by Huw Thomas
Harper put his face in his hands and moaned.
He was still there a couple of minutes later when the door to the flat below opened. The old hippy with the red beard looked up curiously. There was concern in his eyes but also caution. ‘You all right, mate?’
Harper hesitated. It was the same man: Pete his name was. As well as being the closest of their new neighbours, he was also the most friendly. He had lent Harper and Rebecca tools from time to time, as well as advice and assistance. He had been into the flat several times, to see the changes being made and to stay for a beer and a chat. Now, however, there was no recognition in his expression.
‘Er … yeah,’ said Harper. ‘I’m fine.’
Pete smiled up but didn’t go back inside.
‘It’s just…’ said Harper. ‘I was… looking for someone. I thought they lived here.’ He shrugged awkwardly. ‘This was the address I had.’
‘Not ’ere, mate,’ said Pete. ‘Place been empty years. Bloody shame really; plenty of mice running about but no one’s lived there for ages. Last person was some old biddy: sweet old dear, lived in the street all ’er life. Born and died there.’
He paused then looked uncomfortable. ‘Nah, that wouldn’t be who you were after, would it? Grandma or something?’
Harper shook his head. ‘No. No, nothing like that. Don’t worry.’ He swallowed and gave an uncertain smile. ‘Someone I know. A friend. Must have given me the wrong address.’
‘Bummer,’ said Pete. ‘You got a phone number or something? You can make a call from my gaffe if you want.’
Harper shook his head. ‘No, no number.’
Pete sighed. ‘Makes things tricky.’
Harper smiled weakly, trying to think what to say, at the same time as trying to work out what to do. What he wanted to do was sit on the steps and cry. Either that or rip down the padlocked door and force his way in, searching for something his head was telling him would not be there. However, instinct told him acts of vandalism or collapsing in the street babbling out an incomprehensible story were not going to help. Get him a warm bed maybe but only once he had been sectioned and taken to the nearest mental health facility.
‘It’s okay,’ he said after the pause started to get uncomfortable. ‘I know where her parents live. I’ll find them.’
‘Ah,’ said Pete. ‘Girlfriend. Now I understand why you looked pissed off when you found you’d been given the wrong address.’
‘Yeah. Something like that,’ said Harper. He turned and began to hobble back down the street. ‘Thanks.’
Pete’s eyes narrowed. ‘Hey, if you’ve got something up with your leg, I don’t mind giving you a lift. Got me van there.’
Harper shook his head. He couldn’t cope with talking. ‘It’s all right,’ he called back over his shoulder. ‘It’s not a problem.’
The inside of the White Lion was comfortably gloomy. There were few other drinkers in on a Monday at this time of the evening and the stall-like booths at the side of the pub were all empty. Harper lowered himself awkwardly behind the table and sat with a grunt and a wince.
Brendan Teague looked at him and raised his eyebrows. ‘What you done, boy? Been in a fight with a train?’
‘A car.’
‘Yeah? How’d that happen?’
Harper smiled. ‘There seem to be a couple of versions.’
The photographer laughed. There was an amiable glint in his eyes as the older man studied Harper; he scented a story and was looking forward to the details. Teague was a rogue at heart but also an inveterate gossip. ‘What’s that then?’ he said. ‘Like which one won?’
Harper gave a non-committal grunt and picked up his pint. He took a long, slow drink and gave Brendan an appraising stare. As well as being a colleague at The Post, the photographer was also Harper’s closest friend other than Rebecca. He, at least, appeared unchanged. He still lived in the same house and had answered Harper’s call for help without hesitation or question. His looks were unchanged too: the same ragged grey curls, weather-beaten face and blunt, workman’s hands.
Harper swallowed the Guinness carefully then took another drink. He was unsure what he would have done, or where he could have turned if Brendan had failed him. He had rung ten minutes earlier from a call box down by Victoria Park, half-expecting to get a complete stranger on the other end of the phone or have his friend claim never to have heard of him.
When Brendan answered with his usual “it’s yourself then, boy”, Harper had almost burst into tears. Even coming down the line, the photographer’s soft brogue was almost as comforting as an arm around the shoulders.
