Jade Monkey

Questions. Repeated, truncated, divided and multiplied. Forwards and backwards through whatever was left of the night. Generally I like questions, they’re the basis of science and civilisation. The same questions again and again I can live without.

Detective Inspector Boura leaned against the table, looking slowly down at the hastily typed case notes in front of him, before returning his distinctly unimpressed gaze to me.

‘Well it looks like everything you’ve said checks out, so far. We’ve found a hat and a coat left behind in the museum cloakroom that matches the description you gave us, and no murder weapon. So you appear to be a victim of circumstance, an innocent bystander.’ He scowled. ‘Lucky you.’

‘Do you mind if I ask a question?’

He grinned ‘Sure. Shoot’.

I winced and he grinned more widely.

‘What’s going to happen now?’

‘Police work, which involves me doing my job.’ He paused ‘And I for one will be very, very unhappy to find you involved in that work in any way at all.’ There was another pause while the DI picked up another folder, older and heavier with time and malice. I could make out the date on the file and grimaced.

‘So, why did you come back?’

I blinked for a few seconds wondering whether after years of trying to read the criminal mind the DI had developed telepathy. I dropped my eyes and looked at my hands clasped together in front of me on the tabletop.

‘Can I go now?’

‘The Chief wants to speak to you. Then you can go.’ He scowled. ‘Come on, we’d best not to keep him waiting.’ He motioned to the door and picked up the paperwork as if it was somehow to blame.

The police station was a hive of activity. In the background people proclaimed their innocence by screaming and shouting. Smart suited lawyers walked through the place like well-dressed sharks waiting for their next victim to provide tomorrows breakfast. A few cops recognised me even in the tux, they shook their heads and turned to their colleagues. I could almost hear my name being spoken above the noise. The Chiefs office was on the top floor, his secretary gave me the tux and the DI a disinterested look before waving us through.

The Chief himself was leaning over a wide wooden desk covered in newspapers proclaiming the murder of the Mayor. The phones on his desk lay off the hook. His black hair was cut shorter than I remembered it and his eyes were alive behind his thick glasses, assessing, observing. He glanced at the detective inspector escorting me and gestured to a seat. The air had a quiet tension and seemed a world away from the noise of the law outside the office.

‘Well you have certainly made our lives difficult since you’ve arrived back here. Murder, theft and disappearances have trailed in your wake. Again.’ He said, stressing the word.

I frowned. ‘Disappearances?’

He grimaced. ‘Just the one so far, the mayors bodyguard has decided to make himself scarce. No-one knows where he’s gone. But we’ll find him. But at the moment, I’m more concerned about you.’

‘Me?’

‘You. When I saw you take off at the airstrip I thought you’d never be back. But here you are.’ The chief got up out of his chair and looked through the blinds on his window, into the early morning gloom. ‘I’m sure DI Boura has already politely pointed out that we’d greatly prefer it if you didn’t become any more involved in this case. Where are you staying in town?’

‘The Bridgeman.’

He turned and smiled at me. ‘You might want to move into cheaper accommodation. This investigation isn’t going to be over quickly, take my word for it. And I’m afraid you no longer have the option of leaving town.’ He sighed. ‘I wish you’d accept protective custody…’

I shook my head.

‘Stubborn.’ He looked at me for a few moments in silence before starting to speak again. ‘I’ve had the Press removed from outside the building, though some of the more persistent will still be waiting for you. I should think that telling them as little as possible would be a life-enhancing move. The Detective Inspector will see you out.’

As I left through the door the Chief Constable had sat back down in his leather swivel chair and had taken a small misted bottle from the bottom draw of his desk. Strangely enough it had been a present from me years before, for saving my life.

Streetlights still lit the early morning darkness. But after the noise and motion of the Police station the chill fresh air of the city street was reassuring. As I walked down the steps to the pavement I noticed a figure waiting on the bottom step. For a second I froze, until I realised only a complete idiot would try and kill me outside a police station full of armed cops. The guy waiting seemed to recognise me and put out his cigarette as I reached the last step. He was wearing a light brown trenchcoat over a suit. From his hatband a little white card poked out saying ‘PRESS’. I couldn’t believe it for a second I always thought those cards were a myth.

I stopped on the last step. ‘I don’t have anything to tell you. I’ve been telling people that all night.’

‘They think you’re holding something back. Are you?’

‘What for? My memoirs? I found the body that’s it.’

He looked disappointed for a second. ‘That’s not what I heard’

‘Really?’ I said, letting sarcasm enter my voice. ‘Were they there?’

‘I’d heard you saw the guy that did it.’

‘No I saw his melodramatic taste in wardrobe.’

The journalist frowned in disappointment. ‘What about Mr Charles?’

I paused, wondering how many people knew about the bodyguard’s disappearance. Is that what he meant?

‘His taste in wardrobe’s terrible too. Look I’m just going to go and get some sleep.’ A taxi was slowly passing down the road. I hailed it.

‘Do you think the Murderer will strike again?’

‘I’m sure I’ll be the first person to know if he does.’ The cab pulled up and I got in.

‘Do you think that your life’s in danger?’

‘Not as much as some peoples at the moment.’ I slammed the door of the cab and told the cab driver to go to Pete’s place.  I needed to get out of these clothes for a start. Then I could get some sleep. It’d be all right in the morning. My mind could wake and I would see clearly. The Reporter shouted a last question after the taxi. But I didn’t hear it and we drove off into the dawn’s early light.

