Cucumber Coolie (4 page)

“Oh, ha, ha,” he said. He grabbed the Cucumber Coolie and slapped some coins down on the counter. “Thought you’d be pleased for me. Especially being unofficially promoted to guardian of the city recently yourself.”

His smile dropped when he said this.

My moderate fame as a YouTube celebrity after stopping a serial killer a few months ago had really got to Lenny. He’d been paying me to catch the killer so he could take the credit. But he didn’t count on a standoff between the killer and me on the top of Preston bus station.

He didn’t count on the showdown, which resulted in me booting the killer to his death and saving his young son, ending up all over YouTube.

“Well, you know. I try to keep things humble.”

“I’m sure,” Lenny said. He slurped up some more Cucumber Coolie. The bright green liquid covered his upper lip, giving him a ‘tache. “Say this is… this is really interesting, Blake. Very interesting beverage.”

“Interesting? Or not to your tastes?”

“Both. I think.”

“Excellent. So why are you here, Lenny? And don’t tell me you’re here just to have a little boast about your promotion.”

Lenny slumped his shoulders. “Blake, you really don’t have much respect for me, do you? Really don’t believe I’d just drop by and give an old friend some good news?”

I wiped the counter down. “No. I really, really don’t.”

“Well shame on you, you miserable old mare.”

“I think I’m younger than you.”

“Younger at heart, maybe.”

“No. I’m actually younger than you. And that doesn’t even make sense—”

“Need a little favour, Blake.”

He scratched at his neck. Put his sunglasses back on so he could avoid eye contact.

“Oh, really?” I said. “Well isn’t that a surprise?”

“It’s this promotion, mate. I’m up against this McDone chap. You remember McDone, don’t you? Big bloke? Funny breath that smells like onion gravy.”

“I thought you liked McDone?”

Lenny wafted his hand in my face. “Ah, like, dislike. Same thing really.”

I considered this theory in terms of my own views on Lenny. “No, I don’t think it is. Dislike is pure dislike.”

“Well he’s going for the same job as me. And I just… well, I really want it. And luckily I’m working on a big case at the moment. So that should help.”

“Excellent,” I said. “Then you’re sorted then.”

“Ah, well that’s where you come in. I could do with you looking at a few things for me.”

I stopped cleaning down the counter. Smiled, and leaned against it. “No chance. You’ve got nothing on me anymore. I’m not falling for your little blackmail games again.”

Lenny raised his hands. “Jesus, Blake. So doubtful. So cynical. I wouldn’t blackmail a friend like you. I wouldn’t even know
how
to blackmail.”

I shrugged. “Fair point.”

He reached into his pocket. God, his TARDIS like pockets. How I hadn’t missed those. “It’s just a couple of things. A letter and two tapes,” he said. “Well, that makes three things. I always say a couple for more than one thing, then someone told me a couple actually just means two. Did you know that?”

“Yes.”

“Blew my mind. Anyway.”

He planted a pile of papers down on my counter. The first one was a black and white picture of two Mini DV tapes. The next was of a letter, too grainy to make out the writing from this scan.

“Bloke called James Scotts was found hanging from his belt this morning.”

I turned over the paper and almost jumped on the spot when I saw the next photograph.

“Found him dead with a suicide note in his possession. The ol’, ‘Sorry, I tried, blah blah,’ same old sentimental shit as usual. Anyway, we found another note too. A note signed by someone called ‘Hose.’ And, er. We found these tapes, too. And that’s what you’ll, er… that’s what I’d like you to take a look at. Blake?”

I could hear Lenny speaking. I could hear the words coming out of his mouth. And I understood them too.

But the hairs on my arms were rising. I could feel my jaw starting to shake.

The guy in the photograph, James Scotts. Belt around his neck.

“Blake? You there?”

James Scotts was the guy who’d pestered me for help yesterday.

The bloke I’d turned away.

SIX

Of all the places I expected to be today, the lost property closet at the police station definitely wasn’t one of them.

“Swear we’ve got a VHS around here somewhere,” Lenny said.

