Hey, Sherlock!

by Simon Mason

  ‘Done.’

  He stepped away and disappeared through a STAFF ONLY door she hadn’t noticed, and she went forward among the other people, looking about her and listening. There was piped lyre music, very ancient Rome, and the clanking chug of the slots, and the murmur of voices from the restaurant and bar, and the periodic hush round the roulette table as if everyone watching was holding their breath. All the female croupiers and waitresses wore short white togas with their ancient Roman names on urn-shaped badges: ‘Olivia’, ‘Fulvia’, ‘Messalina’.

  ‘Livia Drusilla’ offered Amy a glass of champagne. She was a bright-eyed girl with a crooked nose and friendly smile.

  ‘Thanks. What games do you recommend?’

  ‘Depends what you like. Haven’t you been before?’

  ‘Never. One of my cousins used to work here. Not a nice man. To be honest, it put me off.’

  ‘Who was that then?’

  ‘His name was Joel Watkins.’

  Livia Drusilla nearly lost control of her tray. ‘You’re his cousin?’

  ‘Practically grew up with him.’

  ‘Really? Everyone’s still talking about him here. You know, ever since the … No one knows what happened. But he was …’

  Amy nodded. ‘Don’t worry. I know what he was like.’

  Livia Drusilla had by now lost all interest in her tray of drinks. She would have been surprised to see it still there in her hand. Her eyes were fixed shining on Amy.

  ‘Honestly,’ Amy said, ‘The things I could tell you about him. If we had time.’

  ‘I’m on my break in fifteen,’ Livia Drusilla said promptly. ‘I could meet you at the back of the restaurant. Get you another free drink?’

  Amy nodded. ‘All right. We can swap stories about Joel, and then you can tell me which game to play.’

  Elsewhere, Garvie went down the corridor that ran alongside the perimeter of the public rooms. It was quiet and plain and bare. No Roman theme. He’d been here once before. The only touch of opulence was the shag-pile carpeted staircase that he knew went up to the Winders’ private suite. He walked past it, checking names on the doors that appeared regularly on his right-hand side – ACCOUNTS, MEETING ROOM, MEMBER SERVICES, LICENSING. Some of the doors he tried. They were locked. The work that went on in them was daytime work, obviously. But whenever the casino was open there had to be a back office servicing it. Somewhere. Eventually he came to a small lounge filled with sofas and plants, and sat down to have a rest and a think.

  When he heard footsteps, he stubbed out his cigarette in a plant pot, and went along the corridor until he met a stern-looking middle-aged woman in a black dress suit coming the other way.

  ‘Scuse me,’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’ She peered at him through spectacles.

  ‘I’m looking for the office. Mr Winder’s asked me to fetch something from it.’

  She looked at him. ‘Don’t you know where it is?’

  ‘My first night. I’m from the temp agency.’

  ‘What temp agency?’

  ‘Office Angels. Dani Middleton’s cover. He’s not well.’

  ‘Again! That boy!’ She turned and pointed behind her. ‘The evening office is through Cage Operations.’ She sniffed and looked about her.

  Garvie said promptly, ‘I thought I smelled cigarette smoke. Back there.’

  ‘Back where?’

  ‘By the staircase.’

  ‘Mr Winder’s staircase?’ She clicked her tongue. ‘He told me he’d given up. I shall have to mention it again,’ she said, half to herself. She peered at Garvie. ‘What does Mr Winder want from the office?’

  ‘Employee file.’

  ‘You need to ask Janet. She’ll help you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Tuck your shirt in. And hurry along. You don’t want to keep him waiting.’

  Cage Operations was a dim space of desk silhouettes. At the far end of it a door with NIGHT OFFICE on it was framed by a fringe of leaky yellow light.

  Garvie knocked and entered.

  It was a windowless square room containing three desks loaded with the usual equipment and about twenty old-fashioned filing cabinets lined up like slot machines against the walls. Two women occupying the nearest desks turned to look at Garvie with interest. One had a grey bob, the other wore a brown cardigan.

  ‘Janet?’ Garvie said.

  Grey Bob said to Brown Cardigan, ‘They get younger, don’t they?’

