by Mick Herron
For the minute it took him to reach a decision, everything came to a stop in the graveyard: no wind, no noise, no overhead birds. Then Arkle snapped back to life and said, ‘Right.’ He looked at Tim Whitby. ‘Fuck off, then.’
Trent said, ‘Arkle –’
‘Shut up.’
Tim opened his mouth, but Zoë shook her head. ‘I’ll see you later.’
‘I could –’
‘Don’t. Don’t do anything. Just go. Now.’
It was always possible that if you very quickly told a man four times to do something, he’d get the message.
He didn’t like it, that was obvious, and Zoë, in her turn, liked him for that. But mostly what she wanted from him was to leave without fuss, and she was relieved to see that’s what he was doing. He cast a look of pure venom at Arkle – never underestimate the anger of a gentle man – but Arkle wasn’t looking. His eyes were fixed on Zoë; his stare so unrelenting, he might have been taking her pulse.
Tim said, ‘Take care, Zoë.’
‘I will.’
He headed off along the winding path, towards the outside world.
Arkle said, ‘If this is all a big lie, it’s gunna piss me off something rotten.’
‘Katrina wants you out of her life,’ Zoë told him. ‘Money’s a small price to pay.’
‘Long after the money’s spent, my brother will still be dead.’
Tim had gone. Zoë was alone with Arkle and Trent. The fact that things had gone to plan so far wasn’t a great comfort.
‘We don’t even know how much we’re talking about,’ she said. ‘Baxter covered all that, didn’t he?’ She looked around. Nothing was moving. ‘I’m working on the assumption it’s about two hundred grand.’
‘Where’s the key?’
‘I tell you, then you leave, right?’
Trent said, ‘Arkle –’
‘Shut up. You think I’m stupid? You’re coming with us. Bax reckoned he had the brains, but I’m still the oldest.’
‘It’s falling apart, you know that. You’ve left a trail a mile wide –’
‘So stop wasting time. Where’s this key?’
She said, ‘Back where you started. In Totnes.’
‘I’d worked that out. Where else would Bax keep it? Where exactly?’
‘Uh uh. Not till we get there.’
He sneered. ‘You don’t trust me, do you?’
‘You think?’
Trent said, ‘Arkle –’
‘Yeah, I see him.’
The time he’d spun on his heel and put a bolt through the apple – Zoë hadn’t been watching, exactly. She’d been aware of it happening, but had been on the other side of a wooden gate, her attention focused on making sure Tim Whitby got through it. This time, she had a ringside seat. Something had moved behind her; somebody had edged into view, and Arkle had seen them do it. With his left hand, he opened his overcoat; with his right, he drew out the crossbow Velcroed to its lining – she heard a velvet rip as it tore free. It was loaded and primed already; she had a notion you had to wind them like a watch – did she think that at the time, or afterwards? Doesn’t matter. What happened was as he’d boasted: an Olympic reaction. One moment he was talking; the next, the bow was in his hand, its bolt flashing past her like a natural event, and even before she’d fully registered this, a scream had burst through the already-skewed normality of the morning, and she knew his bolt had found its mark.
‘He one of yours?’ Arkle asked, unperturbed.
‘Not exactly,’ Zoë said. ‘But I know who it is.’
Without waiting to see what he thought about it, she turned and headed for the copse he’d been eyeing earlier, behind which a man lay full stretch on the ground, clutching his thigh and running out of breath. A scream was whistling away into the big blue nowhere. He was gearing up for his second when Zoë reached him.
She said, ‘Golly, Bob. Somebody’s shot you in the leg with a crossbow. That must hurt.’
‘Call a . . . fuckenambulance.’
‘Sure, Bob. Right away. I don’t even know why I’m wasting time discussing it.’
‘. . . Bitch.’
‘Definitely. But not a stupid bitch, Bob. Shall I tell you what your big mistake was? It was cutting every electrical connection I’ve got except my landline. That’s what you call a clue, Bob. If you’d ever been a policeman, you’d know about those. Oh, hang on. You were a policeman, till I killed your job. If you’d ever been a good one, I meant.’
