Jess Castle and the Eyeballs of Death

by M B Vincent

  Nobody was saying that; Jess would put money on it. ‘Sounds fascinating. How does the think space work?’ She eyed Rupert slyly, inviting him to join the fun.

  ‘One word,’ said Rupert. ‘No definite article.’

  Iris began to pass around the roast potatoes. ‘One takes it one goes there and there’s space and one thinks?’

  ‘Well, yes, but it’s so much more than that. If I’m right, which I am, this venture will be transformative for Castle Kidbury.’ Patricia sipped from Bogna’s wine glass and winced. ‘James! Surely you can offer us a better red than this?’

  ‘I made wine.’ Bogna stood over the incomer with a chair, but Patricia didn’t budge. ‘Don’t move, darling.’ Darlink. ‘I’ll sit beside you, isn’t it.’ She slammed down the chair, forcing Patricia to scooch along.

  A discreet turf war began between the two women.

  ‘It’s a hub,’ said Patricia as she withstood Bogna’s elbows and accepted a plate of beautifully cooked beef from the Judge. ‘A place for the community to cross-fertilise and share innovation.’

  Susannah’s sudden shout of ‘Ann! Knickers on, darling!’ went ignored by the family, who were accustomed to such outbursts.

  ‘ThinkSpace . . .’ Stephen looked like Moose trying to work out how the fridge door worked. ‘ThinkSpace? Sorry. No. Don’t get it.’

  ‘Darling Stephen,’ said Iris, in her well-modulated tones, ‘there’s very little to get.’ She winked at Jess.

  ‘Where is the thinking space?’ Jess was all apologetic innocence as Patricia corrected her.

  ‘One word, no definite article. The library. The old library as we call it now.’

  Jess growled and bent over her food. The library had been her shelter from both the rain and other people. Patricia, she knew, hadn’t lifted a mayoral finger to save it from closure. Now, it seemed, the red-brick listed building was her personal hobbyhorse.

  ‘James, I’m assuming you’ll be my escort to the grand opening. Good, good,’ she said as the Judge lifted a shocked face from the joint. ‘We have a celebrity to do the honours.’

  ‘A Kardashian?’ asked Mary.

  ‘A royal?’ asked Jess.

  ‘A weatherman,’ said Patricia. ‘Shane Harper.’

  Blank looks all round.

  ‘Shane Harper!’ Patricia bristled at such ignorance. ‘Of TV South West fame. Celebrated forecaster, highly influential.’

  ‘I know him!’ Susannah beamed. She liked to shed light. ‘He does the weekends.’

  ‘Is he a ride?’ enquired Mary. ‘I’ve never shagged a weatherman before.’

  Patricia turned her laser to Mary. ‘Have we met?’ She liked to pigeonhole. ‘You’re Irish, aren’t you? And half-caste.’

  Looking wonderingly at her reflection in a spoon, Mary said, ‘Jaysus, so I am!’

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘You mean, for a job, like? I run a rage room.’

  More blank looks.

  ‘I hire out a big room where people come and freak out about their appalling lives. The walls are padded. The floors are wipe-clean. They can even smash things up if they go for the Platinum Package.’

  ‘People pay you to break your furniture?’ Iris was amused. A touch horrified.

  ‘Basically. They get it all out their systems. Sometimes I go in at the end of the day and have a good auld scream meself.’

  ‘There’s a basis for this in ancient Celtic dance rituals,’ said Jess. ‘Sacrifices were a means of surrendering anger in an effort to appease gods.’

  ‘She’s off!’ Stephen held up his fork. ‘Everything has a basis in ancient times for sis. Or should I call you—’

  ‘No you shouldn’t.’ Jess cut him off before he could shout the hated middle name.

  Susannah put her hand on Mary’s. ‘Do you provide a rage room service for children? It could be just what Baydrian needs. Gifted children get so frustrated. Don’t you, my little darling?’

  Under the table, Baydrian was too busy drawing willies on Rupert’s Converses to answer.

  The men were on the terrace. The women were dotted around the sofas in the drawing room.

  ‘This is so bloody old-school,’ grumbled Jess. She was full of crumble. There’d been an accident and Patricia Smalls’s famous trifle had gone all over the kitchen floor. Bogna blamed Moose. Moose kept schtum. Patricia Smalls had pronounced Bogna’s crumble ‘a little tart’. ‘The menfolk smoking and talking about big important man things, and the little women in here talking about needlework.’

