Burning Crowe Read online

  'Remember,' she said. 'I can't guarantee the room beyond Friday. I've got families coming in.' Her voice fluctuated between bullish aggression and fawning politeness. 'You here for work or visiting?'

  'Just visiting,' he said. 'A friend of mine. Zack Richards. I doubt you've heard of him.'

  'No. Can't say I have. Still, that's nice, isn't it? Nice to have friends. I've got a boy about your age myself. So hard for you young people nowadays. Don't forget, if you want to have breakfast, you need to fill out the form.'

  The line of her underwear was visible through her green leggings, and he averted his gaze, searching his pockets for his mobile. The stairs creaked as Barbara descended and Bart wondered if there was a man on the scene. The dark stains on the carpet made him think that if there was a man, he probably drank even more than she did.

  There was a child running about in the room upstairs, feet like a bass drum at a speed-metal gig, so Bart went down to try and sort the wi-fi.

  When he reached the desk, Barbara was nowhere to be seen. He rang the bell but there was no response. Shouting. A man's voice. Something about money. Money owed or lost or not lent. The man sounded young and he sounded mean. And there was Barbara's voice too, a hysterical wail. Bart ears strained to separate the words but he wasn't able to make them out. He pushed his face close to the glass that separated Barbara's flat from reception.

  There was a crack.

  A crack like the beginnings of an avalanche.

  Bart backed away from the door as the banging grew louder. The stud wall vibrated. The door opened, swinging so hard that it rebounded from the wall and rattled and wobbled like a diving board. It crashed shut and was kicked open for a second time, a young man thundering out. Tall and gaunt, he had pasty skin and greasy hair dyed black, clumped on top like Johnny Rotten. He wore a biker jacket and grey jeans and he shoved Bart in the chest as he passed.

  At the entrance, the young man turned back and shouted, 'Go fuck yourself! Stupid bitch!'

  Then he was gone.

  Barbara appeared at the door. Green leggings, grey slippers. Her hair was a mess. Her left cheek was redder than her right. There was a cut above one eye and tears were streaming from both.

  'Are you all right, Mrs. -?'

  She was high on nerves. Her face twitched.

  'Feathers,' she said. 'Barbara Feathers! It's in the book!'

  And she broke into a flood of tears. Bart touched her on the shoulder and she threw her arms around his neck and she pulled him close.

  'You're such a good boy!' she wept. 'Such a good, good boy!'

  She held him tight. He was surprised to find that soon he was crying too. Tears were welling on his cheek as Barbara Feathers collapsed into his arms and he guided her back into the flat, to the spongy maroon armchair in front of the TV.

  'Can I tidy up for you, Barbara?' he asked.

  She shook her head.

  'Really,' Bart said. 'Look. I'm going to tidy up a bit. Really. You're in no state -'

  She turned away and she wiped her tears on her sleeve as Bart went deeper into the flat. It looked worse than it was. The young man's anger had been as much theatre as rage. Most of the ornaments scattered on the carpet, were still in one piece. Crystal and china figures. Cats and ballerinas. Photos too - cracked glass in only a couple of the frames. The young man himself was in most of the pictures. Various stages of boyhood. He had one of those smiles that always looked forced, and his eyes were dark and blank. Papers were strewn about the hall. School reports, utility bills and medical appointments.

  The school reports were about a boy called Raymond Feathers, and they weren't exactly glowing.

  He stacked the papers as neatly as he could on the sideboard. And then Barbara's wet breath was in his ear. He jumped with shock. Her lower lip protruded and her head was bowed. And her eyes were big, soft and comfortable.

  'You are good boy!' she said again.

  She didn't hug him this time although a part of him wished that she would.

  'It's all right, Mrs Feathers,' he said. 'You know, if there's anything else I can do. I mean if you want to call the police - or -'

  Her eyes hardened, and her lips became taught.

  'I think you had better go now,' she said.

  Bart photographed the wi-fi code on his way out.

