Jess Castle and the Eyeballs of Death

by M B Vincent

  ‘Could it be someone else from Pitt’s Field?’

  ‘Pan’s the only male there.’

  ‘Can’t you pull him in again? Please.’

  ‘Jess, I know you’re shaken up about your friend. Let me do things my way. Our killer has broken his chain of male victims. Nobody’s safe. No sniffing around on your own. Got it?’

  ‘Got it.’ Jess, her shock receding, saw the purple splashes beneath Eden’s eyes. The shabbiness of his shirt collar. ‘When did you last go home and get some shut-eye, Detective Sergeant?’

  ‘I slept in my office last night.’ Eden yawned. ‘I’m packing up the house. To sell. So . . .’

  The guard had slipped. Exhaustion will do that to a man. Jess imagined the ex-marital home being packed away into boxes. She just knew he’d label them all carefully.

  ‘Looks like that storm cleared up as quickly as it appeared. Sit with Mary for a bit,’ suggested Eden. He whistled up Knott and they left.

  Jess peeped through the glass at Mary. A black eye starting to blossom.

  I shouldn’t have driven off.

  Chapter 27

  THINKSPACE

  Still Wednesday 1 June

  ‘Welcome back. Dust the Pyrex,’ ordered Doug, before Jess had got fully through the charity shop door.

  Nobody passed the window display of plastic shoes. News of the fourth Ripper abomination had got round. Castle Kidbury was a ghost town. That was, until Carli trotted up, looking for ‘something sparkly’.

  ‘Would Richard do?’ As Doug bent double at his own joke, Carli explained that she wanted to surprise her boyfriend.

  ‘Ryan’s so good to me,’ she cooed, whipping through the rails with the focus of a velociraptor. ‘I thought, maybe a boob tube?’

  ‘Boob?’ repeated Richard uncertainly. ‘Tube?’

  ‘My Ryan’s such a diamond.’ Carli homed in on sequins and bugle beads.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Jess.

  ‘You know what?’ Nobody knew what, so Carli carried on. ‘Since these stupid murders started, Ryan collects me after my shift at the Seven Stars and walks me home. Every. Single. Night.’

  ‘He’s a white knight,’ murmured Doug.

  ‘Except for last night.’

  Doug and Richard side-eyed each other.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ laughed Carli. She held a glittering vest to her torso. ‘My Ryan’s not the Rustic Ripper. He was helping his mate to move house.’

  ‘At night?’ Richard pursed his lips. Hard.

  As Jess stood outside the changing room and gave a running commentary on Carli’s choices – ‘Yeah, nice, no, too big, a bit I-shag-footballers’ – she fretted that eventually everybody in town would fall under suspicion.

  Was it possible they’d never find the murderer? Castle Kidbury needed Eden to clinch this case.

  Eddie was at the door. ‘Carli in here?’

  ‘She’s trying on our worst tops,’ said Doug as Carli emerged in a rhinestone bustier.

  ‘Bleedin’ hell,’ said Eddie, averting his eyes. ‘The cops have imposed an official curfew, love. Nine p.m. I like to cooperate, so I’m shutting up the Seven Stars early.’

  A tremor travelled through the shop. Curfews were for war-torn streets on the television news. Jess remembered Kuzbari and wondered what memories this might trigger.

  ‘I find meself eyeing up every punter who orders a pint,’ said Eddie.

  ‘Lovely day like this.’ Richard gestured out at the bright street. ‘Should be people out strolling, chatting.’

  They all looked out at Fore Street. Its unnatural tranquillity underlined the hard core of fear they all carried nowadays.

  Richard broke the silence. ‘Eddie, I have the perfect tuxedo for you.’

  ‘I’m not really a tuxedo man . . .’ Eddie was already half into the jacket; Doug had his ways.

  Eddie’s eyes appealed for help like a rescue pup in an RSPCA poster.

  On the grounds of It’s funny, Jess declined to rescue him.

  ‘Don’t you look swish!’ Richard was riffling around for ‘a jaunty neckerchief’ when Patricia Smalls appeared among them. She, too, had her ways: materialising from the ether was one of them.

  ‘Duty calls!’ she said. ‘I need you all at ThinkSpace.’ When nobody moved, she clapped her hands. ‘Chop-chop!’

  ‘Don’t you chop-chop me, Patricia Smalls,’ said Richard. ‘I have a business to run.’

