by Rachael Blok
Robyn continues, ‘The bones at the end of the fingers have been damaged, some more clearly than others. Someone has made an effort to get rid of means of identifying the corpse. Bit obsolete now for the fingertips, but whoever has hidden this body has taken no chances. When this body was first killed, it doesn’t look as though it was meant to be found.’
‘How long will it take to get some form of ID?’ Maarten asks, thinking that bodies which are meant to stay buried always surface at some point. Whoever did this has had to change their plan for some reason. There’s no textbook murder.
Robyn smiles, sitting back easily on her heels, her legs folding beneath her. ‘Always hopeful, aren’t you? Well, I’ll try for something – bones can often tell their own story. I won’t know anything soon. We’re busy at the moment, it’s the holiday season. But I’ll do my best.’
‘We’ll run the missing persons search. If we’ve got any leads, we’ll let you know. But why bury it here? And where has the body been? We’ll check any grave thefts in the last week.’
Adrika stands to his left, making notes.
‘Sir!’ There’s a shout and he rises, looking over at a group of press pushing at the boundaries. They’ve been all over police alerts recently, looking for any story but the weather. ‘Thanks, Robyn. Let me know when you know.’
She nods, turning back to the earth, grass thin on top as though it is entering middle age.
Sunny is dealing with the press as Maarten approaches, and they retreat, seeing his face. Maarten drinks from his bottle, his fingers cracking as he flexes. His throat aches and his mouth is sour.
‘Cheeky buggers,’ Sunny says, his blond hair tipping forward over his brow, which blooms with shades of plum and rose petals – Maarten had winced when he’d seen him that morning, and Sunny had shrugged. There had been a police cricket friendly early after work the day before and he’d not bothered with sun cream. Sun cream, apparently, was for wimps. Under the rose hue was a tinge of green. He’d been out for the curry too.
‘Anything from the witness? Anyone else come forward?’ Maarten asks.
‘I’ve made an initial list. The local milk company were out early this morning and reported a white van seen in the village. Nothing suspicious, except it was so early, and it was moving quickly. The milk van is electric, and the van overtook him without waiting for the road to widen sufficiently.’
Flies land on Maarten’s face. No matter how many times he swats them, they still return. He thinks of their feet, multiplying the bacteria of countryside waste, and wishes he could get back in the shower. There’s not an inch of him that isn’t sticky with heat.
‘Great. Well, once we have a list of names we’ll get started. The ground is almost too dry to expect any decent footprints. No tools left at the scene. It will likely rely on the body. Hopefully some fingerprints, a witness, CCTV from the village?’
‘Makes no sense,’ Adrika says. But her eyes show a gleam. A spark of ambition. ‘But should be interesting. There’s a lot of press gathering early.’
Maarten glances round. The press hold no glee for him.
‘Graveyards are not the best way to start the day.’ Adrika peels off the gloves, shaking her shoulders back after bending down. ‘There’s a girl over there, only sixteen years old. Caitlin Miller. She died on this day ten years ago. Beloved daughter and sister. Horrible.’ Adrika shakes her head.
‘The young ones are the worst,’ Sunny says, then he turns with a shrug, his phone tucked up by his ear.
‘Family grief.’ Maarten glances at his watch. ‘Bet they didn’t get over that. Twists your heart.’ Maarten thinks briefly of his parents, the car crash just outside of Rotterdam. Of the black hole, the pit, that had swallowed him when he’d heard the news. ‘Grief is… Well, it’s like nothing else. All the love you have, nowhere to put it.’ No point trying to describe it. It’s something felt. And you can’t spit it out.
‘Come on, we’re almost done here. Want to run the meeting when we’re back at the station? I’ll stay for it. Let’s compare notes first, but…’ Maarten’s phone vibrates. He has ignored it for the last five minutes. But they’re pretty much done here and he pulls it out reluctantly. An unknown number. He sighs.
‘Yes,’ he says, answering, thinking that there’s something about this case. That maybe the family holiday they’ve planned in a couple of weeks might be affected. He imagines Liv’s face if he tells her he has a few calls to do, a few case notes to review. Won’t be the first time. He can see the eye roll, feel the children pulling his hands towards the beach as the calls come in.
