Cucumber Coolie (20 page)

Broke my trust.

Lenny turned a page of his black notepad. He looked at his fellow officer and smiled. “So, erm, Suzanne—fancy grabbing me a coffee?”

Suzanne narrowed her eyes. “Do you think that just because I’m a woman, I’m subservient to you in some way?”

Lenny’s face took a turn for the sour. “No. I think that because I’m your superior, and because I’m thirsty, you’re going to get me my frigging coffee.”

She scraped back her chair and stood up, huffing and puffing. “‘Superior.’ Haven’t got the job yet. Only when you catch him.”

She walked out of the door and out onto the corridor, where fellow officers congregated like vultures, desperate to see what was going on inside this room.

Lenny didn’t speak for a while. Instead, we both just sat there. I thought maybe Lenny had taken a turn for the mature when I saw that he was balancing his pen on his top lip.

He smiled when I noticed him. “Penstache,” he said.

I scraped my own chair back and made for the door.

“No, no wait, Blake. Wait. Please. Sorry. I… I’m just trying to lighten you up.”

“Lighten me up?” I said, turning back to face Lenny. “Lighten me the frig up? My girlfriend’s dead, ‘officer’. She’s dead and so too are Andy Scotts and his family. She’s—she’s dead because my best friend interfered with something I had under control. And, oh, just to add to the misery, you let James Scotts slip from between your fingers. You somehow managed to sink to new levels of inept—letting a killer run away when you’re only a few feet away from him. Well bloody done, Lenny. So yes. I’m not in the mood for lightening up right now.”

Lenny raised his hands. Backed away. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I just… I’m sorry.”

I let the burning sensation run through my body. Felt so hot that I was breathing fire. And not in a cool, dragon-esque way, but like someone had stuffed a flamethrower down my throat and clicked on auto-shoot.

“Blake, I… I dunno what to say. I’m not very good in this kind of situation.”

“You’re telling me.”

“Yes, I am. I’m telling… oh just quit it with your sarcasm. I’m sorry about Danielle, okay? We’re doing what we can to catch James Scotts.”

I nodded. “Right. Doing what you can. Such as?”

Lenny tapped his thumb against his front teeth. Looked around the interview room like it was a frigging butterfly house or something. “Stuff. Police stuff.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. I shook my head. “Police stuff. Right. Well you keep on doing your police stuff, Lenny. You keep on doing that. And good luck catching Scotts. Enjoy the promotion when you do. Well deserved.”

I turned the handle of the interview room door and opened it up, greeted by the sound of chatter.

“Blake, please stay. Please talk to me. We need your help here.”

I turned back around. Stared into Lenny’s desperate eyes. “Am I under arrest?”

Lenny opened his mouth. Hesitated. Then, opened it again and said, “No.”

“Then I’m leaving,” I said.

I stepped through the door. Saw faces staring at me—the faces of police officers, all looking and whispering like I was some kind of failed hero.

Except that’s exactly what I was. I was the hero Preston once had. The hero who’d passed on my responsibilities to the police when I should’ve stepped up.

The hero who was responsible for the death of an innocent family, the death of my girlfriend and the escape of a serial killer.

The facts didn’t matter. The media were the truth around here. And they could be a very convincing bunch.

“Don’t blame Martha,” Lenny called. “She was just worried about you.”

I took a deep breath. Stared down the corridor towards the police station exit. “Goodbye, officer.”

And then I walked.

Passing these police officers, seeing all these faces staring at me, it still felt like I was in a kind of bubble. Like I was walking in a dream—a nightmare—and yesterday hadn’t really happened.

But it had happened.

It had happened and Danielle was gone.

I’d committed again. Let my pissing heart get in the way. And it’d come back to bite me, again.

I kept my head down as I walked through the reception area. Ignored the whispers, the chatter.

My dad once told me that no one would ever fall in love with me. I told him that if someone could fall for a man as nasty as him, I wouldn’t have much trouble. He said that’d come back to bite me one day.

I knew what he meant by that now.

I walked through the automatic doors of the police station. Let the cool air cover me, the sprinkles of rain patter against me, not doing much to refresh me or soothe me.

“Blake!”

I heard her voice, but I ignored her. I didn’t want to see her. Not now. I needed time. Time to think. Time to understand. Time to comprehend.

