NO SALE

By Patrick Conrad

BITTER LEMON PRESS

Copyright © 2007Patrick Conrad
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-904738-97-8

Contents

Prologue……………………………….11Part I: Starr Mortensen………………….13Part II: Starr Faithfull…………………139Part III: Starr Baker……………………239

Chapter One

The Sponge

“People who live in elephants are never completely innocent.”

Mrs Kountché, who is one of Professor Cox’s neighbours, has a heavy Nigerian accent. She is wearing a garishly coloured rectangular swathe of cotton knotted around her broad hips, and as she leans over the railings of her balcony, she stares thoughtfully with eyes as big as a gazelle’s at the back of the building where Professor Cox lives in a ground-floor flat.

“Very mysterious, that elephant,” says Detective Inspector Lannoy, sitting down next to The Sponge in the Opel Vectra. The Sponge is what his mates call Chief Superintendent Fons Luyckx.

“It’s an old African proverb. That’s just the way people talk. With bits of exotic wisdom which have lost their meaning over the generations.”

“Perhaps she meant Sani Abacha.”

“Who?”

“General Sani Abacha, the president of Nigeria.”

“You mean that big goon with the cool Ray-Bans.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because he died this morning. It was in the papers.”

“Murdered?”

“Heart attack.”

It was Monday, 8th June 1998. Luyckx and Lannoy had spent the whole afternoon questioning Victor Cox’s neighbours about the disappearance of his wife Shelley, without much result. All they had heard was some gossip about Shelley, who did not go out much during the day and was sometimes dumped outside her front door in the middle of the night, blind drunk. They encountered vague clichés along the lines of: “We don’t get involved in our neighbours’ business”, or: “What you don’t know can’t hurt you.” The usual wariness of the cops. But the questions had to be asked, they were routine in a missing-persons investigation. Professor Cox had walked round to the station that morning to inform the police. His wife had not come back home on Saturday night. And since then there had been no sign of her.

The sun is beating down on the windscreen of the police car, which has been moving at a crawl round the ring road in a traffic jam for over a quarter of an hour. Dazzled, Luyckx gropes among the empty Coke cans for his shades in the recess behind the gear lever. The same shades as General Abacha.

“Mr Cox didn’t look too shocked by the disappearance of his wife,” says Lannoy, lighting a Marlboro.

“I had that impression too.”

“He sounded almost relieved.”

“Don’t exaggerate. What does he do again?”

“He teaches at the Institute of Film and Theatre Studies. History of cinema …”

“History of cinema … What will they think up next?”

“Funny bloke, Cox …”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just hard to make him out. An absent-minded professor living for years alongside his wife but who doesn’t quite understand what’s happening to him in the real world.”

“Perhaps he saw it coming. From what you hear, Mrs Cox had a bit of a reputation.”

“Maybe. She’s probably just sleeping off the drink at a girlfriend’s and’ll show up again sooner or later with her tail between her legs. In fact I couldn’t give a toss for this case. Total waste of time. How long have we been bloody stuck here crawling along with these idiots?”

“Long enough.”

“Yeah, too long. Fasten your seat belts. Out of the way, everybody: here comes Dirty Harry!”

Luyckx opens his window, sticks the blue flashing light on to the car roof and swerves with a blaring siren on to the hard shoulder towards the first exit. As they drive past the National Bank, the first bars of Beethoven’s Ninth sound from a mobile.

“Go on then, answer it.”

“Lannoy here … The Sponge is driving … We’re almost there, why … What? Where? OK, we’ll be right there.”

“Who was that?”

“Simons … An hour ago they fished a woman’s body out of the Bonaparte Dock.”

Luyckx smiles. At last things were moving. He switches on the radio and turns right. ‘I Put a Spell on You’ is playing. The version by Joe Cocker.

