Unraveled Visions (A Shaman Mystery) (20 page)

I examined his profile, the sheen of his forehead, the way his nose twisted a little to one side. His eyes were full of regret, but no remorse. I couldn’t help it. I let my head turn and my gaze fall upon the inviting back seat of the police car. Now that would be something.

“Absolutely not,” said Rey.

“See? You can read my mind.”

“Once again,” said Rey, “you are involved in a murder enquiry.
Two
murder enquiries. You’re about to make another statement, and the likelihood of an interrogation has not been ruled out.”

“So you think I know something.”

“Maybe you know something without knowing it. I’ll have to see what equipment we’ve got stored in the back offices. Thumbscrews, that sort of thing.”

He put the car into gear and did zero to fifty in seconds, then he put on the siren and broke the speed limit all the way to Bridgwater.

nineteen

“This has been the
shittiest week in my entire life,” I said, slamming the till drawer closed.

It felt like someone was drilling directly through the middle of my forehead where my sensitive third eye was located. Partly this was due to the fast, twangy music tonight’s group at the Curate’s Egg were playing—bluegrass from the Appalachian Mountains. Banjo, fiddle, guitar, and two singers with quaintly opposing voices. The man’s was guttural and slow and the woman’s piercingly high. Not a single song seemed to have a happy theme. That suited my mood perfectly.

Each time I closed my eyes, an image of Kizzy’s bloated face hung before me. With each image, the rictus grin got wider. I had only met Mirela’s sister once, but I found myself mourning for her. Her eyes had flashed with dark spirit; she’d drawn her tapered fingers along the lines of my hand. And now she lay in the morgue, silent and stiff.

All week I’d been accompanied by a dull ache in my belly. It was there to remind me there was something badly wrong, so that if I began to enjoy the small things of life, just for a minute or two—the way Ginger waddled as she ran for food, a new blender recipe—the ache would start up, to jog my memory. Kizzy was dead. Mirela was gone.

The name Kizzy Brouviche had been released to the press, and I constantly wondered if Mirela knew her sister had died. Surely she would get in touch if that was so? I hoped that somehow she’d got back to Bulgaria, but a search of flights by Rey’s team hadn’t picked anything up. Or if they had, they weren’t informing me. Wherever she was, if she was okay, all she needed to do was Google for news. Did Bulgarian Romanies have the Internet? I was betting they did.

I hated Fergus’s suggestion that she’d scarpered because she knew Kizzy had died. If that was so, then, all the time we’d been searching for her together, Mirela had been aware of …
something
at least … which I had not.

Papa Bulgaria was in a state of shock over the news. Petar and Max looked shaken, and Vittoria flopped into tears every few minutes, even though she’d never met Kizzy and had previously slagged her off every time I’d mentioned her. Jimmy was no better. He was weeping into his onions for real now.

Stan was dumbfounded at the news. I could see now that he had believed Kizzy could look after herself. The discovery had stymied him. Far from handing in my notice, I found myself agreeing to work extra shifts. He’d been so grateful that I couldn’t bring myself to ask if I’d get extra time, or for that matter, when I’d get my pay, which was now worryingly overdue.

First thing on Tuesday morning, panic broke loose. Less than forty-eight hours after Kizzy had been found, Bridgwater Constabulary walked into Papa Bulgaria unannounced, to inform all the male staff that they’d like to take voluntary buccal swabs. I was out delivering, which was just as well; I would have hated to confront Rey at my lowly place of work. But I heard all about it when I returned. Especially from Jimmy, who’d been tensed up for the rest of the day, which meant Stan shouted at him over every silly mistake.

By the end of the shift, Jimmy’s face had puckered up until it was almost all zit. I’d tried to soothe him. “Don’t be worried. It’s just routine.”

“What did they find on Kizzy?”

“It has to be DNA, Jimmy. Be positive; that’s good. We can’t bring Kizzy back, but this might find her killer.”

My insides felt pulled all which-ways; the understanding that Kizzy’s death had been waiting in the wings, and I had done nothing to prevent it except allow her sister to get into a brolly fight with a pervert and later disappear into oblivion. I was grieving for both of them—for the firecracker that had been Kizzy and for her sugar-dusted sister. What had Fergus said? Bulgarian Delight.

