Die of Shame

by Mark Billingham

  He glanced out of the window. A few faces he recognised, but still no sign of the kid.

  Nice enough lad. A computer freak, same as Chris, but nowhere near as good. Seventeen and clearly messed up about coming out, but more importantly, a kid who still lived at home and whose parents were away. He’d mentioned something about a bed being available for a few nights, dropped hints that were as subtle as a sledgehammer in the bollocks. All good with Chris, naturally. All better than good. A house was better than a hostel any day of the week, and a bed was better than a settee, was better than the floor, blah blah blah.

  ‘There’s PS4 set up on the home cinema too. You know, if you fancy it.’

  ‘Sounds ace.’

  ‘We can play all night, if you want.’

  The kid wasn’t Chris’s type – too keen and a bit doughy and younger than he liked – but Chris would fuck him if it came to it. If that was what the kid was really after, which Chris presumed it was. He’d do that and make sure the kid had a nice time and he’d happily take the bed that was on offer, but that would be as far as it went. He wouldn’t be nosing around, looking to lift a phone or a watch and sell them for a few quid. He wouldn’t be pocketing any spare cash he found lying around the kid’s house. He wasn’t going back to that.

  Are you clean…?

  What happened before Heather was killed had been a what d’you call it, a blip. No more than that. Nobody had ever said recovery was easy and unless you were a nutter about it, like Robin, there were always going to be a few bumps in the road, everyone knew that. A few enormous holes you didn’t see coming.

  Like the one Heather had fallen into.

  He would lie to the kid, of course. About liking him, about seeing him again, being grateful for the bed, whatever. He couldn’t imagine a day without lying, but that didn’t make him any different from anyone else, did it?

  The bankers and the politicians and everyone sitting in that circle round at Tony’s place every Monday. The bloke on the next table and the spotty girl who’d given him his coffee and looked like she’d meant it when she’d told Chris to have a nice day.

  Lying to the police, though. That had been stupid, even by his standards. He hadn’t stopped thinking about it, had been worrying ever since because that woman, Tanner, hadn’t looked like an easy touch by any stretch.

  He had to try and put it right, but he knew he was going to need help. It was a big ask, but he didn’t have a lot of choice. He couldn’t think of any other way to avoid that big hole.

  Chris took another look across at the arcade, then went back to his phone and scrolled quickly through his contacts until he found the one he was after.

  He began writing a text to Caroline.

  … NOW

  When the plates had been cleared away, Robin said, ‘So, how did it go with the police?’ Nice and casual, as if he were asking if she wanted more water or had room for pudding. He thought he had waited long enough and done more than enough listening, considering this was the reason for asking her to meet for dinner in the first place.

  ‘It was fine, I think.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I wasn’t there very long.’

  Robin looked at Diana and found himself wondering if she could possibly think there was any other motive for his invitation. They had eaten lunch together before, but dinner was an altogether different matter. Was there perhaps a hint of romantic interest on her part? He had wondered about it before, that time she’d come to the hospital. There was no question she was an attractive woman and, though he was probably ten years older than she was, they were more or less on the same page.

  He smiled at her and dismissed the idea immediately. Had they met at another time, in different circumstances, he might have considered making overtures. It had certainly been long enough since he’d done so. As things stood, though, there was no room in his life for anything that might complicate it. As far as female company went, he was perfectly content with Amber or Suzi or Caprice at £140 an hour.

  He said, ‘The woman, was it? Who interviewed you?’

  Diana nodded. ‘Her and an Asian bloke. A sergeant or a constable.’

  ‘Seemed pleasant enough.’

  ‘Yes, they were. Very interested in what goes on in our sessions, mind you.’

  ‘I had the same thing,’ Robin said.

  ‘In the last session, especially.’

  ‘Because it was the night Heather was killed.’

  ‘They seem to think it has some bearing on things. On the murder.’

  Robin shook his head.

  ‘I know,’ Diana said. ‘I told them it was ridiculous.’

  ‘So, what did you tell them?’ Robin looked down at the dessert menu. There was a time when he would have been watching his weight, prone as he was to piling on the pounds, but neither Amber nor Suzi nor Caprice seemed to care a great deal. ‘About the final session.’

  Diana looked a little shocked. ‘Well, nothing, obviously. I mean, we’re not supposed to, are we?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘I certainly didn’t go into specifics.’

  Robin looked up. ‘I’m not with you.’

  ‘I told them there was some arguing and what have you, but I didn’t go into any details.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘You know, nothing they couldn’t have worked out for themselves. You’d have to be an idiot to think we sit there every week playing Scrabble, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but confidentiality still needs to be maintained.’

  Diana’s smile frosted over. ‘That’s what I told them.’

  Robin nodded and hoped that his own smile might thaw hers out a little. ‘You’re absolutely right, of course. Completely ridiculous to think that the group has any connection with what happened to Heather.’

  ‘Probably just some horrible random thing.’

  ‘Right. Or she was killed by someone none of us knew anything about, and why would we?’ Robin leaned forward a little. ‘How much do any of us really know about others in the group? It’s an hour and a half a week.’

