Snippet #1280246

Covent Gardens was always a hub of activity in London, but today it was a different sort of activity. The white and navy of police officers was dotted around the normally bustling pedestrianised streets as yellow tape was drawn across, setting up a hasty barrier as the CSI and forensic teams descended. I leant idly against the wall underneath a hanging basket sprouting colourful flowers.

“Hey, mate?”

Glancing to the side, my eyes fell on a man of around my age, maybe a few years younger. He was dressed in a zip up hoodie and jeans, and looked quite cold. It was certainly that, hence the fact that I wore my heavy-but-stylish black coat and striped scarf. Winter was drawing in. I idly wondered whether London would be so utterly crippled by a few inches of snow as it had been the year before.

“Yes?” I adjusted my hair (I do that a lot) and gave the guy a once-over.

“You got any idea what’s going on? I heard there’s been some sort of murder, right? I want to know, see, so I know what it’ll do for business.”

I raised an eyebrow, “Something like that.” I confirmed, “And can I ask what ‘business’ is?”

“Ah, well, it’s magic ain’t it?”

“Ma... what?”

“Street performing. I’m a magician – want to see a trick?”

“Ah.” I really didn't, so I shook my head. Covent Gardens was well known for its multitude of street performers, from magicians, to jugglers, to dancers. I remember encountering a golden-painted mime at some point in the past... “I’ll pass, thanks. Oh, and thanks for the offer. I’d appreciate it”

“What?”

“You were just offering to grab me a hot chocolate from the Costa down the road?”

“Really?”

“Yup.”

The man frowned, blinking slowly. “Oh, yeah. I won’t be a tick.” He said, turning and heading down the street. He rubbed his head, as if disoriented, as he went.

Okay, so maybe that hadn’t been necessary. But it was cold, dammit!

_______________________

“So you say you knew the deceased?”

“That’s what I said. And why you’re here. You really need to ask?”

“Alright, alright, I was just confirming.” I sighed, steepling my fingers and leaning forwards in my seat. I examined the man sitting opposite me in the pub. A familiar zip-up hoodie around a youngish looking face, hazel eyes, dark slightly messy hair. It was a small world. “Did you notice that your friend was missing before they were identified?”

I could guess the answer. The guy hadn’t known when I’d sent him on a hot-choc run the previous day, and according to the other dozen street performers I’d spoken to it was normal for friends to be AWOL for days at a time. It wasn’t exactly a full-time occupation for most people.

“No. Or else I would’ve been more concerned when I spoke to you back at the scene, wouldn’t I?” he replied, folding his arms with a frown.

Damien, his name was. Damien Scot. Street magician, seventeen - the same age as me. Damien had been friends with the victim; identified by a number of the others who worked Covent Gardens by her distinctive style of dress. Leah White, eighteen – a busker, singer and guitarist; she’d apparently been quite pretty.

That being back when her head was still attached to her body, and all. I could never say that M wasn't thorough ...

“Okay. Sorry.” I said, “Well, when did you last see her?”

“Why are you asking? I thought we were just having a drink because you recognised me and wanted to return the favour for the hot chocolate. You’re hardly the fuzz, you look the same age as
me.”

And there it was, the problem with being seventeen and trying to investigate a crime. Everyone eventually picked up on the fact that you were seventeen, and trying to investigate a crime.

“I’ve already explained to you why I’m asking, and you thought it was totally reasonable.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Now could you answer the question?”

“No, I’m pretty sure you ... I don’t ... what was the..?”

Bugger. Well, that had been a long shot. “I’ve got a personal interest. I’m following a few cases like this. Call it a hobby. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but it’d be really great if you could. I’ll buy you another drink?” I offered, smiling hopefully. Sometimes you had to fall back on old-fashioned ‘being nice’.

“And a bag of pastries from Greggs.”

“A muffin.”

“Deal. It was three days ago, Wednesday. The night before the police found her. We were heading home, seeing as it was getting dark, and there weren’t many people, and the few that were there weren’t interested in magic tricks or guitarists. It was around the corner from where they found her. I’ve already told the police.” Damien frowned, as if thinking particularly hard. “Did she have her guitar with her, when they found her?”

It was my turn to think. I'd spoken to the police, and examined the body (not that I was any sort of expert there, but I figured it was worth a look, just in case). I didn’t remember any sort of instrument case. “I don’t think so.” I replied eventually, “That might be worth following up.”

Damien folded his arms. “Now you owe me a drink, and food.”

“I never said that.”

“Really?”

“You must be imagining it.”

“Oh...”

A pause.

“Nah, I’m messing with you. Come on, I’ll buy you that muffin.” I said, grinning and flicking my fringe aside, in an entirely suave manner. I'm not a total asshole, after all...