Tucked right down at the bottom of this shitty week was the smell of a man’s skin; the taste of lips and tongue; the touch of his hand against my cheek. The kiss I’d shared with Rey. I recalled the way I’d collapsed in the loo last week. Yes, kissing Rey was like that; lost patches of sight and a juddering chest.
I don’t do deep down,
Rey had said, but he’d also confessed that he’d told me to find someone else, not because he didn’t have feelings for me, but because he was threatened by love and did the craziest things to avoid it.

“Shitty week?” said Nige, slowing his pace (if that was possible) to answer me. “Tell me about it. Bloke problems, right?” He pointed to tonight’s t-shirt, which proudly announced,
Blow jobs are like flowers for men
.

“Piss off, Nige,” I said, not holding out much hope. Nige thrived on rejection, believing (at least, according to another of his t-shirts) it was a girl’s way of saying yes.

_____

Fergus turned up just gone nine, while the band was on their break. He hovered at the bar, avoiding getting served (not a difficult task, considering the speed of my colleagues), until I was ready to pull him his pint of Wild Cossack.

“How are you?” he asked.

“It’s been a long week, Fergus.”

“You can off-load onto me. I’m used to it, so I am.”

I wanted to point out that he could have phoned me at anytime between since Monday, when I’d last seen him, to let me “off-load.” But as I was trying to work out how to put this diplomatically, he slid a thin buff envelope across the bar. I realized a translation of Kizzy’s letter would be inside. It felt like he’d just offered me a list of counter-espionage suspects. Then someone waved a twenty at me and I stuffed the envelope into my back pocket.

“I’ll catch up with you at closing, shall I?” said Fergus.

The twenty waved closer. “Miss?”

Fergus turned away, taking his pint to his bench.

As always, I was doing the lion’s share of the work. Kev favoured chatting to his favourite punters over helping behind the bar, leaving me to dash around whenever Nige disappeared for what he called “a five-minute puff.” Five minutes in Nige’s world was half an hour of everyone else’s irritation. Finally, I told him it was my turn for a fag.

“But you don’t smoke.”

“I’m thinking of taking it up to get the breaks.”

It was bitter in the yard. The concrete path that led down to the back gate was slippy with newly laid ice. I sat down on a beer barrel to slice the top of the envelope, and the chill of the metal shot through my jeans into my bum. But I forgot the cold as soon as the translation of Kizzy’s letter opened in my hands.

My Sweetie Mirela,

It is not as I hoped. At first, it was hard, such pain, but it is better now. I will be okay, dear darling girl, I am just resting. I thought we could both make good from this, but no real riches offered. I had sharp words with him, but it was useless, but he keeps me here, stuck in this place. So do not do the same as me, sister. Do not go with him, if he comes for you, the man with the snake. Get out. Go back home, which is sweeter than Britain ever will be. Find a way. Do it fast. Go and give my love to Mama and the boys. Tell Tatta I am sorry I made his head crazy.

Your Kizzy

I looked up, almost surprised to find I was in the yard behind the Curate’s Egg, rather than some painted, horse-drawn caravan. Mirela had told the truth about the letter; Kizzy
had
said she needed to rest. And Fergus had been way off-target; reading her sister’s letter would have given Mirela hope that she’d see her again. But what did Kizzy mean …
it was hard, such pain
? I thought about the final words she said to me, the night when squibbing turned to shooting …
there is danger. It starts with death
. Was she fully aware that Abbott had been gunned down as she read our fortune? Or had she returned to the scene of the crime and strayed into the path of the killer?

I read the translation steadily again. When she wrote this at least, she’d been with someone
. I have sharp word with him
. With who? A man, but not a man she feared. Unless the letter was all bravado, for showing fear wouldn’t sit neatly with Kizzy.
Do not go with him, if he comes for you, the man with the snake
.

One reassuring thing stood out: Kizzy had implored Mirela to go home. On those instructions, she’d packed and called her boyfriend. Maybe she was already back in Bulgaria. But if so, why did she leave this letter under her pillow?

It would need some pondering. I pocketed the copy and got back to the bar.

Maybe Fergus could help me decipher it.

Finally the band packed up and the bar began to empty out. Fergus shrugged himself into his jacket and came over to where I was wiping the last of the glasses.

“Did you have to ID Kizzy in the end?”

I nodded. “It was the most awful experience I have ever endured.”

“I can empathize,” said Fergus. “That DI turned up at the agency with a couple of uniformed cops. Spoke to each one of us in turn. They were hoping we’d be able to contact Mirela. But I have no idea where she is.”

