Hey, Sherlock!

by Simon Mason

  ‘Is what?’

  ‘Tell Amy. She’s blocking me.’

  ‘Tell Amy what?’

  The soft, whooshing silence went on for several seconds this time.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Damon said. And then, in a rush: ‘You know what? Tell her goodbye. And tell her I’m sorry. Yeah. That’s the truth. Oh God,’ he said, ‘here it comes!’

  ‘Damon, wait!’

  Very briefly, there was a different noise, a creeping metallic rattle, then the phone went dead.

  Garvie was off his bed punching in another number as he put on his boots.

  ‘Come on, Singh,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Come on, pick up.’

  He froze with one of his boots still in his hand.

  He could hear a phone ringing somewhere in the flat. Confused, he went out of his room into the living area, listening to the ringing getting louder. It was coming from his mother’s room.

  As he stood there numbly listening to it, the door of his mother’s room opened and Singh came out dressed in shorts and T-shirt, holding his phone up to his ear. He stopped when he saw Garvie and they stared at each other.

  His mother appeared behind Singh in her dressing gown and rested her hand on Singh’s shoulder. ‘Garvie,’ she said in a low, troubled voice.

  His adrenaline kicked in. ‘No time,’ he said. He couldn’t look at her. He looked at Singh. ‘Listen to me. Damon just called. He’s about to do something stupid. We have to get there,’ he said.

  Singh didn’t move.

  ‘Now!’ Garvie shouted. The anger in his voice surprised him. Singh began to move, boyish and oddly small in his over-sized T-shirt and baggy shorts.

  ‘Garvie,’ his mother said again, quietly.

  ‘See you downstairs,’ Garvie said curtly to Singh, and went quickly out of the flat.

  He didn’t realize how much he was shaking until he reached the bottom of the stairwell; he had to hold onto the banister to keep himself from falling. His breathing was fast and he could feel his heart pulpy and horribly mobile in his chest. Then Singh was with him, and they ran together without speaking out to the small car park, towards the beige Skoda Fabia parked unobtrusively at the far end.

  Singh was still buttoning his uniform as he got into the car. ‘Garvie—’ he began.

  ‘Just drive,’ Garvie said. ‘That’s what we’ve got into the car for, isn’t it?’

  ‘But we don’t know where he is. You said yourself we couldn’t find him.’

  ‘I said you couldn’t find him. I didn’t say I couldn’t.’

  ‘Where then?’

  ‘Town,’ Garvie said; then they were pulling away down The Driftway, banging through the potholes.

  45

  Everything looks abandoned at three o’clock in the morning. The empty streets were silent. Not so the Fabia. With a wild noise it hurtled down Bulwarks Lane, swerved into Pollard Way and burst onto Town Road, the little car accelerating all the time.

  ‘Where in town?’ Singh asked, hunched over the wheel.

  ‘Left here,’ Garvie said.

  The car fishtailed through ninety degrees, went through a red light, and headed towards the centre of town.

  ‘Well? Where?’

  ‘Thing about Damon, he’s simpler than you think.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Remember what he told me?’

  ‘He likes to go somewhere he can get high. And hear the air. Which sounds to me like the countryside not downtown.’

  ‘Damon didn’t like trees much. City boy. In the city, if you want to listen to the air – you’ve got to get high. High up. Just like he said. His little joke.’

  ‘So where—’

  ‘He was telling me about it when I met him on Supertram. Smiling to himself as he stared out of the window; it was like he was dreaming about it. But he wasn’t.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He wasn’t dreaming about it. He was looking at it. The multistorey car park. At the top. Good place to hide a van too, in a busy car park. When he called me I think he must have been out on the roof. I could hear the breeze, and something else too, a sort of metallic rattle. I’ve heard it before. It’s the gates to the depot right there next to the multistorey.’

  Singh said, ‘Are you—’

  ‘Let’s suppose I am.’

  Singh nodded. ‘Five minutes. Ten at the most.’

