‘Well,’ said Cutter, ‘at least it was put to good use.’ He straightened. ‘Thanks for letting me know.’
Longfield scratched his head.
‘Is that it?’
‘There’s something else?’
‘I don’t know. I thought you might want a statement or, you know, in case you charge her. I mean, look at it. It’s not right.’
‘I could charge her, certainly. There’s theft, unlawful entry, damaging government property, arson, manslaughter, murder, concealment of a body, not reporting a death. I mean, take your pick.’
Longfield frowned, unsure what to do or say. Cutter took two steps closer to him.
‘But I don’t think we want to do that, do we? You were there last night, at the killing, and from what you say, and the smell of your overalls, at the burning. You think Deborah would forget to mention all that if she was in court?’
‘I wasn’t thinking.’
‘That’s why you fight fires and I fight crime. I think it would be better for all concerned if you got rid of the tube and had your mechanic fix that leak. Agree?’
‘I could do that,’ nodded Longfield, a smirk of understanding starting to develop. ‘The old girl has been losing diesel recently. A worn seal, I’d guess. Must be it finally went last night. Some coincidence, hey?’
‘Synchronicity.’
‘Aye, that as well.’
‘Right, I’m away, if you’ve nothing else.’
Seven years earlier
Murray and Clifford Longfield tramped into the playground, sulking together in resignation as another school day began. They attended in matching donkey jackets, John Deere overalls and wellingtons, farm clothes that gave the impression their presence was temporary. Each held a duffle bag containing indoor shoes that didn’t carry the reek of livestock.
Blood-born farmers and vociferous detesters of scholarly education, they’d been convinced by their father that anything not learned with the hands would prove a false knowledge. They were already competent tractor drivers, hay-balers and mucker-outers. Much of this experience had been acquired in recent months of early-morning rises and pre-school chores. As their mum’s illness worsened, Murray and Clifford had taken on her share of the farm work, willingly putting their hands to adult tasks. Their growing contribution corresponded with her deterioration and the increasing amount of time their dad had to dedicate to her needs. The washing of their overalls so the boys could be buried in comfort was the final thing she was able to do for herself.
They were the only children in the class who had ever killed anything larger than a spider or seen more blood than a nosebleed or a tooth loss. That autumn, their dad, John, who butchered what he farmed and much of what was reared nearby, had introduced his boys to the art of slaughter. Each had been instructed on how to plunge a knife deep into the brisket of a stunned pig to allow for the letting of the animal’s blood. They had later watched as he had cut the pig’s eyes out, rinsing them before putting them in the fridge overnight. Murray and Clifford brought the eyes to school for dissection. To the amazement of their classmates, they each rolled one around their mouth; a party trick learned from Dad. Connor Gardner puked. Robbie and Cameron Voar collapsed in a heap, slapping each other and laughing. Most of the boys turned away. The girls ran to the farthest reaches of the classroom. Dog Evans found the swirling of the eyes around their mouths hysterical. His laughter scared the others into silence, making the Longfields spit them back into the container.
Murray spat into the snow as they searched for Dog Evans. He was nowhere to be seen. Moving to where the boys were gathering, they turned their donkey-jacket collars against the building wind.
18
Driving against the peak-hour traffic, Shep and Rebecca left the anonymity of their suburban commuter estate. Using the ring road to bypass the city, Shep headed north with the feeling that they were leaving society behind. Rebecca was already half asleep as the last of the tall buildings retreated out of the rear window. He had often marvelled at how she couldn’t stay awake for long on any mode of transport, regardless of noise or motion. He recalled sharing the joke, a long time ago now, when they had agreed that that was how she kept her good looks; travelling with him on business, waking up refreshed and hungry in a different town from the one they’d had breakfast in. He remembered driving the baby around the village so he would sleep: a good memory. Rebecca didn’t have any.
They were soon travelling on open roads through lonesome country into the charred winter sunset. They would arrive in darkness, the same way they had left.
Four hours out of the city, two hours into the night and an hour since they had passed the last car, the road snaked down into the broad U of an enormous glacial valley. Shep squinted ahead and the corners of his mouth curled slightly. In the distance, the pinprick of familiar lights twinkled from a single building in the vast blackness that contained them. Without that beacon he could have been forgiven for believing that they were journeying as the last people on earth.
The isolated inn had been established over three hundred years ago to service the drovers taking their cattle to the markets of the south. Drifts of sheep had replaced the herds of cows, and tonight, woolly and stupid descendants of those initial drifts had chosen the road to sleep on and Shep was forced to slow down in order to steer around the clumps of dozing mutton.
At dips and bends the road disappeared from under them and his main beams ranged across the heather of the valley floor, capturing the bowed heads of deer, down from the steep sides for night feeding. He came to a halt once, to avoid and admire an enormous stag as it stood across the tarmac, from one side to the other. Imperious, it looked to have been waiting. Its flanks moved gently with each unhurried breath as it examined the car, unblinking and aloof, utterly convinced of its own place in the landscape, considering theirs. Vapours drifted from its nostrils and threaded through its antlers as it weighed them up, as if it alone had the power to permit Shep and Rebecca to continue. Judgement passed, the beast flicked its ears and moved out of the glare. The road ahead was clear and straight. Ten minutes later, Shep allowed his bladder to relax as they pulled in to the buttery halos of the coach lanterns hanging from the gable end of the outbuildings.
