Down Cemetery Road

by Mick Herron

  ‘No worries. All I’m saying is, that should have been it. You know? You’ve got the cops leaning in one direction, you’ve got your nice cosy life in the other. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out when it’s time to quit.’

  She rubbed her temple. There was a sharp pain buried there, and if it ever got out it would make a noise like a banshee. It was about now she’d be taking a blue pill, if she was ever going to take one again. The thought came to her unbidden that a whole stretch of her life had just come to a close, and it wasn’t the absence of the pill that rang down the curtain.

  ‘So what you doing still writing letters, Sarah? Your jewboy’s dead. Can you not take a hint?’

  Nothing changed. The ground beneath her feet crumbled and gave, but that was all. And the only things she could think of to say were the hackneyed, the clichéd, the grim:

  – What did you say?

  – You can’t be serious!

  – You don’t mean you –

  So she said nothing.

  But Rufus said, ‘He to protect you, was he? Big strong man like him? Case you ran into any bad guys?’

  ‘It was you. You were late turning up that night the bomb went off.’

  ‘Mmm hmm.’

  ‘Only nobody took any notice. Because even when you’re there, you’re hardly there.’

  He grinned and hid his face behind his hands. ‘Peep-oh!’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Call me Rufus.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘But my real name’s Axel. Hey, what do you think that fat bastard would make of that?’ He twisted his face into a pompous mask: not at all a bad Gerard, actually. ‘That’s not a name. That’s an abomination.’ Then untwisted, and was Rufus/Axel once more. ‘Course, under fresh circumstances, I’d wipe the fucking floor with him.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m your bad dream, Sarah,’ he said. ‘I’m the stair that creaks when there’s nobody home. I’m the light that goes off without warning.’ He produced, from behind his back, her copy of Joe’s letter; the red marker pen bawling out her intentions for the world to see. ‘I mean, what the fuck is this? Your friend is dead, Sarah. Not to mention well stitched-up. And you’ve got coppers wondering when you’ll start shopping for a new freelance chemist. You were supposed to give it up.’

  ‘I did give up. I have.’

  ‘So why the letter? Why the phone number? Why couldn’t you just let it be?’

  She looked behind her, at the back door. The key had gone. When she looked round, Rufus held it. He smiled, and dropped it in his cup of tea. ‘Won’t be needing that.’

  ‘You killed Joe. You planted the coke.’

  ‘And you just had to get back on the bus, didn’t you? What is it with you, is it the kid? Is it still the kid? She’s a little girl, Sarah. There are fucking hundreds of them.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter any more.’

  ‘Is she alive?’

  ‘Do I care?’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ she whispered. Her voice barely staining the quiet air.

  ‘I’m going to kill you,’ he said patiently. ‘What did you think I was going to do?’

  ‘But they’ll know, Wigwam’ll know, she’ll tell –’

  ‘Christ. Sarah, do I care? I’d have been out of here weeks ago already, if it weren’t for you. Six months I spent married to that poor cow.’ He reached something down from the fridge: she couldn’t see what it was. ‘And just between you and me, I’d have had more fun sticking my dick down a rabbit hole. Ill of the dead and all that, but –’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘No. You can’t have. You mustn’t –’

  ‘Sarah. Listen to me. You stuck your nose in something bigger than you know. And me, well, my job’s to go round cleaning up other people’s mess. It’s a filthy business, but guess what? I love it. I mean, I really get off on it. Which was bad news for the missus, but hey, them’s the breaks. And as for you –’

  But he couldn’t have killed Wigwam he couldn’t have killed Wigwam he couldn’t have killed – He put his hands together, then pulled them apart. A thin cord appeared between them; he did it again. Now it was a double strand.

  ‘As for you, I get the feeling you’d be a wet one.’

  And again. It was dental floss, Sarah realized with a curious absence of shock. He was unreeling yards of dental floss, and folding it into a loose rope.

  ‘Sadly, I’ll have to make do with the foreplay.’