  ‘I think you know all there is to know about me.’ Diana laughed. ‘I go on about myself so much.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Robin said. ‘That’s what we’re there for. What I’m here for.’

  ‘Well, thank you, but it feels like it sometimes.’

  It had felt like it to Robin, too, for the last hour and a half. Diana was clearly still enraged at her husband for leaving and especially at the woman he had chosen to leave her for. She was understandably distraught at the damage inflicted on the relationship she had with her daughter, but still. Compared to what others in the group had gone through, were still going through, her life was a pretty bloody good one as far as he could make out. Though she had paid lip service to his own anguish, in a blatant effort to root out the cause, she had not got the faintest idea what he endured on a daily basis.

  She needed support, yes, but more than that she needed to get a little perspective.

  ‘So, are you going to get anything else?’

  Diana pushed the menu away. ‘I couldn’t manage a thing.’

  ‘Oh, did you say anything at all about the letters?’ A last-minute thought, no more than that. Just something to talk about while they were waiting for the bill.

  ‘No, I did not,’ Diana said.

  ‘Right.’ Robin loosened his tie a little more. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Why would I?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘What have they got to do with anything?’

  ‘Well, I’m very grateful,’ Robin said. ‘But there is a… legal implication, strictly speaking. Confidentiality is crucial, it goes without saying, but there might be an argument for saying that this sort of thing falls outside that. That the letters are not strictly a group matter.’

  Diana waved a hand dismissively. ‘I decided that mentioning them would do more harm than good.’ She took a small compact mirror from her bag and checked her make-up. �
�The police are trying to solve a murder, after all, and it seems as though they have their work cut out as it is. Why give them useless information that would only result in them wasting their time?’

  Robin nodded enthusiastically. ‘It would rather be leading them up the garden path.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Robin signalled once again to attract the waiter’s attention and mimed writing in the air. He reached into his jacket and produced his wallet. ‘Let me get this,’ he said.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  Diana made no further effort to argue. As Robin laid his credit card down, she leaned across the table. She said, ‘Anyway, we still can’t be certain it wasn’t Chris.’

  Robin looked at her. ‘What?’

  ‘The letters,’ Diana said, quickly. She was flustered. ‘I mean the letters.’

  When Tanner got back to her hotel room, she took the till receipt from her purse and slid it into the brown envelope she kept for such things. Then she made a note in the back of her diary: date, location and scampi and chips/sparkling mineral water: £8.75. Tanner would no more dream of fiddling her overnight expenses than she would her tax return, though there were plenty who gave it a damn good try. She’d heard about an undercover officer who had claimed to need sports clothes to fit in with a local gang he was trying to infiltrate. This was readily accepted, until one of his receipts had been examined more carefully, and the full set of golf clubs stashed in the boot of his car had been deemed surplus to requirements.

  As had he.

  Scrupulous as she was, Tanner would have had difficulty using up even the most miserly allowance on this occasion. Always a budget hotel, of course, but she couldn’t help wondering just whose budget places like this were tailored for. Tramps? Benedictine monks? She took off her shoes and lay down, fully clothed, on the bed. She turned on the TV and began to channel-surf, aimlessly. A famous comedian advertised these hotels on television, but looking around, Tanner doubted that he would find much to laugh about if he actually stayed in one.

  It was perfectly clean and modern, but there was so little room that she had not bothered to unpack anything except a clean shirt for the morning. There wasn’t even space in the bathroom for a basin, which was mounted instead in a corner of the bedroom, next to a small shelf laden with the proudly advertised ‘tea and coffee making facilities’ (kettle, sachets, miniature milk cartons).

  She settled on Sky News and did her best to plump up her pillows. The TV screen was tiny and the bed was no more comfortable than she had expected.

  Still, she was happy to be spending a night away.

  She had called home from the station, just before getting on the train. Susan had sounded better, had told Tanner she had spent the day catching up on some marking. The migraine had eased, she said, and the day away from school had given her a chance to recharge her batteries.

  Tanner had called again to let Susan know she had arrived in Sheffield. A short conversation had been enough to let Tanner know that the bottle she had marked in the fridge the night before had already been replaced.

  ‘Don’t go picking up any strange women,’ Susan had said.

  Tanner had said she would try not to.

  There had been no women – strange or otherwise – in the small bar downstairs. A smattering of businessmen had given Tanner good reason to eat her dinner as quickly as possible, laughing too loudly at their own jokes, shiny-suited and red-faced as the beer began kicking in. Of course, they might not have been businessmen at all. They might just as easily have been architects or hitmen, and had Tanner attracted their attention for as much as a moment, she doubted very much that they would have been able to tell how she earned her living either.

  What she would be doing to earn it the following morning.

