by Logan May
‘You’re an arsehole,’ he told Pete Goodall, dropping into a chair on the other side of the detective’s desk. ‘That Shields woman is a man-eating monster. I almost had to come here to file rape charges.’
‘Did you do her?’ Goodall asked, leaning back. His chair creaked under the weight. Goodall spent too much time at his desk. Most of his hair was gone and the remainder was a dirty grey. He avoided fitness reports at all costs.
‘No, I bloody didn’t! And I never will unless I’ve got a death wish. Have you seen her?’
Goodall was smug. ‘Got a look at her when she came into the front desk the first day, so I made sure no one put her file in my tray. Then some clever bastard transferred her phone calls though to me and it’s been like phone-a-bloody-friend every day demanding I go looking for her cat. In fact, she called again just a few minutes ago. Mrs Shields is very pleased with the new arrangement. She certainly likes you.’ He grinned. ‘Barbara assures me she already has all your contact details, but I made sure all the same.’
Lukas blanched. ‘You didn’t give her my home address?’
‘No, not yet. But you know, since you’re working on Mrs Shields’ case file, perhaps I should give it to her anyway?’
‘I guess you’re just amusing yourself, right?’ Lukas said uneasily. ‘Having a laugh.’
Goodall shook his head slowly. ‘Lukas, I know the whole wavy hair, green eyes thing gives you a free shot at all the beautiful women around, but as a public service and for the sake of charity you should be spreading a little of your stud-like love with the Barbara Shields of the world, too.’ Goodall thumped himself in the chest. ‘So I’ve taken it upon myself to ensure that happens.’
‘I’ve got a better idea, why don’t you sleep with her?’ Lukas said flatly. ‘It looks like you need the exercise.’
‘Nope, I can’t,’ Goodall said mildly, reaching for his coffee. ‘I’m a happily married man.’
‘I’ll bet that if Barbara Shields looked like Cameron Diaz your happy marriage would be conveniently forgotten.’
‘Let’s not get morals confused with shit like that,’ Goodall frowned at him. ‘My Jackie would leave me for George Clooney in the blink of an eye, too. It’s all relative, when it comes to your relatives, right?’ Goodall didn’t wait for an answer, taking a computer disk out of a drawer and dropping it in front of Lukas, gesturing that Lukas should hide the disk quickly. ‘That’s everything I can give you. I suppose this is a result of last week?’
‘Last week?’ Lukas slid the disk inside his jacket, jamming it into a pocket.
‘With Monroe falling off the perch. Have you heard something?’
‘Damn, I didn’t even think about that,’ Lukas said, truthfully.
It was even odd, considering the morning he’d had.
Charles "Chuckles" Monroe had been the leader of the same criminal organisation involved in the failed drug deal five years before. Gavin Hucknall had even worked for Monroe. Two weeks earlier Monroe had died of a heart attack. In the obituaries the press painted Monroe as a "prominent business figure" since it still made sense not to upset the family and friends of someone who collected his overdue debts with a cricket bat. Monroe had ruled with an iron fist over a widespread and nasty collection of thugs, pimps and dealers. The mobster had been at the heart of Lukas’ investigations and most likely responsible for much of the death and violence linked to the purge following the missing drug shipment.
Lukas wondered, Could Monroe’s death be somehow causing Hucknall’s sudden appearance?
‘So, what have you heard?’ Goodall broke into his thoughts.
‘What?’
‘What have you heard? About Monroe and all that shit,’ Goodall pointed at the disk in Lukas’ jacket. ‘You must have heard something.’
‘No, not really,’ Lukas said, standing up. ‘I’m only thinking it’s a bit easier to poke at a few old bears now that Chuckles is in the ground.’
‘Why? You’re not a policeman anymore and it’s not your problem.’ Goodall peered at him, smelling a rat.
‘Well, okay—there is a third party interested in doing some digging around again, now that he’s gone.’ Lukas didn’t want to admit it was him.
‘Hoping to find the drugs? After all this time?’
Lukas shrugged. ‘It’s the buried treasure of the Underworld, Pete. The fabled, lost drug shipment of Chuckles Monroe. People will always be searching for it until somebody finds the damned thing. No surprise, someone is willing to pay me to have another look, so why not?’
