The Murder Bag

by Tony Parsons

  Across the street from our loft, the men of the meat market were just going to work as I put Scout to bed without her waking. Stan hopped up beside her, curled against her warmth, and I left them to their rest.

  But I watched from the window, waiting for someone wicked to come for us, knowing at last that pure evil was out there, knowing we would meet one day soon, and I saw that the lights of the meat market burned all night long, wiping out the sky and blinding the stars.

  27

  TWO WEEKS LATER she came to see me.

  Anne. My ex-wife.

  Surprise visit.

  Her old set of keys got her through the communal street-level door but they didn’t work on our front door because I had changed the locks when she left me. I heard her key rattling in the lock and I saw her through the spy hole. It took me a while to unbolt the door. Then she was standing there. A knock-out, basically. The same woman but changed by all the time that had gone by, all the time we had not shared.

  ‘Hello, Max.’

  ‘Anne.’

  She wore no make-up apart from a light touch of war paint on her lips. The light from the hall caught her shoulder-length hair and there was one single strand of silver running through the dark brown. She was dark-eyed, pale-skinned, and you could see where Scout got the heartbreaking curve of her face. It’s hard to purge someone from your heart when you can see a child you love in their features.

  Anne didn’t bring her new life with her. Apart from the baby inside her, which she reassured and soothed with a hand rolled across her belly. The silence between us terrified me.

  ‘Where’s your little boy?’ I said.

  ‘Nanny,’ she said, and she made it sound like a destination.

  I followed her into the loft, fascinated by that single strand of silver in her hair. Not because it confirmed she was getting older – and she would one day be old, something that had never crossed my mind before now – but because I knew she would lose the special shine I had fallen in love with when we were kids. The shine was always going to go, and it wouldn’t have made any difference. I would have kept on loving her without the special shine of youth. Maybe I would have truly loved her for the first time. But of course now I would never get the chance.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that, Max. It’s giving me the creeps.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Scout and Stan came out of her bedroom. We all stared at our visitor as if she had come from some other planet and not just down the road in London’s leafy money-belt. Then Anne was on her knees and all over Scout. That’s the trouble with not seeing much of your child. Acting naturally around them becomes impossible. And I felt a flood of resentment that I could taste in my mouth.

  Scout should have mattered to you. Scout should have mattered to you more than anything.

  Stan mooched towards Anne, tail high and swishing. He sniffed hopefully at her legs and she stood up, one hand at the base of her spine, the other fanning the air, her lovely, ageing face twisted down with distaste.

  ‘I don’t do dogs,’ she said. ‘You never know where their mouth has been.’

  I picked Stan up and took him to Scout’s bedroom. He gave me a mournful look as I closed the door.

  When I got back, Scout was showing Anne the junior boxing gloves I had bought her. In truth Scout had shown zero interest in putting on boxing gloves. She preferred drawing, or hanging out with Stan, or talking to her dolls (Scout insisted she was not playing with them – ‘just talking’). But I could see that she felt some nameless compulsion to show her mother something new.

  So that this time she might stay.

  They talked. Mother and daughter. I went into the kitchen and I was in the middle of making coffee when a great wave of grief rolled over me and sucked me down. The feeling gripped my throat and stung my eyes and made me feel that I would never move again.

  Then it was gone.

  I went back into the main room with a tray. Two coffees and an orange juice.

  ‘I’m not drinking caffeine any more,’ Anne said.

  I was confused. But she loved her coffee.

  ‘I’ll get water,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t push the boat out on my account,’ she said, and that made me laugh. She could always make me laugh.

  ‘Do you want to see my drawings?’ Scout said.

  ‘Yes!’ Anne’s hand rolling over her belly. ‘Yes, Scout! Yes!’

  Scout went to her room to get her drawings. Anne and I looked at each other. I could see the effort she was making. We turned our faces to the sound of Scout’s voice. Stan was making an unsuccessful attempt to escape.

  ‘No, Stan,’ Scout told him, closing the door behind her as she went into her room.

  ‘Dogs?’ Anne said. ‘Boxing?’

