Dead Stock

by Rachel Ward

  ‘You were living with someone, Tom. You were cheating on them. You’ve got a little kid. What is there to talk about?’

  ‘I know I was wrong. But I couldn’t help myself. My feelings for you.’

  ‘Hmph.’

  ‘Those feelings haven’t gone away. You’re gorgeous, Bea, and you know it.’

  Bea could feel her resistance ebbing away. It had been a bleak Christmas and New Year. No one had called her gorgeous. No one had given her a second glance. But even so . . .

  ‘I can’t trust you, Tom. I could never trust you after that.’

  They were by Bea’s front gate now.

  ‘Meet me in the pub at eight. The Jubilee. Just for an hour.’

  Just for an hour. It would give her a chance to quiz him about the cat investigation. And he clearly had the hots for her. An hour’s flattery would be good for her ego. She could enjoy it for what it was. It didn’t need to go any further than that, did it?

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘But not the Jubilee. Somewhere outside town, where no one will see us.’

  ‘I’ll pick you up at eight,’ he said, and winked.

  She let herself through the gate and walked up the path. Tosser, she thought, but there were those treacherous butterflies again. Eight o’clock. She’d just have time to walk the dog, have some pasta parcels and sauce for tea (it was Monday) and get changed into something a bit slinkier.

  13

  Bea was all ready when Tom rang, and she opened the door while he was still pressing the doorbell.

  Queenie was not happy. She knew that Tom had upset Bea before Christmas, although she didn’t know the grisly details. She hovered in the hallway, grim-faced, as Bea put on her coat. Tom noticed her and waved.

  ‘Evening, Mrs Jordan.’

  ‘She’s got work tomorrow, you know.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll have her back by midnight.’

  ‘Mum, I’m twenty-one!’ said Bea.

  ‘I know. Have a good evening,’ she said, grudgingly.

  Goldie had pottered out to have a look, too, and Bea felt better leaving her mum, knowing she had Goldie for company.

  ‘So, where are we going?’ she asked as they walked down the path towards his car.

  ‘Wagon and Horses. Nice little pub. Out of the way.’

  Bea knew the pub. It was on a country road, about two miles out of Kingsleigh. ‘Perfect.’

  In the Lounge Bar, Tom helped her out of her fake fur jacket, easing it off her shoulders and draping it on the back of her chair. He looked approvingly at her outfit. She’d spent ages choosing what to wear. In the end she’d gone for a nice top and jeans, the top being a black cold shoulder one, with soft ruffles at the scooped neckline drawing attention to her rather magnificent cleavage.

  ‘I’ll get the drinks,’ he said. ‘What would you like?’ His hand brushed her exposed shoulder as he turned to go to the bar, accidentally on purpose. Bea pretended not to notice.

  While Tom was waiting to be served, she checked her make-up on her phone in selfie mode, and then looked around. There weren’t many other customers, and she didn’t recognise any of them. Good, there’d be no gossip getting back to Kingsleigh about her and Tom. A man in his thirties, sitting at a corner table, was in her direct eyeline. He had a checked shirt and khaki-coloured chinos, and his dark hair was thinning and a bit fuzzy on top. He kept checking the door, and then looking at his phone. He picked up his half-pint of lager and sipped at it. When he and Bea made eye contact, he quickly looked away.

  Tom came back to the table bringing their drinks with him – Bea’s white wine spritzer and his pint of ale. ‘Here we are. Cheers.’ They touched glasses.

  ‘So what’s happened about becoming a detective?’ said Bea.

  Tom sighed. ‘I think that’s a long way off. They’ve just got me doing all the shit work at the moment. Visiting all the shops and talking about cats. It’s not exactly Luther, is it? I should be on the juicier cases, like the body on the bypass.’

  ‘That was just a jumper, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not. We’re waiting for the post-mortem results.’ He leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘Between you and me, it could be something else.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, he was a long way from home. We haven’t released this yet, but he wasn’t from Kingsleigh. He was a young bloke from Henwood, other side of Bristol. Lived with his parents. They’re in bits. They don’t believe it, say it would be completely out of character. He was young, fit, looked after himself, down the gym all the time.’