  4

  At Westwood Cross shopping centre, busy mums, reluctant dads and groups of Eastern European guys in sportswear drifted from one shop to the next. Young men and young women peacocking about, searching for better versions of themselves on the racks and rails of the airy stores.

  Bart bought a couple of things, absent mindedly, not thinking much about the cost. In truth he rarely did. He'd always had a generous clothing allowance, more for special occasions. And anyway, since Dad died, money felt like a limitless resource. He was rich, at least he felt he was. And with the five thousand in cash he had from Lori on top of that, the managing of money seemed a rather hazy and distant idea, like the blue outline of some far-away hill.

  He tried on a shirt in H&M. It was a slim fit, narrow collar and a black arrow print. He wasn't sure - too 'prisony'. Placing the shirt back on the rack, he saw a short woman in black leggings stuffing a cream coloured something into an over the shoulder bag. He did his best to look as though he hadn't noticed, slid his phone from his pocket and set it to video. Then he returned to browsing the clothing on nearby racks, looking at the floor as much as he could. She did it again. A black cardie this time. And he had it on video. Evidence. He felt sick. It felt sleazy, and yet the woman was a criminal. And theft was theft.

  At customer services, he asked for security. A young man approached – twenty one or twenty two – and very tall – six foot five at least, with an acne pocked complexion. Bart described the woman and the tall detective scanned the store. He was so tall he didn't need CCTV. Bart didn't mention the video. He didn't want to surrender his phone. And the store detective seemed happy to take him at his word. He nodded when he saw her, and he gave Bart an appreciative half-wink.

  Outside, he passed the shop-front once, then again five minutes later. On the third pass he saw the detective accosting the woman as she tried to leave the store. The detective grabbed her arm. The woman span away, shouting and angry. She beckoned to a young girl, who ran to her mother and embraced her, crying loudly. Nine or ten years old, young enough to be afraid, and old enough to be secretly thrilled.

  Bart sat on a bench outside, checking his phone and genning up on local news and the latest in small-town violence. It was near to an hour before the woman and the girl left the shop, escorted by police.

  And as the little girl passed she gave the finger to the world.

  'Fuck!' she shouted.

  The mother was hunched, and ushered her away. She glanced at Bart and stopped, staring for two clear seconds. She knew he was a snitch.

  Document B

  An email from Colin Crowe to Bartholomew Crowe. 10/11/19. 23:18 p.m.

  Dear Bart,

  I hardly know where to start. I don't know where you currently are, or what you're up to, but by Christ, you had better bloody well tell me or there'll be hell to pay for it. That's guaranteed.

  You're probably not much interested, but I've spent the last two hours on the phone, trying to work out why you haven't come home tonight - do I need to point out that it's nearly half past eleven? And thanks for not answering your phone. That was helpful. It didn't help either that I had no-one else to call! I phoned the hospitals of course. At least I could find their bloody phone numbers!

  Eventually your friend Sophie got back to me on Facebook. Thank God she did, or I'd have stayed up all bloody night. I still will of course, but at least I don't have to think you're dead at the same time!

  Sophie tells me you're very much alive, and I hope she's right. She tells me that you have set yourself up as some kind of private investigator! I thought she was winding me up at first, but I've been through your room (sue me) and she's bloody well righ
t. I found that box under your bed. By Christ, you don't do things by halves. All those packages and envelopes. Not video games or UCAS at all, were they? Quite the little sneak aren't you? Well, I suppose at least you've done some research.

  And I see you've called yourself Crowe & Son Investigations.

  Now, I'll tell you this for all the good it'll do. Give this up now, Bart, before there's a mess. You're a smart kid, and being smart's good - but you're not tough. You're not P.I. material. If you were tough you'd be here, with me, toughing it out in the real world, not trying to escape it. And I'm sure you know by now - if you've done your research - that most private investigators are ex-police or ex-military.

  There's a reason for that.

  But the most important thing is we both know you're doing all this for the wrong reasons, don't we? You can't change the past, boy.