  Garvie stared out of the window at the city hurtling by, apartment blocks around the outskirts of the centre, offices and civic buildings.

  Singh called Dowell and after that Paul Tanner.

  ‘Damon trusts Tanner,’ he said to Garvie. ‘He may be able to talk to him.’

  He floored the accelerator and the Fabia swerved left at the station, along the side of the rail track, accelerating towards the shopping mall which rose ahead of them black and blank against the ash-blue night sky. They turned sharply into a narrow alley that ran as far as the depot, and slithered violently to a halt.

  They were out of the car before it had stopped rocking, running down the walkway to the depot, past the gates, shut now, round the corner to the multistorey beyond, and along its tall frontage, past the big, square entrance with its bollards and ramp and hanging boom, looking up at the roof as they ran.

  ‘Damon!’ Singh shouted once.

  They ran round the far corner and stopped. And stood there together with the suddenly aimless look of people who have just failed to catch the bus.

  Lying crumpled just ahead of them was the body of Damon Walsh, a broken shape as still as the ground he lay on. A homeless guy on his knees next to him turned to them, and said in horror, ‘He jumped. He just dropped, easy like over the edge. Like he wanted it.’ He lifted his hands, covered with blood, into the air and began to howl.

  At the corner they waited in silence, occasionally glancing at the body, which Singh had covered with his jacket. The vagrant had fled.

  ‘What did he say to you on the phone?’ Singh asked quietly, at last.

  ‘Stuff.’

  ‘Did he sound suicidal?’

  ‘Take a wild guess.’

  ‘Did he say anything we need to know?’

  Garvie looked at him impassively. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He said he lost it that night in Market Square.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘That’s what he said after I told him we knew he met Joel there.’

  Singh took this in. ‘You knew he met Joel in Market Square? You didn’t tell me.’

  Garvie looked at him briefly. ‘Turns out there’s stuff you haven’t been telling me either.’

  Singh looked away. From the direction of the business district they heard sirens getting louder.

  Singh said, ‘So it looks like the answer to the question “Did Damon kill Joel?” is yes. But the answer is too late.’

  ‘Yeah. Things are moving on all the time. The question you’re going to be asked now is why you didn’t stop him chucking himself off the roof.’

  Singh looked uncomfortable. ‘What else did Damon say?’

  ‘He said he was sorry. That was one thing.’

  ‘And what else?’

  ‘That he loved Amy for ever and ever.’

  ‘He said that?’

  ‘That’s what I’m going to tell her.’

  Singh nodded. ‘I understand.’ He moved away, scanning the multistorey roof.

  Garvie lit up a Benson & Hedges. He sucked on it angrily and called to him, ‘You know what? What he wanted, what he really wanted, probably the only thing he ever wanted in his whole life, was a place where he could go to forget it all. He told me he couldn’t always get there. Well’ – Garvie pointed his cigarette at the dark shape on the pavement – ‘he’s there now.’ He turned and walked away, then crouched down in the lee of the multistorey wall.

  Blue lights were flashing in the alleyway; three policemen jogged into view, followed by Inspector Dowell. Ignoring Garvie, they went up to Singh and stood in
a huddle, talking, none of them looking at the body.

  For five minutes there was the scene familiar from a thousand cop shows, crackle and pop of police radios, the usual routines of useless orders, swivelling lights in cool misty darkness, blue and white barricade tape, crime scene bollards, as if the whole thing were turning into documentary. The first ambulance arrived. More swivelling lights, the unloading of more useless equipment, muted voices in the quietness, disconnected phrases like pieces of code. More documentary.

  Paul Tanner arrived. He jumped out of his car, shoved aside the nearest policeman and went straight at Singh, and the policeman went down before Dowell and two others could get across to take control.

  ‘This is on you!’ Tanner shouted as he was dragged away. ‘You let him die!’

  He was hustled away to his car by Dowell.

  Singh, bleeding from the nose, tried to go over to talk to him but Dowell kept him away, and at last he turned back, wiping his face.

