Weekend in Weighton Final Amazon version 12-12-12 (3 page)

The memory took me all the way back to where my fate had first happened upon the crossroads marked Cartwright, Clegg, Porson … oh, and that little shit, Bugg.

CHAPTER THREE

Thursday (the day before) – 12:30

Whoever said a week is a long time in politics should try going from Wednesday to Thursday in Weighton.

Having collected freshly pressed business cards from Fingers & Thumbs early on Wednesday, I’d gone straight to a meeting with my first prospective client. The ink had still been tacky when Mrs Porson palmed my card. She’d soon availed me an alluring smile, some flirtatious chitty-chat and that all-important retainer fee. With her cheeky cheque safely deposited by lunch-time, my new career was set for take-off. I’d become a fully-endorsed, in-the-money, cased-up, Private Investigator. Eddie was in the big leagues with a first client and first assignment: a simple blackmail triangle. What could go wrong?

A lot, as it turned out. And quickly.

When I found Mrs Porson on Thursday, just past noon if you want the actuality, she was a good deal less chirpy. It’d been a bummer of a day until then and you’d think I was owed a break. No such luck.

She’d told me to go to her place, a huge Victorian house. When I got there, all seemed bright and beautiful, the high overhead sun yolking a milky sky. The front door was open slightly, flapping in the warm air, so I slipped in. A god-awful smell led me to the lounge where I found Mrs P sprawled on her stomach in front of the leather sofa, her head twisted awkwardly on the pepper-flecked rug. A swamp of bodily fluids stained the fabric beneath her, which accounted for the stink. She provided a compelling centrepiece for the room and I couldn’t fail to be moved by her stillness.

I lowered an ear to her lips and gently thumbed her wrist. Nothing. It was so quiet in that place I swear I could have heard a beatin’ heart. But
this
heart was beat. I may have been new to the game but I picked up the fundamentals pretty quick. The dame was dead. This femme was fatale.

I didn’t say it – well, you wouldn’t, would you – but I thought it: why’d you go and die on me, Mrs P? Everything had been going along just peachy. But the plaintiff appeared uncooperative and not even a subpoena from hell would fix that. I had to confess, it put a whole new complexion on the case.

The heat was building to an uncomfortable intensity, pushing the stench along with it. A bauble of sweat trickled from my hairline as I took in a full sweep of the room. The scene was sickening but I had to take in every detail. I noticed her lounge was tastefully done, albeit in a generally grey theme. The silver-sheened goldfish blended nicely. Even the decomposing Mrs P didn’t look too much out of place.

The recently orphaned fish rubber-necked serenely, drifting from one glass wall to another. Seeing them took me back to the place where it had all begun: the Friday queue at Lin Chiang’s Fish Bar. That’s where I’d conceived my brilliant new career plan: no up-front investment required, no previous experience needed. I’d finally discovered the vocation that had been nailed-on all along.

Only two days into the job proper, and already I was in a career acceleration phase. My first client lay dead and my first case had just got a whole heap more complicated. Worse, it was touch and go if the cheque would clear. Ain’t no doubt, it’s plain to see, Eddie G won’t get no fee.

I wasn’t new to on-the-job training but this was something else. I’d have to learn fast. With big respect to
Fast Eddie
, I’d have to be faster. First things first, I needed to examine the prone Mrs P.

A close inspection revealed bruising and an abrasion that ringed her neck. An ugly swelling that blemished her near perfect skin. I couldn’t say I knew her that well, but she didn’t seem the type to strangle herself. The lack of an obvious offending weapon in the vicinity made no difference. This was murder, my lad, make no mistake.

That apart, I had no leads.

I prodded the body with my trainer, giving it the big up’n’over. Not a very pleasant sensation and it released more odours to torture my nose. After the body tipped, I crouched down beside her. Even at a shade over fifty and dead she was still kinda cute. But something wasn’t right and I didn’t know what. Her hair seemed shorter and darker than I remembered, but maybe that was nothing. Maybe she’d been to the hairdressers since I’d seen her the previous day. Her clothes seemed frumpier too – but then so did mine compared to our first meeting. I studied her again, searching for something else.

I couldn’t get out of my head a stored image of Mrs P smiling at me, her bounteous breasts mocking me from under a tight cashmere jumper. Looking at her now, her chest seemed strangely diminished. I wouldn’t tag myself as an authority or anything, but those enhanced breasts were definitely a feature. We were talking “Ms January” on the WI calendar three years running. Was the killer some kind of macabre pervert who’d taken her implants as trophies? Aside from the lack of surgical incisions, anyone might have thought so.

What to do? Call the cops or leave quietly? I tossed a coin.

~

Sitting in the police interview room, waiting to assist with enquiries, I had time to ponder the meaning of life. Not so much the “What are we all doing here?” but more the “What the hell am
I
doing
here
?” Apart from being busted, of course.

My finger ran over the embossed business card in my pocket and I thought back to the unveiling of Eddie G Enterprises at Fingers & Thumbs. The launch had started so promisingly. Talk about glory days – does a day and a half count?

As for the meaning of life, that seemed as meaningless as ever. I’d had a series of undemanding jobs since dropping out of college – either I’d left them or they’d left me. Even my last paid stint as barkeep at Weighton’s finest “Texmex” had gone Westward Ho! Then I’d lost interest in work altogether. But unemployed life in a small northern town proved to be no fun.