Chapter Two

Shelley Cox

It is quarter to seven when Luyckx and Lannoy park their car in a cloud of dust right by the Nassau Bridge between the gendarmerie and fire-brigade vehicles. The air has a smell of burnt oil and tar, and screeching seagulls are circling in the pink sky. Two young gendarmes are holding back a group of curious onlookers behind a ribbon. From the Macumba bar on the corner of Londenstraat floats the voice of Peggy Lee, just like it has done ever since the pub opened in 1974. Luyckx knows the neighbourhood like the back of his hand. He shuts his eyes, listens hard, takes a deep breath, sniffs the atmosphere, shivers with excitement, rubs his hands and feels the presence of death. Nothing escapes him at moments like this. That’s why they call him The Sponge.

He leans next to Lannoy over the bridge railings and waves to the divers who are hunting for more evidence among the oil slicks and floating garbage in the dark water. Inspector Simons, who is wearing a shirt patterned with blue smurfs, rushes up to him.

“Nice shirt,” sneers Luyckx.

“Thanks boss! Got it on Offerandestraat. A real bargain.”

“Have we identified the body?”

“Not yet.”

Simons digs a dog-eared notebook out of his jeans pocket and reads aloud:

“Subject is a woman of around fifty with thin snow-white hair. Her blond wig was floating some distance away between two yachts. She was wearing a black lamé evening dress, rings on both hands, two strings of pearls round her neck, conspicuous make-up, and half her teeth were missing, a denture on the left side …”

“Perhaps she fell overboard during a party on one of these expensive yachts,” says Lannoy.

“No. Her body is badly mangled. As if she fell under a car before falling into the water … Or was pushed. In fact we’ve found traces of blood on the bridge.”

“Any ID?”

“Unfortunately not. But the divers are still looking for a handbag.”

“How long was she in the water?”

“The preliminary estimate is one and a half, maximum two days. You couldn’t see her because she was jammed under the jetty between the Mary-Lou II and the Leviathan.”

“Nice. So let’s go and meet our bald lady friend. Where is she now?”

“She’s on the way to the lab. For an instant autopsy.”

“And who decided to do that so fast?” Luyckx finds it hard to conceal his irritation.

“I couldn’t reach you on the radio so I thought …”

“How many times have I said I don’t want any thinking until I ask for it, Simons?”

“Fons, the radio wasn’t on this afternoon,” says Lannoy.

The Sponge pretends not to hear his partner’s comment.

“Any witnesses?”

“No direct witnesses. Basically people who bumped into her on Saturday night in the bars around the docks. Including the boss of the Macumba, for sure …”

“Jos the Screw, an old friend. Simons, get in touch with the harbour police. I want a list of names of all the owners of sailing ships and yachts in this dock. By tomorrow. Lannoy, you’re going on a pub crawl. I’m pretty sure our lady friend wasn’t unknown in Docklands. By the way, have you got Mr Cinema-History’s number on you?”

“Here you go.”

Luyckx pulls Simons’s mobile out of his smurf-shirt breast pocket and punches in the number.

“Luyckx here from the detective CID. Mr Cox, sorry to go straight to the point, but did your wife have false teeth?”

“Yes.”

“And did she wear a wig?”

“Yes, for a year now. Have you found Shelley?”

“Looks like it. I’ll come and pick you up.”

Luyckx hands Simons back his phone.

“OK, lads! There’s no business like show business!”

Chapter Three

Jos the Screw

It took Lannoy over five minutes to force his way through the crowd of noisy customers in the Macumba. On a normal day the pub was always filled with regulars at Happy Hour. But now that the body of a dolled-up posh cow had been fished out of the Bonaparte Dock it was twice as crowded as usual.

Jos the Screw is a dark giant of a man who was still playing for the Zaziko basketball team five years ago and was admired by everyone because, as rumour had it, his back was tattooed with the names of a dozen women he had screwed. He is standing behind the bar, lording it over the Macumba with a loud voice and the authority of a tribal chieftain. When he notices Lannoy, who he’s never seen before in his bar, he knows for sure that he’s a cop, thanks to that sixth sense that marks people with one foot in the underworld.

“Welcome to the jungle, Inspector. Will it be a gin, then?”

Annoyed by how quickly The Screw is on to him, Lannoy refuses the shot.

