by William Shaw
He stepped forward, and in a swift movement grabbed Tap by the throat with one gloved hand and by his hair by the other. The hand around Tap’s neck squeezed, digging into his carotids with finger and thumb; with his other hand he jerked Tap’s head down, crushing his windpipe.
In a second, Tap was struggling to breathe, hands clutching at the gloves.
Sloth threw himself at the man, punching the side of his head. The man didn’t seem to notice, but as Sloth drew his hand back again, he relaxed the grip on Tap’s neck and the boy fell to the floor, panting.
‘Shh!’ The man raised his finger to his lips.
The doorknob rattled.
Frank called through the door. ‘Boys?’ The door muffled his voice, but they could still hear what he was saying perfectly clearly. ‘He’s gone. He got in at the back, but there’s no sign of him. Swear to God.’
The man in front of them stopped, looked round.
Next, the sound of a key in the door. Frank was still talking. ‘Now for pity’s sake, you got to get out of here pronto before the police—’
The door swung open and Frank stood facing the three of them.
‘What the—’
The boys saw the colour disappear from Frank’s face.
Jerking into action too late, Frank reached into his trousers to pull out the knife he had hidden there before he’d gone out to the flat’s landing.
But Frank wasn’t good at this. He was just an ordinary man, unused to fighting. Grabbing the knife’s handle, he tried to jerk it from his pocket, and instead caught it on a fold of cloth and lost his grip. The weapon spilled to the floor and spun on the laminate, coming to a halt with the blade pointing back towards him.
Frank seemed paralysed by the error and in that moment, the other man simply stepped forward, placed his boot on the knife and in a single movement scooped it up with his hand.
From there it was a fluid motion from floor to flesh. The weapon that had been at Frank’s feet a second ago was now thrusting upwards and before he had registered what was happening, it slid deep into Frank’s stomach.
Pure bewilderment on Frank’s face, as if wondering how things had come so swiftly to this.
Strange, thought Tap, in the lucidity of the moment, when action seems to slow to stillness, that Frank hadn’t cried out, or screamed; he had just accepted the wound, as if it was his due.
Sloth edged closer to Tap.
At what point did Frank finally realise that his only option was to fight back? Knife still inside him, slicing his gut, he moved forward instead of back.
For the first time, the man was wrong-footed. He had leaned in to stab Frank; now his balance was off and he tottered back into the kitchen area.
Frank glanced up at Tap. ‘Get out,’ Frank whispered. ‘Run.’
Tap was caught in the horror of it, too shocked to move. But Sloth came alive, grabbing his hoodie and tugging.
Leaving Frank alone with the killer, the two ran out through the door and down the stairs. At the bottom they paused. The back door was swinging open. Fresh air blew into the building. That must have been how he’d got in.
From far away came the sound of a siren.
‘This way,’ pleaded Sloth.
Tap hesitated, thinking of Frank. He stood no chance.
The siren was louder now.
They ran from the back door out into the sunshine, skirting their way around the flats. Soon they were running down the new pavements, feet thumping on tarmac.
As the police car came closer, they slowed, pulling their hoods lower over their faces.
‘What’s that about your mum?’ asked Sloth.
They walked on, calm as they could. The coppers didn’t look twice.
Later, sitting on the swings on a small kids’ playground, smoking another cigarette, they heard sirens converging on the flat they had run from. They didn’t talk much. As he put the fag to his lips, Tap saw the shaking in his own hand. However hard he tried, he couldn’t stop it. The two boys sat in the children’s play area, on its brightly painted equipment, both crying.
TWENTY-FIVE
Evert Miller emerged again, this time dressed in grey shorts and a white T-shirt that clung to a muscular frame. Two setters bounded out of the front door after him.
Ferriter squatted down and the dogs approached her.
‘Is that all you have on your feet?’
Ferriter looked down. She was in kitten heels and tights.
‘What am I supposed to have?’
‘What size are you?’
‘Six.’
