Borrowed Time

by David Mark

  A picture flashes. How many weeks ago? Three? Four? He sees Larry. Sees him waving with his short fat hand, gold at his wrist and on his fingers: gesturing royally through the open window of his unremarkable Volvo. He’d made the signal with pinkie and thumb – the international gesture for a phone call. They’d parted on good terms, hadn’t they? Adam down to the pennies in his pockets and Larry three grand richer. Their goodbye had been sincere. Friendly. Larry, promising him that whatever he turned up, it would be good value for money – the outline of the envelope full of cash visible in the top pocket of his Hawaiian shirt.

  ‘Larry?’ Adam says it again, feeling daft. He lets his real feelings take hold of his features. ‘Jesus, that’s awful. What happened? Did you say he drowned?’

  ‘Inside,’ says DCI Bosworth, more pointedly.

  ‘No, no, I’ve got things to do.’ He wishes he’d let them in when they first asked. Now it’s a matter of stubbornness; of pride.

  ‘Really, Mr Nunn, your attitude isn’t helping this situation.’

  ‘Neither’s yours, love. Now, tell me about Larry.’

  The other detective moves forward and Bosworth steps into his path. She looks at Adam with something like pity. She reaches out to put a hand on his arm and he jerks back as if she were a leper. ‘It would be better if we started all this again,’ she says. ‘There are matters you might prefer to discuss in private.’

  Adam’s temper frays, then snaps. ‘I want you off my doorstep,’ he growls. ‘You’re lowering house prices.’

  DCI Bosworth clicks her tongue again; a noise like a horse pulling a hoof free from deep mud. She looks past him, almost apologetic in her manner. ‘That’s how you want it, is it? Fair enough. Mr Nunn, I’m arresting you in connection with the death of Mr Larry Paris …’

  Adam doesn’t move until the uniformed officers start piling out of the back of the telecoms van. Doesn’t start to protest until the fat cop puts his hand on his arm.

  Then he lashes out.

  Hits and hurts and hits and hurts until there are three of them on his back and his face is being pushed into the cold, dark ground.

  Only then does he remember the dream. Only then does he recall that in the moments before he woke, he had known, somehow, what today would bring.

  FIVE

  9.34 a.m.

  Adam is seated in a blue chair, at a grey desk, in a room the colour of sour milk. On his cheek, a bruise is turning purple. There’s a crimson line where his split lip is knitting back together. He’s leaning forward as if in prayer, or on the toilet. His knees hurt where the uniforms tackled him to the ground. It’s his left hand that stings the most. There’s some kind of friction burn making his fingers glisten shiny pink. The wound seems to sing with pain. He can’t help wondering whether there could be a compensation claim in all this. He feels oddly high, as if he’s drunk too many cans of sugary drink. His legs are jiggling up and down; a peculiar smile twitching across his features even as he tries to look like he’s done this enough times not to care.

  Larry, he’s thinking, and it takes an effort not to start kneading at his temples with his thumbs. Poor sod. What were you doing? What had you found out?

  Then, like a drum: This might be your fault.

  ‘None of that was really necessary,’ says DCI Bosworth, testily, seated across the desk.

  ‘Murder cops on your doorstep – best to play nice.’

  Adam looks from Bosworth to her colleague. ‘Was that an apology?’ asks Adam, keeping his voice steady.

  ‘Sorry, Mr Nunn?’ asks Bosworth, tilting her head.

  ‘That’s a start, I guess,’ he replies, through gritted teeth. ‘It doesn’t sound very genuine.’

  ‘I meant I can’t hear you very well. Could you speak up, for the benefit of the recording.’

  Adam raises his head. Sings the opening bars of ‘Old Man River’, then stops when nobody laughs. ‘Sure. That better?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  ‘You think? You’re not so bad yourself.’

  ‘I was saying, that this could have been handled very differently.’

  Adam sits back, slipping down the chair so it looks as if he’s watching the football on a comfortable armchair. ‘I’m sure it could. I’m sure with the benefit of hindsight you wish you hadn’t come to my door mob-handed and kicked the shite out of me in front of my kids.’ He reconsiders, looking at his bruised knuckles. ‘Tried to, anyway …’

  DCI Bosworth shakes her head. Beside her is a grey-haired man in a dull suit. He’d been introduced as a detective sergeant but Adam had been too busy brooding to register his name. The other person at the table is a solicitor who was introduced to him while he was being seen by the medical examiner. He’s a slick, stylish Asian whose facial hair has been styled into such perfect angular points that Adam wonders whether the design was done on computer. He’s barely spoken since the interview began.

