by Mark Tufo
When he got back to the yard, Barry Walpole was waiting for him. ‘What the hell’s goin’ on? I’ve had Ken Potter on the phone, tearing a strip off me.’
‘It’s not my fault,’ Scott protested. ‘No good shouting at me. I never loaded the bloody van.’
‘You should ’a checked it ’fore you went out.’
‘It’s my first day. I didn’t know the routine. You should have told me if I was supposed to check the bloody load first. I assumed it would have already been done. What’s the matter with you people?’
‘It’ll be your last day if you don’t bite your lip. You know who you’re talking to?’
‘Yeah, someone who’s accusing me of fucking up when I haven’t. I’ll load the fucking van myself next time.’
‘Next time? You think there’s gonna be a next time after this?’
Scott marched away, ready to leave this power-crazed arsehole and his bumbling staff behind and not look back. Warren blocked his way through. ‘What?’ he yelled. Warren looked past him and at Barry.
‘My fault, Baz.’
‘What?’
‘I said it’s my fault. I got the manifest wrong, not him.’
‘Ya bloody idiot. Get ’em on the truck.’
Scott watched Warren scuttle away then glared at Barry, waiting for an apology that didn’t come.
‘You’ve a quick temper and a foul mouth, Scott. You should fit in nicely here, long as you don’t piss me off. I’ll come with you and make the drop at Ken’s. I’ll phone him now and say we’re on our way. We’ll give him a hand with his fence, make up for the delay.’
Barry returned to his caravan office, leaving Scott alone in the middle of the yard, stunned by the ineptitude of pretty much everyone he’d so far met in Thussock.
The drive back to Potter’s house seemed to take twice as long second time around. Maybe it was the fact Scott knew this trip was unnecessary, or maybe it was just because Barry was with him. Whatever the reason, Scott would have rather done this on his own.
‘Ken’s a good friend, but he’s always been a bit of a bugger,’ Barry said. ‘It’s ’cause he was a teacher. Taught most folks round here, actually. He likes things done jus’ right, know what I’m saying?’
‘I get it,’ Scott said. He could see why he was such good friends with Barry. They were both angry old bastards, both cut from the same cloth.
The goods Scott had delivered earlier were where he’d left them on the verge, but there was no sign of Potter himself. He’d expected him to come charging out of his house again at the sound of the truck’s engine, ready to berate Barry for employing this useless southerner. In fact, he’d half expected him to be out in the road, clock-watching. Scott parked up then waited as Barry marched up to the front of the house and hammered on the porch door. ‘You in, Ken?’
No response. Barry looked back at Scott, then knocked again. When the door remained unanswered, he took a few steps back then peered in through a downstairs window. Scott got out of the truck and stood beside him. ‘No sign?’
‘Daft sod’s probably asleep.’
Scott felt as if he’d found a hole in time, a wormhole letting him stare back into the seventies. Everything about this house was so... antiquated. Yes, that was definitely the right word. He’d had the same feeling when he’d first walked into his own house – the grey house, as Barry had called it yesterday. Paint was peeling from the metal frames of Potter’s windows, no uPVC or double-glazing here. Was it that this place was struggling to keep up with the modern world or, as Scott was beginning to think, was it just not interested in catching up? No one in Thussock was concerned about keeping up with the Joneses. Christ, from here you couldn’t even see the Joneses.
Barry knocked the door again. Still nothing. ‘This don’t make sense. He was spitting feathers on the phone.’
‘Shall I just start unloading? I’ll shift all his stuff round the back. Get us back in his good books.’
‘Good idea, Scotty. You get to it. I’ll keep trying.’
The driveway continued up the side of the house and, at the far end of the drive, Scott saw that a section of fence was missing. There was a pile of old rotten panels there too, dumped out of view behind Potter’s heap of a car. He went through the gap in the fence, wondering why Potter hadn’t answered. He might have fallen asleep as Barry suggested, all the exertion of his vociferous complaining tiring him out. He might have been out walking his dog (if he had one), or visiting a neighbour (though he didn’t seem to have any of those either). After the noise and bluster of earlier, his non-appearance was irritating more than concerning.