Pete’s Place was alive with people. Conversation buzzed about the upcoming releases of ‘The Blue Dahlia’ and some nameless horror flick in pre-production. I walked through to the bar half-listening to conversations. The murder had no place here. In a beautiful world of illusion and shadows, reality had no claim. Pete was still behind the bar. He’s always behind the bar, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him sleep. He took one look at me and poured me a drink and ushered me into a back room where I collapsed into the caress of a warm sofa.

I was woken later by all hell being let loose. I picked up the drink by my bed, coffee, stone cold. I wasn’t amused. Instead of the buzz of conversation and the smell of cooked breakfasts I’d left behind, music predominated and the gentle thunder of drums and a piano. The smell was of alcohol and light perfume. It took a few seconds to figure out who was making the racket. It sounded like Pete had pulled a few strings and got ‘Andy’s RagTime Band’. The dance music of the decade, the radio stations keep on playing it and women danced well to it. But the newspapers still make a big thing of small performances like this.

I’d slept through the day and into the early evening. As I put on a spare suit that managed not to fit in uncomfortable ways my brain served notice that it was going to take immediate strike action unless urgent demands for coffee were met, and I needed to think. I couldn’t afford another night at the Bridgeman either. Not now. That and there was the small matter of my outstanding wages let alone anything else.

I walked out to the front of the bar. Pete was still there serving drinks and talking to a guy dressed as a Chauffeur. Tall with very light blond hair, a peaked cap was under his arm. You get used to this sort of thing at Pete’s. From where I was standing I could see two Generals in his Imperial Majesties Army, fifteen coal miners and a woman dressed as Queen Elizabeth I. Andy’s number came to an end on the stage, to tumultuous applause. He grinned and waved at the crowd before he started punishing his piano some more and the band picked up the beat.

Pete noticed me and waved me over. I mumbled some words of thanks that were drowned out by the frenetic music coming from the dance floor. The gist of Pete’s reply was that I should talk to the actor dressed as a Chauffeur. I gestured back to room that I’d just left and Pete handed me a steaming cup of coffee. Perhaps everyone’s psychic these days.

‘So?’ I started.

He stepped into the gap. ‘My employer wishes to talk to you.’

‘Yeah right. Look, I’ll need more information than that.’

‘Ms Michelle wishes to talk to about your contract.’

I winced. This was going to be fun.

‘Hold on a second.’

I grabbed my pilots cap from the mantelpiece and quickly jammed it into my pocket.

‘Right’ I said grimly, quickly gulping down my coffee ‘let’s go.’

I walked outside with the chauffeur and waved goodbye to Pete, and it struck me that I hadn’t said more than two words to him since I’d arrived. A Rolls Royce silver wraith was parked over the road. The setting sun highlighted the cars silver and chrome giving it an orange glow. The guy walked over to it and opened the door. I shook my head and got in the passenger seat. If you’re in the back seat in a plane you’re a passenger. I’ve never liked that.

The town sped past my window, and I saw estates and university pass from view as the car accelerated into the coming night. We were heading out of town. I’d figured Ms Michelle had a penthouse in Whitworth Tower, and we were going the wrong way for the towns other high rent area’s. We turned out into the countryside and my old fears began to resurface. Passing the James France Country Club I started trying to get more information about our destination.

‘So, where we going?’

A wide grin. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll find out soon enough.’

Somehow this was not the answer I was hoping for. I tried a different approach.

‘Do you like working for Ms Michelle?’

‘It’s alright.’

I pinched my nose. I was beginning to get the feeling that all the coffee in the world wouldn’t be able to wake me up enough to deal with this guy. I was getting sick of answers that told me nothing.

‘Look, I’ve had a hard time recently, and I’d really appreciate it if you just cut me a little slack, alright?’ I suddenly realised my voice had become more than a little raised. Taking a deep breath I apologised. To my surprise, the chauffeur grinned back at me.

‘You’re a lot better than most of my passengers, you know. I’m Mark, by the way.’ He offered me his hand. Personally I’d have been happier if he’d kept it on the wheel, given he was doing well in excess of 70mph, but I shook it anyway.

‘Yeah, generally they’re drunk, never all going to the same place, always insisting that theirs is the first place I must go’

I listened in stunned amazement to the man all the way to our destination. It fascinated me that anyone could possibly talk so much about the one topic for so long, but he certainly seemed to be managing it- and yet it was compelling too, to hear somebody be so content in their job after the unpleasantness of the past day or so. I felt reluctant about getting out when the car finally passed the tall black iron gates of Ms Michelle’s home.

The car slowly made its way along a wide gravel drive with neatly trimmed trees on either side. But it was the house itself that caught my attention. From the wide sweep of emerald grass the house rose up white and magnificent in the darkness, powerful electric lights throwing back the nights gentle caress. It seemed unreal. The entrance to the house was a large set of double doors that were made of some hardwood painted black and highly polished. The bronze knockers were ornate styled like theatre masks, one smiling the other crying. Rings hung down from their mouths. I reached forward and knocked. The sound echoed in a large room behind the doors.

The doors were opened by one of the two goons, his tall figure outlined by a flood of light from behind him. He glared at me for a few seconds before motioning me inside. As I walked through the door into the hallway I wondered briefly where his friend was, until I felt the familiar chill sensation of having the barrel of a .38 pressed to the back of my neck.