  She made it sound as though I was running a crack den.

  Anne moved slowly around the loft, as if checking to see if she had left anything of importance behind, and stepped on a stuffed monkey that gave an outraged squeak.

  ‘There’s junk all over the floor,’ she said. ‘And it’s not even Scout’s junk.’

  It was true. Stan had his own junk. A dog of that age is exactly like a toddler. Stan had junk scattered all over our flat – a squeaky duck, a spiky rubber ball, a bear in a Union Jack bib, assorted bits of chewed bone and gnawed rope.

  ‘And this is really your dog?’ she continued, with the amused contempt that I remembered so well. ‘You’re not looking after it for somebody?’

  ‘Dogs are great,’ I said.

  Stan was back, having escaped from the bedroom when Scout came out with her drawings, and he shot me a furtive glance.

  ‘Dogs don’t care if you’re rich or poor,’ I said. ‘Dogs don’t care if you’re beautiful or plain, smart or dumb, or what kind of car you drive.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Anne said. ‘Because dogs are stupid. What’s that strange smell?’

  ‘Scrambled omelette,’ Scout said, placing a stack of drawings before her mother. ‘Daddy burned the pan.’

  ‘Scrambled omelette?’ Anne said. ‘There’s no such thing!’

  ‘No, scrambled omelettes are good,’ Scout said, and I nearly wept at her loyalty to my simple meals. ‘Because you can have what you want in them. Ham. Cheese. And you can eat them with Paul Newman’s barbecue sauce.’

  Anne touched her hair and laughed. ‘Darling, there’s omelette and then there’s scrambled eggs. There’s not scrambled omelette.’

  Scout was wide-eyed.

  ‘Lots of great chefs are men,’ she said.

  Anne shook her head, smiling. She studied the top drawing. ‘What’s this one?’

  ‘This one’s from school,’ Scout said. She carefully read the title: ‘My Family’.

  Anne inhaled. ‘But there’s only you, Daddy and the dog, darling. Where’s Mummy? And your baby brother? Where’s Oliver?’

  The new man. At least she doesn’t call him Uncle Oliver, I thought. At least we are spared that ugly fate.

  ‘I’ve got more drawings,’ Scout said, before Anne could complain any more, and she went back to her bedroom.

  ‘Look,’ Anne said to me. ‘If you’re finding it difficult to adjust . . .’

  I stared at her. I didn’t know what to say. Adjusting? Is getting on with it the same as adjusting?

  A burst of sudden pain throbbed in my lower back.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ she said.

  ‘Daddy’s not at work today,’ Scout said, her arms full of drawings. ‘He hurt his back.’

  ‘How long has your back been bad, Max?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said.

  ‘Are you sleeping?’

  ‘Like a baby.’

  ‘What – you wake up wet and screaming in the middle of the night?’

  We smiled at each other.

  ‘I’m going to be the grumpy sheep,’ Scout announced, dumping her drawings on the floor.

  ‘The grumpy sheep?’ Anne said. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The shee
p that didn’t want to see Jesus. The story’s called The Grumpy Sheep. The part I play is the grumpy sheep. It’s in the Bible.’

  ‘Scout’s Nativity play,’ I said. ‘At Christmas. I’m not sure the grumpy sheep is in the Bible, angel.’

  ‘Daddy’s going to make my costume.’

  Anne raised an eyebrow. ‘Good luck with that,’ she said.

  It was time to go. There were promises to see Scout soon. Promises to come again. Promises to have her down, and put her up, and show her a good time. Talk of baby brother and unborn sister that meant nothing to Scout. Promises, promises. If they were kept then everything would be better. Not perfect. Not remade. But better.

  And, despite everything that had happened, I knew that Anne loved Scout. But she hadn’t made space for her in the new life, with the new man, in the new place. And unless and until she did, Scout would be lost to her, and our beautiful daughter would carry those wounds with her for ever.

  ‘Oh,’ Anne said. ‘There was a young woman waiting for you downstairs.’

  ‘I get that a lot,’ I said.

  ‘I can believe it,’ Anne said, walking away from us and back to her new family, her new life. ‘They probably like your dog.’

