Twice As Dead: A Lukas Boston Mystery

by G. M. Hague

  ‘That’s Rodney,’ Shannon explained. ‘I just sit on his lap and it’s all over in a few minutes. Wish he’d get some decent wheels on that thing. Hard as hell on my arse.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Lukas said, putting a business card and the fifty dollars in her hand in a way she couldn’t refuse. ‘I’ll fix the landlord tomorrow. Call me, if he doesn’t do as he’s told.’

  *****

  The next morning was the first chance Lukas had to look at the computer disk Peter Goodall had given him. He made a coffee, lit a cigarette and booted up his laptop. Waiting for the software, Lukas spoke to a reflection he saw in the screen.

  ‘I went and saw your sister last night.’

  Gavin Hucknall was standing against the wall watching him. This time, when Lukas turned around, he could still see him.

  The ghost said, If I had anything I could tell you, I would.

  ‘Yeah right,’ Lukas sighed. ‘You used to say that all the time, too. How about you come up with something original?’

  He went back to the computer, not caring if the apparition stayed, left or danced the hokey-pokey. The reflection vanished.

  Ten minutes later Lukas swore at the screen one last time and gave up. The disk contained plenty of files, but many of them were protected by passwords and encryption formats. He called Goodall.

  ‘Fat lot of good this disk is,’ he said without any greeting. ‘I can’t open half of it.’

  Goodall grunted. ‘That’s odd. You’re saying you can’t read secure, confidential and highly-sensitive files that you practically bribed me into giving you? What’s the world coming to?’

  ‘Clever bastard. What can I do?’

  ‘Not much, I’d expect. By the way, Barbara called me. She’s more than a little disappointed in the level of service you’re providing.’

  ‘These files are more important at the moment, Pete.’

  ‘In fact, she’s bitterly disappointed, I’d say. She’s not a woman you’d want to make bitter. I sure as hell don’t want to talk to her again.’

  ‘Things have gotten a bit stirred up, Pete. You might even benefit, if I can access these files.’

  ‘She loves that cat – I mean, seriously loves that cat. You know what I’m saying?’

  ‘All right, for fuck’s sake. I’ll call her! Now what about these files?’

  ‘Bring the disk back in. Maybe I can print the stuff off for you instead.’

  Lukas silently cheered. ‘Why do you need the disk?’

  ‘So I don’t have to access the archives again. Christ knows what alarms I might set off,’ Goodall explained patiently.

  ‘You’re paranoid, but I love you for it.’

  ‘Keep it to yourself – and call Barbara Shields.’

  No sooner had Lukas finished the call when his phone rang. Barbara trilled, ‘Mr Boston, I’ve been trying to get in touch. I’m desperate for any news.’

  ‘No news, I’m afraid, Barbara. I went to see your ex-husband and he’s adamant he knows nothing about... Esther,’ Lukas only just managed to drag the name from his memory.

  ‘Don’t believe him! That man is a manipulative monster who won’t take no for an answer. What about the painted tart he’s living with?’

  The twin sister you’ve never known? ‘I really don’t think she’s involved either.’

  Barbara sounded annoyed. ‘Perhaps you need to debrief me in person?’

  Lukas had no intention of doing anything with Barbara’s briefs. Particularly de-anything with them. ‘That’s not necessary, Barbara. There’s nothing more I can tell you at this point.’

  Shit, why did he say that? “At this point”? It stupidly suggested he had more to discover. Then again, he needed to keep Barbara happy to ensure he got all the information from Goodall. At least until they could return to the standard scotch bottle currency.

  Barbara was asking, ‘Shouldn’t you be interviewing the neighbours? They must have seen something. You could do it tonight after dinner here. I’m cooking something with a very special ingredient.’

  A date-rape drug in the gravy? ‘I can’t do that, Barbara. I’m busy tonight, anyway. Look, leave it with me and I’ll make a few more enquiries. And please, remember not to call unless it’s absolutely necessary.’

  ‘I’ll try, Lukas.’ He heard evidence of a trembling bottom lip – and it was back to “Lukas” again. A good sign in a bad kind of way. ‘By the way, who was that strange man who answered your–’

  ‘I’ve got to go, Barbara. Stay strong, okay?’ Lukas hung up. ‘Crazy fucking lunatic,’ he told the phone, then panicked he hadn’t properly cut the connection.