At the back of the house was an ugly concrete patio which hadn’t been touched in years. It was covered with mottled, ground-in dirt, dotted with patches of moss and persistent weeds which had patiently forced their way up through the narrowest of cracks. Potter obviously wasn’t particularly interested in maintaining his property to any great extent. Judging by the state of the rest of the house, he was only fixing the fence because it had collapsed.
Scott looked at every place he saw with builder’s eyes. Maybe if he could get on the right side of Potter he could give him his details and quote for some of the immediate repairs which needed doing? From the outside décor and style, he thought the house was probably built in the twenties or thirties. There was a large patch of rendering missing from around one of the windows, and an equally large damp patch under the eaves of the roof (which sagged in the middle somewhat).
‘Mr Potter?’ he shouted, looking in through a back window. ‘You here, Mr Potter?’
The interior decoration looked as dated as everything else. The sitting room floor was cluttered with piles of newspapers and stacks of books, all centred around a grubby, well-worn armchair which was angled towards a TV so old Scott thought it looked steam-driven. He rapped his knuckles on the glass and shouted again.
When Scott turned around, he noticed something strange in one of the flowerbeds. In contrast to the house itself, the rest of Potter’s garden was reasonably well-tended. The lawn had recently been mowed and the beds were a riot of colour, and that made it harder to understand why he could see what he was seeing. It was a bare foot, toes pointing upwards. He took a step forward then hesitated, uneasy. Had Potter had an accident out here?
‘Scott, I don’t know where the hell he’s—’ Barry started to say, stepping through the hole in the fence. He stopped speaking when he saw it. ‘What the hell’s that?’
The two men walked further down the garden together in silence. The body in the flowerbed was definitely not Kenneth Potter. It was a young girl, and it was clear even from a distance that she was dead. Scott didn’t get too close because he didn’t need to. He could tell from her ice-white skin, her frozen expression and her unblinking eyes that she was gone. For several seconds all he could do was stare deep into those eyes, unable to look away.
From where they were both standing, a large Rhododendron bush obscured much of the girl’s body, covering her chest down to her feet. Barry moved slightly, trying to get a better view, but not sure if he should. He leant down and moved part of the bush away, immediately wishing he hadn’t. ‘Jesus...’ he said. ‘Bloody hell...’ He staggered back, tripping over the straps of a discarded rucksack and ending up on his backside on the grass, scrambling away. Scott helped him up.
‘You know her?’
‘Never seen her before.’
Scott looked back at the house, half expecting Ken Potter to appear, gunning for the two of them. The mad bastard must have done this girl in, then made a run for it.
‘What the hell happened?’ Barry said, still backing-up.
Scott moved around to see what Barry had seen. He kept his eyes on the girl’s face, and it felt for a moment as if he and the corpse were the only two things left in the world. He looked down at her feet – one wedged in the mud, still wearing a thick hiking sock, the naked toes of the other still pointing skywards – then at her legs. And then, much as he
didn’t want to, much as he knew he shouldn’t, he lifted his eyes further.
Fuck.
It was hard to make out exactly what he was looking at. He didn’t mean to stare, but it was impossible to look away. Between the girl’s pale white thighs was a mass of blood, torn tissue and pubic hair. Still wet. Glistening. Maybe still warm. It looked like blood had gushed, not trickled, from her horrific eviscerations. There were pools of it in the flower bed, crimson puddles under her buttocks. And yet, despite having crushed the plants where she’d fallen, there were no immediately obvious signs of a struggle. The blood was strangely contained.
Scott walked away from the corpse, his head spinning. ‘We need to call the police,’ he said, tapping his pockets and checking for his phone. He’d left it in the truck. He turned to go fetch it.
‘Where you going?’ Barry asked.
