by Rachael Blok
Rising, Ben leans in to Kiz. This time, his breath has slowed, and his colour is not strong. The tint of blood in the cheeks disappears as Ben leans even closer. He whispers, ‘Sorry, mate. Time to bring you back.’
‘Quick! In here! Overdose!’ he shouts through the door, and he hears an alarm sound. Four of them come running. He stands flat against the wall as they do their work, bringing him round. He’s seen them do it before.
‘Oi, Benny. Someone coming in to see you later.’ It’s Mr Burke.
‘Me?’ Ben says. ‘Who’s coming?’
‘Coppers, I think. They didn’t say what about. I’ll come and get you when they’re here.’
Ben lets out a breath. Coppers…
He looks through the slits of windows that sit in the walls of his pad. The bars. There’s a trace of the yellow grass he’d seen in the sun-blasted montage.
The sun is bright.
28
Monday 18th June
MAARTEN
It looks, Maarten thinks, almost corporate.
He’s been to a few prisons and they all have their own character. Some more threatening than others. With this one, the clear sign at the front names the prison as if announcing a large factory or a research centre. The doors are freshly painted. It doesn’t stick out. The fences are out at the back, on the fringe of the town. It’s a short walk up a path, with flower borders either side, set just off a street that climbs the hill from the main road.
About half an hour’s drive from St Albans; the traffic had been clear. School holidays are only a few weeks away. At the weekends the country sits in paddling pools, splash parks, drives to the beach. On Mondays they haul themselves to work, apply after-sun, wilt at their desks.
Maarten is already wilting inside. This prison has heating, but no air conditioning. It’s Britain, he gets it. But it’s 28 degrees Celsius outside. Feels hotter in here. He has already taken off his jacket, but still, he’s in a shirt, with long trousers, and shoes with laces and socks. It’s like torture.
They’d had a brief tour. He finds it helpful to know the environment when he’s interviewing. Helps him make sense of the person, their circumstances. Doors on each floor. Doors in, doors out. Doors everywhere. Prison officers carry bunches of keys that jangle like currency.
Fenton is brought into a room. He sits with no handcuffs and an officer stands to the side.
‘Want any drinks bringing in?’ the guard asks.
‘Just water for me, please,’ Maarten says. ‘Adrika?’
‘Water’s fine.’
Maarten can feel Fenton taking him in. He’d read the file: a comprehensive in St Albans, Southampton University; done some travelling; worked on boats, doing up old ones and selling them on, a place on the edge of London. He’d also run sailing courses every now and again for schools in Hertfordshire. He had lived in a rented flat with Ana Seabrook in London. His brother had worked abroad for a pharmaceutical firm but sailed competitively in his spare time. He had made quite a name for himself. Their parents had owned a holiday cottage near Blakeney, family holidays had all been up there. He and his brother would often go for the weekend, cycle the coastal path, sail and camp, now the cottage had long been sold.
He’d asked Adrika to drop in the questions about the relationship between Leo Fenton and Ana Seabrook. You just never knew what would prove interesting in the long run and it was always useful to watch reactions.
They begin with the usual introductions, the gentle preamble of confirmation of the basic details.
‘Could you tell us a little about the cyclist?’ Maarten asks.
‘The one we had a drink with?’ Ben asks. ‘I don’t think there’s anything new I can add. It was all pretty normal. So normal that until the situation became anything else, I’d not really taken any notice of it. He was cycling along the coastal path. We were camping out there, further up the bank. We pitched a tent where we always do, on a stretch of land just down from where our parents’ cottage is – was, anyway. They sold it just as we started secondary school, before the property hikes up there. They were tired of the upkeep. They’re dead now – their boat capsized on a sailing holiday up in the Scottish lakes.’ He pauses, scratches his arm, shrugs. ‘We’re a sailing family. Leo and I still go back up and camp outside the old place. It isn’t a campsite as such. Leo saw someone. A bloke fell off his bike.’ Ben frowns, shakes his head, turns his palms out flat and then in again. ‘I’m sure he was called Matt. I’m pretty sure he was from South Africa. But maybe that’s not quite right. Leo chatted to him. He came up and had a few beers with us.’
