BLOOD DRUGS TEA (A Dark Comedy Novel)

by Saunders, Craig

  Joe looked hurt and turned away.

  “Would you two stop arguing? You’re just making my slide worse,” said Pill.

  “I’m not arguing,” said Joe. “Girls are too stupid to argue with.”

  I begged to differ. I didn’t think Harry was stupid at all.

  “Girls aren’t stupid,” said Harry. “You’d just like a stupid girl to keep quiet for you.”

  “Well I wish I had one that didn’t spell sneezes.”

  Harry always said achoo, enunciating every word when she sneezed. Just another reason to find her loveable as far as I was concerned.

  They fell into silence.

  Another snippet of conversation from girlfriend/boyfriend bliss. I returned the phone to the cradle and picked up my tea.

  “What are you two arguing about now?” I asked. Harry sighed and Joe gave me a look. I elected to mind my own business.

  “Anyway,” I said. “We’ve got a name and an address. Let’s go.”

  *

  It was ten o’clock when we took the bus to her flat. It didn’t take long to get there. The police were already there. They wouldn’t let us in, but her landlady was on the front porch. I called her over with a cunning ‘excuse me ma’am’. Women are more inclined to talk to you if you call them ma’am.

  Not if you’re chatting someone up, mind.

  I’ve never been one for chatting girls up. I can count the number of girlfriends I’ve had on the fingers of one hand. Why’s a good looking lad like you all alone, pining for Harry? You might well ask. It’s a mystery. I see myself as a stud out to pasture early. I’m well past my dating prime, which was when I was sixteen and felt Patsy Wellington’s boobs through her bra. It’s been downhill ever since.

  “What do you want?” she said. She looked a little dowdy and had a podgy face. She was no looker. Not a patch on my Harry.

  The front of the building was run down. The paint was flaking around sash windows that looked like the putty was ready to give up the ghost. There was a side alleyway and I guessed if I got close enough it would stink of piss. I couldn’t imagine the pretty young girl living here. It didn’t sit right with me. She looked too pretty to be poor, and her clothes had been reasonably smart. It wasn’t like she died wearing a shell suit or anything. This place looked like everyone here was working on the market or collecting the social.

  It didn’t look like Tracey had been well to do.

  “We just wanted to ask you a couple of questions,” said Joe in a gruff voice, like he didn’t have the time to act charming and persuasive.

  “What about?”

  “About Tracey.”

  “I’ve already told the police everything,” she said, looking at us funny. I didn’t think she’d talk but then she twigged me. “You’re that guy from the papers,” she said, matter-of-factly.

  “It’s nice to be recognised.” Actually I was delighted to be recognised. It saved a lot of dancing around, trying to get people to talk. If you’ve been in the papers people think they know you. I’d been in the papers before. I’d solved a couple of crimes but nothing like last summer, when I’d (well, I’d had a little help from my friends) found a missing boy. It wasn’t any great shakes but he’d been trying to buy a bus ticket. The police had looked into the abducted angle and I’d figure he’d just run away from home after talking to his father, who just looked like a right arse. It hadn’t been difficult, although the father just couldn’t accept that the boy had wanted to run away. I guess the kid got a beating when he got home. I should have let him get away.

  The lady opened right up. It’s surprising what being famous can do for you. Doesn’t get me any girls, though.

  “I’m going to investigate what happened to Tracey. These are my friends. Obviously you don’t have to talk to us but it might help find Tracey’s killer.”

  “Oh, no, that’s alright. I want to talk. It’s a terrible thing what happened to that poor girl. She was the ideal person to live with. Kind. I’m terribly upset about the whole thing.”

  Funny thing was, she didn’t so much as sniff as she said that. I didn’t get the impression she was upset at all.

  “Well, we’ll just ask a few questions and let you get on with your day as best you can. No doubt there’ll be a lot of arrangements for you to make, and police to talk to.”

  “I’ve already talked to the police. They’re in her room now, looking for clues I guess.”

