by P. R. Black
There was a click, and the door slid open. Her eyes were puffy from crying. Instinctively he reached out for her, but she drew back, shaking her head.
‘Our life is over,’ she said. ‘It’s finished. Everything we planned… everything we ever dreamed… It’s finished. Stained.’ Her lips trembled. ‘We can’t ever go back.’
‘We’ve had… an obstacle placed in our way. An obstacle we’re going to remove.’
‘An obstacle? You lied to me, Seth. Or you held back the truth. You sat in this house, with that secret between us. A pile of drugs, on our estate. And two men are dead because of it, Seth. What have you done with them? Have you dug a grave?’
‘No… Not yet, anyway.’
‘Then what are you going to do? Set them up as bloody scarecrows?’
‘Actually, that’s not the worst idea,’ he said. He might have smiled, ordinarily, but a look from Vonny fit to ignite the very air around them stopped him. ‘I’ve got a better idea.’
‘What?’ She folded her arms.
‘I’m burning them this morning, at first light. Now, in fact.’
‘Burning them?’ Vonny began to weep again, shaking her head and turning away from him.
‘It’s the best way. Then I’ll have the new shed replaced and burn that too. Say someone broke in and trashed it. Hire the same company. They made a good job.’
‘They’re not coming back, remember?’
‘Another company then,’ he said, tersely.
‘And what about the drugs? Where have you hidden them?’
‘Never mind the stuff. It’ll disappear into thin banknotes in a couple of days. I’m on it. We’ll walk away. No one will come near us. And we’ll be rich. Do you understand? Set. For. Life.’
‘Not in this house,’ Vonny said.
‘No. Probably not.’
‘We should have phoned the police.’
‘The decision’s made.’
‘Just like that. “The decision’s made”. God help you.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘The big I am. The gangster.’
He slapped his forehead. ‘Might be a big revelation here, but they were going to kill us.’
Vonny shook her head. Now she was detached, distracted. ‘I don’t think so. You could have led them to the stuff and let them walk away with it. Instead, you tricked them and called their bluff. Then you got lucky.’
‘Yeah, that’s a good idea. Let two maniacs who’d already gotten around our security system lead us into the woods at the end of a fucking sword. Perfect. Why not go along with that? Hey, as a deposit, maybe I could have let them take you away, too, as a nice insurance policy. Just so they could make sure they got all the gear they were looking for. That was next, you know. That would have been their next trick. That’d be fun for us all. I could just act the big peacemaker instead of the big I am. “Sure, take her away. No problem, you seem like a pair of stand-up fellows! I can trust you, right?”’
‘And you lied. You lied to me. You knew there were drugs. You found them and you didn’t fucking tell me. What else have you lied about? What else do I not know?’
‘Vonny…’ He couldn’t answer. He’d known, right away… the instant he knew, the second he was sure what he was dealing with, when he heaved that stone away… Treachery in his heart. Planning and plotting. Things that killed marriages. ‘Please… Please understand. I had to solve a problem.’
‘If those two hadn’t appeared, you were going to keep it to yourself, weren’t you? And what then?’
‘And then nothing. I would have done it for us. Please believe me.’
The door slid shut. The lock clicked.
Seth sighed, clutching his back. More to do. But not far to travel, now.
*
First light wasn’t till late. It was only when the sun began to appear that he realised how long he’d taken. And how close he might be coming to discovery.
At the pyre, he spread petrol over the top, and distributed chunks of barbecue firelighter they’d ported over among the stuff from the old flat. He dropped several extra-long matches into the pile, watching small, idle flames dance at various spots, before they reached the petrol on the other side of the pyre, igniting the fumes in between.
The bodies were still in there, he knew. He’d made sure of it.
The petrol ignited with a whoosh, bright white flames stretching up above the timber like an outstretched hand. Seth sat down and watched it take, the flames growing along with the sound. With the birds agitated all around him, and the sun’s multiple eyes blinking awake through the branches, Seth wondered if it was going to be a beautiful day.
32
Susie McCracken opened the office door handle with her pinkie, somehow keeping four bags of bacon sandwiches clamped shut in the other four digits. She also kept three coffees wedged between her chin and her left hand as she opened the door with her backside.