  ‘I love needlework,’ said Susannah from the rug, where she was attempting to minimise Baydrian’s effect.

  ‘When do we ever talk about needlework?’ Iris’s eyes, which changed colour with the time of day, were in their mauve mode. ‘It’s rather refreshing not to listen to them witter on.’

  ‘Stephen does like his Formula One,’ said Jess wearily. She waited for Susannah to defend her husband. Nothing happened. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Me? Yes. Fine. Why?’ Susannah prided herself on being fine 24/7.

  ‘Bloody Jimmy,’ said Bogna darkly, ‘better not be bloody smoking.’ She had taken off her shoes and was rubbing her feet.

  ‘James seems sunny,’ said Patricia from Harriet’s armchair. Jess had to sit on her hands to keep herself from dragging the usurper out of it. ‘I do hope he’s getting over Harriet at last.’

  ‘She was his wife, Patricia,’ said Iris. ‘Not a cold.’

  ‘I didn’t mean any disrespect.’ Patricia stared at Bogna’s stockinged feet as if they were dead fish. ‘I’m just glad to see him in good spirits.’

  ‘Pity Mum never got to see that side of him,’ said Jess. She was sunk deep into the pink and gold cushions.

  ‘Forgive me, child,’ said Iris, ‘but you know next to nothing about your parents’ marriage. Children don’t understand the secret language, and nor should they. James and Harriet’s intimate life was not without good spirits and laughter.’

  Jess harrumphed. Iris rarely corrected her. ‘Dad was always moany when I was growing up.’

  ‘To suggest that your mother was a little woman tiptoeing around your father does Harriet a disservice.’

  ‘S’pose.’

  ‘Annoying, isn’t it,’ said Mary, ‘when people are right?’ She held her hand up for Iris to high-five.

  ‘No, child, I don’t do that,’ said Iris.

  ‘Fair enough, Iris!’ Mary threw a cushion at Jess. ‘I like your aunty.’

  Bogna stood. ‘Too much sitting around, isn’t it.’ She crept out to the hall without her shoes. Within moments, the women heard her shout. ‘Jimmy! Naughty boy! Put down cigar!’

  The men were herded back, sheepishly, by the grim Polish sheepdog.

  ‘The Judge was only holding my cigar for me,’ said Rupert.

  ‘Don’t be an arsehole, Rupert,’ said Jess. ‘Dad had a heart attack a few months ago. You lot shouldn’t be egging him on.’

  Stephen sat on the arm of the sofa. ‘Hey, Jess, I’ve been telling the guys about Buemi’s Grand Prix smash back in 2010.’

  ‘Don’t you recognise me, Stephen?’ Jess was at her most arch. Which was very arch indeed. ‘We grew up together. Have I ever been interested in posh boys driving their flashy cars round and round and round?’

  ‘Typical Jess,’ beamed Stephen. He had never taken his little sister seriously enough for her sharpness to cut him. He flashed a look at his father. The Judge had banned all talk of the Rustic Ripper over the beef. ‘I hear you’re a sleuth these days.’ He laughed. And laughed.

  ‘Not a sleuth, no,’ said Jess, when Stephen had finished and wiped his eyes. ‘But I am acting as a consultant for DS Eden. Dad doesn’t like it, obviously.’

  Stephen gave a dismissive wave. ‘Never mind the pater. Give us the goss, Jess. Do you get to see crime scene photographs?’

  ‘I attended a crime scene.’ Jess couldn’t resist.

  ‘No!’ Stephen was excited. Much more excited than he’d been at the t
wins’ birth.

  ‘Enough, I think, on this topic,’ interjected the Judge.

  ‘She’s heading back to the law, Dad,’ laughed Stephen. ‘Slowly but surely. Via murder.’

  ‘I bloody well am not.’

  Iris was gathering her handbag, preparing to stand. ‘I have every confidence that our Jess will unmask this Rustic Ripper.’

  ‘Don’t encourage her, Iris,’ said the Judge.

  ‘Why ever not? Here she is using all that expensive learning on a subject the dear girl adores, doing something important for her community. Damn sight better than standing in court in a silly wig.’

  Before Jess could thank her great-aunt, Ann pushed Baydrian’s face into the pot pourri. Baydrian and his mother traded screams.

  Iris stood. ‘I’m tired. Take me home, Stephen.’ Iris, who never pleaded old age, exploited its perks. ‘I dread to think what Josh has got up to at the manor while I was out. Probably decided on a new car park, or bought more tat for the giftey shoppy.’ She insisted on pronouncing it that way ever since Josh had put up the sign reading ‘This way to the Gifte Shoppe’.

