by DH Smith
‘Where?’ she said.
‘If I knew where, I’d have found them,’ he snapped.
‘Not necessarily,’ she countered.
‘I had them when I came in last night from work,’ he said stroppily. ‘And then…’ he slapped his forehead. ‘…didn’t have them when we came back from the forest.’ He sat up in alarm.
She jerked forward and stared at him.
‘You saying you lost them in the forest?’
He was scratching his scalp agitatedly. ‘When we were digging, I took my jacket off, hung it on a branch. Remember? Must be then. I bet you.’
‘Are you sure? Might be in my car. Or here in the flat.’
‘It must be there,’ he said. ‘When I was digging. Yes. I picked up my coat. I remember it hanging over the branch.’ He nodded vigorously. ‘That’s where they are. Fell out of my pocket.’
‘The keys with the Nigerian key fob?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ he said, irritated. ‘I don’t have any others.’
‘And you’re certain?’ she said, itemising, deliberate. ‘There. Where we buried the body. You lost your keys.’
‘I keep them in the outside pocket of my jacket.’ He closed his eyes. ‘I can see it now. I put the jacket over the branch… They’re there. I know it.’
The two were silent. Seeing the forest. The keys. Someone in uniform picking them up.
‘I can’t believe it,’ she exclaimed. ‘Right where he is buried, my husband drops his keys. And just to make sure there’s no doubt whose they are, he leaves the set with a Nigerian flag key fob. How clever!’
‘I should’ve hung the jacket up properly…’
‘There wasn’t a coat hook, darling.’
‘I wish that was funny.’
He was sunk down, his head in his hands.
‘Wherever I go, whatever I do,’ she said, ‘that doesn’t affect the keys.’ She was pointing at the ground in the forest, her finger daggering. ‘There, they will lie, week after week, year after year…’
‘They’ll get covered in leaves in no time,’ he said. ‘Sink into the ground.’
‘So we are to rely on autumn leaves and earthworms?’ She stood up and pushed him back onto the sofa seat with both arms. ‘Is that the best you can offer?’
‘I’m knackered, darling. I can’t handle this now. It’s a big forest, it’s a little key ring…’
She got down to his level, on her knees, and held his head between her hands.
‘And I am shagged too, dearest. But I don’t want to be jailed. Buried bodies show up. One day, maybe next week, next year or the year after… that body could be found. There will be a crime scene, with lots of crawling coppers and police tape. And they’ll find your keys and put them in a little plastic bag. They’ll identify the body, all those clever boffins in the lab. And they’ll check who was living in his house at the time. And think to themselves who is most likely to have a key ring with a Nigerian flag fob? Oh yes, that Nigerian man.’
They were face to face, she staring into his dark eyes, their noses almost touching.
‘And in case they have an iota of doubt they’ll check the keys for DNA and fingerprints…’ she continued, ‘I don’t know how long that stuff lasts. But I do know a Nigerian fob will last a century.’
He pushed her away. ‘You’re too smart to be married to this idiot.’
She rose, swung round, grasped a magazine and hit him on the head with it.
‘Think!’ she said, ‘if you’re not too knackered. What will happen if we should be arrested? What might be the tariff? Two years in jail for perverting the course of justice or whatever they call it, four years? I shall of course never be able to teach again once I come out of Holloway. The only management position you’ll get is chief of slopping out at Dartmoor…’
‘They don’t slop out anymore.’
She hit him on the head again. He grasped her wrist and twisted the magazine out of it with his other hand.
‘Leave me alone, you bloody bitch!’
She smacked him round the face with her free hand.
‘Look what you’ve done!’ she was screaming, hopping around the room, pulling herself free of him. ‘Prime suspects in a murder case! Who says they won’t hang it on you? You socked him in the eye. Might have murdered him here, in this flat, if we hadn’t pulled you off him!’
