You know what’s me?
I know you killed her.
You better not have made a mess in there says Rutter.
Brindle laughs. He laughs at this. It is a hollow noise that erupts from his chest. A joyless sound that sounds like a stifled choke. Like food dislodged. It is the first time anyone has see him laugh. This cold detective sent in from the city to ruin all their Christmases actually laughs and it is an unnerving sight.
He turns and looks behind him. He sees Mace standing there awkwardly fumbling with a cigarette and thinks he shouldn’t be here and he sees Roy Pinder sneering and urging him to fail and he feels things slipping beyond his control.
Brindle turns back.
A pig couldn’t make a bigger mess than that place already is he says.
Well you would know says Rutter. Am I being arrested?
Brindle jams his hands in his overcoat pockets and kicks at the snow. An attempt to regain composure.
You better not have broken owt neither says Rutter as he feels the balance of power shifting. I’ll get compo for this.
Over my dead body you will says Brindle.
Mace is smoking his cigarette. He inhales. Watches.
Brindle hears Pinder say something and then a muttering runs through the officers. The detective steps towards Rutter and the dogs strain and snarl at him.
I’m going to get you says Brindle. I’ll prove it and I’ll have you – and I’ll crucify you.
Rutter snorts phlegm down the back of his throat and then turns his head and spits.
It is going to happen says Brindle. I am going to have you for this. Best pack your bags and be ready.
Rutter hawks more phlegm. He looks at the officers in the shadows. He looks at Roy Pinder for a moment and then over to the barn.
What is it? says Brindle. What are you looking at?
I need a piss.
So piss then.
Rutter walks over to the barn. He undoes his trousers and drops them and his underpants down around his ankles. He pisses noisily into the barn. His sagging bare arse as white as the snow.
The policemen roar with laughter at this but Brindle knows that it is aimed as much at him as it is Rutter. They are still laughing when he turns and walks slowly to the car.
Mace hangs back for a moment and he hears that Pinder say Christ what a useless bloody plum-faced freak but when Mace hears the engine start and sees the brake lights go off he throws his cigarette and dashes across the farm yard and climbs into the front seat.
Well that went well he says.
Brindle turns to him. Stares right at him. Through him. He holds his gaze. Mace thinks he can sees sparks flashing in his eyes.
Get out he says.
What says Mace.
Get out of my car.
Why?
Brindle leans over him and opens the passenger door. Shoves him.
Get the fuck out of my car.
PINDER SENDS HIS officers home. Tells them to go to their wives and husbands and girlfriends and boyfriends and kids to make amends while they still can. Fill yourselves with booze and turkey he says and then bill that prick Brindle for your overtime. Then he hangs back. He waits until the officers have left then he beckons Rutter out to the derelict barn. As they walk in he can hear something skittering away. The sound of claws on wet concrete.
You got the message then he says.
What message? says Rutter.
What have you done with her?
With who?
Look – don’t fuck me about. You know who. The girl.
Muncy’s girl?
Yes Muncy’s girl.
Pinder and Rutter can barely see each other in the dark.
I thought we’d just been through all this with that cunt Brindle?
I’m not Brindle says Roy Pinder. You can talk to me.
What for?
Look – I know all about it. I had a phone call in the early hours.
Rutter shrugs.
From Mr Skelton says Pinder.
Rutter pauses.
Who’s he then?
You know who.
I don’t think I do.
I get it – you talk to your pigs but you don’t talk to the pigs. Forget the uniform. This goes beyond all this. You’re not talking to a copper now Steve. You’re talking to someone in – here Pinder lowers his voice and chooses his words carefully – someone inside. Remember?
Rutter reaches into his pocket for a rolled cigarette and then lights it. In the spark of the lighter Pinder sees Rutter’s eyes. Black and beady with the roaring flame of the lighter reflected in them.
Larry Lister says Pinder.
Rutter says nothing but in the dark his left eye twitches.
We think he might talk says Pinder. We think he’s lost it.
This is what-do-you-call-it is this says Rutter. This is police harassment.
You’ll keep your mouth shut then says Pinder.
About what?
About everything.
HE IS AT the corner table again but his tie is off and his top two buttons undone. Even from across the bar by the door Mace can see he is in a state. That something about the detective has changed. There are empty glasses in front of him. Shot glasses. Four of them.
He walks over.
What the fuck?
Brindle looks up. His dark eyes are glassy. Wet. His head rolls up.
What do you mean what the fuck?
What was that all about? says Mace. Making me beg a lift back in a bloody cop car?
Brindle’s neck is loose in a measured posture of disdain. His eyes red.
They’re your mates not mine.
Well it was fucking embarrassing. They were joking about making me walk back through the drifts and that fat prick Roy Pinder is no mate of mine – especially now. He’s crooked is Pinder. Owns houses all over. On his wage? Come off it.
I thought you were mates with everyone round here spits Brindle.
Mace cuts him off and points at the glasses.
I thought you didn’t drink.
It’s Christmas. Everyone drinks at Christmas don’t they?
