by Oliver Tidy
I went to the store and bought a bottle of their best whisky. And then in the lovely spring weather I sat out the back and nurtured my self-pity.
It was peaceful and warm. The high street traffic was a gentle murmur the other side of the building I had my back to. A blackbird was berating intruders into territory it had claimed as its own in the yard over the fence. The gentlest of breezes rustled the leaves of nearby trees. I stared up at the acres and acres of bright blue sky randomly criss-crossed with the lazy vapour trails of the flight paths the corner of Kent lay under. At least that horrible scraping had stopped.
I had intended to get properly drunk. It had seemed like a good idea. It was the only idea I had. My reaction to my changed circumstances – seek refuge, enlightenment and escape in a bottle. The alcohol tasted sweet and sickly and I smoked without pleasure. I was going to pack them in when this was over.
As I sat staring at the ivy that crept up and clung to the concrete panel fencing, I became aware of a vehicle approaching slowly across the unmade surface of the parish council car park. It got closer and therefore louder. With the car park empty there was no reason for anyone to drive all the way down to our end – my end now. The car stopped out of sight. A door opened and slammed shut. The clunk of the central locking system. Footsteps on the loose surface. And then Detective Cash was framed in the gateway.
She took in the bottle at my side with a look of disapproval. I could guess what she was thinking and I felt a little stupid and a bit defensive for it.
‘I did ring.’
‘Phone’s upstairs. What can I do for you?’
She breathed out heavily. ‘A clean glass and a seat would be a start.’ I hadn’t been expecting that. It must have shown. ‘Strictly speaking it’s my weekend off. But I gave instructions that if there were any developments in this investigation I was to be informed. I’m now off duty again.’
I hadn’t moved. ‘So why are you here? Surely you must have better things to do than checking up on me?’
‘Yes, I have, but you looked like you might need saving from yourself. And it seems I was right.’
‘Are you always right, Detective?’
‘No. Are you going to get me that glass, or shall I get it myself?’
Despite the way my day had gone so far I had to give a bit of a smile. I stood up and gestured that she should take my seat. As I was going in the back door she said, ‘Got any coke up there?’
I was back inside five minutes with another plastic patio chair, a clean glass and a half-empty bottle of flat cola.
‘So what do you do on your weekends off, as a rule, Detective? Voluntary work at the Samaritans?’
She poured herself a small shot with a big dilution of the soft drink. ‘Mind your own business. You’d been preparing yourself for this morning, right?’
‘Ever since my aunt’s body was discovered.’
She took a good sip. ‘So you must have given some thought about what you’re going to do now.’
‘About the investigation?’
‘No, Mr Booker. Not about the investigation. I told you before, I think. I expect you to leave the investigation regarding what has happened to your relatives to the police.’
And I thought I understood then what had motivated her to pay me a visit on her Saturday afternoon off. She’d come to drive home her warning. I didn’t hold it against her. She was doing her job on her own time. With someone prepared to make those sort of work-related sacrifices I was glad she was involved.
‘So, now we have that straight, would you like to answer my question?’
I thought about saying mind your own business but I was glad of her company and I wasn’t in a hurry to see her leave.
‘This will all be mine now. It’s never been a secret. They didn’t have children and, as far as I’m aware, I have no other relatives.’
‘What about your own parents?’
‘Dead. Do you think Sprake might see my inheritance as a motive for me to have done away with them?’
‘Perhaps. His world-view can be... simplistic, quite monochrome at times. But don’t think he’s not a good policeman. He is. It’s because he’s a good policeman he hasn’t ruled anything out regarding the circumstances surrounding your relatives’ deaths. A good police detective won’t allow himself or herself to be blinded to any and every possibility until to continue to do so is evidentially foolish.’
‘Does that mean you still consider me to be a part of your investigation?’
‘No, it doesn’t. I’ve made my mind up about you already but I’ve seen more of you than he has, that’s all.’ She led the conversation of the topic that interested her most back by the nose. ‘You told me before that you were back for a week. Will you be extending that now?’
‘Yes. I shall have to.’
‘What about your work, your life in Turkey?’
‘That will all go on hold now. The concerned parties will just have to understand that and if they can’t then that’ll be for them to deal with.’
‘And more immediately?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Are you really going to just sit here and wallow in self-pity and alcohol?’ She sounded freshly disappointed in me for her assumption.
I heaved out a big sigh. ‘No. It doesn’t appeal to me any more. Actually, I have no idea what to do next.’ And I meant it.
‘At the risk of sounding patronising, life goes on. If you’ll take my advice you’ll keep yourself busy. Concentrate on sorting things out here. Focus your energies on something physical and diverting.’
‘Are you sure you don’t work for the Samaritans?’
‘It’s just common sense. I would like to give you credit for seeing that for yourself.’
‘With respect, you might be right, but you haven’t suffered the life-changing upheaval I just have.’
‘True.’ She finished her drink and stood up. ‘I must be off. Thanks for the drink.’