  ‘Well, anyone can get depression, can’t they? You can’t always tell what’s going on in someone’s head?’

  ‘True. But there were marks on his hands and face, as if he’d been in a fight. Looks to me like a night out that went horribly wrong. Someone must know something.’

  ‘Well, you’re the community bobby, Tom. You know all the pubs in Kingsleigh. Are you going to ask around?’

  Tom smiled. ‘I’ve already started, Bea. I can smell something wrong and I’m going to find out what it is.’

  ‘Unofficially?’

  ‘Semi-officially. At least, my boss doesn’t know I’m doing it. Not yet. I’ll go to him when I’ve got something to report.’

  ‘And in the meantime, you’re officially on the missing cats.’

  ‘Yeah, missing moggies.’ He sighed.

  ‘It’s not nice, though, people’s pets going missing. It matters to them.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  ‘So, how much of a thing is it? How many pets are we talking about?’

  ‘We’re keeping it on the QT, but as far as we know, it’s six cats – five missing and one dead, just in Kingsleigh. We’re talking with other areas, seeing if it’s a widespread thing or not. At the moment, it looks like it’s just us. It’s someone in the town.’

  ‘Six? That’s more than in the paper.’

  ‘The Bugle’s only out once a week. Cats are going missing nearly every day.’

  ‘So what are the theories?’

  ‘I’m just a PC, Bea. They don’t discuss it all with me, but I reckon it’s a weirdo. Taking them and torturing them or whatever.’

  Bea thought again about Dean and Tank. Should she tell him about them? At that moment the door opened and a man walked in. It took a while for Bea to remember where she’d seen him before, but the Barbour jacket reminded her. He was the customer that Jay had asked her about. Bea grabbed a Midweek Meals menu and held it up to her face. Squinting around it, she could see the man looking quickly around the room and then heading straight for the man at the corner table.

  ‘It’s sick, but it’s surprisingly common. What are you doing, Bea?’

  She tried to focus back on Tom. ‘Sorry, what?’

  ‘Are you hungry? I thought you’d eaten.’

  ‘Oh, I have. I’m just . . .just a bit hot.’ Bea started fanning herself with the menu.

  Tom looked at her doubtfully, but carried on. ‘Anyway, mistreating animals. There’s a lot of it about. You should try googling it. No, don’t. There’s some horrible stuff out there.’

  Barbour Jacket Man was reaching inside his coat now. He brought out a small brown paper envelope and handed it to the other man, under the table. He must have got something in return because his hand went back into his coat, as though it was reaching into an inside pocket. Bea’s mouth had gone dry. It looked like a drugs deal, going on three metres behind Tom’s back.

  ‘Are you listening?’

  ‘Yes. No. I mean, I am, but I’m, er, getting a headache. I’ve got some paracetamol somewhere.’ She put the menu down and dumped her handbag on her lap, dug about inside, then pressed a couple of pills out of their packet and swallowed them down.

  As she put her glass back down on the table, Barbour Jacket was leaving. He hadn’t even taken off his coat. The man at the corner table took a deep draught of his half. He took a couple of breaths and then drained the glass, and he, too, left
the pub.

  Bea felt as if she’d missed her moment. By the time she’d explained what she saw to Tom, both men would be long gone. And, after all, had she seen enough to justify dobbing them in? All she had seen was an envelope. One side of the deal, if that’s what it was.

  ‘So, you think it’s one person behind this?’ she said.

  ‘That’s my guess, yeah. The thing is, where it’s happened in other places, psychologists have said it can be a prelude to other sorts of violence. Attacks on vulnerable people.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. That’s why we’ve got to take it seriously. If it’s someone who enjoys violence, seeing animals suffer, they’re a real risk to society.’ Bea felt suddenly cold, as if a ghost had walked right through her. ‘But let’s not talk about work any more. How are things, Bea? What’s going on with you?’

