Deadland

by William Shaw

  He fumbled with the casement, fingers suddenly weak. Most of the time he kept it closed because Annie Lee and the other neighbours complained about the noise of his music.

  The third thump was accompanied by the crack of wood, just as the window finally swung open. Tap pushed himself up onto the sill, perched for a second, squatting on the frame.

  The area in front of the house was concrete. If he jumped from here he would break a leg.

  He turned in the window frame, so that he was facing the bedroom again, just as the whole door frame began to finally splinter. Letting his legs drop, he caught the sill just for a second to slow his fall, then uncurled his fingers and plummeted.

  He was up again before the man had even made it to the window.

  *

  Tap knew he only had a few seconds’ advantage. The man would be down the stairs soon, and out of the front door, after him. Tap knew every little alleyway and dark corner, but he was limping as he ran from the way he’d jolted his leg as he landed. It wouldn’t anyway take long to catch up with him. He picked the routes towards the centre of the town, heading to the thin passageway that led down to the park.

  It was a cut-through only locals knew, hedge on one side, fence on the other. When he reached it, it was empty. Looking over his shoulder as he ran, he almost slammed straight into the pushbike coming the other way as it braked and spun sideways in front of him.

  ‘Out me flippin’ way.’

  ‘Oi. Quick. Get on,’ shouted a voice.

  Tap looked up. Wearing a pair of girl’s dark glasses, hood up, and standing on one pedal of a BMX was Sloth.

  Tap grinned. Beautiful Sloth looking like a total mug with stupid shades, on a kid’s BMX.

  ‘Go on. What you waitin’ for?’

  Tap ran to the back of the bike. Hands on Sloth’s shoulders, he climbed onto the rear pegs, feet on either side of the wheel, and as soon as he was on, Sloth stood to put all his weight on the pedals.

  Spitting gravel behind him, Sloth pumped his legs as they careered down the path, away from West View Road, and then out onto the wider, scrubby track – one of those streets the council had never bothered with – weaving past the parked cars.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Tap, looking behind him. There was no sign of the man.

  ‘What the frick is going on?’ said Sloth, panting.

  ‘Hear about Mikey?’

  ‘What about him?’

  But Tap didn’t have a chance to answer.

  From behind came the huge roar of a big motorbike engine. He looked round only for long enough to see it was red.

  ‘Shit-shit-shit.’

  To their right, another smaller footpath sloped down behind the houses ahead of them. Without waiting to see the bike appear at the junction in front of him, Sloth stood on the pedal again, heading for the path as Tap clung on.

  The incline helped, as did the weight of the two boys. The bike freewheeled fast, Tap ducking low branches. On the tarmac, a man with a Yorkshire terrier was coming towards them.

  ‘Get out the way,’ screamed Tap.

  The man pressed himself into the shrubs, yanking on the small dog’s lead.

  ‘Bloody wan—’ the man shouted after them.

  Sloth didn’t stop, not even when they got to the end of the track, where it turned onto Ninety-Nine Steps.

  ‘No,’ yelped Tap.

  Sloth was not listening. Ninety-Nine Steps was the quick way down; a path down the escarpment to the main road at the bottom.

  Sloth turned the BMX right, straight down into the steep incline, front wheel bumping against the first of the stone steps. Tap’s legs juddered as the bike gathered speed. Sloth could duck down because he hunched over the handlebars, but Tap was standing on the back, trying to keep a hold on Sloth’s shoulders. Branches and brambles slapped him in the face.

  They were about two-thirds of the way down when the front wheel slid into the weeds at the side of the path, lifting the rear of the BMX into the air. Tap released his grip on Sloth’s back and found himself catapulted over Sloth and the bike that was already slithering sideways now down the remaining steps.

  They were going to die.

  But he landed on his hands, head down, and bounced across the pavement, hitting the metal barrier at the bottom just before Sloth rolled into him.

  There was a moment of stillness, the bike’s rear wheel spinning on its ratchet. The front wheel’s spokes were wrecked, pointing at all angles.