I checked my urge to ask her not to go. It could only have sounded pathetic and weak. Instead I stood too.
‘Thanks for stopping by, whatever your motives. I appreciate your concern.’
She nodded and left me to consider the rest of my life.
***
16
Detective Cash’s visit proved influential in making me realise I didn’t want to watch the afternoon go by through the bottom of a glass. I would thank her for that later. I had work to do. I finished my own first drink and went back upstairs.
I was washing out the glasses when a thought occurred to me and I cursed myself. When I had been at the hospital I should have asked what my uncle had on his feet, if anything, when he was found and whether he was wearing a coat. And now, because Detective Cash had properly warned me off getting involved, I could hardly call her for information without risking another lecture. Still, I felt I probably knew the answers to those questions, but it would have been nice to have had confirmation.
I went down to the shop, powered up the computer and sent three emails: one to the buyer of my uncle’s books, explaining the developments; one to my employer tendering my resignation and hoping that under the circumstances they would understand the short notice, and one to my wife, who still hadn’t replied to my last. I reflected briefly on the significance of that and then sent her an unkind thought on the ether.
Then I did the only productive thing I could think of to keep me away from the temptation of the bottle and the abyss of abandon: I dug out the list of books my uncle was selling to the American and I set about fulfilling the order. That doesn’t seem strange to me, even now. I’d already asked around my neighbours to discover that none of them had seen anything of my relatives since the morning of their disappearance. And there was not another single thing I could think of following up that might help me to understand what had happened to them.
Detective Cash had said leave it to the professionals and after our conversation that afternoon I felt that with her involved I could, f
or now.
For the rest of the afternoon and into the evening I worked hard, focussed on my mountainous task. With appropriate care I packed and sealed and stacked and recorded. By the time my brain and body let me know they’d had enough it was dark out. I surveyed the fruits of my labour, compared it with the list of books, looked at what remained to be done and went to the pub for a meal and a cold beer not much happier than when I’d started and feeling more than a little overwhelmed by what was left to do.
*
I walked into the pub to find it much busier than on either of my previous two visits. But then it was the weekend. I ordered a pint at the bar without molestation. I caught sight of Pam looking in my direction. She nodded, etched a half-smile, but didn’t come over. She looked busy.
Standing alone further along the bar was someone else I knew. Seeing him gave me an idea. I moved along to stand next to him. We exchanged greetings. He mumbled something about being sorry about my aunt. I didn’t see the need to mention my uncle’s fate and add to his awkwardness. I wasn’t talking to him for sympathy.
‘You still working for Flashman?’
He said he was. Flashman was the builder who owned the big yard at the back of what was now my property. I told him something of the mystery surrounding my relatives’ disappearances. He listened. I asked him if he was in or around the yard about the end of the working day on Wednesday. If he had been, he might have seen something. He thought about it. Then shook his head.
‘Wednesday was a late finish. I didn’t get home till gone six. I took the van home ready for early start on Thursday. I didn’t go to the yard. Sorry.’
I thanked him and offered him a pint. He said he already had one in the wood.
‘I can ask the others with stuff in there if you like?’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Flashman sectioned the yard off a couple of months ago. He rents space in there for storage. You’ve seen the containers?’ I nodded that I had. ‘They’re not all his.’
That prompted my memory of the small hours when I’d seen a van and men in there loading something into the back of it. I’d gone back to sleep and forgotten all about it.
‘Who does he rent them to?’
‘A plumber’s got one in the far corner, the blue one; the yellow one nearest the fence is rented by some bloke from London. Keeps his weekend fishing gear and a jet ski for the kids in there. Bit of a wide boy by all accounts. Don’t see much of him this time of year.’
I was about to say that I’d seen someone in the yellow container early that morning but decided against it. I thanked him again and said I’d be glad if he asked the plumber for me.
I headed towards the restaurant area at the back of the pub. As I got to the dividing door it was pushed open and a couple of loud voices heralded the entrance of someone I really didn’t want to see.
The large fat frame of Darren Pike filled the doorway. He was talking over his shoulder. When he turned to see me in front of him his face twisted into a malevolent sneer. I would have liked to ignore him and just go through to the other bar but he had other ideas and as he was blocking my way there wasn’t much I could do about it.
Darren Pike was someone I’d known from school. He had the charm, the intellect and the appeal of Play-Doh. He’d been a bully then and he’d never grown out of it. He was older than me by three years, taller than me by six inches, heavier than me by at least thirty kilos, and stupider than me by a long way. He was also nasty and trouble. We’d grown up together in the same village, gone to the same schools and we had always naturally disliked each other.
I waited, hoping he might just pass me. I wasn’t in the mood. I was never in the mood for him.
He stood his ground and in my way. ‘Look who it is?’
I had to look at him then.
‘The podigal son returns. Slumming it are you, Booker?’
‘I think you mean prodigal and even that would be wrong. You should stick to words with fewer syllables. Things you can understand like cat and dog.’
