Another Day in Paradise

Another Day in Paradise

1

Life as a private detective is tough. Sometimes the work dries up, disappears, and it starts to feel as though you’ll never work again. You begin to question why you got into it in the first place.

It was a hot day in June. My office was like an oven. I was sitting in front of a cheap desk fan and munching on an orange. My last client had paid me with two crates of oranges instead of cash. I’d eaten them for breakfast every day for two months and could swear my skin was turning orange. It had a nice glow.

I threw the peel at the waistbasket and missed. Typical.

Maybe I should plant a few seeds to start an orange farm. Nah, I don’t have the knees for that kind of work.

I spent the better part of the afternoon chasing a fly around the office. Wham! Miss. Wham! Miss. Wham! Miss. Give up.

As evening came around, the whiskey bottle in my desk drawer started calling to me. I don’t drink on the job, but when there’s no sign of work on the horizon -- well, why not?

As I reached for the bottle, a knock came at the door. Three big knocks. If I didn’t know better, I’d have said the knocker was a huge, angry bear, but that would be ridiculous.

I straightened myself up, cleared my throat, and said, “Enter.”

The door flew open at speed, almost coming off its hinges, but no-one was there. Then there were footsteps that led to my desk. A few papers on the desk rustled in a non-existent breeze.

“Hi,” said no-one.

“Um,” I said.

“I want to hire your services to solve a murder.”

I decided to entertain whatever this was.

“Whose murder?”

“Mine,” said no-one.

***

2

After a lengthy, strange conversation, it transpired that a ghost called Charlie wanted me to investigate the mysterious circumstances of his death. Speaking to an empty room had been weird, but a job’s a job, and Charlie had five thousand pounds he no longer had use for stashed away in a secret spot, so who am I to refuse the dead?

Aside from the thought that the summer heat had possibly sent me mad, I felt pretty good. I grabbed my gun — in case of any funny business — and got to work.

I started at the start — at the crime scene. I liked to deploy a methodical approach. Step by step, you see. P.D. 101: the first rule of private detecting is to start at the scene of the crime and work outwards from there. Nothing was going to get between me and that five thousand pounds.

I wasn’t quite sure where Charlie had gone after our conversation. Was he following behind? Perhaps he was floating beside me. Either way, it was a bit freaky.

On the drive over to the building where he was murdered, I imagined him sitting in the passenger seat, looking out the window at the streetlights. He’d been killed in his sleep. He told me that he went to bed last night, and someone must’ve broken into his apartment and killed him. I asked if he had any enemies, and he said take your pick. Must’ve been a well-liked guy.

His apartment was in a seven-story building. The building had no elevator. He lived on the top floor. By the time I’d climbed all the stairs, my heart was telling me to take a walk once in a while and to stop eating so much junk food.

The door to his apartment was mummified in yellow police tape. ’DO NOT ENTER. POLICE INVESTIGATION.’ I could tell that whoever did the taping took their job seriously. It took ages to cut through it all.

Charlie was a messy guy in life. His apartment was a mess. It smelt bad, too. I flicked on the lights and made my way to the bedroom. The police had drawn a chalk outline of Charlie’s body in the exact position they’d found him dead in his bed. It was still there on the messy bed.

“Freeze, punk,” said a voice behind me. “Take one more step and you’re mince meat, punk.”

***

3

I froze like a punk. The voice behind me was gruff.

Slowly, I inched my hand towards my gun.

“Don’t even think about it, punk.”

“You sure say punk a lot,” I said.

“That’s because you’re a punk, punk. And you need to back off. There’s no point investigating this case. You won’t find the killer.”

“I’m guessing I’ve already found him.”

Before he could respond, I spun on my heels and fired six shots. BANG. BANG. BANG. POW. POW. POW.

There was nobody there. The bullets hung in the air, all six of them. Then they dropped, tinkling as they hit the floor.

“Wait,” I said.

“Yep,” said the voice, howling like a jackal.

***