‘Who?’
‘Sorry, can’t say.’
‘Won’t say.’
‘No, I can’t say.’
‘What a load of shit. You’ll keep me in the loop all the same?’
‘You’re my best friend forever, you know that.’
‘Now I know you’re lying. Piss off, then.’
Lukas left, feeling he’d come out on top until Goodall called after him, ‘Don’t forget to give Babs my best—and give her your best while you’re at it.’
‘I’m going to find the bloody cat,’ Lukas said unhappily over his shoulder. ‘Easy fixed.’
Goodall burst out laughing.
Back at the reception desk Lukas leaned close to Beth when she wasn’t looking. ‘How about dinner tomorrow night?’ he asked, making her jump.
‘Good idea,’ she said, recovering. ‘Come around at seven. Wear a dark shirt, so you won’t see the holes after the Taser prongs are pulled out. Are you an organ donor?’
‘Absolutely. I’ve given my heart to you, Elizabeth Reynolds.’
‘I think I’m going to be sick.’
‘Just hold that thought,’ Lukas said, walking away.
‘I’m holding down my bile instead. Don’t wink again—no, don’t... you bastard, Lukas!’
*****
At his car, before getting in Lukas couldn’t help checking the back seat for signs of Hucknall. He realised looking through the windows wouldn’t work, so Lukas began peering into the wing mirrors, walking in a crouch around the car and trying to find the best angle.
‘Are you thinking of buying it, Lukas?’ A constable asked as she passed. ‘It looks like pile of shit.’
‘As a matter of fact, I already own it,’ Lukas said.
‘Then the car-crusher’s in the next yard,’ she said without stopping.
‘Very funny,’ Lukas called, but not too loudly, because she looked damned good from behind.
‘It stinks in here,’ came Hucknall’s voice from inside.
Although he couldn’t see anyone, Lukas jerked the back door open. ‘Back again? You always bitched about the smell in my car, so get out. Find your own way bloody home or wherever it is you hang out, when you’re not haunting me.’
There was no reply. More self-consciously Lukas again attempted to see the interior using the mirrors. Giving up, he got into the driver’s seat and used the rear-view. The back seat was empty.
Lukas said softly, ‘You always bitched about that. So are you really talking to me or just echoing the past?’ He thought, I can’t remember Hucknall ever mentioning any damned debt or that I owe him anything. Then again, Lukas hadn’t listened too closely, because Hucknall never really said anything he’d wanted to hear. It had been like interrogating a brick wall.
FIVE
Five years earlier during the investigation, Lukas had always believed that one person knew more than she was prepared to say. Hucknall’s girlfriend, Grace Chadwick. Perhaps with Chuckles Monroe in the ground she might be more willing to give up some secrets? Lukas figured it was worth asking. He had nothing to lose.
The Grace Chadwick that Lukas remembered was nearly thirty years old, looked something like fifty, had a thin, ferret-like face to match her wiry figure and she put on a fierce expression for everything. Even sucking on the cigarette, held permanently in her nicotine-stained fingers, rated a moment of furious concentration. Tattoos on her arms and legs weren’t a good look on her thin limbs. A spider’s web i
n blue ink crept up her neck. The artwork and the flesh were invariably on display thanks to Grace’s liking for sleeveless tops and denim mini-skirts. She also preferred thongs, flattened and worn down to a wafer of rubber.
Things had changed.
The Grace Chadwick that met Lukas in the doorway of a neat caravan, greeting him through a flywire screen, wore colourful slacks, a lace blouse with long sleeves and high neck, and clean white sandshoes. He hardly recognised her.
‘Yes, can I help you?’ She asked, flashing a smile of crooked teeth which had been scrubbed and bleached to a semblance of health. The habitual grimace of anxiety had gone too, he noticed.
‘Grace, it’s Lukas Boston. You knew me as a detective back when Gavin was being investigated. Remember me?’
She peered at him. ‘I thought you looked familiar. I try not to think about those years anymore. It’s too... distressing, you know? What do you want?’
Distressing. That might explain the gobs of phlegm she’d been spitting at Lukas the last time they met. Screaming at him to fuck off and leave Hucknall alone.
