I tried again. The place was so free of vibes that I picked up on the stale, flat murmur of the water in his toilet cistern. And that was just wrong. Not so much as a dirty mag or two stuffed in a bedside drawer in case the coppers (or his mum, as might be, seeing as even big bastards like Kelvin had to come from somewhere) came round? Well, maybe Kelvin was out and proud about his porn—looking more closely at the DVDs on the shelves tended to support that view, and hang on, wasn’t that one of Darren’s old movies?—but he had to have something to hide.
I was beginning to think it wasn’t only Jonathan’s worldly goods and chattels our Kelvin had cleared out. “You know what?” I said out loud. “I don’t think we’ve got time for a cuppa. Remember we’ve got to . . .”
I flashed my beloved a significant look.
Phil coughed. “Right. Should’ve remembered. Never mind the tea,” he called out to Kelvin. “We’ll see ourselves out.”
The flat door closed behind us, and Phil narrowed his eyes. “Don’t tell me you picked up on another dead body in there.”
“What? No. About as far from that as you can get. Seriously. There’s nothing hidden in that place. And I mean nothing. He’s cleared it all out. Cleaner than a nun’s whatsit.”
He gave me the side-eye. “Since when have you been thinking about nuns’ whatsits?”
“Cell. I meant cell. And, oi, stop getting distracted. I reckon we need to get down to that stall again, sharpish. Before he clears that out and all, if he hasn’t already.”
Phil frowned. “Can’t see it. Traders don’t leave their stock out overnight. Anything he had with him at the stall would’ve had to go at the end of the day.”
“Yeah, but maybe he hid it in the stock? Some of those military greatcoats have got flippin’ big pockets.”
“What, and risk some punter buying it?”
Okay, maybe I hadn’t thought that one through. “Still . . . it can’t hurt to have a butcher’s, now we’re down here, can it?”
“Might as well. Could be worth a chat with this Chelsea, anyhow.”
A not-brief-enough blast of that chill wind again later, we were back underground in the Stables Market, heading for Reid’s stall. It was weird, thinking how it’d only been a week since we were last here, and two men had died since then. And by weird, I mean deeply unpleasant. My hip twinged in memory. Or maybe it just hadn’t warmed up yet.
“Think anyone’ll recognise me?” I muttered to Phil, trying to avoid the eyes of any stallholders who glanced our way. “I don’t fancy getting lynched by a mob of market traders. There aren’t any leftover pitchforks in these stables, are there?”
“Stop worrying. You were last week’s wonder. No one’s even going to remember you now.”
From the general lack of interest people were showing in yours truly, he was probably right. I was still glad when we reached Reid’s stall, though.
From the name Chelsea, I’d been expecting a leggy blonde girl with hair extensions and fake nails. Well, I wasn’t wrong about the hair colour, although it was more dishwater than peroxide. She was a washed-out thirtysomething with deep dark circles under her eyes and no makeup, wearing grimy jeans and a padded jacket with a rip in one sleeve that couldn’t exactly be helping her sell the merchandise.
Phil greeted her with a professional smile. “Chelsea? I’m Phil Morrison. We’ve come from Kelvin Reid’s place. He said he didn’t mind us having a look for something Jonathan Parrot might’ve left lying around.”
Nice. All, strictly speaking, true, but adding up to implied permission to poke our noses around the stall that very definitely hadn’t been granted.
She frowned. “Maybe I should give him a ring?”
“We can wait,” Phil said confidently, which was fair enough. After all, Kelvin was still in the business of keeping us happy, wasn’t he? And even if he did tell her to tell us to piss off, that’d just show us we were on the right track.
Chelsea didn’t move to pull out her phone. Actually, chances were she didn’t have any reception down here, which would explain her reluctance to check our story out. After all, asking us to mind the stall while she went outside to call Kelvin would sort of defeat the object. “I s’pose it’s all right.”
Result. I made my way to the back of the stall, as far from Chelsea as I could get, and listened. The vibes were strong and unmistakeable. Guilt and defiance led me down a slimy, unpleasant trail directly to . . . Chelsea’s back pocket, currently hidden under her thick winter anorak.
I stood there staring at her well-padded bum for a moment. Maybe she felt the weight of my gaze, as she spun round and demanded, “What?”
“You’re skimming, aren’t you?” Which was a polite way of saying she was robbing Kelvin blind.
She flushed an angry red. “Fuck off. You don’t know shit.”
“Yeah, I do. Pocket of your jeans, love. No, not that one. Back pocket. On your right.”
“That’s my money.” She was definitely worried now. “You can’t prove nothing.”
“Uh-huh. So you won’t mind us mentioning it to Kelvin?”
“You bastard. I need this money. I got a kid, ain’t I?”