I sighed. Rubbed my arms and looked around the dark, grey room. It was stacked with all kinds of dated electronics. The air reeked of dust, like an old second-hand shop I used to trade unwanted gear into before I became a borderline hoarder.

They say acceptance is the first stage of recovery.

But acceptance didn’t stop me sticking more old electronics under the sofa, that was for sure.

“It’s not a VHS we want,” I said. Lenny was rustling around at the other side of the room. I half-hoped the huge silver CRT television would tumble down and crush his skull, but then again I’d probably get done for murder so perhaps not.

“Well… DVI, then. Whatever it is.”

“DV,” I said. “We need a camcorder with a Mini DV player. Anyway, how did you watch these tapes in the first place?”

He struggled around. Sweat coated the pits of his blue shirt.

“It’s… We have—have equipment in the offices.”

“So wouldn’t it be easier if you just took me through there?”

He turned to me. Shook his head. “No, Blake. Not if I want this department taking my promotion bid seriously. Can’t be seen gallivanting around with you anymore.”

I stepped around the lost property closet. “Gallivanting. Charming. And if someone finds us in here?”

Lenny shrugged. “I dunno. Pretend we’re shagging in the closet or something.”

“I’d rather not.”

Lenny struggled around for a few more seconds.

“A ha! Mini DV. Gotcha.”

He pulled out a huge black camcorder that didn’t even have a brand on it. It had more wires than the underside of my computer desk.

And the underside of my computer desk had a
lot
of wires.

“Knew we had one of these things lying around,” Lenny said. He plugged in the wires, willy nilly. “The fun you can have with camcorders. Tricked my boys with one once. Went around recording them and asking them silly questions without them knowing. Hilarious, I tell you.”

“You have kids?” I asked.

Lenny frowned. “Why so surprised, Blakey? Not all of us are commitmentphiles like you.”

I shook my head. “Commitment
phobes
. Philes sounds like pedophiles or something like that. No I… I dunno. I just guess I never had you down as the… as the ‘dad’ type.”

Lenny opened up the camcorder. Stuck the first of the Mini DV tapes inside. “Yeah, well. Every box of chocolates has a surprise.”

“I’m not sure that’s the right metaphor.”

“Whatever. Do you want to see this or what?”

I stepped closer to the camcorder. Truth was, I didn’t really want to see the tape. Lenny had told me that a guy called James Scotts was found with a belt around his neck this morning. In his possession, he had these two tapes, as well as a letter.

Oh, and James Scotts was the guy who’d pestered me for help yesterday. The guy I’d told to get stuffed. There was that, too.

I figured at least a passing interest in the circumstances of his death might make me feel a little less guilty. Might make me realise there was nothing I could’ve done for him regardless.

“This is the letter Mr. Scotts received,” Lenny said.

He handed me a crumpled envelope.

Inside, there was just one sheet of paper. A red stain rested in the top right corner.

And on the paper, there was a note written in handwriting.

I have your wife.

I will kill her in twenty-four hours if you do not save her.

If you go to the police, I will kill her.

I am making her life a misery. I am torturing her.

I will torture her even more if you do anything stupid.

Twenty-four hours started at 1a.m.

Look around.

The route is nearby.

Use your mind.

—Hose.

I closed the letter and put it back in the envelope. Felt sick to the core. James Scotts came to me for help. He was being serious when he said he couldn’t go to the police.

“We can safely assume Mr. Scotts here didn’t save his wife,” Lenny said.

He pressed play on the camcorder.

“And we can safely prove that he didn’t save his wife after watching these tapes. Go on.”

I got a nasty taste in my mouth of regurgitated Cheerios. I wasn’t sure I wanted to look into the eyepiece of the camera. I wasn’t sure I wanted to see what was on the tape.

But I owed it to James Scotts. I owed a shit ton more to James Scotts, sure, but this was the least I could do.

I pressed my eye to the eyepiece and watched.

The tape was of the inside of a house. All dark and grainy. Someone was walking through the dark, looking through a black-painted door, then looking at a mantelpiece covered in rusty photo frames.

And then this camcorder holder started climbing the stairs. On the tinny speakers, I could hear wind, as well as the creaking of the stairs.

They made their way up.