  “Yeah, they do that,” I said. “Anyway, do you remember what time she went out last night?”

  She pulled herself upright, like she guessed we were getting down to business. She still looked fat, but pulling herself upright gave her a double chin as well.

  “She went out about nine. Just going to the local, she said.” Bing, I thought. Spot on.

  “Who was she going with?”

  “Her boyfriend. She was meeting him there.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Samantha Reeves. What’s your name again?”

  “Jake,” I said. “This is Joe, Harry and Paul.” They all said hi.

  A corpulent man past on the other side of the road, goggling the scene as he walked. He tapped his umbrella on the pavement, the rapping slowing down as he passed. Even though he was out of earshot our conversation took on hushed tones. It looked like rain.

  “What’s her boyfriend’s name, Samantha?” I asked, hushed.

  “He’s Peter, Peter Parkinson.”

  “Where does he live?”

  She told me and I wrote down the address in my own notebook. Forensics looked to be just getting started behind us.

  “Have the police already been to see you then?”

  ”Yes, they came by early this morning. I was just going out to get a coffee and some breakfast.”

  “Perhaps we can take you to breakfast?” I said solicitously.

  “Nah, that’s ok,” she said.

  “What was she like as a flatmate?”

  “She wasn’t a flatmate. She was a lodger. I guess she was OK. She was quiet and didn’t come in at all hours of the night. She worked, which is more than I can say for most people round here. Nice girl.”

  “Did she ever give you any problems?”

  “No, not that I can recall. She was the ideal lodger, really. Kept herself to herself and paid on time.”

  “What did she do for a living?”

  “She worked for a firm of solicitors. She was a typist, I think.”

  I racked my brains, trying to think of what else I should be asking her, but Harry took over before my sleep-deprived brain could let me down.

  “What was her boyfriend like?” she asked. Joe looked at Harry out the corner of his eye, like it wasn’t her place to be asking questions, but I was grateful.

  “He was really nice. Polite, when he came round. Always asked if it was alright if he came in, offered me tea when he was making it, that kind of thing. I liked him. Handsome man too.” She smiled at me as she said this. I kept quiet.

  “What about her family?”

  “She didn’t see them. She was from Solihull. I don’t think she ever went to see them since she’s been living here and they certainly never came to see her.”

  “So they didn’t get on then?”

  “I don’t really know, but I got that impression.”

  “Did any of her friends ever come round?”

  “No, the only person that ever called for her was Peter. I must be hard on him. That’s why she was a good lodger though. Like I said she always paid her rent on time and never caused any trouble.”

  “Hmm,” said Pill. I wondered what he was thinking, but I didn’t wonder too hard. The chance that it was deep or important were minimal.

  “If there’s anything else can we call you?” I asked. I’d had enough. I didn’t think she was going to tell us anything earth shattering. The police looked to be getting into the swing of things behind us.

  “Well, you can,” she said smiling at me cheekily. For someone who’d
just lost her lodger she didn’t seem that upset. But then perhaps it was my charm. Harry smiled as she came on to me. Even though I didn’t really realise what was going on, I’ve always been a bit thick in that department. Harry was always saying I should have a girlfriend. I didn’t have the heart to tell her the only one I wanted was taken already.

  “Well, Samantha,” I said, “thank you for your time. Just one last thing? Did Tracey seem upset to you lately? What kind of mood was she in last night?”

  “She seemed fine. I didn’t really get the impression that there was anything wrong. It’s a terrible thing,” she added again. This time there was a sniff, but then it was cold out and a miserable day anyway. It could have just been the weather.

  “Anything troubling her? Things with her boyfriend all OK?”

  “Yeah, she was happy go lucky, she was always happy. You know the type. Not a care in the world.”

  I know the type. The type that go getting themselves killed. Arseholes never seem to get murdered.

  “No problems then?”

  “Not that I knew about.”

  “One more thing – where did she hang out?”