‘I understand, Grace. Really, I do. Still, can I have a word?’ Lukas was on the back foot momentarily. He’d half-expected to discover that Grace was long dead from an overdose or after choking on her own alcoholic vomit.
‘If you like. Wait out there and I’ll pop the kettle on. Harry won’t be too far away.’
Harry? Who the hell was Harry? Lukas had been given the address of the caravan park by Grace’s last parole officer. The park manager told him which numbered lot. Beyond this, Lukas knew very little about Grace Chadwick now. It wasn’t inconceivable that someone other than Hucknall found her attractive. Lunatics were everywhere these days.
He was standing inside a canvas annex with a carpeted floor and folding chairs neatly arranged beside tables. This was a permanent caravan site, the van chocked up off the ground. Then Lukas noticed that Jesus had moved in for good, too. Framed prints on the walls depicted Biblical scenes with plenty of halos in evidence. A small weeping Mary statuette lurked in the corner.
Grace squeezed out the door, making sure that Lukas didn’t try to slip inside. ‘It’ll take a few minutes to boil,’ she said, herding Lukas to sit in one of the chairs.
Lukas wasn’t comfortable. He’d much rather deal with the spitting, abusing Grace than this strange creature. Maybe she was saving her spit for his cup of tea? Too late, he hadn’t refused one. He lowered himself carefully into a sagging camp chair.
She said, ‘I’ve been half-expecting a visit from someone like you.’
‘Because Chuckles is dead?’
‘What? Who?’ For a moment, the screwed-up face almost returned.
‘Charles Monroe is dead. Didn’t you know?’
Grace was surprised. ‘No, I didn’t hear. God rest his soul, although I suppose there’s no chance of saving him now. He needed saving though. Do you need saving, Mr Boston?’
‘From what?’ Lukas said innocently.
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Ah! Ignorance, the worst sin. It’s never too late while you’re still breathing. That’s what we say.’
‘Speaking of which, can I smoke?’ Lukas started pulling a packet out.
She said quickly, ‘I’d rather you didn’t. We can stand outside, if you like. In God’s plain sight.’ Her fingers quivered slightly, as if clutching an invisible cigarette.
Lukas glanced up at the roof, silently questioning how the sagging canvas might hide sinning smokers from any God on the job. He left the smokes in his pocket.
Instead he said, ‘Why were you expecting me?’
‘After Gavin’s visit, of course. You people were always harassing him back then. You were one of the worst. I don’t expect things to be any different now. You’ve tracked him down to here.’
‘After Gavin’s visit when?’
‘A week ago, I suppose. Walked in here bold as brass and wanted to see me like nothing had ever happened. He got quite upset when I told him about Harry. There was a bit of a scene and he left. I said we could help him reach out to the Lord, but that just upset him more.’ Grace shrugged.
Lukas jerked upright in his seat, which threatened to tip over and he waved his arms to keep his balance. ‘Shit, Gavin was alive a week ago?’
‘Was alive?’ Grace blinked.
‘Well—I mean, we’ve all thought he was dead, right?’ Lukas corrected himself hastily. There was no point in telling Grace that Gavin’s resurrection was short-lived or, especially, how Lukas knew this.
‘I thought the same,’ Grace admitted, sounding like she’d already lost interest. ‘Hardly recognised him. Thin as a rake and head like a bowling ball. You know, shaved clean?’
‘Did he say where he’d been living? Hiding all this time?’
‘Nah, we didn’t talk about anything like that. Soon as he saw how happy I am now, he just got angry—’
They were interrupted by a short, thick-set and overweight man walking into the annex. A crown of curly hair laid siege to a shining bald spot. He peered at Lukas through heavy glasses, then took them off and studied Lukas again.
‘Hullo, who’s this then Grace? A new lamb to our flock?’ He snatched up Lukas’ hand and pumped it enthusiastically. ‘Welcome! Welcome, my friend!’
Grace explained unhappily. ‘This is a policeman who’s come to ask about Gavin, Harry.’
Harry abruptly dropped Lukas’ hand and only just stopped himself wiping his palm on his trousers. Lukas struggled to stand up, fighting the camp chair again.