As she entered the office, she saw that the other three were still there. Neither of them made a move to help her, though they did notice her. Or at least, Whelan noticed her, because he said, as he always did when she appeared: ‘Three.’
At this, Struth and Brown also spotted her. They all broke out into applause as she deposited the drinks and the sandwiches onto a spare desk in the office, then came forward to feast.
‘You’re a legend,’ Whelan said. Like the other two he was around twenty-four years old, with short black hair that he must have taken an absurd amount of time with each morning, slathered with wax or gel. He was the boss, Susie supposed, which is one of several reasons why she didn’t raise any complaint when he peered into each greasy paper bag before choosing one for himself. Following suit on the pecking order were Struth and Brown. The latter was so much like one of Whelan’s lesser siblings that Susie could not count out the possibility that he was one. Brown was the youngest of the three, having graduated the previous summer. Susie went out of the way to be nice to him, overcompensating because she had loathed him on sight. He was prematurely aged, a fifty-year-old man squeezed into the doughy, ill-defined features of a boy, and he irrationally reminded her of a loathed schoolmate.
‘Aw cheers, Susie,’ Brown said, tearing open the bag.
‘Three’s the charm,’ Struth said, uncapping his coffee and taking a deep breath.
‘Think you might be forgetting something, lads,’ Susie said, leaning against the desk and folding her arms.
Whelan tutted. ‘We were going to get you lunch.’
‘I’ve heard that one before. I would like the money, please. Fiver each.’
‘Bloody taskmaster.’ Whelan nonetheless had a fiver ready, and tossed it onto the desk. The other two paid up as well. As they shuffled back to their desks, she wondered if this was how it would always be with them; always at these desks, into their middle age, the waistlines growing bigger, no wedding bands decorating their hands. Surely the marketplace would outmode them, if it hadn’t already. Despite the cleaner’s best efforts, their corner was always grubby; evidence of their games – this month it was ‘get the scrunchie into the top bin’ – were festooned all over the place. They were a throwback, a reminder of a drunken uncle at a wedding, or a rock star past his sell-by date who was tragically unaware of the fact. On good days, Susie would join in with their games. Most days, she kept out of their way.
‘Oh, someone called for you,’ Struth said, through a mouthful of bacon roll.
Susie waited until the silence grew unbearable. ‘Who, exactly?’
‘Coppers. Didn’t leave a name. I’m not sure. Or maybe he did. Inspector something? Anyway, he said he was going to meet you at the front door.’
‘Inspector something. Didn’t you think to ask?’
‘No, not really.’
‘You’re a journalist, aren’t you?’
All three men said: ‘Whooo,’ and mimed holding a handbag.
‘I’m a sports journalist,’ Struth said, grinning.
Susie sh
ook her head. Taking her breakfast and coffee with her – there were no guarantees in that office on a Saturday morning that it would still be there if she got back; in fact, if it was, that would be suspicious – she moved her shoulder with its security card underneath the sensor, then walked out to the front desk. Dee was on that day – perhaps the most bored person in the world, sat manning the phones for the whole of the industrial unit where the paper was based. She had probably been to her bed the night before, Susie was sure, but she was definitely on her way back out once her twelve-hour shift had finished at 6pm. Dee was pretty but could be severe-looking, with pale blue eyes that reminded Susie of a Siberian husky, captivating but hard – however, she was always warm and kind with Susie.
‘All right, Dee? The three amigos tell me there was a message earlier. Don’t suppose you’ve got a number saved on your call list?’
‘Oh yeah, that was when you were out. Came through the main switchboard. Let me check…’ Dee frowned. ‘Came in as a blocked number. It was Inspector Bell. Lovely accent. I think he said he was coming through to meet you.’
‘Thanks. That’s more than my colleagues could tell me.’
‘They’re not the world’s brightest, Susie.’
Susie hesitated, then said: ‘Does the name Three mean anything to you?’
‘Three? No, not really.’ Dee frowned. ‘Mind you… They called me One the other day, now that you mention it.’ Then she thought about it for a second. Then she blushed.
