Page 43 of Mystic Justice
‘I invest it in me. I go to the gym, I get my hair, nails and eyelashes done. I buy designer clothes. Plenty of rich guys come into Botany.’
‘And you want to snag one?’
She shrugged. ‘Doesn’t everyone?’
I shook my head before I could stop myself. Women who thought like her were beyond me. She had watched men and women die so that she could afford to buy designer clothes. I just didn’t get it; to me, clothes were something that covered you up so you didn’t run around with your tits out. And as for enticing men with nothing more than your looks? I was better than that and so was she. It was a shame she didn’t know it.
I pressed on. ‘Who organised the tourney?’
She shrugged helplessly. ‘Honestly, I have no idea.’
‘When you arrive on site, who tells you where to go?’
‘I get all my instructions via text. The food and drink are free for the guests – get people liquored up and they’ll bet more. Idon’t need to interact with anyone besides the guests, just offer them food and drink regularly.’
‘It’s your job to ply them with drink so they’ll make poor decisions? Bet more? Bet big?’
She flushed. ‘Yeah.’
‘Any illegal potions mixed into the drinks? A little something to lower their inhibitions?’
‘No! I would never drug someone without their knowledge,’ she said, aghast.
‘Good to know there’s a line,’ I muttered, loud enough for her to hear me.
Sandra sank further into her chair, her eyes downcast. She looked chastened but not, I thought, repentant.
‘Did you recognise anyone?’ I pressed.
She snorted. ‘No, Inspector. They were all wearingmasks.’ Her tone saidduh.
‘There are people I would recognise without seeing their faces,’ I said pointedly. ‘There was no one, staff or otherwise, that you knew?’
She shook her head and her curls ruffled around her face. ‘No.’
Annoyingly, I believed her. That was part of the problem with the tourneys: they popped up in different locations, they used staff like Sandra and they kept them in the dark. No one knew anyone else. Much as I hated it, I had to admit it was a slick operation. ‘Did Moss ever go to the tourneys to watch or to serve?’
She snorted. ‘Goddess, no! She wouldn’t set foot somewhere like that. That wasn’t her vibe.’
‘Whatwasher vibe?’
‘Flowers braided through her hair, singing in a field with haystacks to sit on. Maybe a fire crackling nearby and marshmallows toasting over the flames.’ Faint regret tinged her voice before it was removed with a surgeon’s precision as shecontinued. ‘Moss didn’t care about designer clothes. She took care of her appearance but she loved riffling through charity shops for a bargain.’ She said it with the same disdain someone might say a hotel had bedbugs.
‘How were you recruited to work there?’
‘A parcel, delivered to me at work. It had a note and a burner phone. I guess they saw my excellent managerial work at Botany and wanted to poach me.’ She said that with a little pride. She was the embodiment of a total jobsworth and she loved her power, mediocre though it was.
‘What time did you leave the tourney?’ I was hoping to catch her off guard with the sudden shift away from Moss.
‘It closed at 2am. By the time we’d cleaned up, it was late – 3am. I got home just before four.’
I gestured to Channing and he pulled out the last piece of evidence from his folder: a photo of the newly identified centaur, Joe Bogan. ‘Do you recognise this centaur?’ he asked.
‘Sure.’ She frowned then tapped the photo. ‘He came in recently – I’m sure it was the day you told us about Moss dying. It was a terrible shift because we were all so upset and everyone was taking turns to go and cry in the staff room. I remember this guy because centaurs are pretty rare in town – you’re more likely to find them in a country pub than a club in town. And there was another centaur, too. The two of them came in together and caused a scene. They were already a bit pissed. We had to move some Common folk from a standing table because the only other table was in a booth and obviously that wouldn’t have worked for them.’
‘Who served them?’ I asked.
‘The Common realmers?’ she asked, baffled as to why we’d care.