“Course, I might forget all about it. If, say, I had a reason to get distracted.” I glanced around. “Where does Kelvin keep his stock? You know, the off-season lines, surplus stuff, all that?”
She glared at me for a moment before she spoke. “He’s got a lockup in Cutter Street.”
Phil stepped up. “And would you have a key to that?”
“Maybe.”
“You scratch our backs, love,” I suggested.
Chelsea threw me a glare that seemed to imply she’d be quite happy to do that, if we wouldn’t mind waiting while she got hold of some barbed wire dipped in battery acid. “You won’t say nothing to Kelvin?”
“Our lips are sealed.”
“Fine.” She dug around in the pockets of her money belt-cum-apron, and pulled out a bunch of keys, from which she selected one with a grubby lilac plastic cover. “This one. It’s number thirteen.”
Our lucky number? “Cutter Street, yeah?”
“And you gotta bring the keys back. I’ll need them when I close up.”
“Course, love.” I flashed her a fake smile. “We’ll see you later.”
I probably imagined the sound of her growling as we headed off.
The lockup turned out to be far enough away from the market that I was having to concentrate on not limping by the time we got there. Cold weather’s always a bugger, and the punishment my hip had taken over the last week or so hadn’t exactly helped. Cutter Street wasn’t so much a street, more a line of lockup garages with white-painted doors in various states of disrepair, bang smack in the middle of a housing estate. There was hard standing out the front so you could park your van to load up, and a pleasant view of the blank brick sides of adjacent houses. One of the garages had a Police Aware notice on it.
“Think they’re aware of anything in particular?” I wondered. “Or just generally keeping their eyes peeled and their ears to the ground?”
Phil huffed a laugh. “You wouldn’t want to put your ear on this ground.” He nodded to a discarded condom and, not far from it, another Technicolor memento of a night out with the lads. Or lasses, as might be.
“Yeah, I’m thinking we don’t want to hang around here one minute longer than we have to.” I got the keys out, found the lilac one, and opened the garage door, sliding it up with a creak and a clatter loud enough to wake the dead, should there be any deceased persons taking a nap inside.
I was really, really hoping there weren’t.
It was surprisingly un-damp inside the garage. I suppose I’d subconsciously expected it to look like the stall inside, but of course all the off-season clothes were packed away in boxes, not invitingly displayed on racks. There was a moveable clothes rail to one side, but it was empty of everything but hangers.
There were a lot of boxes—the big, heavy-duty plastic sort. If we’d been planning to search them all by hand, it’d have taken us till Christmas.
“Come on, do your stuff,” Phil said.
“Oi, what did your last slave die of? When are you going to pull your psychic weight around here?”
“When the pope comes out as a gay trans woman and converts to Buddhism. I’m about as psychic as that used condom out there, and you know it.”
Feeling oddly cheerful about it, I did my stuff.
Whoa. It wasn’t just vibes, it was all the vibes. “You remember I said Kelvin had cleared out all his dirty little secrets? This is where he cleared them to. It’s going to take a mo to puzzle it all out.” And by a mo, I meant a good long while. My stomach rumbled, reminding me it was getting on for lunchtime and I’d had an early breakfast, for a Sunday.
I gritted my teeth and got on with trying to untangle Spaghetti Junction. At least it was all petty stuff, by which I mean there were definitely no meatballs in the form of actual dead bodies in here, or as far as I could tell, anything related to the provision of dead bodies to parts unknown. But there was a slimy, dishonest feel to most of the trails, which didn’t make the job any more pleasant.
I soon realised most of the trails had what I could only describe as a sort of Kelvin-ness about them. A sort of . . . softness, somehow, with a bitter, sly aftertaste. Which I at first thought was going to be no help whatsoever—it being his lockup, after all—but then I noticed a thin strand of something else. It had a whiff of sadness about it, and what was almost certainly indecision, although ironically I couldn’t be sure.
At any rate, it was different from the others. So that was the one I followed. Because while it was entirely possible that dear old Kelvin had been lying through his teeth when he said he didn’t know where Lilah’s package was, it was equally possible he’d been telling us the truth, and it’d been Jonathan who’d stashed it—maybe in here. If Chelsea had access to the keys, then so must old JP have had. And I was counting on him not having been living in the area long enough—this go around—to have too many other options locally for stashing stuff at short notice he didn’t want Kelvin’s beady eyes on. Which begged the question, why hadn’t he wanted Kelvin to see it?
The quickest way to answer that little Countdown Conundrum was to stop faffing about and get on with finding the thing. So I did.
It took me ten minutes or so, but I eventually tracked it down in a far corner of the lockup. Me and Phil had to shift a fair few boxes to get to it, and it was buried halfway down a box full of flowery shirts.
“Well, this is it,” I said, holding up the still-bulging envelope. I opened it up and a stack of glossy photos slid out. Moment of truth.