Chapter Text
“I don’t know what you’re asking me for. I wasn’t even there.”
Detective Carlson sighed deeply. It had been a long day already and he was only one coffee down. Carlson measured his days in coffees – sometimes he was lucky, and there were only four of them before his shift ended. Today, he was looking at ten.
The girl sitting in front of him tilted her chin up defiantly, meeting his gaze directly. Carlson tried to remind himself that not being afraid did not make her guilty. All the same, he didn’t like it when people weren’t nervous at all in an interview. It made him wonder what they knew that he didn’t. Everybody was nervous when the police came along.
“We’re just trying to establish the facts,” he said, as kindly as he could. “It shouldn’t take long.”
After all, this was a young girl. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen – only two years older than his niece and Bethy still seemed like a baby to him. Admittedly, Bethy did not have the same set to her jaw as this little madam but nevertheless.
Not nevertheless anything specific. Just…nevertheless.
“What facts? If you want to know something, get on and ask a question, and I’ll decide whether I answer it or not.”
She spoke with a Scottish burr in her voice barely softened by her time abroad. Carlson hoped it was that putting the note of aggression in her words. Were the Scottish supposed to be angry? Or was that the Irish? Was it both? He was fairly certain it wasn’t the Welsh but, then, he wasn’t sure anything at all about the Welsh.
“You are Merida Eleanora Dunbroch?”
“You already know that. You don’t just pull random strangers in here.”
“For the record.”
Carlson patiently tapped the recorder set on the table. His colleague, Anderson, gave him a slight raised-eyebrows look that spoke of their mutual exasperation with kids these days.
“You said this was an informal interview.”
“And, informally, we would like the things you say to be on record. It saves time later.”
Merida huffed but nodded, dropping lower into her seat and crossing her arms over her chest. She had bigger biceps than Carlson did – bigger than Anderson, and he never shut up about how many reps he had done at the gym. What was the name of that queen who stabbed all the Romans? Oh, yes, Boudicca. She was a young Boudicca in sweatpants and stained t-shirt.
“Fine. I am Merida Eleanora Dunbroch.”
“Thank you.” Carlson smiled as warmly as he could but the girl did not look convinced. “Now, where were you yesterday evening?”
“At home. In bed.”
“Home would be the house on Glebe Street?”
Merida nodded. “That’s the one – with the big stain up the wall outside where last year’s occupants threw a bin at it and all these juices leaked out and stuff.”
There were Americanisms in her phrasing, somewhere amongst the mingled British and Scots. That helped – Carlson had a vague idea that the Scottish were supposed to be cross and impenetrable when they weren’t grudgingly mimicking the English.
Carlson really needed that cup of coffee.
“Right. The house you share with…three other girls? All international students?”
“Of course not.” Merida gave him a withering look. “Only Mu is international. Mat’s more American than you are – and Moana is Samoan so that’s in your empire.”
The American empire. Oh, how Carlson hated talking to students. They had this annoying habit of picking a fight that nobody needed to have today. Carlson didn’t want to have to explain to a bad-tempered girl why having overseas territories wasn’t the same as an empire, and he certainly didn’t want her to explain to him why it was.
The only thing worse than having to lecture children was having them string you up by your own ethics.
“Mu would be Mulan Fa, yes? From China?”
Merida nodded absently. “Oh, right, recording. Yeah, that’s her.”
“Was she home yesterday evening as well?”
“Don’t think so. She rarely is. Probably out with Li. Or some of the girls.”
“Who is Li?”
“Shang Li?” Merida looked at him as though he were stupid. “Her not-a-boyfriend boyfriend? Big fella with the jawline?”
“What do you mean, not-a-boyfriend boyfriend?” Anderson interrupted.
Carlson shot him a glare. Police investigation was not supposed to be about cheap gossip.
“Well, she says they’re not dating,” Merida explained. “But they act like they’re dating. Never seen them kiss, though, so might be telling the truth.”
“It’s not important. Do you know where either of your other roommates were?”
“Not roommates,” Merida said shortly. “Don’t share a room. The only person I ever share a room with is Meggie.”