  Stephen, primed since birth to obey old ladies he was related to, obliged. He separated the children and dragged them from the room like sacks of millet.

  ‘Thank you, Bogna, it was gorgeous,’ cooed Susannah as her husband returned and strong-armed her to the door; her goodbyes were of the James Brown variety, and could take hours. ‘Thank you for a lovely lunch in your lovely house, lovely father-in-law!’

  Patricia was the first to fill the welcome silence. ‘Now, James. Perhaps you could drop me home. I do so love to see a man at the wheel. Particularly,’ she licked her dry lips, ‘a man such as your good self.’

  Bogna began to clear away cups and saucers. ‘Time for Jimmy’s nap. Doctor’s orders.’

  The Judge looked like he could kiss Bogna. ‘I’d so love to drive you, Patricia, but what can I do?’ He placed a hand on his chest.

  ‘Rupert can give you a lift.’ Jess didn’t have to look at Rupert to see how that went down.

  ‘How, um, kind.’ Patricia didn’t look grateful. ‘Although I can stay for a while if—’

  ‘I fetch bowl.’ Bogna was already halfway to the kitchen.

  Jess and Rupert watched from the Merc as Patricia let herself in to a wisteria-coated cottage.

  ‘Were we cruel about ThinkSpace?’ asked Rupert as he drove off with a toot of the horn.

  ‘Fuck, yeah.’ Jess was breezy. ‘Smalls deserves it. She stepped on Mum to get to Dad.’ Harriet had just . . . taken it, thought Jess. The dead, their stories complete, appear in bright detail.

  ‘Quid pro quo.’

  The bonhomie faltered without Patricia to unite them. Jess didn’t really know this man. ‘Any interesting cases at the moment?’

  ‘Disputes mostly.’

  Castle Kidbury’s hinterland flew by. Jess’s mind filled with triangles and crosses and squares and dots and dashes.

  ‘There’s even more press in town now.’ Rupert kept the conversation in the air. ‘CNN are here, for some reason.’

  ‘Eden won’t be happy.’

  ‘You could go on telly, Jess. Be a talking head. A commentator. You’d be good at that.’

  ‘Nah. I’d hate it.’ Would she though? Jess preened slightly at Rupert’s suggestion.

  The silence reasserted itself until they were back at Harebell House. ‘Thanks, Rumpole.’

  ‘An absolute pleasure.’

  She searched him for signs of sarcasm. There were none. She repaid him in kind. ‘Castle Sunday lunches are usually torture. Having you there made it . . .’

  Rupert looked expectant.

  ‘. . . bearable.’

  ‘You and your extravagant compliments,’ said Rupert, before lingering to watch Jess dash across the drive in her bovver boots.

  Chapter 12

  KNOWN ONLY BY GODS

  Monday 23 May

  In the uncompromising strip light, Theresa looked poorly. Her eyeliner was black, indelible, layer upon layer. It couldn’t disguise the purple swathes beneath her eyes or the bloodshot residue of tears. She gnawed at her nails as Eden took his seat beside Karen.

  ‘I don’t want to talk to you lot,’ said Theresa. ‘You can’t help me now. He’s gone.’ She pursed her lips together. One tear escaped despite her attempt at self-control. ‘Gavin’s gone.’

  Eden wondered when he could get back to normal police work. Car theft. Domestic disturbances. The occasional nice little arson. ‘Perhaps you can help us, Ms Peake. I know this is a hard time for you, but there’s just a few questions and you can go. What was your relationship to Gavin Blake?’

  Knott added, ‘Were you having sexual relations together?’ Eden’s black look skated over her head.

  ‘What’s it got to do with you?’ Theresa was snarly in her grief.

  But then, thought Jess, intent on the video link in the next room, Theresa is snarly full stop.

  ‘We’re trying to build a picture of Gavin’s life.’

  ‘His life was his band. I was part of that. I was their superfan.’

  Christ, she’s so proud of that fact, thought Jess.

  ‘They wrote from the heart.’ Theresa was overcome again. She rallied. ‘I could hear Gavin’s soul in his lyrics.’

  Heart. Soul. Why not gallbladder?

  ‘Were you friends? Close friends?’

  ‘I knew him intimately. Better than any other human.’

  Knott reactivated. ‘So you were having sexual relations together?’

