Bright City Deep Shadows Read online

  I wished she was there with me so I could ask her precisely what “it” was, because, whatever she thought I had, I was finding it very hard to see what she saw. In fact, I just wished she was there. Full stop.

  I suppose I must have cried myself to sleep. I woke up to the sound of knocking at the door and the sticky unpleasantness of drool on my cheek. I called out, “Just a minute,” and staggered over to the door, getting all the way there before I realised it should have been the buzzer and my caller should have been out on the street, not standing a few inches away in the hallway. “Who is it?” I called. My door didn’t have a spy hole. Why had that never seemed like an issue before? What if it was Chelsea’s murderer come to kill me too? It struck me, as it had not until that moment, that there really was a killer on the loose out there, a man who had viciously and brutally murdered the woman I loved. I felt a chill in my stomach and a rush of adrenaline. I ran to the kitchen and grabbed a knife. If this was Chelsea’s killer, he was not going to get away with it.

  I returned to the door and pulled it wide open in a rush, gripping the knife hard, ready to plunge it into the evil bastard who had come for me. Even as I did it, another thought came to me. What if it was the police, come to arrest me? What the hell was I doing? I froze in horror at the insanity of being on the cusp of attacking some random person with a knife.

  “Fucking Jesus!” the man in the hallway said, falling back a step and raising his arms as if to fight me off.

  “You!” I cried. I almost sobbed with relief. I didn’t have to fight a killer. I didn’t have to explain myself to the cops. It was only Old Moocher from the bar. He gathered his wits a lot quicker than I did.

  “Put that fucking thing down, you fucking boofhead.” He looked me up and down, no doubt taking in my dishevelled clothes and wild hair. “Are you pissed, or what?”

  “I thought...” I began but was too embarrassed to say what I’d thought. Which made me cross. It was my place and he had no right to take that tone. “What the hell are you doing here? How did you get in the building?”

  “Can I come in?”

  “No bloody way! How did you even know where I live. No, wait, you’re a detective. What do you want?”

  His jaw clenched and he seemed to struggle against an angry retort for several seconds. Eventually, he said, “I came to apologise. I acted like a dick and I shouldn’t have.” He looked past me into the apartment and his eyes narrowed. “Is that Chelsea?”

  “None of your business.”

  “And those two would be Stacey and Kazima, right?”

  “How the hell did you know that?”

  I’m not sure how it happened but I kind of stood aside and he walked past me into the room. He went straight to the board and studied the timeline. “I can put some more detail on this if you like.”

  “What? How? What do you know about it?” I closed the door and followed him into the room.

  “Only what I found in the papers and online. But it seems to be a lot more than you know.”

  I wanted to argue with him and throw him out but instead I put down the knife and picked up a pen. I held it out for him. “All right. Go on then.”

  He took the pen and started writing things – the name of the restaurant (“Tea For Two”), the time she arrived there (6:50 PM), the time she left (8:40 PM), the name of the alley (“Barnett Lane”), the estimated time of death (8:50 PM), and so on. He didn’t refer to any notes and he talked while he worked.

  “The name’s Ronnie, by the way. Ronnie Walker. And as for last night, like I said, I was a prick, and I’m sorry for that. And I’m probably going to go on being a prick, so I want to apologise for that in advance. Thing is, I’ve always been a prick. It’s what got me chucked out of the navy, and the police, and why I couldn’t make a go of it as a PI.” His face darkened as he went into what looked like a short reverie. After a moment, he shook his head, scowling. “Fucking clients.”

  He left the timeline and started to draw a fragment of a map. It had a rectangle labelled “Tea For Two” and, behind it, “Barnett La.” Beyond that was a zigzag path through some unnamed streets to another street a few blocks away marked “Torville St.” on which was an “X” with the word “dumpster fire” next to it.

  “How do you know all this?” I asked again, bewildered.

  “News reports. Google Maps. Jeez, mate, it’s not rocket science.”

  “What are you even doing here? I’m not paying you for this.”

