Mud Pie

by Emma Lee Bole

  *

  Next morning I caught the 8.50 bus into Fylington. It coughed its way past heavy rococo sculptures made of frost: trees and bushes over-iced by a pastry-chef gone mad.

  First I bought a mobile phone, cheapest model in the shop, a little white pay and go dumbphone that made the spotty shop assistant gaze at me with incredulous pity. Next stop was Oxfam where I bought a mud-brown jumper apparently knitted out of rope, since Nan’s house wasn’t feeling quite so luxurious as it had at first, and a pair of warm black trousers because it occurred to me that I might need to go to a funeral. I wondered where and when.

  My thoughts touched lightly on Becki’s parents and took off again like a fly off a hotplate. I had some notion of how they felt, from that time Karl crashed in a stolen car nearly ten years ago. I came home from college to find the road stunned by flashing blue lights and the car parked inside a wall, surrounded by police and paramedics and a fire engine – the whole works. A neighbour told me it was Karl in the passenger seat. They wouldn’t let me near. I thought he was dead. My world stopped.

  It took half an hour to cut them out: Karl had whiplash and concussion, but he’d been wearing his seatbelt, and was otherwise okay. His mate, who hadn’t, wasn’t.

  Karl with his seatbelt on. So careful. Karl with his big bag full of glucose. My little brother. Blowing raspberries on his tummy. Feeding him yoghurt. Playing pirates together.

  As I came out of the Oxfam shop, a police car trundled past. A second car was parked outside the Parish Hall, where the incident room had been set up. I thought of going in to ask Grimshaw what progress, but decided against it in case he arrested me. Instead I walked on up the road towards the club.

  From here I couldn’t see the fence. The car park was deserted. The yellow tape flapped threateningly as I approached. I couldn’t get any further without stepping over it, so I walked around the other side of the clubhouse and looked at the tangle of brambled undergrowth through which they would have had to struggle before climbing over the fence that came right up to the wall below KK’s flat. It wouldn’t have been easy. There was no sign of trampling.

  So they must have come the other way after all, around the car park if not across it. I walked a little closer before realising that I would be visible from KK’s balcony window. I stole away before KK, if he was in, could spot me, caught the bus back and arrived at the Woolpack just after 11.

  “He’s waiting for you,” said Brendan with a nod at the snug.

  “Who is?”

  “Himself.”

  “Oh, bugger.” There was no escaping now. I slipped into the snug still clutching my Oxfam bags, and perched on the edge of the chair like a social security claimant. “Niall, I’ve got a ton of veg to peel.”

  He bent his head down towards mine, a ruddy giant descending on me. The skin on his cheeks was dry and flaking; a winter spent outside up ladders and strung to rooftops.

  “It’s really necessary,” said Niall in a rasping rumble. “It’s very important.”

  “Why? You can’t think that KK...”

  “He’s done things he’s regretted. I need to be sure.”

  “Niall, I’m sure. I can assure you that KK had nothing to do with Becki’s death.”

  “How do you know?”

  I hesitated. “He wouldn’t do it, that’s all. How could you think it of him? Your own brother?”

  Niall’s eyes were as hard as slate. “You thought it of your brother, though, didn’t you?”

  “Who told you that?” I caught up with my tongue, aghast, my brain in a whirl. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Hugh told me, Lannie.” His voice dropped to a stage whisper. “About how you were menaced for bearing witness against your brother.”

  “Hugh told you? Shit! It was meant to be a secret,” I said bitterly. It was impossible to feel angry with Hugh, though. He was so good-natured that he assumed that all his friends were equally so.

  “It would ease my mind to know that Joseph was innocent of Becki’s death,” said Niall primly.

  “Well you can be eased, then, can’t you?” I snapped. “Since it was me they were after.”

  His mouth turned to a red O of surprise. “What?”

  “What?”

  “They were trying to kill you?”

  “Isn’t that what Hugh told you?”

  “He said you’d been menaced, that’s all. Do you mean you actually had an attempt made on your life?”

  “Twice,” I said, resigned. “First a knife and then a gun. And they fire-bombed Charlotte’s shop.”

  “Jesus! That’s the best news I’ve heard all week!”

  “Ssh.” I glanced at the bar, but Brendan wasn’t in sight.

  “Do the police know this?” demanded Niall.

  “Yes, and they want it kept secret. You mustn’t spread it around! I wouldn’t have told you unless I thought you already knew.”

  “I’ll be as silent as the grave,” promised Niall. “Well! What a turn-up. Death threats. My word.” He drummed his fingers on the smooth wood of the table, his smile receding. “Any hard evidence they killed Becki, though?”

  “Not as such.”

  He whistled through his teeth. “There’s no proof, then.”

  “Well, who else would want to murder Becki?”

  “That is the question.” He lowered his tawny head again, beckoning me closer. “This thing is, what I want you to investigate is, Becki made a complaint about Joseph to me.” He sighed heavily. “Stealing from the bar. I don’t think it’s true for a minute, he denied it vehemently, but I need to be sure. If he did – well, it’s disloyalty, isn’t it? Not murder. But if he did, and Becki knew...”

  “Sounds a bit far-fetched.”

  “Joseph has a temper,” Niall said. “A wee bit impulsive. There have been incidents in the past.”

  I looked at my watch. I didn’t want to listen to Niall slagging off his brother. “Look, this is all very interesting, but I really do have a load of–”

  “What I want you to do,” Niall said, putting a hand on my knee, “is to go in there and search for the evidence.”

  I looked down at his hand. It was warm, huge and heavy. “What I want to do is go and peel my spuds.”

  “They can wait. Listen.” The grip tightened. “Three hundred pounds went missing from the till.”

  “People don’t murder each other over three hundred pounds. Not round here, Niall.” That only happened back home on the streets, when people were desperate for a fix or a hit. Not here.

  “There’s a safe behind his bed,” said Niall in a hoarse, over-intimate whisper. I tried to lean away from him. “The combination’s 4242.”

  “Supposing I did find some money, it wouldn’t prove anything.”

  “Three litres of Famous Grouse went missing too.”

  “In a safe?”

  “In the flat, to sell on,” Niall murmured.

  “If he’s sold them on they won’t be there.”

  “You’ll check,” said Niall. He was telling, not pleading. “And anything else you find, anything at all, letters or whatever, just bring them to me.”

  “No,” I said, “no, and no.”

  “Yes,” said Niall, “for me. You owe me. You didn’t do New Year for me, after all.” His grip on my leg was now quite painful.

  “I don’t need the job at the club. I’m doing you the favour there.”

  “If you do this for me,” said Niall, “I won’t let on about your death threat.”

  “That’s a police matter, Niall! You mustn’t tell anyone!”

  “Absolutely. My lips are sealed.” He laid a blunt finger across them. “As long as you do this little thing for me. No harm in it. Just call on Joseph. Have a look around.”

  “He’s innocent.”

  “Yes. But make sure for me.” He tapped his finger on his lips. “All secret, eh?”

  “You mustn’t tell anyone, Niall.”

  “Absolutely. Don’t you
tell anyone, Lannie.”