Jess Castle and the Eyeballs of Death

by M B Vincent

  He didn’t. ‘I whistled up her record. Stolen shopping trolleys. Writing rude words on walls. Theresa’s a sad girl not a bad girl, I think. This Gavin Blake took advantage, by the sounds of things. If Theresa had any violent previous I might like her for killing Gavin because he was, erm, intimate with your friend.’

  ‘Believe me, she’d kill Mary, not Gavin, if she was going to kill anyone. Women are funny like that. Any links between Gavin and Keith Dike?’

  ‘Not a dicky bird. Gavin was too self-absorbed to be hated like Keith was. Plus, there was that matter in his childhood . . . if anything, people felt sorry for him.’ Jess moved quickly on. The tragedy, she told herself, was irrelevant; Eden needn’t know about her part in it. ‘Can I be there when you talk to Luis Unthank?’

  ‘No.’ Eden sifted through the paperwork on his desk. ‘Knott!’ he yelled.

  ‘While I’ve got you,’ said Jess, licking Monster Munch dust from her fingers. ‘Why don’t you lay off Squeezers. Twenty interviews in four months? It’s Beefy Dave you should be hassling, not poor old Squeezers.’

  ‘Let’s stick to the important stuff.’

  ‘Guv?’ Karen inserted the top half of her boyish body into the office. Beyond her, the incident room was as noisy as a nightclub. The manpower had materialised, just like that, as soon as the media mob arrived. The quiet provincial police station was groaning at the seams.

  ‘Send somebody to EasySleep on the edge of town and see if they have a Mr Luis Unthank still registered there. Bring him in so I can rule him out.’

  An officer hollered across the incident room. ‘Who’s got victim one’s next of kin details?’

  ‘You!’ Eden strode to the door and yanked it wide open, shouting over Karen’s head. ‘As long as you’re working in my nick you’ll call the victims by their names.’ He held the door, turned to Jess. ‘And you, out you go. Do not interrupt my interview again.’

  ‘Brownie’s honour,’ said Jess, nipping past him.

  If Eden had whistled up Jess’s record, he would have discovered that she was kicked out of the Brownies.

  Fore Street was banal after the adrenaline of the interview room.

  Jess shop-crawled, listening in on conversations. Murder was the topic du jour; each Castle Kidburyite had their theory. The more Jess discovered about the crucifixions, the less certain she was of any theory. The crimes were jumbled. Complex. Gritty. Like people.

  Down Dunch Lane, just off Fore Street, Wilson’s Pharmacy was dim. While her eyes adjusted, and the ranks of painkillers and corn treatments took shape, Mr Kuzbari emerged from the back room in a pristine white shirt. He wiped his mouth.

  ‘Forgive me.’ His voice was musical. ‘I was just having a snack, Jess.’

  He remembered her name. She was pleased.

  ‘Welcome back. I hope you’re well.’ His politeness was ornate. Un-British. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘I need . . .’ She looked around. Jess didn’t need anything. Not anything she could buy. ‘More nicotine patches, please.’

  ‘So soon? You’re not abusing them, I hope. The side effects can be nasty.’

  ‘I lost the last packet,’ lied Jess. She’d been drawn to the shop by the knowledge that she’d find Kuzbari there. He was both foreign and familiar.

  Satisfied with this fib. He handed her a small box. Took her money. Gave her change.

  When she lingered, he said, ‘May I offer you some tea?’

  Jess grinned.

  A round brass tray. A swan-necked metal pot. Two squat, tulip-shaped glasses. The tea was a pale gold. Jess had two attempts at pronouncing it properly.

  ‘Zhourat,’ repeated Kuzbari, amused.

  ‘It tastes of flowers.’

  ‘There’s damask rose in there. Camomile. And, let me see . . . lemon verbena. It’s calming. Good for the digestion.’

  ‘A wonder drink, no less.’ Jess sipped. She was ready to believe in it. As credulous of its properties as Theresa was of Gavin’s genius. ‘Delicious.’ She imagined the zhourat flowing through her veins like honey.

  ‘I find I’m now addicted to the British cuppa,’ said Kuzbari. ‘At first, I turned up my nose. Milk and sugar?’ He pulled a face, suave features contorted. ‘Now I appreciate it. Especially when it rains.’

  ‘This country runs on tea. We won two world wars with it.’ Jess remembered this man had fled conflict. ‘I didn’t mean to trivialise . . .’