  Without saying anything, they stood and ran, abandoning the BMX, dodging through the moving traffic as horns blared around them.

  ELEVEN

  It was a hell of a story: Severed Limb Discovered in Art Gallery. Two TV news cameras were setting up on the harbour arm, framing shots of the building.

  The gallery director seemed to be remarkably calm about it all. There were things that needed to be done, so he was doing them.

  Cupidi had requested the gallery’s CCTV footage. They would have weeks of it to look through. Some civilian would be given the job of staring at a screen for hours on end, logging anything interesting. Even if the arm had arrived inside the artwork, whoever had done this might have come to gloat.

  ‘Sergeant?’

  Cupidi looked around. The director was standing behind her, his assistant close by.

  ‘Before we give this statement to the press, we’re going to need to inform the owners, obviously. I’ve tried phoning them but have been unable to get through. We don’t want them just switching on the TV and finding out about this that way.’

  ‘Who’s that? A gallery?’

  ‘The work belongs to a private art fund.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘The Evert and Astrid Miller Foundation.’

  ‘I meant, what exactly is a private art fund?’

  ‘It’s an organisation set up by people who buy art as an investment. And in this case, they sometimes loan the works out to institutions such as ourselves.’

  ‘Why would they do that?’ asked Cupidi.

  The director’s smile was the thin kind people wear when you’ve hit some nerve. ‘Because . . . because they are art lovers who want the work to be seen.’

  It took a second for the penny to drop. ‘And investors who want the value of the art to rise, which presumably it does if you show it at a gallery like this?’

  ‘I can assure you that our curators only select work on its merit.’ Cupidi supposed it would be awkward for him to admit that a gallery built with millions from the public purse was playing a role in increasing the value of private art. Cupidi was in unknown territory. The art world had rules she didn’t understand.

  ‘Would this art fund have been responsible for the artwork before it got here?’

  ‘I’ll be honest, I don’t know whether it was on display elsewhere or in storage.’

  ‘What’s the name again?’

  ‘It’s the Evert and Astrid Miller Foundation.’

  ‘I’ll need their contact details,’ said Cupidi.

  The director hesitated. ‘I would prefer to speak to them first. We have a duty of care for any artwork loaned to us. That includes any negative publicity that may occur surrounding it. Obviously, they are public figures.’

  ‘And they own the work?’

  ‘Their foundation does, technically.’

  ‘Astrid Miller?’ said Ferriter, looking up from her notes.

  ‘Yes.’

  Cupidi looked round. ‘Who?’

  ‘Astrid Miller,’ Ferriter whispered, raising her eyebrows. ‘You know. You must know.’

  Cupidi turned back to the director. ‘Call them again.’

  ‘It’s a Saturday. I’m not sure anyone’s there to pick up.’

  ‘I’m sure there are other ways to contact them if you can’t supply the details.’

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting for a second that I wouldn’t,’ the director said curtly. ‘Give me a minute. I’ll try again.’

  When he’d turned his back on them to
make another call, Cupidi turned to the constable and mouthed, ‘Who?’

  ‘Seriously?’ Ferriter’s mouth hung open.

  ‘Seriously.’

  ‘You’ve never heard of her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I don’t believe you, sometimes. Astrid Theroux. The model. Used to hang around in clubs with Kate Moss and Oasis and all that. No? She was amazing. Then got married to that rich bloke.’

  ‘Model marries rich bloke. Surprise,’ said Moon.

  The name Astrid Theroux was beginning to ring a vague bell.

  ‘When I was a teenager she was in the papers all the time,’ Ferriter told her. ‘Then she married that internet entrepreneur. She kind of disappeared . . . Well, not disappeared. She does charity stuff, but she stopped working as a model. I mean, she used to be huge.’

  ‘Brilliant.’

  ‘Yeah, she is,’ said Ferriter, missing Cupidi’s irony. No officer wanted famous people involved in a case. ‘She was just so bloody beautiful and cool. And positive, you know? I loved her.’

