by William Shaw
He took a breath. Pulling back the material just a fraction of an inch, he peeked down. Breathed again.
Just a Deliveroo driver, with one of those big stupid blue boxes on the back of his bike, dropping off a Chinese or something across the road to the house by the garages.
Calm down, Tap. Calm down.
He closed the curtain, tucked the few coins he’d retrieved into his trousers and found a biro. On the back of a Pizza Hut flier, he wrote: MUM GOT TO GO SOMEWHERE URGENT WILL BE IN TOUCH IN A FEW DAYS. He wondered if he should tell her about Mikey, too, on the note. She would be upset. Really upset. Whatever she said about Mikey, she had really loved him. The pen hovered above the paper. In the end, he just added: LUV U BENJAMIN XX. He picked up the note, intending to leave it downstairs on the kitchen table, put the pack on his back, and stepped back out to the landing, but stopped the moment he was out of his own doorway.
His mother’s door was no longer half open. There was just a crack now, between the door and the frame.
The note fluttered onto the carpet. He must have dropped it.
The door had moved, he was sure of it. Hadn’t he just looked in there?
Perhaps she had got up and pushed the door to herself because of the racket he had been making? He hadn’t heard her complaining, though, and she would have. Had she left a window open? Could a breeze have caught the door?
He listened.
No noise. Nothing.
What if somebody had gone into his mother’s room?
He stepped forward onto the dirty pink carpet that covered the landing. A floorboard creaked loudly beneath his foot.
‘Mum?’ he half whispered.
No answer.
He was calculating how fast he could run down the stairs and out of the front door.
Backing into his room again, he jerked his head around, looking for a weapon of some sort. All he could spot was an empty beer bottle; picking it up he returned to the landing.
Nothing.
Inching towards his mother’s door, bottle in hand, he put his foot against it, then pushed. It swung open.
The room was dark. As his eyes grew accustomed to the light, he saw his mother on her back, mouth wide, one arm drooping off the far side of the bed.
Dead to the world, immobile. Almost as if she wasn’t even breathing.
No one else in the room at all. Behind the curtain the window was open. The cloth billowed out in a breeze. It must have been the wind.
He breathed again.
Standing in the doorway, he watched her, lying so still. She had gone to bed half clothed, shirt off, tights still on. He thought about the mum in the shopping centre and wondered if his own mother had ever been like that. If she looked after herself a bit more, she could be pretty. She still was some days.
He should not spend any more time here. The man, whoever he was, knew where he lived. Mikey was dead, Sloth had disappeared. He should get out of here.
He turned, stepped onto the landing and stopped. From downstairs, the unmistakable creak of a door.
He listened again. Nothing, save the sound of the radio. But he could swear he could feel the presence now.
There it was again. Definitely this time. His hands were shaking again, like crazy this time.
Someone else was in the house besides himself and his mother.
NINE
Stark and white against the grey sky, the gallery made Cupidi think of a cathedral built by missionaries.
Margate had once been a grand place, an elegant curve of Georgian houses facing a bay with sand the colour of honey. The town had been sliding downhill for decades. The tourists who had come here to scream on the wooden roller coaster now went abroad. The boarding houses and bed-and-breakfasts had become migrant hostels and bedsits for London’s poor.
A decade ago they had built this great gallery in an attempt to save the place. And it was working, insofar as artists and artisans were re-opening the empty shops around the Old Town and a richer class of Londoners was buying property, renovating the crumbling houses. Money was finally coming back to the place. But the poverty had just retreated a few hundred metres. It still encircled the older buildings, waiting for gentrification to falter.
Ferriter parked the car on the Harbour Arm, a solid sweep of pale stone that curved out to create a sheltered bay in front of the Old Town. The tide was out. On the land end of the stone jetty, a small Victorian customs house had been adorned with the words I Never Stopped Loving You, glowing in pink neon; the pink of sticks of rock. Cupidi stared at it for a while. An artwork by Tracey Emin, a sign explained. Was it about this place, or a person? Both, probably.