At first I’d kept real busy, filling my days with the magical flicker of old movies. I watched all my favourites – and my dad’s favourites – reel to reel. I knew every line from those old TV cop shows. I loved all of them – well, except
Magnum
.

In the evenings I went to every course going, from Teppanyaki to Tae Kwon Do to Tapestry; and that was just the Ts. The classes kept me occupied and gave me top billing on the local quiz team, but accomplished little else.

Eventually I got lost in the nothingness of the days; even the movies lost their magic. I didn’t want to watch, I wanted to
appear
. And all the while I was thinking about what I could do. What was I good at? Then, on cue, whilst in the queue, epiphany materialised at Lin Chiang’s. If only the queue had been shorter.

~

I tried to maintain a sense of tranquillity as Detective Sergeant Bugg switched the tape machine back on. The more senior officer, Detective Chief Inspector Hobbs, spoke softly into the microphone.

‘Detective Chief Inspector Hobbs and Detective Sergeant Bugg present, interviewing Mr Edward Ian Greene in connection with the death of Mrs Helen Porson of 4 Priory Road, Weighton. The date is 2nd June 2011 and the time is 14:20.’

Hobbs, a tall, willowy figure, had an irritating habit of tapping his feet in time with some unheard, free-flow jazz piece. Each tap seemed to draw bad karma from the floor until the room crackled with it.

His face held a cheerless expression. ‘Right, let’s start again, Mr Greene, shall we?’

‘For the third time, it’s–’

Hobbs interrupted. ‘Eddie G, Weighton’s first and foremost private detective.’ With a sarcastic frown clamped to his forehead, he pulled a small card from his inside pocket and flicked it across the table. ‘We know what’s on the business card, son, but your real name is Edward Ian Greene, correct?’ He didn’t wait for a response, just resumed the random jazz beat, this time with his fingers. ‘What time did you arrive at Mrs Porson’s?’

My thoughts were languishing elsewhere. I only vaguely heard his question. ‘You lost me. Can we … err …?’ I whirled a finger at the rewind button.

‘You realise how serious this is?’

Before I could reply, the less-than-shapely DS Bugg intervened. ‘The woman’s been murdered,’ he snapped, ‘and we find you housesitting. How does it look?’

From where I sat,
his look was all fright and terror. I blinked in slow-motion and waited for everything else to speed up.

‘It looks circumstantial,’ I told him. ‘You’ve got nothing. Forensics can sniff all over that place, they won’t find
eau de Eddie
anywhere.’

Hobbs interceded, awash with calm. ‘We’re just looking for cooperation. Assistance with our enquiries.’

‘Fine. I’ll tell you what I know.’ I touched the table with both hands. ‘But I do have a question.’

‘Well,’ asked Hobbs.

‘Who called you?’

‘I know who
didn’t
call us?’ chirped Bugg, scratching at an egg stain on his shirt.

‘Sorry, I thought it was my–’

‘Fuck you,’ he said, still not looking up from his breakfast spillage.

‘If there’s no charge then …?’

‘Patience, Eddie.’ Hobbs edged forward, his eyes unblinking. ‘We want to hear your story.’

‘I’ve told you, I’ll tell you what I know. But I don’t like being set up.’

‘No one set you up,’ he assured me. ‘Mrs Davies the next door neighbour saw you go in. She called and gave us your name.’

‘How did
she
know that?’ I mouthed more than spoke. It wasn’t meant for general release.

‘You’re Weighton’s first and foremost,’ said a sneering Bugg. ‘You figure it.’

As the rapt audience of one, I was beginning to pick up on the roles being played out by Plod and Plodder. To give them more rehearsal time, I decided to ignore the goading, at least for the next three questions.

‘Mrs Porson told Mrs Davies who you were.’ Hobbs picked up a statement in front of him and read from it. ‘“Helen told me about that young man, said he was going to do some work for her. She didn’t want me to worry about strange visitors. But I did. He looked creepy.”’

‘You don’t think she mixed me up with Derren Brown?
He’s
creepy.’

Hobbs cleared his throat in irritation, the first ripple on his blue pond. ‘Anyway, we had no record of any private investigators on the patch, but our desk sergeant knows you – well, knows your mum. Says you’re going through a phase.’

‘Well informed, obviously.’

Bob “The Desk” Jones had been friends with my dad a long time; now he was more than friends with Mum. Even so, you’d think her generation were savvy when it came to careless talk. And for her to spill to
him
of all people. The world’s a messed up place.

‘Enough,’ said Hobbs. ‘Let’s get back to your statement.’

‘Where do you want me to start?’

‘From when you met Helen Porson.’

I looked to the ceiling for inspiration; it was peeling badly.

‘Yesterday morning, Mrs Porson rang and asked me to go and see her. She wanted me to look into a small matter for her. So I was checking out a few leads when she calls me again and–’

‘Is this still yesterday?’ cut in Hobbs.

‘No, this morning. Early.’

He nodded slightly.

I took it as a green light. ‘She tells me there’s been an important development. “Come right away,” she says. I’m thinking maybe one of my initial enquires has paid off big already, case solved, success fee in the bag. But when I got to the house there was no answer. The door was open so I went in. I found her in the lounge, lying on the floor, her eyes open. She was very still.’ I paused and stared at their intent faces, then pushed on with the vignette. ‘I knew.’