Unraveled Visions (A Shaman Mystery) (31 page)

“A scrubber’s someone who gives her favours easy. Like, not even a prostitute. A scrubber will do it with anyone for nothing.”

“Not even a …” It was a dreadful thought. “What about being pure? Staying pure for the big gypsy wedding?”

“Don’t believe it.”

He turned his hands into loose fists and thrust the pulp of his thumbs into the corners of his eyes. I couldn’t help thinking that their redness might be due to infection; he’d passed his foot infection to his eyes.

“Jimmy,” I began. My voice failed me and I stared again. “What did you do to Kizzy?”

“What d’you think? She asked for it. She was panting for it.” I watched his eyes open wide as he remembered.

“Asking? To be killed?”

“I didn’t kill her,” he said. “I wouldn’t kill her, would I?”

“No,” I whispered. I remembered Mirela’s frothing red bra that peeked from beneath her overall. Both the Brouviches could wind a boy up, but Kizzy was older, more sexually streetwise.

“You had sex with her, didn’t you?”

“I never thought it would end up like this. Not like they’re saying. She was … it was …”

They had found something on Kizzy’s body that had traces of DNA. Forensic evidence. I had wondered if Jimmy’s sperm had matched what they found inside Kizzy. But if there was still sperm inside Kizzy, it must have got there not long before she died. If Jimmy’d had sex with Kizzy before she disappeared, all trace of that would surely have vanished, and even if it had been a recent event, wouldn’t the dousing in water wash the traces away?

Something solid, traceable. Undeniable.

I imagined Jimmy as he was questioned, his fists bunched on the interview table, his pale brow furrowed, as Rey thrust questions at him. I took a breath in. I’d stopped breathing for long seconds.

“She was having your baby, wasn’t she? Jimmy? Was she?”

There she was. In a temple of ice, cold as a morgue. Her belly swollen as she lay on the slab, the snake preventing me from seeing her face.

That was the way with the otherworld: things got twisted round, tangled up. Mist and mirrors. I had met Kizzy. She had taken my hand, held my gaze with her black eyes. Already pregnant. Hours later, I was in the ice temple, the words she called across the emptying High Street still hanging in my mind.
Death! Danger! Do not go with him, if he comes for you, the man with the snake.

“That’s why they wanted DNA samples. To find out who the father was.”

Jimmy’s thumbs were still squashing his closed eyes but doing a poor job of stopping tears from oozing out. He sobbed wildly.

“Getting her pregnant’s no proof you killed her. If it happened before she went missing. Did it, Jimmy? Is that all they are saying?”

Jimmy didn’t reply. Words weren’t coming from him.

“It’s all right, Jimmy. They worked it out. There’s no shame in being the father of a dead girl’s baby. They’ll take you off their list, now. I’ll make sure it’s all right.”

“You?” Jimmy raised his head, as if suction had forced it up. “How can you make it all right?”

“Well, of course, I can’t, but …”

“She was having my baby.” His shoulders juddered. His whole body pulsated with sobs. “My baby’s dead. My baby’s dead!”

“Jimmy?”

He didn’t speak again. He hardly knew I was there.

I crept from the room to find Mrs. Browne and ask for a blanket.

thirty

I didn’t bother texting
Rey back. I had nothing to give him about Jimmy—nothing he did not already know. I had a suspicion that a baby in the womb had to grow to a certain size before the father’s DNA could be detected. Kizzy might have been pregnant by Jimmy weeks before she’d disappeared.

But the time I’d spent with Jimmy had shifted something inside me. I was fed up of working in an environment that made its staff weary and troubled and sucked dry. At twenty-five to ten and almost dreaming of my bed, I parked the scooter around the back of Papa Bulgaria. It was crunch time—I was going to walk away from the job. But first I had to wrench my pay from Stan’s sticky fingers.

In the kitchen, they were sluicing down for the following day. Vittoria and Max were at work with buckets of soapy water, their cloths steaming. Stan worked in their wake taking the soap off the ceramics and buffing it dry.

