by Martyn Ford
‘Are you going to leave a business card as well?’
‘Max,’ the man in the centre says, his hand on his own throat. His voice is deep, croaky. Electronic. The gravel left behind after a laryngectomy. ‘You are burning your clothes when you get back.’
The bearded twin – Max – sighs, then takes his jacket off.
On the TV, the news displays a photograph of Robin Clarke, as it so often does – curly blonde hair, sweet and smiling. Then it cuts to a reporter, standing at Orchard Court. ‘That’s right,’ he says – slightly drowned in the chords and rhythm of our piano-bar music. ‘Police confirmed today they have been granted more time to question Francis Clarke in relation to his missing daughter . . .’
Ignoring the television, Max leaves the room, and returns with two crowbars and a wooden baseball bat, which clatter down on to the coffee table. He then brandishes a large hunting knife – it glimmers, catching the TV’s blue glow when he slides it from its leather sheath.
‘Why are you bringing that?’ his twin says. ‘We’re not breaking skin.’
‘Protection.’
‘Pro— I think we can handle it.’ The television plays stock footage of Francis and Anna Clarke, sitting on a stage at a press conference. ‘I haven’t seen Henry for years. Poor guy. What was it all about anyway?’
‘Was about this, apparently.’ Max points his thumb at the TV. ‘What did I say, all those years ago, what did I fucking say? It’s the dad.’ Now Francis Clarke’s photograph fills the screen. ‘Look at him. Look at his eyes. Looks like a vampire. Fucking dead-eyed zombie. The mum’s probably in on it too.’
‘I’ve always quite liked Anna Clarke.’
‘Yeah, I mean, yes, I would, but she’s still dodgy.’ The screen cuts to an earlier interview with filmmaker Daniel Aiden. ‘And then there’s this fucker, cashing in again.’
‘You see his one about the slums?’ The completely bald twin pulls his tie from his neck, then unbuttons his shirt.
‘Yeah, that was good. In some shithole? Indonesia?’
‘That’s it. Imagine living like that.’
‘Might do you some good, Greg, few days’ starvation.’
‘Fuck you.’
Max puts his brand-new leather boot on the corner of the coffee table and laces it up tight – then he tucks his baggy camo trousers inside. Finally, he zips up an old bomber jacket.
His now topless brother – Gregory – steps towards the laptop. ‘So, we’ll park here – there’s a little underground lot below these flats.’ He points at the screen.
Behind him, Max leans down into a rucksack and removes a small bag of pills. He carefully picks one out.
‘No,’ Gregory says. ‘You need to be straight. Come look at this map.’
Rolling his eyes, Max puts the bag away again. ‘Why? You’re driving.’
However, as Max walks over, we see, when no one else is looking, that he slips one of the white pills into his mouth and swallows it without water. ‘This music – can I put something else on?’
‘Leave it alone,’ the croaking voice says – still facing away.
‘You sorted the number plates out?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, once we’re in, it’s masks on, down the stairs, out across the corner of the park and to the underpass – we do it there, quick and hard, no fucking around. And, Max, don’t kill him, all right. Do not fucking kill him.’
‘Who do you think I am?’
‘That’s the problem,’ Gregory says. ‘I know exactly who you are. Then we double back on ourselves, exit through the other side of the tunnel, up the alley and to the car. If there’s any trouble, we run our separate ways. Remember, no speaking.’
‘We sure it’s secluded?’
‘Yes . . . There are no cameras in the underpass. Now, clean up, let’s get going.’
Max and Gregory return to the coffee table and use wet wipes on their hands, forearms, necks and faces. Then they both put on medical gloves and repeat the process with the tools. Gregory picks up the two crowbars and clangs them together. ‘You pay cash for this – how far did you go?’
‘Two-hour round trip, same for these.’ Max seems proud as he lifts a rubber horse mask from his duffel bag, then a chicken mask of similar style.
‘What the fuck are they?’
‘Scary, is what they are.’
Checking his watch, Max leaves the room again and returns with a plate. Then he takes a small object, a brown rat’s corpse, from a rolled sandwich bag.
‘Do you have to do that in here?’ The croaky robot voice is quiet but stern.