‘What did you talk about?’ Adrika leans forward to ask, lifting her glass of water. Maarten notes that she’s sweating slightly. Looking a little pink around the gills. His head begins to ache with the weight of the air in the room.
‘Honestly, I wish I could remember. But it was all so normal, just banter. He was doing part of the coastal ride. We’d been sailing that afternoon. We were just hanging out. We did it a lot and have been doing it since childhood. It’s like our second home. Leo’s job in New York had gone well, and he was starting something new, taking a few weeks’ break. New York was where he was working when…’ He shakes his head. ‘Anyway, we chatted about nothing. Bikes, boats. I remember the bloke said he had a sister when he found out we were brothers. I can’t remember her name, but I do remember him saying she’d died when she was young. Then at some point he was on his way. He seemed a decent enough bloke.’
‘He was the last person either of you saw?’ Maarten asks.
Ben nods. ‘Yes. If I’d known what was about to happen, then maybe I’d have taken more notice. I’ve gone over it – whether anything seemed significant – but honestly, I really think he was straight up. He was long gone before the morning. Before—’ He doesn’t finish.
‘And is it true that Leo had also had a relationship with Ana Seabrook, your girlfriend?’
Fenton’s laugh explodes like a cough. But there’s a second when Maarten sees a flicker in his eye and the cough feels stilted. He watches with interest.
‘A relationship! No, they were mates. Always have been – like siblings almost. We hung out together a bit as teens, but Ana and Leo have known each other since nursery. When we started dating they weren’t as close, really. But they were never a couple. Back in school Leo had a girlfriend for a bit. But it’s a small city, the schools are small. Everyone at the usual discos: Young Farmers’ things, Rugby Club things… We all got drunk far younger than we were legally allowed. Lots of snogging – but not with each other.’ His fingers are playing with his water cup, and he glances down at it.
‘Are you sure?’ Maarten presses the point. There’s something Fenton’s not saying. ‘Brothers fighting over a girl isn’t a new story.’
‘Yeah, I get the brothers thing, but not for us. There was no “relationship”. When I got together with Ana, Leo was living with someone in New York. It didn’t last. We were solid, Ana and I. And Ana, well – she’d been through it. You know her dad died when she was fifteen? They found out he was ill, and then it all seemed to happen so quickly. She was rocked.’
He looks at his nails, bitten down and cracked. ‘Losing someone is hard.’
Maarten blinks and looks quickly into the void of loss, light-headed and panicky about Liv, but she’s fine. She’s fine, he thinks. It’s the heat, he tells himself, making him dizzy. But he knows it isn’t. He knows that how close he came to losing his family has loosened something. Made him vulnerable. Scared.
Ben Fenton carries on, talking about Ana, and Maarten tunes in as he’s talking about someone trying it on with her.
‘Irvine?’ he asks.
Fenton shakes his head. ‘No, someone tried to push things with her. She mentioned it once. She didn’t want to talk about it, but I got the impression he scared her.’
‘What happened, exactly?’ Adrika asks. Her tone has softened slightly. Maarten can tell she likes him. He’s likeable. There’s a qui
et quality to him. When he speaks, it’s like he’s practising, like he’s forgotten how to talk, twisting his mouth round vowels and consonants. But people react differently to being behind bars. Ben Fenton sits in shadow. And if he is indeed innocent, as the evidence presents as a possibility, Maarten can’t even begin to think what the last eighteen months have been like.
‘I honestly don’t know. Some loser. It was Ana’s sixteenth birthday and she was out of it on vodka and white cider, she said. It’s no excuse for blokes thinking they’re entitled, is it?’
‘That’s horrible. Was it an assault?’ Adrika asks, placing her hand flat on the table, near Fenton’s.
‘I don’t know really. He had a go. I know it had upset her. She said he did mumble an apology when she’d bumped into him the next day so I got the impression they’d put it behind them.’
Fenton is still fiddling with his cup. There’s something going on, Maarten is sure. But what, he doesn’t know. The grief about Leo is real, he’s convinced. But when he talks about Leo’s relationships, there’s something he’s hiding.