He contemplated leaving her in the car, she looked so peaceful. He could be in and out before he knew it. But as he saw the jagged scar within her crow’s feet twitch, he knew it was a bad idea, taking the chance of her waking alone in the dark.
A gentle shake roused her. She blinked and looked around as she came to.
‘Where are we?’
‘At the inn.’ He leant across and wiped the corner of her mouth. ‘You’ve got dribble.’ He pulled his door handle. Rebecca checked her lipstick in the mirror as Shep got out and walked around the car.
Her big eyes were waiting for him when he opened her door. ‘I don’t want to.’
‘Well, I’m afraid I need to. Come on.’
‘Shep, please.’
‘Please what?’
She didn’t say anything.
‘Rebecca, please what?’
She shrugged. He let go of her door and walked away, calling back to her, ‘Should I bring you something out? I’m sure they’ll still be doing bar snacks.’
The mere suggestion of being left alone was enough to make her button up and get out of the car. He looked back as she closed the door and started after him.
‘Why are you being like this?’
‘Like what?’
‘Making me do things – this.’ She gestured at the situation, the car, the inn, the night. ‘It’s not like you.’
‘Rebecca, for God’s sake, everything about this,’ he mimicked her, ‘it’s something we have to do.’
He regretted the snap in his voice. He walked back and coddled her into him. With her forehead on his chest, her arms went around his waist; her b
lack-gloved fingers interlocked.
‘Shep, don’t blaspheme, please.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘Come on. I’m tired, I need the toilet and it hasn’t been an easy day. Has it?’
She uncoupled and followed him into the inn.
When Shep came out of the porch toilet, she was still waiting for him. He opened the main door into the bar.
Inside, as had often been the case, he was surprised to see people. The summer ramblers had been replaced by the extreme hikers and the foolhardy, crowded around the open peat-fire in T-shirts, their outer garments of fleece and waterproof piled high on one chair or another. The far corner was occupied by a noisy group that he assumed had rented the bunkhouse attached to the inn: hunters, judging from their accents and their clothes, here to kill the deer he had been minded to appreciate. He sat Rebecca at the round table by the window with a radiator.
The barman extended a thick ham of a hand, barely contained by the sleeve of his fawn checked shirt.
‘Shep. Good to see you,’ he said, with genuine warmth. ‘You’ve been a stranger to us.’
‘Hello, Bill. It’s good to see you too.’
‘You’ve lost weight.’
‘You haven’t changed a bit.’
‘More’s the pity.’
Shaggy black hair crowned a face that shone from the effects of the weather and alcohol to such a degree that the large permanent spot on the end of his nose had little choice but to glow.
‘How long has it been?’
‘Must be a few years.’
‘At least, I would say. What happened, was it your work?’
‘Something like that: promotions, reshuffles, office politics, regional changes of responsibility, that kind of thing.’
‘Sounds terrible, if you ask me; don’t know how you do it. You’re still keeping busy, though?’
‘Oh, aye, bills to pay, obligations. You know how it is. Still got the nose to the grindstone. Just trying to keep close to home.’
‘And the lady is?’ said Bill, nodding across to Rebecca as she stood to remove her duffle coat.
‘That’s my wife,’ said Shep, seeing her afresh, as though with Bill’s attention. ‘Rebecca.’
‘Heavens, I’m not surprised you kept her a secret, you lucky sod.’ Bill waved as Rebecca happened to look over, having placed her folded duffle on the deep windowsill. She found a smile for him. ‘She’s a smasher.’
‘Always has been.’
‘Here, what am I like?’ said Bill, making to come out from behind the bar. ‘She’ll be freezing there. Let me get you two a seat closer to the fire. Bloody hunters spread out like they own the place sometimes, untidy sods.’
‘No, no,’ said Shep, waving for Bill to stay where he was. ‘Please, don’t disturb them. We’re only in for one, just breaking the journey.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Well, if you’re sure. What’ll it be?’
‘A whisky and a brandy, thanks.’
‘Back to the village, is it?’
‘Aye.’
‘And what takes you all the way out there?’
‘Family. Our son.’
‘Ach, that’s good. He’ll be pleased to see you, I would imagine. Enjoy your drinks.’ Bill waved Shep’s money away as he turned to the hunters, who were hailing from their end of the bar. ‘Boys?’
Shep sat at the table with Rebecca, placing her brandy on the beer mat.
‘Thank you,’ she said. She moved the glass so that it sat in the centre of the mat, equidistant from each corner.
‘Bill thinks you’re beautiful.’
‘That’s nice of him to say so.’
‘So do I.’
‘I know.’
He touched his glass to hers before taking a sip.
‘Did you come here often? You seem to know each other well.’
‘Not really. It was just a natural place to stop after a long week on the road. Recharge the batteries before I got home.’ Shep continued, encouraged as Rebecca raised her head and began to look around, taking an interest. ‘I don’t think you’d need to come in more than a couple of times, however infrequently, to become a regular. It’s not like he has any locals. It’s all passing trade, each customer a cold call.’
