Mud Pie

by Emma Lee Bole

  Chapter Sixteen

  KK

  KK worked at a DIY superstore outside Macc, and I knew Wednesday was his afternoon off. As I approached the clubhouse I saw him running round the rugby pitch. I waited for him to run back to me, panting in an old tracksuit, his hair wilder than ever. Either he hadn’t shaved for a few days, or he was growing a beard. It suited him.

  “I just came into Fylington to do some shopping,” I said, all bright and innocent. “I thought I’d call round. I brought you some cake. And some recipes, just in case you’re interested.”

  KK looked surprised and suspicious, as well he might. I’d never offered him cake or even much encouragement before. I hoped he wouldn’t think I was coming on to him, but our close dance at Hugh’s party seemed to be forgotten.

  “Wouldn’t it wait till Saturday?” he said grumpily. “You’ll be here then anyway for the teas.”

  “Will I? Is the match still on, then?”

  “Bloody hell, it better had be! We owe Marple a thrashing.”

  “But there’s still police tape all over the place.”

  “Oh aye, we’ve had CSI Macclesfield poking round all week. They’ve interviewed me twice. Talk about a fine toothcomb. The coppers tried to set themselves up in the clubhouse until they realised the electrics weren’t up to it, thank God. Too many computers. But they’ve okayed the match on Saturday.”

  “Well, I’m here now,” I said, and waited until he sighed and let me in.

  We clattered up uncarpeted stairs into a blocky living-room: beige carpet, a saggy brown armchair and a depressed sofa, no room for anything else because of the red kitchenette and ugly breakfast bar that took up more than half the space. An attempt at a corridor was cut short by two doors.

  It was a crap flat. You couldn’t even sit out on the little balcony, since there was no exit onto it, just an ordinary casement window with a draughty transom that didn’t close properly. The room was remarkably gloomy considering it was upstairs facing an open field.

  KK thumped down on the sofa, which creaked and sighed, and looked at me like he’d found an oyster in his soup and didn’t know what to do with it. He nodded at the Dralon armchair, and I sat down cautiously. It sucked me in like a swamp.

  I offered him the beetroot cake on its polystyrene tray. “I brought you this. I had another go at baking it. Go on, try a piece.”

  He picked out a deep pink sliver and munched it thoughtfully while I nibbled at mine. It tasted no better than before.

  “Mm, hmm.” The noises he made were questioning rather than appreciative, so when we had both swallowed I said,

  “I followed your recipe to the letter. It’s a very good recipe, if you just leave out the beetroot.”

  “Do you not like it?” He looked down sadly at the cake. “It looks bloody superb.”

  It looked bloody, certainly. “Why are you so keen on sticking veg in cakes, KK?”

  “It’s healthy,” said KK. “Kids don’t eat enough veg these days. But they’ll always eat cake. So they might eat cake with veg in it.”

  I couldn’t see the hungriest kid eating this. “Do you mind if I get myself a glass of water?” I said. “I need something to wash it down with.”

  “I’ll make a brew,” said KK, but I unsquelched myself from the armchair and moved swiftly ahead of him to the kitchenette.

  “It’s OK, I’ll put the kettle on.”

  “Get us an orange squash, then,” said KK. “Bottle’s under the sink.” While he gloomily poked at his cake, I filled the kettle and made a play of looking for mugs and glasses and squash. He had a good armoury of bakeware, but no Famous Grouses lurked in the kitchen cupboards. There wasn’t room for them to lurk.

  I handed him his drink and let the armchair suck me in again.

  “KK. There’s something I need to tell you.”

  “Yes? What about?” His hands tensed around his glass.

  “I think you should steer clear of the vegetables. Try fruit instead. Orange is fine. Lemon is fine. Apple, plum, date, blueberry, whatever. Fruit is fine. Vegetables aren’t.”

  “What, none of them?”

  “They don’t work. I know they sound healthy, but they’re just an indigestible fad.”

  There was a moment’s silence as KK stared at his glass.

  “How many of your recipes do you actually make, KK?”

  “As many as I can. Depends if I have the time and can get hold of the ingredients. Kumara isn’t big in Fylington.”

  “Kumara?”

  “It’s a sweet potato.”

  “I know what it is. You cannot make a cake with it.”

  “They do in New Zealand.”

  “I daresay. They’ll stick anything in a cake over there.”

  KK gazed at the rain-splattered window. You couldn’t see a view through it, not even the playing-field: nothing but grey sky. “I always wanted to go to New Zealand,” he said. “Got an invite ten years ago to go out there and play rugby for six months. Little town in the north island that ran an exchange scheme.”

  “Why didn’t you go?”

  “Michelle got pregnant. My then girlfriend. My current ex-wife. That put the kibosh on it.”

  “Boy or girl?”

  “Boy,” said KK quietly. “Ashley. He’s nine.”

  “Do you see him much?”

  “Now and then.” KK spread his broad hands on his knees and glanced around. “He doesn’t much like staying here, that’s the trouble. Don’t blame him. Don’t like it much myself.”

  “Why not move, then?”

  “Where to? I can’t afford owt else, not on my wages. I’m lucky to have this place.” He sounded more resentful than grateful.

  “Do you not get paid for working at the club?”

  “I get paid with this grace and favour apartment, and two thirds of bugger all else. Don’t get me wrong, I like the job. Just be nice to have a decent wage.” He glowered around the flat.

  “Does Ashley eat veg?” I asked, a certain amount of light dawning.