Fenton carries on, ‘That’s what we did at the weekends back then, we drank cheap booze, we hung out. Honestly, when I found a way to make sailing and boats work as a career, everything changed for me. I’ve never really been into studying that much. Uni was fun but I had no idea what to do afterwards. I got a two-two and then went abroad.’
Maarten thinks of Ana Seabrook. Losing her father so young, then she’d ended up with Irvine. But now successful, popular, clearly loved. A survivor.
Surviving is the wrong word. Surely you have to process abuse. A force that strong: he thinks of Fabian Irvine. Adrika has mentioned he has wealth and good looks. Maarten imagines he is used to getting his own way.
Ana has poise, confidence, intelligence. She is clearly bright, resourceful. She gives the impression of strength.
Women have a different map to navigate. Liv has countless stories about being in the office, and what was acceptable only ten years ago. She’d said she’d worked as a student on a factory floor when the men used to joke daily they’d like to see her wrapped up in the poly film. She’d felt like a walking piece of meat. This movement of change, of respect, was long overdue. He wants better for his girls.
‘Maisie Seabrook has accused Fabian Irvine of killing their dog,’ Maarten says, for Ben’s reaction. He half assumes Ana has told him. But he is wrong.
‘Irvine? He’s back? You mentioned him earlier but I didn’t realise he was back.’ Ben leans forward. ‘He’s a real shit. When did he show his head?’
‘We believe he landed in the country the day before the body was found,’ Adrika says.
Ben pales, glances down. His knuckles are white. ‘Then… then is it him? Do you think it’s him?’ He shakes his head, looks confused.
‘Do you think it could be?’ Maarten asks, thinking that they may as well ask all the questions now. There’s no real evidence to point to Irvine but you never know what might come up.
‘I… it wasn’t him who was the cyclist. I would know him. He’s a bully. A show-off. An egomaniac. I can see him at work in the night, if he’s buried a body – if it isn’t Leo, and he’s done it as a mind-fuck, then yes, that’s the kind of thing I’d expect of him. I can’t see why he’d want Leo dead, though. He wanted to crush Ana. If he was going to do something like that, then kill me, maybe?’
Maarten takes a drink of water. His throat is dry. The room is like an oven. ‘You think he might kill a dog?’
‘Do you mean Jam? Jam is dead?’ Ben’s face falls in shock.
‘Don’t you talk to Ana?’ Maarten is confused. ‘I thought you were…’
Shaking his head, Ben glances down. He coughs. It’s a dry, raspy sound. He barely notices it. ‘I can’t talk to her much in here. I spoke to her last week, but not since this all kicked off. I’m… I’m just surviving. I have to keep my barrier up. If I speak to her too often…’
Maarten glances at Adrika. He feels as though they’ve done their time with him. Fenton’s looking tired, looking weak.
‘Have you seen her recently?’ Fenton’s eyes are eager.
‘Yes, we’ve seen a fair bit of her this week. Surely she wants to visit?’ Adrika asks.
‘Not in here. I’ve asked her not to come.’ Fenton dips his head. ‘I keep thinking that it will stop soon. It’s like – it’s like if she comes then it’s real. I’ve been waiting for something to happen. What happened to Leo – whatever happened. It’s always felt unfinished. It was too much just to end with me in here.’
‘What do you mean?’ Maarten asks.
‘Well, I don’t know. If it was a bar fight, a hit-and-run. Or a robbery, or even a straight murder – him with a knife sticking out of his chest. But it was none of those. I didn’t wake up, I was drugged. And then he was nowhere.’ His eyes close briefly. A tiny shake of his head. His jaw drops open and closed quickly, like a silent retch.
‘Now this body… If it’s him. Is it him?’
Maarten shakes his head. ‘We don’t have a confirmed identity as yet.’
‘And you’ve never questioned whether Ana was involved at all?’ Adrika asks. She has sat back in the chair, and she asks this quietly.
‘No. No and no. Not ever. Absolutely no way.’ Fenton’s face closes a little.
Maarten silently praises Adrika for leaving this one until last. It’s the end; they can all feel it.
‘Will I get out soon? If you have enough evidence to prove I didn’t do it?’ The eagerness is restrained, but it’s vivid. The colour of the question is scarlet, no matter how much Fenton asks it as a pale red.