‘And he’s a good salesman?’
‘Well, he got me and I know all the tricks.’
‘I’m sure you do.’
Rebecca took the room in.
‘I can see why you’d like it,’ she said.
‘How so?’
‘It’s simple: stone walls, stone floor, wooden furniture.’
‘Function over form.’
‘That sounds like John Cutter.’
‘It’s uncomplicated.’
‘Yes, that’s it. I can see how it would calm a man, especially when combined with alcohol.’
‘You know me well.’
‘Did you stop here after?’
‘No. I never did,’ said Shep. ‘You needed me more.’
Rebecca drank from her glass, used a folded tissue to remove the lipstick and replaced it precisely where it had come from.
‘Will you be okay,’ she said, ‘driving after drinking whisky?’
‘I’ll be fine. I’ll take it easy; besides, it’s not like I don’t know the road. Matter of fact, I think I even recognised some of the deer we passed.’
Her smile for him was slight but it was honest and came with a look he would drive all day and all night for.
‘Stop teasing. I was thinking more about the police, you know that. We don’t want you losing your licence.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about it. It’s only one. Besides, the next policeman we see will be John Cutter. What I’ve had to drink will be the last thing on that man’s mind.’
The reminder of where they were headed took the life out of her face. She stilled her hand by wrapping it around the glass but she merely held on tight, unable to raise it to her lips. Shep took another sip.
It was more of a yelp than a scream; high-pitched and loaded with shock: enough to silence the hubbub of the inn. She held her hand above the table, unable to take her eyes off the shard of glass that hung from the fleshy ball of her thumb, vibrating in tune with her pulse. Blood from the piercing flowed down it, dripping from its corner into what remained of the brandy, heavy drops dispersing like wet smoke rings. Continued dripping collided the rings and quickly disguised the spirit, the level rising in the glass until it reached the bottom of the break, where it trickled out, soaking into the perfectly positioned beer mat.
‘Shite,’ said Bill. ‘Bloody glasses, they’re always doing that.’ He was at the table before they knew it, with a glass cloth for the wound. ‘I think it’s the washer myself, it weakens them. They move, no matter how I pack them.’
‘No, no, no, no, stop,’ someone called as Bill knelt and was poised with his indelicate grip. ‘Let me take a look, please.’
The table was surrounded in an instant by a subtle conference of hikers who were doctors and an outer commotion of hunters drawn to the smell of blood and perfume and the sight of a wounded hind. The bleeding hand was held in the centre of this performance. Once agreement was reached, the doctor holding her hand, with a perfect bedside manner, said, ‘Okay, you may want to close your eyes, or look away.’
Rebecca looked at Shep, no longer in the moment. Her lips moved.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s too late,’ said Shep.
He watched her dissolve, deserted momentarily by the support of her God and left alone. He sat still as she allowed herself to be comforted by Bill. Shep could tell he was already a little bit in love with her. She winced as the shard was removed and the hole was wiped with a clean handkerchief
. Once the doctors were content there were no splinters left in the wound, the handkerchief was used to apply pressure and staunch the flow.
When the bandage was on and Rebecca had tried to dry her eyes as she thanked everybody, and the doctors became hikers once more, following the hunters back to their drinks, Bill let his arm slide from her shoulders, where it no longer felt appropriate.
‘I feel bad,’ he said. ‘I’ve suspected that washer of doing this for a while. Honestly, you can hear them rattling against each other when it’s on, you know what I mean?’
Rebecca put her good hand on Bill’s forearm to quiet him.
‘It wasn’t the glass,’ she said. ‘It was me. I had hold too tight.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, girl. I won’t have you blaming yourself.’
‘I thought it would stop the shaking. I didn’t want to embarrass myself, being somewhere Shep was known.’ She looked Bill right in the eye, talking as though Shep was no longer there. ‘He’s been so good to me. I don’t want him to be ashamed of me, ever.’
Bill stalled, unsure, no longer confident his bluff barkeep persona could carry the day.
‘Come on now,’ he said. ‘As if anybody could be ashamed of you. And this is a lot of fuss about a broken glass, wouldn’t you say, Shep?’
Shep was focused on the remains of her drink, still stunned by her apology, when his trance was broken by Bill’s question. When he glanced up, he could see that Bill was asking for help. Shep leant forward, a hand on Rebecca’s knee. Bill leant in to meet him, needing an explanation.
‘Like Rebecca said, it’s not about the glass. Our son died. Yesterday, we think. We were only informed this morning.’
‘Oh, Jesus,’ said Bill, the power leaving his voice. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Thank you. It’s why we’re here, why we’re going back to the village. We shouldn’t have come in. It was a bad idea.’
‘No. Not at all.’
Shep sat back. Rebecca took her hand from Bill’s arm. When she did, he had already begun to relax, the way Shep knew he would. Grief was reason and explanation enough for any kind of behaviour. Knowing Rebecca had lost her son obliged him to forgive her for making him uncomfortable. The tears, the intensity, the strangeness of the girl were all rendered understandable by her grief.
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