  He put down the pen. “You owe me a hundred bucks for last night. We made a deal. And a deal’s a deal.” He didn’t act belligerent or aggressive but I still felt a curl of anxiety. He was an old bloke, yes, probably over seventy, and at 5’ 10” I had at least four inches on him but, while I could imagine people describing him as “stocky” or “compact”, “tough” or even “thuggish”, those same people would probably describe me as a “beanpole” or “scrawny”.

  “Today, however, is gratis,” he said. “In fact, I’ve decided I’m going to help you.” He put on a big grin. “So, go get the kettle on, and fill a flask, ’cause we’re going out.”

  “I – I haven’t got a flask.”

  “Mate, I’d give you a good slap only I don’t want to get idiot on my hand.” He pursed his lips as if to stop himself speaking and held up his hands, palms towards me. “Sorry. I just can’t help myself. I’m sure we’ll get on great once you get used to me. So, why don’t you go out and buy a thermos – make it a nice big one – and I’ll finish this?” He waved a hand at the board.

  It probably seems strange that I let him into my home, put up with all that crap from him, and then left him alone there while I ran his errands. It certainly felt that way to me and yet there was something I needed there. Not just the information he brought, or the expertise he had. What I really needed and was secretly glad to get, was someone who knew what to do and who just took charge. It’s kind of pathetic, I know, but that’s how I felt.

  I got back to the unit half an hour later with my shiny new thermos flask, a bagful of wholesome snack foods and a pair of binoculars. I reckoned he was taking me on some kind of stakeout and I was showing initiative. He was stretched out on the sofa with a coffee beside him and my laptop balanced on his chest. I stomped over and took it off him, cursing myself for forgetting to log off.

  “Not a single subscription to any porn sites?” he said, eyebrows raised. “What kind of a bloke are you?”

  “One who doesn’t want to contribute to the exploitation of women – or children or animals or whatever it is you’re into.”

  “Touché! But I see you stand before me unarmed in this battle of wits.”

  “The old ones are the best, I suppose.” I tried to put plenty of scorn into it, guessing that he got most of his wit and wisdom from Internet memes.

  “I couldn’t agree more but you try explaining that to the young hotties at the pub.”

  “Did you do anything while I was gone? Apart from poking around in my stuff?” I wasn’t actually upset about him finding my porn stash – I didn’t have one and, if I did, my tastes were so tame, any such collection would probably rate a PG classification. It was my fumbling attempts at writing a novel and some poetry that I was particularly sensitive about. I hadn’t even let Chelsea look at those.

  In response, he tipped his head towards the whiteboard. He’d added a few more details here and there, including lines between pictures labelled with their relationships, but the main addition was an empty rectangle with “Mr X” written next to it.

  “Mr. X?” I asked. “That’s your contribution?”

  He sat up and looked at me seriously. “That’s our killer. Today, we’re going to find out everything we can about him, hey?”

  I shrugged. “Sure.”

  “Let’s go, then.” He got to his feet and headed for the door.

  “Go where?”

  “To the restaurant, first off.”

  I held up my carrier bag. “But what about the fla
sk?”

  He gave me a big, shit-eater grin. “Mate, I just wanted you out of the house for a while so I could rifle through your undies draw.”

  I stopped dead. “What the fuck?”

  “I needed to know if you were Mr. X, yeah? It’s not like I could just ask you. Well, now I know. You’re a hopeless innocent, who loved your girl, and who writes really bad poetry.”

  I still didn’t move. It was an outrage. It was an invasion of privacy. It was probably a crime. And the crack about the poetry was really unfair. I should have been furious but, again, I was mostly just relieved. Unlike the police, he believed it wasn’t me. I was actually grateful for the vote of confidence. Even so, I had to put up some kind of show of disapproval. I opened my mouth to tell him how little I thought of his investigative methods but he cut me off.

  “Yeah, yeah, I get it. Moral outrage, blah, blah, blah. Look, it was quick, it was efficient, and it got a lot of bullshit out of the way so we can focus on Mr. X, right? So, are we going, or what?”

