Martyn Pig

by Kevin Brooks

  ‘Sit down, Mr Bennett,’ Breece ordered.

  Bennett’s face glowed red as he lowered himself back into his chair. I almost felt sorry for him.

  Breece went on. ‘Preliminary reports indicate that your father may have been dead for some time.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I said.

  ‘Neither do we. That’s why we’re talking to you.’ He paused, scratching absently at the back of his neck. ‘Is there anything you want to tell me, Martyn? Anything you might have forgotten?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Anything.’ He paused. ‘Dean West, for example.’

  This was the tricky part. I hesitated. ‘Maybe ...’

  Breece leaned back in his chair. ‘Maybe?’

  I waited, blinking my eyes, looking nervous. ‘I was scared.’

  ‘Scared of what?’

  ‘Of him, Dean.’

  ‘Why were you scared of him?’

  ‘He said he was going to get me.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘A couple of weeks ago,’ I explained, stuttering, trying not to cry. ‘There was a Christmas dance, an end of term thing at school. I was talking to a girl. That’s all I was doing, just talking to her. I didn’t know she was Dean’s girlfriend.’

  From behind me, Finlay spoke for the first time. ‘What’s her name?’

  I didn’t turn round. ‘I don’t know. I only spoke to her for a minute or two. She was on her own, waiting in the corridor. We just started talking. She seemed quite friendly. She was pretty. We were just talking. Then Dean appeared at the end of the corridor and she suddenly got frightened and told me I’d better go. He was her boyfriend, she said, he didn’t like her talking to other boys. I thought she was just being stupid, you know, trying to impress me. But she looked really scared. So I decided to go. Just as I turned to leave I heard Dean shout out something and then he started to come after me.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  I shrugged. ‘I ran. He looked angry, mad. I think he was drunk.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I just ran. I don’t know if he followed me, I didn’t look back. I went home. I didn’t think any more about it. But then, a couple of days later, I started hearing rumours that he was after me, that he knew who I was and that he was going to get me.’

  Breece looked puzzled. ‘Because of the girl?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘And you don’t know her name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How old was she?’ Finlay asked. ‘What did she look like?’

  ‘About sixteen, seventeen. My height, short blonde hair, pretty.’

  ‘Was she someone from school?’

  ‘No. I’d never seen her before.’

  ‘What was Dean doing at a school dance?’ Breece asked.

  ‘I don’t know. He was there with some other bikers.’

  Breece frowned. He wasn’t happy. ‘You have seen him recently, then?’

  I nodded, then remembered the tape and said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Last week,’ I said remorsefully. ‘He came round to my house.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Thursday. With one of his biker friends.’

  ‘Name?’ said Finlay.

  ‘I don’t know. He was shorter than Dean, slighter, younger, with straggly black hair. They came into the house ... I thought they were going to get me ...’ I shuddered at the memory.

  Breece shot another glance at Finlay. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Dad couldn’t help me, he was ill, fast asleep, upstairs in bed. Dean pushed me about a bit, told me to stay away from his girlfriend or he’d kill me.’

  ‘He said that? That he’d kill you?’

  ‘Yes. Then he asked me if there was any money in the house. He said if I didn’t give him some money him and his friend would do me. I told him there wasn’t any, we didn’t have any money, but he didn’t believe me. Then he started searching everywhere, pulling out drawers, looking in pots, all over the place, but he couldn’t find anything. I was really scared, he was acting crazy. He told his friend to watch me while he went upstairs. I heard him searching through my bedroom, then Dad’s room ...’

  ‘He went into your father’s room?’

  ‘Yes. He was everywhere. When he came back down he was carrying some letters and he had this mad grin on his face. They were the letters you showed me, the ones about Dad’s money, the will. I didn’t know anything about it.’

  Bennett spoke up. ‘Just a minute, Martyn. You don’t have to—’

  ‘It’s all right,’ I said, ‘I want to tell them what happened.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but—’

  ‘I want to. All right?’

  Bennett pouted and went back to his notepad.

