by Tom Trott
Andy was trying to be dispassionate, but he was exhaling heavily and nodding to himself. He couldn’t contain a grin when I smiled at him, but then the gravity of the situation dawned on him again and he went back to exhaling.
‘This is his gun.’ I took it from Thalia and gave it to Andy, who put it in his pocket. ‘Stephanie has a load of information to get you started.’ She passed him a memory stick, which he also pocketed. ‘By morning you’ll have everything you need.’
I passed Max over to him.
‘How are the Downsfoot family?’ I asked.
‘The paramedics got to the boy in time, the other three are shaken up but they’ll be ok.’ He held Max at an arm’s length and whispered to me. ‘It’s time for you to come in too.’
‘In the morning,’ I whispered back.
31
What Is Behind
The doorbell played Ode to Joy, I’d forgotten that. It fitted the pompous grandeur of the place. The fake stone lions, the mock Tudor exposed beams, the double-glazed diamond-paned plastic-framed windows. As the tune started up for a third time the door was finally wrenched open and the jowly face of former Detective Constable George Meek stared out at me through the chain.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he grunted.
‘No, only me.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Would you mind letting me in first?’ I lifted my blood-soaked shoe.
‘Christ,’ he said again. ‘Hold on.’
He shut the door. I heard footsteps retreating and then returning, then the door opened again, the chain still on. He pushed a plastic bag at me.
‘What’s that for?’
‘For you to put your foot in, I don’t want you walking blood on my carpets. Here...’ He passed me an elastic band too.
I put my foot in the bag and bound it with the elastic band. ‘Now can I come in?’
He said, ‘I guess so,’ like I was mad to want to.
I followed him through the door into his spacious hallway. The carpet that had been cream was grey. The wood that used to be brown was coated with dust. I followed him into the living room.
The wrist Tidy had broken was in a cast. With the other arm he swept a pile of crap off the sofa onto the floor. I sat down in the space. The place was bitterly cold; even colder, it seemed, than outside, despite, or because of, the little one-bar electric heater on the rug. It was less effective than someone breathing on you.
‘I’m just going to put this up here,’ I said, placing my foot gingerly on the coffee table. I didn’t have to play it up much.
He stared at my foot for a minute, and tried to itch inside his cast. His face was somehow fatter and thinner than it was three years ago; his skin was looser, his cheeks hung down below his chin and looked as though they might drop off onto the floor like slices of ham.
‘Does it hurt?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I replied.
‘Good. What did you do?’
‘Rolled a car.’
‘Onto your foot?’
‘Pretty much.’
He frowned. ‘You need to go to the hospital.’
‘That’s would be difficult in my current situation.’
He turned away. ‘Yeah, well... you can’t run forever.’
Thanks.
He had a beer on the go, he offered me one, which I took, then he sat down in the armchair that faced the telly. It was off, but still he had to crane his neck if he wanted to look at me. Which he didn’t.
‘I came here once three years ago, do you remember?’
‘How could I forget? It was right after you cost me my job.’
I scoffed bitterly. ‘You mean after you cost you your job.’ I took a swig of the beer. It was cheap, but cold like everything else. ‘Besides, you were already bent by then, you didn’t deserve to be a copper.’
There was an uncomfortable pause. ‘I only let you in for old time’s sake,’ he grunted, ‘and ‘cos of your foot, what are you doing here?’
‘When did you sell out?’ I asked.
‘Excuse me!’ He slammed his beer on the armrest. It foamed up and over. He sighed.
I gave him a blank stare.
He sighed harder, mumbled something to himself, as though he were arguing, then whispered audibly: ‘I don’t even know.’
There was a silence that lasted a couple of minutes. I didn’t dare break it.