  ‘Do you though?’ Patricia put her head on one side. ‘Is it actually a business? Isn’t it more of a hobby?’

  Jess laid a hand on Richard’s arm. He was a Vesuvius of elderly homosexual rage.

  Meera came to the door. Her abrupt about-turn didn’t save her. Patricia pulled her inside by the elbow.

  ‘You’ll come, won’t you, Meera dear?’

  ‘Come where? I was just popping in to see if the boys had any salt and pepper sets. Squeezers keeps stealing ours from the cafe.’

  Richard shook off Jess. ‘This shop, madam,’ he said to Patricia, ‘is a vital part of Castle Kidbury. Hobby indeed.’

  ‘And so is ThinkSpace. The difference is, Richard, you’re the past and ThinkSpace is the future.’

  Meera put up a fight. ‘I have to get back to The Spinning Jenny. We’re having a run on toasties and I—’

  ‘Meera, there are no customers today.’ Patricia dealt with her feeble parry. ‘I’ve gone to great lengths to pull together another grand opening for ThinkSpace after Shane went and got himself crucified. By pulling various strings, I’ve managed to procure the services of Carl Apthorpe.’ She looked from face to face. ‘Are you really telling me you’ve never heard of Carl Apthorpe? The youngest Area Manager Morrisons supermarkets have ever appointed?’

  ‘Quite a coup,’ murmured Doug.

  Patricia turned sheepdog and herded them out of the shop. ‘Out! Out!’ There was no withstanding such self-assurance. Generations of Smallses had spanked footmen with the same gusto Patricia brought to mayoring.

  Browbeaten on the pavement, the sheep gave themselves up to their fate. Jess saw a figure she knew in the passenger seat of Patricia’s car. Leaning down, she whispered, ‘Dad?’

  She read his expression. Yes, she got me too.

  ‘All aboard the good ship ThinkSpace!’ Patricia, scattering exclamation marks, led the charge through the empty lobby of the old library. ‘No definite article, all one word!’

  No more felt-and-tin-tack noticeboards, thought Jess. No more handwritten signs asking for silence and the disposal of chewing gum. She missed the leaflets for after-school clubs and local charity events and bake sales.

  ‘First floor.’ Patricia strode ahead up a stone staircase. ‘And this, people, this, is ThinkSpace.’

  This isn’t anything, thought Jess. The old reading room was a bland shell. Strips of power outlets and ethernet ports circled the walls. They’d usurped the shelves Jess remembered so fondly. Two blank flipcharts bookended the grand room, replete with unopened packets of marker pens. Air conditioning hummed. A4 sheets dotted around the walls suggested, in silly handwriting fonts, that those present do what they were presumably doing already: ‘be’, proposed one; ‘live’, ‘breathe’, ‘choose’, offered others. Beanbags in Google colours dotted the new vinyl floor.

  Patricia’s hostages greeted the ones already installed. Rupert was there. Graham Dickinson. Mr Kuzbari was edging towards the exit.

  Good luck with that, thought Jess wryly as Patricia intercepted him.

  ‘I’m scared,’ said Rupert, joining Jess and the Judge. ‘What’s happening?’

  A makeshift curtain concealed one end of the room.

  ‘That,’ said Eddie, who knew everything about everything, ‘will be whisked back to reveal a commemorative plaque. Squeezers was asleep behind it earlier.’ He waved at somebody behind Jess. ‘Speak of the devil!’

  ‘I’ve been evicted,’ said Squeezers, with miserable dignity. ‘It was cosy behind that curtain.’

  ‘Where will you go now?’ aske
d Jess.

  ‘Home to Mother.’

  ‘That’s nice.’ Jess tried and failed to imagine what the mother of Squeezers might look like.

  As Squeezers meandered away, Eddie said, ‘He means Mother Nature.’

  ‘Eh?’ Jess’s mind, so full of Hecate, flew to that many-named goddess.

  ‘He sleeps rough, Jess,’ said Rupert. He bent to look into her face. ‘Don’t go trying to fix him, Jess. You can’t save the world.’

  ‘At least I want to try,’ said Jess. Her heart was inside out since Mary’s assault.

  There was milling. And mingling. A desire to be elsewhere. The townspeople defined the term ‘captive audience’. While Rupert was drawn into a conversation about the proposed one-way system by Lynne of Minimart fame, Jess attempted to engage her father.