  ‘Hello, Sick Note,’ Wren said. ‘I thought you were never going to let me in. What’s wrong with you now?’

  ‘Torn internal intercostal muscles,’ I said.

  Wren shook her head. ‘You’re going to have to give me a clue.’

  ‘The intercostal muscles lift your ribcage when you inhale and exhale.’

  ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘Only when I breathe.’

  ‘We missed you at Mallory’s funeral. It would have been good if you were there, Max. His wife, Margaret, she was asking after you.’

  I hung my head and choked something down. ‘I can’t see her,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t know what to say.’

  ‘You don’t have to say anything, stupid.’

  Scout and Stan came out to meet her.

  ‘His hair is the same colour as mine!’ Wren told Scout.

  All three of them were delighted. Stan began hopping around. Wren offered him the back of her hand to sniff before she started stroking him, and I could tell she was raised around dogs.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Scout asked.

  ‘Edie,’ Wren replied.

  ‘Look at this, Edie,’ Scout said. And then to Stan, ‘Play dead.’

  Stan flopped down on his side, his head lifted from the ground, his eyes wide open and fixed on the Nature’s Menu chicken treats gripped in Scout’s little fist. He licked his lips. His head quivered with anticipation. In truth, he didn’t look very dead. He didn’t even look sleepy.

  ‘That . . . is . . . incredible,’ Wren said. ‘Never seen anything like it. The pair of you should be on TV. Whatever that show’s called. Well done.’

  Beaming with pride, Scout and Stan went off to her room.

  ‘When are you coming back?’ Wren said.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ I said. ‘Maybe the day after.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Because this would be off the book.’

  There was an A4-sized file in her hand. Small and thin and green. She held it out to me but I made no attempt to take it.

  ‘Mispers,’ Wren said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was looking for missing persons, remember? Missing girls from twenty years ago.’ A glint in her eye. ‘You asked me. Remember?’

  I nearly laughed out loud. A spasm of pain shot through my lower back.

  ‘It’s over,’ I said. ‘Case closed. Murders solved. The perp convicted. They got their killer, didn’t they?’

  Ian Peck, aka Bob the Butcher, was standing up for all the murders. Not just Mallory. Not just the one he actually did, but also the murders of Hugo Buck, Adam Jones and Guy ‘Piggy’ Philips. Peck was an official serial killer, a superstar of real-life crime. Bob the Butcher’s followers were still lighting up the social network sites.

  I suddenly felt somewhere beyond exhausted.

  ‘I heard Whitestone made DCI,’ I said.

  ‘That’s right,’ Wren said. ‘And she deserves it.’

  ‘And they’re giving Mallory a posthumous QPM.’

  ‘And Scarlet Bush has got a book out called Pigslayer.’

  ‘A book? Already?’

  ‘Pigslayer is an e-book, Grandad.’ She flicked her fingers. ‘They do ’em fast. Haven’t read it myself. The chief super’s happy. Looks like everybody in our team is going up at least one pay grade. While you’re at home with your busted back feeling sorry for yourself.’

  I shook my head. ‘It’s over,’ I repeated.

  ‘No,’ Wren said. ‘It’s only just starting. Because there are still the missing.’

  ‘You know how many people go missing in this country?’ I said. ‘Every single day of the year?’

  ‘Yes,’ Wren said. ‘One every three minutes. Most of them young. Many of them female. Girls running away from care homes. Girls who are being abused by dear old mum’s brand-new boyfriend. Girls with drug problems, drink problems and body issues. Self-harmers and addicts of every kind. The waifs and strays. The unlucky ones who fall through the net – who fall through all the nets. Girls who are pregnant. Girls who think they are in love. Girls whose parents are religious fanatics who think they are whores if they listen to pop music.’

  ‘That just about covers it,’ I said.

  ‘You know how many girls went missing in the country that year, 1988, the year we’re looking at?’

  I was silent for a moment.

  ‘I guess it was a lot,’ I said.

  ‘You wouldn’t believe how many.’