“Or if she’s okay.”

“He can dole out a desperate third degree, can that fellow.”

“What do you mean?”

“He took a cheek swab from every male at the office. That boiled down to some elderly volunteers, me, and Juke. We could hardly refuse. And then he told me to open all our files for inspection.”

“You should let them do it.”

“I did let them do it. They’d have used a search warrant if I hadn’t.”

“Every bloke who knew Kizzy had a swab taken.”

“Fair enough. Sort of in the contract. Agency for Change deals in all sorts of difficult issues. At least when
we’re
interviewed by the police we’re not beaten up if we don’t say the right things. At least we’re UK citizens; we’re not hassled about having papers. At least we don’t have wheals and cuts from the machetes, or memories of rapes and house burnings.”

“Hope not.” It was all a bit heavy for so late in the evening. I thought back to the first time I’d clapped eyes on Mirela, curled like a wild beast into a corner of my porch, the pungent sensation of desolation oozing out of her frail body. “Of course you’re right, Fergus. We have a beautiful planet, and it doesn’t belong to any one of us. It belongs to itself and we should try to get along while we’re on it—care for it. Care for each other.”

“Surely. That’s my job. To raise awareness and to keep these people as safe as I can.” He flashed a sad smile, suggesting he knew he’d failed in that task.

“What did you think of Kizzy’s letter, Fergus?”

“We had hoped for an address, hadn’t we?”

“Have you any idea what she means by the man with the snake?”

“Is it a code between them?”

“Only …”

“What?” Fergus sat straighter, as if my next words would be the key that unlocked the puzzle.

“It’s a shamanic thing. I’ve been seeing snakes … meeting snake spirits.”

“Sounds desperate. But not very concrete, Sabbie, if you don’t mind my saying.”

“Okay, what about this? Mirela thought there may be underhand couriering going on at Papa. The police let something slip. Did you know there was a Bulgarian mafia?”

“I did, yes.”

“Fergus, you could have told me!”

He looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know much … if you’ve been talking to the police, perhaps you know more than me.”

“They call themselves
Mutri.
But Re—that is—I learned that they’re not much into the sex trade. It’s more drugs. Did Mirela ever talk to you about anything like that?”

“She did not. I haven’t a clue. It doesn’t ring any bells at all.” His hand slid into the pocket where he kept his notebook, as if reassuring himself it was still there.

“To be honest, I’m exhausted with thinking about it.”

“Indeed so. When you finish tonight … would you be free?”

“Is there another party?”

“No, but I wondered if you might like to come in, for a late coffee. You know where I live. Your taxi must take you past.”

I nodded, a good choice of response, seeing I’d been robbed of speech.

“There was something I wanted to show you.”

“What?” But I knew. It would be his songs. Maybe he’d sing them to me. “Shaman Girl.”

“I’m thinking you’ll be too tired,” he said.

“I dunno, Fergus.”

“We’ll leave it to how you feel, then,” he said, and turned to leave.

_____

“Can you drop me off here?” I asked the taxi driver.

Nige winked at me as I clambered out. “Nice one, Sabbie.”

I didn’t move from the pavement edge as the taxi pulled away. In front of me was the fresh-painted sign that directed people to the new block of flats where Fergus lived. Should I follow the signpost? Fergus had invited me. He was waiting for me. But in my hand was a printed card—Rey’s card. His address was three or so minutes away, across the road and round the corner. He wasn’t waiting for me. He hadn’t invited me. He might have scribbled his address down for some other reason.

I stood on my spot, the December wind chilling my scalp. The taxi was long gone. The wind blew, whipping at my scarf like a flag. I had to make up my mind.

_____

The door had a jarring bell. I jumped at the sound.

No security chain. The door swung open generously.

“Want to come in?”

I thought about it for a whole second then stepped over the threshold.

Rey grinned. Good start.

I stopped short, mostly because there was nowhere much to go. Rey had crammed himself into living quarters so small, I didn’t think my hens would be happy with the space.

“Bijou,” I remarked.

“Size has never mattered to me.”

“People who say that are usually compensating for their lack of it.”

“I presume we’re talking accommodation here?”

“Yeah, ’course.” My glance was forced downward from his face as if there was a string attached to my chin, but I couldn’t see very far. Between us was a bottle of San Miguel.