for having a vagina. And I wasn’t in the mood for shouting.

  ‘You called me,’ I growled.

  ‘Who called you!?’

  That wasn’t the reaction I was expecting. I looked to George who was straightening his silly hat and smiling like a lunatic. I understood. Fucking hell! I hadn’t been asked back to assist a repentant and regretful police force, I was being thrown a bone by George. I didn’t need charity, thank you very much.

  I thought at this point I would just leave, but George preceded to make things worse.

  ‘This is Joe. Joe Grabarz.’

  ‘He was touching my body,’ the officer barked.

  ‘He’s a private dick.’

  I knew that would piss her off, and it did. Her eyes widened and she looked like she might kill George.

  He continued, ‘When a case is difficult, like this, sometimes the SIO will—’

  ‘You’re telling me you call in for help?’

  She got right to the point. And boy, did she make it sound bad. A police department so devoid of good brains that they needed me to help with the tough ones. Well, not anymore. They had made that abundantly clear. Then she added a kicker:

  ‘I decide what’s difficult’.

  But George didn’t get what was happening, he kept going, ‘This is how things work down here.’

  She kicked again, ‘Things don’t work down here. That’s why I’m here.’

  Ouch. Then, not content to let him steal the last word, she ended the whole thing: ‘Go home.’

  He couldn’t talk, he wasn’t sure what she was saying. I wasn’t sure if she was sending him home for the day, or forever. I found out later it was permanent.

  ‘Now!’ she barked. He even jumped.

  And with a last forlorn look at me he started to trudge away without a word. She was impressive, in a terrifying kind of way. I took this as my cue to leave and I tried to.

  ‘Oi, you!’ meaning me, ‘What did you see when you touched the body? You had that look.’

  Yeah right! I thought. Like I’m going to tell you. And I said as much with my face.

  I caught up with George on Madeira Drive as he was getting into his car. I had never had any idea how old he was. He usually looked not that much older than me, but I suspected he was older and just lived less than I did, until now he hadn’t looked it. Now I spotted grey hairs that I hadn’t before, and lines around his eyes and across his forehead. Spare skin sagged around his jowls. He looked tired and wind chafed. Then again, standing there I felt wind chafed too. He took one look at me and started talking, clearly he wanted to unload.

  ‘Stupid bitch! Who does she think she is?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I answered honestly, ‘who is she?’

  ‘New DCI. From London.’

  Wow, a DCI. That young and pretty. I shouldn’t have thought pretty, I know. But I did. She can’t have been that much older than me either, and looked better than I did for it. Maybe late thirties. I hadn’t heard of that before.

  ‘She’s the Chief’s special project,’ he added.

  ‘Who left?’

  ‘No one yet.’

  She must be special, with budgets the way they are they’re looking to retire the higher-paid officers, not hire them.

  ‘We’re all on the block,’ he added. He certainly was.

  There didn’t seem to be anything left to say so I straddled my bike. George wasn’t happy with this.

  ‘You’re welcome. Probably cost me my bloody job,’ he moaned.

  All I could think to say was ‘I didn’t ask you to call me.’ It was true. And I wasn’t that happy with him either.

  He grumbled and cursed me as he got in his car. I slipped into my helmet. Sealing off the world. With the visor down no one could see me. No one could see what I was thinking. The wind and rain, all the world, was shut away. I could close my eyes and I was anywhere. Except this time I was back in my office…

  It must have been a couple of years ago, I thought. I couldn’t remember every detail but I could remember El
aine’s face.

  She had aged wonderfully. One of those women who was nearly fifty and had managed to keep her figure the whole time. Razor sharp cheekbones that would cut you if you dared to even think about getting close.

  She was sitting on her best asset, opposite my desk with a cigarette on. It wasn’t in an elegant cigarette holder, but I couldn’t help sketching one into my memory. She was wearing a tight pencil skirt with a slit that went to halfway up her thigh. And she had excellently toned, deep dark, lightly freckled legs. A tan obtained through years of holidays to Spain or Greece or Turkey, or wherever had the best sun-to-price-tag ratio.

  I had always liked her, she was the mum you could have fun with. You could tell by the way she dyed her neat little bob a brunette shade that had just a hint of brilliant red that only showed when light from behind haloed her. It was like a secret signal to the initiated that said “I’m fun. Play with me.” She wasn’t her happy self anymore though, for obvious reasons.

  ‘I’ve never been in your office before, Joe.’

  ‘That’s a good thing,’ I said.

  She fiddled with her cigarette and didn’t always look at me. ‘Have you heard from Rory lately?’

  ‘No,’ was all I said. It’s not like you can officially announce that a friendship is dead, but she must have known. There wasn’t a body, but considering it hadn’t been seen for almost a decade, I’m sure any reasonable judge would issue a death certificate.

  ‘I’m worried about him.’

  She put it out there in the middle of the room as though we might both take a step back and consider it from a distance. It was for me to pick up or leave as I saw fit. Except it wasn't. If I didn't pick it up it would be forced on me soon enough and I would have to endure more painful small talk in the meantime.

  ‘When was the last time you heard from him?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t even remember.’

  ‘And Thalia?’

  ‘She doesn’t tell me anything.’