Deadland

by William Shaw

  ‘And anyway, what on earth has this got to do with your investigation?’

  ‘I was hoping you would tell me.’

  ‘I don’t really believe you’re asking that kind of rubbish. I am going to inform Mr Miller.’

  ‘Call him now,’ said Cupidi. ‘Go on.’ A bluff, but she was tired of pussyfooting around these people. Cupidi watched the woman put her hand into her bag, feel for her phone, but she didn’t pull it out.

  ‘OK then. Walk with me for a while.’ The bridge was just ahead of them now. She waited while Zoya Gubenko caught up with her again. ‘I was hoping we might cooperate with each other,’ said Cupidi.

  ‘I am here, aren’t I?’

  ‘Your employer’s marriage is in trouble. It’s natural you would want to keep that secret . . .’

  ‘What? And if I don’t speak to you, you’ll go to the papers. Is that how you’re threatening me?’

  Cupidi’s smile widened. ‘Well, I hadn’t been planning to, but it’s a thought. I had rather hoped you would talk to me of your own free will because a man has been killed.’

  Gubenko said quietly, ‘I am loyal to my employer.’

  ‘I’m sure you are. But I have a job to do. All I need is information.’ Cupidi found the concrete steps that led down to the path that ran alongside the east side of the river. A pair of swans were tucked under the bridge, digging at weed.

  ‘This way,’ she said, descending.

  ‘I am not happy discussing the private affairs of the Miller family,’ said Gubenko.

  Cupidi looked out on the water.

  ‘I’m a police officer investigating a serious crime. If you genuinely want to stop this blowing up into something toxic, you should talk to me now. I’m really not your enemy.’

  Fresh green reeds were poking above dark mud and plastic rubbish. A fisherman shifted his rod so they could walk past.

  ‘Astrid’s gone, hasn’t she?’ said Cupidi. ‘They’ve split up.’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Is Evert having an affair?’

  ‘I’m not discussing this.’

  ‘Talk to me, Zoya. I need your help.’

  ‘I don’t see what any of this has to do with Abir Stein.’

  ‘Abir Stein is almost certainly dead. I’m trying to understand why someone killed him. Right now, everything is relevant.’

  Gubenko’s eyes widened. ‘Stein is dead? Oh my God. That is awful.’

  ‘Were things particularly bad between Astrid and Evert?’

  ‘Back when I started work with them, three or four years ago, I always assumed he set up the Foundation to try and keep her interested in him. He’s a good man, you know.’

  ‘It was his idea?’

  ‘Yes.’

  A flash of blue passed along the opposite bank. ‘A kingfisher,’ said Cupidi.

  ‘What?’

  Cupidi looked to see where the creature had gone, flashing on up the river, but it had disappeared from sight. She shook her head slowly. ‘Sorry. My daughter is mad about birds.’

  ‘He wanted to give Astrid something to do. That’s how it started. She had been used to working as a model and then when she married him all that tailed off. But she thought she knew about contemporary art,’ Gubenko said, a little contemptuously. ‘So he bought her a toy.’

  ‘The Foundation is a plaything?’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong. It’s a serious business now, with a substantial value and an excellent inventory. But at the start Astrid just purchased whatever she liked. She paid a fortune for some Paul McCarthys at the top of the market and they weren’t even very good ones. It was a mess. She didn’t really know what she was doing. But then Abir Stein came on board, and they advertised for an administrator. And ta-da! Here I am. We have bought some very good work over the last few years.’

  ‘And Abir Stein handled that?’

  ‘He is the broker. He buys the artworks on our behalf. That’s why we employed him.’

  ‘Who hired him?’

  ‘Evert found him through colleagues. He wanted someone who would offer a practical balance to Astrid’s passions. Astrid had no experience of the art world, you understand. She doesn’t even have a basic-level degree or anything,’ she said, as if such qualifications were essential. ‘She relied on him very heavily. Sometimes you could hear her parroting a piece of his wisdom about an artist or a movement. Whenever she says anything about art, it’s almost always straight from Stein’s lips. Or mine, of course.’

  Cupidi nodded, thought for a while.