‘It was Merton,’ he eventually mumbled. ‘It sounds stupid, but he had a way of making it sound like the right thing to do. We were just taking a shortcut, ensuring a conviction, else we were getting one over on the bosses, and they were all corrupt anyhow. Masons. He always talked about the Masons, told me how we would never get promoted by them posh twats because we weren’t part of their club, etc. I was a PC then, he was a DS. He had me brought over to CID, made me a detective, my mother was so proud, bless her heart. She had been proud when I first got my uniform, nearly cried, now she was more proud ‘cos I was out of uniform.’
‘Merton, not Burke?’
‘It was always Merton. Burke was... I don’t know, I guess the term is “a useful idiot”. I think he even convinced himself it was a relationship that was good for everyone. Coward would tip him off, dob in his rivals, sometimes his own soldiers if they did something stupid. In return Merton would make certain pieces of evidence go missing, tip off the identity of a witness. Burke had no idea, he didn’t want to know.’
‘And what did you do?’
‘I just helped Merton, I did what he asked.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Evidence and paperwork mostly. Manufacturing evidence, destroying evidence, falsifying records, inventing witnesses, along with anything that allowed us to clock overtime.’
‘What about at Little Fawn Farm, what did you do then?’
He frowned, didn’t answer. ‘Is that why you’re here?’
‘Two people fired shotguns.’
‘I never killed anyone. I never so much as beat someone up!’
‘Two people fired shotguns,’ I repeated. ‘I know one of them was Merton, if Burke was just a useful idiot who was the other?’
‘That would be the man who smacked you round the head the other night.’
I took a breath. ‘He worked for Coward then?’
‘No, he works for...’ He paused, then whispered it: ‘Max.’
‘I know.’
He frowned, sulking. ‘Fine. Coward worked for Max too, if you remember.’
‘Why did they kill the Almores?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said bitterly, glaring at me. ‘I didn’t ask.’
‘You just helped cover it up.’
That was too much like an insult, he clammed up again.
‘You helped frame a ten-year-old boy,’ I reminded him. ‘I know you faked the burglary reports. What else did you do?’
‘Nothing. They didn’t tell me anything about it, and I didn’t ask.’
‘Fine. What happened next?’
‘What is this!?’ he asked angrily. ‘This Is Your fucking Life? George Meek, bent copper, one of life’s failures. I don’t need to be judged by you, I know what I am.’
‘Then confess!’ I commanded him.
‘To you!?’
‘Yes!’ I shouted, then much quieter: ‘Who else is there?’
He sighed.
‘What happened after Merton died?’
‘I could never fill his shoes as far as Coward was concerned. Nor did I want to,’ he emphasized. ‘But Coward gave me little jobs to do. Just like I did for you,’ he added. ‘Eventually I did a lot for him, and then he bought me this house as a thank you, officially an uncle left it me. I thought it was great, it turned out to be a trap, because he could sell the house whenever he wanted and he’d make a profit, meanwhile I couldn’t say no to him, and he stopped paying. He’d bought me for life. His pet copper.’
‘And yet, when I came to you three years ago with the evidence to put him away, you chose to turn it over to him.�
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He scowled. ‘He would’ve killed me. I would’ve come home and found that black bastard in my airing cupboard. Instead Coward fled, I lost my job, and all I was left with was this damp-ridden house that I can’t afford to fix.’
‘Were they pissed off that you had lost your job?’
‘They never said anything to me.’
‘I thought they got you your job working security?’
He sighed. ‘No, I got me that job. I still have to eat. And I can’t sell this place because it ain’t mine. And the pay is shit and I can’t earn enough to fix the damn damp! Or re-do the cracked render. Or even fix the boiler.’
‘Or hire a cleaner, by the looks of things.’
‘Fuck you, Joe.’
I held up my hands. ‘So if they didn’t get you the job, how come you showed up at the farm the other night in your security gear?’
‘They paid the agency I work for, requested me specifically.’
‘That was the second time you heard from them.’
He nodded.
‘And the first was when you helped move Clarence’s body.’
The colour drained out of his face. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. He looked at me. I didn’t say anything, I didn’t even move my face. He knew he had to talk.