  I took a long, deep breath. “Right-o.” What was the point in arguing? For whatever reasons of personal inadequacy, I’d let this cranky, intrusive old bugger push his way into my life, so now I might as well make the most of it.

  We left without another word and made our way downstairs to the hallway. There was a double glass door to the street and as we approached it, like a distorted mirror image, two other men approached from the outside. We all stopped and looked at each other. I had the odd feeling that, if I raised my right hand, one of the men outside would raise his left.

  Ronnie broke the spell by stepping forward and throwing open the doors.

  “Detective Sergeant Trevor fucking Reid,” he said, stepping outside. I followed him and let the doors close.

  “That’s Detective Inspector Trevor fucking Reid to you, Walker.” I might not have been there for all the attention the two cops paid me. “What the hell are you doing here? Does he know you lost your licence? It would be too bad if you were passing yourself off as a PI and I had to arrest you for it.”

  “Always nice to bump into you, Trev. I see you’re here without your better half.” He gave the other cop a fake smile. “No offence mate but we all know the only way this guy is safe to be let out is with his Girl Friday along to stop him wandering into the road.” The other cop worked his jaw, trying not to smile. Pleasantries over, Reid turned to me.

  “What’s going on? Why is this man here?”

  I really did not like this bloke’s attitude. “Mr. Walker is a friend of mine. We’re a little busy just now. Can I help you?”

  “I need to ask you a few questions. Shall we go inside?”

  Ronnie stepped forward. “As Mr. Kelly explained, he’s busy just now. I’m sure if you were to call and make an appointment, a mutually suitable time could be found for an interview.”

  “Fuck off, Walker. Mr. Kelly?” He held out a hand towards the door, inviting me to go back inside.

  “As I said, I’m busy.”

  “You don’t want to help us find your girlfriend’s murderer?”

  “If I thought that’s what you were doing here, I’d be all over you like a rash. As it is, I think we should start conducting our affairs a little more formally. My lawyer will call you to arrange any further interviews. And he or she will be present at every one.”

  “On the other hand, why don’t I just take you down to the station right now? If you want to be awkward, I can play that game.”

  “Are you arresting my friend, Detective Inspector?” Ronnie’s tone was sweetness itself. “Because, if not, I can’t see why he’d agree to that. And, if you are, I reckon my advice would be to keep saying ‘No comment,’ until his lawyer arrives to get him out and lodge a formal complaint.”

  Reid’s lips tightened into a snarl. He stepped up close to Ronnie, which made my heart beat even faster. “This better be fucking important to you personally, Walker, because I don’t like washed-up old has-beens sticking their noses in my business. Do you really want to screw with me?”

  “If that’s all, Inspector,” I said as firmly as I could. “I need to be on my way.” I didn’t know why I was being so brave. Reid was a big bloke and he could have snapped me like a twig. Also, although this was the second confrontation with the police I’d had in the past twenty-four hours, I assure you, there had not been another in the past twenty-six years. On the other hand, these were not normal times and I was definitely not my normal self.

  Slowly, Reid backed down and stepped away from Ronnie. He turned to me and said, “I want to hear from that lawyer today. If I think you’re hindering my investigation, I’ll have all the reason I need to drag you in in cuffs. Do you understand?”

  I wanted to make some defiant, preferably witty, rejoinder but with him glaring at me like that, all I had the nerve to do was nod. As soon as I did, he turned and strode away, his sidekick hurrying behind.

  “Jesus!” I said, as soon as he was gone. “That was a bit intense.”

  Ronnie grinned at me as if it was all good fun. “Don’t worry about Reid. His problem is he’s actually an honest cop. Makes him a paper tiger. If he was bent, he’d have taken you in on some bullshit charge just for the fun of throwing you in a van so he could rough you up a bit. Then there’d be a resisting arrest charge, too, assaulting a police officer, all the usual crap. No, the one you need to worry about is his buddy Alexandra.”