  ‘Prettier too,’ Brown Cardigan said.

  They leered at him pleasantly while he looked from one to the other.

  ‘Why don’t you guess, love?’ Brown Cardigan said. ‘Which of us is Janet?’

  Garvie pointed at Grey Bob, who smiled slyly. ‘Why’s that then?’

  Garvie shrugged. ‘Just got that look about you. Sort of Janet-ish.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Yeah. Sharp. Stylish. Good-looking.’

  She blushed.

  ‘Besides,’ Garvie said, ‘your name’s on the email on your screen.’

  She laughed. ‘All right, what do you want?’

  ‘Mr Winder sent me to get an employee file.’

  ‘Whose file?’

  He took a piece of paper out of his pocket, and read from it. ‘Joel Watkiss. Watkins. Don’t think he works here any more.’

  ‘Doesn’t work anywhere,’ Janet said. ‘And no one’s crying about it.’ She nodded at Brown Cardigan, who opened the filing cabinet next to her desk and took out a brown manila file, very old-style, and passed it to Janet.

  ‘Here you are,’ she said to Garvie. ‘All part of the great Joel Watkins saga, no doubt. Mr Winder must have had that file a dozen times in the last week.’

  ‘Really?’ Garvie said. ‘Why?’

  Janet gave him a long, cool look. ‘What you don’t know can’t hurt you,’ she said. ‘Well, you’ve got your file. You better get back to Mr Winder. Tuck your shirt in.’

  He went down the corridor, head down, still reading, flipping the pages. After a moment, he ripped out a few and put them in his pocket; the rest of the file he binned in the lounge area as he passed through.

  The coast was clear – for about twenty seconds. Somewhere ahead of him there was a thumping noise and a moment later a man came abruptly down the staircase into the corridor. He was bandy-legged, his eyes were crazy, his face wet, and he stood there a moment looking about him in apparent outrage, then came directly towards Garvie with a strenuous inefficient movement as if somehow walking with his shoulders.

  Garvie kept his head down and Darren Winder thumped past him without comment. As Garvie watched him disappear round a corner, he heard him call out to Janet, who had evidently left her office. Walking softly, Garvie retraced his steps as far as a door marked LAUNDRY near the corner of the corridor, and reached it just in time to hear their conversation.

  He heard Janet say, ‘Did you get the file?’

  There was a random noise from Winder suggesting incomprehension.

  ‘God, they get younger, don’t they?’ Janet’s voice said, conversationally.

  Winder’s voice discovered language. It said, ‘What?’

  ‘The lad from the temp agency.’

  ‘Lad from the temp agency?’

  ‘Just now. Dark hair, slim. Got to say, very good-looking. Came for the file you were asking for.’

  There was a slight pause, then Winder’s voice suddenly found its natural level. ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ he said loudly.

  There was a confused interchange of bewildered murmuring and alarmed bellowing, brought to a sudden halt by Winder: ‘I’m telling you, I didn’t ask for a file!’ After a brief, fraught silence, he added menacingly: ‘What file was it?’

  Janet’s reply was a very small murmur indeed. The momentary silence that followed was like an intake of breath, then there was the sudden noise of running footsteps, and Garvie stepped sideways into LAUNDRY where he could listen in peace to Winder’s noisy stampede along the corridor o
utside; then he stepped out and went in the opposite direction down the now-deserted corridor, following signs to FIRE EXIT – as demonstrated before, nearly always the fastest way to reach the outside world, particularly in a casino, specially designed, labyrinth-like, to keep the punters inside, and even more particularly when the doormen at the entrance, if you ever get there, are likely to use all their charm to persuade you not to leave.

  He walked past kitchen doors with round glass windows in them, and someone stuck his head out and called after him, and he went on, a little faster. Behind him and ahead of him he heard doors banging. Then an emergency alarm went off, a noise so powerful the walls of the narrow corridor seemed to throb. Security had been called. Through the explosive din Garvie walked on steadily past toilets and janitors’ cupboards, went down a few steps and came at last to the fire escape. Running footsteps drummed in the corridor behind him as he leaned on the panic bar. Just in time. He allowed himself a smile of relief.