‘Phone. In the truck.’
Barry followed him, not wanting to be left alone with the dead girl. ‘Wait... Ken wouldn’t have done this.’
‘Then who did?’ Scott demanded, grabbing his phone from the glovebox. He checked the screen. No signal. No surprise.
‘No, no... this isn’t right... He’s panicked, is all. Someone else did this and Ken’s found her and panicked.’
Scott shook his head and tried the phone anyway. Christ, why hadn’t he spent more time thinking about the practicalities of dragging his family to the ends of the Earth like this? Shitty phone coverage, fuel stations about half a tank apart, blood-soaked bodies dumped in forests and retired school teacher’s back gardens... He went back towards the house. ‘I’ll try the landline.’
‘What if Ken’s in there?’
‘Then you can talk to him. He’s your mate.’
Scott tried the back door. It was unlocked. He opened it but paused before going inside. If he hadn’t had Barry with him, he thought he might have just got back in the truck, driven away and pleaded ignorance later.
‘Anyone here? Mr Potter... you in?’
He was standing in the middle of the kitchen, a room as antiquated and untidy as the rest of the house. Strange. There was a half-drunk mug of tea on the counter and an unfinished sandwich, just a couple of bites taken. He touched the side of the cup and it was still warm. Had Ken Potter simply decided to kill that girl right in the middle of his lunch? And there was only one drink and one plate of food... had she turned up unannounced? Had he murdered her on a whim?
‘Ken,’ Barry shouted, his voice echoing. ‘You here, Ken?’
‘I reckon he’s long gone.’
‘I’ll phone for help,’ Barry said, squeezing past and going out into the hallway. He looked around constantly as he picked up the telephone and called the police. Scott followed him out and listened to the empty house around them. He was sure they were alone. Potter had clearly done what he’d done then made a run for it. Strange, then, that he hadn’t taken his car.
‘Well?’ Scott said as Barry replaced the receiver.
‘Sergeant Ross says he’s on way. Says he’s stuck dealing with something else first. We best wait in the truck. Don’t want to be takin’ any chances.’
It was more than an hour before the police arrived. Barry knew each of the men in uniform personally. Sergeant Dan Ross was clearly in charge – older than the others, grey haired, and, it seemed, in no mood to take any crap. With him was PC Mark Hamilton, half the sergeant’s age, but just as professional, and PC Craig Phillips, an altogether more relaxed officer. He remained with the two men in Potter’s cluttered living room while the others secured the scene and waited for back-up to arrive. Barry excused himself and went to the toilet leaving Scott with PC Phillips.
‘I knew he was a wrong-un,’ the PC whispered. Scott was shocked by his lack of professionalism. ‘Can’t say I’m surprised. My old man always said he was capable of it.’
‘Capable of what?’
‘Doin’ what he’s done. You pissed him off at school and you knew you was in trouble.’
‘He taught you as well?’
‘Very few folks round here Ken Potter didn’t teach. Half of Thussock would have been out in the streets celebrating if he’d been the one found dead in the flowerbed.’
‘So what happens now?’
‘Big one, this is,’ the officer explained, giving away too much information but apparently unconcerned. ‘We’ve got everyone working on it. Ties in with the others.’
‘The others?’
‘Aye. Glennaird and Falrigg. Joan Lummock? You must’a seen it on the news.’
‘I saw something...’
‘Never thought it’d be Ken Potter, though. Sick bastard. Still, we’ll have him before long. He won’t get far. Everybody round here knows him. I’ll look forward to seeing him banged up. Might sell a few tickets to that one.’
Chapter 56
It was almost ten by the time Barry dropped Scott home, the questioning at Potter’s house having gone on for some time. Scott had managed to get the briefest of messages back to Michelle after she’d picked up the girls from school, but the brevity of their conversation had inevitably raised more questions than it answered. There’s been an incident, was all he told her. I have to give a statement.