Don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t ask, Carlson begged.
“Who’s Meggie?” Anderson demanded.
Carlson sighed inwardly. Teenagers couldn’t say anything without infusing it with gossip. He really didn’t have to want to wade through it all to pick up the pieces.
“Friend,” Merida explained succinctly. “Look, I don’t know what the other two were up to. We’re not telepathically linked. I could hazard a guess but I don’t think that’s good police work.”
“Don’t tell me what good police work is,” Carlson snapped. “Look, Merida, all we want to do is find out what happened yesterday evening. We think your friend Mulan Fa was involved – and possibly Ma – Ma…”
Carlson glanced down at his notes, cursing himself.
“Matoaka,” Merida supplied helpfully. “It’s American.”
“Right. Her. If two of your roommates were involved, that looks suspicious for you. It would be in your best interests just to tell us, clearly and concisely, what happened yesterday evening.”
Merida puffed up her cheeks like a small balloon. “We-ell…I made myself some tea. Watched nearly a whole season of Arrow. Then went to bed.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Carlson groaned somewhere deep inside but he didn’t let it show. He tried to regroup, force on that warm friendly smile again and let it wither once more in front of the subject’s cool stare.
“When you got up this morning, did you see any of your roommates?”
“Moana was in the kitchen when I went downstairs.”
“What was she doing?”
Merida looked at him as though he was stupid. “Whitewashing the walls. What do you think?”
“Let’s have less of the backtalk, shall we?” Carlson gritted his teeth. “Did you talk about anything?”
“Only the usual. You know – it’s not raining, wind’s blowing nicely, a good sound southerly…”
“You talk this much about the weather?” Anderson frowned. “Kids really into meteorology these days or something?”
“She’s a sailor,” Merida explained. “Goes out with the college club. Kind of obsessed with wind and clouds and all those shenanigans.”
“Did you discuss the events of yesterday evening with her?”
“Course not.”
Carlson rubbed roughly at his eyes. He was sure the lighting in these interview rooms was bad for them. “Did you see either of the other two?”
Merida shook her head, bouncing curls tumbling into her face till she was almost completely hidden. “Naw, Mat’s usually up long before me anyway, and it’s not unusual not to see Mu for days.”
“So what did you do?”
“Ate cereal. Got dressed. Went in for my classes. Then you two showed up and stopped me going to anatomy, which maybe I should thank you for. Can’t stand anatomy.”
Why wouldn’t she just talk in proper sentences? It was giving Carlson a headache.
“Alright. Thank you.”
“Are you acquainted with somebody named Al?”
Carlson looked up at his colleague in surprise. Was this the time to be asking nonsense questions? He just wanted the scowling girl gone from his interview room. Anderson leaned forward, his eyes on Merida’s face.
“Do you know anyone called Al?”
“I guess there’s Al Whatshisname?” Merida screwed up her face in thought. “Works at the café, you know? Shaggy hair, cute eyes? Why?”
“A witness told us they heard somebody shouting about an Al. We haven’t yet figured out who or why.”
“Can’t see why anyone would shout about Al. Not worth that much shouting, in my opinion.”
“Can you tell us where he works?” Carlson asked slowly.
“Jenny’s. Starfish. Blue Cat. All over, really.”
“Blue Cat?”
“Gay bar across town,” Anderson explained. “He’s got three jobs?”
“Maybe more. Maybe less by now.”
“Is he a student?”
Merida laughed sharply. “Him? Not a chance. Waiter, usually.”
Carlson made a note. “Do you know his full name?”
“Not a clue. I barely know him. He’s just some guy at Jenny’s, you know? Wouldn’t look at him twice if he wasn’t Jasmine’s man.”
God, could kids not see a lead when it shot them in the face? The girl was still staring back at him with that mulish hostility and all she would have to do would be to volunteer a drop of information about whoever this man was. Carlson could already picture him: a lowlife skipping from job to job, unemployed often, older but dating college girls for kicks, exactly the kind of person to be broiled up in this sort of thing.
“Jasmine who?” he demanded.
“Jasmine Agrabah.”
Anderson choked. “The Jasmine Agrabah?”