‘. . . Fuck you.’
‘Yeah, right. Or maybe I could just dump you in a fridge.’
This was another of those occasions when she really ought to have been lighting a cigarette. It was practically a moral obligation. But she had to make do with looking down on him, hands on hips. There was a saying, if you stood on the banks of the river long enough, the bodies of your enemies would float past. Standing over them while they writhed in pain had its moments too.
The comment about the fridge penetrated, and he managed a response. ‘You should have fucken died in it.’
But she didn’t need his confirmation. Once she’d realized he’d tapped her phone, she’d known it had been Poland tipped her into the freezer. He’d been the man Tim had seen outside Katrina’s father’s house; had been the man in the pub, too, pretending to be Press – You’re not the first to ask today, the barman had said, before sending Zoë in the direction of Blake’s house. All this on the day Win had called her. You plan to knock him and his brothers over, Zoë had said; take them for, what, a couple of hundred grand? That’s what had drawn Bob on. Fake death notices were one thing; the scent of big money another. And the opportunity to bop Zoë on the head and drop her in a box was evidently unmissable, which was why she wasn’t too upset he’d been shot – though if she had to put hand on heart, she’d probably admit to being glad she wasn’t smoking.
But all she said to Bob was, ‘I didn’t.’
Arkle was behind her. ‘Who,’ he said, ‘is this prick, anyway?’
Poland had given up screaming, but hadn’t stopped writhing yet, and still clutched his thigh, from which Arkle’s bolt protruded. There was surprisingly little blood. Zoë guessed it had missed the bone, but she’d be the first to admit she wasn’t a doctor. Either way, bones mended. He’d get over it.
‘Somebody else who’s interested in your money.’
‘You invited him?’
‘No, he crashed,’ said Zoë.
Arkle, maybe absent-mindedly, maybe not, took another bolt from his pocket, and fitted it into the slot of his bow. For a moment, Zoë saw this slipping out of hand – any second now, she’d be watching Arkle fire a chunk of metal through Bob Poland’s head. And while there’d been times she’d imagined similar punishments visited on the creep, the key word was imagined. Reality was too harsh an arena. She’d seen dead bodies before, and knew they weighed like an albatross round the neck.
With her left hand, she gently pushed the crossbow upwards. ‘Don’t.’
‘I don’t like being told what to do.’
‘Murder him in cold blood,’ she said, ‘and everything finishes here. You’ll have to shoot me too.’
At the back of Zoë’s mind lurked the possibility that he’d judge this an appropriate course of action.
Bob Poland said, ‘You’re all fucken meat, you know that? Dead fucken meat.’
‘I’ve changed my mind. Kill him.’ No: she stopped herself in time. Instead she said, ‘Be quiet.’ And to Arkle, ‘It’s time to move. You might want to take his car keys. You’ll certainly want his phone.’
‘. . . Why his keys?’
‘Because Tim’ll have reclaimed his car. He’s the type to carry a spare set.’
Trent said, ‘We’d better go, Arkle.’
Zoë was getting better at interpreting him, though he still sounded like he was speaking through a mouthful of doughnut.
Arkle bent and said something to Poland, who without hesitation reached inside his jacket for mobile
phone and car keys.
Trent said, ‘Arkle –’
‘Don’t you ever shut up?’ So suddenly none of them were expecting it, Arkle pulled the bolt from Poland’s leg. Poland whooped – the noise of a bird shot down – and blacked out.
Arkle wiped the bolt on Poland’s jacket. ‘These things cost money.’
After a moment, Trent said, ‘I was going to say, where’s his car parked?’
‘. . . Fuck.’
‘It’s round the corner,’ Zoë said. Finding it had made her smile, though there’d never been much humour in it.
Arkle looked at her. ‘All this turns out to be a scam –’
His eyes were pale blue bottomless holes.
‘It isn’t,’ she replied. Hoping her voice was steady; imagining it wasn’t.
