Catchee Monkey: A Rex & Eddie Mystery (Rex & Eddie Mysteries Book 1) (6 page)

“What a buzz, aye Eddie?”

“Are you getting electrocuted too?” Eddie asked.

“Yeah, who knew you could improve laser tag? Ups the stakes, makes you feel alive.”

“The game lasts fifteen minutes, so we have maybe twelve minutes at most to check the office before anyone knows we're missing.”

Rex followed Eddie up the flight of stairs. On the landing they came face-to-face with a cleaning lady, a Jamaican woman with a stoic face. Eddie knew he had to come up with a story fast.

“Um, hello.” His mind went blank.
Not the best start,
he thought.

“What you want?” she asked.

“Can we check out the old office?” Rex asked, as if it was a reasonable request for two adults in laser tag gear to make.

“No.”

“OK, thanks,” Rex headed back down the stairs. Eddie pulled him back.

“Can we come to an arrangement?” Eddie asked. “Ten quid?”

“Fifty quid.”

“Twenty?”

“Fifty.”

“Oh, come on, we just want ten minutes. That’s all.”

“Fifty.”

“I can maybe push thirty?”

“No.”

“We’ve got to be back out there soon, I can’t spend all my time negotiating with you.”

“You call this a negotiation?” she said.
 

“She has a point, Eddie.”

The cleaner tapped her watch. “Nine minutes.”

“Fine.” Eddie opened up his wallet and pulled out fifty pounds. He took a moment to mentally calculate what he had left. Their cash flow was down to eight hundred and sixty pounds.
 

Once she found the right key, they had six minutes left. She opened the door and Rex and Eddie barged though. A mess of yellowed papers, all left in piles, laid untouched. They both rummaged through files finding scripts, location reports, and equipment rental receipts. None of it was of any use to them.

“Is this something?” Rex asked.
 

He rushed over to Eddie carrying a memo addressed to the Head of Drama. Eddie read:
Although it is with great hesitation, I must report Derek Lawrence is no longer fit to run this show. He must submit his resignation before he causes permanent damage to the show and jeopardises the jobs of hundreds of people. Signed John Laing, Co-Executive Producer.

“A grudge? It’s a start,” Eddie said. With a minute to spare they ran out of the office to the stairwell. In the hallway, a new cleaner, a polish woman so thin her skin tightly wrapped around her skeleton, stared at the pair.

“Act natural,” Eddie whispered to Rex. “Excuse us.” They squeezed past her trolley.

“What you do here?”

“We’re just leaving.”

“What is paper for?”

“It’s nothing.”

“You not to be here.”

“We’re off now, bye.”

“I tell boss.”

“No, don’t tell boss. We’ve already paid a bribe.”

“Bribe, yes. OK.”

Eddie turned to Rex. “She understands. It’s all good.” They headed down the stairs.

“You pay bribe, then you go.”

“No, we, we already paid the bribe,” Eddie said

“No.”

“To the Jamaican lady,” Rex explained.

“We paid her five minutes ago,” Eddie added.

“Her shift over.”

“Yes, well, if you speak to her, she can split her bribe with you. Twenty-five pounds.”

“Twenty-five. OK.” She held out her hand.

“No, you don’t understand, my friend and I have to go. You have to speak to the other cleaner. That’s it. Come on, Rex.”

They scrambled down a few more steps. The Polish Lady lifted her radio and called into it. “
Yvonne to
Management.”

“Fine, twenty-five.” Eddie rushed over and opened his wallet. “I don’t have any fives, do you have change?”
 

She didn’t do or say anything. It seemed like a tactic, the first one to speak would be the loser.
Why break the habit of a lifetime?
Eddie thought.
 

“Of course, you don’t. Here.” He handed over thirty quids’ worth of hush money. “Let’s get out of here before a third cleaner shows up.”

The pair rushed down the stairs and burst back into the arena. The scoreboards showed the blues were losing big time: 21-9. With five reds against three blues, it was a massacre. The dodgy electrocuting body packs left the skinny blue teen rolling on the ground in tears. The girl ran by as two reds constantly shot her in the back. She couldn’t recharge her gun because she took repeated electric jolts.

Rex turned to Eddie. “It’s payback time.” He dropped and rolled.

“What purpose does that serve?” Eddie said.

“It’s cool.”
 

