Colm & the Lazarus Key (2 page)

I
f the only things you know about private detectives are from watching television programmes or reading about them in books, then you might think that they lead exciting lives full of car chases and shootouts, of racing after criminals and thugs, of beating people up or getting beaten up. In real life things aren’t like that. Most private detective work involves long hours on the internet, making endless amounts of phone calls and sitting in cars waiting to take photos of people doing things they shouldn’t be doing. To sum up, it’s boring. And for Cedric Murphy, who had been a private detective for fifteen years, it was the way things had always been. He didn’t mind that much. It wasn’t as good as being a professional soccer player, but better than working with sewage.

But Cedric’s life had changed three days ago when he’d received a phone call. If he could go back in time he would never have answered the phone; then again, if he had the ability to go back in time he probably would have gone back with the winning Lotto numbers. Instead here he was in his tiny office shaking like a boy who’s accidentally smashed every plate in his mother’s best dinner set minutes before her family and friends call around for Sunday dinner.

He glanced at his watch again. It had only been thirty seconds since he’d last checked the time. His client was al-most ten minutes late. Maybe he wasn’t going to turn up. He felt a wave of relief wash over him. He was off the hook. In the clear. Free as a …

The intercom buzzed and Cedric Murphy sighed. He knew he was in trouble. His hand shook as he pressed the talk button. The voice that crackled over the intercom was calm and strong.

‘I have an appointment
.
’

This was his last chance to back out. He wondered if he should try climbing through the window, but the window was very small and Cedric Murphy was very large. Too many full Irish breakfasts and Indian takeaways for dinner meant he constantly balanced on the slender tightrope between very fat and obese. He promised himself that if he got out of this alive he’d start eating healthily.

‘Come on up
,
’ he said into the speaker.

He heard the soft click as the door below opened, followed by the quiet footsteps of the man as he climbed the narrow stairs. Murphy tried to compose himself. He didn’t want to appear nervous. That would give the man the upper hand. He checked his shirt. Damp patches of sweat beneath the arms. That was a giveaway. Even though it was boiling hot in the cramped office, he put his jacket on to cover up the stains. Why hadn’t he ever bought a fan or an air conditioner? He was hotter than an unsheared sheep in Death Valley on a cloudless July afternoon. He gulped down a large glass of water, then pretended to be interested in some papers on his desk as the door creaked open and the rat-faced little man entered the office.

‘Mr Murphy?’ he asked.

The man’s accent was American, his nose Roman, his knuckles tattooed. Murphy stood up, banged his head against the naked light bulb and sent it swinging gently to and fro. He acted as if nothing had happened and extended a hand the man didn’t bother shaking.

‘Call me Cedric
.
’

‘I’ll call you Mr Murphy
.
’

‘Whatever you like,’ said Cedric in what he hoped was a casual tone. He felt anything but casual. His heart thumped so loudly he was certain the man could hear it.

‘Please sit down, Mr … I’m sorry, I never got your name.’

The man remained standing. His cold eyes examined every corner of the small office before they settled on Cedric Murphy.

‘If you’re as good at your job as they say you are, then you already know my name,’ he said, with what passed for a smile.

He was right. Cedric Murphy may have been many things – greedy, a bully, a thief – but he was also the best private investigator in the country. The rat-faced man had called him and told him he had a job for him, one which would pay a fortune, but which required absolute secrecy. Murphy had accepted the job and then he had done what he always did – a background check on the man. It had taken him longer than he had expected to find information on his client and he got the feeling that if the man hadn’t wanted him to find anything at all, then he wouldn’t have. Still, it hadn’t been easy. And what he had found out had made his flesh crawl.

‘What can I do for you, Mr … Smith?’

‘You know who I work for,’ said the man. It was a state-ment, rather than a question.

Murphy nodded. Sweat dripped from his eyebrows and stung his eyes. He had heard a lot of stories about the man’s employer. Everybody in his profession had. The tales had terrified him, and Cedric Murphy wasn’t a man who frightened easily.

‘Then you know he has high standards
,
’ said the man. He took a crumpled photograph from his coat pocket and dropped it onto the desk.