They left the cemetery.
iii
Through the stone arch, up the lane, out on the street – if Tim Whitby had fashioned a self-image at that point, it would have been a mole thrusting its snout into the air after too long underground. He found himself hauling in great mouthfuls of air, savouring its petrol-aftertaste as if it were a fine wine, or at least a cigarette . . . One of which he could murder right now, though first he had to fetch help for –
‘Tim.’
He turned, heart pounding: it was Arkle. But it wasn’t.
Katrina said, ‘Come on. We have to hurry.’
‘Yes. They’ve got Zoë –’
‘It’s okay. I’ll explain in the car.’
How could it be okay? But what he actually said was, ‘Which car?’
‘Yours. It’s round here, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but –’
‘And you’ve got keys? Zoë said you were the type to carry a spare set. If Arkle’s got the others, I mean.’
Tim said, ‘I don’t see why she thinks I’m –’
‘Do you or not?’
‘Well, yes, but –’
‘So come on.’
And because she took his arm, he went.
If she’d thought he might leave her on the kerb, Zoë would have told Arkle where the key was then and there. Would have called the police the moment they were gone – there were times to cut your losses, take your licks; put a brave face on your favourite cliché. But Arkle just opened the door and waved her in. She was driving, apparently. The car was a Beamer, a real boat. Poland had once boasted that he changed wheels every October, but this one had a few years on the clock.
She wondered what their chances were of reaching Totnes before the car was reported stolen, and what Arkle’s reaction would be to flashing lights in the rearview, and an invitation to pull over. Or to open his coat so the nice policeman could see what was under there . . .
But it was pointless dwelling on what might happen. Best to get on with it; to deal with whatever came up.
Arkle said, ‘I was aiming for that.’
‘. . . What?’
‘His leg. I was aiming for his leg.’
Arkle was behind her, next to Trent. Zoë felt like a chauffeur. Every so often something nudged the small of her back through the seat, and however much she knew it was his knee, her stubborn mental picture remained that of a crossbow: primed and ready to tear her insides out.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘That’s what you hit.’
‘I could have aimed for his . . . navel. Aimed for his navel, I’d still have hit it.’
‘Navels are pretty small,’ Zoë agreed.
‘You taking the piss?’
‘I’m trying not to,’ she said. ‘I saw you hit that apple, remember?’
‘Olympic shot,’ he said. ‘The Lone Ranger couldn’t have pulled that off.’
‘. . . No.’
There was silence for a few moments, and then Arkle whistled the first few bars of the William Tell Overture.
At times, joining the dots of somebody else’s thought processes was a joy and a delight. At others, what worried you was the gaps in between.
Zoë kept her mouth shut. Concentrated on the road, whose white lines flashed like dots: now here, now gone. The picture they formed drawing her closer to Totnes.
‘Big Red Box?’
‘It’s a storage place.’
‘And we’re going there why?’
. . . Though, truth to tell, Tim didn’t care. Why had mattered when he was being assaulted in his own sitting room; when Arkle Dunstan was kicking him in the crotch. Why was best reserved for the bad things in life: Why is this happening to me? Why did Emma have to die? There were many such questions, but answering them improved nothing: Emma still died; Tim’s stomach still hurt. Why was he in a car with Katrina? Didn’t matter. She told him anyway.
‘The Dunstans? My husband, his brothers? They’re crooks, Tim. Robbers.’
‘And this Big Red Box place . . .’
‘Is where Baxter hid the proceeds. The others don’t know about it.’
Well, it was good to get that established.
He said, ‘So it’s a stash of stolen jewellery?’
The notion of a pirates’ lair, loaded with rubies, wasn’t any more ridiculous than some other recent events.
‘Not exactly. They fenced the jewellery. It’s cash.’
This stretch of road was bordered with fields grazed by cows; big dull placid creatures who didn’t care about the whys either.
Tim said, ‘So once the police have it, the Dunstans’ll be off your case, right?’
‘In an ideal world.’
‘I mean, if the money’s out of their reach . . .’
‘We’ve got to get it first.’
‘Well, yes . . .’
‘No, I mean we’ve got to get it first. Arkle doesn’t know where it is. But Zoë will tell him. He’ll hurt her otherwise.’
