Even the seagulls looked suspicious. Toby prodded the severed head of the cat and sucked in some air between his pursed lips. This would be a tricky case. There had been a murder. A brutal murder of a creature and there was no sign of a body. Toby exhaled and looked pensively out to sea: the seagulls ducked and cawed with a renewed energy in the rising sun; the waves licked and lapped the boats that threatened to tumble and roll; the fish lolled with the throbbing swell. The air was damp and salty, Toby licked his lips and tasted the ocean - along with remnants of Marmite from his morning toast.
“You okay waiting here, Toby?” His mother asked, as she was already walking away into the still dark depths of the market. He turned and flashed her a single nod and then she was gone. A plume of diesel was guttered out by a passing truck. A man wheeled passed a trolley brimming with horizontal cod with glistening scales and long-dead eyes, and the smell was thick, though not unpleasant. This was Toby’s domain and he was familiar with its attributes and nuances: the man with the limp - from a prosthetic leg - that managed to carry three times his own body weight in mussels from his farm; Shrimp Lady, who was always first in in the morning, stinking of white wine and crustaceans, would tousle his hair and pinch his cheek and stumble into the gaping warehouse; the tuna fishing crew would fall off a boat as the sun freed itself from the oceanic grasp, looking like recently released prisoners of war. There was always blood - human or piscine, it was impossible to tell - and torn, soaked clothing; someone was invariably being carried, almost frogmarched onto shore; and they were regaling stories of their tangles with unfathomably big waves, or fish that put up more of a fight than any mythological beast would dare. It was always a drama, and it seemed to brighten the day, mark a beginning with the collective nods and eyerolls and sips of caffeinated beverage.
But this was Toby’s domain, and they all knew it. They always said good morning in their various degrees of interest and with their plethoric accents and timbres. He would half-smile back and nod and wink, repeat the phrase where it was deemed appropriate. But he always watched, noted, gathered together the evidence. For this was Toby’s domain, and Toby - at all of seven-and-a-quarter year’s old - was The Harbour Detective.
He retrieved his stick: a pre-requisite for his investigations. The stick. It was a snapped end of a fishing rod, crusted over with a rough sea-salt crumb, but it was fundamental to his role. It could be used to tease open suspicious doors (such that the warehouse had many), skewer and lift items that required a closer inspection, or perhaps take the role of a walking stick, should his character require it on a particular day (the cold wind off the sea was known to play havoc with his old hip).
What’s this? He thought, prodding an empty crisp packet with his stick. Evidence of a post decapitation hunger? Evidence of a litterbug as well as a cat murderer? Maybe it’s a serial killer. This wasn’t the first murder that had happened in this location, that The Harbour Detective had tried to solve, as he wandered and prodded and surveyed. A fox’s paw had appeared one morning by the bins, a severed seagull wing was flapping in the oversized doorway on a midsummer morning. There was an animal attacker on the loose. There was no other conclusion to be made.
Toby punctured his juice box and took a long drag on the purple liquid as a woman limped past with a squid on her shoulder. This place, he thought, shaking his head, I’ll never understand it.
“Hey, kid.” One of the polish fishermen grumbled through a cigarette that danced on his lips like a seismograph needle.
“Hey.” Toby frowned and held back a smile, reminding himself that everybody was a potential suspect.
“You looking for something in particular?”
“Someone, maybe.” He tapped his shoe with his stick and the man followed it with his eyes.
“Who?”
“That’s what I’m trying to work out.”
The fisherman sucked on the cigarette and blinked dumbly in the smoke. “I don’t understand.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
A silence stretched out as Toby narrowed his eyes at the man, looking for a reaction, a tic to suggest at undivulged knowledge. “You seen the rats?” A smile broke on the man’s ruddy, wind-burnt face, a childish excitement that made Toby cock an eyebrow in suspicion.
“Rats?” There are dead rats too?!
“Come.” The man slipped off the crate that had supported him and wandered around the back of the warehouse. Toby followed, slowly and with utmost caution: even The Harbour Detective had to keep his wits about him. There was a row of six cages, each full of rats the size of Toby’s leg. They skittered and scamped and rolled wide eyes at the pair. “Look. I caught them.” The man beamed with pride.
“Woah.” Toby leaned in to assess them further. The black eyes were wild with panicked fury; yellow teeth chewed at thin air.
“Careful, you’ll lose a finger.” The man held up four and a half fingers on one hand to prove his point and let out a nicotine chuckle.
“What do you do with them?” Toby asked, fearful of the answer, “once they’re caught.”
“I take them to the mountains.”
“Where?”
“The mountains,” he turned and pointed to the silver-grey peaks that glinted in the morning sun, “there.”
“And kill them?”
The man was aghast and the cigarette nearly slipped from his open lips. “No. I set them free.”
“So they can’t find their way back…”
“So I thought.” He smiled and gazed at the creatures, briefly wistful. “This is Big Sue.” He said, with a hint of pride as he moved close to the cage and pointed with a dangerously forthright finger. The rat in question was still and watched the man with fixed black eyes, there were flecks of grey in her fur and she was slightly larger than the others. “I’ve caught her seventeen times. In exchange for half a forefinger.”
“They just keep coming back?”
“Two days, maybe three. Then they’re here again.”
“Why?”
“This place is death. Rats are drawn to it like fish to tackle.” He sniffed the air and paused while a bell rang in the market to signify the beginning of the day: customers would be here any minute. “And there’s comfort in routine.” There was a tear in the man’s eye and Toby offered a smile; wanting to offset the sadness, without drawing attention to it. “You best get back to your mother, kid.”
“Sure. Good luck with the rats.”
“I hope you find who you’re looking for.” The man replied while walking away, towards his flatbed truck and gloves, chewed almost beyond all recognition.
The cat’s head was gone. Along with the crisp packet. There had been a concerted effort to make the place more appropriate for the inbound customers, some of whom were already mingling with the gaping, soundless rows of fish. Or had somebody just chosen to remove the evidence, The Harbour Detective pondered.
“Ah, Toby.” His mother called as she strolled out of the market wheeling a trolley of iced containers. “Have you been good?”
“Investigating.”
“Ah, what’s been happening now?” She frowned in well-rehearsed role-play.
“More murder. A cat this time.” Toby peered around his mother to the man stood behind her. He cradled another box in his arms under a heavy moustache.
“This is Gregory, Toby.” His mother said, sheepishly.
“Hmm.”
“He is supplying the fish for the restaurant.”
“Hmm.”
“Hello Toby.” Gregory said with a broad smile lost in shrubbery.
“Hmm.”
“Toby was saying there has been another murder.” His mother said to Gregory, “can you believe that?” There was an intonation in her speech that troubled Toby and would stay with him for a while. The way they looked at each other, the way this man was suddenly made a part of their inner circle. There was more going on that had been made explicit, and Toby didn’t like it.
“Oh?” Gregory said, his smile barely fading, “how terrible. I wish somebody would kill the rats instead.”
“Leave the rats alone.” Toby said with a voice that knocked the smile off Gregory’s face - and made the moustache tremble.
“Toby.” His mother said through a gasp.
“It’s okay.” Gregory said, offering a half-smile-half-wince to the pair. “The rats will remain unharmed. Let’s get your car loaded.”
His mother was unhappy, but that was collateral damage, a necessary evil - an indirect side-effect - of a comprehensive investigation. From the passenger seat, The Harbour Detective narrowed his eyes and chewed his lip as he held the gaze of the new lead suspect. A seagull screamed into the morning sky as they drove away.