He drained the end of his beer first. ‘I thought I was out.’ He sighed. ‘When Coward disappeared I was pleased, you know. Scared too, about what it meant for me. But the weeks went on and no one came for me, no one contacted me. I was so relieved. There was a day when I couldn’t stop crying. It was a few months before I realised I was stuck in a trap. I can’t risk talking to any of my old police friends. I don’t have any family anymore. If I have a girlfriend I have to lie to her, tell her I’m house-sitting. Then they ask too many questions and I can’t have that. The only other option is to start afresh, move out into a bedsit, but I’m too much of a coward for that.’
‘What happened that night?’
He picked at the fabric of the armchair. ‘I had turned down an extra shift because I wasn’t feeling well. If I hadn’t I wouldn’t’ve been home. He turned up on my doorstep, I honestly thought he’d come to kill me. He said he needed my help, wouldn’t say what it was.’
‘Did you even argue?’
‘No,’ he scoffed. ‘You don’t argue with them.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I got in his car and he drove us to the farm. I didn’t know he had killed Clarence until I was standing over his body. And at that point it was clear my choice was move Clarence or join him. We carried him to the car, put him in the boot, and cleaned the place up. Then he told me we were going to put him in the boot of his car and I was going to drive it and hide it in some country lane. I felt sick. I was sure they were going to call the police and dob me in, hang the whole thing on me. After all, I’d been out for three years. And I was one of the few to survive the collapse of Coward’s organisation. They might’ve thought I struck a deal. When we got to his car yours was there too. I didn’t know it was yours, I don’t know if he did. Either way, he thought that was funnier, plus it would confuse things more. I was pleased. We put the body in your car and I drove Clarence’s away from the city. I actually wet myself I was so scared. I dumped it in the first quiet lane I found, cleaned it up the best I could. Then I had to sleep the night in a bus shelter. It was freezing, I could’ve died.’ He started peeling the label off his empty beer bottle. ‘When they called the agency and asked for me personally, I knew I was back in. And I will be until I die.’
I let the cold silence of the house return for a minute before speaking. ‘Or until they get caught.’
He laughed. I let it die away.
‘He’s sitting in a cell right now.’
‘That black bastard?’ he asked incredulously.
‘Max.’
He scoffed. I didn’t react. He laughed again. I still didn’t react. He stared at me as if I had made a joke he didn’t get.
‘I put the cuffs on myself,’ I told him, ‘handed him over to Andy Watson.’
‘On what charge?’
‘Specifically? Four murders. One I witnessed.’
‘They won’t stick.’
I shrugged. ‘Something will. All that’s needed is someone to get the ball rolling. Without his mystique, without his anonymity, he’s not scary anymore. You should see him.’
‘I don’t have anything on Max, if that’s why you’re here. I never even met him.’
‘No, but you met his friend. That “black bastard”. What’s his name?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What do you mean, you don’t know? You’ve known him for ten years.’
‘Known of him. I was Merton’s man, then I was Coward’s man, I never spoke to Max’s man until he showed up at my door.’
‘Never?’
‘No more than hello, it wasn’t some big club. Merton would deal with him, sometimes I was there, but Merton would make me leave before they talked business. I knew what was going on, who he worked for, but we never talked about it.’
‘But you can identity him as the person who threatened you and made you help move Clarence’s body and dispose of his car.’
‘And go to prison myself?’
I took a breath. ‘Maybe that’s what you deserve.’
He shot me a deadly look. I didn’t flinch.
‘But this goes further than that,’ I told him. ‘There is a young man who spent almost half his life in jail. He can’t use his real name, he can’t tell anyone the truth about himself. You could clear his name, and the names of everyone else Merton framed.’
‘What’s the point? Merton is dead.’
‘The past never dies.’
‘There’s no evidence, the files were all destroyed. I’m just an alcoholic ex-copper with a grievance.’
‘I know you, I know old coppers. I bet there’s more than one box of old notebooks in the loft here.’
