My heart had dropped like a huge, glass lift. This wasn’t the first detective I’d met in the waiting room who listened carefully and only spoke in reassuring white-grey murmurs.
This was Rusty Chrome Orange, possibly named after a mysterious actor from some American TV crime show.
I took an instant dislike to him due to:
1. His colour (obviously)
2. He talked about dumb actors and claimed to be famous
3. He stared directly at me
Without warning, he launched into a series of baffling questions about school, my friends and teachers, gifts for boys and condom wrappers that can be disguised as sparkly sweets. But his questions were all wrong from the start – and they haven’t improved.
Where’s the grey suited man from the waiting room?
‘I don’t want to be rude, but I hate your colour and I don’t want to talk to you.’
‘Jasper! We discussed this, Son – about being polite and respectful when you answer questions.’
‘Yes, but perhaps the police officer who had grey-white whispers can come back? He seemed to get me. I don’t want Richard Chamberlain like the actor. I want the first detective from the waiting room.’
Silence.
People say silence is golden. They’re wrong. It’s no colour at all.
Rusty Chrome Orange speaks again. ‘That was me, Jasper, in the waiting room. You talked to me about colours and parakeets.’
‘What?’
He picks up his notebook. ‘Ice blue crystals with glittery edges and jagged, silver icicles. You also said that parakeets are incredibly intelligent.’
I glance at Dad to verify Rusty Chrome Orange’s story.
His head moves up and down. ‘You were speaking to DC Chamberlain while I got the boxes from the car.’
I can scarcely believe it. I can’t look at Dad or the detective from the waiting room who has morphed into Richard Chamberlain aka Rusty Chrome Orange. I stare at the grey jacket lying next to the detective on the sofa. He’s taken it off. I didn’t notice him carry the jacket in here.
‘Oh.’ I can’t think of anything else to say. Oh is a small word, exactly how I feel.
Tiny. Insignificant.
Oh. A colour that people can’t see.
‘Sorry, I forgot.’ It’s a lie, of course, but a useful one. Like Sorry, I didn’t see you. I trot it out at least once a day when I don’t recognize someone I’m supposed to.
‘I did try to warn you,’ Dad’s muddy ochre voice says to Richard Chamberlain. ‘He doesn’t recognize me if I turn up at his school unexpectedly.’
He’s right.
I don’t remember Dad’s face.
Richard Chamberlain’s face.
Anyone’s face.
I see them, yet I don’t. Not as complete pictures.
I close my eyes. I hear the muddy ochre of Dad’s voice, but can’t draw together the image of his face in my mind. I couldn’t pick him out of a line-up of men wearing blue jeans and blue shirts – his usual uniform. Is that what Dad’s got on today? I can’t remember. I haven’t paid enough attention.
When he speaks, the rusty chrome orange of Richard Chamberlain’s voice pummels my eyeballs, but if he walked up to me in the street I wouldn’t be able to recognize him unless I’d memorized a distinctive detail: the make of his watch, a hat, socks featuring a character like Homer Simpson or the colour of his voice. Those are the kinds of things I look for first, rather than hair colour or styles that change whenever people run their hands over their heads.
I open my eyes again. None of the usual clues helped me today. Rusty Chrome Orange wasn’t wearing unusual clothes. He tricked me by taking off his grey jacket and whispered, which disguised the genuine colour of his voice with white and grey lines.
Whispers are always frustrating for me because they completely change the hues of people’s voices. Coughs and colds play the same mean trick, which is really sneaky too.
More colourless silence.
It lasts longer than before. I count ten teeth with my tongue before Richard Chamberlain clears his throat, creating an offensive ochre shade.
‘You’ve gone to town on this,’ he says, pointing at my boxes as I perch with one buttock hovering in mid-air over the fried egg-shaped splodge on the sofa.
I sigh. ‘We didn’t go to town. We came straight here otherwise we’d have been even later.’
‘Okaaaaaaaay.’ The rusty chrome orange stretches into an equally unpleasant brownish mud colour.
Richard Chamberlain – call me Richard – clarifies that he’s surprised by how many notebooks I keep and stresses there was no need to bring so many today. He only wants to know if anything I’ve seen might help the investigation.
Before Dad can stop me, I pull out the crucial notebook from box number six and turn to 22 January. This isn’t the true beginning, but it’s an incredibly important day in the sequence of events that followed:
7.02 a.m.
Parakeets land in the oak tree at 20 Vincent Gardens.
Happy, bright pink and sapphire showers with golden droplets.
7.06 a.m.
Man wearing cabbage green pyjamas opens upstairs window of house next to Bee Larkham’s. Shouts prickly tomato red words at parakeets. Clue: Number 22 belongs to David Gilbert.
‘Can we skip forwards?’ Rusty Chrome Orange interrupts, setting my teeth on edge. ‘I’m not sure this is getting us anywhere.’
I sigh. We’re back to where we started, with Rusty Chrome Orange asking the wrong questions again.
If he were a proper detective, he’d have asked me to rewind and start even earlier, from the day it all began: 17 January.
The day Bee Larkham moved into our street.
I guess I understand Rusty Chrome Orange’s impatience. It’s been four days since her murder and he still doesn’t seem to realize she’s dead, but he needs to follow the correct order. I try again with my entry from 22 January, since this part is clear in my head. It’s not confused at all:
8.29 a.m.
Cherry Cords with a dog barking yellow French fries talks to Dad on street. Smoking Black Duffle Coat Man arrives but I don’t hear him speak.
Cherry Cords threatens to kill parakeets using a shotgun. The colour of his trousers, the dull red, grainy voice and the dog give me clues – this must be David Gilbert from number 22.
I don’t know the colour of Black Duffle Coat Man’s voice. I double-check his identity later and Dad says it was Ollie Watkins. I haven’t spoken to him before. He moved back to the street a couple of weeks ago to look after his mum, Lily Watkins, who is dying of cancer at number 18.
I pause and wait for Rusty Chrome Orange to catch up because this is the first sign a murder’s going to happen on our street. But he’s hitting his knee with a pen and has missed the vital clue.
Tap, tap, tap.
A light brown sound with flaky blue-black edges.
I ignore the irritating colour and jump ahead by nine