Now, they each supped their pint in silence. Harper glanced at his friend but the other man made no attempt to question him and sat calmly opposite. Harper slowly relaxed as the familiar taste and surroundings took the edge off the panic he was only just keeping under control. He drained the last of his pint and lowered it onto the table. Brendan, who had been keeping pace, picked up the empty glasses and stood up.
‘Let’s refresh these beauties.’
He was back a couple of minutes later with a tray carrying four fresh pints of Guinness. Harper looked at him in surprise. ‘Four?’
Brendan nodded. ‘Thought they might be needed. You sank your first in three swallows. Now, I thought that little hint, and the tone of your call earlier, suggested a man with a thirst.’
Harper nodded. ‘Thank you.’
‘My pleasure.’
Harper took a long draft of the next pint.
Brendan watched him with a quiet, measuring look. As he did so, the photographer reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of rolling tobacco, cigarette papers and a lighter. His hands working deftly, he pulled out two papers, stretched out the shredded tobacco and rolled two cigarettes. He held one towards Harper. ‘Nip out for a smoke?’
Harper smiled briefly and shook his head. ‘Not me.’
Brendan blinked. ‘You don’t want one?’
‘No.’ Harper stared abstractly into his beer glass. ‘I don’t smoke, Brendan.’
The photographer frowned and scratched his nose. He looked at his own roll-up and then his pint. He picked it up and took a couple of swallows of stout. ‘Since when?’
‘Since when, what?’
‘Since when don’t you smoke? Surely that’s not what’s making you so on edge?’
Harper frowned and shook his head abruptly. ‘What do you mean? I haven’t smoked for years.’
Brendan snorted. ‘If you say so.’
‘It’s true! I mean, sure the odd spliff at parties but I haven’t smoked for what… ten years or more.’
Brendan held his hands up. He looked taken aback.
‘Sorry,’ Harper shook his head. ‘I didn’t mean to snap. It’s just, well… I don’t smoke and today has been… well, I don’t know what’s going on.’ He lowered his eyes. ‘I’m not sure I can cope either.’
Brendan stretched a hand out and rested it on Harper’s arm. ‘Hey, relax, Danny. No offence taken. I dunno what it is that’s got yourself so upset but take your time. Drink your beer: tell me about it when you feel like it. Or don’t tell me. Up to you. But don’t worry, whatever it is, you’re alright here. This is the Lion, no one is going to bother us here.’
Harper nodded slowly. He picked up his pint and began to sip it more slowly.
They sat in silence for a further ten minutes: Harper looking at the table or his pint, Brendan watching his friend over the rim of his own glass. Eventually, Harper shuffled and looked up.
Brendan met his gaze and nodded. Harper wet his lips and nodded back. ‘Brendan?’
‘Danny?’
‘What do you know about me?’
His friend rolled his eyes. ‘You want the long version or the short one?’
‘The short… for now.’
‘You’re Daniel Harper, known to most as Harper, Danny to his friends. You like Guinness and a good crack like the next man. You pretend to work as a journalist. You grew up
in Penzance. I’ve known you about five years now. You’re a friend.’ Brendan shook his head. ‘But you didn’t bring me here for that. You’ve got a problem and you want my help. You’ve got that. I trust you. If you’ve done something daft, I won’t judge you. So, stop asking stupid questions and tell me what’s up.’
Harper smiled. ‘What do you know about Rebecca Shah?’
Brendan blinked. ‘Rebecca Shah? Not a lot. She’s Tony Wright’s cousin. He’s brought her to a couple of Christmas bashes and the like. Works for some snooty PR outfit down by the river in Westcote House. I’ve only spoken to her once or twice but she seems all right, bit of class, I’d say.’
‘What would you say if I told you I was going to marry her?’
Brendan chuckled. ‘Well… there’s two things wrong with that. First: the idea of you getting married. Second: how you’re going to persuade some woman to marry you that, as far as I’m aware — and I might be missing something here so correct me if I’m wrong — some woman you’ve never even gone out with. But I like a man with confidence.’