Carlson looked blankly at his colleague. “Who’s Jasmine Agrabah?”
“She’s…” Anderson gestured vaguely. “She’s the Agrabah daughter! You know? She was in that movie, what was it, the one where she was a schoolkid and there was, like, this virus…”
“Watch Me Slumber,” Merida said helpfully, because obviously now she didn’t need to be asked direct questions. “And she played the baby sister in Sorority Smash.”
“The one with the sorority girls and the serial killers?” Anderson was aglow. “That was her? I never even realised!”
“Who is this we’re talking about?” Carlson asked testily.
“Jasmine Agrabah,” Anderson repeated, as though that would help. “You must know her. She played the choir girl in Goldvale? You know, the teen drama? She got shot by gang members after she got caught up in an arms dealing operation? I always thought they wrote her out too suddenly. Her character arc wasn’t finished.”
“Oh, a child star.” Carlson felt the horror settle deep into his stomach. “What’s she doing dating a waiter from The Starfish?”
*
It was nearly lunchtime and Jasmine Agrabah was in Anderson’s interview room. It was too good to be true. Sure, Carlson was in the middle of one of his famous sulks but he had been in a foul mood ever since he got the call at five in the morning that there had been a fire downtown and everything with it. Anderson was too buoyed up to worry about him.
Okay, so Jasmine Agrabah wasn’t exactly what he had pictured. He remembered her from Sorority Smash now that that British girl had mentioned it: a sweet little thing, all big eyes, running away from the serial killer. She’d been the hostage and her big sister, played by the delectable Irma Gerard, had had to do a striptease to distract the serial killer and get her back, only to be garrotted by her own stockings as little Jasmine fled to freedom. It had been a slasher movie at its best.
Then she’d been in Watch Me Slumber, breaking everyone’s hearts with her death scene. She had only been thirteen then but she had outshone everyone on screen, even her fictional mother. He’d lusted after her in Goldvale, where the innocence of her character had been off-set by those short skirts they’d put her in, and the turn to the dark she’d undergone after her date to the homecoming dance was framed for murder. He remembered the shots of her in magazines, glittering between her famous parents, all long limbs, wide eyes, flowing hair, daring little outfits in turquoise or brilliant pink, a touch of midriff, a flash of thigh…
The girl in the interview room was not that girl. Alright, her shorts and tank top were well-cut on an exceptional figure but she wore a green flannel shirt slung over the top. In Anderson’s opinion, which was not as humble as some people had tried to convince him, no man’s dream wore a flannel shirt.
But all the same, this was Jasmine Agrabah, in his interview room, frowning at him. He was beside himself.
“Miss Agrabah, this does not need to be a formal interview,” Carlson was saying, with that pitiful attempt at being ingratiating that always grated on Anderson. “We only have a few questions to ask you.”
“Fire away.” Jasmine sat forward in her seat, fists on the desk between them, eyes steady and clear. Of course she wouldn’t be nervous – no hot lights or staring eyes could distract a girl raised in the glow of Hollywood.
“Where were you yesterday evening?”
“Sparky’s,” Jasmine answered, with a slight arch to her eyebrow. “With some friends of mine.”
“Was your boyfriend there?”
“Aren’t you supposed to ask whether or not I have a boyfriend first?”
“We already have a source telling us you are dating a man named Al.”
Jasmine snorted, an unladylike sound. “You have a source? God, I didn’t know it was a crime for me to be seeing somebody.”
Anderson could see that Carlson was about to lose his patience so he stepped in quickly. His bad-tempered partner could not be allowed to lose him this chance to be close to stardom.
“Jasmine, we just need to get a picture of the situation. You understand, don’t you? We’re asking everyone where they were. Who was with you at Sparky’s?”
He could picture her there now, shimmering in a low-cut high-hemmed dress, the Jasmine Agrabah of the magazine pages, worlds away from this irritable student sitting in front of him. Maybe it was better that it was like this, though – he was seeing the real her, the real Jasmine Agrabah, that most people never got to see. He was behind the mask.
