Burning Crowe

  Contents

  Title

  1

  Document A

  2

  3

  4

  Document B

  5

  6

  Document C

  7

  8

  9

  10

  Document D

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  Document E

  16

  17

  18

  19

  Document F

  20

  21

  Document G

  22

  23

  Document H

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  Document I

  29

  30

  31

  Document J

  32

  33

  34

  35

  Document K

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  Document L

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  Document M

  48

  Docunent N

  Document O

  49

  50

  51

  52

  Document P

  53

  54

  Document Q

  55

  56

  Document R

  57

  BURNING CROWE

  a hardboiled crime novel for adults and young adults

  Geoff Smith

  Front cover image is The Turner Centre in Margate, photo by Geoff Smith.

  Cover design by Geoff Smith (geoffsmithbooks.com)

  Copyright © 2019 by Geoff Smith.

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Design by Geoff Smith (geoffsmithbooks.com)

  Proofing and general cleverness: Chris O'Shea and Bill Booker

  ISBN: TBA

  Smith, Geoff. Burning Crowe (A Bartholomew Crowe novel) . Geoff Smith Books. Kindle Edition.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are presented as fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.

  Thanks.

  Geoff Smith

  Visit my website at www.geoffsmithbooks.com

  This novel is dedicated to all the people who inspired me to write it and helped it become what it is. So thanks to my incredible author/readers Kenneth George, Tom Steer and Finn Bell. Guys, I did my best to take your ideas on board, and thanks for being my friends.

  Thanks to Elizabeth Hall, whose feedback came first - the only person who has suffered or will ever have to suffer reading the very first draft.

  Thanks to my dad, and to my Father-in-law, Chris, whose detailed error spotting and broader feedback was so insightful, and to Kurt Ellison for the once over.

  Thanks to Kurt and Justin at the Point Blank podcast whose insight into the hardboiled genre is second to none. And thanks to everyone in the Point Blank Goodreads group too.

  And finally, thanks to Scottish genius writer, James Kelman, for bringing me back to reading in my twenties. Thanks to Raymond Chandler and Cormac MacCarthy and Patricia Highsmith for blowing my mind with great writing.

  Thanks to RFExtreme, whose album '84 Minutes' provided the soundtrack to the first draft, and to Paul Teague whose podcast 'Self Publishing Journeys' and 'Paul's Podcast Diary' kept, and still keeps, the dream alive.

  1

  Traffic pumped through the one way system like cells through the heart of a bodybuilder. Muscular developments squeezed the pavements. Half-timbered houses re-sculpted into outlets for major high-street chains. Coffee everywhere. Costa. Starbucks. A Pret. A latte in front of him now.

  He pulled the beanie from his head, roughed up his thick black hair. He sat with his coffee and his muffin and he watched as yummy mummies guided babies in buggies to fashionable shops and elderly couples drifted past like harmonised notes.

  Five weeks since Dad's funeral, and three since Mum had left.

  A woman stood with her back to the window. Red hair draped down her back in crafted waves. She carried shopping bags, a bunch of them, waxed paper and roped handles, cursive script. A mild day, but still November, and she wasn't wearing a coat. Her phone to her ear, she tilted her head to keep the hair out of the way.

  Brushing chocolate from his chinos, he tried not to look nervous as he pushed outside to meet her.

  'Bartholomew Crowe,' he said and he held out his hand

  She stopped him with her palm, turned away and slid her thumb across the screen of her phone. And she wore an expression of disgust or irritation, or some toxic mixture of both as she made the call.

  'Listen, babe -' The accent was full estuary, London and Essex all at once. '- No. No. No. I don't care what the bitch says. You get her out, next plane okay. Home. Yes, babe. You got it? Sure?' She waited. '- Great. Bye then.'

  And she looked at him and smiled like she'd woken in a meadow of daisies and rainbows.

  'What was your name again?'

  'Bartholomew Crowe.'

  Once more he offered his hand, but she kept hers to herself, giving him shopping bags instead.

  'Take these.'

  She turned on her heels. He stumbled as he tried to keep up. The shopping bags bumped on his knees. She was in good shape. Old enough to be his mother, sure, but still.

  He straightened his back to make himself taller without looking too skinny. He was six foot two. Sometimes they called him rake or lanky. It was all right. Others had it worse.

  At the multi-storey she ignored the stairs and went for the button that called the lift.

  'Lori Cole?' he asked.

  She said nothing, texting, thumbs like lightning. The lift pinged. They stepped inside. A fat, middle-aged man on crutches followed them in.

  'Nice day for it,' the fat man said.

  And she made a face - half a smile, half a wince - a face that said, Please don't speak again, babe.

  'Follow.'

  In the car park, four by fours and SUVs squeezed into spaces two sizes too small. And Bart's Mini parked opposite, a red Cooper S, Union Jack roof. It had been Dad's weekend car before he wrote off the Merc and himself in the bargain. The car had come in the will. He loved it. It was big and brash and bright and it made him want to cry.