‘What happened, love?’ she asked the moment he was through the door. ‘I’ve been going out of my mind.’
He looked up. Phoebe was at the top of the stairs. Tammy appeared in the living room doorway. ‘Not in front of the kids,’ he said and Michelle shooed the girls away then followed him into the kitchen. She fetched him his dried-up meal and a drink and put them down in front of him. He just stared at his food.
She held off for as long as she could, wanting to give him a chance to get over whatever it was that had happened, but after a couple of minutes she could wait no longer. ‘You going to talk to me?’
‘I found a dead body,’ he said, and the combination of such unexpected news being delivered so abruptly, so tactlessly, took her by surprise.
‘You... you found what?’ she stammered.
He looked up at her face, a mask of seriousness but with a definite hint of disbelief, bordering on a smirk. ‘You heard me. I made a delivery, but one of the blokes at the yard fucked it up. I had to go back to the same customer’s house later with the boss and...’
‘What had happened to him?’
‘Nothing. He’d gone. Done a runner. Left a girl in his back garden, badly fucked up.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What do you think I mean? He’d cut her up, Michelle. Looked like he’d had his way with her, then cut her up. Sick fucker sliced her fanny to pieces.’
Michelle visibly recoiled, again both because of what he’d said and how he’d said it. He took a couple of half-hearted mouthfuls of food, then shoved the plate away.
‘Want me to cook you something fresh?’
He shook his head. ‘Nah.’
‘Want a beer or something?’
Another shake of the head.
‘Want me to—’
‘I want you to shut up, Chelle,’ he said. ‘Give me some space.’
‘Sorry.’
He looked at her, watched her watching him. ‘I’ve been answering questions all day. Just don’t want another load, that’s all.’
‘I understand.’
‘It’s not your fault.’
How could it be my fault, she thought but didn’t dare say. She could only imagine what he’d been through today, this coming on top of everything else. She sat down next to him and cautiously put her hand on top of his. When he didn’t react, she held it a little tighter.
‘How did the girls get on at school?’ he asked.
‘Fine. Both miserable as hell, complaining about the kids and the teachers and how much homework they’ve got. They’ve settled in quick. That’s exactly how they were in Redditch.’
He managed half a smile and seemed to relax slightly. ‘George all right?’
‘He’s fine. He missed you tonight, though.’
�
��I’ll see him in the morning.’
‘That’s what I told him.’
‘I think I will have that beer,’ he said, and Michelle got up to fetch it from the fridge. She took the lid off the bottle and handed it to him. He gestured for her to sit back down. ‘And what have you been doing with yourself today?’
‘Oh, just pottering around the house, unpacking. Not a lot else to do yet. We’re going to go out tomorrow, George and me. Get signed up at the doctors and see if I can find something for him to do. He needs to get out and mix with other kids.’
‘I know.’
For a short while longer, neither of them spoke. Michelle almost did a few times, but she didn’t want to put her foot in it. He did this too often, distracting her with trivialities to keep her from asking about the big stuff. Scott picked at his food and she cleared her throat. ‘Look, love, I know you’ve had enough and I don’t want to do anything that’s going to upset you, but I just need to know a few things about what happened today, okay? I’m not asking you to tell me everything, I just want to know that you’re all right and that we’re going to be okay here.’
‘If there was a problem I’d tell you.’
‘I know you would. It’s just that—’
‘We’re going to be okay.’
‘It’s just that I feel really out on a limb here, emotionally as well as physically.’
‘I get that.’
‘Do you?’
‘Yes, and like I said, we’re going to be okay.’
‘But this girl... the police...’
Scott drank more beer, then put the bottle down. ‘What’s the problem? What more do you want me to say? Look, I’ll spell it out for you, shall I? I made a delivery first thing, but some dickhead at the yard hadn’t loaded everything up right. The uptight arsehole I was supposed to be delivering to had a fit, so I went back to the yard. I went back out to his house later with Barry Walpole, and he’d disappeared.’