‘Sarge?’ said Ferriter. She was nodding towards the gallery on the other side of the customs house.
The three of them approached the big glass door. A sign, taped to the inside, read: The gallery has been closed due to an incident. We apologise for any disappointment.
A young man led them up the stairs to a large, bright room where a CSI stood outside the door with the boxes of protective gear.
Inside, the scene of crime team were photographing the black pot, still on its plinth, lid on the floor; white figures in a white room.
Outside the door, Cupidi introduced herself to the art gallery’s director, a businesslike man with neat, shoulder-length hair who stood, arms crossed and tight-lipped, observing the scene. ‘We’ve contacted the artist, of course,’ he said.
Dark clouds hung over the Channel, lending the spring light on the horizon a bright intensity. Alex Cupidi looked through the north-facing glass out to sea.
‘You won’t find anything,’ called the director through the door as they dusted the pot for fingerprints. ‘We take particular care to keep the exhibits as clean as possible.’ They moved inside, standing at the edge of the room, outside a ring of queue tapes someone had set up around the plinth.
In a place like this, the normally confident crime scene investigator seemed hesitant. ‘Can we lift it down, then?’
‘As long as you don’t break it,’ said the director, arching his eyebrows. ‘If you like, one of our people can do it.’
‘No, no. It has to be us.’
The jar was about 60 or 70 centimetres tall. Two people from the forensics team positioned themselves on either side and cautiously lifted the pot off the plinth. There was a small gasp from the director and a colleague standing near her. A dark round ‘C’-shape, like a coffee stain, remained on the white paint, where liquefying flesh had seeped through the unglazed base.
Carefully, they placed the artwork on the floor and the lead forensics woman peered into the opening. ‘Photograph,’ she said.
The cameraman approached again, laid a scale alongside the pot. The black of the jar had been covered with beautifully detailed drawings of dragons, birds and gods next to modern young couples kissing and holding hands. On the lid were carefully etched pictures of celebrities, each named in small scrolls.
Ferriter, in white, pointed, and said, ‘That’s Jade Goody.’
‘What do you reckon?’ asked Sergeant Moon.
‘I like it,’ announced Ferriter.
‘No . . . I mean, why did someone put an arm in there?’
‘I wouldn’t know yet, would I? That’s what we’re here to find out, isn’t it?’ Constable Ferriter could be tetchy to work with at the best of times; today she seemed particularly moody.
Suited up in white, Cupidi stepped inside the tape and read the label on the plinth:
Funerary Urn (2010). Dead celebrities such as Kurt Cobain and Heath Ledger take the place of household deities, while the decorative work below contains depictions of gods and auspicious animals, elements inspired by an early Buddhist funerary urn in the British Museum.
‘When exactly would the arm have been put in there?’ Constable Ferriter asked out loud, to no one in particular.
‘Good question,’ said Cupidi, turning to the director.
‘I wasn’t here when they installed the artwork
,’ he said.
‘Installed it? It’s not part of the permanent collection?’
‘It’s on loan for the current exhibition, “In Memoriam”. It opened last week.’
When the photographer stepped back, Cupidi took his place and peered into the jar.
‘So it might have been in the jar when it arrived?’
For the first time she saw the arm. The stump lay at the bottom; close to the rim, four pale fingers were curled into a loose fist. Drained of blood, the knuckles looked like milky knots.
Cupidi pulled out her phone, turned on the torch and shone it down into the ceramic jar.
Ferriter joined her, peering into the dark interior. ‘What’s that moving?’
‘Maggots,’ said Cupidi.
‘Oh shit.’ Ferriter held her hand in front of her mouth.
The crime scene team were whispering notes and instructions to each other as if they were in a cathedral. Even their cloth-clad footsteps sounded respectful.
‘We’ll need the date and time the pot arrived here, the details of who brought it, who packed it, unpacked it, and whoever was in charge of it . . .’