  “The little woman you said is clever.”

  “That’s the one. If there’s a case to be made and she thinks you did it, she’ll have you. She’s like a dog with a bone.”

  My mouth felt dry. Ronnie was painting a picture of a whole police force out to get me, good ones and bad ones alike. “Well, there’s no case. So I’ll be all right, won’t I?”

  “Yeah, sure. No worries.” Yet his breezy dismissal somehow failed to reassure me.

  Chapter Six

  Tea For Two was an intimate little place, vaguely Italian in cuisine and upmarket modern in decor. Even in the middle of a bright Brisbane summer’s day, it was cool and dim. The sign on the door said “Sorry, we’re closed.” but there were still people moving around inside, clearing up after the lunchtime session. My stomach grumbled to remind me I’d been eating erratically for a long time and neglecting its reasonable demands. Ronnie tried the door. It was open, so he went straight in. There was a young waitress, cleaning tables and a young bloke with a broom. They looked at us like startled meerkats for a moment before the waitress hurried over.

  “I’m sorry, we’re closed.”

  “Of course,” said Ronnie, his voice suddenly modulated and urbane, his face all smiles. “I don’t mean to interrupt your work. We’re not after food – although it smells delicious. My name is Walker and this is Luke Kelly. Luke is the de facto of the young woman who was in here last week, the night she was murdered.” The waitress stared at me with widening eyes. The guy with the broom stopped pretending to sweep and walked over to join us.

  “Oh my god,” the waitress said. “That’s so awful. People are still talking about it. We’ve had police and reporters and all kinds coming here. She was so young and pretty. It’s like, you daren’t walk in the streets round here no more.”

  “You saw her then, on the night she died?”

  “Yeah, nah. I don’t do Saturday nights. Ain’t worth it. Jase was on, though, weren’t you?”

  The young man nodded seriously.

  “So you saw her then?” Ronnie asked.

  “Hello? Can I help you?” A middle-aged woman in an apron appeared from a door at the back, walking briskly towards us. “Is there a problem?”

  “This is that Chelsea’s bloke,” the waitress said. “They want to ask us some questions.”

  The woman gave me a careful appraisal, during which Ronnie jumped in with his introductions. “We just learned that Jase, here, saw Chelsea that night. Were you here, too?”

  “I’m the owner,” she said. “I’m always here. Look, the police have
already asked us loads of questions.” She seemed to notice her two employees listening in. “Get on with it, you two. I’ll handle this.” To me, she said, “I’m very sorry for your loss but I don’t know what I can tell you that I haven’t already told the police at least three times. Maybe you should—”

  “We’re really sorry to impose on you like this,” said Suave Ronnie, in his most regretful tone, “but, to be honest, the family feels the police investigation hasn’t been all it could be. The man who was with Chelsea that night, for example, what kind of overcoat did he bring with him?”

  “Overcoat? Why would he bring an overcoat? It’s the middle of summer.”

  Ronnie smiled and nodded. “Yes, indeed. Some people just have cold blood, I suppose.” If nobody else heard what he’d said, I certainly did. “Now, try to remember the overcoat.”

  “There wasn’t an overcoat,” the woman said, starting to sound a bit tetchy.

  “Yes! There was!” It was the guy with the broom. “Sorry, I couldn’t help hearing. He did have a coat. I remember it was on the back of his chair, like a big raincoat, black, or navy maybe. I remember thinking that there was no chance of rain, so why was he lugging that bloody great coat around with him. Jeez, I didn’t even remember until just now.”

  I stared at Ronnie in amazement. How could he possibly have known?

  “You see?” he said, turning back to the owner, who was also looking at him like a stage magician who’d just pulled out the card she had been thinking of. “That’s the kind of detail the police have failed to pick up on. Poor Luke here is going mad with grief and needs all our help finding the monster who destroyed his life. I don’t think the police are going to be much use. It’s up to us to do the right thing by that poor dead girl. So would you mind if we just asked you and young Jase a few more questions?”