  ‘We hadn’t planned on making an arrest,’ says Bosworth. ‘You’re a person of interest. We had the back-up there because of your record. Protocol. Guidelines.’

  ‘What record?’ asks Adam, giving a look somewhere between a smile and a wince. He knows where this is heading. Knows he isn’t going to like having his failures, his indiscretions, held up for inspection.

  ‘You have a conviction for aggravated assault …’

  ‘I was twenty-one …’

  ‘You attacked a Mr Gordon Strange, aged forty-one, in May 1998 …’

  ‘He started on my mate. I was sticking up for her.’

  ‘And you received a suspended sentence five years ago for demanding money with menaces …’

  ‘No, that’s not how it was …’

  ‘You were providing debt collection services for a telephone company based in Northampton. You told a creditor of the firm you could make it go away if they gave you a cash sum instead of paying the total to your employer …’

  ‘It wasn’t like that,’ says Adam, and he still can’t be sure if he believes the story he gave in mitigation. Had he really been trying to help? Had he really been trying to stop a single mum having to pay back a debt she could never even make a dent in? He’d wanted to help her, not add to the list of people taking advantage. He’d have gotten away with it, too, if her husband hadn’t found out and jumped to the wrong conclusions.

  ‘And there was an incident at HMP Hull while you were briefly on remand. You put an inmate and a guard in hospital. It would have been an attempted murder charge but no witnesses could be found. You’re quite a dangerous man, Mr Nunn.’

  Adam looks down at the bland trainers they’d given him in the custody suite. He wonders who else has worn them. Who else has worn the jeans and T-shirt they gave him as they bagged up his clothes.

  ‘I don’t know what you want from me,’ says Adam, and it sounds pitiful to his ears. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m trying my best. I’m a family man.’

  ‘The children belong to your partner,’ says Bosworth.

  Adam looks hurt. ‘Don’t be cheap about it, I love them like they’re my own.’

  ‘You have a daughter, yes? With a woman called Grace Senoy?’

  Adam glares at the other detective. ‘And?’

  ‘Complex family set-up,’ says Bosworth, pursing her lips.

  ‘I’m a complex man,’ he says, bitterly. He doesn’t want to have to start explaining himself. He doesn’t understand his own life – he just lives it.

  ‘Tell me about your relationship with Larry Paris,’ says DCI Bosworth, looking down at the folder which lays open on the desk in front of her.

  ‘Larry? He’s my mate, like I told you. Are you sure it’s him? He’s OK, is Larry.’

  ‘He’s not,’ says DCI Bosworth. ‘He’s dead. His body was found in a stretch of water in an area of woodland in Dedham Vale, Essex, on Saturday last. Did you not hear about it?’

  ‘I don’t listen to the news anymore,’ mumbles Adam. His mind is racing. Essex? Could Larry have been there for any other purp
ose than the task he was performing for Adam? He feels a sudden, unnerving impulse to pray.

  ‘It took us a while to identify him, of course. Things had been done to him. Bad things. We couldn’t identify him from dental records because there weren’t many teeth left.’

  ‘Jesus,’ says Adam, quietly.

  ‘When did you last hear from Mr Paris?’

  Adam closes his eyes, focusing on the memory. They’d only met briefly, sheltering from the rain in Larry’s crappy car, overlooking the harbour. Larry was giving him his full attention, scribbling down notes, nodding his head so that his curly hair flopped forward onto his glossy face. Adam had been trying to be glib about it all – trying not to show much in the way of sincere feeling in front of a man he’s only really known in a professional capacity, and to whom he has just entrusted a confidence. He can hear Larry’s voice, telling him that it shouldn’t be difficult; that adoption records are his bread and butter and that he knows a guy who can have an answer inside a few days. If he concentrates hard enough, Adam can feel Larry’s sweaty hand gripping his own. He can hear Larry telling him not to worry. That he’s doing the right thing, and that all he has to do if he wants him to stop his enquiries, is give him a call. Some chance of that, thinks Adam, testily. Larry had stopped answering his calls within days of taking his money.