Evert Miller disappeared back into the house, emerging with a pair of black wellington boots. Ferriter leaned against the police car bonnet, putting them on.
‘Will they do?’ he asked.
‘They’re huge on me,’ she said, looking down and frowning.
‘They’re Astrid’s. Eights.’
The frown disappeared. ‘Astrid’s boots?’
‘I’m afraid it’s the best I can do.’ And he set off down the driveway, dogs trotting alongside.
‘No, they’re fine,’ Ferriter said.
‘Your house,’ said Cupidi, making small talk. ‘It’s very . . . adventurous.’
‘Thank you. I wanted something that could evolve, not a great big lump with a swimming pool and a garage. Though I have a swimming pool of sorts. I’ll show you it, if you like.’
They passed a sculpture, a giant orange wire frame that made the shape of an open umbrella, as if drawn into the air. Cupidi paused to look at it and smiled.
‘Astrid installed it there. A Michael Craig-Martin, I believe. It’s the Foundation’s, obviously. We have a few pieces here. Sculpture’s so expensive to store, so why not have one or two of them here? There’s an insurance cost here too, but I think it’s a much better way, don’t you?’
Cupidi wondered if he was trying to make her feel at ease in their company, or whether he was too rich to understand that a police sergeant was unlikely to have a garden like his, filled with rare sculptures.
They were disappearing down a track that followed a gentle slope downhill. Bright green clematis and honeysuckle tendrils swung in the air, anticipating something to wrap themselves around.
They walked quickly, almost jogging, as every second of his time was valuable.
Cupidi matched his pace. ‘This is your home and your office?’
‘I have other offices. But I prefer to work from here when I can. It keeps me sane. We wanted somewhere that was modular, that could change as we did.’
Behind them, Ferriter’s wellingtons clopped unevenly against her calves as she tried to keep up. Evert Miller was a decade older than his wife, but fit and lean. ‘You think this business with the arm is about a grudge against me, apparently.’
‘To be clear, it’s just one theory.’ She pulled a notebook from the pocket of her trousers. ‘Do you know of anyone who has a grudge against you?’
He stopped. ‘You think concealing a severed arm at an art gallery might have been some message directed at me?’
Ferriter took the chance to stop, too, to scowl, lean down and rub her calves.
‘At this stage we’re struggling to understand what it was doing there, so we’re exploring any avenue we can.’
‘Of course there are people who don’t like me. I am pretty rich, which causes a lot of resentment. This country can be a bitter place. And because of who I married, I have the media’s attention, which is enough to make others resentful, but I don’t know of anyone who’d resort to something quite so . . . strange.’ He set off again. ‘It is strange, isn’t it?’
Cupidi picked up a stick and threw it across the meadow. The dogs bounded off together. ‘They’ll love you for that,’ he said.
‘You campaigned against Brexit.’
‘Not campaigned, precisely. I added my name to letters.’
‘You donated money.’
‘Brexit was an act of vandalism. And I suppose saying that doesn’t make you po
pular, especially here,’ he said. ‘But I can’t see what that’s got to do with a severed arm.’
‘Nor me. Political campaigners these days are usually less cryptic in their messaging.’
He laughed, smiled at her. ‘Yes. They are.’
‘What about your wife?’
The smile vanished. ‘What about her?’
‘Anyone who might have a particular animus towards her.’
‘No. Everybody loves Astrid, don’t they?’ He paused again. ‘Do you seriously think there might be?’
Cupidi thought of Ross Clough. ‘Again, I don’t know.’
The dogs paused, sniffing at a badger’s sett. ‘Come,’ he said, and they followed him again.
‘Hold on a sec,’ said Ferriter. ‘I got something in my boot.’
Cupidi looked back. The constable was leaning one hand against a small alder, trying to shake something out of Astrid Miller’s wellingtons with the other, one foot perched on top of the boot she was still wearing.
‘Obviously I would ask her myself, Mr Miller, but she’s not here.’
‘True.’
‘Do you know where she is?’