  He snapped the cord and let its plastic box drop to the floor; then, with a quick twist of his hands, took a firm grip on the ends of his rope. It looked laughable, somehow. It was also quite enough to kill her.

  ‘Shocking area. Do you know, they had two murders round here last year? Some mastermind put away his wife. The other one, they never caught him. Robbery gone wrong, they said.’

  ‘Was that you?’ she whispered.

  ‘Course not. You’ve got it upside down. Nobody’s gunna think I did that. They’re gunna think whoever did that did you.’ He experimented with his noose, giving it slack, then pulling it taut. Something in the process satisfied him.

  The only way out was the front way, through him, and to get through him she’d need a weapon. This was the kitchen, the most dangerous room, but the knives hung in a rack by the fridge, well out of reach. She threw her tea instead, and he hardly noticed. Still hot, it splashed into his face, and he laughed. The cup glanced off a shoulder and bounced to the floor. Sarah rushed him. She didn’t make it.

  Somehow he was behind her; he had her in his arms and the dental rope looped round her neck was already strangling. She kicked, stamped, and thought she connected, but his grip did not weaken and he gave no hint of pain. When she tried again, he had moved. And he was right, he was her bad dream; one in which all her struggling left her more securely knotted in its grasp. Her throat was on fire now, and her tongue too big for her mouth. Strange pictures rushed to and fro in her mind as her frantic brain searched for a solution; meanwhile her body thrashed in panic, her hands grabbing at anything in reach. She pulled on the fridge door, which opened with a jolt. A carton of milk leaped out and burst on the floor. The white puddle spread out before her eyes just as a black pool opened behind them. She could feel herself falling into one or other: black, white, it didn’t matter. No use crying over . . . Her hand closed round something. It felt absurdly like an asthma inhaler.

  And this was Joe, come back from the dead to save her. The rape alarm he’d given her fitted like a grenade in her palm.

  She raised her hand above her head, to Rufus’s head, and depressed the trigger. And there was her banshee, wailing into the world just as the pain in her head exploded: an explosion that came like a gush of air as he released his grip while the noise bust his ears; came with light too, as the black pool vanished, and familiar objects swam back into view. There was no time to cherish them now. She struggled free of his grasp, dropped the alarm; its scream whipped once round the room and died. Sarah had sunk to her knees.

  She tried to stand, but slipped in the milk and fell headlong to the floor. Behind her Rufus cursed, something insane and biblical, before reaching down; intending to beat her to death with his fists. Which was not how she wanted to die. But the slick floor defeated her attempts to flee, and her throat hurt, and there was not enough air in the room to feed her lungs . . .

  The back door splintered open. It was like watching a glass firework. And Sarah saw hair and teeth and a man in a crouch, his arms outstretched to make a point that was ugly, black and useful. It coughed twice. Above her Rufus bloomed red, his throat a holy mess of blood. And then, leaving a fine pink spray behind him, he was down, forever out of view, while she lay in a mess on the floor, wondering if she’d faint.

  In the event, she didn’t.

  V

  Some hours later, Amos Crane stood where she’d been standing, looking down on the vacant
space where his brother had died. A faint misting of blood on the floor described the shape of Axel’s head, as if death had reduced him to little more than a stencil, though it took a brother, probably, to read Axel into it rather than any other damaged head. Howard was there, and a number of local cops, and a man in a suit in the corner, his own head safe in his hands, who’d turn out to be the householder, Amos expected. The owner of the house where his brother had died. Looked at dispassionately, it had long been on the cards that Axel was going to die a violent death: no point blaming the bastard in whose house it actually happened. Looked at less dispassionately: Fuck that. Amos would blame who he liked.

  Howard came over. ‘I thought this was a loose end Axel had dealt with.’

  ‘It must have frayed.’

  ‘It’s the same woman, right? I mean, please tell me this is just a continuation of the same fuck-up, not a whole new one?’

  ‘To you it’s a fuck-up, Howard. My brother’s dead.’

