Authors: Kerry Wilkinson
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Private Investigators, #Crime, #General, #Occult & Supernatural
Something Wicked
TUESDAY
1
Cheese dripped from the radio presenter’s voice as he drawled his way in a put-on American accent over the top of a song Andrew Hunter didn’t recognise.
‘. . . just in case you’re feeling a bit down this morning, we’ll be taking you back to the 1980s with “The Only Way Is Up” by Yazz and the Plastic Population
– right after the news . . .’
As if that was going to make people feel better a little after nine on a Tuesday morning.
The unknown song ebbed into the opening bars of the far more serious news jingle as Andrew zoned out from the radio, focusing on the road in front of him. As usual, Manchester was gridlocked.
Long lines of cars stretched far into the distance in front and behind, rows of blinking brake lights edging forward two or three lengths at a time before the dreaded red traffic light of doom told
them to stop. If that wasn’t enough, the mustard yellow traffic camera on Andrew’s left gazed unmovingly at the road, daring any wayward drivers to sneak through on crimson.
Do you feel lucky, punk?
‘. . . a tanker has spilled its load on the M60, leading to large tailbacks heading into, and out of, the city. Police say the motorway will be closed until at least lunchtime . .
.’
The female newsreader’s voice remained calm as she told thousands of people their mornings were going to be spent staring at the back of other people’s cars.
The cow.
Andrew began drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as the traffic heading across the junction was shown the green light of acceptance. Waiting directly in front of him at the front of this
particular queue, a sleek dark grey Audi growled at the morning, tinted windows blocking any indication of who the driver was.
‘. . . have arrested seven people in connection with last month’s riots in the Moss Side area of the city. Police swooped in the early hours of the morning in a coordinated operation
with the Serious Crime Division. Assistant Chief Constable Graham Pomeroy said . . .’
Blah, blah, blah. They’d be back on the streets by lunchtime.
Ahead, the cross-traffic dribbled to a stop and the engines around Andrew grumbled in anticipation, waiting for the green light to twinkle its emerald glow of approval.
As the burn of red was joined by amber, the grey Audi surged forward, before stopping almost instantly with a squeal of tyres. Directly in front of the vehicle, a thin girl wearing jeans tucked
into bright white trainer-boots, a checked shirt and a pulled-down baseball cap jumped backwards in alarm. The car’s horn beeped furiously with a flailing arm appearing though the
driver’s side window.
‘Look where you’re walking!’
Instead of sheepishly heading for the kerb, the girl stepped towards the car, tugging the brim of her cap down further. She slapped the palm of her hand on the bonnet, before pointing an angry
finger at the driver.
‘You look where
you’re
going. Just because you’ve got a big car, it doesn’t mean you own the . . . world.’
The hesitation before the word ‘world’ let her down a little but there was impressive venom before it. Behind Andrew, cars beeped their annoyance at the lack of movement. The green
traffic light had promised so much but was delivering so little.
The Audi driver’s arm flapped its way back inside the car, his window no doubt humming back into place. His vehicle was less than a year old and stuck out like a dad at a disco in this
area of the city. Andrew could almost hear the driver’s thoughts: was the girl part of some gang who would now swoop down and take their vengeance? You never knew nowadays – the
scrawniest runt of a teenager could have a dozen tooled-up mates hiding in the bushes eagerly waiting for someone to talk out of turn.
The girl continued to stand in front of the Audi, arms wide in the universal pose to ask ‘what are you going to do about it?’ The reason the pose was universal was because no one
ever stretched their arms out so provocatively unless they knew the person they were taunting was going to do precisely nothing about it. You ended up looking quite the tit if you asked ‘what
are you going to do about it?’, before promptly finding out the person was going to cave your face in.
The girl’s cap was covering the top half of her face as a twisting ponytail of black hair wound its way around the curve of her chin.
She wiggled her little finger. ‘You know what they say about men with big cars.’
The traffic lights shimmered from green to amber and a long line of drivers behind Andrew began grumbling. Bastarding, bloody council. Stupid, sodding lights. What’s wrong with a
roundabout? Why are there so many people on the road?
The girl skipped around the Audi towards the driver’s window, crouching slightly but not enough to properly try to look through the dark frosted glass. She tapped on the window before
continuing around the vehicle, slapping the rear wheel rim hard. After a glance at Andrew, she sidestepped through the gap between his car and the Audi and then dashed away from the road towards a
bush on the other side of a set of railings.
The amber traffic light glimmered tantalisingly before blinking back to red.
Thou shalt not pass.
Except that the Audi did pass, roaring forward and turning left all under the watchful eye of the traffic camera.
Andrew edged forward until his car was resting against the white line, waiting for the lights to change.
‘. . . and finally, a postcard sent in the early 1900s has arrived at its destination – over a hundred years late . . .’
Royal Mail up to its usual standards then. Try getting compensation for that one.
The vehicles zipping across the junction slowly trickled to a halt again and Andrew grappled his car into first gear, bopping his free hand on the steering wheel.