‘My employer wants you to find this man
.
’

Murphy looked at the photo. Nobody he recognised. The man was smiling. Must have been happier times, he thought. He wondered what the poor eejit had done. Something bad if he had men like this after him.

‘I’m going to need more than a photograph if I’m to find him.’

The man picked up a pencil and scribbled something on a piece of paper. He folded the paper in half and placed it in front of Cedric Murphy.

‘I presume that is all you need,’ he said, as he twirled the pencil between his fingers.

Murphy examined what the man had written.

‘That’ll be enough. It’ll take a few days, maybe a week
…
’

‘You have twelve hours
.
’

Cedric attempted a gulp, but his throat was too dry. Instead he made a strange sound that would have embarrassed him in other circumstances.

‘That’s impossible. How can you
…
’

‘In twelve hours time I will be expecting a telephone call from you giving me directions to wherever this man is located
.
’

‘And if I haven’t found him?’

The rat-faced little man snapped the pencil in two.

‘I presume I have made myself clear,’ he said, leaning in so closely that Cedric Murphy could smell what he had eaten for lunch.

‘Crystal
,
’ he replied.

The man looked at his watch.

‘Then I shall talk to you again in eleven hours and fifty-nine minutes.’

The man had barely left the office before Cedric picked up the phone.

‘Hey, it’s me. We’re in trouble.’

‘What kind?’ said the woman on the other end of the line.

Cedric looked at the broken pencil and rubbed the back of his neck.

‘The “Oh, look, I’m dead” kind
,
’ he replied.

A
black Range Rover blocked their path. Colm’s father had driven halfway down the long access path that led from the Red House Hotel to the main road and had come to a stop when the jeep came rumbling towards them from the other direction. Now, the two vehicles were at a standstill, nose to nose. There wasn’t enough space for either one of them to pass the other.

‘Beep the horn, Joe
,
’ said Colm’s mother.

‘What good will that do?’ his father asked. He was spine-less when it came to any sort of confrontation.

‘You have the right of way. He’s the one who should back up
.
’

But the driver of the jeep wasn’t a man, it was a tiny old woman. And she didn’t back up. Instead, she hopped out of the jeep and scuttled over to them.

‘How’re ye lads?’ she asked in a raspy voice that suggested she smoked at least forty cigarettes a day. Her face was criss-crossed with so many wrinkles that if you were bored you could have passed the time playing a game of Xs and Os on her paper-thin skin.

‘We’re grand
,
’ said Colm’s father. ‘Look, we were on the road first, so I think you should be the one to back up. If that’s OK with you.’

‘Sure, that’s no problem at all. Do ye not like the hotel?’

‘It’s closed
,
’ he said to the woman.

‘What’s that?’

‘The hotel’s closed,’ he shouted, thinking she must be hard of hearing.

‘I’m not deaf,’ said the old woman. ‘I was just surprised at your foolishness. The hotel isn’t closed
.
’

‘Well, the sign on the door says it is
.
’

‘Marie
,
’ said the old woman, more to herself than anyone else.

‘I’m the owner
,
’ she added. ‘I was away for the night and I left my daughter in charge. She must have put the sign up. She’ll regret doing that
.
’

‘So, you’re not closed?’ asked Colm’s mother.

‘Not at all. Are you looking for rooms?’

Say no
,
Colm thought without quite knowing why.

‘Yes
,
’ said his mother.

The old woman introduced herself as Nellie McMahon (‘but ye can call me Mrs McMahon’) and within two minutes they were all standing in the reception area of the hotel.

While his parents filled out the check-in forms, Mrs McMahon filled them in on what she had been up to, even though no one had asked her.

‘My daughter, she fusses too much. She’s like a mother hen, that one. She said that I should take a few days off from the hotel, that I was working too hard, but sure, isn’t that what God put us on this earth for – to work hard?’

Colm’s attention began to wander. There was something about the old woman’s voice that made him want to throw himself through a window to avoid having to listen to another word she said. He looked around the lobby. The furniture was either antique or else it was just very, very old. He wasn’t sure what the difference was. Every space on the walls was filled with a painting of an old man or woman who, judging by their clothes, had died a very long time ago.