‘Don’t be so damn clever after the fact, madam!’ He was rubbing his face where she’d slapped him. ‘You didn’t say anything last night. You were all for helping Anne. I never heard you say,’ he made a plaintive imitation of her, ‘David, let’s not. Instead it was, I’ll drive. Just like a girl guide. Here’s tissues, everyone, for wiping off your fingerprints… Had it all worked out.’
‘Except when I married you,’ she said.
‘Oh oh, here we go. You’re sounding just like your mother. Her sweet princess from the shires marrying a black man… Call the West African Slave Company and take him away in chains.’
She was biting her knuckles. He was pressing his fingers into his palms, staring at the carpet. She sank onto a chair by the table. She was so angry, she was so miserable, she was so tired. A tear was coursing down her cheek. What on earth was happening? She was losing control, she never lost control, and David, her poor David, she had actually hit him…
‘I am so sorry,’ she said quietly.
‘I’m sorry too.’
She sat down by him and took his hand. She squeezed gently, he squeezed back.
‘Shouting never works, darling,’ she said. ‘I knew that at school today, I know that now. It’s so stupid. Shout and you have lost it. And if I wasn’t so tired…’
‘I have to find those keys, Maggie,’ he said, taking a deep breath.
‘We have to,’ she said.
‘I’ll take tomorrow off. Think of something to tell them. I don’t know, food poisoning or whatever. And go to the forest and find those keys.’
‘I’m coming with you.’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘I don’t want to spend two years in the nick because of those keys. I’ve also got food poisoning tomorrow. I can feel it coming on.’
Chapter 42
The onions were frying and his stomach was turning at the tang wafting from the kitchen. Bessie was cooking one of the steaks. He wasn’t expecting Frank to come in with the beer. Something had happened. Surely Frank would have contacted him if he could?
This was supposed to be a planning meeting. Not a meal on his own. He mused over what he knew. Frank hadn’t come home last night, and didn’t go to work today. So, could be in a love nest, banging away. Such things were possible and if so, good luck to him, but then he should’ve phoned his mate. Mind you, such things make you forgetful.
Could be in hospital. Car accident or whatever. And lost his phone.
Bert thought of screwing his daughter. With her hair done, she wasn’t so bad. But he didn’t know how Frank would take that. With his own sister, he made sure guys had respect. No liberties. So best keep his flies done up round Bessie. For now at least.
The steak was sizzling, the aroma slopped in his mouth. Well, he’d make the most of a good meal. Take pleasure when it’s offered.
There were footsteps above. He looked to the ceiling. And raised voices. Must be the couple Frank was going on about, the ones he’d seen earlier, him black with a briefcase, her white and pregnant.
‘That mixed couple upstairs,’ he shouted, ‘do they row often?’
‘Never,’ she called.
He thought, this isn’t never. And it sounded pretty heavy. He poked his head in the kitchen.
‘I’m just going to have a listen upstairs,’ he said.
She wasn’t due any explanation, being only Bessie. But his steak was cooking and he wanted her to know he wasn’t going far.
Bert went out of the flat, keeping the door ajar. He could hear the shouting above as he crept up the stairs. Mostly her voice. She was loud, occasionally him. Once on their
landing, he took the few steps to their door and put his ear against it.
It was hard to make sense of their row, coming in halfway, and some of the words lost. He wanted to bang on the door and yell – speak up. Something about keys and forest. Did he hear the word Frank? He was almost sure he did. He lost the next bit. Then coppers and Holloway. And he suddenly caught a line that stood out: ‘Prime suspect in a murder case!’ They weren’t yelling about a TV programme, bet your bottom dollar.
It went quiet in the flat. He could make out the odd murmuring but nothing much. Time for him to go, in case they came out and caught him at the door.
Bert crept down the stairs. He went into Frank’s flat and shut the door, the smells from the kitchen making him aware how hungry he was.
He sat at the table, ready. She brought out his knife and fork, the mustard and ketchup. She was quite fanciable in her apron, her hair cut neat. Better if she didn’t open her mouth with those yellow teeth. She came back with the main dish of steak, onions, mushrooms, fried potatoes and peas. He told her to go to her room while he ate.