“Could we have a word outside where it’s not so noisy?”

“I’d rather do it in the back kitchen,” replies the bar-owner, who is all too often questioned by the police and knows he can’t escape this conversation. “I can keep an eye on the girls behind the bar from there.”

What The Screw calls the back kitchen is little more than a dilapidated storeroom piled high with beer crates, empty barrels, bottles of drink and cardboard boxes full of cans, cigarettes and peanuts.

“You’ve heard of course about …”

“Like everybody. That kind of news gets round quickly.”

“Did she visit the Macumba on Saturday night?”

“Like all the cafés in the area, I guess.”

“Did you know the victim?”

“She was a regular.”

“What’s her name?”

“Dixie.”

Lannoy, not expecting the reply, hesitates.

“Dixie what?”

“Her real name was Shelley, Shelley Cox, something like that. But at night everyone called her Dixie. Drunken Dixie.”

“Why?”

“That’s what she called herself. Usually when she’d been hitting the bottle. Then she’d suddenly become a different person and start raving, coming out with all sorts of drivel. Like she was turning the words round and coming out with the meanings back to front. Everything was different — her voice, her behaviour, her expression. Sometimes it would happen really fast. One slug too many and bang, there was Dixie instead of Shelley!”

“And was she drunk on Saturday night?”

“Legless. I showed her the door because she was bothering the customers.”

“What time was that?”

“About midnight.”

“Was she alone?”

“She was alone more often than not. She came here to drink, not to party or pick up men. Anyway, she was in no fit state for that.”

“Which way did she go when she left?”

“No idea. There was a thunderstorm that night. The gutter.”

“So you kicked her out all alone in the pouring rain at midnight?”

“She was already soaked when she came in.”

One of the waitresses, a Barbie doll whose age was anyone’s guess, with unyielding silicon breasts in a tight Macumba Tshirt, came swaying into the room holding a mobile phone.

“Jos! Phone for you!”

“All right, that’ll do for now,” says Lannoy. “I’ll be back when I need more information.”

“Hello? … Hi pussycat … Right now? I’m in a meeting … Good … The Pegasus, pier three … Yeah, I can see it from here … In ten minutes, OK?”

Jos takes a can of deodorant off one of the shelves and sprays it liberally over his armpits and crotch. In a flash the storeroom smells of a mixture of cedar wood and washing-up liquid.

“Women who are getting on,” he sighs, “sometimes it’s like it’s their last time,” and steers his huge carcass like an icebreaker through the overflowing bar to the street. In the doorway he runs into old Cross-Eyed Carmen, who runs the Acapulco, the bar three doors down. She sniffs after him like Fay Wray after King Kong.

“Nice smell, Jos, are we going to have a quick screw?”

“Carmen, I’m always up for anything!”

Chapter Four

Sax

Because he already looked old when he started working as a young coroner for the Antwerp Criminal Investigation Department twenty years ago, it seemed that time had no hold on Sax. His glasses were a little stronger, he was a little thinner and the crown of hair around his bald skull had dropped out. As for the rest, he did not eat or sleep much, shaved once a week at most and shuffled along with a stooped back, the back of a frustrated saxophonist as he said himself sarcastically. Because his passion for jazz had never abated, whenever he had the time he would still perform regularly in nightclubs and jazz cafés. Usually for free, as a respected amateur. His ‘Mobutu Mambo’, a piece he composed in 1997 after the rebels under Laurent Kabila took power in Zaire, had actually won a silver medal at the Merelbeke festival, but he comforted himself with the thought that even the best Flemish jazz musicians never became really popular outside Antwerp.

Luyckx steps through the dim light of the tile-lined corridor that leads to the lab. Jazz is echoing through the open door at the end of the corridor, so the forensic doctor must be at work.

“Ah, The Sponge, at last,” says Sax, drawing a blood-soaked sheet over Shelley Cox’s dissected body, pulling off his rubber gloves and throwing them into a little stainless steel bin.

“I thought it was you playing,” said Luyckx flatteringly.