  Simple as that.

  And the thing that annoys me the most - and I am very bloody annoyed right now - is the blind cowardice of it all. Too scared to talk to me, were you? Well maybe you were right to be scared. I'd have tried to talk you out of it.

  But that doesn't stop you from being a coward.

  Let me be blunt. Your dad's dead, Bart. It's painful. I understand. My bloody son's dead. And car accidents are tragic, but they happen. And okay, your mum's gone too. And that's a shame, I admit. But really, you need to take a second and calm down, because she isn't dead. And she'll likely be back. She's made her decision, and it's a shitty one, it's true, but I'm afraid that's just life. Accept it. Deal with it. Get on with it.

  One final thing Bart. Whatever happens, whatever you decide to do, you email me back by 9 o'clock tomorrow. Give me your address. Then email me again the day after that, and then again the day after that. And so on and so on.

  If you don't do that, I'll call the police myself, and I'll report you missing, and you'll become the subject of an investigation.

  And by the way, I still expect a bloody apology.

  Private Investigator – bloody hell!

  Granddad.

  5

  The approach to St. Stephen's School was lined with sycamores and chestnuts and it was high and square and ivy climbed the walls of its crenellated towers. It looked like a fairy castle. Big too - not intimidating big, but big enough to get your attention and big enough to hold a secret or two. He adjusted the jumper of the uniform he'd got from Lori. It was a little tight across the shoulders.

  He had hoped to get lost, to become anonymous in a crowd of uniformed students, but, with only three hundred and fifty kids and a generous campus, there wasn't much of a crowd to get lost in. The few students there were milled about in small groups and some kids stood alone here and there, staring at miniature screens. He pulled out his own phone and he pretended to look at it, and he followed the path around the outside of the main building, through courtyard areas and across a patchwork of mismatched paving. And he eavesdropped where he could, trying to catch any stray snippets of conversation. But it was tough to get close enough to hear anything. And when he did, all he heard was who wore what to where and when, and who was out of order to who, and who was just so like so totally embarrassed right now. Standard. Just a school.

  And just like school at home nobody was in a hurry to move. They were killing time and taking their time doing it. And there weren't even many of them around. Nowhere near three-fifty.

  Then the bell sounded.

  Long and loud and more of a rattle than a bell.

  And then, from every gate and doorway students began to spill in - the boarders. And they merged with the day kids and they swelled and drifted towards the breeze-blocked building on the far side of the field, boys of fourteen or fifteen running at tangents, stealing rucksacks and kicking and jeering, making themselves conspicuous around the slow moving mass.

  The main buildings and dorms would be more or less empty now. Just a skeleton staff, maybe some non-Christian students who had opted out of assembly. So, as the final flurries of students drifted away, Bart slipped back through the main gate, and across the road to the dorm.

  No-one stopped him and no-one asked questions.

  The dorms were two storeyed, square and featureless, ugly sisters to the school itself, a piped metal fence in front with bicycles chained to it. The front door had a combination lock. Lori had provided the code and it opened on Bart's second attempt. A long, grey corridor, double fire doors at the back and a staircase where two sixth formers stood guard.

  A girl and a boy.

  He bowed his head and drove forward as if leaning into winter rain. But he was moving too fast and he looked suspicious. He had intended to push past the pair at the stairs, but instead he collided with the large chest and belly of the prefect.

  'You can't go up there.'

  He was big in all three dimensions. A floppy haircut and a cable knit sweater. Bart stared blankly at him. The other sixth former was a girl, soft-faced and tawny. And she looked up at the boy, happy to let him take the lead.

  'It's ass-em-bly.' The boy spoke slowly, and enunciated every syllable. 'You need to go to the gym.' And he pointed and he shook his head.

  He seemed to think Bart was foreign.

  Feigning an Eastern European accent, Bart said,'I - uh - need - um - passport -' He pointed towards the main building. 'For - um - head-master -'

  The boy and the girl looked at each other and the girl shrugged.