His eyes flared at me and I was aware of a quiet falling around us.
‘What did you say, you little fuck?’
I didn’t repeat myself, so he had to fill the void with some noise of his own.
‘How’s the family? Having a swimming time of it, I heard.’
Under his ginger flop of hair his fat freckled face started to collapse into a smile and the red mist that had got me into trouble a handful of times in my life descended to leave me no longer reasoning and rational, just primitive and furious. And stupid – because in a fair fight Pike would kill me without breaking a sweat.
I threw my beer into his face and that probably saved me some serious injury. The fizzy lager temporarily blinded him and as he instinctively brought his hands up to wipe them I hit him with four days of pent-up aggression – a punch to his flabby midriff that jarred the joints in my wrist, my elbow and my shoulder. I heard the wind come out of him as he doubled over. Without thinking about the consequences of what I was doing I brought my knee up into his face and then his friend hit me – a right-hander that glanced off my cheekbone with enough force to send me sprawling backwards into a cluster of spectators. I felt strong arms on me then, restraining me, saving me from a good hiding. People came between us and the physical stuff was over. It had lasted seconds.
Pike was shouting he was going to kill me. His nose was pouring blood and his small piggy eyes burned with hate for me. People had hold of him too. Pam stepped between us.
‘You two, out.’
Pike’s friend, someone I hadn’t seen before but took a good look at now, started up: ‘What? He started it.’ He was jabbing a thick finger at me.
‘You want me to call the police?’
Pike shot her a nasty look then and I thought he’d just blotted his copybook and tainted his future welcomes with that. But he retreated. For his own reasons, he didn’t want trouble with the law. He shared a last and lasting threat with me, turned and left.
Pam looked at me with disappointment bordering on something more damaging. She might have been about to send me out too, but maybe she understood things might only flare up again outside. That wouldn’t be good for business.
The gentle hubbub of pub noise started up again. Someone said something that made someone else laugh and that was it. It was over.
Pam looked at my face. ‘Follow me.’ She wasn’t smiling.
I trailed after her into the big kitchen at the rear of the property. The chef regarded me briefly before shaking his head and getting back to his stove.
Pam indicated a chair. ‘Sit down.’
I sat. She took a tea towel, filled it with ice and twisted it into a ball.
‘Hold that against your face.’
‘I’m sorry, Pam.’ It was about all I could say.
She let out a long audible breath. ‘Never again, David. Understand? Not in my pub. Take it outside, or preferably somewhere well away.’
I nodded and apologised again. My cheek was numbing from either the punch or the effects of the ice. Probably both.
‘Was it your uncle they found this morning at Littlestone?’
Bad news and gossip always did travel quickly on the Marsh. I indicated that it was and then I understood why she hadn’t kicked me out but had shown me some compassion.
‘I’m very sorry, David. Have they said how they think it happened?’
I shook my head. ‘The police haven’t got a clue and the man in charge doesn’t seem interested further than thinking maybe I had something to do with it.’
‘I had a woman detective in here yesterday afternoon checking your story for Wednesday night.’ Her face showed concern.
I tried a smile. ‘She’s actually all right. I’m sure she believes I had nothing to do with anything.’
‘Well I know it too. They’re just doing their jobs. Give them time. They’ll work it out. Domestic violence is always going to be somewhere they look first.’
She still didn’t ask me to leave, which I took as a vote of confidence. Or it could have been that she didn’t trust a wounded animal like Pike not to be loitering around outside for some quick payback.
I ate in the back restaurant, had another pint and went for a late night walk up on the sea wall. The tide was almost at its highest and there was a good breeze coming off the water. It was bracing.
I walked east for a change towards the Martello tower that had been converted into living accommodation. That was before English Heritage got all sniffy about that sort of thing and decided it would rather stand idly by as historic buildings simply collapsed in on themselves with neglect rather than let someone with a bit of imagination and money make something of them and rescue them into the bargain.
It was a clear night. The moon laid out a glistening silver carpet of reflected sunlight on the top of the English Channel, which, like the false hope of a rainbow or my thoughts regarding my aunt and uncle’s deaths, led to nowhere.
***
17
My Sunday was not a day of rest. There was an email from my wife. It was short and pretty much what I would have expected. She understood. She politely offered her condolences. She wished me well. She didn’t ask when I’d be returning.
The school had not replied but it was the weekend in Istanbul too, so that was no surprise.
The American had responded. He managed to express eloquently his great sorrow at my loss without coming across as too American for it. He said he would, naturally, understand if I felt that his order could not now be completed for personal or legal reasons but that should I wish and be in a position to continue with the transaction he was prepared to be patient. That’s about all I could ask of him. I emailed him back letting him know I intended to fulfil the order and assuring him of my ability and qualifications to do so. This was no idle promise. The books had to go and with a buyer already lined up and a handsome deal agreed I’d be a fool not to take advantage of the situation. Besides, I’d come home to do just that and I felt I owed it to my dead relatives to see the order through.