  *****

  Lukas detoured to Shannon Hucknall’s apartment block on his way into the police station. A six-storey building stood grimly against the sky, a monument to 1980’s architecture, all dark brick and small, square windows.

  First Lukas found the elevator and pressed the button. Nothing happened, not even any clunking or rumbling behind the scratched metal doors to indicate the lift was going elsewhere. ‘Good enough for me,’ Lukas said.

  He rapped on the door to number one. On the other side came loud noises of explosions and guns firing – very loud. Lukas only waited a moment before bashing on the door with his fist. It shook in the frame.

  The battle sounds cut off abruptly. After several clunks and clicks the door opened, jerking against a security chain. A face with thick-rimmed glasses squinted out.

  ‘Yes, who is it?’

  Lukas stayed out of sight. ‘Bruno Weldon? Fedex delivery. You’ll have to sign for it.’

  It was an old one, but a good one. No one could resist a parcel arriving, even if they weren’t expecting anything. The security chain dropped and the door opened more. Bruno Weldon only had a moment to register wide-eyed Lukas advancing towards him, before the door bounced spectacularly off his forehead sending him reeling back into the apartment. Lukas followed, slamming the door behind him.

  Bruno screeched, rubbing his head, ‘Who the fuck are you? What the fuck are you doing?’

  He was very scared and panicked – and outraged. Lukas instantly knew that Bruno paid his bills, kept to himself and had no enemies, because he had no friends either. In his mid-thirties, Bruno obviously ate far too much junk food and take-away, never exercised and could have scheduled more bath time for his flabby body, although it was difficult to identify which of the odours in the place came from him and which were from an overflowing bin and empty pizza boxes.

  The room was impossibly filled with shelves and stacks of DVD’s, books and super-hero figurines. A plastic model of the Millenium Falcon hung from the roof. A Doctor Who TARDIS stood in the corner. Posters adorned the walls showing scantily clad, large-breasted women firing enormous machine guns at creatures which somehow threatened sex, rather than eating their prey. Taking pride of place in the apartment was a computer with the largest screen Lukas had ever seen. The desk was littered with joysticks, controllers and a glowing keyboard. A pair of huge speakers hissed towards an expensive, executive chair.

  ‘We need to have a chat,’ Lukas said.

  ‘Fuck that, I’m calling the police,’ Bruno said, snatching up a phone shaped like a ray-gun.

  ‘Good, ask for Detective Goodall. He’ll be glad to know I’ve found you,’ Lukas lied.

  ‘You’re the police?’

  ‘I work with them closely,’ Lukas said, going through his trying-to-find-some-ID-but-I-can’t-be-bothered routine. ‘Sit down and stop squeaking like a girl.’

  ‘I’ll stand, if you don’t mind,’ Bruno tried, almost getting away with the bravado. ‘What do you want?’

  Lukas leaned towards him, making Bruno pull back. Lukas said, ‘I want you to fix your elevator.’

  It took a moment. ‘You what?’

  ‘I said, I want you to fix your damned elevator.’

  ‘Why the hell do you care about that?’ Growing curiosity, and a sense he maybe wasn’t about to be beaten to a pulp, gave Bru
no more courage.

  ‘Because a good friend of mine lives here. A friend with only one leg and using the stairs is killing her. That’s why I care and that’s why you’re going to fix your fucking lift.’

  Bruno understood immediately. His lip curled. ‘Come on, man. She’s a hooker and she keeps bringing home these weird dudes in wheelchairs without arms and legs and shit, or they’re all fucked up somehow. It’s gross and you can’t blame me for wanting to get rid of her.’

  Lukas calmly took out his pistol and placed the muzzle against one end of a long line of neatly shelved DVD’s. He pulled the trigger and a bullet ripped through the whole length, shattering plastic everywhere and slamming into the far wall. Nobody was going to be alarmed by yet another loud gunshot coming from this flat.

  Bruno shrieked. ‘What the fuck are you doing? That’s the entire season of Stargate with all the early Amanda Tapping episodes and everything! Jesus! How am I going to get all them again? You bastard!’ He began grabbing at the broken cases, frantically searching for surviving disks.