The director nodded; the silent man next to him made a few more notes.
Cupidi spotted a pile of shredded cardboard lying on the floor next to the plinth. ‘What’s that?’
‘That was on top of the arm when we opened it. It was stuffed into the jar, like packing. I’d assume that whoever installed it may not have even noticed there was anything underneath it.’
Squatting down, Cupidi photographed it on her phone. ‘Could it mean anything? Someone putting an arm into this particular work of art?’
The director looked uncomfortable. ‘Yes. Of course it could. Inevitably. This is an art gallery. Things acquire meaning simply because they are here.’
Cupidi thought about that for a second.
‘An intentional meaning?’
‘What?’ The director seemed amused by something now. ‘It’s something we struggle with, the intentionality of an artwork.’
Cupidi stared at the director until the smile disappeared from his face, then said, ‘We don’t struggle with that so much on Serious Crime. Mostly it’s pretty intentional when you remove someone’s arm.’
‘Sorry. It’s just . . . we’re all a little shocked. This kind of thing hasn’t happened here before. Obviously.’
‘Someone leaves a body part in a very public place. It’s not a very successful way of hiding it, is it?’
‘Clearly not, no.’
‘So they weren’t hiding it. Then, what were they trying to communicate by leaving it here? Is there anything about this particular artwork which we should be thinking about?’
‘I see,’ said the director, straightening a little. ‘The work is by an artist of Chinese origin who is asking questions about our relationship with the dead, how it compares with her own culture and with the ancient Buddhist culture of her ancestors. In some ways, it’s as much a piece about immigration and globalisation as it is about death.’ He spoke as a curator, referencing some artists Cupidi had heard of, many she had not. ‘It’s a work about death, but is as much about the way that our British culture delegitimises the way in which others think about death.’
Cupidi wrote a few notes, then turned to leave the gallery. ‘Ironically,’ the director added, ‘the artist herself died shortly after finishing the work. A great loss.’ As he removed his mask at the door, he asked, ‘Would you like coffee? I sent most of the staff home, but I’ve kept the public cafeteria open.’
Ferriter and Cupidi sat at a table, while Moon went to the office to record details of when the artwork had arrived. Cupidi ordered an Americano with two shots, Ferriter went for a mug of hot water.
‘It’s something we struggle with, the intentionality of an artwork,’ muttered Ferriter. ‘Jesus.’
Cupidi said nothing.
‘Notice that, though? It’s like he was saying the arm was art or something.’
Cupidi looked up from her coffee. ‘Yes. He was, wasn’t he?’
Murder investigations started with a body. This one was already different. How much would a pathologist be able to tell them from just a limb? How had it got there? Had it been in the jar when it had been delivered to the gallery, or had it been concealed there more recently? The crime scene itself was a challenge. It was too clean.
Turning a page in her notebook, she became conscious of being watched. Looking up, she saw a young man ten metres away on the other side of the glass, looking at her. He was dressed in black, pale-faced, with a sweep of dark hair running across his forehead.
‘Who is that?’
‘Jesus,’ said Ferriter. ‘He’s staring at us. That’s kind of creepy.’
Cupidi looked back at the young man, but he didn’t seem at all discomfited by her gaze. Instead he reached into the pocket of his black raincoat, pulled out a small leather notebook and wrote something in it.
‘Weirdo,’ muttered Ferriter. ‘Reckon he’s a reporter, or just a gawper?’
Cupidi went back to her work. She and Moon would have to present a strategy tomorrow morning for how they would advise the senior investigating officer to tackle this case.
Was this even a murder investigation? A few years ago, members of the public had discovered three separate human feet in a park in Bristol. They had launched a murder inquiry, but in the end, after an operation that had cost tens of thousands, if not hundreds, no culprit had been found. They concluded that the feet had been simply discarded medical exhibits. Worse, it could turn out to be someone’s attempt at guerrilla art. A Banksy? Or somebody who envied that kind of notoriety. She could imagine someone stepping forward to claim credit for it. A genuine human arm was presumably not easy to source, but not impossible either. The pot was a kind of funerary urn. Whether it was a prank or not, it had to mean something, the act of placing an arm in there. And it was someone’s arm.