“Uh…there was me and Elsie, Ari, Ari’s sister… It’s because of her we went at all; she wanted to check out the best clubs. We met some other people there but that was the crew.”
“Could we have their full names, please?” Carlson said coldly.
“Sure. Elsa Arendelle, Ariel Merfolk, Arista Merfolk.”
“Just the four of you?”
“Just the four of us went together, yes. There were other people in the club, obviously.”
“When was this?”
“Well, we started pre’s at around eight – that was at our place. We must have got to Sparky’s about ten? I know I was at home by half-three. I checked the time.”
“That’s a heavy night of drinking,” Carlson commented.
“Not more than most students,” Anderson pointed out. “Were your friends with you the whole time?”
“Mostly. We lost Ari for a bit – her sister was feeling sick so they want to the bathroom together and it took us ages to find them again in the crowd because Elsie wanted to dance so we lost our table to some out-of-towners.”
“Did you go home together?”
“We got an Uber, yeah.”
“You get Ubers?” Anderson let visions of a limousine die.
Jasmine looked at him as though he’d lost his mind. “Well, obviously? What else?”
“I thought you might have your own car,” he explained.
“I don’t drive when I’m drunk. Duh.”
“I meant with a chauffeur.” Anderson scrabbled to regain authority. “You are Jasmine Agrabah, aren’t you? Sultan and Tana’s daughter?”
Jasmine heaved a weary sigh. “Oh, right. That. Yes, I am, but I don’t exactly go around college in my dad’s car.”
“No, you’re more down to earth than that,” Anderson agreed, before reddening slightly under the scornful force of her gaze.
“Sure. Whatever.” Jasmine tapped her fingers lightly on the desk. “Is that all?”
“Not quite.” Carlson broke in again, apparently sensing Anderson’s moment of weakness. “Tell us about Al.”
Jasmine shrugged. “He’s a guy I’m seeing. What’s he got to do with anything?”
“There was an…incident last night, which we would like to question him about.”
“So why are you asking me?”
“Do you know where to find him?”
Jasmine looked astonished for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Oh my god! You seriously dragged me in here to get Al’s address off me? You could have freaking texted and I’d have given you that! Is this how you conduct all your investigations!”
“We also wanted to find out where you were,” Carlson snapped before Anderson could jump in. “If you are his girlfriend, you are also implicated!”
Jasmine stopped laughing immediately. “Oh, right. That’s how it is. You’ve already made up your minds he’s guilty? Before you even know his name? What are you, racist?”
“That’s not it at all!” Anderson broke in hastily. “It was just…more efficient to talk to you at the same time!”
“Oh, really?” Jasmine rolled her eyes. “Whatever. His name is Al Adinn. He’ll be at work now – Jenny’s. And he’s got an evening shift at the Blue Cat so you won’t catch him at home much today.”
“Your boyfriend works at the Blue Cat?” Anderson pressed. “Your boyfriend?”
“He’s not strictly my boyfriend, and yeah. Something wrong with that?”
“It’s a gay bar.”
“And he’s bisexual. And not screwing the clientele besides. You got a problem with that?”
“No, no. Just…asking.” Anderson rubbed his nose in agonised embarrassment. “Why are you dating him, anyway? A waiter? With multiple jobs?”
Jasmine’s face set in stiff lines. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
“It isn’t,” Carlson interrupted. “Yet. When we know more…well, maybe it will be. That will be all, Miss Agrabah. You may go.”
“Wait!” Anderson called out. “Jasmine, uh, would you mind, signing an autograph? Not for me – for my niece. I, um…”
“Sorry,” Jasmine said, icily dignified. “I don’t sign anything at a police station without my lawyer present. And it’s Miss Agrabah to you.”
She swept out of the door and Anderson was left with nothing but humiliation and the condescension of a fearfully sarcastic Carlson.
*
Avery had drawn the short straw. Avery always drew the short straw. In fact, he never got to draw a straw at all – he was just handed whichever was left, and it was invariably short.
When he had been assigned the first real position of his career, he had been excited – overjoyed even. Alright, so not everybody was that keen on cops and it came with a whole heap of baggage but he was making his way in the world. He was going to be an officer like they ought to be, a real old-school protector of the peace. Then he found out he was working under Carlson and Anderson.
