Dire Straits (Bo Blackman) Read online

  I nod, then walk out.

  Chapter Three: Clean and Call

  My car door is still hanging open. The cat, pretending to be asleep on the pavement beside it, half-opens one green eye as I approach. It lets out a tiny guttural meow and clambers to its feet, stretching out its forelegs then padding off. I peer inside, taking in the blood-soaked seat and sigh. I’d only just forked out a wad to have it valeted the previous week. Slamming the door shut, I walk round to the driver’s side and get in. I’m tempted to head straight for the office to face Tam and demand to know exactly what is going on. I know that wouldn’t be the smartest move though, so instead I turn on the engine and shift into first gear. This is one of those times when it pays to be friends with all sorts of people.

  As I drive, I pay close attention to the roads leading in the direction of Wiltshore Avenue, just in case the police van shows up again. There’s no sign of it. I make a few u-turns, once pulling into a service station and stopping for a minute with my eyes fixed closely on my rear-view mirror. When I’m about as certain as I can be that I’m not being followed, I drive across town. The worst of the lunchtime traffic seems to be over, but I avoid the busier streets. I have a lot to do if I’m to return to pick up O’Shea at nine. I can’t afford to waste time waiting in a grid-lock. Fortunately, it’s not long after two when I pull up outside The Steam Team.

  The pedestrians milling around on the street make me tense. At least they’re only human and far enough away not to catch the scent or sight of blood. That’s another good reason to wear black. I duck inside the shop, breathing in the clean scent of dry cleaning, and grin as I spot Rebecca behind the counter.

  She raises her eyebrows. ‘Bo. I’m surprised to see you here again this month. Haven’t you already had your annual clean?’

  ‘Ha ha. Just because I only come for dry cleaning once a month doesn’t mean I don’t know how to use a washing machine.’

  ‘You forget I’ve seen the inside of your car.’

  I grimace. Not recently she hasn’t. She twigs that something is wrong and her expression grows serious. ‘What’s the problem?’

  I point at my clothes. ‘I need these cleaned. And I need to borrow something to wear in the meantime.’

  Although her eyes light up with curiosity, she doesn’t ask any more questions, filling me with gratitude. She just lifts up the counter and beckons me inside. As I pass by her, she draws back, evidently smelling O’Shea’s blood.

  ‘Whoa, okay. I guess you need a shower too.’

  ‘Do you have one?’

  She makes a face. ‘Sort of.’

  She leads me into a sparsely furnished back room. There are a few industrial shelving units with large bottles displaying complicated chemical names. In the corner there’s a tap with a rubber hose and a rusting drain set into the floor next to it.

  ‘Our power shower at its finest,’ she announces.

  ‘What’s the temperature control like?’

  She grins. ‘Oh, you’ll like it.’

  I doubt that very much but beggars can’t be choosers. I shoot her a smile of thanks. ‘I appreciate it.’

  Rebecca reaches out to squeeze my shoulder then obviously thinks better of it. She looks me over critically. ‘We’ve got some unclaimed clothes that might fit you. I’m not sure they’ll be to your taste though.’

  I dread to think. ‘I’ll take whatever you can spare, Becks.’

  She offers me another smile then leaves, closing the door carefully behind her. I eye the hose with trepidation before peeling off my jacket. The blood underneath is sticky and the underside of the leather has glued itself to my skin. When I’m finally free, I lay it gently on top of a nearby shelf and look at it sorrowfully before divesting myself of the rest of my clothes. I’m down to my underwear – which is far more functional than pretty – when Rebecca knocks on the door. I open it slightly, keeping my body behind it more because of the dark dried blood staining my skin than any modesty. She hands me a plastic bag and leaves me in peace. Hooking the bag onto a nail, I strip off my bra and knickers, twist on the tap and yelp at the forceful gush of water. It’s icy cold and I spend several moments dancing in and out of its spray as I get used to the temperature. The water pressure is so strong that it feels as if my skin is peeling off alongside the dissolving blood. By the time I’m done, my body is red and raw – but at least I’m clean.