Harper nodded sadly. ‘Yeah, tricky isn’t it.’
Brendan shook his head in exasperation. ‘Danny, what the hell is it? Are you trying to do an impression of a love-sick puppy to wind me up or am I missing something here?’
Harper held up his hand. He had just thought of something else he needed to know. ‘Okay, one more question. Tony Wright, does he work for me?’
The photographer snorted. ‘Ah, Danny, dream on. He’s news editor. You’re just a common-or-garden hack, like I’m just an old Irish snapper. Tony jumped past you three years ago when he got the deputy news job. You should be chief reporter but you’ve pissed the old man off too many times.’
Harper took another drink, finishing his second pint. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Let me tell you a different story.’
6. Private Investigations
Monday, 9.50pm:
Harrison marched briskly down the corridor to his office. The councillor had been about to ring his assistant and tell him to bring the car round when his mobile phone bleeped, alerting him to a text. Harrison read the message with surprise. The sender’s number was unfamiliar but the instruction clear enough:
We need 2 spk. Yr office — now.
As he approached his office door he had a moment’s misgiving. He thought about checking with the civic centre’s security desk but then shrugged and turned the handle. The door swung open and Harrison stopped, frowning. ‘Cole? What are you doing here?’
The short, redheaded man behind Harrison’s desk grinned as he span round in the chair. He had a large tumbler of whisky in one hand. The bottle, taken from the councillor’s private store, sat nearby.
‘John, come in, sit down.’ Nelson Cole raised the glass. ‘Come an’ have some of this: it’s good stuff. Islay is it?’
Harrison looked around. There was no one else in the room. ‘How did you get in here?’
Cole shrugged. He gestured with a flick of one manicured hand. ‘The door.’
Harrison scowled and stood where he was.
‘Oh relax, John.’ Cole gave a short, high-pitched laugh: an incongruous sound that was more of a giggle. ‘It’s okay, I got the key from your young assistant. Had a chat with him in the car park, found out where you were. Persuaded him to let me borrow the key. I told the doorman down there you’d arranged to see me.’
He grinned. ‘It’s all legit. I signed in and everythin’.’
Harrison shook his head. He did not like this one bit. He had no idea why Cole was here or what he wanted: not a comfortable position for a man who liked to be in control. He frowned. ‘You “persuaded” him? Would you mind telling me what this is about, Mr Cole?’
The smaller man smiled. ‘Why don’t you come in an’ close the door, John. We’ve got business to discuss. I reckon it’d probably be better for both of us to keep it private.’
Harrison shrugged. He moved out of the doorway and closed the door behind him, trying to work out what was going on. He’d met Nelson Cole in the past but his knowledge of the man was limited. Cole was an ex-dancer who ran a string of fitness studios and gyms across the city. He was known to be homosexual and open about it, having also launched the city’s original and still most popular gay nightclub. Rumour had it Cole was involved in a few other, more shady ventures but Harrison had never heard anything definite to connect him with criminal activities. The fit of Cole’s shirt also emphasised the fact he clearly spent plenty of time using his own gyms.
Harrison decided to ignore the fact Cole was sitting behind his desk and try the easy-going, approachable councillor act. ‘Well, Mr Cole, it’s hardly conventional office hours but if there’s something I can do to help…’ He held up one finger in playful warning. ‘Although if it’s to do with licensing, I should warn you I’m not on that committee anymore.’
Cole gave another short giggle. ‘Come off it, councillor. Cut the act. I know it’s “hardly conventional office hours” but then you’re hardly a conventional businessman are you?’
Harrison felt a little buzz of adrenaline run through his body. He kept his face still and looked Cole in the eye. ‘What do you mean by that… Nelson?’
Cole took a sip of whisky and rolled the malt appreciatively round his mouth. ‘Well, John. You’re bent, aren’t you? I know you’ve got a lot of dealin’s in the property business. The kind of jobs where bein’ on the plannin’ committee can be a great help. Plus you’ve got some involvement in a few other games: prostitution to name one.’