I kept my eyes on the concrete steps leading away from the police station and didn’t acknowledge Martha’s shout.

“Hey! Hun, how’d it go? You okay?”

The moment I felt her hand touch my arm, I jolted out. Didn’t think about it as I did it, but like when a wasp lands in your ice cream, it just happened.

I heard shrieks from people gathered around the police station exit. Heard winces of pain from somewhere below me, behind me.

I looked and I saw I’d knocked Martha down to her ass. There was a small cut above her left eyebrow, which she rubbed her hand against, meaning she must’ve hit the concrete hard.

“Blake, are you… What’s…”

“Not now, Martha,” I said. My mind buzzed. My thoughts were blurred. I was like an 8-bit radio taking on 16-bit transmission. “Please. Just… just go. Please.”

I turned around. Walked further down the steps. A bloke ran in my direction, obviously to see if Martha was okay.

“But I’m giving you a lift.”

“I’m getting the bus.”

“Blake, hun, there isn’t a bus on—”

“Just leave me!” I shouted.

The bloke running to help Martha stopped in his tracks. Martha sat completely still, completely silent, on the concrete. A bit of blood trickled from her cut, as she stared at me with blank detachment.

I wanted to apologise. Apologise for knocking her down. Apologise for shouting at her. Apologise for being a grumpy shite all round.

But all I could see was the woman who’d made the call that screwed things up. That cost Danielle her life.

“I was just trying to help, Blake,” Martha said. Her voice was shaky. Quivery. “I… I didn’t think… I’m sorry, hun. I’m sorry.”

I watched her. Stared into her eyes. Saw Mart behind them. Mart, lying on the floor with a cut above his eye. Mart, my best friend, my bounty hunting, private investigating friend for many, many years.

But she wasn’t Mart. She was Martha.

And that just made it easier to take a deep breath of the cigarette smoke-filled air, turn around without saying a word, and walk away.

As the rain came down heavier, I knew Martha would still be behind me watching my every step.

THIRTY-SEVEN

The three days following Danielle’s death blurred together.

I stared at my television. Stared at the shitty daytime TV, my eyes stinging and watery from staring for so long. I had earache from the shouting on this chat show. But it was fine. It was what I needed, in a way. Noise.

All noise to block out the thoughts. The reality of what had happened.

My throat was dry. I could taste the remnants of last night’s pizza, the bitter cheddar clinging to my tongue and refusing to go away. Probably needed to brush my teeth.

Probably, sure. But why? Who was I brushing them for? What was the point?

I could smell sweat coming from myself. But that didn’t matter either. I wasn’t going to get any visitors. No—I
might
get visitors. But I wasn’t gonna see any. They weren’t invited. I needed time alone. Time to think. Time to grieve.

I was snapped out of my trance-state by the vibrating of my phone. Shit. Just hearing it vibrate, hearing it ring, made me feel sick to the core. I couldn’t be doing with people right now. I couldn’t be doing with responsibilities.

I couldn’t be doing with reality.

I just wanted to sit on this sofa and stare blankly at the television for now, forever.

I let the phone keep on vibrating against the glass coffee table in the middle of the lounge. Had to be the eighth, ninth, tenth time it’d rung in the last few days. But I didn’t care. People could come see me if they were so worried. Have the police smash the door in—they’d find me in here.

The phone vibrated again.

My stomach sank again.

I just wanted some peace.

“I know you’re in there, Blake.”

The voice made me jump. A woman’s voice. I thought it came from the phone at first, but then I realised it can’t have come from the phone because the phone was ringing. No—it came from the door. The door to my apartment.

I kept very quiet. Very still.

“Blake, it’s… it’s Patricia. Danielle’s mother. Please. I need to talk to you. About… about the funeral.”

Nerves fluttered about inside. Shit. Danielle’s mum. Danielle’s mum was at my apartment door. And she wanted to talk about the funeral. Danielle’s funeral.

I looked away from the door. Stared at my food-stained grey jogging bottoms. Kept as silent as I could.

A knock at the door. A few knocks.

“Blake, we… Please. Danielle, she… she loved you. She’d want you to be involved with her funeral arrangements. Please.”

