by William Shaw
‘I don’t get it,’ hissed Sloth. ‘He was always such a shit to us at school.’
‘Everyone was, mind you.’
‘True.’
Sloth was about to head for a table near the rear of the restaurant, but Dennis walked in the other direction, towards the window. ‘Come on,’ he said.
Sloth hesitated, looked at Tap. ‘No, we’d prefer it back here.’
‘Come on. I paid for it. Least you can do is sit with me.’ He picked a four-seat table next to the glass.
Tap’s hunger got the better of him. He sighed, scanned the High Street outside for any sign of the man they had robbed, then joined him at the table. Sloth put his hood up so it covered his head, then followed.
‘So,’ said Dennis. ‘What’s going on with you two?’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Sloth.
‘Just passing the time. Making conversation. Just bought you dinner. Least you can do is chat.’
‘Nothing much. Just hanging around.’
Dennis nodded, looking away.
Outside, street lights flickered on. Tap could hear the sizzle of meat on the hotplate.
‘Know what? I need a piss,’ said Sloth.
Tap was aware of someone kicking him beneath the table. He looked down. Sloth’s trainer was nudging his ankle.
‘I need to go to the toilet,’ Sloth repeated.
‘Go on then,’ said Dennis.
Sloth was nodding towards the Gents at the back of the room.
‘Me too,’ added Tap, standing.
‘You go together? Like girls?’
Tap ignored him.
‘Don’t be long. Your food’ll be here. Might have to eat it myself.’ He took the phone out of his big pocket again and looked at the screen.
Sloth disappeared into the bathroom; Tap followed. ‘What?’ he demanded.
‘Why’s he spending, like, twenty quid on us? He’d never do that.’
‘We said we’d pay him back.’
Sloth said, ‘Yeah, but for starters he knows we couldn’t. Plus, you noticed the way he keeps checking his phone and looking out of the window, like he expects someone to arrive?’
‘He’s dobbing us in.’ Tap had been so hungry, he hadn’t seen what was happening.
‘That’s why he bought us the meal. To keep us hanging around until . . .’
Tap opened the door a crack and peered through. The large boy in army gear was scanning the High Street, left and right. ‘You’re right.’
‘I’m always right.’
‘What a bastard.’
‘C’mon,’ said Sloth, pushing past him.
‘What are we doing?’
‘Getting out of this place.’
At the table, Dennis turned and smiled. ‘Have a good time in there, lads?’
‘Get up,’ ordered Sloth. ‘We got to go. Snap, snap.’
Dennis was bewildered. ‘But the food isn’t here yet.’
‘Quick. No time to explain.’
‘The food . . .’ Dennis said again.
Sloth had decided Dennis was coming with them. Surely, thought Tap, the best thing to do would be to just run for it and dump him here? But Sloth had a plan.
‘Come on, mate.’ Tap pulled at the sleeve of Dennis’s army jacket. If he was trying to turn them in, he would have to come with them, or lose them.
Slowly Dennis stood, looking out the window one last time.
‘Hurry up,’ hissed Sloth.
Tap looked out into the street, then opened the door, and they stumbled out onto the paving. ‘Easy, lads,’ said Dennis.
Tap took his left arm; Sloth took his right, grabbing it firmly, and they marched him down the road fast, before he could think about what was happening, until they reached the alley that went to Bull’s Head Yard. ‘Let go.’
Tap shoved him into the cut-through that led towards the station.
‘What’s going on, boys?’ Dennis sounded scared now.
Tap grabbed the other arm from Sloth and tightened them both behind his back while Sloth dug into the boy’s trousers, first one pocket and then the other.
‘You’re hurting me.’
Sloth pulled out Dennis’s phone just as a message lit the home screen: At Wimpy now. Where are u?
Sloth held the device up to the boy’s face. ‘Who’s that texting you?’
‘No one.’
Sloth looked at the back-lit words. ‘How much did he offer you?’
‘What?’ Dennis wrinkled his brow in an effort to look confused.