“Don’t come in here in your outdoor clothes!” Stan yelled at me. The other two turned to stare, as if they’d never commit such a crime. “Get changed!”

I stepped back to his precious threshold. “Jimmy’s out,” I called. “Give him a bell, he can come back to work. He’s feeling a bit rough—okay, he looks totally wrecked—but after a few slaps from your dad he’ll be as right as rain.”

Stan’s heavy eyebrows reminded me of his father, who no doubt one day he would fully resemble. “How do you know?”

“I saw him earlier, at his mum’s. He’s been released, free to go. And, hallelujah, so can I. I want my wages. All of them.”

“What?”

“Despite the wonderful pay and conditions, I’m leaving your employment.”

“Not yet,” shrieked Stan. “You have to stay until this crisis is over.”

“Jimmy can be back by tomorrow. And I quit. As of now.” I grinned at his shocked face. “I want cash or a cheque and a full payslip, showing all deductions.”

“That’s a tall order for ten at night.”

“It could be midnight for all I care. I’m not leaving without it.”

“Are you going to walk out of here and leave us in the lurch?” said Vittoria, as if she suddenly cared. “We’ve lost three staff, two permanently.”

“Three permanently,” Stan flung at her. “I don’t want Jimmy back.”

I gawped at him. “The police screwed Jimmy to the floor. He just needs some encouragement to recover.”

“I don’t want wrecked cooks. They might poison the food.”

I laughed. “Hah! Wise words, Stan.”

Stan strode across the kitchen. I thought he looked comic, with his J-cloth in his hand, but his brows were thunderous. “How come you knew he was out before we did? Have you been talking to the cops?”

“Why would I do that?”

“I heard rumours.”

“What does it matter who I talk to?”

His voice was very low, lips hardly moving. “The police arrived minutes after we heard Jimmy’d been arrested. All Sunday, they were up in the office. My poor father had to go down to the police station. Make a statement. You were unable to help us out that day, weren’t you? So you missed it all. Running this shop is fucking hard enough without all that crap.”

“The police were bound to investigate the suspect’s working environment, weren’t they?”

“See?” His cocktail stick flew from his mouth like a poisoned dart. “You even talk like a fucking cop.”

“Well, if you want rid of me, fine. I want rid of you. Pay me and I’ll go.”

“Not until you finish the jobs for this shift. You can clean the shop. Counter then floor. I will sort your pay. Okay?”

“
Thank you so much, Sabbie, for helping out at short notice
,” I said, hoping Stan would not detect the quake at the edge of my voice, the weakness in it. I shouldn’t let him see that I was scared, but my heart was banging against my ribs like it was desperate to be let out of a cupboard. I turned my back on him and stormed over his clean floor into the shop area, the kitchen door swinging behind me.

I pulled down the shop blinds and locked and bolted the door. I picked up the gaily sequinned cushions, plumping them and arranging them along the bench. I flicked a rusty-looking J-Cloth over the counter. I took three minutes to mop the floor with the dirty water from last night then put the mop and bucket back under the stairs.

My gaze followed the stairs to the office above. I’d only been up there once, when I’d had my interview with the elder Mr. Papazov. But I’d always longed to take a second look. Rey hadn’t bothered telling me the cops had searched the office. I was a cop’s girl, not a member of the team. I didn’t think empirically. I was all wolves and snakes.

Every tread of the stairs groaned as I sneaked up. I took my time moving across the office floorboards, which were painted black like the stairs. I was above the shop, the original lock-up building, so Stan wouldn’t hear from the kitchen, which extended out into the yard. Besides, he was not going to come searching for me. He’d be expecting me to finish cleaning then nag and plead once more for my pay. It crossed my mind that if the cheque book was hanging about, I could take it down and slap it in front of him. I’d take a pen, as well.