Ignoring him, Max puts the rat on the plate and, sticking his tongue out to concentrate, cuts a hole in its neck. He holds it by the tail and lets blood drain on to the white china, milking the last of it out with a squeeze. He’s careful not to make a mess. When there’s a dark shallow pool, he holds the plate up and Gregory dips his little finger in the liquid, then puts it in his mouth. The third man, the quiet, still man, does the same.
Max returns to his seat and uses two fingers to swill the blood around, before rubbing them into his gums. He repeats the process, this time with both hands, and massages the liquid into his eyes. Painting his sockets, he leaves smears of red down his cheeks.
‘You little fucking weirdo,’ Gregory whispers.
‘Well, boys, I am ready.’ Max is holding the wooden bat.
‘I can’t help but think . . .’ the gurgle, the electronic gasps for air ‘. . . there is a simpler way.’
The twins turn.
‘It’s not about what’s simple, it’s about what’s right,’ Gregory says, crouching down in front of him.
Max lifts up his jacket, showing a tattoo across his flat stomach. ‘Eye for an eye,’ he says, pointing at the text. ‘Eye for a fucking eye. He has to feel exactly the same pain.’
Now, suited and booted, the men pick up their masks and remaining weapons. Gregory puts some keys in his pocket and then mutes the TV.
They stand together, hands on each other’s shoulders, and all three bow their heads. Through the piano, the tish-tish-tish of a high-hat, through this warm, golden music, they begin to pray.
The words are mumbled, whispered in a chorus. Max – evidently lacking the piety of the other two – rolls his hand, gesturing for them to get on with it.
‘Amen.’
‘Amen,’ Gregory repeats.
And the twins head for the door.
‘Laptop,’ the third man croaks, as he sits on the sofa once again.
Max returns and clicks the mouse twice. The last thing the camera sees is his face, his cheekbones and his rat-red eyes.
Chapter 18
Sam walked along Orchard Court, checking faces as he went. Public places felt safe, but still he let his biceps rest on the heavy, loaded Glock 17 holstered beneath his jacket. He’d told Isabelle he planned to go door to door, interviewing the Clarkes’ neighbours. Of course, this had been done before but, as Sam observed, all attention was centred on the most recent Wednesday.
‘No one’s asking about the week before that,’ he’d said.
‘Why would they?’
‘The browsing history.’
‘Phil won’t even entertain the idea that data came from outside the house.’ She’d sighed down the phone. ‘Sam, look, please, just stop.’
‘Last time I checked, talking to people wasn’t illegal . . . The choice is simple, Isabelle.’
‘I could arrest you.’
‘Easily. You know where I’ll be.’
Isabelle, wearing jeans and a plain black T-shirt, approached him on the pavement. When she arrived, he held his hands out, wrists turned up. She looked at him with those patient eyes – that passive reluctant stare, like a mother who’s resigned to the fact that some things, some misbehaviour, will always defy her protest. Better she did not know about the gun. Withholding information was not the same as lying, but Sam still hoped she wouldn’t ask him directly what he had hidden there, warming at his chest.
>
They walked the length of the affluent road, lined on both sides with evenly placed trees, cylindrical iron cages protecting each trunk. The wide canopies put cars in shifting shade and rained leaves, twigs, sap and seeds whenever the wind would shake them. One of these trees, a horse chestnut, was already filling the pavement with its spiked shells and precious, early conkers. A stark image – Robin, in her school uniform, crouching and finding the perfect one, running home and showing it off. Orchard Court, summer smells – warm grass, flower beds, the colour green. Somewhere, beyond these trimmed hedges and clean mansions, a motorway was rumbling and an ice-cream van hummed a distant tune about a long-dead queen.
They spent the afternoon talking to the street’s residents. Sam could tell Isabelle was profoundly uncomfortable with this. But what was the alternative? Leave him to his own devices? Henry Marston lay still in a hospital bed, proving that was a bad idea. Or maybe she actually wanted a share of anything valuable he might find. Maybe she believed he was right. Maybe she thought those incriminating searches were nothing to do with Francis Clarke.