  “I wouldn’t know, we were only on talking terms didn’t get on that well.” She said it like the admission was an embarrassment.

  “Well, thanks again.”

  “Yeah if you get in the papers again I want a mention!” Vampire, I thought. It made sense. She didn’t seem all that cut up and just wanted a bit of attention. For all her protestations about how terrible the murder was I would have put money on her getting a kick out of all the attention. Still, at least she’d talked to us.

  “Will do love,” said Joe.

  I turned back to her before we left and asked while I remembered. “Did she wear a ring?”

  The landlady looked at me nonplussed. “You know, I don’t think I ever noticed one.”

  “Thanks,” I said with a wave and left.

  We all got the bus back to mine. The bus smelled of old people and camphor.

  *

  I’d had enough for one day already, and it was only just gone lunch. It was time for a break.

  Everyone left to go their own way. Joe, Harry and I were going to talk to the boyfriend later. Pill was going to sleep off the night’s excesses. I just wanted a little space to breath. When I got back the first thing I decide was to go and have a poo. I do some of my best thinking on the toilet.

  I couldn’t do it though. I would eat bran, but the myth of bran annoys me. It was invented by toilet paper companies, you know. If you don’t eat bran you get nice clean nuggets, you don’t even need to wipe. Bran just takes all the good out of you before you get a chance to digest it.

  I thought about the case while straining on the toilet. Samantha had talked to us but I was betting the boyfriend would be a different kettle of fish. He’d probably been questioned by the police first. We’d have to tough it out with him.

  I thought about the crime on the toilet. Here’s what I think about thinking. That the brain is a parasite, and it was this that lead to humankind’s development as a higher species. Sometimes I think that ideas are extant too. I’m slightly afraid of them.

  After finishing on the bog, unsuccessful in both the thought and the poo department, I went to have a bath. I took the phone into the bathroom. I sat in the bath for some time. The tap dripped on my big toe. The drip of the tap sounded like marching soldiers. The water turned cold and I puckered, so I pulled the plug, sat it on the tap at a jaunty angle, and got out. I dried myself with a towelling towel, wondering if towels should be called something else when made out of towel, but didn’t get too distracted. I called Reb at work after getting dressed. I had decided.

  What the hell, no harm in asking.

  “What you been up to?” asked Reb when he came on the phone.

  “I’ve been writing a story in my head. It’s about a cock. About all its adventures, injuries and illnesses, it’s highs and lows. All from the cock’s perspective, of course. I’d a whale of the time pitching it over the phone, I can tell you. I’d like to see the movie of that.”

  “Was it a short story or a proper book?”

  “Could be short, could be long. With one eye you never can tell.”

  “Anyway,” Reb said, traversing the slippery slopes of my banalities without further comment. “How are you going to go about finding the killer?”

  “Well, I was wondering. If she fell or was pushed, how come there were no other injuries? Wouldn’t she have like a broken leg or arm or something from the fall?”

  “Perhaps she landed plum on her head?”

  “Perhaps she wasn’t pushed,” I said, just to test the water.

  “Hmm,” said Reb. Thinking. I could hear him over the phone. I waited. When he didn’t say anything, I asked how the autopsy went.

  “Same as always,” He replied. “They’ve just finished. You know there’s always this wet, gaseous hiss as the knife enters the bowel cavity, like a sneaky fart working it’s way around a Guinness poo.”

  “Lovely,” I said.

  The doorbell rang.

  “There’s something else…”

  “Gotta go, that’s Harry and Joe,” I said and hung up before he could finish. It was three in the afternoon. It was time to go and talk to the boyfriend.

  *

  7. Spare Key

  We came down the street having taken the bus to the top of the road. The houses were all at least three bedroom jobs. Well-to-do, I think would be the expression. There were flash new cars parked in long drives, immaculately tended lawns and lots of little trees. It looked like a suburban hell.