  ‘I don’t remember. A few weeks.’

  ‘Where was that?’

  ‘The harbour.’

  ‘What was the nature of that meeting?’

  Adam pauses. It feels like his head is full of wasps.

  ‘He’s a private investigator. A good one. I thought I might have some work to put his way. That’s what I do, I guess.’

  ‘You’ve worked for him before?’

  ‘I’ve worked for a lot of people,’ says Adam, awkwardly. ‘He’s used my company in the past.’

  DCI Bosworth smiles at that. ‘Your company? You mean yourself. We’ve checked with Somerset House. Your “company” was wound up three years ago. You’ve paid no income tax since then and you owe £54,000 in unpaid company tax. You owe more in VAT. You’re still registered as living at your mother’s address.’

  Adam tries to smile, to show her that she’s not getting to him, but he’s never really been very good at playing this game. He shrugs, out of moves. ‘Yeah? Bloody bureaucracy.’

  ‘What do you do for Mr Paris’s firm?’

  A good question, he thinks, chewing at the inside of his cheek. He realizes the borrowed trousers are pulling at his leg hairs. Shifts, uncomfortably, as he mumbles a weak ‘no comment’.

  ‘Are you familiar with his business partner, Angus Lavery?’

  ‘Aye, we’ve shared a few drinks. I’ve done surveillance work for him. Tracked down a few people …’

  ‘I understand that you’ve done no actual tracking down. I understand that Mr Paris or one of his colleagues does the complex aspects of the searches, and you are the muscle who goes and knocks on the door.’

  ‘Why are you bothering me?’ asks Adam, dejectedly. ‘I’m just trying to get by. I’m trying.’

  ‘Have you been to Essex in the past six weeks?’ asks Bosworth, opening her folder and glancing at him. Adam glimpses a crime-scene photo. Sees a face split down the middle; all bone and putrid meat. Sees matted twine cutting deep into a rancid, bloodied neck.

  ‘I haven’t been to Essex in years.’

  ‘When was your last communication with Mr Paris?’

  Adam looks from one detective to the other, suddenly exasperated. He’s as keen to know if he’s to blame as they are. ‘Tell me what’s happened to him, please. I mean, we weren’t best mates or anything but I liked the guy. I trusted him. He doesn’t deserve that!’

  ‘And who does?’

  Adam looks over at the tall man in the good suit. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You’re saying some people might deserve that.’ He nods at the picture in the file. ‘Who?’

  ‘What? No, I don’t mean that …’

  ‘I hear you,’ he replies. ‘Some people bring it on themselves, don’t they?’

  Adam looks around for help. He’s feeling picked on.

  Bosworth looks across at her colleague. He gives a tiny nod and she leafs through the pages in her file. She holds up a piece of paper and turns it around for him to examine. It’s a hand on a dissection table, cut off at the wrist. It lays there, bloated and white, like the belly of a cod. On the palm, written in black ink, is a sequence of letters and numbers.

  ‘Is that Larry’s hand?’ he asks, the colour draining from his face.

  ‘Removed with an axe,’ says Bosworth, breezily. ‘Sniffer dog found it, best part of half a mile from the rest of him. We’re still looking for the other one. Feet too.’

  ‘Jesus …’

  ‘And that number on his palm, Mr Nunn – that’s your National Insurance number, yes?’

  Adam looks up, desperate now. ‘I gave him that! Called him with what he needed from me. Maybe he scribbled it on his hand, I don’t know …’

  ‘Mr Paris was last seen seventeen nights ago, Mr Nunn,’ says the DI. ‘He left his home address and drove east towards Guildford, where he parked in an NCP and bought a return ticket to King’s Cross. From there, he took a taxi to Canning Town. Shortly afterwards, the signal from his mobile telephone went dead. We have CCTV footage of a man matching his description trying to access warehouse premises in Lawrence Road at 7.17 p.m. on the same day, though that hasn’t been confirmed.’

  ‘My head’s spinning – slow down, please,’ says Adam, pitiful to his own ears.

  ‘Do you know a Francis Jardine?’ asks Bosworth, lobbing the name like a rock.

  Adam starts to stutter. ‘Jardine? No … oy, yeah, he was in the Guardian a while back, wasn’t he? Trying to prove he wasn’t a gangster …’

  ‘How about a Nicholas Kukuc?’ asks Bosworth, without pause.