  ‘Nobody’s picking up still,’ said the director. ‘I had to leave a message.’

  ‘What are you going to tell that lot, then?’ Cupidi nodded towards the press, waiting with their cameras.

  ‘I’d appreciate it if we could keep the name of the artwork itself quiet for now. That’s the only thing that connects the Foundation to this. We owe the Millers a duty of care.’

  ‘Our duty of care belongs mainly to the person without the arm.’

  The director had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘Obviously. Yes. But . . .’

  ‘However,’ Cupidi continued, ‘there’s currently no operational reason why we need to mention publicly which artwork it was found in . . .’

  The man looked relieved.

  ‘But we will be contacting them ourselves whenever we have to.’

  The director’s lips tightened, just a fraction.

  ‘We’re investigating what may be a murder. Or not. There’s a possibility the victim is still alive.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘So you can understand why we would prefer to proceed at our own schedule.’

  He nodded. ‘I’m not trying to be an arse. It’s just we’re not used to this kind of thing, and we’re used to doing things in our own way.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Cupidi and set off back to the car, walking past the reporters.

  Cupidi got in the driving seat this time and started the engine. Moon got in beside her. ‘We’ll need to find what documents they have on where that artwork’s been this last two months and who’s been in charge of it.’

  ‘Serious? Astrid Miller? Can I do it?’ begged Ferriter, in the back.

  ‘I doubt she actually runs it,’ said Cupidi.

  ‘Yeah. I know. Just saying.’

  ‘An arm. Crazy.’ Moon shook his head. He turned to face Ferriter in the back of the car. ‘Fancy a meal later? We could go out somewhere.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Got too much work.’

  ‘We could do that together.’

  There was a long prickly silence until Ferriter said quietly, ‘Take a bloody hint, Peter.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  Cupidi drove, wondering what exactly had gone on between the pair of them.

  TWELVE

  They ran across the road, into town, looking over their shoulders, thumping into kids staring at their mobiles, finally ducking into the alleyway by the old video shop. Sloth stood at the corner, scanning the street. ‘He was in your house, Tap. I saw him.’

  ‘I know.’ Tap had a stitch. He was bent double, gasping. His leg still ached and his arm was bruised from the fall down Ninety-Nine Steps.

  ‘The same guy we robbed. In your bloody house. How did he get in?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ Tap gasped. ‘Was it him round yours too?’

  ‘Yeah. On your uncle Mikey’s bike. He must have nicked it. Mikey’s a hard nut. His Suzuki. How did he get it? What are we going to do, Tap?’

  Tap straightened, clutching his side. ‘Mikey’s dead.’

  ‘Say that again.’

  Tap repeated what Dennis had heard. Sloth’s eyes were wide. ‘This is some mess, bro. He knows where we both live. What’s going on?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t frickin’ know.’

  ‘It’s the guy whose phone we nicked, right?’

  ‘Think so.’

  There was a pile of rubbish at one end of the alley: somebody’s half-eaten takeaway dumped on the street, the top of a pineapple, an empty cigarette packet.

  ‘What we going to do, Tap?’

  Normally it was Tap who asked questions like that; it was Sloth who came up with all the ideas. Tap just shook his head. ‘All it was was a phone. We just filched a stupid phone. I’d give it back to him, only I don’t even know where it is now. Mikey had it, didn’t he?’

  ‘We should go to the cops. Say we think we know who killed Mikey.’

  ‘We nicked his iPhone, bro.’

  Sloth giggled nervily. ‘He’s going to tell the police that. “Yeah, OK, I murdered this man, but they stole my mobile first.” We don’t have to tell the feds that, just that he’s the one who killed Mikey.’

  ‘We don’t know hundred per cent it was him that did Mikey.’

  ‘Listen to yourself. Course it was. Otherwise you wouldn’t have run like your arse was alight.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Tap said, ‘but we don’t actually know, do we?’

  Sloth went to the end of the alley, looked up and down the street, then retreated towards Tap. ‘Any cash?’

  ‘Nope. Skint. About sixty pence.’