‘She booked me on a three-day break, a bus tour to Knock with a bunch of pensioners
,
’ Mrs McMahon continued.

‘Was it good?’ Colm’s mother asked out of politeness.

‘Terrible. Absolutely terrible. They were the greatest shower of bores and moaners I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet.
’
Twas all “me poor leg” this, “me aching back” that. And if they weren’t moaning, they were showing me photos of their fat, spoiled grandchildren. I ask you, is there anything more boring than other people’s photos?’

‘Your stories
,
’ said The Brute, although he said it very quietly.

One of the paintings grabbed Colm’s attention. It was a portrait of a young man with long, dark hair and a scar that ran from the corner of his right eye to his upper lip. Unlike the subjects of the other paintings who either smiled proudly showing yellow, stained teeth or looked bored to the point of sleep or death, the young man seemed filled with passion and anger, as if at any moment he would rip free from the canvas and burst into life. But what Colm noticed most of all was his eyes. Blood red.

‘And then they’d pass around soggy ham sandwiches and flasks of lukewarm tea. I snuck off the bus in Kilmacorney, thumbed a lift to the station and drove back here. I’ll tell ye one thing – I’ll never go away with a bunch of auld ones ever again. Boring people are a curse. Isn’t that right, Conor?’

Colm looked at her. ‘Sorry?’

‘It’s Colm, not Conor
,
’ corrected his mother.

‘You’re not boring, are you, Conor? Most of the people you’ll meet in life will be boring and they’ll hate you if you’re interesting. They’ll try to change you, but don’t let them, Conor, don’t let them
,
’ said Mrs McMahon.

‘Too late for that. He’s already boring. All he does is read books and sleep
,
’ said The Brute.

His aunt gave him an angry look which he expertly ignored.

‘Are you a reader?’ Mrs McMahon asked Colm.

‘He’s always got his head stuck in a book
,
’ said Colm’s mother.

Mrs McMahon pointed a stubby finger in the direction of a door to the left of the wooden staircase. ‘Go in there then. That room has books you never dreamed existed. Your parents can give you a shout when they’ve settled into their room
,
’ she said.

‘You go on as well, Michael
,
’ said Colm’s mother.

‘I’m going to have a heart attack with the excitement
,
’ said The Brute.

But he followed Colm into the library. Just as he’d thought, it was everything he hated. Books from floor to ceiling. Cracked leather armchairs where boring old people, long since dead, must once have sat reading by a crackling fire on a cold winter’s night. The saps.

The smell of must hung in the air as if the room had not been used for a long time. The Brute could see why. What it needed was a forty-two-inch plasma TV, a mini-fridge and a few large bowls filled with crisps and dry-roasted peanuts. If the old woman did that and got Sky on the television it might actually be an OK place to hang out and watch matches. He turned to Colm, about to tell him all this, but when he saw him staring at the books it just bugged him. There was something about his cousin that bugged him no matter what mood he was in, so instead of telling him his idea he found himself saying, ‘Remind me, Fishbreath, have I given you your daily dig yet?’

He towered over Colm. His knuckles cracked as he formed a fist.

‘You gave me extra digs for the last few days because you were supposed to be going back home today. So you don’t owe me any
,
’ Colm said, all his words running together in a panic.

The Brute’s face screwed up into an ugly mug of con-centration. It didn’t take much to confuse him and Colm knew that this was the time to make him forget about the daily dig. He’d remember it later, but Colm always preferred being punched later to being punched now.

‘I think there’s something not quite right about this place,’ Colm said.

‘Yeah. The coffin dodger who owns it is as mad as a bag of cats,’ said The Brute.

‘No, well, yeah, she probably is, but it’s not that it’s
…
’

‘You’re boring me now. Shut up.’

The Brute slumped into an armchair, plonked his feet on a highly polished coffee table and began to wiggle his little finger in his ear, pausing from time to time to examine the clumps of wax he extracted.