  ‘When the Foundation makes an investment, who authorises the financial transfer?’

  ‘Evert and I. Everything has to be countersigned.’

  ‘Not Astrid?’

  ‘No. She has a position of director of the Foundation, but it is non-executive.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t trust her. You heard about his first wife? She took him to the cleaners.’

  ‘I think the phrase you mean is, “She demanded an equitable share of assets”.’

  Gubenko snorted. ‘Mr Miller is naturally cautious now, put it that way.’

  ‘If they were to divorce, who would control the Foundation?’

  ‘Evert, undoubtedly. It’s well known that after his first marriage, he was careful to create a prenuptial agreement that meant his assets would remain his. And effectively the Foundation is his asset. She just works for it. Are we going far? I should let my friends know I’m going to be late for lunch.’

  ‘You don’t like Astrid Miller, do you?’

  ‘I don’t dislike her. She’s just pretty high maintenance. She thinks she knows best about everything. She pretended she’s not interested in her own celebrity, but she uses it whenever she needs to. She came into this business a complete novice. Five years on, she thinks she’s Peggy Guggenheim.’

  Cupidi wondered if she was going to explain who Peggy Guggenheim was, but she didn’t. ‘What does River Deep mean to you?’

  ‘It’s a song, isn’t it?’

  ‘You’ve never heard Abir Stein, Astrid or Evert Miller mention it?’

  ‘No. Can we go back?’ They turned and started retracing their steps.

  ‘Ross Clough, an artist from Margate, was found trespassing at Long Hill last week. Did you see him?’

  ‘Creep,’ she said. ‘Yes. Mulligan discovered him lurking around the public footpath. He had been spying on us.’

  ‘On you?’

  ‘Not me, obviously. On Evert.’

  She walked in silence back to the steps to the road, thinking about Ross Clough, and then of the two young boys in his sketch. Where were they? They seemed to have completely disappeared again. They made her feel anxious; as if she had failed them in some way.

  What was clearer was that Evert Miller had control of the finances of the Foundation and he had deliberately brought Abir Stein on board.

  *

  Back at the art store, the CSI was sitting in reception, having finished packing up his equipment. ‘Anything?’ Cupidi asked. He was sitting, computer on his lap, eating a packet of sweets.

  ‘As it happens, yes,’ he said, chewing slowly. ‘Something. Come here and take a look. I don’t know what to make of it.’

  And he moved to one side, so that Cupidi could sit next to him. A photo. A single pale comma-shaped bug. It took Cupidi a second to see that it was a maggot.

  FORTY-ONE

  The fever got worse that day, not better. Tap was thirsty, but his throat stung every time he swallowed.

  Sloth said, ‘I should call an ambulance. I don’t think you got to give a name or anything.’

  It hurt Tap to shake his head. If they went to a hospital, they would fetch the police. ‘You should go. Go home to your mum.’

  ‘He knows where I live too, remember.’

  ‘You should go. She’ll be worried,’ said Tap. ‘What if she’s in danger too?’ He wasn’t sure which parts were in his dreams and which were real. He closed his eye
s again.

  At some point, the big river beside them rose, lifted him gently and floated him out, under the big bridge that stretched across the wide water, past the marshland and out to a calm grey sea.

  Then the water turned colder and he began to shiver, and he felt himself sliding beneath it, the weight covering him.

  *

  When he woke later, his eyes were again gummed shut; he was used to it now. He heard Sloth shuffling about at the entrance to the hut.

  ‘The thing is, I been meaning to tell you something, bro. I think my mother may be dead,’ he whispered.

  Sloth said nothing. There was the sound of the fire being stoked, so he carried on. ‘I think the phone man may have killed her. Stabbed her that day we fell down Ninety-Nine Steps.’

  He heard the flick of a lighter.

  ‘Say something then, bro.’

  ‘Your mother is dead.’

  But that was not Sloth’s voice.

  Shocked, Tap managed to tug one eye open. It wasn’t Sloth he had been talking to. He gasped for breath.

  Silhouetted against the light, the shape of a strange man, much bigger than Sloth.

