by Neil Cross
‘What do you mean, there’s a cottage?’
‘It’s not your personal cup of tea, I expect. But it’s worth, say, two hundred thousand. It’s yours, if . . .’ She mimed a zip over her mouth. ‘You keep it shut.’
Paul grinned.
Pat bristled. ‘This isn’t a wad of greasy tenners in a jiffy bag, Paul. I’m buying you off. Good and proper.’
‘So what’s the catch?’
‘The catch is, you’ll have to wait.’
‘How long?’
‘Not long. I can’t say for sure.’
‘Not good enough.’
‘Tough. Then make the call. Send me down. Stay in debt.’
‘I need proof.’
‘You can’t have proof. What you can have is my promise.’
‘What am I, off the banana boat? Have a house, Paul! Have this wonderful, invisible cottage. Fuck that. Do better.’
‘All right. It’s coming to you in a will. Clean as a whistle. Nothing to launder, nothing to lie about. No questions asked. Legal and absolutely above board.’
Paul whistled. ‘Whatever’s going on, it sounds like some truly exceptional kind of fuck-up.’
‘You’ve got no idea, mate. Seriously.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘Do you care?’
‘Of course I do. I don’t like all this business any more than you do. Discussing money with friends makes me feel queasy.’
‘Then you’re in the wrong business.’
He thought about it and said: ‘If you’d have pointed that out twenty years ago, we’d all be in a happier place this morning.’
‘I think I did point it out.’
‘I didn’t listen. I’m a cock. Do you fancy a drink?’
‘If you’re buying.’
‘I’ll buy. If you can lend me twenty pounds.’
‘Are things that bad?’
‘They’ll get better. As soon as I’m part of the property-owning democracy.’
‘All right. Then I’m buying. Assuming this conversation is over.’
‘I hope so. It’s given me a headache.’
They went to the pub.
41
Becks took the call at work. She was having a tough day, trying to deal with the fallout from another budget holiday firm going bust. Thousands of customers stuck in Greece and Spain and the Canary Islands and everyone clamouring at Becks as though it were her fault.
So at first the call from the police did nothing but irritate her – after days and days of hearing nothing, suddenly they wanted her at the station without delay. Then the irritation dropped from under her feet like a false floor and in her normal voice, not her work voice, she said: ‘What is it?’
Officer Jenny Cates said, ‘If you could come in as soon as possible, that would be great. We’ll send a car if you like.’
Becks was there in forty-five minutes.
Jenny Cates showed her the cassette tape that had arrived in the post that morning – postmarked Yate, two days previously.
Jenny Cates said, ‘I have to ask you, did you send this tape?’
‘Why would I send you a tape? I don’t think I’ve even seen a cassette tape since I was, like, eleven.’
‘We believe that tape may have been made by Jonathan.’
‘By Jonathan? Why?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t go into that. I’d like to you listen to a little bit of it and tell me if you think it’s Jonathan’s voice. Can you do that?’
‘I can do that, yes. Why?’
Jenny pressed Play.
Becks heard:
My name is Jonathan Reese. I am making this recording of my own free will and without coercion.
Jenny pressed Stop. ‘Is that Jonathan’s voice?’
‘What else does he say?’
‘So you confirm that it’s Jonathan Reese’s voice on the tape?’
‘Yes, that’s him. What else does he say?’
‘You’re absolutely sure?’
‘I know his voice. What else does he say?’
‘I’m afraid that’s sensitive to an ongoing investigation.’
‘Please.’
‘Rebecca, I’m sorry, I can’t go into further detail.’
‘Is it a confession?’
‘I can’t confirm or deny the further contents of this recording.’
‘It’s a confession. Oh my God.’ Becks had a feeling. Something was rushing through her, powerful and cold. ‘Does he say he did it? Is that what he says?’
‘Rebecca, we’re concerned by the timing of this tape’s arrival.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Did you post it?’
