Hey, Sherlock!

by Simon Mason

  ‘So. Joel was after Damon. It sounds like he was blaming him for something. And Damon wrote Joel a note telling him it wasn’t his fault, and to back off – or else.’

  ‘That’s it.’

  Singh sat down at the desk and folded his hands together. ‘I’ve done some more work on Joel. I went to his flat in Tick Hill. It’s a strange place. There’s hardly any furniture in it. But a lot of weightlifting equipment. And it has a very expensive security system.’

  Garvie said, ‘Interesting. Joel moved jobs all the time but never missed his rent.’

  Singh nodded. ‘His outgoings frequently exceeded his income. We’re on it: our Finance guys are looking into it now. My assumption is, he had accounts we don’t know about yet.’

  They were silent, thinking.

  Garvie said, ‘You’re sure about Joel and Damon being together on the Y.O.? Who’s this guy who told you?’

  ‘His name’s Paul Tanner, lives out at Childswell. He used to work on the programme and knew both Damon and Joel. He didn’t want to tell me, in fact; he’s protective of Damon. He may well still be in touch with him. He didn’t like Joel. But, anyway, just now it was confirmed through the official channels.’

  After a moment, Singh continued reflectively, ‘Joel and Damon. Once they were close. “Soul mates”, Damon thought. Then they fell out. The question is, why.’

  ‘But the real question,’ Garvie said, ‘is why so angry? Joel scared the kid to death when he showed up looking for Damon. He was absolutely furious with him.’

  Singh nodded. ‘Joel blamed Damon for something. About getting the sack from One Shot?’

  ‘No, Damon didn’t have anything to do with—’ He fell silent.

  ‘Garvie?’

  The boy threw him a distracted look. ‘Got to go.’ He paused. ‘Funny, isn’t it, how easy it is to miss the obvious.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Sequences. Same numbers keep coming up. You know, Pascal’s triangle. Problem is, you think they mean the same thing. But they don’t. Same number, different value.’ At the door he turned and said, ‘By the way, last thing. Remember: you can’t trust Dowell.’

  ‘I know that. You don’t have to worry.’

  ‘It’s you who should be worrying. He was going through your desk drawers: did I say that?’

  Singh frowned.

  Garvie said, ‘And when I say you can’t trust him, I don’t mean anything trivial. I mean, watch your back. Seriously.’

  ‘It would help,’ Singh called, ‘if you didn’t come in here and chat to him.’

  But Garvie was already in the corridor outside. As he went he dialled.

  She answered on the first ring, as if she’d been waiting for him.

  He said, ‘Can you get hold of some posh clothes?’

  ‘Don’t understand.’

  ‘Not your usual goth-punk rebel stuff.’

  ‘I mean, I don’t understand why I would need some posh clothes.’

  ‘’Cause the place we’re going won’t let you in unless you’re wearing them.’

  ‘Which is where?’

  ‘Meet you at ten outside the bowling alley in The Wicker.’

  ‘I don’t need posh clothes at the bowling alley.’

  ‘Who says we’re going to the bowling alley?’

  She was halfway through asking him again where they were going when she realized he’d already rung off, and she sat there with the phone in her hand, sighing.

  Singh sat in his office, sighing too. He thought about Joel Watkins getting angry, and about Damon Walsh getting frightened. And he thought again about what else Paul Tanner might know.

  He picked up the phone.

  ‘Detective Inspector Singh here. I would like to come and talk to you again.’

  There was a pause. Tanner said, in an unsteady voice, ‘Yeah. Actually, I was going to call you.’

  ‘About what?’

  Another pause. ‘Something’s happened.’

  ‘What has happened?’

  ‘I guess I should’ve told you sooner,’ Tanner said. ‘You’d better come round. But you have to be quick.’

  37

  Singh sat opposite Paul Tanner in his brightly lit living room.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’

  Tanner looked shifty.

  Singh said, ‘I asked you to contact me immediately if Damon got in touch.’

  Tanner rubbed his face. ‘I’ll be honest with you, I wasn’t going to tell you at all. There’s a reason Damon doesn’t trust the police. Last time you threw the book at him, he ended up inside, and it was hell for him, nearly destroyed him.’

