Unraveled Visions (A Shaman Mystery) (11 page)

“She give to me money.”

That was true; Kizzy had left the twenty pounds she’d made from Debs with her sister. Perhaps she really had believed that soon she would be loaded.

“Miss Brouviche,” said Rey, “I’d like to interview you about your sister’s disappearance. Would you agree to that?”

I knew that what Rey really meant was
your sister’s proximity to the death of my colleague,
but Mirela’s eyes widened with possibilities; someone was finally taking her case seriously. She scurried after Rey and I found myself once again sitting in the public area under a wall of wanted posters.

I spent my half-hour’s wait worrying about what I planned to do next. The wolf had given me four cryptic places to look.
You will find little in some, and confusion in others
, he’d said
. In some you may be rewarded. Do not expect satisfaction from any answer
.

Even so, I’d already nailed one; the Papa Bulgaria takeaway shop was indeed full of blame. All the time I had been there—proving I could ride a scooter, learning the order system, poring over a map of the vast delivery area—an iciness had grown inside me. It had started as a maggot of misgiving eating at the wall of my stomach. Mr. Papazov was not in the running for smooth-talker of the year, and Stan was a sleazy sliver off the same chopping board, but it was more than that. The grease and dust and whirling music in Papa’s office’s had burrowed into me, until I only had half a mind on what Stan was saying. I’d nodded at intervals as it all floated above me, while in my head the music whirred round and round until I was back with the dancers in the forest, listening to the wolf.
The apparent world is where you must search.

Now I intended to look for the dark place. I was running with the idea that Kizzy might think she’d make more money selling her body than selling bolyarska. Fergus’s suggestion that she might have gone to a city seemed less likely now that I knew she didn’t have a scooter. I fancied that there were plenty of dark places hidden in the towns of Somerset.
It’s not that bright and shiny,
Fergus has said.

“Sabbie?” Mirela was tapping at my arm.

I jumped at her touch. Rey stood at a little distance. His face was almost grey. Disappointment and frustration was like a smell in the air. Mirela had been no help to Rey; he’d been no help to her.

I struggled up from the bench, unable to take my eyes from his. I could feel my heart’s rhythm, but it was not racing; it had slowed to a dull
thud-thud
, as if it knew there was no hope for anything. Not for Kizzy or her sister. Not for Rey Buckley or me.

“We go, now,” said Mirela. “They are pigs here too.” She gestured behind her, a hand movement that might have been rude, but luckily was indecipherable to the British police force.

For several long seconds, I tried to sort out the golfing umbrella I’d brought. I was struggling at least as much with my thoughts as I was with the brolly. All I had to do was look up and say,
I’ve got loads of breakfast eggs at the moment
and throw him a smile of camaraderie. All he had to do was call my name.

“Sabbie,” he said.

The umbrella was slowly sliding from my fingers. I hardly noticed that Mirela had caught it as it fell.

He was close now. No part of our clothing or skin touched, but if either of us had moved, that would change—everything would change. I was as rigid as a fossil; I wouldn’t have been able to touch him even if I’d needed to.

“Sabbie, you’re not getting caught up again, are you?”

“What?”

“You always have to do it, don’t you? Meddle in the work of the professionals?”

I could feel my cheeks, then my neck and my ears, warm until they were pulsating. “Yeah, I recall,” I said. “You think I’m a damn dumb civvy.”

Rey had the grace to look discomfited. I turned on my heel. I was still boiling and only half-heard the last thing he said as I flung myself towards the exit.

“There’s someone out there with a gun, Sabbie. Someone out there with a knife. Please take care.”

ten

Mirela was waiting on
the steps of the station, the umbrella already up. I let the door swing shut behind me. What had Rey meant? A gun and a knife? None of the reports on Abbott’s murder had mentioned a knife. I thought about the death of the girl in the Dunball Wharf. Was he talking about that? Did he think that killer was still out there? I shook the thoughts out of my head and s
lid my arm through Mirela’s lean one.

“We can do without them. We’ll go about our own enquires. It’s what the wolf said to me.
The apparent world is where you must search
.”

“Where?”