  ‘Oh, Christ.’ Howard pulled a tired hand down his tired face. ‘I’m sorry, Amos. I didn’t mean any of that. Axel – he was one of ours. Not just yours.’

  ‘Sure he was, Howard.’

  ‘But this – you’re aware there are civilians here, Amos? I thought we’d been through this.’

  ‘Maybe you can dock his pay.’

  And Amos turned away abruptly, to the back door, to a litter of broken glass and shards of doorframe. That was where the soldier Michael Downey came in. Not a difficult assumption to make. If it had been just Axel and the woman, it would have been the woman’s blood on the floor, and he – Amos – would have been home in bed. And Oxford would have had another burglary gone wrong . . .

  The fix, this time, would be tricky as sin. More than just the old school tie and the whisper of a gong; it would take serious handshakes and money in envelopes. No wonder Howard was wetting himself.

  Oh, Axel, he thought, almost aloud. You stupid fucking –

  But there was no time for that. This was damage limitation. He felt glass crunch as he stepped into the dark to look at the night sky: the heaventree of stars in all its evening glory. Think! He thought. Axel had been here, and for reasons best known to himself had decided to terminate the woman. Up until this evening, that hadn’t been necessary – maybe wasn’t necessary; maybe Axel had just been slipping the leash – but it was a field decision, and had to be given the benefit of the doubt. And he’d tried, and he’d used dental floss (which was possibly a first), a loop of which was still wrapped round his fist when they’d bagged the body, and he hadn’t managed it because somebody had kicked the back door in and taken him down with two bullets.

  Had to be Downey.

  Which left them where? Which left the woman who’d been looking for Singleton’s daughter on the lam with Downey, who was also looking for Singleton’s daughter. Put that way, the situation hadn’t changed. Downey had company. That was all.

  But there was an alternative scenario: The woman screams blue murder, and takes it to the press. But that, too, could be dealt with. Amos Crane went over in his mind what he knew about Sarah Trafford: unemployed, restless, history with drugs. There wasn’t a great deal you had to add before you were dealing with a paranoid hysteric finding conspiracies round every corner, and on a day when war had broken out, the press would have better things to think about. As for Downey, he had his own reasons for staying dead. He’d not be bothering the media in this lifetime.

  Not going to be a very long lifetime, either.

  There was a crunch, and Howard appeared behind him. ‘We found this,’ he said. Wordlessly, Amos took it: a crumpled sheet of paper, with a London number scrawled across. ‘The Ministry,’ Howard said.

  Amos looked again. It was a copy of the letter Howard had shown him two weeks back. It had been sent by the detective hired by Sarah Trafford, an unwelcome display of persistence forcing Amos to allow Axel to deal with him. Which Axel had done very commendably, to the benefit of all around; following it up with an excellent piece of freelancing which, if there’d been any justice, would have shut Sarah Trafford up without further pain. It was a good rule of thumb not to damage civilians, a rule Axel hadn’t always followed, but had produced a textbook example of in this case. And look where it had got him.

  Still, it was good to know he’d had reason. In his shoes, Amos would have done exactly the same: killed the silly bitch. Nobody got two warnings.

  Howard shifted uneasily. ‘We need a game plan, Amos.’

  ‘I’m thinking.’

  ‘Think faster.’

  ‘Thank you, Howard. That’s the husband back there, is it?’

  ‘He’s a banker. Works for –’

  ‘I know what he does, Howard. I’m asking if that’s him.’

  ‘It’s him.’

  He was problem number one, even Howard had worked that out. But Amos knew something Howard didn’t: the husband was dirty. The dirty ones were easiest to deal with.

  It was one of Amos’s rules: when you had an agent in cover, you researched everyone. Even if the agent wasn’t your brother . . .

  ‘The body went out clean. Nobody knows there was a death here.’

  ‘Except the husband.’

  ‘Well, he found him . . .’

  ‘And the locals.’

  ‘It was the locals he called, Amos. Obviously.’

  So nobody knew there’d been a death here, apart from absolutely fucking everyone.

  ‘Where have they taken my brother, Howard?’