It was hard to decide which was worse. Certainly Carlson seemed worse at first, with his foul moods and thrown insults, but that was nothing on the good humour Anderson could show at a really horrible case. Avery hadn’t been able to forget the jokes he cracked when they were investigating that rape case six months ago. Under the two of them, his career stagnated. They were never going to put in a good word for him; they had too many good words for themselves. There weren’t any going spare.
So of course the two of them were in an interview room, safe and comfortable with a cup of coffee, whilst Avery was trawling round the slum streets of the student district searching for the relevant houses. He had a list – all the people he was supposed to talk to, and their roommates too. It was going to be a long day.
His first port of call was a big house on a street corner, the kind of place that might be a large home walled up into several smaller apartments, or several smaller dwellings knocked through to make one ramshackle sprawl. A part jutted out, only one storey, with a mildewed couch rotting on the roof; another part was three storeys high with arched windows. It looked, in a strange way, exactly like the place Avery had lived when he was at college.
Some decision that had been. Now he was thousands of dollars in debt and still junior to Carlson and Anderson, neither of whom had any qualifications beyond their ability to shout at people.
Avery rang the doorbell. It made a distant sound like a small animal being trodden on and there was a heavy thunder of feet. Nobody actually opened the door. Avery tried to peer through the bubbled glass but it was so stained and grimy that he couldn’t make out a thing. All at once, the door was flung open and a young man in a dressing gown beamed like the sun before slowly letting his face fall.
“Oh. Not pizza?”
“Not pizza,” Avery apologised. “Police.”
“Sucks.” The man scrubbed a hand roughly through his hair and blinked bleary eyes at him. “Been a crime?”
“Usually. Can I come in?”
“Oh, uh…I guess? Don’t know. Sure. Why not?”
Avery entered. The young man led him down through a dingy passageway and Avery tried not to feel uncomfortable. The guy filled the space, not bulky precisely but absolutely muscular, and it was becoming increasingly apparent that underneath the threadbare dressing-gown lapping at his thighs he was completely naked. That, coupled with the general air of decay that hung throughout the house, made Avery wish himself a long way away.
There was a kitchen at the end of the passage, which was in no way an improvement. Garbage littered the floor. A trashcan overflowed. The sink and every surface was stacked high with unwashed plates and empty bottles. A slew of miscellaneous cooking utensils, most of them with meals still crusting on their blades or bowls, scattered the rickety wooden table. A vague sort of odour hung over it, a cocktail of rotten food, stale alcohol, and dirty laundry so foul that it assaulted the nose in one flamethrower rush then faded out to something almost imperceptible as the olfactory senses shut themselves down, becoming a sensation felt rather than smelled.
At the kitchen table was something that was, presumably, a man. It appeared mostly to be a heap of dirty laundry but it was roughly human-shaped and groaning softly so Avery was prepared to give it the benefit of the doubt. Sitting beside the heap, occasionally thumping it manfully on the back as though that would in any way help the situation, was a good-looking man in college t-shirt.
“It wasn’t pizza,” Dressing-Gown said mournfully. “It was police. That’s the worst possible trade.”
“Plague,” the heap croaked.
“On your teeth?”
“That’s plaque, dumbass.”
“Pardon the intrusion. I am Sergeant Avery. I would like to ask you a few questions.”
“I don’t know what use this’ll be,” Blonde gave the heap a kick. “Drinks like a girl.”
“His girlfriend drinks better than him,” Dressing-Gown commented. “Should I fetch the others, officer?”
“Not yet – we might not all fit in the kitchen.”
“We don’t,” Dressing-Gown agreed contentedly. “Would you like a seat?”
Avery looked at the table and its contents, the chairs with their uneven legs, general debris and slight stickiness. “I’ll stand. Thank you.”
Dressing-Gown shrugged, an impressive motion that sent ripples moving through the rest of his muscles and also, distressingly, dislodged the strategic hang of his limited covering. Avery averted his eyes but Dressing-Gown apparently had no qualms about his state of undress. Possibly, he had not even noticed it.