  *

  He tried to scream but he couldn’t.

  This had all the quality of the dream he had just been having, but this time he knew it wasn’t.

  Eyes wide now, he adjusted to the brightness of the spring day.

  The man was sitting on a large blue box, just at the doorway, smoking a cigarette.

  ‘Sloth,’ Tap gasped, trying to shout.

  No answer. Sloth wasn’t there. He scrabbled back on his elbows away from the man.

  ‘He’s not here,’ said the man. ‘You’re alone.’

  And then, as Tap’s eyes adjusted to the light, he came into focus.

  *

  Tap looked at him. Blinked.

  It was not Phone Man. This one was old, his face dark with dirt, and he watched Tap struggling to sit up with little expression on his face.

  ‘Where’s my friend?’ Tap asked, his heart still thumping. His voice sounded as old as the man he was looking at.

  The man shrugged. Don’t know.

  ‘This is our place,’ Tap croaked. ‘Our hut. Our fire. Go away. Bog off.’

  The man snorted; took another pull on his toothpick-thin cigarette. Tap watched the paper curl as it turned to ash, then fall to the ground.

  ‘Your hut.’ The man snorted. ‘Your bloody fire,’ he said. As if owning a fire was a ridiculous idea.

  ‘When my mate comes back, he’ll mess you up,’ Tap muttered.

  Dropping the remains of the cigarette into the fire, the man stood up. As he did so, Tap realised he was huge, six-foot something, hands the size of plates. Upright, Tap saw he was wearing an old, tattered work jacket and beneath it dark olive waders that came up above his belly, into which he had tucked a greasy woollen sweater. He looked like he’d been dredged out of the river.

  ‘Like to see him try.’ The man turned, picked up a piece of an old wooden pallet and added it to the fire. ‘Our fire,’ he said again, laughing, moved his blue box a couple of inches back as the flames grew hotter, then sat down again on it.

  Tap raised himself slowly. His head swam from the effort. He had to stand and go and find Sloth.

  ‘Sit down,’ said the man.

  Tap glared at him, legs trembling. He did not feel safe with this stranger invading their space. As he tried to step out of the sleeping bag, his foot caught and he stumbled, banging his arm on the brick wall. With the pain came prickles of sweat.

  ‘Down,’ the man said again, this time impatiently.

  Slumping back to his spot on the concrete, Tap wished the old man would go away. The effort of trying to stand had exhausted him. Behind his eyes, a sharp pain grew. Sloth would be disappointed in him for not protecting their HQ.

  The man reached inside his coat and pulled out a small tin. Carefully, he set about making more cigarettes, dropping tobacco, licking papers and rolling them with the fingers and thumb of a single hand.

  Tap would have asked for one, but the sight of his filthy nails and the string of spittle that stretched from paper to lip whenever he licked one made his stomach churn.

  He turned his head to one side, and when he turned back it was dark. He was alone. He must have fallen asleep somehow.

  The fire was still burning though. He could feel the heat warming his feet.

  FORTY-TWO

  It was Saturday afternoon when Cupidi made it to the hospital in Dartford.

  There was a cafe in the huge glass reception area. She bought herself a coffee and a chocolate bar and sat on a hard plastic chair for a minute, thinking. Around her, visitors mingled with patients in pyjamas.

  She pulled out her phone to switch it off. There was a text from Jill Ferriter: Sorry. Please call me.

  She would do it in a minute, she decided. Putting her phone back into her pocket she drank her coffee, then stood and walked to the lift.

  The nurse on intensive care looked at his notes. ‘Mr Khan’s condition deteriorated last night. He has septicaemia. The knife he was stabbed with may not have been clean.’

  Outside, relatives waited with drawn faces, clutching undrunk cups of tea. A boy in a green Incredible Hulk suit lay on the floor, bored.

  ‘OK to go in?’ she asked.

  ‘He’s on a lot of painkillers. You might not get much out of him right now.’

  Cupidi went in to the side room. She had seen many dead bodies in her life and Khan didn’t look that different. His head was propped on a pillow and his eyes stared at the ceiling. They didn’t move when she entered the room, so she leaned over him, into his field of vision.