  Rebecca has left a towel on top of the bag so I pull it out and vigorously rub myself dry. Then I peer inside to see just how bad the clothes are, and am pleasantly surprised as I shake out a floral mini dress. Just because I normally wear leather doesn’t mean my hidden princess doesn’t occasionally beg to be let out. The dress is decorated with sprigs of pink flowers and kicks out in a flare at the hem. I run my hands over my legs and sigh with relief that I shaved them recently enough to get away with the short skirt. I put my knickers back on but abandon my bra as it’s damp with blood, then try to clamber into the dress. It gets stuck somewhere around my shoulders and I spend a few uncomfortable moments trying to yank it down without tearing the fabric. Eventually I realise there’s a zip in the side which makes life a whole lot easier. I smooth it down and stare at myself critically. Not too shabby. I give myself a little Wonder Woman spin before flicking back my hair. Then I give up and get back to business.

  I pull out the pepper spray and my phone from the jacket and stuff it, the towel, and the rest of my clothes into the bag and walk out to the front of the shop. When Rebecca catches sight of me, she starts to laugh. I scowl at her.

  ‘Very fetching, Bo. I think the bow on the back is particularly attractive.’

  I give her a twirl. ‘Actually I rather like it.’

  She just laughs harder. ‘Yes, all you need is a bow in your hair and you can be Bo with a bow and a bow.’

  I shake my fists at her. ‘Is this the way I’m to be treated after all the help I’ve given you in the past?’

  ‘No, you’re right.’ She wipes the tears from her eyes. ‘You did a fabulous job helping me get rid of that gang of losers. It’d have been even better if you’d done it wearing that.’

  ‘Well, at least they wouldn’t see it coming this time.’

  Last year Rebecca hired me, via Tam, to keep watch on The Steam Team after a series of break-ins. I camped out for a couple of nights and caught three teenagers sneaking in. As soon as they saw me, they high-tailed it. It took me forever to track them down. I was pretty fast at running, but I wasn’t any match for teen boys amped up on drugs and the speed of youth. I still considered the venture a failure, even though I eventually managed to haul their arses into the local police station. Luckily Rebecca remained grateful. More than that, she’d become a friend. And as I’m learning, it’s handy to have a mate who owns a dry cleaning service.

  She finally sobers up and looks at me a seriously. ‘You’re in trouble?’

  I bite my lip and nod.

  ‘You look like what you really need is a stiff drink.’

  I sigh. ‘That’d be nice. Unfortunately I can’t stay. I need to deal with,’ I pause for a beat, ‘other things.’

  She nods in understanding. ‘If there’s anything else I can do…’

  ‘Thanks, Becks.’ I smile tightly and deposit the bag of clothes onto the counter in front of her. ‘I really appreciate this. Can I pick these up tomorrow morning?’

  ‘You mean you’re not prepared to trade in your leather jacket for that dress?’

  I tug at the bodice self-consciously. I like the dress but it’s not really suitable attire for a private investigator. Not if I want to be taken seriously.

  ‘Not just yet. Although maybe Tam will make it the new uniform when he sees me.’ I try to keep my voice flippant, but my stomach remains a tight ball of tension.

  ‘Yeah. I’d love to see what some of those hulking brutes you work with look like in a flowery dress.’

  ‘With a bow at the back.’

  She smiles, masking the worry in her face. ‘Natu
rally.’

  ‘I’ll be back first thing in the morning.’

  The door jangles, signalling the arrival of a new customer.

  ‘Thank you! Come again!’ Rebecca trills to me, in full shopkeeper mode.

  I sweep a dramatic curtsey from behind the customer’s back then make a hasty exit. As soon as I’m outside I turn on my phone. It flashes with three missed calls and all of them are from Tam. I suppose at least he’s not working under the mistaken assumption that I am now in police custody. It doesn’t really mean much though. If he’s behind the plot to frame me for O’Shea’s supposed murder, he’ll already have the cops in his pocket and be aware that neither the daemon nor I were present at the house when they arrived.

  I’m not prepared to speak to him over the phone. When I talk to him, I want to look into his eyes. Right now, he can wait. I’ve got other things to sort out.