‘Away working on some project,’ said Evert Miller. ‘She travels a lot.’
‘In Brazil?’
‘No. Yes. I’m not sure. Maybe.’
Cupidi paused. Evert carried on walking. ‘When did you last speak to her, Mr Miller?’
‘I don’t mean to be difficult, but is that your business?’
‘Yes,’ she called after him. ‘It is.’
He stopped now and turned back. He had reached the bottom of the slope. A small stream trickled down the slight valley, fringed with dead daffodils, brown leaves flattened against the soil. ‘She’s a remarkable woman. She is incredibly passionate,’ he said. ‘Sometimes she goes off on a whim.’
The dogs whined, eager to move on.
Ferriter caught up with Cupidi. ‘They’re chafing like hell,’ she whispered.
‘I would very much like to speak to her,’ Cupidi called.
‘Did you tell Zoya what you needed? That’s probably the best way.’
‘Doesn’t she call you?’
He looked away. ‘Of course she does.’ The dogs were splashing in the shallow water. ‘Heel,’ he shouted. ‘But you haven’t identified who the arm belongs to yet,’ he continued.
‘How do you know that?’ she asked.
‘I ask around,’ he said vaguely. ‘I know the police have no working theory yet about what’s going on.’
‘You’re keeping tabs on this case?’
‘I keep tabs on anything that affects my private life or my business life,’ he said.
They walked on through a small stand of birches. The land opened out and they were suddenly standing in front of a large flat pool of water. It must have been created artificially, because there weren’t any lakes around here – even small ones like this – but it looked entirely natural, except for a small wooden jetty with stainless steel steps that disappeared into the water.
Beyond the jetty was a small chalet, built in the same style as the rest of the houses, a glass door facing the pool of water, with a small patio, a metal fire pit and a barbecue.
‘Swimming in fresh water is so much nicer, don’t you think?’
‘You swim here?’ said Ferriter.
‘I told you we had a swimming pool,’ he said.
‘It must be bloody freezing.’
‘That’s half the pleasure.’
Ferriter looked sceptical.
‘I’ve been in here when there’s been ice two inches thick on the top. There’s nothing like it, I promise you. I can lend you a costume if you like.’ He grinned, pointing to the chalet. ‘We keep all sizes in the changing room over there.’
‘Fortunately,’ Ferriter answered, ‘I’m on duty.’
‘I have to ask, did you ever visit the EastArt facilities where the Foundation stores its work?’ Cupidi asked.
Miller frowned. ‘Why?’
‘Because only you, your wife –’ she looked down at her notebook – ‘Zoya Gubenko and an Abir Stein have access to it. And in the timeline we have, it looks like the arm would have been placed into the artwork before it arrived at the Turner. Did you visit it at any time?’
‘Honestly? I have never been there in my life. I have no reason to.’
‘So the Foundation is in both of your names, but effectively your wife takes care of the art?’
He looked at his watch. ‘Do you mind telling me why this is important?’
‘It’s probably not,’ Cupidi said. ‘But I have to ask.’ They were heading back now.
‘Astrid’s not just one of these awful women who turn up for the cocktail receptions at Frieze and Miami Art Basel and buys whatever’s on trend. She visits studios all over the world. She goes to degree shows in London and New York to find new work. When she sees something she responds to she lights up. She insists we buy it. I wouldn’t let her do it with our money if she wasn’t so brilliant with it. You should see her.’ He smiled.
‘I would, but Zoya Gubenko seemed reluctant to pass on her number.’
‘My wife is a very private person.’
‘However, we do need to get in touch with her.’
‘We made a decision at the start of our marriage that her life would be as private as possible.’
‘Mr Miller. This isn’t prurient interest. We have to assume that the victim may still be alive.’
For the first time he looked unsettled. ‘You’re serious?’
‘So we don’t want anything that slows down our investigation.’
‘Of course,’ he said. He considered for a second, then recited a number from memory.
Cupidi had to ask him to repeat it, so she could write it in her notebook. ‘You own one of the properties on Dungeness?’