“I’m Henry,” he said cheerfully, finding a space to perch on the side by shoving a stack of saucepans back till they toppled with a crash on top of the crockery in the sink. “Henry Charming. That’s Kris, and Rian’s the one who’s sad.”
“He’s hungover,” Kris said disgustedly. “Like a child.”
“Piss off,” Rian mumbled into the table.
“Uh…what’s your surname, Kris?”
“Bjorgman. Kristoff Bjorgman.”
Avery glanced enquiringly at the heap of rags that was known as Rian. Kris apparently sensed the dilemma.
“He’s Florian Ferdinand.”
“He’s not always like this,” Henry added. “Vodka doesn’t agree with him.”
Rian moaned in apparent agreement.
“Where were the three of you last night?” Avery asked.
Henry shrugged again, yet another fatal manoeuvre as far as the dressing-gown was concerned. “We went drinking. Kris and Flynn took Rian off and got him like this, and Phil and I went to Chess.”
“The club down by the waterfront?”
“That’s the one. Never figured out why it was called Chess. It’s not as though you play chess there, you know?”
Avery let that one go. “What time were you there?”
Henry puffed out his cheeks. “Dunno. Maybe…ten o’clock? Midnight?”
“That’s a pretty big window.”
“Man, I went out without my phone. Didn’t have a clue what time it was.”
Something inside Avery gave a little ping of excitement. Who went out without their phone? It was already sounding suspicious. If he could just…
“Did I hear the pizza bell?”
A new character sauntered into the scene, in electric blue boxer shorts and nothing else. He looked at Avery as though he were some stray cat Henry had brought in off the street.
“What’s this?”
“A policeman,” Henry said comfortably. “He wants to interview us. I thought it would be like the movies but he hasn’t shouted once yet.”
“Hi. Flynn Rider. Not guilty.”
Avery smiled politely. “I’m not arresting anyone. I just need to get a few facts. I hear you were out drinking last night?”
“Oh, yeah, we hit up a couple of bars. Rian got completely shit-faced.”
Rian let out another of his anguished groans. Flynn ruffled his hair sympathetically.
“Can you tell me which bars you were at?” Avery asked.
Flynn looked hunted. “I could definitely tell you the first three… After that it all gets a bit blurry, if you know what I mean.”
“Give it your best shot.”
Flynn rattled off a list of what seemed to be every bar in town, culminating in a definite guarantee that they ended up in the basement dive known as Cobweb because that was where he had started to sober up around six o’clock in the morning. Avery, who had been dragged from bed half an hour before that, shuddered at the thought.
“I see. Can anybody half-way sober vouch for your movements throughout all of that?”
Flynn shrugged. “Doubt it. Sorry, man. It was that kind of a night.”
Avery glanced back at Henry. “And you say you separated from these three at some point in the night? Maybe ten o’clock, maybe midnight?”
Henry nodded obligingly. “Phil and me wanted to hit the club.”
“You didn’t want to stay with your friends?”
Henry looked blank. “The club.”
“Right.” Avery glanced down at his jotted notes and sighed. “I’ll need to speak to this Phil character."
“Oh, sure.” Henry dropped down from beside the sink and his dressing-gown gave up its final attempts at decency. “He’s upstairs. He got pretty out of it. I’ll go fetch him.”
Henry trotted out of the room before Avery could say another word. Rian, apparently surfacing from the depths of whatever hell he had spent the last few hours in, lifted up his tousled head and fixed the officer with a bloodshot stare.
“Oh. I thought he was shorter.”
Avery, for his part, had thought Rian was uglier. That was harsh – he had scarcely thought about it at all. A hungover lump in a student building was nothing much to think about. But the boy who was squinting at him now through the fogs of a major headache was almost offensively pretty. What he would look like without vomit crusting the corner of his mouth or exhaustion sinking his eyes did not bear imagining.
They were rich boys, and they were pretty boys. It made Avery’s knuckles whiten.
Henry returned, towing behind him a tired-looking young man in jeans and a lopsided shirt, badly buttoned as though it had been thrown on in a hurry. He was handsome, and his jeans fit too well to be as cheap as their general stained appearance would suggest they were treated. It made Avery sick.