‘Hello, is that Maarten Jansen?’ The voice pronounces his surname with a hard English J.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sorry to have to tell you, Maarten, but this is Staff Nurse Edwards at Lister Hospital, in Stevenage. There’s been an accident. Your wife and children are here. They’re being looked after. Your daughter unlocked your wife’s phone to give us the number. Both girls are awake.’
‘What? Are they… Are Nic and Sanne…’
‘They’re in good hands, Maarten. But you need to come in. I can’t talk to you over the phone. You need to come in.’
Maarten can feel his foot is damp and he sees he’s dropped the water. The flies land again; Taj calls his name from near the temple entrance.
He can think only of Liv, and Nic and Sanne. He stalls briefly, closing his eyes for just a fraction, then opens them again. Moving as he speaks.
‘Liv and the girls are in hospital. Car accident. Adrika, keep me updated. Call if there are any problems.’
Adrika and Sunny are speaking as he leaves but he doesn’t wait to hear the end of their statements. ‘Anything I can do…’ falls behind him as he leaves their faces stunned with the shock he feels. Others turn towards him, hearing their call, sensing alarm.
His blood heats and he quickens his pace, running towards the car. He jumps the police tape that cordons the crime scene and lengthens his stride once free of the forensic photography, the ringed pathways of investigation. The grass is brittle on his legs, more like straw now, and it spears him as he crosses to the edge of the field where the car is parked.
How the day can twist from one moment to the next. From calm to chaos. To heartbreak.
He brushes tears from his face as he reverses the car, swearing. The gears grind; his eyes blur, bright under the glare of the sun.
The flies follow him, but as the car powers forward, they fall backwards, returning to the sleeping dead and the stench of remains.
3
Wednesday 13th June
BEN
Ben wakes with a headache. Storms seem to churn the men up. It’s the wind, he thinks. It’s the sound of the wind, flying in all directions, unpinned. He doubts many slept last night.
As he waits for the cell to be opened for breakfast, there is shouting from down the wing. Swearing, words like currency, thrown around to mark status, to warn, to provoke. A porridge of Fs and Cs.
He wakes slowly, his eyes straining at the brightness of the strip lights, no curtains, the sun relentless. A fight breaks out somewhere. The noise rattles from cell to cell like a Mexican wave: catcalling, name-calling.
He dips his head. The base of the top bunk above seems lower today. His back aches. He rises slowly to stand, to stretch up and forward. He doesn’t turn towards the door, or towards the top bunk. He keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the glimmer of the outside; it’s strip bright. The sun is already hot.
Kiz is talking. The dream he had last night, how hungry he is, how noisy it was: ‘…hot, the bird was stonking, I was like “yeah, come get it” and then…’
The rattle of words like a hammer against a bin. Battering.
The door opens as Kiz winds up his story and the call for Ben arrives: a bark, but not unkind. Two guards stand outside, both with keys. Already agreeing with Kiz, whose noise is expected, they pacify him as Ben moves past him to stand outside the cell.
‘…right good
one, lad, honestly, I proper swear like, never thought, I was arsking him wasn’t I…’
Kiz’s stream of consciousness moves outwards, catching where it will somewhere in the guard who remains behind Ben, supervising inmates carrying boxes of breakfast to deliver: sachets of jam, sachets of tea. Cereal Ben eats because you need to eat.
The packets of food apportioned arrive like the packets of time in here. Everything is boxed. Half an hour for meds. Twenty minutes for breakfast. A nap can last an hour. Sleep is the goal. Lack of consciousness. Kiz is a fan of spice – enforced blackouts. The cost is big, in health and finance.
The relief of the quiet beyond his cell is physical.
He catches Tabs’s eye as he walks past his cell; he is up against the window in the door. The thickset Scotsman nods at him.
A fight kicks off behind another door nearby and a guard shouts to calm them: ‘Don’t kill each other before breakfast. I haven’t had me coffee yet.’
The air is fresh outside. The stroll to the medical block, with its warm air like liquid and the chance to stretch his legs, is worth a chest infection.