His eyes flitted up to the ceiling for an instant, then back down to me.
‘I’m right, aren’t I?’
‘You came here tonight to talk me into condemning myself?’
‘You’re already condemned. You said it yourself: they’re either going to kill you, or you’re going to die their prisoner. You’re stuck in a trap you built for yourself, and the only way out is to burn it down. Set fire to it all. Set fire to Merton’s legacy and it’ll reach Burke’s, it’ll reach Coward’s, it’ll reach that black bastard, and it’ll even reach Max.’
‘You’re still joking, right?’
‘Just this once, everyone gets what they deserve.’
He scoffed.
‘Think about it.’ I pushed up onto my feet. The bag squelched. ‘But whatever you decide do me one more favour.’
He frowned. ‘What’s that?’
I pointed at my foot. ‘Drive me home.’
✽✽✽
I got him to drop me off by the viaduct. That gave me an opportunity to scope out the place. Cars queued at the lights. Drunk people stumbled down the pavements. Slush melted in the gutters. But there was no one on the Duke of York’s balcony, no suspicious people sitting in parked cars. They had given up on this place after days of inactivity. They probably didn’t have the budget.
I squelched my way toward the pub to get my key. The great thing about Brighton was that despite having a plastic bag fastened over my foot I wasn’t the maddest looking person in the circus. And despite it being four-something in the morning it was still quite busy.
The pub was closed, of course. I thought again. Even if the landlord did sleep there overnight I would have a hell of a time waking him up.
Damn.
I squelched round to the little courtyard behind my old flat, the one all the flat rooves look onto.
No one’s lights were on so I scrambled up the wall onto the flat roof and tried the bedroom window. I was prepared to risk breaking it, but I didn’t need to: the police had left it unlocked.
; I fell inside and turned on the light. I couldn’t remember if I’d left it in this state or if the police had been rummaging. If they had they wouldn’t have found anything, all I left were clothes and toiletries. Still it was strangely emotional to be standing in these small rooms again, like returning to a childhood bedroom. I felt a sense of home, just like I had in my old office. I knew my new life had spoiled me. I knew this was where I belonged.
I looked down at the mattress on the floor. In almost ten years I had never got round to buying a bed. In the living room/kitchenette all the cupboards were bare, the white goods and appliances unplugged. My new flat had come with everything I needed, leaving this place preserved like a museum. A museum of long shadows and dusty floors.
I went to the bathroom and turned on the shower, leaving the curtain open so I could check when it was up to temperature. I peeled off my jacket and top. My torso was riddled with purple and green bruises, my arms with yellow and brown ones. My neck was red, my eyes bloodshot. I really looked like crap. I opened the mirrored bathroom cabinet. Inside was a safety razor, brush, and shaving soap; shower gel and shampoo. I put the last two on the edge of the bath and left the rest, a beard would hide some of the bruises.
I undid the elastic band and took the bag off my bloodied shoe, then groaned as I prised the shoe off. In it was a blood-soaked sock. Leaving it at that for now, I undid my belt and took off my trousers. My legs were just as bruised as my arms. I took off my boxers. Then my left sock.
I checked the water temperature. It was still ice cold. Damn. I remembered I had turned the switch off in the utility cupboard when I left. I hopped out of the bathroom and through the living room to the little entrance vestibule where the cupboard was. I felt inside and found the switch, turned it on. It would still take a few minutes to warm up. That meant I had time to peel off my right sock. No excuse. I hopped back to the bathroom.
My foot was black. It looked burnt. Or cursed. Either way, like the foot of a corpse. It was crushed slightly, definitely unnaturally shaped, with toes not at the right angle. I touched it. It wept. I retched, grabbed the sink to steady myself, and dribbled some yellowish spit into it. Looking up I almost hit my head on the open cabinet and pushed the mirrored door shut. I stared into the doomed face that greeted me, framed by the mirror and the shower curtain behind. But I didn’t close the shower curtain.