  Alone and miserable, he looked round for Garvie Smith, but the boy had gone; there was nothing in the shadow by the side of the car-park entrance except a couple of cigarette butts.

  Half past four, almost dawn. Garvie found himself walking along the tracks of the old railway line that ran north from the canal. He seemed to have been doing it for some time.

  It was surprisingly hard going, the sleepers were the wrong distance apart, but he made no attempt to get into a smoother rhythm. He welcomed the discomfort and difficulty. It distracted him. A layer of white mist floated above the ground ahead of him, spectral in the darkness. Overhead the sky showed phosphorescent green at the horizon, but he did not look up.

  His body felt empty. He wished his mind was empty too, but it wasn’t, it was over-populated with people he’d rather not think about – Damon, Amy, Singh. His mother.

  In a while he found himself on the old country road that ran past the sewage works into Limekilns. The sky had changed to pink and gold but this was of no interest to him.

  Then he was in Five Mile; it was fully dawn, grey and damp, and he went into Eastwick Gardens and up the stairs and let himself in.

  His mother got to her feet, and Singh too, and they stood there looking at him.

  ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Not here.’ He looked past Singh’s pinched, tired face to his mother. ‘Does he live here now?’

  ‘That’s not the question, Garvie, and you know it.’

  ‘What’s the question?’

  ‘We won’t know that until we have chance to talk about it.’

  ‘I’m too tired to talk about it,’ he said.

  Singh said to Garvie’s mother, ‘I’ll go now. I just wanted to make sure he was safe. I’ll …’ He hesitated. ‘I’ll get my things.’ He went past her into her room, and reappeared with his coat and briefcase.

  ‘I’ll call, Raminder,’ she said.

  Pausing on his way out, Singh said to Garvie, ‘We will need to talk too, about Damon at least.’

  ‘Amy knows everything,’ Garvie said. ‘You can talk to her.’

  He heard the door close behind him. For a long moment he and his mother looked at each other.

  ‘Get some sleep then,’ she said. ‘We can talk later.’

  He turned and went into his room and lay down on his bed. After a moment he heard his mother’s door close too. The pale light coming through the window was thin and cold like something deliberately intended to keep him awake, though in fact, despite walking half the night, he felt no tiredness as he lay there staring at the ceiling. Anyway, he still had something he had to do. He took out his phone and looked at it sadly before he called.

  She answered at once, as if she hadn’t been asleep.

  ‘Hi,’ he said.

  ‘Hi.’

  He hesitated. ‘Has Singh called you?’

  ‘No,’ she said, puzzled. ‘Why?’

  For a moment he listened to her breathing, picturing her in that bedroom of hers, thinking to himself the unbearable thought that this was the last ever moment when she wouldn’t know what had happened.

  ‘Damon’s dead,’ he said.

  She began to choke, a private noise he could hardly bear to listen to.

  ‘Amy,’ he said. ‘Amy.’

  She was crying, she couldn’t speak, there was something in her mouth, her hand or knuckles perhaps, she was gasping for breath.

  ‘Amy,’ he said again uselessly.

  She hung up.

  46

  August wound down, wet and windy, the chewed-up end of summer. Soon it would be the start of the new school year, light drizzle and dull skies, traffic piling up in the mornings, in the afternoons the streets crowded with kids in uniform.

  Garvie lay on his bed, got up to eat occasionally, went back to bed.

  Felix came round, trying to entice him out to the kiddies’ playground at Old Ditch Road. Standing under his window, he good-naturedly flashed a half bottle of Glenn’s at him, but Garvie just shook his head.

  Even weed didn’t help.

  Smudge brought him his last pay packet from his brother, and the latest news. The job at ‘Four Winds’ was all done, including the pagoda, everything creosoted and painted, trim and smart and, according to Smudge, one of the wonders of modern fencing. Apparently Dr Roecastle was pleased; there was talk of a bonus. Amy Roecastle had not been seen for several days, however. She was, sensationally, still present in Smudge’s memory, though he refrained from overlong descriptions. He was a boy of natural sensitivity.