‘Well, never mind,’ Susie said. ‘Won’t waste my time talking about those clowns. And to think I felt guilty about dropping Whelan’s bacon roll outside the shop.’
While they were both laughing, the buzzer sounded. Dee hit the intercom. ‘Yes, Elmouth Park switchboard, how can I help you?’
‘I was wondering if Susie McCracken was around?’ came a mellifluous Scottish accent.
33
He insisted on seeing her outside, in a public square garlanded with beautiful Christmas wreaths, spoiled somewhat by haphazard fairy light placement. Although it was a dull day, bees were buzzing around the flowers, and the town’s elderly population had come out. By night the memorial square could get a little lively for Susie’s tastes, and the long-dried fountain at the centre was a plentiful supply of moral outrage stories whenever it was used as a bin, or a latrine.
Even from his seated position, with a broadsheet newspaper across his lap, she could tell Inspector Bell fit her template for a police officer in terms of height, he was well over six feet and skinny. He could have been about forty, with a pointy chin and long nose and grey eyes that surveyed Susie with amused detachment as she approached the wooden bench. The only incongruity was long, wavy sandy hair. Susie couldn’t decide if it was a late flowering attempt to appear trendy, or just poor grooming.
He rose to greet her, folding the newspaper into the pocket of his overcoat and extending a hand. ‘Susie, isn’t it?’ he said, in a pleasingly mellow Scottish accent.
‘Hi there. You’re Inspector…?’
‘Bell. I’m from the Met – somewhat out of my jurisdiction.’
‘A long way off your jurisdiction,’ she said. ‘What is that accent – Glaswegian?’
Bell’s brow darkened with the speed of a thundercloud rolling over a meadow. Just as quickly, it smoothed out as he smiled. ‘Ah, you’re messing with me! You know I’m a highlander.’
‘Big Outlander fan.’ She smiled. ‘Sorry, that sounds patronising.’
‘Not at all. Take a seat, I just want to ask you a couple of questions. Nothing you’ve done, I should stress.’
‘Um, before I do that with a strange man…?’ Susie stood her ground, and raised her eyebrows.
‘Oh. Oh!’ He fished into his pocket. ‘Almost forgot. Force of habit; I was at my desk the past couple of days. You forget how to interact with real people.’
Susie studied his warrant card, and nodded. There he was, with the long floppy blondish fringe, parted to one side. ‘OK. Just making sure.’
‘Not a problem. My bad, for not following protocol.’
The frozen bench bit into her as she sat down beside him, keeping a decent distance in between his buttocks and hers. She was discomfited by his relaxed pose once she did so, one hand stretching across the back of the bench, but not enough to get close to touching her shoulder. He crossed one crane’s leg over the other. His suit did look expensive, though Susie’s short time in journalism had been sufficient to foster a mistrust of pinstripes. ‘It’s regarding the job you covered the other day for your paper – last week’s edition.’
‘I cover lots of stories. Yesterday I was writing about a woman complaining about online music videos. I took a picture of her pointing at a computer screen. I’m sorry, you’ll need to be specific.’
‘The car – the Datsun. It was splashed across a couple of pages. That model’s of interest to me. As are the people you spoke to.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Well, I don’t know if you know the history of Brenwood Green – forgive me, you look very young. I’d be surprised if you weren’t at school when all this stuff happened, and I don’t think you’re local, going by the charming accent.’
Little sting at the end there, she thought. ‘That’s fair enough. I do think I know what you’re talking about. Vonny and Seth – the couple who won the old Ryefields estate on the raffle?’
‘That’s the couple, yes. I’ve spoken to Vonny. She seems very nice?’
‘I liked her. Quite warm. Genuine. Seth’s a laugh. Wouldn’t short-change him if I was the paperboy, though.’
‘Haven’t met him. He looks like Rupert the Bear in the photoshoot you did, mind you.’
‘Is Rupert the Bear a wrestler?’
That delayed-drop grin again. ‘Ah, you’re still messing with me. I hope I never have to bust you for anything.’
‘Me too.’ She laughed nervously.
‘No, I’m more talking about Ryefields’ history as a place where bad things happened.’
‘You mean Dan Grainger’s death? His two sons? The murder-suicide?’