  He leaned forward on the table, his hands resting only an inch or two away from hers. ‘Ha, there’s not much to say really. Same old same old.’ His hands moved forward. The tips of his fingers brushed the back of her left hand, and a small charge of electricity shot from the point of contact up her arm, into her stomach and further below. ‘I meant what I said earlier, Bea. I’ve got feelings for you, proper feelings. I can’t help myself.’

  She took up her drink and sat back in her chair. He was keen, no doubt about it, but she didn’t need to rush into anything. For once, the ball was in her court.

  They left the pub after two drinks. Tom had had an orange juice for his second one. It was only half past nine or so. There were no streetlights on these lanes and there was something comforting about the way the car’s headlights created a tunnel in the darkness. It had been a good evening. Nothing had been decided, but Bea couldn’t help liking Tom.

  They were a mile or so from the pub when he put the left indicator on and pulled into a lay-by.

  ‘What are you doing?’ said Bea.

  ‘Nice and quiet here. We can . . .talk . . .properly,’ he said. He switched off the engine and they were plunged into darkness.

  Bea didn’t like it. ‘Tom, I want to go home, please.’

  ‘Come on, Bea. We’ve had a great evening. Let’s finish it properly.’

  She could hear him unclip his seatbelt and move towards her. The last time he’d done that they’d ended up on the back seat, but she didn’t want that now.

  ‘Tom, I’ve got a headache. I’m asking you to take me home.’

  ‘Just a little kiss.’ He leaned closer. She could smell the slightly beery breath, sense his body twisting towards her. Even in the dark, he was oozing confidence.

  ‘Tom—’

  ‘Bea,’ he breathed, his face inches from hers.

  ‘When exactly did you break up with your girlfriend?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When did you break up with her?’

  He gave a long sigh and shifted back into his seat. ‘Between Christmas and New Year. We had an awful Christmas, made us realise we couldn’t go on like that.’

  ‘So, a week ago?’

  ‘Yeah, something like that.’

  Bea switched on the light above the rear-view mirror. ‘Tom, it’s a big deal, breaking up with the mother of your little boy. It’s too soon for . . .this.’

  ‘Bea, it’s been over for ages. We’ve been unhappy. It’s not—’

  ‘Take me home, please, Tom,’ she said firmly.

  ‘I really like you, Bea.’

  ‘Of course you do, I’m bloody lovely, but I want to go home now.’

  ‘Really?’ He’d been staring straight ahead, but now he turned to look at her, and she could see he was using his best puppy-dog expression. But it was no good. She didn’t want to be anyone’s rebound shag.

  ‘Really.’ She reached up to the light and switched it off.

  Tom did up his seatbelt and the car accelerated out of the lay-by, making the wheels spin in the slush. Bea was pressed backwards into her seat as Tom gunned it along the narrow lane. Not the time to tell him about his speed, thought Bea.

  Within a few minutes the car pulled up outside her house. Tom hadn’t said a word. Bea opened the door.

  ‘Goodnight,’ she said, stepping out of the car.

  ‘Yup.’ That was it. One word. Stony faced.

  The engine roared before she’d even shut the door and the car raced off down the street. She tipped her head back and looked up at the sky. It was cloudy, a blank sheet, blotting out the stars. She puffed her cheeks out and blew her breath out strongly, trying to empty her lungs and her head at the same time, then walked up the path and let herself into the house. The lights were on and she could hear the telly playing in the lounge. She kicked off her shoes and walked across the kitchen to the lounge doorway. Queenie was asleep in her chair. Goldie was at her feet. On her feet, actually. She raised her head as Bea looked at her, and her tail made a gentle thump, thump, thump sound on the carpet.

  ‘Mum,’ Bea said quietly, leaning over the back of the chair and putting her hand on Queenie’s shoulder. ‘Nearly time for bed.’

  Queenie’s eyes flickered open. She wiped a little patch of drool from the side of her mouth on the back of her hand. ‘Wha—? Oh. You back already? Did you have a nice evening?’

  ‘It was okay,’ said Bea. ‘But it’s good to be home.’

  14

  At six o’clock the next morning it was still dark, but Bea was wide awake and pretty miserable. In the days BG (Before Goldie) she would have got up, made a cup of tea and gone back to bed, but now she slung on some clothes and got ready to go out for a walk.