‘He offered you money, didn’t he? You’d never be splashing out twenty quid on burgers for us if you weren’t getting something for it.’
‘Nothing serious, lads. He said he just wanted to talk.’ A gob of spittle hung onto his lips.
‘You’re such an imbecile, Dennis.’
‘What are we going to do now?’ asked Tap, his mind still on the Halfpounder with cheese and bacon.
The device buzzed again: Where?
Dennis wriggled in Tap’s clutches. ‘You’re hurting me.’
‘Let him go,’ said Sloth.
Tap released him.
‘Give me my phone.’
‘You just grassed on us. Lucky we don’t properly hurt you. Who is he?’
‘I don’t know. What’s he after you two for?’
Neither answered. Sloth turned and headed north, away from the High Street; Tap followed.
‘What about my flippin’ phone?’
Again, neither answered.
‘Guys?’
Sloth stopped, took the phone off Tap, turned and shouted, ‘Catch.’
He threw the phone high. Dennis squinted in the low light, hands up in the air. The handset sailed past him and smashed down onto the paved walkway.
‘Fucking hell.’
‘What did you do that for, you idiot?’ said Tap. ‘You gave it him back.’
‘I’m done with nicking phones, mate. ’Sides, we can use yours, can’t we?’
‘No. Left it at home, bro, when I ran out the place. Haven’t got one.’
‘You’re kidding me? Still got this one though.’ He dug in his pocket and pulled out the Alcatel phone from the man’s shoulder bag.
Tap stared at it. ‘What you got that for?’
‘Don’t know. It was just in my pocket. Forgot about it.’
‘That’s his phone. The man’s.’
Sloth pressed the keys.
‘Don’t!’ shouted Tap.
‘Hello. Anyone there? Is that you, bitch? Well we got away from you, didn’t we? Your fat little friend gave you away.’
Tap went to snatch the handset.
Sloth held it up. The screen was blank. He had just been pretending. ‘Don’t get your bollocks twisted, bro. It’s locked, anyway. Thing’s useless.’
Down the alley, Dennis was trying to put the back onto his own phone. ‘Screen’s smashed,’ he was shouting. ‘I’ll make you bloody pay for that.’
But he didn’t follow them as they walked north, away from the town centre, with no idea at all where they were going.
THIRTEEN
‘What’s wrong with you?’
‘Don’t know what you mean,’ Ferriter said, stone-faced. Cupidi had dropped Moon first, at his mother’s house. When he had closed the front door behind him, she had turned to the young constable sitting on the back seat.
‘Until the name Astrid Miller was mentioned, you have spent the whole day moping round like a teenager.’
‘Stupid case.’
‘Don’t you bloody start. We’re going to get enough of that from the others. An arm. In an art gallery.’
‘Yep. That’s going to be a riot, isn’t it?’
They sat in the car for a minute.
‘It’s still somebody’s arm,’ said Cupidi.
‘Sorry,’ said Ferriter. ‘I’m a bit off.’
‘Go and have a drink.’
‘I’m never drinking again.’
Cupidi laughed, then said, ‘Will
iam South came back home today.’
‘He’s been let out?’ Ferriter whistled. ‘There goes the property values round your way. Convicted murderer.’
‘The crime was over forty years ago. He should be allowed to live in peace.’
Ferriter said, ‘Though maybe the poor bastard should never have been prosecuted in the first place.’
Cupidi looked at her. ‘Is that a criticism?’
Ferriter got out, but instead of closing the door she leaned inside and said, ‘His father deserved it.’
It had all come out at the trial. South’s father had been a violent man who had assaulted South’s mother and who had killed at least once himself. But that wasn’t the point, was it?
Rattled, Cupidi drove off without saying goodbye. The driving was going to kill her. This was a big county. She seemed to spend her whole time travelling from the local nick to County HQ, then to scenes of crime that could still be hours away.
*
Zoë emerged from her bedroom when she heard the front door. ‘Hard day at the office?’
‘I’ve had worse. Strange, though. I was at the Turner in Margate. Someone put a human arm in a jar that’s owned by a multi-millionaire.’