  I’m about to jab in the number I need when I reconsider. I gaze down at my phone for a moment then slap my forehead. I’m a prize idiot. If the police are looking for me, all they’ll have to do is to track my phone signal. Until I’m completely sure about what is going on and who is on whose payroll, I’m not willing to hand myself in for questioning. I wouldn’t trust the police; there are too many tales of corruption at all sorts of levels for some of them not to be true.

  I glance back at The Steam Team. The police will already be able to follow me there. I’m tempted to go back inside and warn Rebecca but I decide against it. I know I can trust her and I’ll only spook the customer who’ll be more likely to remember me. No, better to ditch the phone now and pick up a burner instead. Without further ado, I drop it onto the pavement and crunch it under my heel. Then I turn my attention to the car and frown.

  It may be a rusting heap of junk, but it’s my rusting heap of junk. But now it’s covered in blood and the longer I keep it, the more likely it is to become a liability. Its only saving grace is that it’s too old to have an in-built GPS system which can be used against me. I could leave it here – after all, the phone will already have led the police to this location but I’m concerned about the blood. I don’t need any more evidence tying me to O’Shea’s attack than there is already.

  I climb in and drive off. I know just the place to park. Right now, though, despite having a vague plan of action, I’m feeling less like Sam Spade and more like a fully paid-up member of the Keystone Cops. Hanging on to my phone is the sort of rookie error that’s keeping me at the bottom of the heap at Tam’s. If I’m going to get out of this unscathed, I need to be a hell of a lot smarter.

  The lock up is less than fifteen minutes’ drive away. I’ve been paying for it in cash under the counter for the last two years and for the last two years it’s been lying empty. When I’ve been scrabbling around for money, I’ve often wondered whether keeping it is a stupid idea. Today, however, my pragmatism has won out. That doesn’t quite make up for the phone error, but it helps. There’s no record anywhere that I rent this place. And considering that the white witch landlord had his tongue cut out about a decade ago, I’m fairly certain he’s not going to be blabbing to anyone. I root around in the glove box for the key which I eventually discover stuck to the yellowing service record by a chunk of gum – unchewed, I might add. I open the garage door, disturbing some small creature which scuttles off into the darkness, and drive in.

  The lack of pockets in the dress is causing problems. I nip outside and look around, quickly finding a discarded plastic bag trapped against the door of another lock-up. Sending a grateful prayer up to the non-environmentally-friendly denizens of London, I pick it up and deposit my keys, pepper spray and wallet inside. Emblazoned on the outside are the words ‘Funny Farm Meats: For All Your Butchery Need’s’. I tsk at the misplaced apostrophe, then shut up the garage and walk away swinging the bag. Frankly, I’ve got bigger problems than poor punctuation.

  Walking briskly, I hit the nearest row of shops in next to no time. As luck would have it, there’s a kiosk selling cheap mobile phones, so I pass over an insulting amount of cash and buy three, then make sure I’m some distance away before I make the call I need. It’s fortunate I’ve got a head for numbers and have memorised the phone number. I let it ring five times then hang up. I count to fifty in my head and repeat the call. It’s not until the third try that someone actually answers.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I need a place to stay.’

  ‘Just you?’

  ‘No. There’ll be another.’

  ‘Can I trust them?’

  I don’t hesitate. ‘No.’

  ‘14A Markmore Close. There’s an upper-floor flat with views to the front and back. The key will be on the windowsill.’

  I sense he’s about to hang up so I screech into the phone. ‘Wait!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My flat. I think it’s been compromised. I need it checked out.’

  There’s a pause. ‘I can do it. Don’t call back though. I’ll come and find you.’ The phone clicks off and I’m left listening to the dull mechanical burr.

  I feel better now that I have somewhere to sleep and to take O’Shea. There are several hours until I need to pick him up; that means it’s time to confront Tam.

  Chapter Four: Bruce Willis

  Now that I’m car-less, I’m forced to take public transport to get to Dire Straits. And yes, that really is the name. Tam is a hard-core eighties’ music fan. I’m not convinced he thought the name through before christening his fledgling company but he weathers all the ‘money for nothing’ jokes with humour. I’m just thankful that the chicks aren’t for free.