Rex sprinted into the central area, a circular space that all corridors led to. Rex stood over the third blue team-member, the chubby captain, now hunched up in a ball. He could view every corner of the arena, and revealed himself to every player. Rex yodelled a Tarzan-like call and declared, “Come and get me.” Out of the dark corridors, the red pygmy army charged at him from every direction.

Rex picked up the blue captain’s laser gun and swung around firing down each hall. With two lasers, he zapped each red player in seconds. They continued to run at him as their body packs sent electric current through their tiny rib cages. Rex was so fast he could shoot each one every five seconds, which kept their weapons stunned. They were so busy taking volts to the heart, they didn’t have a chance to run away. With thirty seconds until the battle ended, Rex evened out the scoreboard. The red team fell to their knees and cried as Rex mercilessly fired at them one at a time until the siren sounded. 28-42 to the blues.

Eddie could not think for the sound of crying in the Laser Flux reception. The five small pre-teens, previously in red battle-gear, bawled their little hearts out. The parents tried to console their young, but every time they attempted to hug their little ones, a static shock would zap back. The emotional kids were too upset to explain Rex’s repeat executions and pointed at him instead. The adults gave Rex and Eddie shaming looks. The forehead vein of a skinhead father pulsed with intensity as he eyeballed the pair.

Rex nudged Eddie. “What’s their problem?”

“I think they just wanted a fun little game.”

“Anyone that thinks it’s a game doesn’t respect laser tag.”

As Rex lined up to get his scorecard, Eddie mouthed “sorry” to the parents and kids. Eddie grabbed his scorecard. He’d been hit five times and shot no one. Rex had received three hits and shot people thirty-two times. His scorecard read,
Well Done, Rambo
. Eddie’s said,
Put your affairs in order, you’re a walking target
.

***

Back at the office, Rex and Eddie scoured the Taskforce
message boards for anything related to the memo’s author, John Laing.

“This says he was a TV writer and producer who worked with Derek Lawrence on the show.”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “I managed to work that much out from the memo.”

“The message board is split. Some think Laing was the real brains, others think he ruined the show. The pair always argued and bickered.”

“Where is he now?”

“Well, eventually they both got sacked, and they both blamed each other. That’s motive.”

Eddie bobbed his head, unsatisfied. “We need a bit more than that to go on.”

Rex scrolled though several messages and found a quote by Laing.
 

“Derek Lawrence deserves cancer,” he read aloud. “I hope his cancer gets cancer, and he dies twice as fast. They can call it Derek Lawrence disease, it’s the only thing that talentless hack deserves to be famous for.”

Eddie raised his eyebrows. “OK, that’s a bit like motive.”

“He did it,” Rex said.

“Come on, he was fired from one job decades ago. I’m sure he’s moved on.”

“He wrote letters to the BBC to tell them what he thought of them too. He didn’t work in TV again after that. Maybe he got bitter when he found out Lawrence was still writing.”

“Let’s get our hands on some evidence first, see where it points to.”

“Tonight?”

“No time like the present.”

SEVEN

According to a tatty old telephone directory found in the desk draw, John Laing lived in a small village west of Cloisterham called Buckchurch. His house sat off a village green filled with shops from the butchers to the post office. Since business hours were over, Rex and Eddie had the area to themselves. Eddie parked across from Laing’s house and they sat in the car.

“Do we knock?” Rex said.

“What would we do when he opened the door? Hello John, did you kill Derek?”

“How about, where were you on the night of October twenty-eighth?”

Eddie stared.

“Well, I’m open to suggestions.”

“We need something solid that connects him to the murder.”

“What’s more solid than a confession?”

“We need to be more subtle. Softly, softly, catchee monkey, remember?”

Rex used binoculars his nan gave him to check out the Laing residence, a large home with a long driveway. In the living room window he saw Laing, tall with a grey beard, reading in a chair.

Rex folded his arms. “So now we just wait?”

“I thought you'd always wanted to do a stakeout.”

“So did I, but this is rubbish. I’m hungry.”

“I told you to bring snacks. Did you?”

“No. Did you?”

Eddie pulled his lunchbox closer. “For myself.”

“I’m not sharing my cola then.”

“I don’t drink cola. It’s dehydrating.”

“Don’t get started with that again.”

“It’s true. It’s science.”

“It’s science,” Rex said in a caveman voice. “How can liquid dehydrate you? It’s liquid.”

