Chapter 9
Sunday 28th July, 2024
1 Well Hill, London
Inspector Otis Ratt tucks a Jacquemus LA Simon shirt into the belt of his jeans and kisses his sleeping son before leaving home. Ruben, King of lie-ins, is seventeen years old and is one of two good things to come from his previous marriage, even if, frustratingly, they both have their mother's eyes.
He usually only spends a few weekdays at his dad's, but Ruben asked to spend the entire week with him, weekend included. Otis knew those types of privileges wouldn't come around often, so grabbed it with both hands.
Otis: There will come a day when my youngest is too cool to hang out with 'Dad' and it's fast approaching, along with hazard perception tests and university fee's.
He waits at the bus station for the 477 and rereads the text from Angel.
'The pinks not mine.'
Otis: Then who's is it?
Forensics determined almost instantly that the crime scene was suspiciously tidy – aside from Angel's size 11's, which Otis had taken care of, there were no other prints identified; not even Fish's fingerprints on his own door handle.
He bites his lip, puzzled. He isn't convinced that Fish was ever houseproud, considering he was the kind of guy who prioritised buying a Yoda bong over settling his electric bill. It's even less likely that a love interest is the one who mopped up – as well as paying utility bills, Fish wasn't big on toothpaste. Or any form of personal hygiene for that matter. But the alternative is that someone else has cleaned up their prints long before Angel's arrival, and that arouses so many more questions – questions that Otis dare not ask out loud.
Otis: Is our mystery cleaner responsible for supplying the pink cocaine as well?
He wipes the sweat from his brow in dismay and boards the bus – the heat trapped inside is suffocating, and he turns his nose up at the smell of damp denim, muddy trainers and wet dog. The predicted showers have yet to 'clear the air' like the weather forecast continuously teases, and annoyingly, Otis is running out of talc for his chafing thighs.
But be it in blistering dry heat or tropical monsoon, driving his air-conned M Sport to The Ditch is out of the question. He doesn't want it to be spotted parked outside the O'Hare's dodgy joint – he isn't entirely convinced that Josie wouldn't try take it for a joyride, and apart from that, the bus timetable is a good excuse to keep in his back pocket, should he need a reason to leave promptly.
He takes a window seat and rests his head on the cool glass, puts his Air Pods in, and closes his eyes.
All too soon the bus pulls up next to Dartmouth Hill Park. Otis gets out and ambles towards The Ditch. It's not even lunchtime but the warmer, now-dry weather has drawn out the liquor-loving cockroaches and Otis watches as two middle-aged, scantily clad women stand pounding on her doors.
Otis: Ladies?
One of the women, holding an empty bottle of cherry Lambrini, points down the road and tells him to nash. Her red hair is stuck to her face and her eyes are glazed. Otis is distracted, drawn to the orange lipstick smeared on her front teeth, and wonders why her friend here hasn't bothered to tell her yet.
Otis: Who needs enemies with a friend like that?
She waves a poorly fake-tanned hand at him, beckoning for him to leave.
Frenemy: She's just divorced one dickhead, she doesn't want another!
Both women are cheering and fist pumping in celebration. Otis can't help thinking that the 'dickhead' has made a lucky escape.
He watches in bewilderment as the empty bottle is subbed out for a microphone during a tone-deaf performance of Gloria Gaynor's 'I Will Survive'.
Otis: What is it about 25 degree's that has the power to turn people feral?
He gently ushes them away from The Ditch's main doors.
Otis: This place is closed today. Try somewhere else, or better yet, just go home, girls.
The women both look at each other for a moment, as if Otis has spoken another language.
Otis: The old working men's club is still open.
Fully understanding him this time, both women break out into hysterical song again. Otis is handed the bottle and told to 'shove it up Donald's arse' and he watches the two stumble back towards the main road. He glances down at the bottle thrust into his left hand, thinking 'poor Donald' and draws a cross against his chest with his right, thanking God that his daughter, Danae, prefers books.
YOU ARE READING
Trestle
Mystery / Thriller**SMUT warning** Following the death of his racketeer father, Angel is left to manage the O'Hare family's rugged affairs. He vows to worship his girls and protect them from the threat of poverty, sin, and dangerous men like himself. But when debts c...
