Deadland

by William Shaw

  ‘Evil cow,’ said Ferriter.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I loved her. I genuinely did. Oh God,’ exclaimed Ferriter. ‘Oh shit. Help me, Alex.’

  Mrs Moon was approaching, a glass of something dark in her hand. She looked a little drunk.

  ‘You’re Jill Ferriter, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m very sorry for your loss. Peter was a . . .’ Ferriter hesitated.

  ‘He was a good policeman,’ said Cupidi.

  ‘Yes. He was,’ said his mother. ‘He talked about you a lot, Jill. He was in love with you, I think.’

  Afterwards, Ferriter sat in the car and howled again. ‘What was I supposed to say? “He had sex with me when I didn’t want it”?’

  ‘No. You weren’t.’

  ‘I feel so bad.’

  ‘It’s not you,’ said Cupidi. ‘He made those decisions himself. Every single one of them. The good ones and the bad.’

  But nothing she could say could console the constable.

  *

  The summer passed. They let Frank Khan out of hospital, but he went straight back inside for breaking his Sexual Offender Prevention Order by inviting boys back to his flat.

  Cupidi kept busy. She took days off, going for long walks and cycle rides. Her mother, Helen, came down to stay with a boyfriend who had been in some 1970s rock band and who did yoga naked every morning on the ridge that surrounded the houses, where all the neighbours could see him.

  The opening of Ross Clough’s exhibition was held the following autumn at a disused shop in the middle of the Old Town in Margate. It was called ‘The Murder of Abir Stein’. Cupidi had found an invitation on her desk. A note: I really hope you can come! I have some very special guests of honour.

  Ferriter had been hauled up in front of professional standards over being drunk and assaulting another officer. She had received a formal warning, but nothing more. Moon had never made his formal complaint. Did she want to come to the exhibition, Cupidi asked?

  ‘Oh Jesus, no. I don’t want to come. I think I’d end up killing him. You’re not actually going, are you?’ Ferriter had said.

  *

  They parked next to the old roller coaster and walked down to the Old Town.

  Ross Clough had waited until the trials of Allan Mulligan and Astrid Miller were completed before announcing his exhibition.

  The small shop was packed when they got there. The glass had steamed up because it was so full inside. People holding wine and cigarettes had spilled out onto the streets.

  Their names were on a list at the door. The sculpture of Astrid Miller sat in the middle of the room. Cupidi wondered how he had managed to get it out of the small room. He had made another one of a grotesque monkey, arm stuck in a jar.

  The walls were full of drawings joined by lines of red wool. The picture of the two boys, the Long Hill estate, herself, Abir Stein and a new one of Jill Ferriter. ‘He’s such a letch. My boobs are never that big,’ said Ferriter.

  Clough had added more. On one wall was pinned a huge composite drawing of Dartford Marsh where the boys had hidden; there was also a portrait of Benjamin’s mother, another murder victim.

  ‘Artist Ross Clough’s action research project “The Murder of Abir Stein” is the only artwork which has been pivotal in solving a crime,’ Ferriter read from the catalogue. ‘What bollocks.’

  ‘It’s true. He did help us form connections.’

  ‘I hate this,’ said Ferriter. ‘It’s all voyeurism. Aw, Christ. Look,’ she said.

  In a dark corner, brightened by a single spotlight, was a picture of Peter Moon. It had been copied from the Kent Messenger. A picture of him as a boy in a football team, taken from his bedroom wall.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘No.’ She was drinking orange juice, avoiding alcohol. ‘I’m bloody not.’

  Cupidi squeezed her hand.

  When Ross Clough spotted them, he was delighted. ‘I’m so glad you came. You are looking absolutely beautiful.’ He leaned forward to kiss Ferriter on the cheek, like they did in the art world.

  ‘Fuck off,’ said Ferriter, recoiling.

  ‘Where did you get the money for all this?’ Cupidi gestured around the room.

  ‘I have a sponsor.’

  ‘Is that what you call it? You got the money of Evert, didn’t you? In return for not telling the world about Zoya Gubenko.’

  ‘It’s a confidential arrangement,’ he said. ‘I can’t discuss it, obviously. I’m expecting a journalist from The Times. I’m hoping you could speak to him. Some people from ARTnews too.’ He stood up on his toes, scanning the room, as if concerned that they might already be here.

  ‘I’m not sure that would be appropriate.’

  ‘Just a few words,’ said Clough.

  ‘I’ll give him a few words,’ muttered Ferriter.

  ‘Wait. Some people I want you to meet.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My guests of honour.’