At any rate, they’d swapped places – she now shadowed him. As though his misadventures, his collateral violence, had reclaimed the wheel. Still, his hangover-guilt throbbed from time to time. And shame came, as shame does, in waves, but he could not bring himself to regret his actions. Because that would imply he could have done otherwise. It helped that Isabelle believed him, it helped that it was an accident but, most of all, it helped that Sam was making progress.
The last stop on their clockwise tour was Jasper Parker’s relatively modest house. They went through his gate, past a tall shrub and down a path that cut his front garden into two strips of land left to nature. Long grass and weeds brushed Sam’s trousers, and petals of every hue shone within the undergrowth. Compared to the sterile street behind them, this space was shimmering, literally buzzing with life. Patio furniture slumped amid this wild garden, bleached in the afternoon sun and, as they arrived on the doorstep, Sam had a strange sense of being abroad. Large, loose egg stones around the side paving and dried leaves rustling – he half expected to see lizards scurry at the edge of his vision.
Jasper’s front door was painted dark blue and had a stained-glass window embedded in the upper half – an abstract chessboard made of pink and yellow squares. Sam used the chunky metal knocker and, a few seconds later, the hallway inside lit up. A female, yellow and pink and peering curiously through the glass. She opened the door.
Halfway through their introductions, Jasper emerged behind her.
‘Hi there,’ he said, coming forwards to greet Sam. This, he explained, was his daughter, Iris.
Today, Jasper’s long white hair wasn’t tied up and hung in thin wisps from the sides of his head – he curled these strands over his ears as he spoke. After pleasantries, he welcomed them inside, through his cluttered hall. Each of his wooden stairs hosted a pile of dusty magazines and newspapers. It was cool in here – the stone tiles on the floor radiated a chill, like the smoothed slabs of a church.
The doorway to the living room was blocked by a rusting bicycle, which Jasper wheeled out of the way and propped up in the kitchen.
Isabelle entered first and stood at his shelves, next to the empty fireplace. She scanned the rows of books. Sometimes she looked almost cybernetic, filling herself with information – logging every detail.
‘I spoke to the other detectives at length,’ Jasper said, returning from the kitchen. ‘I hear that wacky thing up the tree was some kind of religious whatnot?’
Sam confirmed this with a nod.
Iris was a short, overweight woman with a large mole on the left of her mouth. Like Jasper, she had thin hair, which, Sam noticed, had been dyed blonde, although her ashy roots were coming through by a clear inch. She also seemed, somehow, as frail as her father, and held a walking stick at her chest like a sword, but didn’t once use it. Despite this, Sam put her at no older than forty.
‘We wanted to talk to you about last week,’ he said. ‘Wednesday night in particular.’
Iris and Jasper sat side by side on the sofa – Sam and Isabelle were directly opposite one another on two armchairs. Between them the table was, again, bulging with magazines and, on top, a broken oil lantern. Leaning forwards, Jasper picked up a bowl of sweets and offered it to each of them. Isabelle showed a hand but Sam simply ploughed on with the conversation.
‘Were you both here that evening?’
‘W-w-we were,’ Iris said. ‘I . . .’ There was a long pause – an awkward moment where she kept their attention, kept the focus on her, until she managed the next words. ‘I arrived late on T-Tuesday – we had pizza the . . . the following day.’
‘Oh, yes, yes that’s right,’ Jasper said, pointing. ‘We were tired after carrying all your things in. Too tired to cook you said. I had a coupon from the newspaper.’
‘Iris, you’ve recently moved in?’ Isabelle asked.
‘Yes, yes,’ Jasper said, turning to his daughter. ‘Blame the mess on her.’ He held his hands up, as though innocent of hoarding. This was done in jest, but clearly still struck a nerve for him. ‘She’s staying temporarily. Divorce. Complicated. Don’t ask.’
Sam cast an eye towards Jasper and the old man simmered down with an apologetic nod.
‘Of course, she can speak for herself,’ he said, as he sucked on his sweet.
Like a child to a surface warned too hot to touch, Sam felt drawn to any subject deemed off-limits. This wasn’t part of an interview technique, but more a general glitch in his programming. To him, the words ‘don’t ask’ always meant the precise opposite.