“If only. Then I would be Archie Shepp.”

“So, what can you tell me?”

Sax, who in his career has come across every kind of injury and mutilation, turns down the volume and sighs.

“A total wreck, Sponge, fifty-three, fifty-four at most, but a wreck. Have you identified her?”

“Shelley Cox. Wife of a Victor Cox who teaches film history at the drama institute. Odd bloke.”

“Odd family, I fear. She had 2.8 grams of alcohol in her blood. And that wasn’t from just one night out, believe me. I’ve seen a good deal of cirrhosis of the liver in my time but this was really impressive. What’s inside her isn’t a liver any more, it’s like the Rock of Gibraltar. Plus a badly inflamed pancreas producing insufficient insulin, with diabetes as the result. I haven’t had the time to check it out properly, but it seems obvious to me that the central nervous system has also been damaged. In the stomach I couldn’t find anything except a few peanuts and a double peptic ulcer. She hadn’t eaten all day long. Arms and legs thin as a stick, but a swollen belly, bad teeth — to sum it up, totally kaput with booze. A lamb to the slaughter.”

“So she was pissed out of her brain and fell into the dock and drowned?”

“No way. There was no water in her lungs, but she had three broken ribs, a ruptured spleen and a nasty wound to the head. Somebody probably ran her over while she was lying unconscious in the road, then panicked and chucked her body into the water. She must have died on the spot.”

“Any idea of the time of death?”

“About midnight on Saturday night.”

“And they have in fact found bloodstains on the Nassau Bridge. Nice work, chief. I won’t keep you any longer.”

Sax shuffles over to his workbench, takes a hermetically sealed test tube off a rack and holds it under the bright light of a desk lamp.

“Look what I found in her left Eustachian tube — in her ear, to put it simply.”

Luyckx bends over.

“What’s that?”

The test tube is teeming with tiny transparent creatures.

“A nest of baby spiders. A spider must have laid her eggs there, I can’t see any other explanation. I found the remains of a silk cocoon in the auricular cavity, protected by a plug of earwax. Never seen anything like that before,” says Sax. “A normal person would have gone stark raving mad.”

“Perhaps she did too,” sighs Luyckx. When he questions Cox later he will casually mention the problem of the spiders in his wife’s ear. For now he just doesn’t want to lose face and pretends that Sax’s revolting discovery hasn’t surprised him at all.

“Well I never liked spiders anyway. Oh yes, before I forget, can you give me one of her rings?”

Sax hands Luyckx a brown envelope.

“That’s all her jewellery. It’s not worth much.”

“Thanks. Got any gigs coming up?”

“At eleven in the Blue Note in Mortsel. With Steve Lancing on piano and Sonny Spencer on drums.”

“If I get a chance I’ll drop in. There’s no business like show business!”

Chapter Five

Ma Mussel

“I felt sorry for her, officer. The way that woman wasted away over the years! Emaciated, that would be the word. She was on her last legs, Officer, still flirtatious, yes, but she was shagged out. And she knew it, because Dixie was no fool,” sighs the sleek rotund woman, sliding a large glass of amber-coloured beer under Lannoy’s nose.

Ma Mussel, as she was called, is the cheery landlady of the café of the same name on Godefridus Quay, which is well known for its draught triple brews and its jumbo mussels à la Provençale. It’s the seventh and last pub Lannoy has visited in the course of his investigation.

“Eleven years ago, Officer, when my Maurice was still alive, on the sixth of March 1987, the day that we opened up here and they were showing the ferry sinking off Zeebrugge, she was sitting there at the table eating mussels. Even then she could knock back two or three bottles of white without batting an eyelid. Later she would come just for the wine which you won’t find any better anywhere else, you know, and not for my mussels. But recently she had gone crazy and would just drink anything. Anything except water. I think she drank water for the first time in her life last Saturday when she ended up in the docks. Poor Dixie.”

(Continues…)

Excerpted from NO SALEby Patrick Conrad Copyright © 2007 by Patrick Conrad . Excerpted by permission of BITTER LEMON PRESS. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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