‘You have been doing your research, haven’t you?’ For the first time there was an edge of irritation in his voice.
‘I read it somewhere,’ interrupted Ferriter. ‘It’s where Sergeant Cupidi here lives. Weird place.’
‘Do you?’ said Evert Miller, surprised.
‘Yes. I do.’
‘So few people actually stay there. Most of the houses seem to be empty all the time. Ours included, I’m afraid,’ he said, as if looking at her afresh. ‘It’s Astrid’s, really, not mine at all. We agreed, when we got married, that we would keep our finances separate.’
‘I love it there.’
He examined her, as if with a new respect. ‘I expect it takes a certain kind of person,’ he said.
‘Yes, it does.’
‘Must be wonderful in bad weather.’
‘Exactly,’ she said.
‘Since we built this house, we don’t use the Dungeness place much. It’s a bit neglected, I’m afraid.’
‘Which one is it?’ It was the sort of question you could ask about the shacks at Dungeness. No two were the same.
He smiled a little sheepishly. ‘As you’re aware, we try to protect what privacy we have. It’s not really relevant, is it?’
They were back at the house. The PA who had given them coffee was standing by the front door with a folder.
Evert Miller put out his hand to shake. ‘Good luck,’ he said, keeping hold of Cupidi’s hand. ‘Thank you for your understanding. Maybe we’ll meet one day at Dungeness.’
Ferriter was still metres away, struggling up the slope, hot and irritated.
Evert Miller walked to the black front door and threw it open. ‘Towel,’ he shouted.
*
‘All that money,’ said Ferriter, pulling the driver seat forwards and adjusting the mirror. ‘I’d want to live somewhere much more glamorous.’
‘I liked it.’
‘He could afford a real swimming pool.’
It was Ferriter’s turn to drive. ‘I felt so stupid,’ she said. ‘Astrid Miller may be beautiful but she has feet like Krusty the Clown.’
‘Where is she, though?’
/>
‘What do you mean?’
‘Don’t you think it kind of weird that nobody knew where she was? Her husband and the administrator of her company, neither of them could tell us. They were both evasive about when they’d last seen her, too.’
Ferriter reversed out of the parking space. ‘He wasn’t what I expected. A bit smarmy, ask me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I saw the way he was holding on to your hand. “Thank you for your understanding.”’ She took a hand off the steering wheel and moved a finger towards her mouth, as if she was going to poke it down her own throat.
‘I didn’t think he was that bad.’
‘I saw how he was looking at you. It was, like, weirdly flirty.’
‘Maybe he just fancied me,’ said Cupidi.
‘Oh come on. He’s married to Astrid Theroux. The Astrid Theroux. A supermodel.’
‘And your point is?’ said Cupidi.
As Ferriter drove away down the narrow lane, Cupidi flicked through her notebook. She tried Astrid Miller’s number first. It went straight to voicemail.
As she was hanging up another name appeared on her phone. PETER MOON. Cupidi swiped the screen.
‘Two things,’ Moon said as she placed the phone to her ear.
‘What?’
‘Number one. Something big’s blown up. I’ve got to start on another case with DI Wray as SIO,’ he said.
‘Damn,’ said Cupidi.
‘Just come in. Attempted murder on one of those new estates just north of Dartford. A known paedophile. On the sex offenders register. Two assailants seen running out of his house, then a minute later the victim comes out and collapses on the front lawn from stab wounds. Chance he’s not going to make it.’
The team was about to be stretched even thinner.
‘And DI Wray says that Constable Ferriter’s going to work with me on this one on witness statements. Will you let her know?’
‘You’re bloody kidding me.’ She glanced across at Ferriter.
‘This is a serious case, Alex. They suspect it might have been a vigilante thing, and we got a couple of other people on the register going apeshit about it, in case they’re after them too.’
‘Hold on. And our case that we’re working on right now isn’t serious?’
‘You haven’t even got a victim yet, have you?’