‘Lukas Boston,’ he told Harry, going through the motions of finding his wallet for identification, before giving up. Since Grace had made the mistake of thinking he was a still a serving detective it wasn’t strictly necessary to correct her.
‘Harry Upton.’
Harry was familiar to Lukas, but his name didn’t match the vague memories. Lukas was certain that Harry had something to do with Monroe’s organisation in the past. It appeared Grace didn’t stray too far from the fold, when it came to her love life.
Lukas said, ‘So, you had an unexpected visitor?’
‘Not for long. We offered him a new beginning, but he wasn’t interested. Gavin took off soon after that.’
Lukas gestured at the caravan park outside. ‘I don’t understand, is this some kind of religious place?’
‘No, it’s just us who know the Truth, but we’re spreading the word here. It’s our mission,’ Harry said matter-of-fact.
At that moment Harry caught sight of someone walking past. He called out, as if to demonstrate to Lukas, ‘Peace be with you brother!’
A voice floated back. ‘Piss off, you god-bothering freak.’
Harry shrugged at Lukas. ‘He’s a challenge, that one. But he’s coming around.’
Harry and Grace both wore false smiles now. Waiting for Lukas to get the message. Bland, we’re-not-going-to-tell-you-anything smiles that Lukas knew so well. He considered pressing them harder, maybe for emphasis even kicking over the damned camp chair. The downside would be revealing just how keen Lukas was to get fresh information. It was better to play his cards close to his chest. Besides, Lukas already had his one utterly surprising new fact.
Until something like a week ago Gavin Hucknall was definitely alive.
‘All right, that’s all I need for now. But I might have to come back and ask a few more questions,’ Lukas said. ‘Sorry I don’t have time for the tea.’
‘Special brew it is, too,’ Grace said. ‘I put in my secret ingredient.’
‘I can imagine. Maybe next time.’
Harry said, ‘Why don’t you come back on a Sunday? We can take you to one of my meetings. You’ll enjoy it.’
‘Your meetings?’
‘In my church. I’m the pastor of The House of Hope.’
‘Seriously? You mean, like a real pastor?’
Harry’s smile faltered. ‘No one questions my authority.’
‘Right,’ Lukas said doubtfully, backing outside the annex.
This place was getting crazier by the second. He nodded at Grace. ‘I’m glad to see this has turned your life around, Grace. Congratulations.’
‘I’ve been born again, Mr Boston. No more sinning for me.’
Lukas slowly took out his cigarettes, lit one up and savoured the first drag. He told her, ‘Believe me, you’re not missing a thing.’
It was Grace’s turn for her smile to slip, her bottom lip trembling. The fingers twitched again.
SIX
Lukas had promised he would visit Barbara Shield’s husband and he might as well get it done. Go and see if he was in illegal possession of a certain cat.
It was a long drive out to the M31 and the far northern suburbs and Lukas often glanced in the rear-view mirror to see if he had a ghostly passenger. Perhaps Hucknall could explain how he’d been alive for the past five years and gotten away with it? Chuckles Monroe would have been leaving no stone unturned searching for him, if only for the fact that Hucknall’s unexplained disappearance must have been damning—assuming now it wasn’t something of Monroe’s doing that convinced Hucknall to go missing in the first place.
‘It changes everything,’ Lukas muttered aloud and looked again to see if it prompted an appearance in the back seat. Nothing happened. ‘Just as damned hard to pin down as when you were alive,’ Lukas muttered.
Mick Shields lived in a modern street with all the homes boasting perfect gardens, showroom-designed houses and paved double driveways leading to roller-door garages. Lukas figured that on a summer evening you’d go deaf from the sound of water sprinklers. He parked halfway on the grass and heard something crunch under one of his tyres. Lukas got out and checked. A part of the reticulation system was smashed.
‘Sorry,’ Lukas told it insincerely and went to knock on the front door.
No one answered.
He looked around, searching the street. It was a sunny day with blue skies, but nobody was outside. Lukas wandered casually down the side of the garage and found a small gate into the rear yard. It wasn’t locked and he slipped through, making sure the gate didn’t crash closed behind him.
It was a typical back yard, devoid of any mess from children or pets. A square of grass hosted a clothes line, a tiny shed for keeping tools, and a fence line with a token bed of flowers.