  I’d be tempted to grab a taxi but keeping a low profile includes not accessing my bank account so I’m lumbered with only the cash I have on me. And there’s not much of that. I’ll need to be frugal.

  As I sit on the train, I run through scenarios in my head. I’d been under the impression that Tam and I had a fairly solid working relationship, even if he didn’t value me as much as I thought he should. Now I have to assume that he might be involved in setting me up. He was, after all, the one who sent me after O’Shea in the first place.

  I’ve been working for Tam for the past two years. I’d initially had visions of spending six months with him before leaving to set up my own firm but it didn’t take me long to realise that it was going to take a damn sight longer than half a year to learn this business. I had, on occasion, wondered if he deliberately kept me doing scut work because he knew I’d up sticks as soon as I felt confident enough. The thing is, I have a lot of respect for him and I doubt he’s that petty or small-minded. I’m at the bottom of the ladder because I was the last one in and there are cavernous depths of detail and information involved in being a private investigator that I still don’t know. But loitering on the bottom rung might make me the easiest person to target. Perhaps Tam needed to get rid of O’Shea for some reason and I’m merely a convenient tag to keep the police away from him.

  I think about it some more. It could also be the connection to my grandfather that’s initiated this move. Except that Tam has known about him from the start and the old man has been out of commission for years, so that theory doesn’t really make any sense. I can’t think of anything I’ve inadvertently done to piss Tam off this much. Sure, I’ve moaned a bit about being stuck with working over weaker tribers like O’Shea but it’s only because acting like that’s de rigeur in a firm like ours. The truth is I’m not experienced enough to trail fully-fledged vampires, daemons or faeries; I’m simply too human. And secretly I prefer focusing on the human side of things anyway. I find it hard to understand the motivation behind a lot of triber actions. Untangling whatever webs the humans have chosen to weave is far, far easier. The triber world may be more glamorous and exciting but I don’t need it to get my kicks. The thought flashes through my mind that if I make it to the other side of this kerfuffle, I’m going to have some appropriately impressive triber experience to add to my CV. I may end up stuck with them whether I like it
or not.

  I return my focus to Tam, trying to remember if there was anything odd about the way he acted when he gave me this assignment on Monday. Nothing jumps out at me. It had all been same old, same old. Of course, it would also have been like that if he was attempting to pull the wool over my eyes and prevent me from suspecting anything untoward about the O’Shea set-up. I rub my eyes. I have to face facts: I have no evidence suggesting Tam is either guilty or innocent.

  I’m careful when I disembark the train, getting off one stop before so I can take a circuitous route to the office. It’s not paranoia if they really are after you – and I have to assume that they are. As a result, it’s late in the afternoon by the time I’m staring at the pretentious, glass-fronted office block. I need to figure a way out to enter without anyone noticing, which is easier said than done. If Tam had located his business in an older building, I might have had an outdoor fire escape to climb up. As things stand, I have no way clambering up the side of the metal and glass of this one.

  But all is not lost. When I started at Dire Straits, I made a point of getting to know all the janitorial staff. It doesn’t take a genius to know where all the knowledge and power really lie. Unfortunately Tam knows this too and his extravagant tipping at each year end means that they are remarkably tight-lipped when I approach them for gossip. One thing I did learn, however, is the best place to go for a crafty cigarette. I even know which path to take to avoid the CCTV cameras. I don’t smoke often but hanging out with the gaspers can lead to good tips.

  I make sure there are no familiar faces or unfamiliar watchers hanging around, then I move across the road and round the back of the building. The emergency exit is clear, only a small tin bucket overflowing with tab ends indicating its other use. This is the part that gets tricky. I have no way of opening the heavy barred door from this side so I need to wait until someone opens it for me and get past without them noticing. I need to be very silent and very lucky. To avoid the rustle of the plastic bag in my hand, I jog over to the skip, which for some reason is always lurking here, and shove it in, covering it with a folded cardboard box. I keep the pepper spray on me, carefully tucking it into the folds of the bow at the back of my dress where it’ll stay put, if not exactly hidden. Then I head back to the side of the door, moving the bucket an extra foot in front to give myself a bit of wiggle room, and I settle in to wait. At least it’s summer and the air is warm.