  ‘Me too.’

  They looked at each other.

  ‘What we going to do?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  They stood together, backs against the wall, saying nothing until Sloth returned to his lookout position on the corner. ‘He’s not here, anyway.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Tomorrow. Maybe go to the cops tomorrow. Once we have a chance to think. Get our story straight. OK?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Come on, then.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Anywhere. Stinks here,’ said Sloth and he turned right, towards the centre of town. Tap, looking left and right as he stepped into the street again, followed him anxiously.

  *

  Saturday evening, and the town centre was emptying out. They approached street corners warily, glanced behind themselves as they walked.

  Outside Cash Converters, a man in a dark mac was staring at them, his lips moving. Was he watching them? Or just talking to someone on a mobile? Tap looked around. It seemed like everybody was sneaking looks towards them.

  On the High Street, Dennis was still waiting outside Primark, this time on his own. ‘Hey, lads,’ he called. ‘Joseph. Benj. Come ’ere.’

  Tap and Sloth looked at each other, nervous about hearing their names shouted in the street.

  ‘Over here.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ muttered Sloth.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Dennis hailed them.

  ‘Nitch. Got any ciggies, Den?’

  ‘No.’ From the depths of his combat trousers, Dennis dug around, but instead of cigarettes, pulled out his phone and started texting.

  ‘Lend us a fiver,’ said Sloth.

  ‘Bog off. Why do you want it?’

  ‘’Cause we’re starving. Couple of quid?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Remember that time we went on a school trip and you didn’t have anything to eat, and I gave you half my ham sandwich?’ said Sloth.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Nor me,’ Sloth admitted.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ said Tap. ‘I’m hungry. Just wanted to get chips or something.’

  Dennis’s phone buzzed. He looked at the screen.

  ‘Come on, Slo.’ Tap tugged at Sloth’s sleeve. ‘Keep moving.’

  They had only gone about ten metres further when Dennis called, ‘What about a burg
er?’

  They stopped. ‘What?’

  ‘Buy you a burger.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘’Cause you shared an imaginary sandwich with me. ’Cause I’m nice.’

  Tap and Sloth exchanged a glance. ‘Serious?’

  ‘Why not?’

  Another look passed between them. They were hungry. ‘Bloody right. Come on then.’ And Tap took Sloth’s arm, dragging him back up the street.

  ‘What’s he up to?’ Sloth was saying.

  ‘Wimpy all right?’

  ‘Suppose.’ Right now Tap’s stomach actually hurt, he was that hungry.

  Dennis thumbed another text, hitched up his khakis, and set off towards the restaurant with the wide-legged gait of a man who had just got off a horse.

  ‘God, I’m starving,’ said Tap.

  ‘We sure about this?’ asked Sloth, pushing open the door.

  Tap was at the counter already. ‘Can I have a Halfpounder?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘With bacon and cheese?’

  Dennis hesitated. ‘OK.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Sloth. ‘And chips. And Coke.’

  ‘Regular or large?’ The woman behind the counter was a teenager herself, with heavily pencilled eyebrows and a tattoo on her forearm that said ‘Believe’. Her hand hovered over the till.

  Sloth smiled at Dennis and said, ‘Large.’

  Dennis looked anxious now.

  ‘Same as him,’ decided Tap.

  ‘Twenty-one sixty,’ said the server.

  ‘How much?’ The server repeated the total. ‘Jesus,’ Dennis mumbled. Tap thought he was going to refuse to pay, but instead, he dug back into his military trousers, pulled out a plastic wallet and removed two ten-pound notes and some change. ‘I’ll just have a Coke,’ he muttered.

  ‘You got a boyfriend?’ Sloth asked the server.

  The girl smiled back. ‘You’re way too young for me.’

  ‘That’s discrimination,’ said Sloth.

  The woman handed them three paper cups. ‘Go find someone your own age.’

  They went to the drinks dispenser to fill them. ‘Thanks, Dennis. We’ll pay you back.’ Tap winked at Sloth.