‘No.’
‘Then do you have any idea who might have? Any friends of Jonathan’s? Anything like that?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Because it was posted after Jonathan . . .’
‘After Jonathan what?’
‘Killed himself.’
‘What are you saying to me? Jesus. I don’t understand. What are you saying?’
‘Is this your handwriting?’
She showed Becks a facsimile of the little handwritten Jiffy bag in which the tape had been posted. In small but scruffy writing, it read: ‘URGENT!!! Re: Jonathan Reese.’
‘That’s not my handwriting. You know my handwriting. You’ve seen it on forms.’
‘Are you at all familiar with this handwriting?’
‘No.’
‘You’re sure.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Okay. Thank you for coming at such short notice. We wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t important. Will you be okay? I know this is upsetting and I’m sorry. Would you like me to call someone to take you home?’
‘No. Yes. Can you call Ollie?’
‘Oliver Quinlan?’
‘Yes. I don’t think I can call him. I don’t think I can speak.’
‘We can do that. Do you mind waiting here? Just for a moment?’
‘No. No, that’s fine. I’ll wait.’
Jenny left the room with appropriate deference and respect. But she gathered pace and by the time she got to the office, she was practically running. Everyone looked up.
Jenny took a breath, enjoying the moment. She said: ‘The girlfriend confirms. It’s him.’
When the fuss had died down a bit, they got on the phones, getting paperwork done, negotiating with civilian contractors.
Jenny sat at her desk. She had a pair of headphones jacked into her yellowing old PC. She pressed the space bar and listened again to the digital copy of the analogue tape that had arrived that morning.
My name is Jonathan Reese. I am making this recording of my own free will and without coercion. I wish to confess that on June 27th, 2004 I killed my wife Caroline Reese after a drunken argument. I punched her, then suffocated her with a cushion. I took her body to the deserted Hazel farm near the Bath Valley Woods . . .
Ollie came to the police station to pick Becks up.
Outside, next to his dirty van white in the bright sunny drizzle, he said: ‘Are you okay?’
Becks frowned, not quite there. ‘Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.’
She looked pale and bewildered. Ollie thought it might be shock. He said, ‘Should I call your work?’
She stopped walking in circles and clutched her jacket in her fist. ‘Would you mind?’
He dug out his phone and she dictated the number. Ollie turned his back on her to make the call, then hung up. ‘All done.’
‘What did you say?’
‘“Personal problems”.’
She laughed and ran her hands through her hair. ‘Shit.’
‘So what do you want to do?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What did he say? On the tape. What did he say?’
‘I don’t know. That he did it, I suppose. Why else send it?’
Ollie thrust his hands in his pockets and looked at the sky.
Becks said, ‘I’m sorry.’
�
��Who sent the tape?’
‘They don’t know.’
‘Was it Jonathan?’
‘They don’t seem to think so. They showed me the envelope, the handwriting. To see if I recognized it.’
‘Did you?’
‘No.’
‘Christ. I need to sit down.’
He didn’t even make it into the van, just sat down with his back to it and took off his beanie and worried it around in his hands.
Becks sat down next to him.
He said, ‘What do we tell his mum and dad?’
‘I don’t know. I expect the police will tell them.’
‘Do you think?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe not.’
Ollie got into the van to make the call.
When he got back in, he told her that Dennis had been shocked and polite – it was funny, how they were all suddenly being so polite to each other. He’d thanked Ollie for letting him know.
Ollie had told Dennis he’d be in contact. He told him to look after himself and his wife. Dennis said he’d call the police to see if there was any further news.
Then Ollie had hung up.
Becks was in the seat next to him, just looking at the traffic and the people. She said, ‘Can you take the day off?’ ‘I reckon, yeah.’ ‘Then let’s go to your place and get drunk.’
It was a small, dingy flat in a Victorian block, not far from Jonathan’s house. The kitchen was a mess and on the walls were posters of bands Becks had never heard of: Hawkwind, King Crimson, Chrome.
