Czytaj książkę: «The Mysterious Case of Cupid and the Drag Queen: A Love…Maybe Valentine eShort»

Chapter Two

One day earlier

‘His name’s Cupid,’ said Harley Golightly, as he handed me what I could only describe as a soft porn photo of a very small, very ugly dog. The lighting was soft focus; the background a bed of black satin, and the pooch was wearing a tiara and a diamond encrusted collar. Apart from that it was naked, the slut. Which was better than a pearl necklace, I suppose.

Harley Golightly was sitting with his partner, Dorothy Glamore. I don’t know why, but I had a sneaking suspicion that they may not have been using their real names. And they definitely weren’t using their real hair colours. They were both men, and both wearing uncomfortably tight leather trousers. At least they were uncomfortable for me – their boy bits were so obvious I didn’t know quite where to put my eyes.

‘He’s … lovely,’ I said, imagining for the tenth time that day that I’d won the Lottery and was on a Caribbean cruise with a flotilla of Calvin Klein underwear models.

Instead, I was in the admittedly fragrant back room of a bar in Liverpool’s pink district. Investigating the case of a missing Chihuahua. Such is life. I used to be a detective sergeant, a babe in blue, and I never got sent to check out Chihuahuas then.

I suspected the law had more important things on its collective mind these days. A copy of the Gazette lay open on the smoky glass-topped coffee table between us. The front page was a report on the abduction of Coco Doyle, the seven-year-old daughter of a local businessman. In this case, the business was drugs – but let’s face it, that wasn’t Coco’s fault. Neither was her name.

‘So, when was the last time you saw Cupid?’ I asked, dragging myself back into the here and now. No matter how surreal it was.

Harley tugged a pink tissue from a zebra print box by his side, and dabbed delicately at eyes that already bore the residue of soggy mascara. Dorothy tenderly tapped his hand, trying to reassure him.

‘One of the staff took him out for a run, down at the waterfront, yesterday. We were out looking for new chocolate fountains all day. If I’d know then that I wouldn’t see him again, well, I’d, I’d …’

The tears started to flow in earnest, and I tried to find the right face for the occasion. It wasn’t easy, so I ended up looking a bit constipated.

Dorothy pulled himself together and sat up straight.

‘Billy,’ he said. ‘He’s our cellar man, as well as one of our performers. He says he brought Cupid back here, and locked up behind him. We saw Cupid when we got back, and he was in here with customers later – they all love him! We’re not even quite sure when he went missing … We feel so guilty now, for not paying more attention. We let him down!’

He gulped in some air, fluttered his fingers in front of his face, and continued: ‘We stayed here, in the flat we keep upstairs on the fourth floor, and it was only this morning we really started to worry. We were exhausted – dead to the world all night, assuming he was safe in his little bed! But then he didn’t come and wake us up to take him outside for a tinkle! And now we can’t find him, anywhere. The tracker says he’s here, but he’s not – we’ve searched everywhere! That’s when we called you – one of our friends, Mystic Melissa, said you might be able to help.’

‘The tracker?’ I asked, even more confused. And trying not to dwell too much on the fact that I now owed Mystic Melissa – aka Clive, a stallholder who worked with my mum down at the market – a pint.

‘Yes. There’s a GPS chip in his collar. You have to understand that Cupid’s our baby. And you’d get your baby tracked, wouldn’t you?’

I didn’t feel qualified to answer that question. I had no babies, furry or otherwise, and had no idea if it was normal to fit them with spy satellites or not. It did, however, seem to be what we in the trade call ‘A Clue.’

‘You’re 100 per cent positive he’s not still here, trapped somewhere, or hiding? I mean, he does look … well, petite?’

In fact, Cupid looked like a rat that had dropped some poppers and run into a brick wall. But it seemed indelicate to phrase it like that, and one of Harley’s eyelashes was already dropping off.

‘Certain, Miss McCartney,’ replied Dorothy. ‘We’ve torn the place apart – all the staff have helped, even the customers. He’s not here – whoever took him must have somehow hidden the collar, or disabled it somehow. Cupid is gone! How can we go on without him – how can we throw a party when our lives have ended!’

I raised an eyebrow in question.

‘The Love Boat. Tomorrow night. We do it every year for Valentine’s Day,’ said Harley through his sniffles. ‘Hire a ferry and go out onto the river. It’s a big event, and Cupid is always the guest of honour!’

I jumped to my feet. Things were about to get messy here, I could tell from the voice doing a dramatic Mariah Carey-style full-octave wobble.

‘I’ll need to talk to Billy,’ I said, grabbing my notebook and pen and shoving them back into my bag. I couldn’t wait to tell my best friend Tish about this. She would quite possibly wee herself laughing. It was the kind of story that needed to be delivered along with a multi-pack of Lady Tena.