  The bar didn’t budge.

  He leaned on it harder. It was stuck fast.

  He rattled it with both hands. In vain.

  Above the steps behind him a door crashed open, and a doorman filled the doorway instead.

  Garvie glanced back. The doorman was big and angry, and he didn’t want to be introduced to him. Leaning backwards, he kicked the bar so hard he wasn’t sure for a second whether the blur of sudden squawking movement was the fire escape flying open or his foot flying off. Then he was jumping the metal railing outside, and running across the car park. Amy was waiting for him by the side of the near wall.

  She didn’t speak. She was busy watching the doorman and his two colleagues as they barged their way like log flumes through the flapping doors, closely followed by a bandy-legged man with a face apparently about to catch fire.

  ‘Looks like you’ve got everything under control,’ she said.

  Garvie limp-jogged up to her. ‘They don’t like me,’ he said sadly.

  ‘I can see that. Suggestions?’

  ‘Improve my people skills.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘All things considered,’ he said, ‘I think we should run again.’

  He had just enough time to admire her fence-vaulting skills again as she went over the wall, then he joined her, and they ran together down the alley into the shadows.

  39

  They went along the darkened bin-crowded backs of bars and clubs, over a brick wall greasy with moss into another car park, through a gap in a tatty mesh fence, and slithered down the bank to the towpath. Amy took off her heels, and they ran under cover of the trees as far as the old gas pipe raised over the canal, which they crossed, high-wire-style, one after the other, to the station side, and picked their way across the tracks to emerge by the corner of the shopping mall.

  There were people here. Amy put her shoes on and they got their breath back.

  ‘That was fun,’ she said after a while. ‘I don’t usually get so much exercise when I come down to The Wicker. Usually it’s just boys and drinks. Never run-for-your-life.’

  Garvie said nothing. He lit up and they drifted towards the station, mingling with the other people. As they went, Amy glanced at him sideways out of the corner of her eye. Hands in pockets, head down, cigarette in mouth. Shirt tails out, bow tie undone. Hair falling over his forehead. Expression gloomy.

  They walked on again in silence for several minutes. At the far end of the station concourse Amy turned towards Market Square and Garvie went with her, still brooding.

  ‘Never mind,’ she said at last. ‘It was worth a try, even if you didn’t get hold of anything.’

  They went on again, and they were halfway down Charlotte Way before Garvie handed her the pages from the Watkins file, which she looked at in surprise.

  ‘What are these?’

  ‘Came into my possession. Just before the run-for-your-life bit.’

  ‘Joel Watkins,’ she read out loud. ‘Personnel file, private and confidential. It’s his employment record at Imperium!’

  ‘Just the disciplinary bit. The rest of it was pretty boring, to be honest.’

  ‘How the hell did you get it?’

  He looked surprised. ‘They gave it to me.’

  She was duly bewildered. ‘Have you read it?’

  He shrugged. ‘Gave it a quick glance.’

  ‘And why aren’t you happy?’

  He didn’t answer and she began to read, fast. ‘There’s a lot here. Verbal warning, 6th of February. Inappropriate comments, female staff. Then it gives her Roman name.’

  ‘Messalina, yeah. I remember her. More verbals later, if you read on. Olivia, 17th of February. Fulvia, 3rd of March. Julia Agrippina, 14th of March.’

  She flipped pages. ‘Lots of other black marks and warnings. Playing slots on company time. Poor timekeeping. Abusive attitude, obviously. He really wasn’t very pleasant, was he?’

  ‘Keep going,’ Garvie said. ‘Fifth entry from the bottom.’

  ‘Which one’s that?’

  Garvie recited: ‘Written warning, 31st of March.’

  ‘Thought you’d only given it a glance,’ she said.

  ‘Stuck in my mind. Have you got it?’

  ‘Yeah. Unauthorized visit to Accounts.’ She looked at him. ‘Snooping in Accounts?’

  ‘Yeah. Interesting.’

  ‘Hoping to get his hands on some petty cash. Thieving slimeball. But you’re not happy.’

  ‘No.’