‘Different,’ her daughter said.
She followed her daughter to the kitchen. ‘How much do you think it would cost to buy a human arm?’
‘About five hundred dollars.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I’m guessing. Why would I actually know that fact?’
‘I have no idea what you’re doing up there in your bedroom these days.’
‘I’m trading vital organs, Mum, obviously. You can buy pretty much any body part you want from the Ukraine. They dig up bodies there, from the graveyards.’
‘Where do you get this stuff?’
‘BuzzFeed. Vice. The news.’
‘That’s not news,’ said her mother.
‘What, and the Daily Mail is?’
Cupidi looked through the fridge, trying to decide what they could have for supper. Her daughter’s veganism proved challenging. Sometimes she longed for a piece of meat. ‘What have you been doing all day?’
Zoë shrugged. ‘Nothing much.’
When they lived in London, Cupidi had worried about her daughter growing up too fast, hanging out with the wrong crowd. For a while after they had moved here she had gone feral, spending her days out on the nature reserve to the north of their house. It was William South who had taught her the basics of birdwatching, patiently spending time with the girl, tramping around the foreland with her. Zoë had become obsessed. They had been close. Now she was worrying whether Zoë was spending time with the wrong crowd again, during those days when she disappeared on the bus, or upstairs online. When she asked her what she was doing up there, the answer was always jokey or vague. ‘Nothing much.’
Cupidi started chopping a cucumber to make a salad. ‘The arm was in an artwork that is owned by some millionaire investment fund. Astrid Miller. Have you heard of her?’
‘Astrid Miller? Jesus, Mum. Astrid Theroux?’
‘I was a working mother bringing up a child, if you remember. I didn’t have time to read Hello!’
‘I ruined your life,’ said Zoë, leaning over and taking a slice of cucumber, chewing on it. ‘Astrid Theroux. She was pretty amazing . . . and then she sort of disappeared.’
Cupidi reached for a tomato. ‘I was wondering, what if it’s some attempt to rig the market? The arm. Someone trying to wreck the value of a piece.’
‘Wouldn’t it actually be much cooler to own a bit of art that had had a dead body in it?’
‘Just an arm. Don’t get carried away.’ Cupidi considered the idea for a second. Her daughter was right. In the art world, notoriety would only increase an item’s value. Could that be a motive? ‘What about William South?’ she asked her daughter. ‘Did you see him?’
‘It’s kind of weird. He’s not come out. He’s been in there all day.’
‘You were watching?’
‘Sort of. Do you think he’s OK?’
‘We should probably let him find his feet a bit, first.’
‘Yeah,’ Zoë said.
They ate supper in the kitchen. Afterwards, Cupidi said, ‘I think I’ll go for a walk. Been stuck in the car half the day. Want to come?’
Her daughter shook her head.
‘No special birds to see today?’
‘Don’t know,’ she said, and stood.
‘You should get out, at least.’
‘I’m all right.’
‘Seriously? What are you doing up there all day?’
‘Internet porn mostly. Mum. That’s what us teenagers do. According to the Daily Mail.’
*
Cupidi left the house, heading towards the sea. Saturday night, and she was out here on her own in the growing darkness. The Britannia and the Pilot, the two local pubs, would be full.
She walked past the shacks, down to the water, and walked north towards the darkening sky. At the edge of Dungeness, the huts and wooden houses gave way to more ordinary bungalows; the duller coast. She turned, feet crunching on the stones. Apart from a solitary angler on the beach, sitting in a circle of light from a Tilley lamp, she was alone. The sea was still for once, small waves nibbling at the shingle.
On her way back she approached South’s shack again. She considered knocking, inviting him out for a drink, but thought better of it. Maybe in a day or two. As she passed, she saw a solitary bulb lit inside the small house. It made the world around it look darker.
FOURTEEN
It was dark and cold, and they were both so hungry in the way that only teenagers can be. They tramped up the tarmac walkway that ran parallel to the road, past street after street of red brick houses.