  ‘And you’re going to find them all, are you, Edie? Avenge them all? Make it right?’

  ‘Not all of them. Just one. I narrowed it right down. The net – the net you gave me – was much too wide. It turned up too many names. Too many missing girls. So I looked in the immediate vicinity of Potter’s Field. During school time. In the spring and summer of 1988.’

  ‘But not all mispers are murder victims, Edie. Some of them – most of them – are just lost contacts. You heard of lost contacts? Did you do lost contacts yet in detective school?’

  ‘Fine.’ She began to gather up the contents of her thin little file. ‘I’ll do it by myself.’

  ‘Mispers are sometimes just lost contacts who got out and moved on and changed their name and were bloody happy to get away from whatever nightmare they were stuck in,’ I said.

  ‘That’s true,’ she conceded. ‘But some mispers end up dead in a basement. Or alive – and that’s even worse. Alive in some bastard’s basement for ten years or more. Chained naked to some fucking wall. And you know that’s true too, don’t you, Max?’

  I was silent for a moment.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘And you were there. You heard what James Sutcliffe told us. There was a girl, Max. It all starts with a girl! Find the girl and you find the killer and you find the motive for it all. But first you have to find the girl. And we have to find the girl, don’t we? We can’t just . . . leave her.’ She stared at me. ‘You really want me to do this thing alone, Max? I can’t believe it. I don’t think that’s who you are.’

  ‘You don’t know me.’

  ‘Probably not.’

  I walked her to the door.

  ‘You know the worst thing about being on your own with a kid?’ I said. ‘You care a lot less about the rest of the world. You really wouldn’t believe how much less you care. You just do. Your heart gets hardened. Your world narrows down to you and your child. You want to do this thing off the book?’

  She nodded.

  ‘But why?’ I said. ‘The missing will still be missing. Mallory will still be dead. Bob the Butcher will still be getting marriage proposals sent to his cell.’

  ‘We do it because if we don’t, they get away with it,’ Wren said. ‘We do it because if we don’t, we’re just like the worst of our kind – too scared to
do our job. And we do it because it matters. We do it because it’s right.’

  The file slapped hard against my chest.

  This time I took it.

  ‘You have a daughter, Max,’ Wren said. ‘Do it for her.’

  When Mrs Murphy arrived I went down to Smiths of Smithfield to look at the file.

  There wasn’t much in it. Three sheets of paper.

  The first featured a passport-sized photograph of a fair-haired girl in her mid teens holding an uncertain smile for the camera, a name, Anya Bauer – German? – and a date of birth: 4 July 1973.

  I looked at the photograph and saw that Anya Bauer had teased her hair into some elaborate approximation of some unknown hero. It could have been anything from a pop star to a princess. It could have been Madonna or Princess Diana. No, it was Madonna. Early on, when Madonna’s hair was still quite short. Anya Bauer trying to look older, trying to look pretty – trying to do what every teenager in the world tried to do. Anya Bauer was in her mid teens in the late eighties, so she would be on the cusp of middle age by now.

  If she had lived.

  The second page was a printout from a contemporary missing persons website with the same photograph and a disclaimer:

  Note: the child may look significantly different now to these images due to the age and stylistic differences.

  The third and final sheet carried the same image of the smiling girl. Page seven of the Potter’s Field Post, dated 21 August 1988. One sentence: ‘Anya Bauer, 15, has been missing from her home for two months and police are anxious to contact her.’ And there was a telephone number that had probably been defunct for the best part of two decades.

  I looked at Anya Bauer’s photograph for a long time, and when I climbed the stairs to my home, just before I opened the door I heard the sound of Stan barking and the untouched joy of Scout’s laughter.

  28

  WELCOME TO POTTER’S Field said the ornate wooden sign on the edge of town. FINAL RESTING PLACE OF THE ROYAL DOGS.

  Wren snorted. ‘They make it sound like the Taj Mahal or Victoria Falls,’ she said. ‘It’s not even all the royal dogs, is it? Just Henry’s. They haven’t got any of the Queen’s corgis in there, have they? And probably not all of Henry’s dogs.’