by Mick Herron
‘It’s just you and me, now.’
Wherever Arkle had been – his land of pain – he’d come back. And wherever Trent had been, he’d been there a couple of hours at most. Outside was full dark. One dim bulb lit the cabin. Arkle looked like a vampire: black coat, white face. When he spoke again, his tone was so unArkle-ish he might have been pretending to be somebody else; something he was so bad at, it was like watching two other people instead. Vinnie Jones doing Michael Palin, perhaps.
‘I didn’t want to leave you out there. You might have caught cold.’
Two days back, he’d have watched while Trent dozed off in a river.
‘You’re okay in my chair for a bit. I don’t mind.’
Trent closed his eyes. He was going to throw up shortly, which was almost certainly the vodka, but was possibly the notion of Arkle being tender.
‘When you’re feeling better, we’ve stuff to talk about.’
He must have drifted. He didn’t spew. Light returned slowly, and sketched things’ edges: the window frame; the TV set. His feet ached with a cold that crept up his legs and curled icy digits round his stomach; prepared to rip the warm life out of him. If he exhaled, he’d see it hanging in the air: breath like Jack Frost’s fingers . . . He came awake terrified, convinced he’d stopped breathing, to see Arkle by the window, crossbow cradled in one arm. The dawn light had a grey, secondhand look, as if it had already been one too many mornings.
Arkle had found a piece of toast somewhere, and was holding it in a palm as if it were an important element in an impending sacrament.
After a while, Trent said, ‘What day is it?’
Arkle replied, ‘When he told me he was going to marry her, I tried to talk him out of it. That’s not hindsight. I definitely tried to talk him out of it. I said it was one thing . . . seeing her.’ His tone indicated he’d considered and rejected synonyms. ‘But marrying her . . . I told him it would be the death of us.’ He turned to Trent, his eyes black holes. ‘I meant the three of us. I meant it wouldn’t be the same between the three of us.’ He turned back to the window. ‘I was right, though, wasn’t I? She’s been his death.’
Eat the toast, Trent thought. Don’t just stand holding it, please. He was in that post-binge toxic state where everything hurt: everything. Even things other people were doing.
‘What was it you talked about in the bar that time?’
His voice was back to standard-Arkle: what Bax had once said a pissed-off speak-your-weight machine would sound like.
Trent squeezed his eyes shut. Cold grey used-up light sneaked in anyway, so the shapes that moved inside his head threw shadows.
‘What was it you talked about in the bar that time?’
‘Arkle –’
‘What was it you talked about in the bar that time?’
He said, ‘Bax said you were on the edge. Near to blowing it.’
‘Bax said that.’
‘Yes. Bax said that.’
Trent started to cry softly, telling Arkle this.
‘What else did he say?’
‘Arkle –’
‘What else did he say?’
‘He said that’s not something we wanted to be near. When it happened. That’s what he said.’
‘Okay.’
Arkle dropped the toast, then laid his hand flat against the reinforced window pane, as if testing its resistance. It seemed solid enough. It didn’t, anyway, tumble and crash to the ground below.
‘It was always the three of us,’ he said.
‘Yes, Arkle.’
It was best to agree with Arkle when he said things like this, or like anything else. Even when they were monumental rubbish.
‘It’s her fault, really. I don’t blame you.’
‘. . . Thanks, Arkle.’
It hurt just to talk. He was crying harder now.
‘I don’t blame you. You agreed with him though, didn’t you?’
‘. . . Yes, Arkle.’
‘I know.’
Arkle turned and in one seamless movement smashed the stock of his crossbow into Trent’s head. Trent flew from the chair and crashed against the table in the corner. The TV fell to the floor and shattered; there was broken glass and electric parts and blood everywhere, and to Trent it felt like the world, or a small significant part of it, had just ceased spinning. Then it began again, and he threw up and blacked out, in roughly that order. When he came to he was back in Arkle’s chair, every last nerve screaming its distress, and Arkle was tenderly dabbing blood from his face with a cloth last used to mop spilt lager.
‘It’s just the two of us now,’ he said, as if nothing had happened since he’d last spoken. ‘And we’ve got to look out for each other.’