  Kuzbari absolved her with a wave of his hand. ‘Please don’t worry. I’m glad you think of war as something from the distant past. I only wish I, too, believed battles could be won with tea. I struggle to believe what has happened to my country. It’s like a bad dream. Yet I never wake up.’

  Jess had the luxury of waking from her own nightmares. ‘Do you think you’ll ever go back to Syria?’

  ‘I have nothing to go back to. My house is in ruins. My street is rubble. My work is . . .’ He seemed to shake himself. ‘You didn’t come here for a tale of woe, Jess.’

  ‘I did. I mean, I want to know,’ said Jess. ‘Do you have children? God, I’m nosey.’ She blew out her cheeks. ‘Ignore me.’

  ‘In Syria we’re a nation of, what d’you call them, nosey parkers. It’s good manners to ask questions. So I’m happy to tell you that, yes, my wife and I have three sons and one perfect daughter.’

  Jess was afraid to ask. ‘Are they . . . safe?’

  ‘They’re in Peckham.’ Peck. Ham. ‘Perfectly safe.’

  ‘Why aren’t you with them?’

  ‘Malva’s studying for her medical degree in London. There was no work for me there. I came here for this job.’

  ‘On your own?’

  ‘On my own. I’m not accustomed to it, Jess. At home, there were people in and out of the house all day. Grandmothers snoring in the shade. Babies crawling under my feet.’ It was hard to tell if Kuzbari’s dark eyes were wet. ‘Noise. Music. Talk.’ He lit up. ‘The Syrian national pastime is conversation.’

  ‘You miss it.’

  ‘I do.’ Kuzbari didn’t elaborate. After a long moment, he said, ‘If we could have stayed, we would have done so. The bombing was too intense. I lost too many friends. It was when my brother—’ He halted. ‘There was great sadness. The little ones deserve to live without fear.’

  Jess thought of Malva, raising four children in Peck Ham, all of them traumatised.

  ‘British men!’ said Kuzbari. Brighter. Upbeat. ‘They are so . . .’ He pulled his arms around his torso, pulled in his chin. ‘In Syria we greet each other properly. We kiss on the cheek. We are warm.’

  Jess noticed a studio portrait, framed in flamboyant gilt, on the wall alongside Kuzbari’s diplomas. ‘Your family?’ She went closer. ‘Your wife’s lovely.’

  ‘She is.’

  The children had gappy teeth. The girl’s hair stuck up. Kuzbari was almost unrecognisable. He beamed at the back of his little clan, in a pale suit, his face fresh. This was evidently a ‘before’ picture. Before the war.

  ‘Who’s this lady? I love her outfit.’

  ‘My mother.’

  The only one to cover her head, Kuzbari’s mother wore an embroidered scarf over a voluminous black dress. ‘She’s more traditional?’

  ‘Very much so. We are Muslim, you see. I don’t eat pork, or drink alcohol, but Malva and I are modern people. Not my yuma. She’s traditional.’

  ‘What does she make of London?’

  ‘She’s in Damascus.’ Kuzbari tidied the glasses onto the tray. ‘I left her behind,’ he said.

  Jess couldn’t think of a thing to say.

  ‘She’s eighty. She lives with my cousin.’

  ‘Is she safe?’

  Kuzbari looked as if he pitied Jess. ‘Nobody’s safe in Damascus.’

  ‘Why not bring her over?’

  Later, recalling the conversation, Jess admired Kuzbari’s restraint in not saying, ‘Ooh! Wish I’d thought of that!’ He simply said, ‘That is now my life’s work.’

  ‘I wish I cou
ld help.’

  ‘When I look out of my window and see how most people live. How much they have. How little they appreciate it. How they squander their lives . . .’

  ‘Must make you angry.’

  He didn’t agree. He didn’t disagree.

  The bell above the door announced another customer.

  ‘Ah, Mr Eden. I have your prescription just here.’ Kuzbari disappeared behind a partition wall.

  Eden jumped when he saw Jess. He glanced neurotically at the partition, behind which Kuzbari could be heard shuffling paper bags. ‘You,’ he said.

  ‘Me,’ agreed Jess. ‘What prescription is this, then?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Eden. He said it too fast. When Kuzbari brought out a package, he practically snatched it from him.

  ‘Tea?’ asked Kuzbari.

  ‘Um, no.’ Eden seemed confused by the offer.

  Gesturing at the bag, Jess whispered, ‘Piles?’

  Eden closed his eyes.

  ‘Warts?’

  ‘Jess—’ said Eden, as if in pain.