Tim glanced at her. She was staring straight ahead, the damage to her face hidden from him, and he could imagine her unblemished. He’d yet to see her so. That first night, in the hotel, there’d been the bruise she’d tried to cover with make-up; which was what had started all this, for Tim. He had planned that night as an ending, but it had turned out the opposite. Life was what happened while you were making other plans. The same was probably true of death, but in Tim’s case, Katrina’s bruise had shelved that for the moment.
‘Well,’ he said at last. ‘We’d better make tracks then,’ and put his foot on the accelerator. The cows, already some distance behind them, fell further and further away. Tim had forgotten their existence already.
Arkle said, ‘You ask me, old people, we’d be doing them a favour if we rounded them all up and had them quietly shot or something.’
Trent had fallen asleep. Zoë didn’t answer.
Arkle said, ‘You ask me, old people, we’d be doing them a favour if we rounded them all up and had them quietly shot or something.’
She said, ‘That’s your considered opinion, is it?’
He didn’t much care what your reply was. But you had to reply, so he could say what was on his mind.
‘Take Kay’s old man. Not long back he was like normal people. Then he gets old, and it’s like flicking a switch. These days, staring at a wall’s about all he can manage. He probably fucks that up too, if you pay attention.’
They were on the outskirts of Totnes, heading for Katrina’s father’s house. The roads had mostly been clear, though twice Zoë’s heart had skipped when police cars appeared. The first had been speed-trapping in a layby, and hadn’t budged. But the second had flashed past at upwards of ninety miles per, and from the moment its siren screamed into her consciousness, Zoë had been certain they were its prey. She’d driven faster as it swept up the outside lane, and only once it had torn off into the distance did she ease up, its howl still doppling in her ears. Throughout, neither Arkle nor Trent said a word. For Arkle, she thought, stuff didn’t exist if he didn’t want it to. ‘Stuff’ here included other people, who he didn’t mind hurting because he barely believed in them.
Now Arkle said: ‘I ever get that old, I hope som
ebody shoves me off a cliff.’
‘Oh, there’ll be a queue.’
But she said it quietly, so he didn’t hear. She was navigating the roundabout now: they’d be at Katrina’s father’s house in minutes.
Tim, not much earlier, had navigated the same roundabout, responding obediently to Katrina’s every instruction. Not that he’d needed it. He’d been here so often lately, he felt part of the neighbourhood.
‘We’ve made good time,’ he said.
‘The roads were clear. So will they.’
‘But we set off first.’
After a while, Katrina said, ‘She’ll try to delay them. The more time she can waste, the better.’
‘Arkle’s on a short fuse.’ Tim’s judgement was sound on this. ‘Zoë needs to be careful.’
‘I didn’t say it was the best plan in the world. We had ten minutes to hatch it.’
‘I don’t want to do anything that’ll get Zoë hurt.’
‘None of us do,’ Katrina said. ‘But the plan was to stop Arkle getting his hands on the money. Getting his hands on me, come to that.’
‘I won’t let him hurt you,’ Tim said.
‘That’s very sweet. How would you stop him?’
Tim didn’t reply.
She said, ‘Straight ahead here.’
‘But your father’s house –’
‘We’re not going there. Trust me.’
So he did.
Nothing had changed since last time: same loose guttering; same ramshackle porch looking like the first good wind would batter it to sticks. That wind might be cutting across the moors now, by the scudding of the low-lying clouds. But she didn’t have long to register this, because the moment she’d parked, Arkle was breathing heavily in her ear: ‘If this doesn’t go the way you promised, I’ll hunt you down.’
‘You won’t need to,’ she said. ‘I’m already here.’
‘Don’t worry. You’ll run.’
He got out of the car and waited for her, exactly like someone polite would do.
Trent emerged too, and stood blinking for a moment in the open air. His hands were deep in his pockets, and his posture spoke of expected blows; but indicated, too – to Zoë, anyway – that when the blows stopped, he’d still be standing . . . He noticed her watching, and showed his teeth in what might have been a smile in some cultures. She looked away. The clouds were still bashing overhead, and Arkle was waiting for her to get a move on.