  ‘I understand,’ Singh said. ‘But the way for Damon to avoid that now is to come forward and talk to us. Anyway, tell me now what has happened.’

  Tanner began to explain. The day before, he’d got a call from Damon. The usual story: he needed money.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘A phone,’ he said. ‘Didn’t believe him at first. Thought he was after something to calm him down, weed or whatever. But when I said all right, no money, but I’ll buy you the phone, he said yeah, cheers.’

  ‘So you’re going to buy him a phone. What then?’

  Tanner swallowed. ‘Well, I already bought it.’

  ‘What?’

  He’d bought the phone and left it, as Damon had asked, at a storage point near the station.

  ‘So he might have picked it up already?’

  ‘No, I just called the place. The package is still there. But, yeah, Damon’s got the code, he might turn up at any time.’

  Singh was already on his feet. ‘OK. Give me the details.’

  Tanner was on his feet too. ‘All right. But listen. I don’t want anything happening to Damon.’

  Singh said angrily, ‘You’ve just admitted aiding and abetting a suspect. You’re lucky not to be charged with obstruction of justice.’

  Tanner’s face hardened. ‘I’m looking out for Damon, right? He’s got no one else to do it for him. I’m holding you responsible for his safety.’

  Singh almost lost his patience. Not quite. ‘The details,’ he said. ‘Quickly, please.’

  The souvenirs kiosk sat in a long strip of stores between a halal restaurant and a tanning shop, opposite the pedestrian entrance to the station. By now it was the middle of the afternoon, the street was busy, pavements packed with people, the road clogged with slow-moving cars, taxis, buses and trucks, all shimmering in the sun. It was the public heart of the city, the habitat of travellers and hustlers, of brisk young tourists with backpacks and idling men in sunglasses and the cross-legged destitute with their thin voices and cardboard signs. The air was hazed with the noise of traffic and chatter. Everything moved, slowly but ceaselessly.

  Dressed in black jeans and zip-up fleece and black silk headscarf knotted on the top, Singh moved too, shifting his position every few minutes, always staying on the station side. He had arrived at 14:00; now it was 15:30. Damon had not yet appeared.

  At 16:00 he stood with a magazine among smokers at the station entrance.

  At 17:00 he moved further along the street, methodically working the windows of shops selling bagels, insurance, postcards, chicken, money, wigs and novelties.

  At 18:00, as the crowds thinned out, he sat in the corner window of a coffee shop.

  Twice he called Paul Tanner. Damon had not been in touch again. The package was still in place.

  At last the afternoon dimmed to evening, the shop lights came on, and at 21:30 the sky was dark above the little glitter of the street.

  Singh called Tanner again.

  ‘Perhaps he’s seen you,’ Tanner said.

  ‘No,’ Singh said evenly. ‘He has not seen me.’

  He rang off, and the second he put his phone away, he saw him, Damon Walsh the flaky boy, slipping like an eel through passers-by towards the souvenir shop. He was wearing the maroon hoodie he’d worn when Singh interviewed him, walking head down, moving quick
and stiff-legged, pushing open the shop door and disappearing inside.

  Singh left the station entrance and crossed the road, and positioned himself outside the halal restaurant, waiting.

  A few minutes passed, and he prepared himself.

  A few more minutes passed.

  Peering through the souvenir-shop window, he found his view blocked by racks of badges and bumper stickers. He made a sudden decision. Moving quickly, he went inside.

  The first thing he saw was the feet of the prone body of the shopkeeper lying next to the counter. Cursing himself, he leaped forward, over the man and down the aisle to a door at the end, and through the door into a dogleg corridor piled with cardboard boxes. At the corner, another shorter corridor led to a door. The door was open. In it stood Damon, fiddling with a package.

  ‘Damon!’

  Without turning, Damon bolted. He took off, all jerky arms and legs, across a yard and over a wire fence, and swerved away into the streets, scattering pedestrians. Singh leaped after him.

  ‘Damon!’ he called again.