  ‘Viagra?’

  Kuzbari shuffled diabetes leaflets by the till. His mouth was disobeying him, zigzagging with amusement.

  ‘You’re not pregnant, are you, Eden?’

  ‘Have you finished, Castle?’ As Eden paid, he juggled his phone, thumbing open an image. ‘What do you make of this? It’s another, um, present from our mutual friend.’

  ‘Another . . .?’ Aware of Kuzbari’s eyes upon them, Jess merely raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Yes.’

  Jess took Eden’s phone into a corner. Beside the washbags. By the talc and bath salts. She scrolled.

  ‘It’s not like the first box.’ Eden stood behind her. Incongruous among the scents of lavender and rose. He was a creature of the office. ‘It’s plain.’ He lowered his voice, even though Kuzbari had retreated to his anteroom.

  The footed box was square. A high-gloss black lacquer. The interior was rough, pale, with the shadow stain of blood. Jess swallowed. It was Gavin’s blood. ‘There is one very important symbol on this box. But it’s not in any of these photographs.’

  ‘Then how do you know it’s there?’ Eden looked sceptical. Or, more sceptical than usual.

  ‘It’s a very special marking. The sign of a fearsome giant in Greek mythology. He had a hundred eyes.’

  Eden nodded, encouraging her. Jess could almost hear his brain speed up.

  ‘The giant’s main task was to kill the half woman half snake, Echidna.’

  ‘Don’t tell me he crucified her?’

  ‘Sorry, nope. He killed her while she was sleeping.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘I’m glad you asked me that.’ Jess couldn’t keep this up. ‘Argos.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Eden, thoughtfully, before his eyes turned to slits. ‘You mean—’

  ‘I mean this is a child’s jewellery box from Argos. Fourteen ninety-nine. I bought one for my niece’s birthday last year. She hated it.’

  ‘Stick to the subject.’ Eden was cold.

  ‘It should have a pink silk interior, with a revolving ballerina. That’s been ripped out to make room for the eyes, I suppose.’

  ‘Was Argos really a Greek myth?’

  ‘Yeah. So was Nike. The gods are everywhere. Every time you eat a Mars bar you’re paying tribute to the Roman god of war. Amazon was a mythical tribe of warrior women. There are probably Trojan condoms for sale in here. All those bunk-ups round the back of the Druid’s Head commemorate Paris stealing Helen away from Menelaus.’

  Eden gazed down at the tiny picture on his screen. Concentrating ferociously. ‘It could mean something. Argos. A hundred eyes, you say?’

  ‘Argos is Greek, though, and Ogham is Celtic. The inlays on that first box were so meticulous. I find it hard to believe our man would cross-reference like this with a cheap high-street piece.’

  ‘Perhaps this murder was hurried.’ Eden blinked, as if facing a hard truth. ‘Perhaps he’s speeding up. Which means he’ll get more brutal.’

  ‘You’ve been reading up on serial killers.’ Jess had done the same. ‘Unless he’s a copycat.’

  ‘How would he know about the eyes? And the box? And before you say it, I don’t like Paul Chappell for this. He doesn’t fit the profile.’

  ‘Does the killer have to fit a profile?’

  ‘Yes he does.’ Eden didn’t seem to like Jess’s tone. ‘Remember: no hunches. No left-field light-bulb moments.’

  Jess nodded. She needed to be part of his team. Castle Kidbury was menaced by something far worse than the many-eyed Argos. But she did have her hunches. And she trusted them.

  Chapter 13

  PLEADING THE FIFTH

  Tuesday 24 May

  The Morris Traveller was a proper car that made proper car noises. The clutch hiccupped. The gearstick retched. The hypochondriac engine moaned. Jess had bought it from a scrap dealer for £400. She’d saved it. There had been barely time to fall in love with it before it broke down outside Exeter St David’s station in torrential rain. A total stranger knocked at her window to help, and got the Traveller up and running in the blink of an eye. And thus began the ballad of Jess and Mary.

  ‘You sure you won’t come back to Exeter with me?’ asked Mary now, from the passenger seat. She sat awkwardly. The upholstery was past its best.

  ‘I’m not up to the wild nightlife of Exeter.’ In truth, there was little about the place that was wild. Unless you happened to be out with Mary Spillane, who could locate the wildness in a morgue. ‘I’ll hang around here for a bit, keep an eye on Dad.’

  ‘And Rupert.’

  ‘And Eden needs me on the investigation.’ Jess would not take the Rupert bait.