‘Where are we even going?’ demanded Tap, though the answer to that was simple. Out of town. He knew where they lived. ‘Why has he even got it in for us?’
‘’Cause we robbed him, obviously.’
‘Like Terminator or something. Jesus. Can I have the phone?’
‘Why?’
‘Call my mum.’
‘It’s not working.’ Sloth handed over the small handset anyway and Tap punched 0000 on the keys. Then 1111. Neither worked. After 3333 it displayed 1 attempt remaining, so he punched in four random numbers and then the screen went black. Locked out.
‘You OK, bro?’
Tap wiped his eyes with his sleeve. ‘Yeah.’
‘We find somewhere to sleep for the night, something to eat, we’ll be OK. We’ll sort this in the morning, right?’
As they approached the Chinese fish and chip shop on the opposite corner, the smell was unbearable. ‘What if we just say we’re skint?’
‘What about the Co-op next door?’ asked Sloth.
Tap had been so transfixed by the chip shop, he hadn’t noticed the small supermarket, lights still on.
‘OK.’
Supermarkets were easy. They had been nicking small stuff from them for as long as they could remember. They put up their hoods. Sloth donned the stupid dark glasses. ‘No face, no case.’ He grinned.
On the other side of the glass door, a security guard was talking to the woman on the till; an Asian guy whose shirt hung out of the back of his trousers.
Retreating, they sat on the grass verge on the other side of the road, watching for the guard to move away from the front of the shop. Cars drew up outside. Customers came and went.
‘I can feel my ribs,’ said Sloth.
‘Weirder if you couldn’t.’
‘No. Serious. I’m losing weight, just sitting here.’
The security guard said something to the woman on the till, then disappeared behind a door.
‘Quick.’ Sloth stood and grabbed Tap’s hand to yank him to his feet. The moment they walked into the store, Tap’s mouth started watering. With the guard out back, there was only one other person in the shop, a middle-aged woman on the till who watched them, tight-mouthed, a
s they turned and disappeared down the aisles, scouting.
At the end of each row there was a curved mirror mounted on the ceiling. They walked around again, still obviously being watched by the woman. They would only have a couple of minutes before the guard came back; it would have been easier if there were other people in the shop to distract the woman.
Sloth stopped at the wine aisle and picked up a bottle of red. He marched up to the counter and put it down in front of the woman.
‘I’ll have that please, and a packet of Marlboro.’
The woman said, ‘You’re not eighteen.’
‘Yeah. I am. Twenty, in fact.’
‘Show me your ID then.’
‘It’s genetic,’ said Sloth. ‘Makes me look way younger than I am.’
‘I’m not selling you anything until I see your ID.’
‘It’s for my mum. It’s her birthday. She likes . . .’ He peered at the label. ‘Ree-oh-jah.’
‘Get out, before I call the police.’
‘Sell me the wine and I’ll go. Won’t tell no one, swear to God.’
‘Out.’ The woman was pressing the bell below the counter now. The light above her till was flashing red.
‘Go,’ called Tap, running past him towards the opening door, pausing at the chilled food shelves just long enough to try and pick up some sandwiches, but they spilled onto the floor. No time to retrieve them.
Outside, Tap sprinted across the road. On the far side he stopped to look back.
Sloth was still in there, calmly picking up the packages he had dropped, while, behind him, the door next to the tills opened. One hand holding his trousers, the security guard emerged, looking around.
‘Shit.’
Across the street, Tap could see the woman shouting. The door slid back and Sloth shot out, sprinting, a packet of sandwiches in one hand, the bottle of wine still in the other.
The security man was a beat behind him.
Without looking, Sloth headed on, straight across the road. Out of nowhere – a roar, as a white Range Rover sped in from the left, braked, skidded.
Everything seemed to move slowly. Looking on, horrified, Tap could make out every detail of the moment.
He expected his friend to be hit. Instead, the tiniest of swerves and the SUV missed him. Tap could see the shake of Sloth’s hoodie as the car gusted past.
And here he was, powering on towards Tap over the road, a big grin on his face.