Yes, Arkle, Trent wanted to say, but couldn’t.
‘We’re going to wait till you feel better. And then there’s things we have to do.’
Yes, Arkle.
‘We’re going to kill that bitch for what she did to our brother.’
He licked a finger, and rubbed at a patch on Trent’s forehead where a grain of glass from the TV had embedded itself.
‘But first, we’re gunna find out where she and Bax hid our money.’
Trent felt consciousness slip away. Last thing he was aware of, Arkle was saying, ‘And don’t worry, we’ll get you another one. The sound was buggered anyway.’
iii
She was about to make the call when she remembered the law about phones in cars, so pulled off the road; punched the number standing next to a field full of pigs whose corrugated iron sties were shaped like tiny aircraft hangars. While she waited, Zoë wondered whether each pig returned to the same sty after a day truffling in mud, or just kipped in the first one it reached.
. . . Mental displacement activity. This wasn’t a call she’d been looking forward to.
‘Jeff Harris.’
‘Is your answering machine in?’
‘Zoë bloody Boehm.’ Heavy on the sarcasm, he asked: ‘How are you?’
‘I look like shit and feel like I’ve been kicked in the head.’
‘Good.’
‘I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve not returned your car yet.’
‘Not really,’ he said. ‘I worked it out. You’re a thief.’
‘A thief would hardly ring you to apologize.’
‘She might if she was clever.’
‘I’m not that smart.’
‘There’s a lot of things you’re not, Zoë, but that smart isn’t one of them.’
A pig, possibly the top pig, had stopped excavating the root he’d discovered and was scrutinizing Zoë instead. ‘Piggy-eyed’, she’d always thought an insult. This, though, was a remarkably intelligent study.
‘I’m sorry, Jeff,’ she said.
The pig said Yeah, right.
‘So don’t tell me.’ Even over the phone, she could see him: screwing up his eyes, furrowing his brow; plucking an answer from the heavens. ‘You’re, ah, on a case. You’re tracking someone down. You need wheels, right?’
‘I’m sorry, Jeff.’
‘But not sorry enough to buy your own fucking car.’
‘No,’ she agreed. ‘Not that sorry, obviously.’
‘Last time, Zoë. Seriously, positively, the last time.’
It was also the first time, but Zoë didn’t feel in a position to point this out.
‘I’ll return it soon.’
‘You’ll return it today.’
‘Sorry, Jeff, this is a really bad connection . . .’
She stood a while longer, wondering if he was as pissed off as he’d sounded, or just upping the stakes for when he needed a favour in return. And then wondered about herself instead, for having thoughts like that. Jeff was a friend. Had been, anyway. And Zoë had known the moment she borrowed the car that she’d break their agreement if she needed to. So what did that say about her?
Pocketing her phone, she turned to go.
Goodbye, Zoë said the pig.
‘That’l
l do, pig,’ said Zoë.
She got into Jeff’s car and drove on.
She was driving to Totnes again. It was late Saturday afternoon.
Several times since Thursday she’d returned to Sweeney’s shop, always finding the closed sign in the door, and no lights burning; the metal shutter obscuring the window. His phone rang unanswered. His home address was unoccupied, too. Sweeney lived in a surprisingly neat little house in a cul de sac in Headington Quarry, but hadn’t been seen there lately, according to the kind of neighbour who would notice.
‘Does he have family?’
‘There’s a sister in Dulwich.’
Zoë had contemplated breaking in, but not for long. The alarm box on the wall might not be real, but the neighbour certainly was. This was a tall, stick-thin woman with sharp features; happy to share info with Zoë, on the assumption she’d receive some in return. ‘Is he in trouble?’
‘Not that I’m aware of,’ said Zoë. ‘Thanks for your time.’
By mid-morning she’d known she had to do something, and by noon had known what it would be.
