The Perfect Girl

by Lorna Dounaeva

  Simon came in a bit later. Anthony trotted at his side, firing questions at him.

  “What were the police cells like?” he asked. “Were they all dark and dingy?”

  “I think you’re getting confused with dungeons,” came Simon’s reply.

  “Did you have to sleep on the floor?”

  “Yes, but only because they couldn’t find a mattress big enough for me.”

  “Did you have to share the cell with criminals?”

  “No.”

  “So, you didn’t see any criminals?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “Oh.”

  “I saw lots of police officers, though.”

  “Did any of them have guns?”

  “No.”

  “Tasers?”

  “Not that I saw.”

  “Truncheons?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Was there any police brutality?”

  “What, in Fleckford?”

  “You never know.”

  “Have you been reading my Amnesty leaflets again?”

  “I was bored.” Anthony fell silent for about a nanosecond and Simon took the opportunity to catch his breath.

  “Daaaad?”

  “Yes?”

  “Is it true they live on doughnuts?”

  “The police? No, they all eat responsibly sourced fish, meat and organic vegetables.”

  Anthony pulled a face. “Maybe I’ll be a criminal.”

  “Over my dead body.”

  “Oh, I’ll just do postal fraud or something like that.”

  “I thought you wanted to be a train driver.”

  “God, Dad! That was years ago. Can I have some money for the jukebox?”

  “If it will shut you up for a few minutes, then by all means.”

  He produced a handful of change and emptied it into his son’s outstretched hands.

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “Just spend it wisely. No Justin Bieber. You understand?”

  He shook his head as Anthony walked off to spend his ill-gotten gains “I try to be a good role model for my son and all he wants to know about is bloody criminals,” he said.

  “I suppose they’re quite exciting at his age,” Jock said.

  “What, having people think your old man is a serial killer? Hey, you don’t think I’m a serial killer, do you?”

  “Of course not!”

  “The thing is,” he went on, lowering his voice, “some of the things the police told me were deeply unsettling. I mean I’ve lived in this area for a while now, so I was here when the last May Queen went missing, but I’ve moved a few times over the years and it turns out that I also lived within twenty miles of one of the other May Queens when she was taken. I had no idea but you can see how the police thought that was suspicious. If I were a more paranoid sort of person, I’d think somebody was trying to set me up.”

  “That is a bit of a coincidence,” Jock agreed, wondering why he was telling him all this. Maybe he wanted someone to know. Just in case.

  “Do you know the reason they let me go?” he asked. “The real reason?”

  Jock shook his head.

  “My ex-wife gave me an alibi for Claire Scutter’s disappearance. Think about it, Jock. After everything they’ve said about Sapphire’s case not being linked with the others!”

  “Wow!” Jock said. “That is interesting! I’m just amazed your ex was able to give you an alibi. I mean, it was over five years ago, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah, well it turns out it happened on the night of Kym’s sister’s wedding. And since I was one of the groomsmen, there are plenty of witnesses to back me up.”

  “That is a pretty good alibi,” he agreed. “Er, tell me, do you think Dylan’s … alright?” he asked, not quite sure how to put it.

  Simon raised an eyebrow. “Dylan’s a selfish git!”

  “But do you think he’s alright in the head?”

  He looked perplexed.

  “You know, not a psycho or anything?”

  He broke into laughter. “Jock, if you’re about to suggest that Dylan’s the May Queen Killer, I’m going to have to stop you right there!”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Oh, come on! That idiot couldn’t organise a piss up in a brewery.”

  “No, he probably couldn’t,” Jock agreed. “Not unless it was a party of one.”

  “Why are you asking anyway? I thought he was your mate.”

  “He is! He is! He’s just a bit … odd sometimes. I don’t quite know how to take him.”

  “Well take it from me – Dylan’s OK. Slightly crackers, but aren’t we all?”

  “I suppose so.” He fumbled in his pockets for his phone, which had started to vibrate. “Er, is it just me or has that song been played three times in a row now?”