  It was the pictures she dreaded. There were always pictures. Photographs in frames, cardboard or chrome, and you said something because you were expected to and perhaps you picked one up to look at if it seemed appropriate. You did not talk about their grief. Not unless they wanted to, and even then you did not attempt to quantify it or talk about a process, because grief was not a series of steps. It was a mess, ragged and random, and it inflicted its pain on each person differently. A blade, a hammer, a stone pressed across a chest. Grief was as individual as a fingerprint.

  So you waited. You ate and drank whatever was offered and you allowed the next of kin those few moments until the sobbing or the shouting had subsided. You listened, then you gave as much comfort as you were able, and you tried not to think about what you needed from the supermarket or when your parking ticket was going to run out.

  In the end, most of her just seeped through the floorboards…

  You tried not to let them know what you were thinking, at any rate.

  Tanner watched the news until the same story rolled round again. She thumbed the greasy remote for another minute or two and then began to get undressed. Ten minutes later, the alarm on her phone had been set and she was lying in the dusty dark, her legs restless beneath the thin duvet, trying to settle.

  Thoughts, scattershot…

  Those businessmen would certainly have looked twice at Diana Knight.

  An industrial sander would get the blood off.

  A librarian. They would have thought she was a librarian.

  … THEN

  As always, walking through the front door, Chris breathes the house in and it feels as though he’s twelve or thirteen again. Somewhere round there, anyway. The smell is enough to do it every time – furniture polish and boiled vegetables – and some part of him wants to bolt straight up the stairs, slam the bedroom door behind him and listen to Eminem or Chemical Brothers, good and loud.

  Some Pink, maybe, if he was in a very different mood. Or Christina Aguilera. The stuff his mates had never known he liked.

  Back then, his mother would have been shouting at him from the foot of the stairs, urging him to turn the racket down. Now, she just beams at him and reaches out to pull him to her skinny chest, and again it’s the smell that transports him.

  Pears soap and moisturising cream from the market; that hairspray that makes his nose tickle.

  She’s no more than a few years older than Robin, Chris thinks, but Jesus, it looks like an awful lot more. Clean living is one thing, but working as hard as she has for so long has caught up with her good and proper. Thirty years running around after Chris’s father, cooking two hot meals a day, washing and cleaning for him and still managing to work part time doing much the same for other people, a few miles up the road in Greenwich or Blackheath. It’s worn her down… he’s worn her down, and Chris doubts that she’d have the strength to shout up those stairs any more, even less chase after him. His hand moves softly across her shoulder blades, then he pulls away for fear of squeezing her too tight.

  ‘Are you hungry, love?’ She turns and walks towards the kitchen. ‘I’ve got some leftovers in the fridge.’

  Course she has.

  ‘Soon warm them up for you, if you like.’

  He says, ‘That’d be great, Mum,’ and goes through to the lounge to wait. He drops on to the settee, spreads his palms out and strokes the familiar brown velour. The room hasn’t changed any more than anywhere else and he wonders if his Gladiator and X-Men posters are still on the walls of the box room at the back of the house.

  Nobody was to know it wasn’t actually the movies he liked, of course. He’s not even sure he knew, not back then. He smiles, remembering a conversation with Heather about it. He’d told her that he wouldn’t kick any of them out of bed and she’d made him laugh by talking about the mess Wolverine would make of the sheets.

  From the kitchen, his mother asks if he wants tea with his dinner and he tells her that he does. Dinner at lunchtime, tea at dinner time. Something else he left behind.

  ‘I’ve got some of those mini trifles in,’ she shouts. ‘From Sainsbury’s.’

  Somehow, his mother appears to have found
room for even more of the hideous china figurines she loves. They are carefully arranged on the mantelpiece above the coal-effect gas fire and on top of the television. Dogs, horses, milkmaids. He knows she’ll have dusted every one of them this morning, right before getting the vacuum out. A flurry of activity in between clearing the breakfast things away and settling down in front of This Morning, or that show with the bald bloke who chases after scam artists and cowboy builders. He knows she’s got a soft spot for him.

  She brings his food in on a thin wooden tray and sits in the armchair opposite to watch him eat. Gammon and mashed potatoes, runner beans and parsley sauce. Chris gets stuck in.

  ‘You’ve missed your dad,’ she says.

  He grunts, mouth full.

  ‘You should say when you’re coming, love. Shame to come all this way and not see him.’

  Chris nods and swallows. He doesn’t make the journey back to Plumstead very often, not for six months or more, but when he does he is always careful to come at a time when his father won’t be at home. He knows very well that at this time of day the old man will be happily ensconced in the pub, talking nonsense to his mates and blowing every penny of his pension, as well as any other bits he’s managed to pick up cash in hand, doing odd jobs or getting lucky at the bookie’s.

  His mum is different, though; careful with what little she gets. His mum has always salted money away.

  ‘It’s difficult,’ he says. ‘I never know when I’m going to get time off, you know.’

  ‘Work has to come first,’ his mum says.

  ‘Unfortunately.’

  He carries on eating. He can’t remember when he last ate anything like this, the last time a meal came on a plate.

  ‘You been to see your brother?’

  ‘No,’ he says.

  ‘Not at all?’

  ‘No.’