Minions (7 page)

Reymond called for an ambulance as he more closely
examined her condition, passing on whatever information he could.  He noted her
shallow breathing, feint pulse and dilated pupils while taking inventory of the
medications that she’d potentially taken.  He’d made this type of call before
and he knew the drill.  He put the woman into the recovery position, rolling
the unconscious patient onto her side and began the wait for the ambulance
which he’d hoped would not be too long. 

Venn had been right when he described Angie as having big
tits.  Reymond knew that it was unprofessional, particularly in her current
state, but he couldn’t help himself.  He might have been old, but testosterone
still featured in his bloodstream.  He admired her breasts, from a distance,
marvelling at how they, in a small way, were possibly helping to keep her alive
as they propped her head off the floor. 

His daydreaming over, Detective Reymond alternated between
checking her vital signs and snooping around the room, all the time listening
for the ambulance.  He found the woman’s handbag and purse, and matching the
photo on her drivers’ licence, he was able to confirm the woman’s identity,
Angela Clarke.  Now he was getting somewhere.

As the wait dragged on, Reymond examined the medicine
bottles.  In his haste to get the ambulance on their way he’d reported it to
the emergency services operator as a probable suicide attempt, but the more he
looked, the less likely that seemed.  He’d learnt a lot about various
pharmaceuticals over the years and he recognised most of Angie’s medicines as
being anti-depressants and mood stabilisers of various grades.  He didn’t
profess to be an expert on the matter, but it seemed an odd choice of drug for
a suicide.  Reymond took a closer look at each of the tiny medicine bottles
spread over Angie’s bed noted that each had been prescribed, but clearly not
consumed, over a period of years. 

He opened the top drawer of Angie’s bedside table in
search of the obligatory address book.  He didn’t find what he was looking for,
but the base of the drawer was awash with pills of various sizes and colours,
much the same as those now scattered across the floor.  It didn’t take much
deduction on his part to query why Angie would scatter medicine bottles across
her room when there was an ample supply of the tablets readily accessible loose
in the drawer.  “What was in the containers, Angie?” he said to himself as he
looked over at her lying prostrate on the floor. 

It was then that Detective Reymond saw it, a tiny dot of
blood on the back of Angie’s blouse.  The blood was like a magnet for his
attention, and he started to examine the lie of her clothing.  Oddly, despite
the way she was lying, her clothing failed to adhere to her body’s shape. 
Reymond could see the outline of her bra strap raising the material of her top,
otherwise pulled taught by the way that she was lying, but her clothing was still
being forcibly kept from her skin.  Reymond was curious as to why.  He knelt
beside the woman and started to slide her blouse up her back.  “Excuse me,
Angie” he said respectfully, mindful that she was oblivious in her current
state.  Inch by inch he revealed more bruising, until the fabric failed to be
pushed upwards any further, caught by something unseen adjacent to Angie’s bra
strap.  Reymond lifted the blouse over the obstruction, exposing a syringe
needle, without syringe, still embedded to the hilt between the woman’s
shoulder blades.

“How did you do yourself there?”
Reymond asked rhetorically.  

                                                                                                                                                        
Chapter - 13.
               
 

It was early evening and the area around LastGasp’ was
undergoing its daily transformation from daytime coffee district to night-time
entertainment precinct.  The municipal council’s recent investment in
gentrification, including lighting and security had attracted the businesses
and the people.  The brothels, like the cafés and the restaurants, were doing a
roaring trade.

Ikel turned down the laneway behind LastGasp’.  “Glen’s
got a few car-parks under cover.  First in, best dressed.  It’s really no safer
than the street, for you or your car, but it’s well lit and I feel better with
my wheels under cover.  Still, some pricks have got at my car a few times,”
Ikel explained.  “There’s a kind of security system there too,” Ikel smiled,
clearly a party to some joke. 

The car pulled into a small carpark underneath a building that
was lit like the nativity.  On opening the door, Devlin understood Ikel’s
joke.  The smell of spent urine was overwhelming.  It seemed that the council’s
financial injection into the area had not extended to the provision of adequate
public toilets.  Puddles were on the ground everywhere, and urine stains, old
and new, marked the walls around the five parking spaces.