  “Anthony!”

  Jock’s phone got louder the longer it took to locate it.

  “You’ve got reception!” Angie said with the kind of awe normally reserved for someone who had won the lottery.

  Jock glanced at the display.

  “Hi Robbie,” he said, holding it to his ear. “Everything alright? I hope Hampton’s not keeping you up at night.”

  “Hampton?”

  “My hamster.”

  “Oh, I call him The Gangsta.”

  “Nice, but it’s a her actually.”

  “Right, well …”

  “Something wrong?”

  “It’s just … Nan. She’s always over here, cleaning the place and bringing me food. I know she’s just trying to help, but she’s really cramping my style. I mean, I had a woman over yesterday. A real, living, breathing woman. And Nan just wouldn’t take the hint and leave.”

  Jock bit his lip. “You have to tell her to stop,” he said. “She doesn’t take any notice of hints.”

  “But she’s my Nan!”

  “I know, I know …”

  Damn her. He wouldn’t let her run his life anymore, so she was interfering with Robbie’s.

  All day, he struggled to concentrate. He had told Hilary he would get her the rest of the chapters by the end of the month, but it was going to be tight and he couldn’t afford to fail. He didn’t want anyone to think he couldn’t do it without his mum to guide him. And there were plenty of writers just dying to take his place on the bookshelves. The main thing he had going for him, above talent, if he was honest, was the ability to spew ’em out. That was what she had taught him.

  He stayed at the library until it closed and then headed back to the Dragon.

  “Jock!” Dylan said jovially, as he pushed through the doors. “Alright?”

  Jock nodded.

  “You’re looking a lot better than you were earlier.”

  “Angie’s potion worked magic. Must be witchcraft or something.”

  “Or maybe it’s because you started drinking again?”

  “You want a pint?”

  “We need to talk first.”

  “Sounds a bit girly,” Dylan said. “Are you breaking up with me?”

  Jock bit his lip. “I want to know what you know about Sapphire.”

  “Well …” Dylan slurred his words slightly. “That depends on how long you’ve got.”

  “Just tell me!”

  “She ran off because of someone – someone who was more important to her than her role as May Queen.”

  “Dylan! Careful!”

  The drink slid from his hand, shattering against the bar and sending fragments of glass everywhere.

  “Ow!”

  “Are you alright?”

  “I’m fine. I just need a paper towel.”

  Neil wrenched his eyes from the TV. “What happened?”

  “Spilled my drink,” Dylan said, making a show of lapping up the beer that was running down the bar.

  “Watch it; there’s glass in that!” Jock warned.

  “Perhaps you’ve had enough,” Neil frowned, surveying the mess.

  “Don’t be daft!” said Dylan. �
��I know my limits.”

  “I think we all do,” Neil said, handing him some paper towels. “Some people think they’re invincible.” Jock wasn’t sure if this comment was addressed to him or if he was just speaking to himself. “The police make the worst drunks,” he muttered, as he walked round to clean up the mess.

  Jock blinked. “You’re a policeman?” he asked Dylan.

  “Thought I said.”

  21

  Jock stared at Dylan in awe. “You said you were on gardening leave; you never said what from. I just assumed you were a civil servant or something!”

  “Never assume,” Dylan said, staring longingly at the beer taps.

  “So what happened? Why are you on leave?”

  “It’s a long, boring story,” Dylan yawned. “I wanted to make detective, but my boss was holding me back because he was worried I would take his job. He’s a very insecure man, you understand. Actually, I was after his job and I told him so on many occasions, but that’s beside the point.”

  “So what is the point?”

  “I used a bit of a shortcut to help him solve a case and he found out. He could have let it go, but since he didn’t like me, he had me put on gardening leave. They all acted like they were doing me a favour by not sacking me, but gardening leave is like being in a state of purgatory between employment and unemployment. I was pretty pissed off, as you can imagine, so I used the opportunity to show them what I’m made of.”