  ‘Who’s Amanda Tapping?’ Lukas asked. In fact he knew, being a bit of a sci-fi fan himself, but that wouldn’t work.

  ‘Who’s – who’s Amanda... are you kidding? She’s the hottest babe in camo’s to ever shoot an alien!’ Bruno realised this was a futile argument. ‘Forget it, okay?’

  ‘Has she got two legs?’

  ‘Yeah, all right man, I know where you’re going, but that whore seriously brings home some total basket cases and it freaks me out.’

  ‘Shannon provides an important community service,’ Lukas said matter-of-fact. ‘You just might be one of those fucked-up basket cases one day, unable to even wank yourself into a coma like you do every day over these posters. You’re gonna need someone like Shannon, and she’s going to need an elevator or even better, a ground floor flat,’ Lukas added, warming to his subject. ‘Have you got any vacancies down here?’

  ‘Nope,’ Bruno said, hesitating a fraction too long. Lukas took out his Glock again and eyed off the Millenium Falcon. Bruno cried, ‘Wait! Wait – okay, I mean, someone’s leaving in a few weeks and I’m supposed to advertise the place, but I can...’ He sighed. ‘I can shift Shannon in there and get someone new in her place.’

  ‘And you can fix the elevator in the meantime,’ Lukas said, sighting experimentally down the barrel. The spaceship model was impressive. It’d be a shame to blow it to pieces. Maybe he could commandeer it instead? As a ransom. It’d look okay in his lounge room.

  ‘Yes, I’ll fix the fucking elevator,’ Bruno muttered.

  ‘Good lad, I’m glad you understand the situation,’ Lukas said mildly, wandering over to the computer and its impressive screen. ‘What do you do with all this shit?’

  ‘I play games,’ Bruno said sullenly.

  ‘That’s all you do? All day?’

  ‘I get paid for it. For testing beta versions of games before they’re released. And I write some code, do some stuff...’ Bruno shrugged, not expecting Lukas to get it.

  ‘So, you’re a computer whiz-kid?’ Lukas asked, feeling the disk from Goodall in his pocket.

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Good, then I’ve got a job for you.’

  ‘I’m pretty busy man, it’s too hard – okay, put down the gun.’

  Lukas explained about the disk, emphasising the high security and confidentiality. ‘Serious shit,’ Lukas added for good measure. ‘How much do you charge?’

  ‘A hundred bucks an hour,’ Bruno said glibly. ‘Nothing less, so don’t ask.’

  ‘I’ll give you fifty bucks and not charge you for any ammunition, past, present or future,’ Lukas said meaningfully. He really wanted that Millenium Falcon. ‘How long will it take?’

  ‘Dunno till I have a look.’ Despite his annoyance, Bruno couldn’t hide being intrigued by the challenge. ‘Can you email it to me?’

  ‘I can do better than that,’ Lukas pulled the disk out.

  For the next twenty minutes Bruno muttered to himself, madly clicking on the mouse, pounding on his keyboard and glaring at the screen. Lukas spent the time browsing through the vast collection of DVD’s and books.

  ‘Hey, I love this movie,’ he said, picking a smashed case off the floor.

  ‘You can have it,’ Bruno said wryly. ‘What’s left of it.’

  ‘I’ll buy you another one.’

  ‘Yep, that’ll be the same as a collector’s item.’

  Lukas let the pieces drop to the fall. ‘Your call.’

  ‘Who’s this guy?’ Bruno asked. He was looking at a picture of Gavin Hucknall.

  ‘Who was he, you mean? A drug dealer who is now feeding worms somewhere.’

  ‘Sucks to be him, then.’

  Lukas had an idea. ‘Can you fix pictures?’

  ‘Photoshop, you mean?’

  ‘Whatever you call it.’

  ‘I’ve got some skills,’ Bruno said modestly.

  ‘Can you make him look bald? Like, shaved?’

  Bruno wore an expression that said he was expecting something more difficult. Further frantic clicking and the image of Hucknall was transformed to a man with a pale skull.

  Bruno said, ‘He looks like one of those Buddhist monks dudes. A religious freak that lives in a commune, right?’