“The sort of places Kizzy could make money fast in Bridgwater. Dark places.”

Mirela’s sallow skin flushed to rose red. “You think she walk streets.”

“No, but
…
” I took a breath. “We should at least eliminate the possibility. You know,” I added, realizing that she might not, “massage parlours.”

“Massage?” Mirela’s forehead wrinkled, but she wasn’t that innocent. “Where men pay for sex?”

I could see she hated the idea. Maybe there was a better move than this, but at the moment, my mind was a blank. The police were indifferent and Fergus had said he could only check legitimate hostels. That left me and Mirela to do the dirty work.

“We’ll kick ourselves if we don’t try.”

“Kick?”

“What I’ve been thinking is that Kizzy might be trying to get some money together quickly, enough to get you both back home.”

We reached Mini Ha Ha. Earlier, I’d pulled off her
For Sale
signs, convincing myself it was important to let her have the occasional run. We strapped ourselves in and drove out of the centre of town.

Bridgwater has a few sleazy areas, but none of them are downright scary. Even so, I didn’t fancy catching a bus to where we were headed. We parked up in a long street at the marshy end of town and sheltered in a shop doorway while I grappled with the umbrella again. The shop was closed and emptied, but it had once sold carpets; several books of samples were strewn on the dust-ridden floor the other side of the window.

“I don’t want to force you into this,” I said. “It’s just a hunch. Or elimination, if that makes sense.”

Mirela was squaring her shoulders to the task. “The dark place.” She’d really taken the shamanic journey seriously.

“Once we’ve covered everything the wolf suggested, I can return to the otherworld and search there again.”

“We do it.”

The heavy rain clouds seemed to reinforce the street’s decline. The street lamps reflected their dull glow into orange puddles too numerous to avoid. Apart from a betting office and a shabby-fronted pub called the Dogs Bollox, the massage parlour was the only going concern. I’d driven past it a couple of times when I was out, not giving it a thought. I certainly had never thought I’d walk through the door.

The words
Belinda’s Bunnies
had been sign-painted on the window, surrounded by stencils of perfume bottles and oil amphora, and the declaration that,
Massage is good for the soul. You can choose the masseuse of your dreams for a gentle, discreet, and very relaxing experience. Half an Hour £20.

“
Twenty pounds?” I said, louder than I meant. “That’s less than I charge.”

Mirela gave me a look. “It is to get them in door.”

“Oh. Like a down payment.” I could see that Mirela might teach me a lot.

We were both shivering. The wind was whipping through the denim of my jeans, but it wasn’t just that. The idea of going over the threshold gave me black dots in front of my eyes.

Mirela shoved open the door and we went into the foyer. It looked grimy, but the low light coming from bulbs covered by pink shades hid most of the dust. The smell of artificial flowers hit me, instantly setting up one of those drilling headaches. In the dim light I could see Mirela was glancing about with sharp eyes, as if Kizzy might open the one door that led to the hinterland of the shop and walk up to us at any second.

Someone who could paint a fair representation of a fluffy bunny had covered the far wall with artwork. The rabbits wore bow ties and top hats and were peeking over their shoulders so that you could see their big white tails.

A book case stood on one wall, littered with photos of the girls on offer propped up in the sort of frames I use for my therapy certificates. Toy rabbits featured in these pictures; they were often the only thing that was keeping the masseuses from catching a dreadful cold.

I couldn’t help staring. The girls in the photos were tanned, toned, and as slender as bamboo sticks, but their breasts were like blown-up beach balls. Debs had thought she’d done okay with her enhancement—it had sure cost her enough—but honestly, she’d been robbed of silicon.

“Yes?”

Tucked into a corner of the foyer, a woman sat behind a Perspex security window. There were two holes in it; one to talk through, and, at counter level, a little arched mouse hole right in front of her. The woman was unlikely to be used for a future photoshoot; she was well over forty and had decided that Pan Stik was the answer to her wrinkle problems. Possibly to the extent of never washing off the previous layer. Her hair fell in stiff waves to her shoulders. It was that kind of blond that shines green in the wrong light
…
and this was the wrong light, especially when she bobbed her head forward to get a better look at us through the Perspex.