‘That’s the one. Horrible business, horrible.’ He let the Rs roll around on his tongue. ‘Whole building was razed to the ground… paddock and stables all destroyed. There’s some suspicion the horses were killed as well. Seems old man Grainger went mad… But I have a doubt.’
‘What about?’
‘Well, those horses were very, very expensive. And there’s no suggestion they were killed. Which makes me think they were stolen.’
‘Interesting. That would mean it’s not murder-suicide.’
‘You could be right about that. You could be right.’ He tapped the upper edge of the bench, close to Susie’s shoulder. ‘Now, the estate has been of interest to us for a while. Nothing was discovered on the site, which I find quite odd. How much do you know about Dan Grainger?’
‘I don’t know – everyone seems to kind of whistle and roll their eyes whenever he’s mentioned, without going into details. I get the impression he was a…’ she didn’t want to say it ‘…gangster?’
Bell laughed aloud, slapping his thigh. She jumped when he did this. ‘Gangster is right! Actually, he was one of the worst gangsters you ever met. Or… never met, I should say.’
‘But you met him?’
‘Yeah, I had a few, um, tedious dealings. You have to talk to these people, sometimes. He was a grass, of course. Police informer – they all are. They use what they know as leverage, to stay out of jail, and they do it to wipe out competitors. Becomes a bit like an old spy novel at times, never mind a gangster movie. Knowing which strings you can and can’t pull. Give with this hand, smack you one with the other. But yes, you’d call him a gangster. He was that generation, you know… baby boomer, felt he had to be at the front of the class. Bit of a tart. Had to have the attention. People had to know he was a gangster, combatants and non-combatants alike. You tend to find that people like that aren’t too clever. Plenty of muscle, they’l
l do you terrible damage. But they aren’t criminal masterminds. Type of guy who enjoys being recognised at the golf club, or the spa resort, or a day out at the seaside. Enjoys the quiet at the pub when he walks in. That type of guy… won’t be the winner, ultimately. Well, Christ, he wasn’t. No. The winner’s the guy you don’t know. The guy who gets things done. The guy who doesn’t feel the need to hear the music stop.’
Bell had disappeared somewhere while he said all this, staring off into the bottom of Brenwood Green main street, dominated by a convenience-store-sized supermarket and a hardware shop clinging on to life.
‘You mentioned the car?’ Susie asked.
‘Yeah. The Datsun. You were there when they pulled it out the ground?’
‘I was. Big shock. Except they didn’t pull it out of the ground, exactly. I think a sub-editor put “unearthed” in my copy. That was misleading. Hate it when that happens.’
‘You didn’t mention where it was hidden in the story?’
Susie shook her head. ‘I couldn’t pinpoint the exact location. But it was hidden under canvas in this massive thicket – brambles, nettles. Had it been summertime, it might have been completely covered with vegetation. But they had co-ordinates, otherwise they’d never have looked in there. No one would have.’
‘And the car was intact? In good nick?’
‘Yes, I would say so. God knows how long it was out there for. Hardly any rust.’
‘You saw it close up?’
She nodded.
‘And was it opened?’
‘Yeah, there was a set of keys to go with it… They found this map, in the old shed. Behind a dartboard.’
Bell squeezed his eyes shut. ‘The dartboard. Fuck.’ He chuckled. ‘The number of times I looked through that place. No one thought to look behind the dartboard.’
‘Is the car significant in some way?’
‘Yes. There was approximately seven million pounds’ worth of heroin in there. Street value could be a lot higher. More than double, to listen to some estimates. Pick a number, really. It was pharmaceutical grade. It’s the stuff of legend – the Holy Grail batch. People still go on about it. A lot of junkies would have died with a smile on their face because of that. The gear was hidden in the back of an old Datsun Cherry. We knew it had come into the possession of Mr Daniel Grainger. I suspect that other people knew about it, too. That’s the sort of value people will happily kill for. Bad, bad people. Not benevolent baddies, like Dan Grainger. Thinks he’s a local hero. One of the Krays. No, really awful people wanted a cut of that. All your usual people with funny accents and names… No, not Scots, before you ask.’