The shelves were lengths of timber propped on house bricks. Along them were many hundreds of vinyl LPs, more vinyl than Becks had ever seen.
There were no curtains, just some Indian cloth pinned above the windows. The air in there was pale orange like a half-sucked sweet.
They started on a bottle of Bulgarian wine from the corner shop and talked about Jonathan – how they’d met him, what a laugh he was, how considerate, how he allowed himself to get comically stressed by the small things, but how you’d always want him by your side in a crisis.
They opened a second bottle. Ollie rolled a joint. Nothing too strong, just taking them down to where they needed to be.
Ollie asked Becks if – deep down – she’d ever thought he might have done it.
Becks said, ‘Why? Did you?’ and began to cry. She told him she felt dirty, like she needed a bath.
Ollie held her hands. ‘Don’t be silly. You’re lovely. It’s me who should’ve known. It’s me.’
And she told him, ‘Don’t be silly.’
It wasn’t his fault. He’d been a good friend.
Ollie looked so sad, with his big eyes and his dirty nails. And then she was kissing him, slipping her tongue into his mouth. And Ollie placed his hand on her leg under her work skirt; then less cautiously, higher up her thigh. She wriggled her hips and then his hand slipped higher. The first time, it was urgent and hurt and angry. The second time it was slower and better.
Becks lay naked in Ollie’s grey-white sheets and later they sobered up but didn’t dress. They just sat naked, watching the TV, waiting for the news.
42
Kenny was less worried about leaving the cottage, these days. Jonathan was too weak and demoralized to attempt another escape.
So Kenny decided to catch the bus into town. He felt too tired to drive.
He met Pat outside his solicitor’s office. She gave him Paul Sugar’s details, handwritten on a page ripped from her pocket diary.
Kenny read the page, tried to memorize the details, failed.
The solicitor was called Desmond Cale. Kenny had known him long enough to watch him get cherubically fat, then divorced, then bald and thin, then remarried and fat again.
In Cale’s office, Kenny described the codicil he wanted to add to his existing will.
Cale asked no questions, not even when Kenny referred to Pat’s note in order to recite Paul Sugar’s details.
Then the business was done. Kenny said goodbye to his solicitor, shaking hands.
Outside, he handed Pat an envelope. It contained a copy of the amended will. Pat took the envelope and put it in her handbag.
Kenny said, ‘Jonathan Reese killed her. He told me.’
‘Like I give a shit.’
Kenny wanted to say something else, but he didn’t know what.
Pat walked away. He couldn’t watch. It made him miss her acutely, as if he were dead already.
He wanted to run after her, stop her, grab her elbow, gabble out what he’d done: that he’d reached into the void and dragged Callie Barton back into the light, made her a story with an end.
But he couldn’t do it, not without explaining that Jonathan Reese was still alive, bound, beaten and half-starved in the last bedroom.
He walked to the bus-stop with his hands in his pockets. He took the long ride back home, listening to people being polite to one another. He watched them get on the bus and then get off the bus, thanking the driver –
Cheers, driver, they said.
He missed them all. He missed everyone.
43
Paul Sugar sat at home, plonked his laptop on the coffee table and leaned over it, checking out the websites of local estate agents, making notes on a reporter’s pad.
£249,995
GREY COTTAGE, LANGPORT ROAD
A four bedroom mid-terrace cottage built of local natural stone within walking distance of the town and benefiting from a large rear garden.
£310,000
TAUNTON ROAD
A grade II listed period property of great importance being linked with the Abbey of Glastonbury and possibly dating from the sixteenth century.
He knew neither of these was his cottage, because it wasn’t even on the market – but going through the listings was like scanning porn while anticipating sex.
About five thirty, the doorbell rang.
Paul shuffled to the door and opened it.
There stood Ashley and Glen: collection boys for Edward Burrell the Shylock.