  'The head-master is in the assembly, with everyone else,' the boy said, 'over there.'

  But Bart was not to be put off.

  'Head-master - he say - passport is required - I am required to fetch.'

  The girl shrugged again. Bart switched his gaze to her and he shrugged also. She certainly wasn't a natural guard, and her instinct was to smile, but she had the self control to stop herself before she got there.

  'What's your name?' said the boy.

  No response. Bart was looking at the girl.

  'Your - name?' the boy repeated.

  'Name is Leo - Leo um - Leo Demidov.'

  He had lifted the name from a book he hadn't enjoyed. It was a stupid risk.

  The girl looked up.

  'Okay,' the boy said. 'You've got ten minutes.' And the prefect tapped his watch twice. 'Ten minutes,' he repeated.

  Upstairs a series of varnished doors stretched down the full length of the dorm. Thirty rooms in all, Zack's at the far end, a yellow plastic trolley outside it. The room opposite was open with cleaners at work. As Bart walked down, he saw most of the other doors were decorated with stickers - boy bands, football clubs and sports stars - but Zack's door was plain, just a chromed number seventeen. A frame for a name tag but nothing inside it. A cylinder lock was built into the handle, and Bart took his pick set from his pocket. He'd been practicing around the house at home, and he thought he had it sussed. He eased the tension wrench into the lock and raked it gently.

  'Having problems, Love?'

  A woman in the door across the corridor, the cleaner. Her arms were crossed and she was frowning. Bart jolted up, hiding the the picks behind his back.

  'I - I can't find my key,' he said. No accent this time. 'My books are stuck inside.' He tapped the door. 'Never mind. I don't suppose you could,' The muscles around her mouth tightened and Bart said, '- No. Of course you couldn't. I suppose I'll have to phone the caretakers.'

  He took out his phone and wandered down the corridor towards the stairs. As the cleaning lady disappeared into the next room, he slipped back to the door and raked the mechanism as quickly and as quietly as he could. The pins moved, which was very, very good. Then, as the movement freed, the vacuum cleaner went quiet in the room across the hall. He twisted the handle and the door opened. He went inside and closed the door behind him and he stood, with his back against the door in Zack Richards' room.

  His heart thumped hard in his chest.

  6

  The room was tidy. The bed was made and the desk was clear. Music posters lined the white walls and personal
photographs covered the wardrobe doors. Group shots of dorm rooms, pubs, clubs and holidays. The blonde from Lori's photo was in a bunch of them. Big smile. Great teeth. And a few other faces appeared more often than most - a slight lad in slim-fit jumpers with heavy eyebrows and an elfin face.

  He pulled a picture down from the door.

  The back was labeled in pencil - 15th May, Kay's Party, Off our faces!!! Bart took down another, and another, then he just took all of them. He checked the notes and stuffed them in his pockets. Not one of the photos was more than a year old.

  The wardrobe itself was full of patterned shirts, jackets, and jeans - all new or nearly new, and all of them expensive. He checked the linings and the inside pockets of the jackets and the fleeces but there was nothing, just a crumpled receipts and a couple of used train tickets, London. Bart took it all, just in case. The bookshelf was stacked with text books - business studies, media studies and music - and CDs by world artists, mostly from South America. A suit-case under the bed contained aftershave and underwear and condoms and cigarette papers – but no tobacco and no lighter and no weed - and no electronics in the room. No mobile. No lap-top, no tablet, and no chargers. And that changed things. It meant there had probably been at least some planning.

  The lock rattled and he jumped.

  It rattled again.

  The handle turned and the door opened. A girl came in. A blonde, uniformed, black blazer and long, checked skirt. She closed the door and walked to the desk. She opened the drawer and put something inside. Then she climbed on the bed and looked out through the window at the traffic on the street. She took her phone from her blazer pocket and turned and sat on the bed, and when she saw Bart, she jumped but she didn't scream.