  ‘They’ve taken him to the local place, Amos.’ Morgue, he meant. Not place. Morgue. ‘But we’ll have him moved. Back to London.’ Where he’d be more comfortable, Howard’s tone implied. Where Amos would be able to visit; maybe take him flowers. Grapes.

  ‘What time was he found?’

  ‘A little after ten.’

  ‘And was he still warm?’

  Howard said nothing. He was thinking: Jesus Christ Almighty.

  ‘Howard?’

  ‘I don’t think Mr Trafford checked.’

  ‘Good point.’ Amos looked up at the stars again. Civilian finds a body, he doesn’t automatically start processing the data. Especially when the body’s in his kitchen, and his wife’s nowhere to be seen. ‘But he can’t have been dead long. Not that it counts. An hour, hour and a half, any kind of head start, someone with Downey’s experience could be underground by now.’

  ‘It’s coming apart, Amos.’

  ‘Things have come apart before. We’re all still here.’ He looked back through the kitchen, at the husband sitting in forlorn isolation. ‘Anyone been round to Axel’s place?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘He lived with a woman. Married her, for God’s sake.’ Taking professionalism way too far, but that was Axel: it was often hard to tell when he was taking the piss. ‘She had kids. Well, still has.’

  ‘What do we tell her? That he’s dead?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ What he did think took a moment or two to emerge. Axel had been on the point of bailing out: If that had happened, he’d have been just another husband coming to his senses. But circumstances no longer allowed for that. ‘No, I think we’d better make him a terrorist.’ That was the thing these days: most people could believe anything without hardly trying. Your husband? Your husband of six months? Well, you didn’t really know him at all, did you, madam? Fact is, he’s on the Most Wanted, and he only married you for the cover. And now he’s gone. And you’ll never see him again.

  ‘Do we use the locals?’

  ‘I think you’d better do it, Howard. It’ll come better from a suit.’

  ‘And what about the husband?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll deal with the husband.’

  He turned away. After a while, Howard took the hint, and left him to the stars and his deep thoughts.

  Which only looked deep. From long habit Amos Crane was able, at times of stress, to empty his mind. He did that now: for twenty minutes, more or less, he was just an upright body in the ga
rden; at one with the dark and the waving trees. He didn’t think about his brother, or the mess in the house behind him. He didn’t think at all. He just allowed events to catch up with him; when he was ready, he’d be beyond the primary stages of grief: there’d be no struggling past denial, or reaching for acceptance. What was done was done. Something had happened here, and Axel was dead. This didn’t mean the game was over. It just meant there was greater reason to win.

  He remembered the moments on the island: wrapping the bag round that idiot Muscle’s head. And he thought how fine it would be to have Downey here now: just the two of them, unarmed in the dark. We’d see how well he fared without a gun in his hand. We’d know what his flesh felt like when we ripped it open, and delved beneath.

  Amos Crane shuddered at the memory, a memory from the future.

  Then he went back into the house, to sort out the husband.

  Chapter Five

  Buddy Holly’s Last Words

  I

  Through the window dark scenery rolled past, but all Sarah could make out was the gaunt reflection of her face superimposed on the landscape, as if she were one constant against a restless background, and all the things she had no control over, starting with events and ending with her own thoughts, were unfolding beneath her serious, fractured surface. Outside were empty fields and damp trees but she was thinking about a cat; about watching a cat through a door darkly, while it mocked her unfitness for life on the other side of the glass. Which lay now, she remembered, in splinters across the length of her kitchen floor.

  Michael Downey had dropped the gun in three different drains between the house and railway station: the gun itself, its silencer, ammunition; all done with perfect fluidity, a dip and a drop with no hint of a stumble, so that even a close watcher would have had difficulty being sure that he had seen the actual disposal of a murder weapon, rather than a clever mime. Throughout, Sarah succumbed to circumstance. Your best friend’s husband tries to kill you; your bogeyman blows him away. Her options seemed limited, somehow. All she had taken from the house was her wallet. All it contained was twenty-odd pounds.