The odour bit hard into the back of Devlin’s nose and
throat.  “This place reeks!” Devlin said, almost gagging.  “So the security
system is purely olfactory?”  Devlin had at last placed the strange smell in Ikel’s
car.

Ikel looked puzzled, not exactly understanding what Devlin
had said.  “It’s not a factory security, it’s stinky security!  And Albert is
the night watchman!” he said, pointing to a stationary mass at the front of the
car.  “ALBERT!  Wake up you lazy bugger!”

Roused by Ikel, Albert stood slowly.  He wasn’t very old,
Devlin figured, guessing about fifty, but the years had not been kind.  Alberts
face was sullen and weathered.  He wore tracksuit pants, a t-shirt and an
oversized coat that would have been more fitting on a polar expedition.  He
started to stare at Devlin.  “Who’s this then?”

“This is Devlin.  He’s new.  He’s alright.  Be nice!” Ikel
replied, tilting his head and raising an eyebrow to Devlin in suggestion that
he take up the social exchange.

“Hi,” said Devlin, still reeling with the smell.  He
looked over Albert again, this time noticing his lack of appropriate footwear. 
It had been a mild day, mid-autumn, and the evening chill was settling in, but
Albert was wearing cheap rubber sandals exposing browned toenails that curled
over the end of his toes.  Devlin was fixated in revulsion at the combination
of the smell and Albert’s feet.

“I don’t bite!” replied Albert gruffly, stepping forward
to offer his hand.  “I can tell a lot about a man from a handshake.”

“So what can you tell about me?” Devlin asked, only half
interested in the reply.  In close proximity to Albert he noticed the overpowering
ambient smell of urine was magically fused with a mixture of sweat and alcohol
and he figured that any reply wouldn’t warrant much consideration. 

“What can you tell me about mine?” asked Albert.

“Maybe later.  We gotta’ get upstairs,” said Ikel, much to
Devlin’s relief.  Ikel led Devlin from the carpark into the darkness of the
laneway. 

“I’ll be here,” said Albert with a look of lonely sadness
as he was left on his own again.

The fresh air of the night was utterly fragrant compared
to the carpark.  Devlin sucked in deep breaths as they walked.  “Is Albert on
the LastGasp’ payroll?” he asked, half in jest.

“Albert’s alright,” Ikel explained.  “The downside of
being undercover is that the carpark never gets rain to wash away the smell. 
Glen slips him some cash every week to splash the hose around, otherwise this
place
really
stinks!”

“He either isn’t getting paid enough, or he’s not doing a
good enough job.  Why doesn’t Glen give him a real job?”

“I think Albert used to work with Glen.  Ask him yourself
one day.  He’s really good for a chat.  He’s there most days and he enjoys the
company.”

“I might do that.  I might get him in for a shower and a
change of clothes too!”

Ikel stopped in his tracks and grabbed Devlin on the
shoulder forcefully.  “No-one comes inside except us, or someone that Glen
gives the nod to.  And even then, outsiders aren’t allowed anywhere near the
bunker.  Remember that,” Ikel said aggressively.  “Albert might be a special
case, but he’s not allowed in either.”

“OK.  I forgot!” insisted Devlin, still a little taken
aback at being apprehended.

“Don’t
forget
.  Don’t ever forget.”  Satisfied,
Ikel released his grip on Devlin and continued walking. 

“I still don’t get the fixation on security,” said
Devlin.  “Why?”

“Glen will explain why.  I’ll just tell you to accept
it.”  He kept walking.  “Come on.  It’s ‘ken cold and I want to get back.”

                                                                                                                                                        
Chapter - 14.
               
 

Detective Reymond briefed the paramedics on their arrival,
pointing out the syringe and his belief that this was not a run of the mill
overdose.  They’d reacted assuming some opiate derivative had been used, based
on a simple swab test, and the
Narcan
they administered made Angie alert
almost immediately.  Still, she was slow to respond to a volley of well-intentioned
questions from the paramedics.  She settled her gaze on her attendants and
began to answer their questions cautiously.