I closed my eyes. The repeating of the word “funeral” made me feel sicker and sicker. I couldn’t get involved in the funeral of the person I loved. I could barely even budge from the frigging couch, or pull the boxers out of my ass crack, let alone move.

I wanted to apologise to Patricia. I wanted to tell her that I just couldn’t involved myself, couldn’t commit.

But instead, I just kept quiet.

I looked back at the television screen. Watched the moving images morph together, nonsensical, hard to comprehend in my state. Patricia hadn’t spoken or knocked for a while, but I knew she was still there. I could hear the floorboards creaking underneath her feet outside. See her shadow peeking under the doorway.

And then the phone vibrated again. I jumped up. I wanted to grab it from the glass table so it wouldn’t make a sound, but I knew it was already too late.

“Blake, we’re all hurting. I’m her mother. Imagine how I feel. But don’t be selfish. You need to help us with this. Don’t abandon her now. Not again. Please.”

It was the “not again” that got me. The “don’t abandon her again,” implication that pushed me over the edge. Like this whole thing was my fault. Like Danielle’s disappearance, her death, was all on my hands.

I stood up. My knees cracked as I did, and I wobbled to either side after not standing up in ages.

I picked my phone from the glass table. Switched off the television.

And I walked away from my lounge, away from my door, and into my bedroom.

I let Patricia bang away at the door, call and shout and call some more.

But I just crouched beside my bed, pushed my face into the covers, and kept quiet.

I wasn’t sure how long it took for Patricia to leave. For a moment, I must’ve dozed off, which wasn’t surprising with the lack of sleep I’d had lately. But it was all quiet outside my apartment again. My phone wasn’t vibrating. They were positive signs.

I stretched out. Stood up. Headed back into my lounge.

When I got there, I froze on the spot.

“What the fuck are you…?”

Marta was in my lounge. She was sitting on my leather sofa, staring at me with wide eyes. I hadn’t seen her since I’d knocked her over outside the police station, since I’d told her to get stuffed.

Since I’d blamed her for Danielle’s death.

“How did you—”

“It’s a long story, hun,” she said. She was wearing a black leather jacket with a white shirt underneath. On her lips, cherry-red lipstick was spread. “I have something for you. Something I think you’ll be interested in.”

She rooted around a black handbag. Pulled out a hand grenade.

“Woah!” I said. I held my hand out, backed away. For a moment, I thought she was gonna kill me as revenge.

“Chill out, you wuss. If I wanted to kill you, I’d think of something much more painful.” She winked at me, pursed smile.

I looked away.

She sighed. “Anyway. This grenade. It’s—”

“You can’t be here.”

“I can’t be here? Why, you busy or something?”

I scratched the top of my leg. “Kind of.”

“Yeah, you look busy. Good look, by the way. The dirty shirt and trackies look—very suave. At least it’s not a checkered shirt, I suppose. Makes a change for you—”

“Danielle’s dead, Martha.”

Martha stuffed the grenade back in her handbag. “Yeah yeah. Dead because I called the police. Hate on me, all that.”

I felt my fists tense. “How can you be so dismissive about it?”

“I’m not being dismissive,” she said. She raised her voice. Walked over. Squared up to me. “If you’d clean your filthy ear holes out for a second, you’d realise I’m trying to help you here.”

I wanted to snap back at her, but I was tired so I shut up for now.

“Remember Jared?” Martha asked.

I nodded. “Jewellery guy with all the electronics. Yeah.”

“Well Jared got a special visitor yesterday,” she said. She reached back into her bag. Pulled out a piece of paper.

“Tim Cook asking for his iPhones back?” I asked, as I grabbed the piece of paper.

Martha didn’t respond.

When I saw what was on the paper, I knew why.

His head was shaven. He was dressed in green, army-style colours. But his eyes. His brown eyes. I’d know those eyes if I saw them a million miles away.

James Scotts.

“He just… he just…”

“He went into Jared’s Jewellers. Gave Jared his passcode and demanded to buy some equipment. Jared thought he was weird from the off, but he always gets weirdos, so he let him buy his stuff.”

“What did he buy?” My heart raced. My cheeks warmed up.

Martha looked at me, deadpan. “Grenades. Explosives of all kinds. And an assault rifle with a…” She cleared her throat. “With a camcorder mount attached.”