‘I’d suggest you stay in contact with your solicitor. We’ve spoken to them. It’s too soon to make any promises.’ Maarten smiles. ‘This is new evidence. I can’t really say more than that at this stage.’
*
On the way home, the air conditioning is turned up to the max, until Maarten can finally feel himself becoming almost too cold.
‘What did you think?’ he asks her. ‘What’s your gut?’
She flicks the indicator and shakes her head. ‘Don’t know, really. But if I had to go red or black, then I would say he’s innocent. No motive, no body. Just not the type, really.’
Maarten glances out at the blur of fields, the sun hot on the road, a shimmer of water in the distance on the tarmac.
A sun-warped view.
29
Monday 18th June
MAARTEN
‘This is beautiful, Maarten. I’ve never been to this village before.’ Jane climbs out of the car, looking around, dressed in soft linen trousers and a pale blue T-shirt. After the shock of Liv’s accident, Jane’s energy has come flooding back and she is halfway towards the low wooden fence that looks over the fields to the Palladian church. ‘That’s a beautiful church – like it’s standing in its own time frame. Oh, and look, they’re holding an art fair there soon.’ She leans to look at a leaflet and Maarten stretches, pleased he’s able to loosen his shirt and take off his tie. He looks the other way, at The Frog.
The pub garden is only half full. The sun is still hot, hanging lower in the sky, and he spots a table outside with an umbrella.
‘Come on, let’s go over here.’ Crossing the gravel to the garden, he suffers a pang of guilt at having an ulterior motive for bringing Jane to the Seabrooks’ pub for dinner. But the girls are on a sleepover and visiting hours have ended. It will be a treat for them both not to cook, to sit in the sun as it drops in the sky.
‘Did you say the village is called Ayot?’ Jane asks.
‘Yes.’ Maarten nods. ‘It’s got some beautiful walks.’
‘Oh, we should do some once Liv is out. It’s such a beautiful village.’ Jane smiles, looking ten years younger than she had the other night.
‘Let me go and get the menu,’ Maarten says, rising. ‘Glass of white wine?’
*
Ana is behind the bar as he enters. The low-beamed doorframe is uncomfort
able for him to walk through, his height making him bend. She’s reading something, and it’s her sister who nods a hello and looks expectant.
‘I wonder if I could speak to Ana,’ Maarten asks, aware that her sister narrows her eyes as she stands back.
‘Someone for you,’ she says to Ana, without taking her eyes off him.
‘Hello?’ Ana’s face clouds, then clears. ‘It’s DC Jansen, isn’t it?’
He nods, not bothering to correct his title. ‘I’ve brought my mother-in-law here for dinner. Bit of a treat.’ He’s aware of the hollow ring to his words, but she smiles and rises. ‘What can I get you?’
‘Glass of white wine, please. Do you have Sauvignon Blanc? And a lime and soda for me.’
She moves around the bar, reaching for glasses without needing to look, nodding to a few others who enter and talk to her sister. The clink of the glasses is as warm as the air. The heat soporific. He tries to imagine the panic here the other day: the dog lying dead, the sweaty heaving of the crime scene. There are no ghosts now. The sun has burned them away.
‘All quiet now?’ he asks. There’s no point in small talk. It falls flat for him.
Placing the drinks on the counter, she lifts her eyebrows a touch, and she nods. Her face expressionless. She glances at the other customers. ‘So-so. Would you like to talk? We can sit over there?’ She gestures to a table at the far corner of the pub. It’s empty inside, other than at the bar. Everyone sun-seeking.
‘Let me take these drinks out, and a menu. I’ll be back in two minutes.’
*
Ana has her legs crossed and faces the window. He sits on the stool, which feels ridiculously low for his height, and she splits open a packet of crisps, taking one and gesturing to him.
‘Do you want to ask me about it?’ she says.
Nodding, he takes a crisp. The salt is sharp on his tongue. ‘Yes. If you don’t mind. Not officially. I know you’ve given a statement. But the abuse with Fabian Irvine…’ He sees her flinch. He realises too late he’s gone in quite hard. Maybe he should have alluded. She doesn’t say anything.