Colm turned to the books on the mahogany shelves. The old woman was right. It was a strange collection. He’d read a lot of books in his short life, but not one of these. He ran his fingers along the spines of the novels, pausing briefly to read the names of the authors. He only recognised one in every ten. And even those were authors his mother wouldn’t allow him to read (‘not until you’re fourteen, Colm’). Poe. De Maupassant. Sheridan. All leather-bound hardbacks, except one. One that looked completely out of place, even in this unusual library.

‘I don’t get it. How can you stand being in a room like this? It’s so … depressing,’ said The Brute as he wondered whether or not to sample a juicy portion of ear wax.

Colm didn’t hear him. There was something very different about that book. He wasn’t sure what it was, but there was definitely something. All the other books looked clean and neat and well cared for, but this one looked as if it hadn’t been touched in years, decades even. The writing on the spine was covered with a thick layer of dust.

He was about to reach out and wipe it away when he got a bad feeling. Deep down in the pit of his stomach where all his bad feelings hung out. It was the same one he got when they were picking teams for soccer at lunchtime and he knew he was going to be the last one picked. The feeling he got when the teacher asked him a question and he didn’t know the answer. The sort of feeling that said, whatever else you do, do not even think for one second about touching this book. The kind of feeling that shouldn’t be ignored.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ The Brute asked.

‘Nothing.’

‘Then why are you staring at that book?’

It was true. Colm was staring. He couldn’t take his eyes off it.

‘Stop being such a girl. Take it if you want it.’

Reasons why Michael James McGrath hated The Rancid Reject:

1. He was boring. He never did anything exciting or dangerous. Ever.

2. He couldn’t take a punch. And it wasn’t like he hit him hard. Even when he gave him an easy knuckler, the little weasel would look up at him like a hurt puppy. Sometimes he looked like he was going to cry.

3. He was scared to do anything without checking with his mam or dad if it was OK or not. He always did the right thing. The eejit.

4. Most importantly, Colm had a way of always making him feel thick. Sometimes it was the way he said something, like when he used a big word in a sentence, other times it was just the way he looked at him. He didn’t know how he did it, but even by just raising an eyebrow he could make him feel like he was the most stupid person on earth.

Colm hesitated, then turned away from the book.

‘Hah!’ said The Brute.

‘What?’

‘I knew you wouldn’t go near it.’

‘I don’t want to look at it,’ said Colm.

‘Right,’ he sniffed.

‘I don’t.’

‘You’re not going to touch it cos you’re scared. You’re like a kitten – always scared.’

‘I’m not scared,’ said Colm, but even he knew he was protesting a bit too much.

‘You are. You’re a Grade A coward. A chicken.’

The Brute began to make clucking noises and flapped his arms like a chicken. It wasn’t a pretty sight, but it was enough to rile Colm.

‘Right. I’ll prove I’m not a chicken. I’m going to take it off the shelf
.
’

He stood in front of the book. Still hesitating. The Brute switched from clucking to squawking. Colm felt the anger building inside him. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears. He’d have given anything to punch his cousin on his fat nose, just to shut him up. He was the most annoying person he’d ever met.

The Brute stopped squawking. ‘I knew you wouldn’t do it.’

But he was wrong. Without waiting another second Colm wiped the dust away until he could read the title.

The Book of Dread
.

‘Don’t touch it!’ a girl squealed.

The next thing Colm heard was a bang as The Brute’s feet slid across the coffee table and he fell off the armchair with a tremendous thump and a muffled swear word. He tried to stand up, but failed. His legs had somehow knotted themselves around each other. After a few seconds he managed to untie himself and popped back up, acting like nothing had happened, even though his face was bright red.

‘I meant to do that,’ he lied.

The girl stood at the door.

‘Sorry guys, I didn’t mean to frighten you
,
’ she said in an American accent.

‘My gran said you were here and I came in to say hello. When I saw you reaching for … well, I just didn’t want you to touch that book
.
’

‘I wasn’t going to
,
’ Colm said. Another lie.

‘Yeah, I’m sure you weren’t.’

They looked at each other for a few moments until Colm began to feel awkward. He often felt like that when he met someone new and couldn’t really think of what to say to them. The girl smiled. It was a warm, friendly smile, a smile that made him relax. He found his voice.

‘Hi. I’m Colm
,
’ he said. Not very witty or entertaining, but better than silence.