  In the street, he saw him dash across the road, careless of traffic, running manically, like a man animated by terror, towards the station entrance. A bus slid in front of Singh and for several seconds he lost sight of him. By the time he’d crossed the road, Damon was nowhere to be seen. Singh ran down the short sloping entrance to the station and stopped, panting, as he scanned the concourse in front of him. Even so late it was crowded, a herd of people doing nothing very much with the stoical concentration common to commuters and livestock. A scene without anything out of the ordinary.

  Then, briefly, a blur of maroon passing between the corner of a kiosk and the front end of a train idling at a far-off platform.

  Singh set off.

  He danced his way through the stationary crowd, running on his toes onto the platform just in time to see Damon turn the top of stairs at the other end and disappear onto the bridge across the tracks. As he ran he concentrated. He put himself wholly into his effort, as the Sikh masters taught. He became his running.

  Going up the steps three at a time, he sprinted along the bridge, vaulted the ticket barrier at the end, ran across the walkway and taxi rank, and out again onto the streets, looking round.

  But Damon had gone.

  Singh turned in every direction but there was no sign of a maroon hoodie. He stood alone, hands on knees, gulping air, while travellers went past him without a glance; and gradually as the minutes passed he got back his breath. It was 22:00. At last, he turned and began to walk back, grimly, to the souvenir shop.

  Which was when he saw Damon creeping round the corner back into the station.

  He flung himself forward once more, went round the corner, and tackled him with explosive force high round the waist just before the ticket barrier. They rolled together on the concrete as travellers jumped screaming out of the way, crashed against a low wall, and Singh pressed his forearm across Damon’s throat as his hood fell back, and he saw, to his confusion and horror, that it was not Damon at all.

  38

  At ten o’clock, half a mile from the station, Garvie and Amy stood in front of the bowling alley across the road from the Imperium casino.

  He’d told her about the note Damon left for Joel. But he hadn’t told her why they were there.

  The Wicker was getting lively, noisy parties of men and women milling up and down the street in an air of edgy celebration, clubbers and drinkers, hen-night girls, sports boys, bar hoppers, dance freaks and fancy-dress brigades, all staking their territorial claims on the clubs and bars along the strip.

  Garvie was wearing the all-black outfit of the Imperium male staff: black trousers, black shirt and waistcoat, black bow tie.

  Amy stood poised and elegant on grey suede heels with tasselled, lace-up straps, wearing a one-shoulder, knee-length bodycon dress in grey stretch fabric, with a small clutch bag to match. Her hair was up, revealing the long nape of her neck and ears. To call the dress curve-hugging would be a laughable understatement, like calling a major explosion uncomfortable. It seemed to have been sprayed on.

  They stood looking at each other.

  ‘Simone Rocha,’ she said. ‘If you’re interested.’

  Garvie could feel himself beginning to sweat. ‘I wasn’t going to ask who you’d borrowed it off. I was going to ask if it was legal.’

  ‘Will it do?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh yeah.’ He swallowed. ‘It’ll do.’

  ‘Good. Then maybe you can explain. Finally.’

  He explained. It was quite simple. To recap. Joel Watkins was Mr Angry. He was angry because someone had got him the sack.

  Amy said, ‘But no one got him the sack. PJ told us. It was just Joel blowing off. He was caught stealing.’

  ‘Right. No one got him the sack from One Shot.’

  He watched her thinking about that.

  ‘You mean someone got him the sack from somewhere else?’

  ‘He usually worked more than one job. Couple of days before he was sacked from One Shot he was sacked from Imperium. Singh mentioned it. Joel was constantly being moved on; it’s like the same number recurring in a sequence. PJ heard him ranting about someone getting him the sack and naturally assumed he was talking about One Shot. But maybe he was blowing off about someone getting him the sack at Imperium.’

  She looked over at the casino. ‘So we’re going over there to find out what happened.’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘But what’s this got to do with Damon?’

  ‘Don’t know yet. But Damon used to come here sometimes, play the slots. He told me that himself.’

  ‘OK,’ she said at last. ‘But how do you explain your kit?’ She put out a hand and straightened his collar, and ran her finger down the line of buttons on his shirt.