  ‘You were in Syria, Dad, weren’t you?’

  ‘How’d you know?’ The Judge’s surprise softened his face.

  ‘There’s a framed photo on the wall of your study.’ A younger James Castle in khakis, with a row of stuffy-looking men straight from a British Empire production line. Squinting into desert sun, their noses peeling. ‘It says “Damascus 1975” under it.’

  ‘Fancy you noticing that.’

  You don’t know the first thing about me, thought Jess. She noticed everything.

  ‘I was part of a Foreign Office team. We were sent over in the aftermath of the Syria–Israel conflict.’ The Judge looked back through the years and was sobered. ‘Hell of a mess. Wonderful people. Such a political predicament. One could have wept for them.’

  There was a hidden hinterland to the Judge’s life that Jess could only guess at. ‘Let me introduce you to a real live Syrian.’ As she guided him over to Mr Kuzbari – without taking his arm; they were still at odds, after all – Jess gave him a potted history of Castle Kidbury’s new pharmacist. ‘Ask him,’ she said, ‘about his mother.’

  She left them together. It was a mistake to stand on her own. Patricia Smalls was on her like a lioness on a wounded gnu. ‘There you are! Have you seen the MeetZone yet?’

  ‘I have to speak urgently with DS Eden about, um, urgent matters.’ Jess prised the mayor’s fingers off her arm and sought sanctuary with Eden.

  She followed his line of sight.

  ‘How does he have the nerve to show his face?’ growled Jess.

  Pan lay on one of the beanbags. Hands clasped across his tummy, he was serene, at ease. Alongside him, lolling awkwardly, was Caroline. She watched him constantly, taking her cue from him. When he made a joke, she laughed. When he pontificated, she listened earnestly.

  ‘A few of his ladies peeled away while he was locked up,’ said Eden. ‘Might be the start of a rebellion. We’ve reached out to see if they want to rescind their alibis, but no dice yet.’

  ‘They want to put some clear water between themselves and Pan. Probably snuggling back into their nice ordinary lives.’

  ‘I’m a patient man, I can wait. But I don’t want another murder before I solve this case.’

  Wandering past them, Theresa didn’t acknowledge the police officer and his consultant. She was with Ryan, the pair of them deep in conversation.

  ‘She’d better not let Carli see her getting so pally with Ryan,’ said Jess. She knew how small-town women were about their men. Many a time she’d seen a hank of hair pulled out at a house party.

  ‘I checked out her alibi for Mary. Just in case. In A&E at Richleigh all night with unexplained stomach pains. Poor girl doesn’t have much luck.’

  ‘Hmm.’ The mention of Mary disturbed Jess. She needed her at stultifying dos like this. She would visit her bedside later, Jess decided. Expiate her sins by the ritual offering of magazines and grapes.

  In lieu of Mary, Eden did nicely. Not as lively, but reliable. He didn’t wander off. He didn’t expect small talk. He gave Jess time to practise her mysterious new skill. She found that she knew, without trying, where Rupert was in the room.

  Now he was talking to Squeezers. Something changed hands. A tenner.

  You lovely old hypocrite, thought Jess, as Squeezers folded the tenner into a complex origami shape and stashed it down his trousers.

  Eden nudged her. ‘Friend of ours,’ he said discreetly, as Unthank wandered past.

  His nose in the air, the Londoner semaphored he was above this gathering. When Jess hailed him, he ambled over a touch too slowly.

  ‘Hear you got knocked back last night!’ said Jess cheerfully.

  ‘Sorry. Don’t understand.’

  ‘My mate Mary. You chatted her up at the pub. Those wedding vows you made must be pretty flexible.’

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with you,’ said Unthank. He tacked on an artificial giggle for good measure.

  ‘Perhaps not, it’s got something to do with him, though.’ Jess jerked her thumb at Eden.

  ‘Look, I’ve been dragged off the street to this ersatz dump and I’m not in the mood to chat, okay?’

  The way Eden disregarded Unthank’s entitlement delighted Jess.

  ‘I have some questions, sir,’ he said. ‘For you and the manageress of the EasySleep. Seems you both misled me about the duration of your stay.’ He placed a hand on Unthank’s arm.

  The look of outrage Unthank gave Eden’s hand was ignored. Eden spirited him away with such authority that even Patricia Smalls stood back to let them leave.