  “Which is?”

  “Let’s see, I took up drinking and gambling. I stay up all night and I slag off my boss to anyone who’ll listen.”

  “And you grew that crazy hair!” Jock couldn’t help adding.

  “Oh no, I already had that.”

  “So how’s it all working out for you?” he asked.

  “Not bad as it happens. The obvious thing for them to do would be to sack me, but instead they offered me a pay-off. I refused to take it. So they offered me more. Occurs to me I should hold out and see what they’re really prepared to pay. Meanwhile, I’m doing a pretty terrific job of screwing up my life and taking as many people as possible down with me.” He smiled broadly. “That’s where you come in.”

  “Nice.”

  “Well, what can I say? Misery loves company. And a man has to have a hobby.”

  “Can’t you just take up pottery?”

  “Not with these hands.”

  He lifted one to demonstrate. He had the jitters.

  “Yikes! You should really get that seen to.”

  Dylan drew breath and Jock could see he was about to launch into one of his monologues, so he cut in. “Why didn’t you say you were investigating Sapphire’s disappearance?” he asked. “I saw your wall.”

  “Wait a mo … How do you know what’s on my wall?”

  Jock reddened. “I found you on the floor, stone-cold drunk.”

  “You didn’t move anything, did you?”

  “No, I–”

  “Thank Christ. Cos I had all my stuff mapped out on the floor the other day and that stupid cleaning lady put it in a heap on my bed. Took me ages to put it right.”

  “That’s why you were so pissed off with her?”

  “What did you think?”

  “I dunno. I thought you were a raving crack hound.”

  “That’s nice, coming from a nosey parker like yourself.”

  “I told you, I was checking up on you because you were drunk and covered in blood I might add.”

  “Yeah, well I got into a bit of a tussle with some heavies. They took Shirley, the bastards!”

  Jock blinked. “Who’s Shirley?”

  He couldn’t picture Dylan with a cat or a dog. For some reason, a big, furry tarantula came to mind. Just the kind of pet Dylan would own.

  Dylan looked at him with disdain. “Don’t you listen to anything I say? Shirley is my car. She’s been repossessed. Those bloody yokels have no heart.”

  “Did you know you dripped blood all the way up to your room? Good thing Neil got that cleaner in. She got it all off. You’d never even know it was there.”

  “Amazing woman.”

  “Quite. Do you think she’s the May Queen Killer?”

  “Yeah. She’s probably hiding them all in the cleaning cupboard.”

  Dylan looked across the bar at Neil. “Can I please have one more pint?”

  “No.”

  “Just one for the road?”

  “What do I look like? An idiot?”

  “No, you look like Neil from The Young Ones. Is that who you were named after?”

  “Get lost.”

  “Alright, alright! Come on, Jock, let’s go up to my room. I’ll show you what I’ve been working on.”

  Dylan’s room still stank of alcohol. It was like a perfume, permeating the air. His pea-green carpet was just the same as Jock’s, but it looked older: smokier, dirtier, more lived-on.

  Jock sat down by the computer.

  “Want a drink?” asked Dylan.

  “Er, no, that’s OK.”

  Dylan opened his wardrobe. Instead of clothes, it contained drinks and snacks.

  “You’ve got a mini bar!” Jock gasped. “That’s so …”

  “Cool, isn’t it?”

  “I was going to say ‘excessive’. Where do you keep your clothes?”

  Dylan shrugged. “Who cares about clothes?”

  While Dylan poured himself a drink, Jock started to read some of the Post-it notes grouped around the computer. He had photographed most of them before, but there were new ones, which drew his interest.

  “Who’s CS?” he asked.

  Dylan didn’t answer, but Jock saw his reflection in the computer screen as he grabbed something that looked large and heavy. He jumped to his feet and whirled round. Dylan was clutching a machete.

  “Oh my God!”