The Magnet is full again. It is late again. The day has been chased away by whisky and brandy and many of the men have red faces and new jumpers and are joined by their wives and girlfriends now. Some of the men are still wearing their paper cracker hats from their family lunches while others have been here all day. They are in high spirits. The jukebox is turned up to full volume and is playing Christmas songs again and the fireplace is roaring.
You’re forgetting that I’m an outsider from the city too says Mace.
Oh yeah. The Clark Kent of the countryside out to win a Pulitzer by riding my coat tails.
Hardly says Mace. I’ve helped you out.
Helped me out? Helped me out? Behave. You’re bloody useless son.
I’m useless? You’re the one who just raided a house and turned up precisely nothing. You embarrassed yourself up there man. I thought you were meant to be the best there was. Golden balls. The enigmatic Jimmy Brindle from the top-secret new-breed Cold Storage lot. Christ almighty. It doesn’t bode well for the Yorkshire force does it if you’re the best there is. No wonder Pinder’s still up there laughing his cock off.
Brindle looks at Mace and shakes his head.
I’m being lectured by some provincial pisshead with a pen who thinks he knows me. I’ll tell you something. You don’t know jack shit. You’ve got a long way to go before you’re on my level. A long way.
Your level?
Indeed he slurs. A higher plane of processing.
I know as much as you do says Mace. I know Steve Rutter is your man. That hasn’t changed. But this runs deep. I’d bet good money Rutter is involved in all sorts. That he’s not in on this alone. Are you really going to blow this now?
I’ll blow nothing. It’s Christmas Day and I want to enjoy myself.
Brindle – enjoying himself? laughs Mace and then he says: they all came up together you know.
Who did?
The men who run this place.
What men?
The men who run this place.
This cruddy pub?
No. The town. The valley. Haven’t you seen that connection yet?
Mace looks around to check that no one can hear him.
The fact that Steve Rutter and Ray Muncy and Roy Pinder and for that matter Bull Mason and his brother Johnny and others too – they all came up together. There are certain men now in positions of power who went to school together. They are of the same age and they move as a pack. That lot have stayed friends and help each other get a leg up. But some of them did their own thing. Ray Muncy is one of them. Some of them – Steve Rutter – were never a part of that network of people in the first place; for whatever reason they were rejected by those guys since the first day of school. Rutter because he was a gimp probably. They were the victims of those guys. My boss Dennis Grogan told me all about it. Warned me to tread carefully with anything I write but fuck them. I could name you others too. They drink together they holiday together go into business together. Swap wives – all of that. They’re like some weird backwater mafia but without the cool clothes and sunglasses. Do you know Benny Bennett?
Brindle shakes his head.
Look him up. He controls the council funds. He makes sure money only flows to those who he wants it to flow to. There’s a committee for appearance’s sake but it all comes down to him. There’s a simple reason the pot-holes round here never get fixed yet he drives a BMW. And there’s a reason Bull Mason pulls in four times more than any other pub round here.
Which is?
Because that is the way it has been decided says Mace. Because he’s on the inside. I don’t know the specifics. It’s all just beneath the surface. Bull’s alright but I wouldn’t trust him to feed my cat. Then there’s Wendell Smith and the Farley brothers. These are people you should be looking into if you want the full story. They’re all the same age too. They might not look like they have money or influence but they do. In their own ways they do. They’ve been doing what they want round here for years. Decades. They police themselves that lot. They’re their own law. That’s why the crime rate – the visible crime rate anyway – is nonexistent. Any thieves or burglars round here find themselves waking up in a quarry with broken legs and shattered fingers. Junkies? Forget it. They’ve been intimidated away. But I’d bet there’s plenty of other stuff going on too.
Like what?
That’s your job detective. But I can still help you. You and I both know that there is—
You know nothing.
Mace shrugs.
You’re killing the case but that’s your problem. Justice is your concern not mine. Either way I’ll have my story. Jesus. I need a drink.
He returns with a pint and two whiskies and a new packet of cigarettes.
So with all that in mind says Mace: what now?
Brindle looks at him like he is insane.
What do you mean what now?
What’s your next move?
None of your bloody business.
Come on says Mace. You can drop the front now. I’ve seen behind your armour detective. Your vulnerability. Seen your failings.
They fall silent for a minute until Mace speaks again.
You must have a plan though.
Brindle points at his glass.
More of that.
What about Rutter though?
Brindle stares at Mace. Stares at him for an uncomfortably long time; stares so long without speaking that Mace wonders if he is even seeing him.
Don’t you have somewhere you need to be? he says finally. I mean isn’t there anyone waiting for you? There must be a way out of this town tonight.
Mace sips his drink then places it on the table.
No and no and no he says. Anyway. Isn’t there anyone waiting for you? You can’t be a detective every single minute of every waking hour.
Brindle does not respond. Instead he drinks his whisky. He downs it and winces then he stands and says: Rutter first then Pinder. If he’s crooked I’ll bury him. I’ll bury all of them. This entire town if needs be.
IT WAS EASY not to think of them as people. Now they were something else; they were spent forms broken things damaged goods. These people he was sent for were the bruised apples in the barrel. The broken biscuits. They were the gristle that clogs the butcher’s drain. The discarded by-products of specialist tastes.