It was a calm day. What clouds there were were high and moving slowly, and the usual weekend noises that filtered into her flat – distant traffic, sirens, drunken students – were muted; mono. She’d spent hours tussling with some rebarbative accounts, repeatedly finding no way of adding the available figures together that made her future look rosy. Had mulled on Bob Poland’s future, too: that needed taking care of . . . But at least he’d not severed her landline. The part of Friday she’d not been checking on Sweeney or repairing Poland’s damage, Zoë had spent fielding calls from former clients sorry to learn she was dead, and also from a flat-clearance firm eager for the contract. Who, she wondered, had these people imagined was going to answer her phone? And this, too, had cast a pall: no one would have answered her phone. When Zoë went, she’d be leaving nobody behind.
Last thing she’d done before setting out had been to ring Win. ‘I went to see Sweeney today,’ she said.
Win said, ‘Have you thought about what we discussed?’
‘What you discussed. He wasn’t there.’ This felt like two conversations at once. Or one conversation, two agendas. ‘Wasn’t there yesterday either. I wonder why?’
‘He probably needed a break. Did you hear the news?’
‘About Baxter Dunstan?’
‘Spousal abuse case. Why she did it, I mean. Not the murder.’ Win paused. ‘Murder’s not spousal abuse. More like fair comment.’
Zoë said, ‘I guess the remaining Dunstans’ll be in an uproar.’
‘Good time for what we talked about. They already don’t know what’s hit them.’
‘What you talked about,’ Zoë said. ‘And never would be a better time. That Arkle? He’s a basketcase on a sunny morning. I shudder to think what he’s like when he’s grieving.’
(The image that came to mind was of a bellowing lion: sore, confused, angry. Somewhere under a roaring red sunset, terrifying everything for miles around.)
‘Strategy,’ Win said. ‘Hit your enemy when he’s down, everyone knows that.’
‘You know how to carry a grudge, don’t you?’
‘You use both hands. I’ve made a rough estimate of how much they’ve made. On jobs for the boss, I mean. Your share would be something like eighty thousand.’
‘My share.’
‘Equal partners. That’s assuming they haven’t blown it all. But the amount of time they hang around that yard, I doubt they’ve worked through two hundred grand yet.’
‘Eighty,’ said Zoë, ‘is not half of two hundred.’
‘I’m rounding things off. They’re bound to have spent a bit. Where are you?’
‘Heading out. Same as Sweeney’s out.’
‘You keep telling me that like it’s my fault.’
‘Did you speak to him, Win?’
‘Why would I have done that?’
‘Well, let’s see,’ Zoë said. ‘He owes me five grand, or will do once I tell him what he paid me to find out. But suppose he discovered the information some other way. He might argue he didn’t owe me anything. At the very least, he might try avoiding me.’
‘Sounds a little paranoid, Zoë.’
‘And if I don’t get his five grand, well, that might make me likelier to fall in with this scheme of yours, mightn’t it?’
‘If we’re going to be partners, we’re going to have to trust each other.’
‘You work for a crook, and you want help robbing his strongarm boys,’ Zoë said. ‘Trust might be stretching it. That time you and Arkle spoke, what did you talk about?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Let me guess. He mentioned your weight, your general appearance. He questioned your taste in clothes and made fun of your voice.’
There’s no silence quite like the silence of someone not speaking over the phone.
‘Possibly he queried your gender.’
‘You fucking bitch.’
‘It’s been said. And what’s the upshot of that little chat, Win? You plan to knock him and his brothers over, take them for, what did you say, a couple of hundred grand?’
There was another silence: a shorter one. Then Win said, ‘Where’s this going?’
‘You ever get a look at Sweeney, Win? He’s kind of short, kind of bald. He has these fuzzy patches he can’t reach to shave, and on his best day, you’d not notice him twice. What makes you think he can’t carry a grudge any better than you?’
‘You think I’ve wound him up and pointed him, don’t you?’
‘I think you told him about the Dunstans as a way of leaning on me. And I think you forgot to take his reactions into account.’ Zoë paused. ‘Just because you’re kind of funny-looking doesn’t mean you have no pride.’
Win said, ‘You probably imagine you’re perceptive. But so what if the dwarf’s upset? It doesn’t affect our plans.’