  She nodded. ‘I know why. There’s nothing here saying why he was finally sacked.’

  He sighed. ‘All the other stuff’s just incidental. No payoff. We might have well not bothered dressing up. Although …’ He glanced at her. ‘No, I take that back.’

  Amy stopped in front of the McDonald’s at the edge of the square. At that time of night it was almost deserted. Two or three people sat alone with their coffees as if dazed by the glare of the lighting.

  ‘I think you’re being unduly pessimistic,’ she said.

  ‘You think?’

  ‘I know.’

  She pushed open the door into McDonald’s. ‘Come and meet Livia Drusilla. She’s going to tell us exactly why Joel was sacked.’

  They sat upstairs, away from the windows. No longer in her toga, Livia Drusilla was tall and neat and normal, and she sat with her toffee latte, smiling at Garvie.

  ‘This is pretty exciting.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘You being questioned for murder.’

  Garvie glanced at Amy, who said to Livia smoothly, ‘Obviously it was just routine. Just because they’d driven dispatch together.’

  ‘Yeah. I’d love to be a dispatch driver. What do you drive?’

  Garvie cleared his throat. ‘A van,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah. What sort?’

  ‘White. White-ish.’

  ‘Yeah. And now you work at Imperium?’

  ‘Last day today.’

  ‘Oh. That’s a shame. Now you won’t be able to sneak your girlfriend in without paying.’

  Garvie looked at Amy again.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Livia said. ‘I’m not going to tell anyone.’

  ‘So anyway,’ Garvie said, ‘you saw what happened when Joel got the boot?’

  ‘Ringside seat. I was in the lobby and I heard it all kicking off.’

  ‘What happened?’

  It had been a warm night and the place was crowded. Livia had just finished serving drinks and was about to head back to the restaurant when she heard the shouting, and she put down the empty tray and ran outside with a few others. The two men were in the alley that runs alongside Imperium, Joel and a punter, struggling together. At first she thought that Joel must have been ejecting the punter for something, being drunk maybe or bad behaviour, but Joel was way too angry, shaking him and yelling at him. It was a personal argument. Joel’d got the guy in a throat-lock, as if he was going to twist his head off. Then the other guy got loose and started battering Joel. He slammed him into the wall, and he�
��d started throwing punches when Darren Winder and some of the other security boys ran out and pulled them apart. Everyone was ushered inside then so she didn’t see what happened afterwards, but Joel was sacked on the spot, she knew that, paid off and told never to come back.

  ‘When was this?’ Amy asked.

  ‘Beginning of August, I don’t remember the date. My late shift. A Wednesday.’

  ‘The first then,’ Garvie said. ‘Two days before he was sacked from One Shot. A week before he was killed.’

  ‘And what happened to the punter?’ Amy asked.

  Livia shook her head. ‘I suppose they gave him something, hushed him up.’

  ‘But you don’t think he was being ejected.’

  ‘No. Didn’t make sense. Joel was too angry. Like I say, it seemed personal.’

  ‘What did the punter look like?’ Garvie asked.

  ‘Didn’t get a good look at him, to be honest. Not dressed up, I noticed that. Some of the punters like to dress up, play the tables, sip their complimentary drinks, but some just come in to play the slots. They don’t stay that long and they don’t bother dressing up. Yeah, just some ordinary-looking guy in jeans and a purplish hoodie and a beanie.’

  ‘Purplish – like maroon?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s it.’

  ‘Tallish, black hair? Sort of wiry?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s it. Do you know him?’

  ‘Don’t know yet. What did they say?’

  ‘Say?’

  ‘You said there was shouting.’

  ‘Right. Well, Joel was all Bastard and Fuck and, you know, I’m Going to Lamp Your Head off. I’m not sure about the punter.’

  ‘He didn’t say anything?’

  ‘Let me think.’

  They waited.

  ‘Well. He kept telling Joel to back off. I’m warning you! Like if Joel didn’t stop he was really going to lose it with him.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  She thought again. ‘There was something, I can’t remember what though.’

  Garvie said, ‘It’s not my fault.’

  She looked at him, surprised. ‘Yeah. Yeah, that was it. Funny you knew.’