  ‘You need the investigation, you mean.’ Mary trampled her friend’s delusions. ‘I don’t want to be around the murders anymore. It was exciting until it got personal. The whole thing with Gavin spooked me right out.’

  ‘Not surprised. It’s not every day your one-night stand ends up on a slab.’

  ‘Please come.’ Mary put her hands together in supplication. ‘G’wan, Jess. A couple of nights away from tea shops and crucifixions. Bogna’s doing a grand job with your da, and a break will help you make your mind up about Rupert.’

  On certain topics, Mary could not be kept at bay. ‘Go ahead, Mary. Say your piece.’

  Mary was silent for a moment, as if exercising restraint. Then she blurted, ‘Why not shag him and get it over with? All sorted. Done and dusted. Sure, you’ll both be the better for it.’

  ‘You make the act of love sound like popping a zit. Why will I be better for it? I don’t want to shag Rupert. I don’t want to shag anyone. I’m jobless and homeless, and to top all that, my dad’s not well.’

  ‘Rupe’s a nice fella and you’ve not had much luck on that front.’

  Jess lifted her nose. ‘Haven’t I?’

  ‘No.’ Mary was emphatic. ‘You haven’t. There was that professor one you were shagging, sorry, seeing in Cambridge years back. What was his name, now?’

  ‘Max,’ sighed Jess.

  ‘And then that artist guy from Totnes who thought you were a witch and wanted us to wrestle in mud so he could paint us. After him was the one we called Lovely Pete, who turned out to be Lovely Married Pete.’

  ‘You have a point, but Rupert’s not the answer. Can we change the subject?’

  ‘Only after I point out the poor eejit has a thing the size of Belgium for you. You don’t need a PhD in goblins to figure that out.’

  Richleigh’s one-way system always lowered Jess’s mood. Castle Kidbury liked to pretend Richleigh didn’t exist. They weren’t above using it, though, for its unsightly amenities.

  The exception to the West Country’s bond with mysticism, Richleigh’s gods were the giants of retail. Endless parks of home improvement stores, supermarkets and bargain furniture outlets. And yet, thought Jess, it doesn’t have the common decency to muster up a proper kebab shop.

  The st
ation was on the far side of town. Jess found a parking spot and walked Mary to the platform.

  ‘Look,’ started Mary, ‘I know you hate being told. But it’s going to be okay. Your dad’ll be fine. He’s got Bogna and you. Castle Kidbury’s your home. It’s where you’re from, Jess. You might enjoy it if you’d only stop painting yourself into corners.’

  The suggestion made Jess bridle.

  ‘Stop overthinking. So you don’t want to ride the arse off of Rupert; make a mate of him instead. Use Bogna. The woman’s a loony, but I’d have her in a trench with me.’

  Jess nodded. She would miss Mary’s tough love. Not so tough, really, and very loving. A tear made its wet way down her cheek.

  ‘Don’t start that.’ Mary wiped it away. ‘You have family; I have no one. Try liking them a bit.’

  They regarded each other. They both liked what they saw.

  The Exeter train pulled in.

  ‘Do you have everything?’ asked Jess.

  ‘If by everything, you mean this, then yes.’ Mary held up a carrier bag. She travelled light. She’d arrived in combats and was leaving in jeans and a pilfered shirt. ‘Gotta go, babe, and ingratiate meself with the guard. For feck’s sake get yourself a hobby that isn’t moping or murder, yeah?’

  She took off. No goodbyes, not ever. A word with the train personnel, and Mary bounced into First Class.

  Alongside the station minicab HQ was a florist. Leaning over the blooms in buckets was Danny. He was frowning.

  ‘Buying flowers, you old romantic?’ Jess punched him gently on the arm.

  ‘I want a big bunch,’ said Danny. ‘But they’re so dear.’

  ‘Are they for a girl?’

  ‘They’re for . . . me.’

  Jess accepted the fib. ‘How’s Tallulah?’

  ‘We broke up.’

  ‘Oh shit. Sorry.’ Jess felt like a heel. ‘That’s rough, Danny.’

  ‘Not because we don’t love each other. Because my mum says it’s for the best. She likes me to stay in now. I gave up my job.’ He stared at a few coins in his plump hand.

  ‘Which flowers would you buy if you could choose any of them?’

  ‘Them.’ Danny was certain.

  Jess gulped. He’d pointed to a bouquet worthy of Maria Callas. ‘Have them on me, Danny.’