  ‘Kukuc?’ Adam scrunches up his face, trying to show willing. His mind is racing and he can feel the fingers in his throat again; the dream rising up from wherever it retreated when he woke.

  ‘A man in your position – he would surely know one of those names …’

  ‘Maybe,’ says Adam, floundering. ‘Look, you’re throwing stuff at me like they’re punches. I didn’t take my medicine this morning. Can we stop for a bit?’

  Bosworth glances at her colleague, a Paxman-mask of scorn creasing her features. ‘You reckon he’s genuine?’ she asks. ‘You think he really is this far out of his depth, or he’s just putting on a good show?’

  The other detective shrugs, refusing to commit. ‘Maybe he’s malfunctioning. Maybe he’s just realized what he’s got into and his software has crashed. Maybe we should reboot him, what do you reckon?’

  Adam looks from one to the other. He suddenly realizes how serious this is. Realizes what a mess he’s made of things for himself. He could have let them in. Could have answered their questions. Instead he let his temper out. He knows he had nothing to do with Larry’s death. He’d liked him well enough but the last thing he wanted was for him to be hurt. He’d paid him in advance for a start. His thoughts start grinding together. Why had his number been on his hand? Was it something to do with the investigative work he’d undertaken on Adam’s behalf? He wonders if he should just tell the whole truth. Just look into the camera and say it. I’m adopted. I paid Larry to find my birth parents. I don’t want him dead because he still hasn’t delivered the information I was after and I can’t afford to hire anybody else …

  ‘Mr Nunn?’

  Adam realizes he’s been asked a question. It’s the big cop again, his voice gentle. ‘You’re in a safe place, Mr Nunn. You’re among people who want to help you. I know you’re not telling us the truth. Why did you meet with Mr Paris?’

  Adam shakes his head. He doesn’t know if he’s being stubborn or strategic but he suddenly realizes that every step he’s taken has made things worse for himself. What had he promised last time he’d been in trouble? That he’d k
eep his mouth shut. Say nothing. Make them work for their bloody money. He shakes his head.

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Mr Nunn, that’s the wrong approach to take …’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Mr Nunn, you’re not helping yourself …’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘We can do this all day, Mr Nunn …’

  Adam forces himself to relax. Feels a peculiar sense of calm descend upon him. Wonders, briefly, if this sensation has a name.

  He lets himself smile, and feels the scab on his lip tear open. ‘So can I.’

  SIX

  Songbrook Manor

  Somewhere between Saffron Walden and Bishop’s Stortford, Essex

  2.10 p.m.

  Alison Jardine considers her reflection. Her silk robe is Chinese; a riot of peacocks and cherry blossoms, all plum and purple and teal. It was a gift from Dad, boxed and tied in ribbon red as blood. There were dried flowers and a lavender bag inside. Waves of tissue paper and sugared almonds. He’d written the card himself.

  To My Favourite Son, with all the love I can find.

  She’d smiled at that. It’s their private joke. Mr Jardine has four children but Alison has always been her father’s favourite. Her three brothers have all let him down in their own way. Two are in prison and the other went to sea at sixteen, changing his name and never looking back. It is Alison, his eldest and best, who makes sure the name Jardine still means something. Alison who’s been taking care of things since the old man’s health took a turn for the worse and he started to spend more and more time at home: a big country house in an eye-wateringly expensive pocket of rural Essex. Alison moved back in six months ago. It’s a big, drafty museum of a place: just her and Dad and a couple of trusted helpers.

  Alison angles her head. Takes herself in. She’s never seen herself as a stunner but she’s always been happy enough with her looks. Small, a little fleshy, she’s had plenty of time to get used to the idea of being attractive rather than beautiful and she takes a perverse pleasure in the knowledge that her tall, willowy contemporaries are descending into their advancing years with considerably more distress. She likes to imagine all those golden-blonde, size eight bitches, sobbing as they inject Botox into their foreheads and splurge their life savings on surgeries and rejuvenation procedures; their skin puckering, spines beginning to curve, veins rising like lugworms on their shins and the backs of their age-mottled hands. Alison doesn’t see herself as cruel, but she comes from a family that understands the natural order of things. In the end, everybody gets what’s coming to them.