I went over to the window to let down the blinds. My hand froze on the cord as I heard voices in the yard below. It was Vittoria and Max, both finishing early. They got into the same Smart Car, which I’d learned had been a present from Vittoria’s daddy. The headlights illuminated the gaping back entrance as they swung into the road. Only Stan was downstairs now, and I hoped he imagined I’d scarpered through the punter’s entrance, leaving work without my pay. I’d inform him of my continued presence when I was finished.

I closed the blinds. Unlike a proper prowler, I’d neglected to bring a torch but I felt fairly safe as I flicked on the desk light. Dust swirled in the beam. Stan hadn’t told me to clean up here. He hadn’t told me
not to, either, but everyone knew the office was out-of-bounds to staff.

I cast my eyes over Mr. Papazov’s desk. There was nothing of interest covering the swirls and knots of its surface apart from a thin smear of dust. I tried the drawers on either side of the desk several times before giving up. I was sure that whatever I’d hoped to find, it would be in those locked drawers. Somewhere, there had to be a key. I searched the ashtrays (which was daft, they were overflowing with ash), lifted the decanter that stood on the windowsill, and inverted the sad-looking vase that was next to it. A button jangled out.

I moved to the filing cabinet and gently tugged at the top drawer. This was not locked, but it wasn’t what you’d call tidy, either. I’d presumed there would be a file on each employee, but everything was in disorder; reckless piles of receipts, letters, and invoices. Perhaps the police had tossed them back in like that, but it was more likely that no one did filing for Mr. Papazov, and he wasn’t up to doing it himself.

I couldn’t help smile. This must have been a headache for cops sniffing out any sort of lead. The thing that would have made their eyes glint—Papazov’s laptop—was noticeable by its absence, but the old cassette player was still standing on top the filing cabinet. I checked under it and a woodlice scampered over the metal surface.

I moved to the second file drawer. Sweat was growing on my forehead and neck as I worked. Each pile of documents I examined had to be brought out and positioned directly under the desk light, a skeletal structure in bright red, although the paint had begun peeling long ago, revealing the dull grey metal beneath.

Most of the paperwork was mundane—bills from suppliers, especially those with OVERDUE stamped on them. But in amongst these was a manila envelope full of passports. I pulled them out, wondering if Mirela’s or Kizzy’s was still here. Mirela would need hers to get home, after all.

I flicked through each passport. Standard EU issue, but undecipherable, nevertheless. The names were too Bulgarian to read. I peered hard at each photo, but neither Kizzy nor Mirela were among them.

It seemed futile to sift through yet more final demands for payment in the third drawer, and my time was probably running out. But after finding the passports I decided to give it another five minutes. I lifted the entire pile out and took it the desk.

Behind me, I heard a clunk. Something had fallen onto the metal base of the drawer.

I peered in. A mobile phone lay there. Smeared over its back was a massive blob of Blu-Tack. It had been stuck to the drawer top. Shifting the papers had dislodged it.

I was winged back to my last shamanic journey; the suitcase under the ice, the layers of clothes hiding the iPhone Gary Abbott had dropped before he lost his life.

I peeled off the Blu-Tack and examined the phone more closely. Apart from knowing it was a very similar model, I could not be sure that this iPhone was the same one I’d picked up on High Street. But it had been deliberately hidden—okay, in a ludicrously amateur fashion, but I guessed that a routine search after arrest wouldn’t include running your fingers around the tops of filing cabinets.

I turned it over. It did look like the phone I’d found the night of the carnival. Seeing it here made me sure that Kizzy had nicked it out of my pocket. Maybe she nicked things out of pockets all the time. She must have taken it to the room she shared with Mirela. Perhaps she thought Mirela could do with a phone. For some reason, it had ended up here. In fact, it might have been Mirela who’d stuck it out of sight, which would explain the crummy hiding place.

I held my breath as I forced the phone into life; it possibly hadn’t been used for the entire six weeks since I last held it. I peered at the screen. There was a good signal, but almost no battery life. A messaged popped up asking me to enter my pin.