  I went on. ‘Dean showed me the letters and told me he wanted the money, all of it. Thirty thousand pounds. I told him I didn’t know anything about it, it was Dad’s money. It was probably in the bank. But he didn’t care. He was all wound up, like he was on drugs or something. He told me he’d be back on Monday and if I didn’t have the money then, he’d kill me.’

  ‘Why didn’t you report this to us?’ asked Breece.

  ‘He told me that if anything happened to him his friends would get me.’

  ‘Did he come back? On Monday?’

  ‘Yes,’ I sniffed. ‘It was about lunchtime. I didn’t know what to do. I was going to talk to Dad about it, but he was ill until Saturday, then he disappeared. I was on my own. I was scared, I didn’t know what to do. I told Dean I couldn’t get the money, I tried to explain, but he wouldn’t listen, he was furious, ranting and raving, saying I was dead meat, I was history ...’

  ‘Was he alone?’

  ‘I don’t know. I thought I saw someone on the back of his motorbike when he arrived, the same one who was with him on Thursday, but Dean was alone when he came into the house, so I’m not sure. It was snowing, I couldn’t see properly.’

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘He threatened me some more and ... I don’t know ... he went upstairs for a bit, used the bathroom, then I heard him stomping around in Dad’s room again. He had a bag with him, like a rucksack. I think he was nicking stuff.’

  ‘What stuff?’

  ‘I don’t know. I never went in Dad’s room. I don’t know what he had.’

  ‘He definitely went into the bathroom?’

  ‘Yes. I heard him.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Nothing really. When he came downstairs he said I had one more chance to get the money. He’d be back that night, with his friends this time.’ I shrugged. ‘But he never showed up.’

  The room was silent for a while. Bennett stopped writing and Breece just stared across the table at me, tugging at the skin of his neck, thinking. Behind me, I could hear Finlay scribbling in a notebook, and across the room the tape recorder whirred on, mindlessly recording the silence.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?’ Breece asked.

  I looked down, ashamed. ‘I was scared. I didn’t know what to do. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Did you go anywhere near Dean’s motorbike, at any time?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you see anyone else go near it?’

  ‘No. Unless there was someone on the back of it when he arrived, you know, the one who was with him on Thursday.’

  ‘Did you see Dean with a sleeping bag?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about in his bag? You said he had a rucksack. Could there have been a sleeping bag in his rucksack? Or anything else?’

  I thought about that. ‘Maybe,’ I said, ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘About this money—’

  ‘I think that’s enough for now, Inspector,’ Bennett interrupted.

  ‘I have a few more ques—’

  ‘I am a bit tired, actually,’ I said. Which was putting it mildly. Lying’s a tiring business, and together with no sleep and nothing to eat, I was just about ready to drop.

&n
bsp; Breece studied me again. It was hard to tell what he was thinking now. But at least I’d given him something to think about.

  ‘All right,’ he said eventually, looking at his watch. ‘Interview terminated at 13.02pm.’ He nodded at Finlay to turn off the tape recorder.

  ‘Can I go home, now?’ I asked.

  Breece stood up and stretched, glancing at Bennett.

  Bennett said, ‘We can’t let you stay in the house on your own, Martyn.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You’re too young.’

  ‘I’ve done it before.’

  ‘I dare say you have,’ he said, neatly packing his notepad and pen back into his briefcase. ‘Your aunt has kindly offered to look after you.’

  ‘No way,’ I said.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I’m not going with her.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m not. I’m not going to.’

  Bennett’s thin lips smiled. ‘I’m afraid there’s nowhere else.’

  ‘I’ll stay here.’

  Finlay found that amusing and grinned quietly to himself.

  ‘You can’t stay here,’ Bennett said.

  His stupid voice, the way he talked to me like I was mental or something, I felt like punching him in the mouth. I knew I would if this carried on much longer. So I shut up.

  Bennett took my silence for acceptance. ‘I’ll give you a lift to your aunt’s. We can talk on the way, sort things out.’

  I’ll sort you out, I thought.

  Breece was watching me from across the room. I knew he didn’t believe me. He knew I was lying. And I knew he didn’t know why. But what could he do?