  ‘Who are you?’ he whispered.

  ‘Police.’

  His eyes were sunken, dark-ringed. ‘Good. Because they’re killing me in here,’ he said, his voice paper-thin.

  ‘I’ve come about the boys.’

  He blinked slowly.

  ‘I want to find the boys,’ she said. ‘The ones who were in your flat.’

  He gave his head the tiniest slow shake. ‘No boys in my flat.’

  ‘I know you’re lying.’

  He blew spittle from his lips. It bubbled and burst as he tried to turn his head away.

  ‘Tell me something. Were they scared?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The man who stabbed you. What if he was trying to kill them, not you?’

  He closed his eyes.

  ‘That’s what was happening, wasn’t it?’

  The tiniest nod. That was why the boys had not been found, she thought. They didn’t want to be, because they were running away from something.

  ‘What was he like, this man?’

  ‘Didn’t get a chance. To see him.’

  ‘Listen, Frank. I need to find those two boys. If he was trying to kill them, they might still be in danger. You have to tell me where you met them.’

  ‘Seriously?’ His lips turned upwards, but Cupidi wasn’t sure whether it was a smile or a spasm of pain. ‘So you can bang me up?’ She leaned in close. His voice seemed to be composed of faint notes heard from a long way off.

  She looked round, found a chair, sat and watched him breathing. Each breath seemed to take an age.

  ‘I won’t lie. None of this is going to go well for you, Frank. But I think they’re in big trouble,’ she said. ‘Don’t you?’

  He hissed slowly. It took her a second to realise that he had said yes.

  ‘So you do give a shit, don’t you, Frank? If he gets to them before we do, it’ll be bad. Why does he want to kill them, Frank?’

  He said nothing; his eyes were shut. The grey vertical blinds on the window were closed. She stood and pulled two of the fabric slats apart and looked out.

  From here you could see the massive span of the Queen Elizabeth II Bridge, crossing the Thames.

  ‘I’ve got a daughter. She’s seventeen,’ she said. ‘About the same age as those boys, maybe. It’s such a dangerous time
. You don’t know what you are yet. There are bad people out there. You know that only too well, Frank. It could go either way.’

  Outside, the ward was hushed. Two nurses whipered behind a curtain.

  ‘I love my daughter. But it’s so hard to be there, halfway between being a child and an adult. We go all soft about small children, but I think the really vulnerable ones are the teenagers. Easy for people to pick on, aren’t they?’

  He seemed to be asleep now, or at least, was pretending to be.

  ‘I’ve spent years locking up killers,’ she said. ‘Some people seem to become immune to it, but all that time I’ve found the idea of killing repugnant. It still wakes me up at night, you know? It has done all my life.’

  An orderly appeared, looked around the door. ‘Oh. I’ll come back in a minute.’ The door closed.

  Cupidi spoke again. ‘There are people who want to kill you, Frank, aren’t there? How must that make you feel?’

  No reaction. Not even a flicker.

  ‘But the harder I think about it, I don’t think that guy who stabbed you was one of them. I think you were just in the way. We’ve got a chance to help those kids. You and me, Frank. I really need to know where they are.’

  The man beneath the sheets didn’t stir. A machine at his bedside whirred. A small cog twisted on his drip.

  She watched Frank for a while. And then his eyes opened. And he whispered something.

  The noise of the hospital seemed to grow louder.

  She leaned closer. ‘What did you say, Frank?’

  ‘Twelve words,’ he said. ‘They only had eleven.’

  ‘What are you trying to say, Frank? Where are they?’

  ‘Paralysed . . . Potential.’

  She took out a notebook.

  ‘Ruby,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Ruby Tuesday.’

  ‘Ruby Tuesday? Like the song?’

  His eyes closed again and this time his mouth fell open. Cupidi fetched the nurse who she had spoken to a few minutes earlier. ‘Is he OK?’

  ‘It’s just the morphine,’ she said. ‘Makes you hallucinate. He’s a pretty sick man.’

  *

  Outside the ward she switched the phone back on. It buzzed instantly.