‘Your plans. The dwarf’s my client. If he’s got it into his head to even the score, Arkle will eat him for breakfast. That’ll be your fault, Win.’
‘We’re partners. Remember?’
‘Only in your head. Anything happens to Sweeney, I’ll hold you responsible.’
She’d hung up before she got dragged into debate. And immediately afterwards, left the flat too; the image of Sweeney confronting the remaining Dunstans was not a happy one.
So she was driving to Totnes again. It was late Saturday afternoon.
The day’s calm dissolved after she’d spoken to Jeff, as if his disgruntlement had spread. The roads grew cluttered and sluggish, clogged by inexplicable tailbacks which felt to Zoë like a mechanic’s curse. It was evening before she drove into town, and the streetlamps were winking on. Echoing in her brain were details of another story, about a local woman who had stabbed her husband to death in their flat. Variations on the theme had occupied her radio the whole way down.
Spousal abuse Win had said, and that was certainly the chorus. The facts were sketchy – Baxter Dunstan had died on Wednesday, the same day Zoë had last been here; Katrina Dunstan, née Blake, had been arrested that same day, after calling the police from the kitchen in which he lay dead – but the speculation mortaring the gaps left little room for doubt. Round-table discussions of domestic violence explored the outer limits of self-defence, and cases were exhumed in which convictions had been overturned, sentences reduced, and acquittals handed down to women who’d burned their husbands in their beds. Amid the token voices of dissent, the general feeling was that men who raised their fists to women wouldn’t be missed. Zoë could get behind that. And if his brother was anything to go by, Baxter had probably thought target practice a form of foreplay.
That was the discussion thread: the headline was, Katrina Blake had been released pending full investigation. The fact that she’d not been charged indicated what a hot-button topic this was, Zoë thought. There followed one of those throat-clearing moments you get when one part of the media admits that other parts exist, a
llowing her to gather that a newspaper – she was guessing a tabloid – had whisked Ms Blake off to its hideyhole. Give it a couple of months – trial safely over; acquittal safely bagged – and she’d be splurging her recently bruised emotions over pages 5–14, with pics. Though as far as any of this concerned Zoë, what mattered was the effect it would be having on Arkle and the other extant Dunstan.
She parked in the usual car park, walked into town – she was having visions of Sweeney nailed to a board in the Dunstans’ yard; a grief-maddened Arkle taking potshots at him. She rehearsed it again: why would Sweeney come here, hunting his stolen loot? Other than that he knew this was where it was? . . . And here, counter-argument collapsed. Zoë knew what desperation tasted like. Sweeney was staring at livelihood’s end. And everything she’d said to Win came back, and rang true: never underestimate the pride of a man who was a bit too short; a bit too overlooked.
By the time she reached the yard it was dark, and a pub down the road was spilling light on to the pavement. Knocking on the big gates didn’t seem a great idea. On the other hand, she wasn’t sure how to proceed otherwise. After making sure there was no one around, she dropped to her knees and peered through a gap. Everything in the yard was shades of grey – mounds of gravel, heaps of sand; all spent and wasted in the half-light. The tin cabin perched lifeless in the sky. Knowing herself an idiot she banged on the door, now she was certain the place was deserted. The only response was a faster creaking from the Dunstan & Sons sign overhead. A scrabbling, perhaps, from one of the grey mounds. Probably a rat.
The upside was, there was no sign of Sweeney, either. The vision of him nailed to a board with metal bolts slapping around him faded, to be replaced by a different vision of him tied up in a cellar, she didn’t know where. Ridiculous. And how much of Zoë’s concern, anyway, was based on the fact that he owed her five grand? A question she’d successfully avoided so far, and planned to continue doing so: her next move was obvious. She went to the pub.
Which was themed to give the impression it had once been a library. From a distance, the rows of books looked impressive – uniform, leather-tooled – but on inspection proved to be book club editions: MacLeans, Wheatleys, Reader’s Digest’s condenseds. Zoë ordered a glass of wine, remembering the drive home in time to make it a small one. The clock above the mirror read 7:15. After he’d delivered her drink, she said to the barman: ‘You don’t have a phone book, do you?’