  We came up to the door of Peter Parkinson’s house. It had leaded windows with blinds, which really didn’t go.

  I rang the bell. There came the sound of footsteps approaching and the door opened. A big man opened the door. He didn’t go with the dainty Tracey at all. Surely this couldn’t be her boyfriend. He was just too big. He must have been six foot five at least. A powerful man. I bet he could have snapped her neck had he wanted to.

  “Peter? Peter Parkinson?” I asked.

  “Yes?” He said. He had his foot in the door, like he was trying to stop himself closing the door. His eyes were red rimmed. I couldn’t imagine such a big man crying. It was somehow wrong. It didn’t fit either. Why would he cry if he’d just killed his girlfriend. My first impression was that he didn’t do it.

  “My name’s Jake. I’m sorry to trouble you but I’m investigating Tracey’s murder.” I didn’t beat around the bush. I knew the police would have already talked to him. That’s why we waited. For them to finish. No sense in hanging around waiting for the police to tidy up.

  “You’re not the police,” he stated.

  “No, we’re not.”

  “Then who the hell are you?”

  “We’re kind of private investigators.”

  “Well, I’m not talking to you, so sod off.”

  “Just a few questions, Mr Parkinson,” said Harry. “We won’t keep you long and it really will help catch Tracey’s killer. I’m very sorry for your loss.” This seemed to mollify him somewhat and he slumped. His face lost some of its anguish and looked, in the absence of a better word, like a slab.

  ”I’ve been talking to the police all day. What do you want? I can’t talk about this anymore.”

  “We just have a few questions for you. We understand you’re grieving and would like to be left alone.”

  His house was big too. It looked like he did alright for himself.

  “I can’t talk now.”

  “Alright. It really will help you to catch her killer if you talk to us,” said Harry and gave him her card with my telephone number on it. My house was, after all, kind of our office.

  He took the card and shut the door without a further word.

  We left.

  *

  We got back home. Harry and Joe were in the front room waiting for me to bring tea in. I boiled the kettle and put little t
riangular tea bags in each cup.

  I thought while I made the tea. I didn’t really think about the crime. There wasn’t enough to go on. I thought about paranoia and sleeplessness like they were two sides of the same coin. I yawned. Paranoia’s a funny thing. It makes you wonder about everything and think you’re having an epiphany. I wondered last night, if they really were putting something in the water, something to make people more prone to suggestion. They don’t put it in the water though, that’d be the first place people would look, surely? I mean, if I can think of it, someone else must be able to. I think that’s a fallacious argument too, though. If I wanted to control people, I wouldn’t put my magic beans in the water. I’d put them in the paint. Everyone comes into contact with paint in the western world, and we all think the same. We’re not capitalists at all, we’re just nations of paint addicts. Look at the undeveloped countries, for example. They don’t have paint, and you don’t see them pinning cause they can’t afford the latest Nikes.

  It wasn’t a particularly epiphanal type of wondering and it didn’t get me anywhere. I yawned again and made a noise like a trumpeting elephant. The kettle clicked off and my windows were steamed up.

  I made the tea.

  *

  Around six o’clock that evening the phone rang. I was glad for the distraction. My thoughts were jaded and I was getting nowhere with the crime. I couldn’t figure out why you would break someone’s neck just to throw them off a multi-story. I put a thumb up to Joe and Harry. They sat quietly while I was on the phone.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Jake Black?” It was Peter Parkinson’s voice. Aha, I thought. The worm turns. When both ends of the worm are the same thing I wasn’t sure exactly how a worm turned. But that’s beside the point.

  “Yes. Mr Parkinson?”

  “Yes. Look, ordinarily I wouldn’t have anything to do with you but I can’t think where else to turn. The police have been back round this afternoon and they seem to think I’m the only suspect. Tracey’s killer will never be caught at this rate.”

  “I understand,” I said. And I did. The police always were blinkered in criminal investigations. There first thought was spouse, or boyfriend. Girls rarely committed murder.