  He wondered how she knew it would be there? It turned out she didn't. She didn't stop at the Mini, and then he saw why.

  Pearlescent white, her Audi R8. Five-spoke wheels and tinted windows. Sleek and cool and almost practical, a car you'd see reviewed on TV or centre-spread in the magazines they had on airlines.

  The doors opened and her smile said, Get in. This won't take long.

  Cream leather, black plastic, brushed aluminum. All mod cons. She looked good in it too, long red fingernails reaching into the glove box, red-checked blouse unbuttoned just enough to notice, and eyes intense and small and blue.

  'So I just want you to find someone,' she said.

  With six shopping bags stacked on his lap, he wished he'd asked her to open the boot.

  'Bartholomew Crowe,' he said, 'of Crowe and Son Investigations. I'm the, erm, son. Pleased to meet you. We're quite new. But Dad's had a
lot of experience, important people and the law and stuff - he did personal PR. So Dad's out of town right now, but we, erm, we do consult. I mean like we check in. Every day. You know?'

  A half-truth at best. He offered her references that weren't even half true. But she didn't seem interested.

  He guessed she was thirty-seven or thirty-eight - young to have a near grown up son - but have one she did. Her boy, Zack, was a kid with a ton of potential and a wild side that made sure it stayed that way. She showed him a photo. She placed her hand on his knee. He jumped at her touch. But she didn't take the hand away. Instead, she leaned in closer. She gazed into his eyes as if she were expecting some immediate revelation or Holmes style deduction. And the weight of her expectation made him feel strange. Her eyes all glitter and blue.

  The picture she showed was of a young man, a boy technically, seventeen - eighteen, Bart's age. He was on a skiing trip. Good looking, white-blonde hair - unnaturally white - and big, healthy looking teeth. He had a slanted smile and an arm around a pretty blonde with an even bigger smile, even better teeth and a prominent nose that reminded Bart of his own. He went to take the photo but Lori held on, tightening her hold on the photograph, squeezing tighter on his knee.

  'The boy is my son, Zack Richards.' And she twitched and broke eye contact. '- My stepson, Zack. He disappeared from school, four days ago.'

  'And the girl?'

  She pulled her hand back to her chest. Her fingernails danced.

  'Oh, she's a girlfriend. Lilly or Lyla, Lilith. I don't know. He has so many, I lose track. I can't tell you anything about her. I think she is from the school.'

  'And the police?'

  'No police. That's important by the way. I've told the school he's gone to the States to be with his dad. Made out Zack hadn't given them the note. Look,' she said. 'We have reasons for keeping the police out of this. It's important babe. No police. No media. No paps. That gonna be all right?'

  'I'll do my best.'

  'Sorry, but you'll have to do better than that,' she said. She pulled two red plastic envelopes from her clutch bag. Five thousand in cash. Fifty pound notes. More to be made available if needed. More cash than he had ever held. He hadn't asked for payment up front. He slipped the envelopes into the pocket of his coat as casually as he could, shopping bags snagging on the cuff. 'You see, my husband's famous. A star. Like a proper one. A-lister? And well, Zack - he aint a saint at all. And I don't want - well - we don't want any -'

  And she turned away, staring at nothing through the window.

  Bart said, 'I understand. So what have I got to go on Mrs. Cole? You know, if I'm -'

  'It's just Lori. Okay babe? No 'Mrs', definitely no 'Ms', just Lori. The boy's called Zack, as I said. And my husband is Mickey Richards.'

  And she smiled brightly at that. She was dentally perfect.

  When Bart said nothing, she sighed and shook her head.

  'Mickey Richards -' she continued, her tone rising at the end of each phrase. 'The singer? The Bullfighters – you know, the band? – music? The Frozen North? Are you laughing at me?'

  She play tapped his knee. She was flirting.

  'No. No, Mrs. Richards,' he said, adjusting himself in the seat. He really hadn't been laughing. 'I mean I do know Mickey Richards. Of course I do. I mean I know of him. I like him. His stuff I mean. His music. But I need to know about Zack?'

  'Okay - good. So Zack - well he's supposed to be at school in Ramsgate, down on the East Kent coast, yeah? The school's called St Stephen's. It aint all that, but it's better than state. Anyway, Thursday, two in the afternoon, I get a call from the office asking why Zack's not in school? And that's when I say about his dad and the States.'

  'You and Zack, are you close?'

  'Close enough.'

  She sat back in her seat and she pulled a silver cigarette case from a clasp bag. She lowered the electric window and breathed blue-grey smoke into the cool air of the car park.

  'Look. Stepmothers and stepsons,' she said. 'Things can be - well - difficult.'

  And the words stung. He remembered Mum, or Julia, or whatever she wanted him to call her now. At least Lori wanted Zack back again. At least she actually wanted to help her son, biological or not.