  “Baked beans. He’d live on them if he was allowed. It can’t be good for him.”

  “Just feed him broccoli and let him take it or leave it. That’s what I’d do.”

  “He’d leave it,” said KK gloomily, “and he’d leave me as well. I don’t want to put him right off staying. Anyway, what about carrots?”

  “Do you know anyone who actually likes carrot cake?”

  “It’s all right.”

  “It’s tolerable. Just. Stick to fruit, KK. Except melon.”

  KK shook his head, then narrowed his eyes at me. “You all right, Lannie?”

  “Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “You seem a bit twitchy, that’s all.”

  “Is that any surprise?” I retorted. “I’ve not slept so well since last Saturday.”

  “I don’t suppose any of us have. Police interviewed you?”

  “Yeah. How did yours go?”

  He shrugged a broad shoulder. “Fair enough, considering. Don’t know if they’re getting anywhere.”

  “No. I suppose they wouldn’t say.”

  “They should have crossed a few people off the suspect list already,” said KK. “One o’clock seems to be the cut-off point. At least, it was between one and one-thirty they were interested in. The minibus mob and the Cheshire toffs had all left by then.”

  “Except Tamara.”

  He gave me a sharp look but didn’t comment. “And quite a few had gone home for babysitters, and some will have alibis.”

  “Like who?”

  “Well, the Killicks are usually joined at the hip,” said KK. “I reckon they must have been Siamese twins. And Stevo and Jamesy and that lot were mostly in the quiet room once the kids had gone. All alibis for each other.”

  “But they’d still go out to the bar or the bog.”

  “What, go out and stab Becki and sit down with their mates again, cool as you please?” He shook his head. “I don’t see it.”

  “And
do you have an alibi?”

  “No idea.”

  “I suppose the DJ has,” I said. “He was on show all night.”

  “Aye. And Bob and his Missus and Brendan and Rhoda, they’d all vouch for each other...”

  “Except when Bob and Brendan went out for a piss.”

  He gave me another clear, thoughtful look. “You think it had to be a man, then?”

  “Well, yeah, most likely.”

  “However,” said KK deliberately, “you were the one to find the body, and she was killed with your knife.”

  “Thanks very much! I’ve already had that from Frank.”

  “Only joking.” I couldn’t tell. “But why does it have to be a man?” he asked, as if he really wanted to know.

  “I don’t think it had to be anyone from the club,” I said. “I think it was someone else entirely. A gatecrasher. A druggie. A tramp.”

  “A wandering maniac?”

  “Something like that.”

  KK shook his head. “I’ve never seen any maniacs wandering round here. Don’t look so sceptical, Lannie! It’s not the big city. We get the odd weirdo, right enough, but in a small town like this they get noticed. If any wandering maniacs had been lingering round the club, I would have seen ’em. And I didn’t.”

  “So who’s your murderer?”

  “I don’t have one,” said KK.

  “That’s because it’s an outsider,” I said firmly. “All right if I use your bathroom?”

  There was no whisky hidden in the bathroom. The cabinet held steri-strips, plasters, Savlon and athlete’s foot powder. No drugs, not so much as a paracetamol. Good old KK.

  Coming out of the bathroom I managed to nudge open the door opposite sufficiently to see a neatly-made bed inside, and behind it, a horizontal cleft in the wall that must be the top of the safe. But I could hardly ask to go in and search. This was embarrassing enough. What on earth did Niall expect, that I was going to seduce KK in order to get into his bedroom?

  Maybe he did. I sat down again, wondering what to do next.

  “I need a shower,” said KK.

  “I’ll be going in a minute.” I drained my tea. KK in the shower was a distracting thought.

  Abruptly he put his hands behind his head, then down again. “Everything all right at the Woolpack?”

  “Unusually busy. Full of gossip,” I said.

  “How’s Brendan, is he all right? Has he said much about it?”

  “About Becki? Not really. What’s to say?”

  “I just wondered if he’d said anything.”

  “What sort of thing?”

  “I don’t know. They were close at one time.”

  “Close?” I felt as if I were suddenly back on the top of Mam Tor and hunted by the bitter wind which was trying to push me over the edge. “How close?”

  “Close enough,” said KK. “You know.”

  “You mean they had an affair?” My voice was croaky and incredulous.

  “I believe so,” said KK. “According to Becki. Therefore not one hundred per cent reliable. But I think there was something had gone on, you know, from the odd look, the way they spoke to each other. And on New Year’s Eve she tried to kiss Brendan under the mistletoe, and Rhoda got very frosty.”

  “It does sound like Becki was putting it about that evening,” I admitted. “But a kiss needn’t mean anything.”

  “It needn’t. But I think it did. So I wondered if Brendan was all right.” He looked at me directly. “You could talk to him, maybe.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “Female touch. It’d be easier for you. Women are better at that sort of thing.”

  Uncomfortable, I got up and put my mug on the breakfast bar. “Not necessarily. Look, I’d better go. Thanks for the tea. Keep the cake.”

  “But talk to Brendan,” said KK.

  “That’s for Rhoda to do, surely?”

  “Yes, but.” He hesitated. “He can’t talk about her with Rhoda, can he? And he doesn’t know I know. It was just Becki shooting her mouth off as usual. But knowing Becki, there might be something in it.”

  I moved to the door. “I don’t know, KK. I’ll see.”

  “No melon?” said KK.

  “No.”

  “Brendan’s a good lad,” he said wistfully.

  To that, I had no answer.