Invasive enquiries were, by far, his favourite kind.
‘Why are you getting a divorce?’ he asked.
Jasper tensed up.
‘My, my, my hus— Andrew and I, we’ve had a . . . a . . . rocky time lately. We were trying for a b-baby. I’ve just had a second, unsuccessful, bout of I . . . I . . . IVF.’ The stammer then eased, as though anger oiled her gears. ‘I said, if he wants someone who can give him what he wants, he should . . .’
Iris began to cry. Sudden, jarring tears. Isabelle took a tissue from the box on the table and handed it over, looking at Sam as though this was his fault.
‘He’s fine . . . but me?’ She sniffed, and gestured down at herself. ‘It . . . it just doesn’t do what it’s m-m-meant to. He thinks I don’t care. He . . . he blames me.’ She was talking now to the wall. ‘But I would love that child . . . I would love that child more than he would. I would love her m-m-more than anything. I’ve bought the toys. I-I-I’ve painted the cot.’
They left this in the air for a few seconds.
‘I’m sorry, Iris. Is . . . is there anything you can remember from that night?’ Isabelle asked.
Jasper pointed to his daughter. ‘You said – about that bloke. The man you saw. That was Wednesday last week, wasn’t it?’
Iris frowned, like this was an obscure thing to mention. She sniffed again and searched her memories.
‘The man, in the car,’ Jasper added.
‘I’m not . . . it’s . . . well . . . I saw an old m-m-m-man who had scars on his face, but I’m not even sure what night it was.’
‘Wednesday,’ Jasper declared. ‘You told me about him – I . . .’ He seemed embarrassed. ‘I made a joke about the pizza.’
‘Where was this man?’ Sam asked.
‘Parked on the street, in a car,’ he said. ‘Right outside the Clarkes’.’
Again, even though it took longer, Sam wanted Iris to speak – and he let Jasper know. ‘How old was he?’ he asked her.
‘H-hard to say . . . he had, he had very bad b-b-burns on his face. Like acid burns m-maybe. I’d guess middle-aged – grey . . . grey hair. Definitely old. I suppose he seemed, I don’t know, d-d-disabled?’
‘Type of car?’
She winced. ‘I’m sorry, I . . . I think dark, blue maybe, but, I don’t know.’
‘Roughly what time?’
‘M-maybe nine p.m., or just after.’
Without a prompt, Isabelle took her phone from her pocket, checked it and gave Sam an approving nod. It tallied with the searches.
They left through the wild garden and arrived back on the street, where the media presence was still significant at the Clarkes’ house. Annoyingly, Sam would have to stand right next to them. But, then again, he felt safe in front of thirty TV cameras – their watchful eyes protected him like no gun ever could.
As they approached, a few clicks and flashes, a few hasty questions – but Sam and Isabelle made it crystal clear they would not be talking to the press. Message received, the crowd retreated.
Now being largely ignored, Sam held his mobile as he walked to the road. He scrolled to settings, then refreshed his Wi-Fi connections and waited. There was nothing.
‘Out of range,’ Isabelle said in a low voice.
Still on the tarmac, Sam moved sideways through the shadow of one of the picturesque trees.
‘Could have been using a laptop,’ he said, tilting his mobile. ‘Or something with a better connection, maybe a tablet or—’
But then, right there, right at the top, it appeared. One bar of signal, all the way out here – ‘Clarke333’. He showed Isabelle the screen.
‘So, what, this old man parks up and logs in to their Wi-Fi? Is that even possible, without the password?’
‘We’ve been to the moon, Isabelle. A person could hack into a router. Reckon we can get an artist out here to mock up her description of this guy?’
With a single call, Isabelle made it happen. The power she wielded as an active officer far exceeded Sam’s – even counting his unclaimed favours and relative disregard for the law.
‘What are you thinking about Iris?’ she asked.
‘The same thing you are.’
‘Oddball, worth checking out.’
‘Almost verbatim.’
‘I’ll have a little look,’ she said. ‘It’s a family home, the Parkers have had access to that garden for years. They could have hidden something in a tree at any point.’
‘And then filmed it?’
‘Does Iris strike you as a wildlife photographer?’