“You come asking for jobs?”

I hesitated. How were we going to play this? Tell the truth from the start or string a line? We hadn’t even discussed it.

The woman got fed up of waiting for us to make up our minds. “Only I’ll tell you now, your boobs ain’t right. They’ll need improvement. And you”—she pointed at me—“will ’ave to shed at least ten pounds.”

“We don’t want job,” Mirela snapped.

“Are you Belinda?” I asked, hoping I sounded polite.

“As much as anybody.”

“Right. Well, look, we’re only here in case you can help us.”

“I can’t help you unless you get enhancement and lose ten pounds.”

“Thanks for the advice. But we’re …” I didn’t think this woman, whatever her name turned out to be, would be any more interested in missing persons than the police. “We’re looking for this girl’s sister. She went off and we wondered, has she come for a job here?”

“She the same boob measurement as her?”

“Er …”

“Is that all you care ’bout? Fucking tit size?” I’d never heard Mirela swear before and it foolishly shocked me. I put a hand on her arm, but she shook it off as if dislodging a fly. She strode over the carpet tiles, almost tripping on the one that had come loose. She put both palms on the counter. “You know girl like me? Tall more? Bit old? Call Kizzy?”

“No. I don’t know Kizzy. Wouldn’t employ her if I did. I don’t like aggression, see. Wouldn’t employ her, not if she’s like you. Now get out my shop.”

A silence fell, into which came the click of the street door. A man in a puffy anorak and the sort of slip-on shoes that show too much sock walked in.

“Evening, Roy,” said “Belinda.”

Roy’s eyes rested on us. They were the watery blue shade that developed as you lost your twenty/twenty vision. His hair was a grizzled pewter colour made up of black with too many white strands. He was breathing fast, as if he’d run down the street rather than be spotted coming into Belinda’s Bunnies. “They new?”

“No,” said Belinda. “Loretta’s free, if you’d like her.”

“I’ll have this one.” Roy put out a hand and touched Mirela’s chin with his index finger.

“She don’t work here, Roy. You want to pay me, or what?”

“Oh, yeah.” He brushed close past Mirela and stuffed a handful of notes through the mouse hole. He hadn’t noticed the way Mirela had frozen at his touch; as though his finger on her chin and the brush of his anorak on her arm had turned her into rock salt.

I took her hand and yanked her towards the door, which was still swinging on its hinges. I pulled it sharply closed behind us.

The story of this street was the same with each shop we passed as we fled. Adverts on the backs of postcards, mainly phone numbers and a woman’s name, littered the vacant windows. I ground to a halt. The rain was coming down hard now. I handed Mirela the umbrella.

“Put it up, okay?”

I went over to a window and began scanning the cards. I wondered what Kizzy might have written, if she’d put a card in this window. Or if she’d found someone who might write a card for her, and for other girls. I looked up, water falling in my eyes, and stared at the windows over the shop fronts. The upper stories were being used. People lived or worked in the rooms. But Bridgwater was not going to give up its secrets easily, not to two girls who looked shit scared because, frankly, they were.

I wheeled round from the shop window when I heard Mirela’s cry. Roy had come up the street after us. He was already standing so close to Mirela I could see no air between them. He had her chin again, this time between his thumb and forefinger. Inside Belinda’s Bunnies he’d seemed weedy and insignificant, but he was head and shoulders taller than Mirela as she shrank away from him, and he was using his wiry strength to back her into the next shop doorway.

“Nice,” he said. “Nice.”

At first I didn’t understand what he’d said. His breathing was still short, as if he had a lung disease. I could believe his breath smelt stale in Mirela’s nostrils. And his speech was slurred. Perhaps he liked to take a few drinks at the Dogs Bollox before a trip to Belinda’s.

“Nice,” he said again, and I heard him plain. The word chilled my body.

“Stop it,” I said. I don’t think either of them heard me. “STOP IT!”

Roy turned slightly, allowing me to see that he’d pushed up Mirela’s raincoat. His hand was halfway down the front of her jeans. “Look,” he said his tone reasonable. “Piss off, will you?”