  ‘Right,’ Lukas said thoughtfully. ‘Maybe you’re not as stupid as you smell.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  Soon afterwards Lukas left with a second disk containing all the files in a format he could read. It was another fifty bucks well spent. He had a new useful resource — an overweight, nerdy computer expert who no one else would ever find, because Bruno never ventured out into sunlight. And some surprise inspiration into where Gavin Hucknall may have been hiding for the last five years.

  *****

  Lukas thought it was best to be honest and he called Goodall to say he’d found a way of accessing the files.

  ‘Did you call Barbara Shields?’ Goodall said.

  ‘I’ve spoken to her, yes.’ Lukas didn’t bother telling him just who had called who.

  ‘Is she happy?’

  ‘Funny you should ask that. She wants to know if you’re happily married.’

  ‘Yeah right, she hasn’t ever seen me, remember? By the way, Elizabeth was asking about you today.’

  Lukas’ heart did a small trip. ‘Really? What about?’

  ‘Hah! In your dreams, Lukas. Who’s top clown now, sucker?’ Goodall laughed.

  ‘Arsehole,’ Lukas snarled and hung up.

  Before he could do anything else Lukas needed to go home, take the phone off the hook and study the latest files provided by Bruno.

  *****

  Again, when he arrived back at his flat Lukas was already standing in front of the door and seeing the bullet hole as a reminder, before he realised just what an easy target he was presenting any sniper.

  ‘Damn,’ he said, ducking down and inserting his key in the door by reaching up.

  ‘Are you okay, Mr Boston?’ Irene called from her flat.

  For God’s sake, did she live behind her curtains just waiting for him to come home?

  ‘I’ve dropped something, that’s all thank you, Irene.’

  Go back inside and mind your own fucking business.

  ‘Do you need any help?’ Plainly, she meant perhaps psychiatric or counseling, or maybe alcoholics anonymous.

  ‘No, I’m fine thank you Irene.’

  Lukas was really thinking that, what the hell, it might be worth asking Irene to help search for a fictitious dropped contact lens or some damned thing. Surely no self-respecting sniper could miss such a large target?

  He crawled through the door and slammed it after him.

  Inside, Lukas set himself up for some heavy reading. A fresh pot of coffee held enough for several cups. The ashtray was emptied and placed close to hand. The mobile was switched off.

  Trawling through all the case files and information, some of it jogged his me
mory, while other parts were tedious crime scene data that was tempting to ignore, but Lukas forced himself to keep reading.

  Two hours later, when the coffee was failing to hold an edge and the ashtray was overflowing, Lukas stumbled across something that made him think twice. He back-tracked, checking earlier files, then figured where he needed to look further to confirm his suspicions. He felt an old familiar tingling that said he’d discovered something important. Another thirty minutes of cross-referencing and sorting out the connections and Lukas was certain.

  Gavin Hucknall was a police informant.

  It was a shock, and it made sense of everything. That was why Hucknall never said a word to Lukas during the interviews. Hucknall knew that in many ways he was untouchable, immune to any real prosecution and with an escape plan, if things got too crazy.

  Hucknall’s contact in the police had been a veteran detective that everyone called Meatball, because he ate a fatty concoction of meatballs and cheese pasta for lunch every day, prepared by his wife. The food filled the entire building with its smells. There was never any doubt when Meatball was having his lunch.

  No one was surprised when Meatball died of a massive heart attack a few years earlier. His wife’s cooking had been slowly building up a congealing layer of grease on the office walls, so it wasn’t difficult to imagine what it did to Meatball’s arteries.

  Meatball was old-school and no doubt fiercely protected Hucknall as a personal asset. Which meant it was possible that after Meatball died, Hucknall would have been left all alone, even unaware for some time that his police contact was dead. Maybe Hucknall never found out until he finally emerged from wherever he’d been hiding these five years?

  ‘So, who are you going to turn to next?’ Lukas asked himself, tapping his teeth with a pen, staring at the screen.

  It was worth another chat to Goodall and not over the phone, just in case. Lukas gathered his stuff, grabbed a jacket and his car keys, thought about a call just to warn Goodall he was coming – and decided the better of that. Goodall might do a runner.

  Lukas’ plan hit a snag. Outside, Max and his two colleagues were waiting on the front lawn. Max gestured grandly at the back door of the car, telling Lukas to get in.