She left him.
Murder and steak. Could it be right, what he was thinking? The sense he made of the fragments he’d heard was that the mixed couple had killed Frank and buried him in the forest. But might there be another tale he was missing? Could he have it totally wrong? Any minute Frank could walk in the door and tell him about the corker he’d been hammering.
But Frank hadn’t been home last night, no phone contact, hadn’t been to work, and a couple who never argued were going at it hammer and tongs. And yelling things, the scraps he’d got, that could mean dirty deeds in the forest.
Say what you like, she could make a fine steak. Eat it slow, enjoy. Pity there was no beer. Though he could send her out for a couple, even have the other steak if he wanted to pig it. And if he was half right about Frank, then his daughter would make a fruity afters.
Chapter 43
Anne and Jack were seated on the floor of the nursery, coffees beside them. They’d gone in the sitting room for a few minutes when he first arrived, but Jack felt uncomfortable in that place, and they came out here. The nursery had more openness with its large garden windows. The sun was setting in fiery clouds between the trees at the rear.
Anne had had another shower and had changed again, a yellow T-shirt and red jeans. The red made him uneasy, its brightness sexual and bloody. She was barefooted, her toenails painted pink. He suspected that was for him, to emphasise her small feet. Perhaps the shower and the clean clothes too. Perhaps not, rather she was washing away memory and smears. Her face was bright and pink, but couldn’t disguise the weariness around her eyes.
The washing machine was purring away in the utility room. Jack suspected the hottest of washes for any remnant clothing from last night, but had no wish to ask. Though he should check just in case, as his fate was now bound up with hers.
She said, ‘I fell asleep this afternoon, out here. God knows what could have happened with the kids if Bessie hadn’t been around. She just took over, playing with them, reading them a story, giving them juice. If I’d been on my own…’ She shuddered. ‘Kids this age are so vulnerable. Can be such savages… A fall, a bashing with a toy.’ She stretched and smiled ruefully. ‘But it was all OK. No one dead.’ She contemplated a few seconds, then added, ‘I got Bessie to wash her hair. Did you know she was not allowed shampoo? I cut her hair for her. Didn’t do a bad job either. And phoned the dentist and got her an appointment… I was thinking I could use her. But those teeth.’ She grimaced. ‘And her clothes. Some that fit properly, some colour and design. I don’t know what she wears for underwear.’
He said, ‘At least someone is benefiting from our shenanigans.’
She put a hand on his.
‘Don’t be so jumpy, Jack.’
‘Lack of sleep,’ he said with a brief smile. ‘Got back home and just couldn’t sleep. I was thinking of going out and buying some booze… That would have been disaster. So I phoned you.’
‘You’re safe here.’ She squeezed his hand.
‘I kept thinking of everything that could go wrong,’ he said. ‘The things you don’t think of.’
‘You buried him deep in the forest,’ she said.
‘We did,’ he said, seeing the woodland site in memory’s cinema. ‘A good three feet down.’
‘And why should that be disturbed?’
He couldn’t think why. Too deep for dogs, deer don’t dig. Off the main drag… They didn’t speak for a little while, both contemplating the remote possibility of discovery.
At last, she said, ‘I’m sorry I was sniffy about the sofa, the one you bought.’ She shook her hands. ‘It’s fine. Clean. It’ll fill the space and I’ll get some covers for it.’
‘It has nothing of him on it.’
‘The whole point of it,’ she said. ‘I was stupid. Wanting something pitch perfect – when all that really mattered was getting rid of that one. And the new one will do. A sofa is to sit on. I’ll make something of it. You wait.’
He wanted her closer. She seemed such a long way off. So far to travel, that yard.
She said, ‘I wish that skip would go. The carpet’s in it. And my dress.’ She bit her lip. ‘Although it’s deep down.’
‘The skip goes tomorrow,’ he said.
‘And what happens to it?’