Around him biting points were reached, car bonnets rising slightly in expectation.
Suddenly, there was a rush of movement from his left. Andrew spun too slowly as the back door of his car was wrenched open and the shape of a baseball cap-wearing young woman flung herself
inside, out of breath, ponytail wrapped around her neck like a python choking its prey.
The traffic light switched to green.
‘What are you waiting for?’ the girl gasped as she pulled the door shut. ‘Go.’
Andrew took her advice, turning left and reaching the steady heights of twenty miles an hour.
‘Was that really necessary?’ he asked, focusing back on the road.
He felt the young woman’s knees pressing into the rear of his seat as she righted herself. Doof: take that. Wallop: how’s your driving with someone kicking you in the back?
Andrew glanced in his rear-view mirror as she removed her baseball cap and began untying her hair.
‘Jenny – was that really necessary?’
Her button-like deep brown eyes met his in the mirror as her face folded into a grin. A single dimple curved into her cheek as her lips angled into a smile. Andrew thought she’d probably
spent all twenty-three years of her life perfecting that get-out-of-jail-free smirk.
‘What?’
‘All you had to do was plant the tracker somewhere – not hold up a line of traffic or intimidate the guy.’
Jenny shrugged. ‘It had to be authentic, didn’t it? Besides, if he didn’t leave his car locked away behind those big gates at his work, we’d have got to it
before.’
She began wriggling her way out of the checked shirt. Don’t look – she’s young enough to be your daughter, for God’s sake. Well, your daughter if you started having sex
at twelve, which definitely hadn’t happened – but wouldn’t be uncommon nowadays. The twelve-year-olds without kids of their own could be the odd ones out, depending on which
newspapers you read.
‘He had a suit on,’ Jenny said in among a thrash of arms. He could sense her hunting in the backpack of clothes behind his seat. ‘Some pink tie strangling the life out of him.
Looking particularly smart.’
Andrew pulled into a row of traffic queuing at a roundabout.
‘I thought his windows were tinted?’
More scrambling around behind his seat, an elbow in the back for good measure. Jenny’s reply was muffled: ‘I’ve got good eyes. Anyway, he’s definitely up to
something.’
Andrew glanced in the mirror, spying a hint of flesh and dark purple bra strap before tugging his eyes away again, instantly feeling guilty. He really hadn’t engineered this: it was her
idea. The stupid ideas were always hers, except that they never failed – meaning they weren’t stupid at all. Just . . .
chaotic.
Like this.
Another elbow walloped into his chair, sending his head thudding forward.
‘Sorry!’
At the roundabout, everyone was giving way to everyone else in what was either a giant circle of friendship, or a state of inertia that could potentially go on forever.
More drumming on the steering wheel, another thump in the back of his seat. Andrew didn’t dare check the mirror again.
The driver to Andrew’s right broke the impasse, accelerating ahead with a cheery wave to all of the give-wayers, and starting a chain reaction where everything moved except for the line
Andrew was in.
Not that he could focus on the road anyway as Jenny deftly slipped herself through the gap between the two front seats, landing with a plop in the passenger’s side. She had completely
changed her clothes: the chavvy jeans, trainer-boots and shirt lay discarded on the back seat, replaced by a pair of black trousers, flat black shoes and a white blouse, as if she was heading off
to a secretarial job. She ran her fingers through her long untied black hair, yanking out a knot.
‘That was fun,’ she said.
‘What would you have done if he’d got out of the car?’
‘What was he going to do?’
‘That’s what I’m asking you.’
‘Pfft.’
Well, that settled that argument.
‘Where’s the kit?’ Jenny added, moving on without missing a beat.
‘Glove box.’
Jenny popped it open and began hunting around before pulling out a tablet computer.
‘You
actually
keep gloves in there,’ she said disbelievingly, shoving a pair back inside and slamming the compartment closed.
‘It is called a glove box.’
‘That’s just a name though, isn’t it? Do you keep boots in your boot?’
‘No.’
‘Exactly.’
Andrew thought about arguing the point but he wasn’t sure he’d ever won, or would win, an argument with the young woman who was supposed to be his assistant. There was something
matter-of-fact about the way she spoke that ended all disagreements – not that they ever argued about anything serious. She appeared to respect him as a boss and never questioned his
judgement, at the same time doing the things he needed her to. She certainly liked having the last word, though.
Andrew kept his eyes on the road, forcing himself not to grin. ‘What was “You don’t own the
world
” all about?’
‘I couldn’t think of anything better at the time. I was going to say he didn’t own the road – but then I realised I’d look stupid because cars own the road more
than pedestrians do. I should’ve probably thought it through a bit better. Perhaps put a scriptwriter on it, got a bit of Hollywood money into the project.’
Andrew could tell she was grinning, even though he didn’t turn. As he finally got across the roundabout and continued ahead, the corner of his eye caught Jenny’s fingers flashing
over the tablet screen as she mumbled something inaudible under her breath.