Looked inside a bathroom, a Donald Duck towel resting over the rail.

Then looked inside a kid’s bedroom, with teddy bears lining the bed.

My stomach turned. What was this shit?

I forced myself to keep watching as the camera drifted into a master bedroom.

I watched as this first person viewpoint approached the bed. As it held out a rope, or something like that, over this brunette woman’s sleeping face.

And then I watched as the camera was placed on the side and the camera-wielder rammed something—a syringe—into the woman’s neck.

I was stunned. So stunned I was barely breathing. I’d tried to get a look at the camera-holder, but all I’d seen were black gloves and a black coat.

The camera-holder lifted the camera again. Turned it around to their face.

And then the tape cut to static.

I kept on staring at the static. “That’s… that’s it?”

“That’s the tape that James Scotts received with the letter yesterday morning, we believe.”

He hit eject. The tape popped out, and he put the second one inside.

“Have you eaten today, Blakey?”

“I, erm… You’re not asking me for lunch, are you? Just I’ve—”

“No. I’m asking you whether you can stomach this next tape.”

Oh, great. Just go and make me feel even more guilty for turning James Scotts away when he really needed help.

I took a few deep breaths. A few deep breaths in through my nostrils.

And then I nodded, and moved back in towards the camera.

A different room this time. A bigger room. A cellar, some kind of warehouse by the looks of things.

Dead centre, there was a big black object. A black, rectangular box.

The camera moved towards it.

I could hear something through the tinny speakers. Mumbling, or a drill screeching, something like that.

I fast realised that these were the sounds of screams.

The camera wormed around the room. Looked at some old tap, some tools. But always, it returned to this metal container, where the screams were coming from.

My stomach tightened up. I wasn’t sure I wanted to watch the rest of this tape.

The camera stopped right outside the container.

A hand reached out and pulled open a hatch.

I jumped back away from the lens when I saw what was inside.

It was a woman. Only it took me a few seconds to recognise it as a woman because of the state she was in.

Took me a few more seconds to recognise her as James Scotts’ wife.

Her head was shaven. Shaven so close that there were cuts all over, the trace of any hair long gone.

Her face was covered in little nicks too, which cried blood down her cheeks.

But it was her mouth that made me want to vom. Her mouth that made my throat tighten.

It was open wide. Open so wide that it was unnatural. There was something metal attached to her chin, which held her undoubtedly broken jaw on to her neck.

And her teeth. Well, her lack of teeth, and the bloody stumps that remained.

I figured that must’ve happened in the last twenty-four hours, too.

“This is what happens when you fail to please Hose.” A modified, robotic voice sounded through the tinny speakers.

And then the person holding the camera stuffed the hose into Denise Scotts’ mouth so far that she puked.

And then he turned the nozzle.

I looked away from the screen as the water filled up Denise Scotts’ lungs. But I caught a glance every few seconds.

A glance at her purpling face.

A glance at her neck, glugging away for survival.

A glance at her bloodshot, dying eyes.

“How long does this go on?” I asked.

Lenny looked at his watch. “Five minutes and thirty-two seconds, I counted earlier. But my watch is slow. Swatch Watch. Ever owned a Swatch Watch?”

Lenny’s speech was interrupted by a quick flash of images.

Denise Scotts being held down, a green hose tightening around her neck.

Denise Scotts’ head being pressed against as a sharp razor sliced the hair from her scalp.

“Ah, you reached the blooper reel,” Lenny said.

I looked away. I couldn’t watch this anymore. “Psycho. Poor girl.”

“Right,” Lenny said. “Which is why I need your help catching this nutjob.”

I shook my head and walked away. “I… I don’t know how I can help. I mean I’ve seen as much as you.”

“Yeah but, like, you
see
things. Like, extra things. You have that weird vision thing going on.”

“Standard detective inquisition?”

“Yeah. Something like that.”

I scratched my neck. The images of Denise Scotts blubbering for life as the water entered her body scratched at my mind. “I… I can’t, Lenny. Not after Chipps. I’ve… I’ve got things I care about now. People I care about. I’m sorry. I don’t do this kind of investigation anymore.”