  ‘Let me do this,’ said Eden from the side of his mouth. ‘Were you Gavin’s girlfriend?’

  ‘That means nothing. I was his soulmate.’

  ‘And so I’ll ask again,’ said Knott. ‘Were you having sexual re—’

  ‘Knott, why don’t you go and check up on the CCTV sweep?’

  ‘Sarge, I—’

  ‘Just do it.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Knott left the room with an air of meek defiance.

  ‘Did Gavin have an interest in Satanism?’

  ‘He was pure.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure he was, but—’

  ‘He needed me.’

  ‘That’s good, but could you tell me a little about the people at the gig on the night of Friday the twentieth?’

  ‘We needed nobody else. I saw only Gavin. He saw only me.’

  ‘I understand the man who designed Baldur’s logo was there. The boys in Gavin’s band didn’t know about him. You know Gavin so well, I’m sure you can tell me his name.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me first about Gavin’s murder? Why did you go all round the band? They weren’t as important to him as I was.’

  Jess put her head in her hands. In Theresa’s delusions she saw the common or garden bullshit women sell themselves when a man just isn’t into them. She stood up.

  ‘A name would help, Theresa.’

  ‘I’m not a suspect.’ Theresa gnawed at her nails. ‘I can just leave. You can’t make me talk to you.’

  Eden blamed television. Everyone knew their rights these days.

  The interview room door opened. Jess backed in carrying a tray. ‘Here you go, Sarge. The coffee you wanted, the cake, and one for me. Couldn’t let you have all the fun!’ She sat down heavily before Eden could protest. ‘Have some lemon drizzle, Theresa. I bet you haven’t eaten.’

  The conflict was plain on Theresa’s face. The cake reminded her she was hungry. Jess reminded her that she hated Jess. ‘I’ll stay a bit longer,’ she mumbled and reached out bitten fingers for the sponge.

  ‘Deep down, Gavin really loved you, Theresa. I could tell.’

  Theresa chewed.

  ‘Men don’t know their own minds, do they? You were the best thing that ever happened to him, and if only he’d lived he would have realised it.’

  Eden bowed his head. Jess kept him in her peripheral vision; although he seemed willing to let her burble on, he could shut her down at any moment.

&nb
sp; ‘Why you being nice?’ spat Theresa.

  ‘Because, woman to woman, I know how you feel.’

  Theresa digested that, along with the sugar icing. ‘Do you think these twats can catch the killer?’

  ‘I have every faith,’ said Jess, ‘in these twats.’

  ‘Unthank,’ said Theresa. ‘That’s the designer’s name. Luis Unthank.’

  Eden scribbled on his notepad.

  ‘I didn’t like him,’ said Jess.

  ‘He thinks he’s the cheese and he’s only the wrapper,’ said Theresa. ‘Flirts like a single man but he’s married. He drives up from London and stays overnight for Gavin’s gigs, and always comes onto me. Asked me back to his room at the EasySleep Inn after the pub. I wasn’t having any of it.’ Jess knew, without any doubt, that Theresa had slept with Luis Unthank.

  ‘Him and Gavin were at art college together. Before Gav got thrown out. They didn’t understand his genius.’

  Eden sighed.

  ‘Tell you who else I don’t like,’ said Jess. ‘That Pan bloke.’

  ‘Oh God, him.’ Theresa wiped her nose, sat up straight. ‘Always at our gigs.’

  Jess felt Eden twitch.

  ‘He loved Gavin, he did. Following him around. Gav avoided him. Said he gave him the creeps. He came onto me too. But, you know, I—’

  ‘Wasn’t having any of it,’ said Jess, certain that Theresa had slept with Pan as well.

  ‘Can I go now?’ The brief window of cooperation slammed shut. ‘And you tell your mate Mary that Gavin was laughing at her behind her back.’

  Jess held her gaze. Read all the pain and all the hatred in Theresa’s eyes. She could have countered it, could have said that Theresa was frightened that Gavin laughed at her, but she didn’t. ‘Take care, Theresa,’ she said.

  ‘Fuck you,’ said Theresa.

  Eden’s office was significantly less tidy than it had been a week ago. Paper had taken over. Red Bull cans and styrofoam cups fought for a toehold in the mess. His whiteboard was criss-crossed by multicoloured spaghetti.

  ‘Don’t do that again,’ he said as Jess fished a packet of Monster Munch from somewhere on her person and sat down.

  ‘What? Interrupt? But I got her talking. Admit it.’