  'Look, babycakes,' she said, tapping the ash from her cigarette. 'This fame – privacy thing. It's a balancing act. One that we - that I do very well. I spend a lot of time and a lot of energy making sure my life is just the way I want it, babe.'

  She blew more smoke through the open window.

  'Have you been in contact with his friends at the school?'

  She sighed.

  'I kind of thought that's what you would do,' she said. 'It's what I thought when I saw your ad in the email. That maybe his friends might talk to you. You know, with you being, well, being so young. But I don't want any screw ups.'

  'Screw ups by me?'

  'Well that'll be a start babe. But I mean no screw ups. By you. By Zack. Anyone.'

  'You're not that keen on the school?'

  She ignored him.

  'Mrs. Richards, why is Zack at a school you don't think is any good? I mean I'm sure you can afford better – the best I would think. So it must be Zack - he's been in trouble before, hasn't he?'

  'Very smart!' she said. She looked pleased, either with him or with herself for choosing him. 'Yes, yes he has been in trouble. He's always in bloody trouble.'

  And her hand returned to his knee.

  'What kind of trouble?'

  'Bart,' she said. 'St. Stephen's is Zack's third school in three years. The first was Honours, in Year 9 he brewed beer on site and sold it. He got caught. We made a donation. All smiles. So he does it again and they expel him. Then, school number two. And we thought we'd try him somewhere more remote. We sent him to bloody Wales of all places! Redhill. Caught smoking there. They were good about it though. They let him come back to take his exams. But they didn't want him to come back for sixth form. So when St. Stephen's took him in Year 12, nobody else would, except state of course.'

  'You said 'smoking'. You really get expelled for that – one offence?'

  'Depends on what it is you smoke.''

  'You -'

  'Don't make me spell it out.'

  'Dealing?'

  'They couldn't prove anything.'

  'Or didn't want to.'

  She leaned across him and she slipped a hand around his neck and she whispered, 'Listen. I just want you to get down there and find him for me, babe. Wherever he's hiding, whatever he's mixed up in, you find him and get him back, in school, by the end of the month. You think you can do that for me? You've already taken my money.'

  Bart tried to think straight. Five thousand was a lot of cash. And the job didn't seem too tough. He felt nervous, sure, but anyone would.

  He swallowed hard. Until now, the whole private investigator thing had been a fantasy, an obscure revenge against his absent mother. Now it was real. Turn a good job down and he would look like a fraud. Feel like one too. And Lori's eyes were candy and blue and her voice just tingled with sugar. Her hand slid an inch up his inner thigh. He squirmed in his seat and the shopping bags rustled.

  'Okay,' he said. 'No problem. I'll find him.'

  Document A

  A journal entry by Bartholomew Crowe, 15th October, 2019, 19:34 p.m.

  The Baikal automatic pistol is the most common handgun in the UK. You can buy one for about £1000. So you see I've been looking at stupid stuff online. Police and intel and spies, close protection courses. I don't normally write journals and I'm only writing this one because I've locked myself up in my room, where I'm going quietly mad because I can't quite believe what I just did.

  I told my mum to fuck off.

  I don't normally even swear that much, but that's not the whole of it.

  I told my mum to fuck off and she fucking well did, and she isn't going to fucking come back.

  So that's the thing.

  Fuck.

  So this is a journal entry a
bout Mum.

  Looking back to the funeral, like three days ago, she hardly spoke to me, you know, even after I did my speech. And to be fair there was no shortage of other people to talk to. She could have sold tickets. And you can understand someone not being themselves at their husband's funeral. I mean if you are ever going to not be yourself. I mean, I'm pretty sure I wasn't myself either.

  But looking back, I think I knew something was wrong even then. Anyway, that funniness continued on into Sunday, then Monday and today.

  She'd got some removal boxes out of the garage. She'd taken them to her room and she'd shut herself away. And I'd see her around the house every now and again. But she'd be gone back to her room in seconds. And I tried a bunch of times to catch her, but mostly I was too late and she'd escape. And when I did see her she'd say she was 'sorting a few things out' - like that meant anything at all.

  So I knew something was wrong.

  But even then I never actually went into her room.

  Thinking about it now, I wonder why I didn't do that.

  I think part of it was that I've always been so grateful to her. You know, In the past. I felt like Julia (Mum) saved me and Dad from some horrible end. I was like ten back when we met. Me and Dad had been on our own for two years. My other mum, my 'natural' mum, had run away with my football coach, Kyle. And people thought I was okay but I wasn't. I was going psycho. Child-minders (I hate calling them nannies) were dropping me off here and picking me up there, waiting in the car while I played hockey with Facebook on their phones (I'd given up football). They were nice girls, most of them. But Dad paid their wages, didn't he, so of course they were nice to me. It was just economics.

  That's how I saw it at the time, anyway. And whatever way you look at it, it is partly true, isn't it?

  And Dad was away the whole time, in London, or other glam places round the world, sorting out media stuff for rich people. And when he went to London it might as well have been a foreign country, because he always stayed over, or he got back late.