A chill slipped down the back of Harrison’s neck. ‘What’s this about?’ He kept his voice cold and calm. ‘Money? Are you trying to blackmail me?’
Cole sighed. ‘Oh John, no need to act silly. It’s not exactly a sensational revelation, is it? Most people have got a fair idea even if they wouldn’t come out an’ say it in public. You’ve sued enough people in the past to put the others off tryin’. Or maybe it’s the legs you’ve had broken that have put them off.’ He giggled again. ‘Nah. I’m not interested in your money, not unless you’re undergoin’ a conversion an’ wanna give it away.’ Cole shook his head. ‘Information, that’s what I want.’
Harrison was silent for a moment. He watched Cole then gestured to the whisky bottle. The other man smiled and reached for a clean glass.
‘What information?’
Cole poured a healthy slug of spirit into the glass and slid it over. Then he pulled a card and flipped it across. ‘Recognise the name?’
Harrison nodded.
‘Yeah.’ Cole took a drink. ‘That’s my sister. Runs a nice little business, just her an’ a couple of friends. All very high class, sophisticated sort of stuff.’
‘And?’
‘You run girls. That’s one of your interests, right.’
It was not a question and Harrison said nothing.
‘Word is, you had a little run in a couple of weeks back with a guy called Robertson. Accused him of poachin’ one of your girls after she went missin’.’
Harrison licked his lips. Cole’s knowledge was too good to be comfortable. ‘So? Supposing that was true?’
This time Cole’s laugh lacked any humour. ‘John, I’m not tellin’ you fairy stories. I know all sorts of things about you I’m positive you’d rather no one knew.’ He leant forward abruptly. Harrison saw the intensity in his gaze and shifted nervously on his chair. ‘But fuck that. I told you, I’m not here to cramp your style. I’m here for information.’
Harrison shook his head. ‘But about what? And what’s your sister got to do with things.’
Cole’s eyes welled up. ‘She’s missin’ too, isn’t she? Went out on a job. Never came back. Seems her an’ your girl ain't the only ones to go missin’ either.’
There was a pause as the redheaded man stared into his whisky. His eyes closed briefly then he sighed. ‘She had a request to come to the Royal Hotel. Seemed regular enough. Thing is, there was no one in the room when she got there, just instructions t
o go to a restaurant few streets away. But she never made it. Turns out the hotel booking had been made using a stolen card too.’
Cole slowly shook his head. ‘We haven’t heard from her since.’
Intermission
Alone in the room, he sits motionless for a while: letting his mind clear, waiting for the static and chaff to fade away, preparing himself for the reverie.
The only light comes from a single candle. It is mounted in a small holder inside a recess usually hidden by a large calendar. The recess also holds a couple of small icons. They are personal items that look to be of little consequence; the only clue to their significance is where they have been placed. Although mainly symbolic, the objects are charged with meaning; these are keys that help turn secret locks.
One by one, the thoughts and irritations that have buzzed throughout his head during the day are cast out. A cool sensation spreads from inside his temples, soothing oil across the brain’s mental seething: the precursor of the rapture that will follow.
The candle burns steadily, no rogue currents of air to disturb the purity of its flame.
He breathes slowly, staring at the light. His vision is unfocussed: a golden blur with a dead centre. He does not see the icons but is aware of their presence.
An involuntary shiver runs up his spine and his naked torso flexes. The movement of muscle and bone creates a ripple across his flesh. It makes the scars on his back twitch: dead tissue dancing to the tune of the living.
An echo of the sensation moves up his neck and a faint smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. It is only a matter of time. A matter of letting his mind empty, cleansing his thoughts of distraction, concentrating on…
When the feeling comes it is like a flood. It begins with a faint prickling in his palms. An instant later, it is everywhere. It swells up, consuming his thoughts, sweeping through every fibre of his body. It is fire and ice at the same time: a storm of calmness, a torrent of silence. It is the rapture and it has come to sweep him away with its power and its glory. He sings its praises in silent adoration, blessing the fortune that has singled him out for this.