‘Morning. Feeling any better?’ The nurse who delivers the controlled meds today is small. Much smaller than Ben. Black hairs run up his wiry arms, and an inked crab sits on his forearm. At the weekend it had been someone with softer flesh, a stomach that had strained against the uniform trousers, pulling tight into camel toe, pinned by the buttons and tight cuffs. Ben had felt a flash of pity that such soft abundance had to be forced into restraints. Even flesh should find freedom.
He nods, swallowing with a paper thimble of water.
‘Right, wait an hour before eating. We’ll see you again in about six hours. You keep coming down with this, don’t you?’ A sharp nod follows, and Ben turns, moving past the few men who line up outside the treatment centre.
Walking back to his wing, he swallows the clear air, stocking up. He ponders briefly again how bad things would have to get before they’d allow him out further. Hospital treatment was a real trip out, broken bones, or worse – a real excursion.
Fourteen months have passed. Only about ten and a half years remain. Might get out sooner.
‘Right, Benny. Back in. You’ve got cleaning later, haven’t you, mate? See you in a few hours. Judge Judy reruns on soon. That should shut Kiz up for a bit.’ Mr Burke, this guard, is kind, and Ben likes him. It’s not often he gets much sympathy. But Burke rolls his eyes as they approach the cell and Kiz is at the bars, already shouting: ‘Not enough fucking sugar, I need sugar in me tea, tastes like…’
He winks at Ben. ‘Get that telly on, mate. It’s what I do with the kids when I need five minutes’ peace.’
The same fight from earlier kicks off again behind them and two guards hammer on the door with the base of their fists. Like someone has pressed the rewind button.
It’s settling as Ben sits on his bed, his breakfast on his lap. He checks the time to see when he can start eating, fingering the white plastic of the unbranded cereal, cupping the sachets of tea, throwing them up and back, as the TV begins. The morning news bulletin is finishing; Kiz will change channel soon. The smell from the toilet turns his stomach. The drainage in this heat is rank.
It’s when he first sees the story. It’s only on the local news. An item of interest rather than a lead story, following the recap of the headlines that ends the breakfast show.
You can’t cry in here, not publicly at least. As the tears bubble, his nose feels tight and he’s close to breaking down. He picks up his plastic fork and pushes the tips of the tines into the palm of his hand, waiting for the moment to pass.
Looking again, he blinks hard, to check he is reading properly. His eyes still ache from the long night, but no – it’s still there. A body has been found. Police tape is marked out behind the reporter holding the microphone. A body has been found in Ayot, so close to Ana. Could it be him? Could it be Leo?
Kiz says something to him, leaning forward, repeating it over and over, but Ben can’t hear, can’t turn his head from the screen.
‘Please, God,’ he mutters. Sometimes his brother sits inside of him like a hole, a gap that has been dug out, mercilessly mined. At other times, the memory throbs like the beating of a second heart. Caught between two snapshots, he is both laughing, leaning back off the boat, spray from the sea catching the light like crystals, and then vanished, Ben’s arms empty and blood-drenched.
Grief and guilt roll like a wave and a scream ignites inside of him, catching flame.
4
Wednesday 13th June
ANA
On the train, the pain of Ben rocks to shock of Fabian. The carriage bounces her between the two. Thoughts rattle around like peppercorns.
She had walked halfway to the graveyard. The scent of the flowers on the bushes that lined the road had been heady. Police cars were out, tape erected, and people stood in clusters, heads bent close, whispering. A few teenagers passed on bikes. The fancy cars of the village, on their way to the London commute, crawled past – heads crooked.
Then she’d paused… was it a profile she recognised? She had felt the creeping sensation of being watched.
She knows Fabian’s not back yet. Jess had only mentioned the flight this morning. She is sure she’s started to look for him, glancing left and right as though watching for speeding cars when you cross the road: Fabian Irvine, back in Ayot.
The figure hadn’t been looking directly at her but had been leaning on a wall watching the police, a cap pulled down low over his face. He hadn’t turned around. But every hair on her body had stood up.
Sliding into the calm of the day, she stands as the train stops and commuters line up, passive-aggressively queueing, a collective tut as someone with a bike gets it stuck when turning before the doors, skin already slick with morning sweat.