Reymond stayed silent in the background, watching with
interest as the paramedics tended to their patient.  He’d seen them in
operation on overdose cases before, but he noticed a difference in their
behaviour on this occasion.  This time at least it was unlikely that they’d be
met with an expletive ridden tirade about their role in wasting their patient’s
score, or interfering with their patient’s suicide.  Instead, they expected to
be thanked, even if not verbally, and there was a noticeable zeal in their work
as a result.

As soon as he was given the nod, Reymond stepped in to ask
his own questions.  Her punctured lung mandated further hospital based care,
but he would be OK to ask a few questions, and more importantly,
she
should be OK to answer them.  Of course anything she said in her pharmaceutical
grade state of alertness would be inadmissible, but it would surely point him
in the right direction.

“Hi Angie.  My name is Detective Alan Reymond.  I actually
came here to ask you about Malcolm Venn but ...”

“Is he alright?” Angie interrupted, coherent but incapable
of maintaining her focus.  She laboured shallow breaths, erratically scanning
her surroundings like a pet rabbit in the presence of a large dog.

“Yes,
he’s
fine.  I guess that answers my original
question in that you do actually know him,” Reymond said in a fatherly tone. 
When Angie nodded he continued.  “Angie.  I’m assuming I may call you ‘Angie’,
I’d actually like to talk about you, and who did this to you, but I am somewhat
curious as to why you would ask
that
about him?”

Angie shrugged.  “I’ve been worried for him.  Is he in
trouble?”

“I’m not sure really.  He’s currently in hospital,” the
Detective said, watching Angie’s increasing lucidity.

“But you said he was,
is
, alright!”

“And he is, it’s just that …”            

“So why are you here and not him then?” Angie enquired
edgily.

“Well, he’s looking at getting discharged now, but we just
needed to check some things before he does.”

“Like what?”

“Like who he actually is, and like why he was admitted
covered in blood?”

Angie sighed.  “He is who he says he is, as much as I know
anyway.  I’ve only known him for a few weeks but he’s been special to me.”

“‘S
pecial’
people don’t beat people they love.” 
Reymond was not going to let the woman’s bruising go un-noticed.  “Are you as
special to him as he is to you?”

“Malcolm didn’t do this to me!” said Angie, picking up on
the manner with which the comment had been made.

Detective Reymond heard the reply and almost scoffed at
his feeling of
déjà-vu
; familiar words he’d heard many times before, spoken
by different damaged women doing their best to sound convincing.  The truth
remained, however, that Malcolm was out of the frame for her immediate assault
if not for the domestic abuse.  “So who assaulted you?”

“No-one I know.”

“Angie, whoever it was would have killed you had I not
been visiting at the time,” Reymond insisted.

“And it wouldn’t have happened had Malcolm been here, so
don’t go giving yourself commendations just yet,” Angie said forthrightly. 
“Yes,
someone
did it, but no-one that you or anyone else will do
anything about.”

“Whoever it is, we can help,” Reymond said, determined to
salvage some confidence in his profession.  “It would help Malcolm if you could
account for the blood on his clothing.”

“It’s not what you think.  The blood is an important part
of my shows.”

“Go on…” Reymond braced himself for what Venn had eluded
to.

“I’m a performance artist, and I use blood in my shows.”

“The blood was human.”

“Yes, and all legally sourced as out of date blood
product.  Not fit for medical use, in this country at least, but quite good
enough for what I use it for.”

“And what do you need it for in your show?”

“
Shows!
” Angie emphasised the plural.  “I do a
variety of acts, all featuring blood.  Birth, death, war, health, female
circumcision, menstruation, domestic abuse.”

“A bit close to home?”

“Possibly, but it’s a living, and I’m not in any great
rush to be out of work.”

“You’re in demand?” asked Reymond with some disbelief.

“Yes, mainly on the alternative circuit.  I’m a little too
avant-garde
for the mainstream theatre generally.  I do overseas as
well, but only if I’m really strapped for cash as the b
ureaucracy
on international transportation of bodily fluids is a pain.”