  ‘Borrowed it from a friend. He’s temping in the back office. Helps me blend in. I’ve got previous with the casino. It’ll keep their attention off me. Though I don’t know if I really need it now.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘No one’s going to be looking at me.’ He paused, glanced at her. ‘They’re all going to be looking at you.’ A look passed between them, interrupted by Garvie’s phone ringing. He put it to his ear without looking at it, said, ‘What?’ and stepped away from her.

  She looked over at the casino lit up soft blue and green, like an aquarium. Fake columns flanked the entrance, and in front of the columns stood two outsized doormen wearing dinner jackets and black bow ties and the blank expressions of the thoughtlessly violent. A large sign of unusual brilliance read LIFE’S A GAMBLE ROLL THE DICE. A much smaller sign, in the same perky style, read Never Bet More than You can Afford to Lose.

  Garvie returned to Amy, looking more inscrutable than ever.

  ‘What’s up?’

  He told her what Singh had told him, the trap laid for Damon, the chase and its failure. Damon was still at large.

  Amy said, ‘He’ll be panicking, desperate.’

  ‘Yeah. And maybe in danger of losing it.’

  They both thought about that.

  ‘I wonder what he wanted a new phone for?’ Garvie said.

  Amy shrugged. She said, ‘Did Singh say anything else?’

  Singh’s team had found a hidden account belonging to Joel Watkins. Nothing special, but full of irregular mid-sized payments, about one a month.

  ‘Unexpected.’

  ‘Not really. Singh just needs a friend in the team that handles vehicle theft. They’ll work it out. The important thing for us is to find out what went down when Joel got the sack at the casino. By the way, before we go, there’s this guy.’

  ‘What guy?’

  ‘Sort of bandy-legged, crazy-eyed, wet-faced sort of guy. Owner’s son and manager. Darren Winder. You’ll recognize him when you see him. Be good if we didn’t bump into him.’

  ‘Dangerous?’

  ‘Just a bit irritating. Are you still up for this?’

  ‘Wouldn’t miss it.’
>
  ‘OK, you go first.’

  ‘Did you have a plan, or shall I blag it?’

  ‘Why not just see what happens?’

  ‘Always the most interesting thing to do, right?’

  They looked at each other a moment, a little crackle of emotion passed between them, and she smiled at him. Then she stepped lightly across the road towards the mock-Roman frontage of Imperium, its fluted columns and thick-set doormen.

  Garvie waited, watching her go. He counted down from 4,181 in the Fibonacci sequence, not particularly slowly – 4,181, 2,584, 1,597, 987, 610, 377, 233, 144, 89, 55, 34, 21, 13, 8, 5, 3, 2, 1, 1, 0 – and set off after her at a trot. By the time he reached the entrance she was already talking to one of the doormen. Pop-eyed with fascination, he seemed to be trying to lip-read her whole body. Distracted by Garvie’s approach, he put out a traffic-warden-like hand.

  ‘Been out to get Mr Winder’s pills from the all-night pharmacy,’ Garvie said. Glancing at Amy, he did a double-take, whispered to the doorman, ‘Simone Rocha – from the TV,’ and went past him.

  A few moments later Amy joined him inside. ‘I was doing all right on my own,’ she said crossly.

  ‘I could see that. But if you’d gone all the way and turned him completely to stone there would have been a fuss.’

  ‘What now?’

  The lobby where they stood was a sunken circle decorated like a tiny amphitheatre with nude statuettes in alcoves hung with ivy in stucco and a mosaic on the floor showing Neptune, god of the sea, demonstrating wrestling moves to a couple of only slightly unwilling nymphs. From the depths of a badly lit corridor came the noise of slots. Beyond, in tastefully dimmed lighting, they could see a corner of the cocktail bar and the entrance to the restaurant and, beyond those, the gaming tables surrounded by small crowds of people self-consciously wearing posh clothes.

  ‘Good luck,’ Garvie said.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Back office.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Finding out stuff.’

  ‘OK. I’ll do the same out here.’

  He nodded. ‘Best not stay long, though. See you in the car park at the back in half an hour?’