I longed to discover what was hidden inside this mobile, but as I didn’t know who it belonged to, how was I ever going to crack the pin? Naturally, the most obvious solution—take it directly to Rey—didn’t even occur to me. How would Gary Abbott choose a pin?

I keyed in 4279. The screen swirled.
Have a nice day
appeared in a magical way. I grinned. Gary had used the numbers that represented his own name.

I went into the call log. The first named number to spring up was
R.B
.

Rey Buckley, as I live and breathe. I pressed to dial and didn’t have to wait long.

“Who is this?” Rey’s voice was sharp with nervous edges. “Identify yourself please—”

“Rey, it’s Sabbie.”

Thin bleeping sounds came between us, warning that the battery was at its lowest ebb.

“Sabbie? The fuck? What is this? Fuck Sabbie, this is fucking Gary’s phone—”

“Rey, will you calm down?”

I trailed off. Lights arced across the office walls. I went to the window and used my fingers to prize a peeking space in the slats of the blind. A hefty vehicle was pulling into the yard below me. It was glossed to a high finish and its dark paintwork gleamed under the streetlights. I trained my eyes on the car because, for some reason I could not pin down, I knew I’d seen it before. I could not quite make out the driver, but I could tell it was a man; hefty, like his car.

Stan strode towards it, his hand raised, bringing it to a slow halt at the top of the yard. The driver’s window rolled down and Stan stuck his head in through it.

On the phone, Rey was hissing curses at me. “Rey!” I yelled. “Rey guess wha—”

Two things happened. The phone died and Stan, talking fast to the driver, pointed back to the building and looked up at my window.

I let go of the blind as if it was red-hot. I turned on my heel but could not think of my next move. In fact, any move was impossible. I was rooted to the black floorboards, knees locked, brain in shut-down. I stared like a dummy at Abbott’s phone. Moments later, a voice grated up the stairwell.

“Sabbie
Daar
!”

The treads creaked in fast succession, like gun shots. I finally managed to stuff the iPhone into my pocket and whip out the J-Cloth.

Yellow light burst into the room as Stan opened the door.

“What’re you doing?”

Attack is the best form of defence. I strode towards him, shaking my J-Cloth, which mercifully, was full of dust.

“Cleaning. Like you told me.” I could feel a scream building, pushing up from my chest into my throat. I forced it down. “Cleaning your fucking shop, like you said, after hours of mindless fucking work. And I don’t even know what I’ll get; you said triple-time, but I’ve only got your word for that and frankly, Stan, I don’t think much of your word.”

Stan’s gaze settled on the pile of documents I’d left on the desk. “You look for your cash?”

“No,” I said, before realizing what a good excuse that was. “Well, yeah, but I wouldn’t have just taken it.”

He put his hand into his back pocket. When he drew it out, it was fisting a wad of twenties. At no point did he take his eyes off me. When I opened my mouth to ask for a payslip, nothing came out. The big dark car was still purring in the yard—the headlights seared round the edges of the blind. I wanted out of Papa Bulgaria forever. I watched Stan count twenties and realized I was about to be royally shafted. I reached out to take what he offered. My fingers shook. As I touched the money, he yanked his hand away.

And then my mobile rang. It was the thing that I should have predicted and planned for. Of course Rey would get straight back; I hadn’t even told him where I’d found Abbott’s phone. I had to poker up my face and cancel the call. I took just one second too long. Stan stuffed the money back into his pocket. He hurtled towards me. His body slammed into mine, and we powered across the room. The breath was crushed from my lungs as he pinned me against the filing cabinet. My spine shrieked in pain as I hit the drawer handles.

I tried to inhale, but all I could do was cough and gasp. Stan’s arm was crooked around my neck, his other hand searching pockets. He found my phone, buzzing and chirping away. He stuffed it in his jeans pocket. The ringing tone went on, muffled by denim. Stan went back to his search until he’d extracted the iPhone. His grin widened. I realized that he hadn’t been staring at the documents on the desk. He’d spotted the innocuous blob of Blu-Tack.