I had a feeling I was on thin ice, so I skated gingerly over to where Ratty Rathbone was standing near the edge of the rink selling dope to teenagers.
Scraping to a halt I showered them with shavings.
“What the —” Then he saw me and all the blood drained from his furry, narrow face.
“Hello, Ratty,” I grinned. “Betcha didn’t expect to be seein’ me here?”
“J-Jake!” he stammered. “No, yeah, well, I didn’t know you could skate!” Ratty’s whiskers twitched sporadically. His long nostrils flared. A thin, pink tongue flickered over his protruding front teeth. Crumbs of cheese fell from his stubble when he ran a scrawny claw over his chin. His long, tan overcoat was crumpled and stained in contrast to the shiny new skates he’d rented, upon which he tottered precariously. For balance, his other hand was hooked on the barrier rail surrounding the rink.
The teenagers drifted away as soon as they saw me. Some of them were already pretty high. One as high as a kite.
“Whatcha sellin’ these days, Ratty,” I said, peering up at them. “Helium?”
“No, Jake, j-just the usual mix, ya know. Herbal really, for relaxation purposes. Helps them study. Some o’ these kids have stressful home lives.”
“Aww, you’re a real do-gooder community figure,” I said, patting his jowls.
“W-what can I do you for, Jake?” Ratty sniffed, his eyes darting hither and thither. “The usual?”
“Nah, I’m here for some intel.” I watched the skaters of all ages, speeds and creeds whiz by in a clockwise direction. “What’s the lowdown on the Bayview Hotel?”
“The B-B-Bayview?!”
“You seem kinda nervous,” I growled. “Maybe you should take some o' your own medicine.”
“Aw, naw, Jake, I’m fine. It’s just that … every time you come around askin’ for info … well, somethin’ bad happens.”
“Come on, Ratty,” I said, gesturing around at the ice rink. “We’re in a wide open public space. What could possibly happen to you here?”
“Well,” he said, his tiny eyes like grains of salt burning through ice. “Okay. I guess. The Bayview Hotel is a hotel overlooking the bay.”
“No shit.”
“It was built in the 60s back in the boom years when racing car drivers and the like came down the coast rolling in dough. Then it got taken over by some shady new management and went downhill. Rumours of guests going missing didn’t help.”
“Rumours?”
“Yeah, nothin’ was ever proved but—”
“You sayin’ it’s haunted?”
Ratty sniggered, unable to hide the tone of hysteria which had crept in. A bit like the acrid stench of body odor his cologne was futilely charged with combatting. I could almost see the vapors rising from his tattered, ill-fitting garments. My eyes stung. “Naw, Jake, ha ha, that would be ridiculous.”
“You mentioned a take over.”
“I did?”
“Yeah, some shady new management, you said.”
His eyes darted about in a pitiful rendition of how they darted about a few minutes ago, except even more so. His tongue flickered over his dry, chapped lips. “It was a business venture run by a guy. Big, powerful. Dangerous.”
“Guy got a name?”
“Yeah,” Ratty gulped at the air like he had trouble breathing. “You’re not gonna believe this, it was Roger —”
We were interrupted when a huge, muscular slab of beef in a dark business suit shoved between us. He grunted, “‘Scuse me, ladies,” in a gruff voice and skated off, disappearing into the crowd.
When I returned my gaze to Ratty I found his expression had altered.
His scrawny face, which had been flushed with the excitement of disclosure, had become ashen and drawn. He was looking down, one hand covering his abdomen. Red drips seeped through his fingers and dropped onto the white ice.
“Ratty?” I said.
One knee buckled and I grabbed him by the shoulders, and then the other skate shot out from under him and he went down.
“Ah, shit.” I scanned the skaters but there was no sign of the hulking form that had pushed between us.
“Jake,” he muttered.
“Ratty,” I said. “The name. You were about to tell me the name. Roger who?”
“Jake,” he mumbled again. “Why? Life is so … futile …”
“No it ain’t Ratty, life is great. Now tell me the damn name!”
His head tipped sideways and his eyes half closed.
“Hell.” I stood up. “Medic!” I shouted. “We got a medic here?”
The skaters near us stared, gasped and cleared a space around us. A guy in white came running towards us from the direction of the office.
I knelt down. “It’s okay Ratty, it’s gonna be okay.”
“Cold,” he whispered. “So cold …”
With my number one informant and drug-dealer safely wheeled into an ambulance and whisked off to St Mary’s, I was free to continue my investigation.
I figured the next stop was the Bayview Hotel.
Guests going missing? Guy called Roger? And who was the muscular giant who’d stabbed Ratty to shut him up? Was I being followed?
Ratty had given me more questions than answers.
And a desire to wash my nose out with disinfectant...
Many thanks to the team at West Lothian Writers for their valuable feedback on the above last night.
Read more of Jake Jones' 1st case The Old Mice Killer available on Amazon.
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