Cupidi looked up, sucking at the end of her pen.
The director returned. The lad was still watching them.
‘Who is that?’ Cupidi pointed at the man. He seemed to smile back.
‘He’s one of ours. I don’t remember his name. Started a few weeks ago.’
A gust of wind caught the man’s black mac and it blew upwards, exposing an old maroon lining.
‘A bit strange, that one, to be honest. It’s his probationary period,’ said the director. ‘I’m not sure if we’re going to keep him on.’
The figure had turned now and was walking away towards the old customs house and its pink neon sign. Cupidi made a note to find out his name; she should remember to talk to him, she decided.
TEN
Tap shut himself in his bedroom, heart thumping.
He tried to believe he had just imagined the noise, until it came again. The squeak of a floorboard this time. The sound of someone moving slowly.
Could he run down the stairs and make it out of the front door?
‘Mum,’ he hissed.
No answer.
And it dawned on him again that the sharp knife he had been looking for was missing from the block. In the same second he also remembered how his mum had not moved when he had looked in on her earlier, not even snored. She had lain there still, silhouetted in the darkness.
Oh Christ. The washing-up gloves too. It had not been her who had taken them out of the packet.
He leaned back against the closed bedroom door. His eyes filled; he wiped them with his sleeve.
‘Hello,’ he said, loud, heart galloping. ‘I know you’re there.’
Nothing, just another stupid pop song chattering away somewhere.
*
Thing is, he and Sloth always acted hard, like all the boys did, but everyone knew they weren’t. It had always been like that. Sloth and Tap, black kid and loser, bunking off school to avoid another day of being bullied. Amongst the other boys, they were a joke.
Still grasping the beer bottle, he took the backpack off to hold it in fro
nt of him as he ran – thinking that if someone was coming at him with a knife, he would have something to protect himself with. But he didn’t seem to be able to move. He was too scared.
If he knew where the man was hiding, it would be better, maybe.
‘What do you want from us?’ He tried to sound confident, but his voice came out high and thin.
Nothing.
He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. Drugs made you paranoid, he knew that. They made you think people were waiting round corners. All he had heard was a creak of some kind. It could have come from outside, or from the neighbours. The walls of these houses were thin.
But Mikey was dead. Someone had killed him. And someone had been ringing Sloth’s doorbell.
Count to ten, then run.
He breathed again. One . . .
But before he made it to two he heard another noise. At the bottom of the stairs, between the last step and the front doormat, was a single loose floorboard. It was a particular sound: half groan, half squeak. Beneath it was the cold-water pipe that led to the street outside, and an ancient tap. When you trod on it, it rocked, gently, rubbing up against the joists below.
That noise. Wood against wood. The man was at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for Tap to show himself.
‘I can see you,’ lied Tap. ‘I know you’re there.’
Still nothing.
‘What are you after? I’ll give it you if you tell me.’
Dropping the backpack and the bottle, he brushed a pile of comics off the seat of the chair that sat by his bed and wedged it under the door handle, then laid his ear against the door listening. All he could hear was the thump of blood in his own head.
He sat on the bed, put his head in his hands, tried to think.
And then the door handle twisted, and the door nudged open a crack, just as far as the chair would allow it.
Jesus.
There was a thump. The man must have laid a shoulder into the door – or a boot – and as he did so, the whole thing seemed to bend on its hinge over the top of the chair.
Oh shit.
Scrabbling through the debris of empty cans, discarded clothes and makeshift ashtrays, he made it to the window and yanked the curtain back. Brightness filled the room. He looked back. The chair hadn’t fallen yet, but it was a cheap thing, made from plywood. One big shove and it would splinter, or its feet would skid on the carpet it was wedged on.