‘It is emptied into landfill.’
‘And then what happens?’
He felt she was teasing him, inviting him, the way she was gazing at him.
‘A bulldozer comes along and compacts it.’
‘And then what?’
‘The rubbish gets buried under more rubbish. And the bulldozer compacts it still more.’
He crossed no man’s land. The yard. And they embraced. Flesh grasped flesh. Tiredness, guilt and fear found solace. They were here, they were alive, nothing would happen where they were together.
‘Let’s go to bed,’ she said.
‘I’d best phone Mia first. Or she’ll just phone me.’
She rose, returned for a quick kiss on his forehead, and said, ‘I’ll be waiting for you.’
And she left him.
He felt warm, needed. How glad he was that he’d come. He shuddered at what he might’ve done if left to himself. All those shops, all those bottles, all those perfectly legal knockout drops. And had a vision of himself at home in a drunken stupor. And the hell of those times.
Drowning the day. To wake up to vomit and diarrhoea. And a pounding head that said only more drink can make this bearable.
He phoned Mia.
She talked telescopes; she’d been researching them on the internet. And wondered whether he might add something to her mother’s promised £500. He said he’d consider it. A safe, not today answer. She asked him about his day. He told her it was boring, just building work. Knocking down a wall, putting up a fence. Nothing much.
‘How did your dinner go with that woman?’ she said.
He’d forgotten she knew.
‘Quite well,’ he said carefully. ‘We’re getting to know each other.’
‘Is she special?’ she said.
‘I don’t know yet.’
‘When will you know?’
He thought for a moment then said, ‘It’s like making friends. You’re around them a while, and suddenly you know. Or perhaps you think – I actually don’t like this person very much. I don’t know which way it’s going to go.’
‘I know what you mean,’ said Mia.
A little more telescope talk followed, thoughts on Brighton and hopes for the day away on Saturday. And then goodbyes.
Jack was glad it was done, the phone call. He hated lying to her. Telling her he was working today when it was a write off. And sins of omission too, the early morning journey, he thought as he headed for the bathroom. And looked at his deadened eyes in the mirror as he cleaned his teeth. He washed, soaped his hands thoroughly, bathed his face in warm water with her flannel. It would take m
ore than soap to clear this away. He wiped himself and went to the bedroom.
Anne was under the duvet, fast asleep.
Chapter 44
Nancy was in bed listening to the radio. It was a programme she really liked, Big Band Days. Music from the 30s and 40s. Her time. Glenn Miller, Frank Sinatra when he was young, Vera Lynn, the Forces’ Sweetheart. Sweeping music, songs of love and longing, all before that rock’n’roll swept it away with its loud, harsh beat.
John had liked this sort of music too. They’d listen together in the evenings, she with a puzzle magazine, he with one of his model narrowboats, the bits all over the table. They’d argued about him taking up all the table. And finally agreed, after a monster row when they didn’t talk for two days, that he’d use the shed during the day, then after dinner he could use the table, but had to clear it all away last thing.
Mostly they’d agree about things. Some rows, some sulks. Some for days. They’d got better as they got older, avoiding the touchy spots.
She was worried about Bessie. She was spending too much time with Anne. Was that the way it was going to go, now the girl’s father was out of the way? She’d run in, run out, empty the cat litter and away she’d go. Downstairs to her new friend.
And she hadn’t come this evening like she said she would. Was she down with Anne again? Bessie had hardly known Anne before today. And now it was like best friends. Just like that. Anne had cut and washed her hair. And Nancy had to admit, it was a considerable improvement. She looked less like a washerwoman, more like her age.
She liked their afternoons together, Bessie making the tea. Biscuits and talking. Were they to go? But one thing she did have. Tickles. Bessie would come for him, if not his mistress.
Though she could say, no – you can’t see him. Then see how she liked it, being shut out. Except it wouldn’t work. Who would do her shopping, change the cat litter? She had no threats.
Growing old was terrible. You needed people so much, but they didn’t need you.