The work was irregular. Months could pass with nothing and he would begin to think that perhaps he had imagined it all but then two jobs would come in a week apart. A message sent up from the city.
They called it clean-up. He was the clean-up man. He had no choice.
Between the parties and the pigs was his time. That was his payment: the total freedom of a few hours alone with whatever was left to him.
He never saw Mr Hood and he never saw any of their films. To see the films you had to be a part of it all. You had to be invited in. He was just there to do a job for Skelton – just like the women who took the tickets at the X or the women who cleaned up the spunk from the toilet floor or whoever it was who procured the party guests and amateur film stars in the first place. He suspected Skelton; it certainly wasn’t Lister.
He knew he wielded no wider power. He knew that was why he was not in that network. Because he had no sway in politics or law or town planning or property or investment or the media so he was simply not worth corrupting. He was wild he was feral he was a hillbilly. He was the pig man and all that mattered was that the bruised apples were ghosted away; never to be found or used or consumed again.
THEY DRINK UNTIL it is closing time and after Bull Mason has locked the doors and dimmed half the lights he carries on serving.
At one point Brindle says am I safe here? but Mace does not hear him and Brindle is not even sure if he said it out loud so he stands and sways and staggers into the wood-panelling wall of the pub and mutters something about Rutter. He knocks a picture frame askance and then looks around the pub as if seeing it for the first time. Bull Mason looks over from the bar.
Mace stands.
Whoah there he says. You’re banjaxed Miss Marple.
I’m DS James Brindle he says reeling to one side.
Mace is unsteady too but he catches the detective by the arm before he upends the table and all its empties. Mason looks over again and catches Mace’s eye this time. He nods to the door leading upstairs. Mace understands the message.
Come on then he says. Christmas is over. I’ll help you up.
Brindle scowls at him and says get your hands off me but is still in danger of falling so Mace gets one arm around him and guides him to the door. They barrel through it and then navigate the stairs. At the landing halfway up they pause and Brindle turns to look at Mace. Their faces are close. Brindle’s eyes are like the pebbles of glass that wash up on beaches; pieces shaped by the violent shifting of the shale. Mace can smell the detective’s breath. He is looking at his birthmark. It is right in front of him and appears even redder as if full of blood. Brindle says nothing so Mace hoists him up the rest of the stairs and along the hallway. They get to Brindle’s room.
Keys says Mace. His arm is still around the detective.
Brindle turns to him. His head rolls on his neck.
What?
I need your keys.
Their faces are close again. The birthmark is there again.
Fuck it says Mace and puts his hand into Brindle’s trouser pockets. He roots around and brushes against something. It retracts and stiffens. Doesn’t give. It is hard. Surprisingly hard. He moves his hand and finds the keys but then he touches it again. Closes his fingers around it.
Brindle looks at him with wet red eyes. They are both breathing deeply. Mace is staring at the birthmark. It appears engorged. It is as if it is pulsing. Mace takes out the keys and fumbles with them. He finally gets them into the lock. Opens the door. Brindle stumbles in. The door swings on its hinges
. Mace pauses for a moment and looks up and down the hallway and then follows him in.
PART II
SPRING
6
WEIGHTED AND WAITING hung from rusted chains once sinking the trunk of the girl stands bound and suspended ten feet down in drain water now melting. She rises with the temperature her chainlinks bending quietly jack-knifing her bloated browning body angelically ascending. Tiny ice bubbles encased for the winter return to the ether as the reservoir water inches upwards rising clandestinely through conduits and culverts. Rainfall and ice-melt raise the meniscus of this great black basin as currents plumb and push it in all directions until the moor-top can no longer contain it and the frosted channels bob with diminishing blocks and bergs slowly dispersing disintegrating evaporating.
Ice is never ice forever. Once it was water and in time it becomes water again. And life begins again. Here in the cracks and clefts of this concrete fissure underground aquatic insect larvae hatch and flourish. Fomented in the dampness of this man-made cave they unfold unfurl and stretch anew.
Stoneflies mayflies caddisflies danceflies dragonflies.
The waters rise and rise until the body of the girl gently rests against the underside of the drain’s grill like a death-row prisoner pressed up tight in a plea for mercy. Then the waters fall and fall and she floats suspended tied and tangled and trussed.
Only now do the mites and gnats and flies arrive.
Bluebottles greenbottles blowflies fruitflies hoverflies.
These cold-blooded creatures come in stages to feed and lay and hatch. Word of the spring-feast spreads.
Rove beetles skin beetles clown beetles. Clothes moths heather bees and roaming wasps. Spiders to prey on the flies.
And so the process begins again. Decomposition accelerates. The body hovers; a host to life of another kind. Its flesh and its organs and its cavities and skin and fluids busy with activity. This once-person is now a rich protein source for the subspecies that gnaw and suck and fester there.
She floats below the moor under the red waterlogged soil. The girl. Weeks have passed here. All she has known is darkness and ice and the echo of the bogland breeze whistling into this lonely mausoleum. The sky shifting the snows drifting. But now the snow has gone and the ice has melted. And as the first shaft of sun passes over and through and into this space even in death there is change and growth and movement.
Turning Blue Page 17