  He took them both by the arm and pulled them over to a corner where the two boys were standing with Joseph’s mother, Felicia Watt.

  ‘Well, there.’

  ‘Hiya,’ mumbled Sloth, shy in this unfamiliar environment.

  ‘Keeping out of trouble?’ asked Cupidi. ‘They gave you community service, I heard.’

  ‘Mum won’t even let me have wine. I’m eighteen now. I should be able to do what I want.’

  Tap re-appeared, clutching a plastic cup. His had red wine in it. Sloth scowled. ‘He’s got some, Mum.’

  Cupidi laughed. ‘What do you think? Of the art.’

  ‘Total rubbish,’ said Sloth. ‘Tap’s pretending he understands it. He’s started at bloody art school now. Tap did a picture for the exhibition. You should see it.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘It’s way cleverer than anything Ross has done,’ said Sloth. ‘That’s why he stuck it in this corner. He’s ashamed at how much better Tap’s stuff is. He’s such a knob.’

  ‘Correct,’ said Ferriter.

  The pencil drawing was framed. A small sign next to it said it was called Mum.

  ‘I didn’t know you could draw,’ said Cupidi.

  ‘See?’ Sloth stood in front of it, pointing. ‘That’s me. Only not as good-looking as real life. He’s real good though, isn’t he?’

  It was a picture of the bedroom in which Tap’s mother had died. In the drawing, his mother wasn’t dead, though; she was kneeling behind her son on the bed, just where Cupidi had been when she had been trying to persuade the drugged boy to staunch the flowing wound on his friend’s neck. Tap was sitting up, cradling Sloth as the wound on his neck bled.

  ‘I think it’s a little disturbing, but he did it for his counsellor. So maybe it helps him,’ Sloth’s mother said.

  ‘I think it’s dead good,’ said Sloth.

  ‘So do I.’ Cupidi leaned into it. The tenderness with which he held his friend.

  ‘I kept dreaming about what happened,’ said Tap. ‘Because my mum was there that day. Swear to God. She had died, but she was there with me. She wouldn’t leave me. I heard her telling me what to do. She told me to hold a pillow on you to stop you dying, mate. She was there with me all the time. Just like what I drew. And when I was weak she helped me. She said, “Don’t close your eyes. Stay awake.” I felt like it was my fault she died, but she was there with me, helping me.’

  Cupidi said nothing. She had noticed Ferriter’s reddening eyes.

  ‘Don’t get weird again,’ Sloth muttered to Tap.

  ‘I mean, it’s very good,’ said Clough, seeing the press of people around it. It seemed to be attracting more attention than his own work. ‘In a naive way.’

  Behind his back, Sloth curled his fingers round into a circle, flexed his wrist up and down. Tosser. Cupidi laughed out loud.

  ‘Tap’s got a boyfriend at art school now, you know,’ he said to Cupidi. ‘Don’t tell my mum. She’d go mental.’

  ‘How do you feel about that?’

  Slot
h shrugged. ‘We’re still besties.’

  ‘I’m glad. You went through a lot together.’

  ‘Yeah. Did, didn’t we?’

  The crowd was thinning out. Ross Clough looked disappointed. Nobody stayed long at these events. The journalist from The Times had not appeared, nor the people from ARTnews.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Clough said. He was drunk and looked angry. He was still on the outside, looking in.

  Later, Cupidi strolled down the harbour arm with Ferriter, past the neon sign that read I Never Stopped Loving You.

  ‘How’s Bill?’ Ferriter asked.

  ‘Still pretty dark, but he’s getting there. He’s started training with an ecology company. He counts bats at night. He’s obsessed with badgers.’

  ‘Badgers? Are you serious? Actually, I wouldn’t mind something like that,’ said Ferriter. ‘Something where all this doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Same.’

  ‘Liar.’ Ferriter punched her arm. ‘You’d be lost without this.’

  Cupidi quickened her pace, leaving the younger woman behind.

  Only that morning she had left her desk to find an empty stall in the bathroom, locking herself in. She had been in it more often than she wanted to admit to herself, in recent weeks, on the days when she could still feel Peter Moon’s cold blood soaking through the knees on her jeans. Behind the door, she would close her eyes and dig her nails into her palms and wonder how long she could keep doing this.

  THANKS

  Thanks to Brian Ogilvie, Lisa Cutts (several times), Rebecca Bradley (again, several times), Graham Bartlett and Michaela Crimmin for advice, Karolina Sutton and, as always, to Jane McMorrow. And, again as always, to the awesome foursome: Roz Brody, Mike Holmes, Jann King and CJ Sansom.