  ‘Is that all, Inspector?’ Bennett asked.

  Breece didn’t take his eyes off me.

  ‘Inspector?’

  Breece turned to Bennett and looked at him like he was a bad smell. Bennett pursed his lips. There was an awkward silence, then Breece shrugged, nodded and began to clear his stuff from the desk. ‘We’ll need to speak to you again,’ he said to me.

  ‘I won’t leave town,’ I replied.

  He grinned coldly but said nothing. Finlay was writing something on the back of the tapes. He pocketed them, closed his notebook, glanced at Breece, then went to wait by the door. Breece put his jacket on and started across the room.

  ‘How did you find him?’ I asked.

  Breece froze. ‘What?’

  ‘My dad. How did you find him?’

  ‘Divers.’

  ‘Yes, but how did you know he was there?’

  ‘Know he was where?’

  ‘In the gravel pit. You told me, he was sunk at the bottom of a gravel pit, weighed down with rocks.’

  ‘Stones, I said.’

  ‘Stones, rocks, what’s the difference?’

  The hint of a smile flickered on his craggy old face. He clipped his pen into his jacket pocket. ‘Anonymous phone call,’ he explained. ‘Three o’clock this morning from a stolen mobile phone. Gave us the precise location of the body. Male voice, fortyish maybe, sounded drunk.’ He buttoned his jacket. ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘No,’ I said, a shade too quickly.

  Breece raised an eyebrow and opened the door.

  ‘Is that it?’ I asked.

  ‘For now.’

  It was bright outside. Cold, bright and humdrum. Another reality. It was like coming out of the cinema into the late afternoon daylight when everything feels dull and pale and flat. The light, the smell of the air, the sound of the sparse Christmas Day traffic – all too real. Peter bloody Bennett marched along beside me through the station car park, swinging his car keys in one hand and his stupid briefcase in the other, prattling away about god-knows-what. But I wasn’t listening. I was thinking of Alex.

  Alex.

  You thought of everything, didn’t you?

  Epilogue

  And that’s about it, really. That’s just about all I’m going to tell you. I’ve been at Aunty Jean’s for almost a year now. It’s not as bad as I thought it would be. Although that’s not to say it’s great or anything. There’s plenty of Aunty’s crap to deal with. She’s forever trying to educate me, for one thing. Constantly introducing me to what she thinks are the social niceties of life – boring little parties, nice people, manners, hobbies. Social education, she calls it. ‘Get yourself a decent hobby, Martyn, for goodness sake – rambling, bird-watching, something healthy. You can’t spend all day lying on your bed reading detective books.’

  Why not?

  And she always wants to know where I’m going, where I’ve been, who I’ve been with. Not that it really matters, I hardly ever go anywhere. And even when I do I don’t tell her anything. I just lie. But still, it gets on my nerves.

  At least her house is quite nice. Semi-detached, on the other side of town, nice and quiet with plenty of room. And she’s all right for money, too. So things aren’t too bad.

  The funny thing is, it turns out she’s a drinker too. Just like Dad. It must run in the family. She makes out that she only drinks socially – sherry, cocktails, that kind of thing – but she’s got bottles hidden all over the place. Under the sink, in the airing cupboard, in the bathroom. Gin, mostly. You wouldn’t know she’s drunk a lot of the time, she covers it up pretty well, a lot better than Dad. But some nights, after she’s been sipping all day, I see her stumbling up the stairs, red-faced and boozy, wall-eyed, mumbling drunkenly to herself. She pretends she has a head-cold, holds a scented handkerchief to her mouth to hide the smell of the drink. But it’s all right, I don’t really mind. She doesn’t get violent or anything, she’s more of a maudlin drunk. She just cries a lot. Nice, quiet, drunken tears.