I couldn’t think what to do. A zillion ideas were fuddling my brain, but they were all stupid—dial 999 on my phone, go back to Belinda for help, attack Roy with my bare hands. While I was thinking about them, Mirela took advantage of Roy’s sudden lack of concentration. A scream came out of her. “One! two!” She grasped my umbrella with both her fists and brought it down over his head.

It actually missed his head and rammed into his shoulder. The action, rather than any pain or hurt, stunned him.

“Go for it,” I cried, like the street cat I was at heart.

I thought Mirela would run. I was ready to take off down the street. But she didn’t budge. She altered her grip on the umbrella and rammed the point into his chest. He keeled over, not quite going down. While he was trying to regain his balance, she struck again. This time a sound came out of him, like he was exhaling the last breath he had, and he stumbled past me.

Mirela followed, the umbrella gripped by its stem like a javelin. I snatched at her, recalling how proud she’d been of her boyfriend’s bare-knuckle prowess. Looked like Romani girls were pretty good at fighting too. Roy was already staggering towards the safety of Belinda’s.

“You were amazing,” I said. “I thought you were going to do that guy in!” I put my arm around her. Her figure slumped as the anger oozed out, leaving only sorrow. “Come on, Mirela. Let me take you home.”

My legs felt shaky as I controlled the clutch and gas pedal. “I didn’t think doing that would be dangerous,” I said. “I was wrong. It was scary. And we didn’t find anything out anyway.”

I shuddered with the damp chill of the night and turned up the heating.

Mirela muttered something. “Kizzy had to go.”

“What?”

“When she woke me, night of carnival. She said …”

“What?” I urged.

“She said it would mean great riches.”

I was silent. I couldn’t process this, and I didn’t think Mirela could help me. Had Kizzy meant what she’d said? Did she actually believe it? Or was it one of those made-up romances, like being the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter?

“She’d been excited,” I said, remembering what Mirela had told me about fireworks in her eyes.

“Okay, yes. But was frightened too.”

I felt my throat constrict. “Did she tell you that?”

“She not need to.” Mirela began to sob. “These places for massage are ver’ bad.”

Sometimes, you had to string what Mirela said in her limited English into a more coherent translation. “Are you saying Kizzy might be doing something like this? Or not?”

“Gypsy girl should keep pure for her marriage day.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Olden time … tradition. Gypsy girl to stay pure, or no husband.”

I tried not to look surprised. Each time I was with Mirela, I learnt something new about the Romani. Even so, I fancied Kizzy was not so pure. Maybe away from parents and culture, she had thrown off the Romani traditions.

I pulled up outside Mirela’s house. “Do you ever ring your Mama and Tatta? Or your boyfriend?”

“I too ashamed.” She looked at me with dark, wet eyes. “I already in place of blame, am I not?”

_____

“Don’t you want this job?” snapped Stanislaus.

It was quarter past eleven the following morning. I had been wandering the back streets near Papa Bulgaria, searching for the staff entrance, for the last half-hour and had finally presented myself for my first day as a takeaway deliverer, something I hadn’t imaged actually doing, even when I was signing their rubbish contract. But clients were not gracing me with their presence—or their cash—and Christmas was nagging on the horizon, filled with present buying and the need to get back to Bristol. Even if they took a chunk out of my wages for the hire-purchase of the scooter, at least I’d have something cheap to get around on.

“Did you bring a street map?”

I pulled an A–Z of Bridgwater out of my bag and waved it at Stan. The phone started up and he dashed to take the order, yelling behind him, “Go and get your helmet. Double quick.”

“Helmet?” I mouthed at him. I tried to remember that bit of my so-called orientation. The layout of Papa Bulgaria was simple; the original shop consisted of the room upstairs where I’d had my interview, with front-of-house directly below. The kitchen was a large extension. I was in the lobby behind it that and led out into the yard where the scooters stood under cover. The changing room and loo was off the lobby. I pushed the door. Inside was the boy Mr. Papazov had bullied. He was in the act of sticking his legs into his white chef’s trousers.