Rex downed a two-litre bottle of cola in spite of Eddie. Since he couldn’t believe someone didn’t want to drink cola, this was the biggest revenge he could think of.

As he chugged away, Eddie clicked record on his voice-recorder. “Seven thirty-two p.m., subject is home.”

Rex gave a gasp of satisfaction and dropped the empty bottle. “What are you doing?”

“Documenting the evening.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s what detectives do.”

“I don’t know, I’ve watched plenty of movies and I’ve not seen that.”

“Real life is more … methodical. It’s dull, but it pays.”

 
Rex crossed his arms even tighter.

“Seven thirty-three. Suspect moves to the kitchen, probably making dinner.”

Eddie opened his lunchbox.

Rex pouted. “I’m so hungry.”

“You should have thought about that before we left.”

“What do you have?”

“I’ve got a tuna sandwich and a Scotch egg.”

“Oh, I’d love a dirty Scotch egg right now.”

“It’s not dirty.”

“It’s a boiled egg, wrapped in sausage meat, covered in bread crumbs. It’s the dirtiest food ever.”

“Eyes off my egg.”

Rex grabbed the voice-recorder. “Seven thirty-three p.m. Eddie is being tight.”

Eddie snatched it back. “Seven thirty-four p.m. Rex is ill-prepared and needs to take responsibility for himself.”

Rex nabbed the recorder. “Seven thirty-five p.m. Eddie obviously isn’t hungry or he’d have finished eating by now. He’s just being greedy.”

Eddie and Rex wrestled the recorder as they shouted down the microphone.

“Seven thirty-five p.m. Rex needs to stop perving on my egg.”

“Seven thirty-six p.m. I’ve never seen someone eat so slow.”

“That’s because Rex eats like a wolf.”

“It’s instinct. That’s how people are meant to eat. I’ll show you. Give me that sandwich.

“Get your own.”

Rex dropped the recorder and the pair tugged the sandwich to and fro. Eddie lost his grip. The extra force caused Rex to throw the sandwich over his shoulder. It hit the passenger window with a splat and slid down the glass. Rex scooped up the remains with his hands.

“I don’t mind,” Rex said. “This is how people are meant to eat. Clean plates are only a hundred years old.”
 

“Oh really?”

“Before that you’d eat off more natural things like rocks, and leaves, and, uh—”

“Car doors?”
 

To spare any more arguments, and the car’s upholstery, Eddie scoffed his Scotch egg.

Rex tapped his fingers on the empty bottle. “I need the toilet.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have downed that entire cola.”

“Can you drive me to a petrol station?”

“No, one of us has to keep an eye on Laing. This is the countryside. Just go out and pee on a bush.”

Rex surveyed the darkness. “I can’t do it. I need a real toilet.”

“It’s how people are meant to pee,” Eddie told him. “Toilets aren’t even two hundred years old.”

Rex looked out the window and back at Eddie with pursed lips. “I’ll wait.”

***

“This isn’t very fruitful,” Eddie said. “So far we’ve learnt John Laing likes a late dinner, doesn’t brush his teeth for the full three minutes, and likes to read into the night. Let’s take shifts until something interesting happens.”

A coin toss gave Eddie the first nap. When Eddie awoke, he was overcome by his stiff neck.

“Rex, how long did I sleep?” No answer. “Rex?” He looked over to the passenger seat: Rex was gone. He wasn’t in the backseat either. “Where the hell is he?”

Eddie called Rex’s mobile phone and got the same answer message he’d had for twelve years. The message was so old Rex’s voice hadn’t fully broken at the time he recorded it. It was an octave or two off, and well past its cultural relevance.

“Whassup! This is Rex Miles. Leave a message.”

“It’s Eddie. Where are you?” Eddie had to say his name because Rex had an old brick of a phone, too simple to connect the calling number to his contacts.

Eddie needed to think like a detective.
If I was Rex
, he thought.
Where would I be? He needed the bathroom; he won’t go outside. He’d go to the nearest bathroom, which is … John Laing’s house?
A burdening worry wrapped around Eddie’s skull.
He couldn’t
.

With the lights off in Laing’s house, Eddie guessed he must be asleep. Rex would be either inside or trying to get in around the back.
 

Eddie ran, low and fast, to Laing’s six-foot high wooden fence. He jumped up and grabbed the top of the fence with his fingers. As he pulled himself up, he tore his trousers against a loose nail.