  The whole Dad and Dean thing never came to anything. There was a coroner’s inquest, of course, then a couple of weeks of madness with all the newspapers and the television people crawling all over the place. And then the funeral, which I hated. It was terrible. Sitting in this stupid chapel with a load of people I didn’t know, all silent, their eyes carefully avoiding the cloth-covered box waiting patiently at the front while taped funeral music groaned out from hidden speakers. I remember looking around, staring at all these miserable faces, wondering who on earth they were. That old woman dressed in a sad sack of a black dress clutching a limp black handbag in her lap, the one with blank orbs for eyes. Who’s she? Those two ferret-like men with gaunt faces sitting rigidly beneath the high window. Who are they? And that tarty blonde woman snuffling noisily into a tiny white handkerchief, tugging at the hem of her short black skirt as if she can’t understand why it’s so short. Do I know you?

  Breece was there, sitting unobtrusively at the back, dressed in the same blue suit he always wore. And there were one or two others I recognized: Aunty Jean, of course, a couple of fat sods from Dad’s pub, the man from the off-licence. But the rest of them were strangers. Strangers in a strange place.

  After a good half hour or so of depressing music, the vicar stood up and started spewing out a load of rubbish about Dad. Good man, God’s will, final resting place, blah blah blah ... I tried not to listen, staring instead at the coffin perched on a trolley just a few feet in front of me. Dad in a plywood box, lying there as nothing in the hollow darkness. I wondered what he looked like now.

  Hymns, prayers, more words, more hymns. Stand up, sit down, close your eyes, open your eyes, stand up, sit down ... then, eventually, the words dried up, the trolley rolled, the curtains closed and the box was gone.

  And that was that.

  The case is still officially open, but I haven’t seen Breece or Finlay for months now. Breece kept digging away at first, asking thousands of questions, interviewing people, searching for evidence, but he never got anywhere. The ball of string was too knotty. He found plenty of stuff, but it was all just bits and pieces, nothing that would fit together well enough to prove anything. He knew I had something to do with it, but he couldn’t work out what. I think he was pretty sure that Dean killed Dad – the hairs and cigarette end in the sleeping bag,
the letters and signatures in his flat, the story I made up about him – but, again, he couldn’t prove it. And, what’s more, he couldn’t see a reason for it. Why would Dean want to kill Dad? If he was trying to get hold of Dad’s money, why kill him?

  As to who killed Dean, I think he had me pegged for that. But there was nothing he could do about it. My story – the school dance, the girlfriend, the mysterious black-haired biker friend – that got checked out pretty thoroughly. No one remembered seeing me talking to a pretty blonde girl, no one even remembered seeing me at the dance. But then again, no one could prove I wasn’t there, either.

  One of my neighbours – the woman from number seven, the knicker-flashing can-can dancer – she confirmed she’d seen a tall boy with a ponytail outside my house on the Thursday and again on the Monday. She thought there might have been someone else with him, someone who might have been shorter than Dean, who may have had black hair. She might have seen someone squatting down behind a parked motorbike fiddling with the wheels, but she wasn’t sure. It could even have been a girl.

  Maybe, if, might have, could have been ...

  As to what happened to the thirty thousand pounds, I don’t think Breece had a clue. Video footage from security cameras at the bank showed a blurred figure cashing a cheque for thirty thousand pounds on the Tuesday morning. Despite being well wrapped up against the cold in a coat, scarf and hat, the blurred figure still bore a passing resemblance to Mr William Pig. Same size, same age, same grubby brown jacket beneath the coat, same shambling gait and baggy eyes. But how could that be? The autopsy had proved that Dad was already dead by then. And so was Dean. So who the hell was it?

  Not me, that’s for sure. I’m way too short.

  Aunty Jean gave a sworn statement saying that Dad was still alive on the Friday. He was ill in bed, she said, he’d looked like death warmed up.

  There weren’t any tyre tracks or footprints at the gravel pit, the ground was too hard, frozen solid. Dean’s fingerprints in my house proved he’d been there, but the only prints upstairs – apart from mine and Dad’s and Aunty Jean’s – couldn’t be identified. So maybe there was someone with Dean when he came round on the Monday? Or maybe Dad had a mysterious lady friend? Who knows? (I always wondered if Breece had contacted Maeve, the not-that-lonely heart. It wasn’t something I lost sleep over, exactly, but I sort of hoped he hadn’t.) My fingerprints were all over the place, of course. But I lived there, so that proved nothing.