  On the Wednesday Smudge had a day off and they went together down to town, and by accident or subconscious intention found themselves outside the shopping mall, by the multistorey. The car park had re-opened after a few days of forensic investigation. Everything was normal again; no sign remained of what had happened there. For a while they loitered in the streets nearby. Garvie hadn’t realized before what a big building the car park was, how tight a squeeze between the depot, the shopping mall and an office block. They walked all the way round it, along the stretch of road access at the front, the oil-stained delivery route to the depot, the paved walkway by the mall, and the narrow alley next to the office block, past all the entrances and fire-escape exits, and returned at last to the spot where Damon fell, and for a few moments stood gazing up at the concrete rim of the roof above.

  Up there the air was different. You could hear it. Damon knew.

  From his uncle, Garvie knew that the police had found Damon’s den on the roof, a hidey-hole between ventilator shaft and generator housing. At some point in the previous fifty years the lock mechanism of the old access door on the top storey had jammed, leaving it shut but unlocked. Garvie could imagine Damon finding that it opened, cautiously going onto the roof and feeling the air on his face. He must have felt safe there, and free. There was no one to see him; the only CCTV camera at that level was pointed at a different part of the roof altogether; the access door to the car park below could be secured behind him with one of those good-value rubber wedges. He’d hauled a tarpaulin sheet up to the roof and hung it above the cubbyhole to keep the rain off. Underneath it the police had found a sleeping bag, some bottles of water, a bag of rubbish neatly tied. Also a baggie of weed, several packets of Rizla papers and the keys to his van, parked inconspicuously among other vehicles below.

  In the meantime, the beanie with the HEAT logo had been positively tested by Forensics not only for Damon’s hairs and other traces of DNA but residue of gunpowder nitrates. Garvie’s final and awkward involvement had been to give an account to Inspector Dowell of his phone call with Damon. The investigation into the murder of Joel Watkins was closed.

  At the same time, the internal enquiry into Damon’s suicide, formally requested by Paul Tanner, had begun. Singh had already been called upon to answer questions.

  Garvie would have liked to talk to Amy about all of this, but she wasn’t answering his calls. He thought of her up at ‘Four Winds’, sitting alone in her room, thinking about Damon. He w
anted to talk to her. But she did not want to talk to him.

  Smudge put his arm round his shoulder. ‘When’s the funeral?’

  ‘Saturday.’

  ‘Going?’

  ‘Don’t know, Smudge, to be honest.’

  ‘I’ll come with. You know, if you need a bit of support.’

  ‘Cheers.’ They looked up together, one last time, at the multistorey roof. A little rain fell onto their faces, and they turned to go home.

  At home everything was different now. Singh hadn’t stayed the night again, but Garvie’s mother met him regularly in the evenings. Garvie couldn’t bring himself to talk to her about it. Just thinking about it filled him with a strange sensation like panic. As usual, his preferred form of communication was something close to silence.

  His mother asked, ‘Why don’t you like him?’

  ‘Just don’t. Never have.’

  ‘Try to like him for my sake.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you love me. Because we do things for people we love. Because I have the right to be happy, just like everyone else.’

  There were no answers to these righteous philosophies. But they did not address the panic he felt; they only made him feel guilty as well.

  ‘Listen, Garvie, I tried to tell you. I didn’t want it to be a surprise.’

  ‘What makes you think it was a surprise?’

  She looked at him.

  He said in a flat voice, ‘Thursday the ninth of August: chat with Singh here. Friday the tenth: calling him “Raminder”, praising him to me before going out with your hair in a short, puffy bob. Monday the twentieth: dinner with him, you wearing leopard-print trousers and black top, with the big yellow bangles, him wearing his best brown suit and orange turban. Thursday the twenty-third: talking to him on your phone before going out to meet him, wearing new blue denims, lilac top and grey suede booties. I been around. I got eyes. I can see what’s been going on.’

  His mother looked at him, astonished. ‘But,’ she said. ‘But then, if you noticed, why are you behaving like this?’