  Untethered, Jess looked around for Rupert. She found Pan. Or rather, he found her. He had a way of standing just a smidgeon too close, so Jess couldn’t see around him. She was in the mood to fight fire with fire.

  ‘Something special about your spunk, is there?’

  ‘Dr Jessica Castle, you wash that mouth out.’ He was amused. That wasn’t Jess’s aim.

  Why, she wondered, was this creep the only person who called her by her proper title? ‘I had a lesson in no-more times. Apparently only the children you father get to survive Armageddon. You don’t truly believe that bollocks you feed your followers, do you?’

  ‘Belief. Truth. All phantasms, m’dear. We all believe in something. You, for instance, believe that you’re doing good.’ Pan sketched quotation marks in the air. ‘You think you’re going to catch the naughty killer. When all you’re doing is running around town in your toy car getting on people’s nerves.’

  ‘Oh shut up.’ It wasn’t Jess’s most Wildean comeback.

  ‘At least I look after my people. I keep my kiddies near. I feed them. Clothe them. I instruct them in the real ways of the world.’

  ‘The women under your spell collect child benefit.’ Eden had estimated an ‘income’ of £30,000 a year from what he termed ‘child farming’. ‘Not bad for lying around pontificating all day.’

  ‘Did you see your dad much when you were ickle?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with—’

  ‘Did you curl up and sleep at his feet? Did you have a network of loving women looking out for you? Was your dad always there, always on hand? That’s how my children live.’

  ‘Why don’t you write a handbook? Pan’s Guide to Parenting.’

  ‘Maybe, my dear little blinkered clever clogs, traditional families aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. There you are, blundering through your life, daddy issues written in neon across your forehead, begging for love and turning it away in the same breath.’

  There was that sensation again, of being watched. Of being a frog pinned to a table while Pan slit her open.

  Pan could talk an avalanche. ‘I’m pure. I talk to my kids. I listen. I don’t tell them they have to study this or be like that. They own themselves.’

  Jess butted in. She was forceful, too, when riled. And she was very riled. ‘Spare me, Pan. Those children are let down every day. They’re cold and hungry and they don’t go to school and you spend their benefits on crack to keep their mothers in line. You’re the Manson family, not the fucking Waltons.’

  Their mutual hate fest was interrupted by a strange smell. They sniffed.

  ‘Sag
e?’ said Jess.

  A Native American – from Taunton – was performing a purification rite. He wafted a burning wad of sage leaves.

  Meera coughed until she cried.

  Doug shouted something about health and safety.

  Undeterred, Patricia thanked Big Chief Low Eagle – who Jess recognised from the petrol station – and stepped to a lectern. She fiddled with the Tandy microphone.

  ‘We’re honoured to see you all here today.’

  ‘So you should be,’ said Richard. ‘Emmerdale’s on.’

  ‘We are honoured,’ repeated the mayor, ‘to action the first example of a forward-thinking community paradigm.’ Hurtling manfully on, Patricia took a run at her script. ‘Here is a place where community excellence, cross-creativity and trans-development can be achieved through extraordinary local reach-out and interdisciplinary relations.’ She drew a grateful breath.

  ‘Sounds positively indecent,’ said Doug. ‘Interdisciplinary relations?’

  ‘I’m barring anyone who’s into that!’ called Eddie.

  ‘Sounds like fun!’ shouted Carli.

  ‘Shush, please,’ urged the Judge. ‘Let’s allow the lady to speak.’

  ‘Thank you, James,’ simpered the mayor.

  Jess’s phone vibrated in her pocket.

  Fancy coming over to mine for dinner tomorrow? R x

  Jess leant to look at Rupert, a few feet away, between Meera and Moyra, phone in hand. He ignored her stare.

  Go on then. Any chance of kebabs?

  Rupert’s phone pinged. Jess saw the smile he smothered as he read her text.

  Head respectfully down, à la Martin Luther King making his ‘I Have a Dream’ speech, the mayor said, ‘Please allow me the privilege of introducing Mister. Carl. Apthorpe.’

  Patricia hadn’t managed to poach the national photographers from the Seven Stars. One lone local snapper captured ‘Mister. Carl. Apthorpe.’ run through the crowd. He punched the air. He asked them if they were all right and when they murmured that they were, he asked them to say it louder.

  ‘I love this town!’ shouted Carl.

  ‘It’s all right if you like that sort of thing,’ said Graham.