  Outside, the sky was softly clouded, the air felt warmer, and it hadn’t snowed again. Instead there was a layer of slush everywhere. As Bea stood near the launderette wondering which way to walk, a jogger went past, running in the road, following one of the clear tyre tracks in the half-melted snow. He was heading away from the allotments. Bea heard his hard, sharp breaths, saw them pluming in the air, like steam from a locomotive, and got a whiff of sweat and mud. She didn’t see his face, hidden under his hood, but the size of him was a giveaway. It had to be Tank, even though she wouldn’t have had him down as a fitness freak. She felt a little tightening in her stomach. She whipped out her phone, selected the camera and held it up. She clicked a couple of times, but when she looked at the screen, it was just a dark, indistinct mess. Her phone wasn’t up to the low light. Damn.

  She watched Tank disappear into the distance, heading towards the square. The sky was clearing and there were hints of light in its eastern edge. Bea changed her mind and led Goldie towards the path to the allotments and the fields beyond. Once over the stile, they followed the path over the brow of the hill and then down to the hedge. It was getting lighter every minute – a soft, dull grey light that comes before the sun breaks the horizon.

  The dark bulk of the farm buildings sent a shiver down Bea’s spine, so she chose the other path, the one that ran alongside the river. She let Goldie off her lead and enjoyed watching her snuffle about in the reeds and bushes, falling behind sometimes and then gently trotting to catch up. She never strayed far from Bea.

  It was a pleasant, flat walk. The light was seeping through the treeline now, highlighting the surface of the river. Swollen by melted snow, the water was brown and thick.

  Ahead of her, Bea saw a lone figure standing near the edge of the riverbank. She hesitated, wondering whether to go back before they noticed her. There was no denying it was isolated here. She felt a familiar pang of anxiety and then an answering surge of anger. She had every right to be here. She shouldn’t feel worried about being on her own. Anyway, if there was trouble, she had a dog to defend her. She looked at Goldie, pottering quietly by her side, her golden fur catching the light and giving her a halo. Hmm, maybe not attack dog material. Still, Bea kept walking.

  As Bea got closer she could see it was the man she’d seen in the path before, the one with the camouflage jacket. He was staring at something intently through binoculars. He didn’t turn round or
acknowledge her in any way. It seemed unlikely that he hadn’t heard her, so Bea supposed he was more interested in whatever it was he was watching, and somehow she felt reassured.

  As she drew level, he lowered his binoculars and raised a camera with a long lens. Now Bea was really curious. What was it?

  She stopped walking and stood a couple of metres away from him. He seemed to be pressing a button on the camera, but there was no noise. After about a minute he lowered the camera and briefly glanced at Bea. She raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Kingfisher,’ he said, quietly, almost in a whisper.

  ‘Really?’ Bea had seen them on nature programmes on the telly, but never in real life.

  ‘There’s a pair. The female’s on that hazel. The male’s just downriver.’

  Bea squinted across the river. She couldn’t see anything apart from bushes and reeds.

  ‘Do you see the red stems? Just to the right of that, about a foot above the surface.’

  Bea looked and looked and then she thought she saw a hint of colour, a spot of turquoise in amongst the branches opposite.

  ‘Here.’ The guy had taken off his binoculars and was holding them out to Bea. He looped the strap over her head. Bea scanned the bushes but couldn’t see the bird.

  ‘Find the red stems and pan right slowly,’ he said patiently.

  She tried again, and suddenly there it was – a beautiful little thing, with colours like a jewel, and a sharp, cruel-looking beak.

  ‘I’ve got it!’ Bea squeaked. Then, more quietly, ‘I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.’

  The bird bobbed its head and sent a bright yellow jet out of its rear end. And then it was gone. Bea moved the binoculars away again and saw a flash of turquoise disappearing round the bend in the river.

  ‘I only live fifteen minutes away. I never knew they were here.’

  He smiled. ‘Most people don’t. You have to be looking to see them, although you’ll often hear them first. They give themselves away with that call.’

  ‘That peeping noise?’