  Dylan took a step towards him, a bit unsteady from the alcohol.

  “That’s not funny!” Jock warned. “Put it down! Before you hurt someone!”

  “Before I hurt you, you mean?”

  Dylan’s face went from jocular to menacing. His mouth twitched oddly.

  “Dylan?”

  “I don’t like people going through my stuff.”

  “I didn’t!”

  He inched back, but there was nowhere to go. He was pinned in between the computer table and the window. The window was wide open, the ugly net curtains billowing in the wind. If he could just reach the ledge, he ought to be able to jump. He was on the first floor, so it would be a bit of a drop, but what else could he do? He grabbed the windowsill and pulled himself up.

  “Jock!” Dylan was on him within minutes, dragging him back down.

  Jock struggled for breath, won and screamed as loud as his lungs would let him.

  “Jock, for God’s sake don’t jump! It was a bloody joke, you idiot!”

  “A joke?” For a moment, Jock wasn’t sure if he believed him, but as he watched, Dylan fell against the computer table, letting the weapon drop to the floor. “My God, you scream like a girl!” Dylan was laughing so hard, there were tears streaming down his face.

  Jock sat in stony silence, the cold air blowing against his back.

  “I can’t believe how gullible you are! This machete is made of plastic; can’t you see that? I had it left over from Halloween.”

  Jock leant forward and touched it. Dylan was right. Close up, it didn’t even look that realistic. “You are one sick son of a–”

  “Now don’t you start on my mother,” Dylan said. “I wanted to show you something, remember?”

  “Forget it!”

  “You want to find Sapphire, don’t you?”

  Jock stopped in the doorway. “Have you really found something or are you just wasting my time?”

  “I think you’ll be interested in this,” Dylan promised. “And I’ll tell you what, I’ll order us a pizza. How’s that?”

  Jock cocked his head. He ought to tell Dylan to go to hell, he really should. But then he would never hear what
he had to say.

  “Pepperoni alright for you?” Dylan asked.

  Jock let out a sigh. “Yeah, alright.”

  He caught his breath as Dylan phoned in their order. Just minutes ago, he had thought Dylan was going to kill him and now he had agreed to have dinner with him. What was wrong with him? He really knew how to pick ’em.

  “So come on then; what was it you were going to show me?” he asked when Dylan got off the phone.

  Dylan came over to the computer and made a few clicks.

  “What is this?” Jock asked, as a video came up. It was in black and white, and looked a bit grainy.

  “I’ve been examining CCTV footage from the route of the May Day parade. This particular clip is from the tea shop, taken just before the parade started.”

  “How did you get it?” Jock asked.

  “It’s amazing what people will give you if you ask. Now I could be barking up the wrong tree here, but it looks to me like this lady …” He zoomed in on a scruffy-looking woman. “This lady bears a strong resemblance to the archive pictures of Claire Scutter. Obviously she’s aged a bit and she looks a lot less attractive, but she has the right features – same eyes, same nose, same cleft in the chin.”

  “But Claire’s dead, isn’t she?”

  “Only if Peter Helston was telling the truth. If not …”

  “Wow!” Jock said. “Bloody wow!”

  Dylan allowed himself a smile. “From what we’ve been hearing, Sapphire saw something or someone to make her run off from the parade. I wanted to see who or what that could be. Judging from the time these pictures were taken, she was upstairs getting ready, so she might not have had any forewarning that Claire – if this is Claire – was coming. Probably, she saw her for the first time when she was up on that float. People assume it was the May Queen Killer she saw, but for that to happen, she’d have to know who it was. I think it’s more likely she saw Claire.”

  “So if I’m right and Sapphire is in fact Gertrude Scutter, then she must have thought her sister had come back from the dead,” Jock said. “No wonder she ran after her!”

  “Now the question is, where did they run to?”

  “You know, if we want to confirm that this is really Claire, we could send a copy to Gabriella Helston,” Jock suggested. “She was Claire’s friend.”