“Hi. I’m Phil Ulstead. You wanted to speak to me?”
He ran a hand through his hair and fixed Avery with an open, bashful grin that made the officer inexplicably furious.
“I hear you went out last night. Care to tell me where you went?”
“Uh…” Phil glanced at Henry. “Well, we hit a couple of bars early on. Then Henry and I went to Chess.”
“What time was that at?”
“Man, I’m not sure.” Phil smiled again. “Let me see…might have been eleven or so? I wasn’t paying so much attention, you know? Could have been later, could have been earlier. I’d say eleven’s about the median.”
Was it planned? Or were they all stupid? Which of Avery’s prejudices was getting in the way here?
“Who else lives in this house?”
The boys looked at one another.
“Well, there’s Zan,” Phil said dubiously. “I’m not sure you could say he lives here, exactly. But he definitely pays rent.”
“Who’s Zan?”
“Oh, he’s just this guy who lives with us. He’s cool, we like him, but he’s not a people person and he’s really into his girlfriend, you know? Don’t see much of him. And there’s Erik.”
“Oh, yeah!” Henry’s face lit up. “Dude, go and find Erik!”
“He’s out,” Kris said.
Henry sighed heavily, shoulders drooping. “He’s never around for anything fun.”
“Being interviewed by the police isn’t fun, bro.” Flynn clapped him on the shoulder. “Real bad things happen when you get interviewed by the cops. No offence meant.”
“None taken,” Avery murmured. “So this Erik…where is he?”
“Down by the pool, I expect.” Phil rolled his eyes. “He’s started swimming of a morning. Goes with his girlfriend and they get coffee afterwards. If you want to catch him, you’d better meet him there – he’ll be out on the water later.”
“He sails?”
“Big into sails,” Henry said fervently. “Water, waves, all that stuff.”
“And this would be Erik…?”
“Bowsprit,” Phil supplied.
Avery made a note of it. “And nobody else lives in this house?”
There was a general shaking of heads. A shudder ran through Rian so violent that everybody backed off, even Kris bothering to lean a little further away. But the boy controlled the urge to vomit and managed a grimace in Avery’s direction.
“What’s all this about, anyway?”
All eyes were on Avery, except Phil’s which were fixed on Henry in exasperated affection.
“You didn’t even ask why he wanted to know all this stuff?”
Henry looked blankly at him. “He’s police. They always want to know stuff.”
“It’s about the incident at Carmel Studios last night.”
There was a brief pause, strangely airless, as if the drawing in of five sharp breaths had created a vacuum.
“You spoken to Tray Mall?” Henry asked, in a dismal attempt at nonchalance.
“To what?”
“Trés Mal,” Phil echoed, with rather more acceptable pronunciation. “That’s what everyone calls her.”
“Well, what’s her real name?” Avery demanded. “Who is she?”
“Mal…” Phil glanced enquiringly around the room. “Malinda? Malaika?”
“Malvina?” Henry suggested, and Avery rather felt that everybody else was as inclined to ignore that suggestion as he was himself.
Flynn snapped his fingers suddenly. “Mallory! That’s it! Her name is Mallory.”
“And her surname?”
He was so close to a lead now. So close to uncovering secrets. These privileged boys were pointing him to this Mal character, which meant there was something they knew. It had to mean that. They were involved somehow. Carlson, damn him, had been right.
“We don’t know her surname.” Flynn looked shocked. “Why would we know her surname?”
“How do you know her at all?”
“I don’t. Zell does. My girlfriend,” he added.
“I know her,” Phil interrupted, evidently forestalling what might have been a long explanation into the nature of Flynn’s girlfriend. “Not well, but we’ve met. I couldn’t tell you her surname, though. She’s just…Trés Mal, you know?”
Avery sighed and yielded to defeat. “Right. Thank you. I’ll be back if I have any more questions.”
He did not fail to notice, even as he was led to the door kindly but firmly by Phil, that not one of them thought to ask why they would be being questioned about an incident at Carmel Studios. That, surely, had to tell him something.