The air in the station is like soup. Commuters on their way to work are in as much of a state of undress as the City will allow: vest tops, Birkenstocks, flip-flops – high heels stowed in bags, men with shirts already darkening under the arms.
The air conditioning of the office is a blast of welcome relief and she ducks in to wash her hands. Her reflection needs work. She arranges her hair, applies lipstick, making shapes with her mouth and checking her teeth. She finds two more lines, assesses the ones she’s already spotted.
Deep breath. She remembers not to think of Ben, of his steadfast calm when she was upset, of his laugh, which let people in on a joke they hadn’t heard; that he could do a backflip after a few beers when camping, his party piece by a campfire. She buries thoughts of Fabian – remembers that it might not have been his profile she saw at the graveyard. The cap was too low to see his face. And he was always too vain about his hair to wear hats.
I’m not being stalked, she thinks firmly, not again. But her hands shake as she pushes the bathroom door, and she has to pause for a second to breathe.
‘Morning!’ she says, sitting in her chair. The door to the office she shares sits open. The huge window to her right is hot, its blinds already lowering to dim the City glare. She slips in easily, matches the polished environment, loses one self, finds another.
‘You’ve a meeting in five,’ Fran says, drinking coffee and staring at her computer.
‘When did that happen?’ Ana asks, logging in.
‘Oh, The Leith stuck his head round here a minute ago. I told him you’d just nipped out. Who have you paid to land a deal with him?’ She spins on her chair, voice humming, eyes smiling. ‘Good night last night?’
‘So-so. You? How was Jack812? Did he really have a GSOH?’
Fran laughs and pulls her chair forward, opening her eyes wide and clapping quickly. Her hair is long and smooth, and it swings forward as she tilts towards Ana, confiding. With it loose, she looks a bit like Meghan Markle, Ana thinks. More Suits than princess. It’s a good look.
‘Ana Seabrook, he did indeed! A bloody GSOH. Look, I took a photo of him for you when I was pretending to answer a te
xt.’ She lifts her phone and thrusts it in front of Ana’s face. ‘That. Face.’ She wiggles the phone. ‘I might love him.’
Laughing, Ana looks. The man has olive skin and large brown eyes. He’s clearly glancing elsewhere waiting for Fran to fake text, and Ana sees his eyes focused on a tall woman walking past.
‘So, we love him, but do we trust him?’ she says.
‘We’re not sure. But we’re willing to find out. This Friday. I’ll keep you posted!’
‘Well, let me know if you need an exit route. And remember the rules. You call me from the loo every two hours until the third date.’
‘Ana, the Round Room?’ Leith’s voice carries across the office.
She stands quickly, nodding.
‘So I heard they were going to give it to Jon Tallon, but he’s been called on to something else and pulled an all-nighter last night. Good luck. This could be your chance to get yourself noticed by The Leith himself.’ Fran has already swung back, typing quickly. Her phone rings, and she lifts it with one hand, not taking her eyes off the screen. ‘Fran Howland…’
Ana enters the room and there are six people sitting round the table. Everyone shakes hands, introductions, coffee is handed out; St Paul’s rises high outside the window of the law firm.
Has Ben heard yet? Does he know? She forces herself to listen to the man who has just introduced himself as Dante. His jaw moves quickly.
Dante’s top lip, the upper part of his jaw, remains strangely still as he speaks. It’s like a cartoon jaw. Tilting her head a touch to reinforce her listening, she focuses on its stillness, calming her thoughts.
She hasn’t done anything more than nod and smile to Leith. He radiates something. He’s the partner at the table so they will all defer to him this morning anyway; Dante glances his way more frequently than hers. Writing notes, Ana catches his eye as she looks up.
There are two women on the clients’ side. One is clearly the most senior, as they all check with her with their eyes before and after they speak, but she has said nothing. Dante is still running through their details by way of introduction: a pharmaceutical firm; they’ve developed a new weight-loss drug, an appetite suppressant. Early tests have been promising and an offer has been made by a bigger firm to buy them out. This wouldn’t be one of the hardest mergers Ana has worked on, but the figures are large.