Paul was a big man, but he stood eclipsed in their monolithic shadow. They were bouncers, doormen bulked up with power-lifting and steroids.
Paul said, ‘It’s only Thursday.’
‘We’re busy,’ said Ashley. Apparently, he had an IQ of 150. Paul had yet to see much evidence of this.
Glen closed the door and put it on the latch – the chain like a filigree necklace between his sausage fingers.
Paul backed away, saying: ‘Actually, I’ve got some good news on the money front.’
Ashley gripped Paul’s testicles and gave them a single, pitiless twist. Paul curled up, nursing his balls. Ashley stepped on his head.
From under the tread of Ashley’s boot, Paul made a noise that didn’t sound like a human being had made it. He sounded liked a pig at slaughter.
Then Ashley dragged him to his feet and tossed him into the wall.
The shelves collapsed. All the things that had been on them fell down on Paul’s head – books, ashtrays, empty bottles, a framed photo of his mum and dad’s wedding.
Ashley removed his broad leather belt, wound it round his fist and began to flog Paul with the buckle.
When he stopped, Paul was curled up and sobbing on the floor.
Ashley said, ‘Get up.’
Paul got up.
‘Sit down.’
Paul sat down.
‘So. What’s this good news?’
‘That I’ve come into some money.’ He couldn’t speak properly. He’d bitten a good chunk out of his tongue.
‘So where is it?’
‘Come on. You just gave me the beating. That must get me another week.’
‘That wasn’t a beating. That was just saying hello.’
‘Okay. Look, it’s complicated.’
‘Then explain it slowly.’
‘I’ve come into a property.’
‘What property?’
‘That’s the thing. I don’t actually know what
property. Not exactly.’
Ashley’s brow knit.
Paul said, ‘It’s complicated, but it’s kosher. On my life. On my mother’s life. I can pay it back. The whole lot.’
‘When?’
‘Soon. Really, really soon. On my dad’s life. On my little boy’s life.’
‘You got a little boy?’
‘He lives with his mum.’
‘Of course he does. What’s his name?’
Paul didn’t want to say his name. He just said, ‘On his life. I promise. I absolutely promise.’
Ashley deliberated for a moment, then ambled over and sat next to Paul. The sofa complained. Two big men, side by side like old women at a bus-stop.
Ashley grabbed Paul’s ear and tugged it.
Paul struggled.
Glen put down the magazine he was reading and strolled over. He gripped Paul’s ankles.
Soon, Paul was lying face-up in Ashley’s lap, thrashing like a landed shark.
Glen leaned over and chopped at Paul’s diaphragm with the edge of his hand. Paul tried to gasp, but couldn’t. No air would come in.
Ashley pinched Paul’s nostrils shut and pressed his other hand flat across Paul’s mouth.
Paul tried to breathe, to yell for help, to plead. He tried to twist and jerk his way free.
But not for long.
When he awoke, he was in the bath. He opened his eyes and sat up. Ashley and Glen had let themselves out.
Before leaving, they’d amputated the little finger of his left hand. They’d burned the stump to cauterize it.
Paul cupped the mutilated hand to his armpit and wailed with pain and shame.
In another world, another time, his sobbing might have driven one of his neighbours to call the police. But nobody called the police and nobody came to help.
Eventually, he lumbered to the kitchen, looking for whisky. Then he called his ex-wife to ask for money.
He said, ‘They cut off my finger!’
She said, ‘Drop dead, Paul. Really,’ and hung up.
Paul finished the litre of whisky.
In the morning, he sat shuddering on the toilet. The stump of his finger throbbed percussively. He could hear it, the drumbeat of his mutilation. He felt more wretched than seemed possible.
From the bottom drawer in the kitchen, under a pile of old tax returns, he dug out a blister pack of Dexedrine – doing his job, sometimes it was necessary to stay awake for long periods.
