Mud Pie

by Emma Lee Bole

Viciously I sliced half-frozen gateau with a plastic knife that ripped the sponge and planted black crumbs all over the cream. I felt Becki at my shoulder, saying You’ve made a right mess of that one, who’ll want to eat that?

  I breathed out, hard. Becki was not Nan. She was not here, or anywhere, except in memory. Gone.

  But not at KK’s hands. I paused with the knife plunged halfway through the cake. What if KK really had taken drugs from Becki’s handbag? Would he have had the sense to flush them down the toilet? Such a stickler for protocol. Police evidence. The daft bugger might have kept them.

  I couldn’t ask him. He was telling Grimshaw a joke, and Grimshaw was heartily laughing. I went over to them with a tray of puddings. Grimshaw couldn’t arrest anyone while he was eating pudding.

  “Black forest or strawberry cheesecake?” I offered. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

  Grimshaw drew away from the group a little. “Sure. No mud pie? I’ve heard about your mud pie.”

  “I didn’t have time for it.” And I hadn’t felt like making replicas of Hugh’s birthday dishes. It would have seemed all wrong.

  Think I’d care? said Becki. Shut up, Becki.

  “You’ll have to come to the Woolpack to sample it,” I said. Go for it, girl, said Becki.

  “Would you join me if I ate there? Or are you always cooking?”

  “I’m always cooking. You’d have to bring your girlfriend.”

  Get you, Herron, said Becki.

  Grimshaw shook his head. “Situation currently vacant.” That surprised me. And Becki. Watch it, she said, what’s he after?

  “Well, I’m sure you won’t go short of offers,” I said amiably, and moved away to offer crumbly gateau to the others.

  “Great food, Lannie,” said KK, taking the largest portion of Black Forest. “Reminds me, I’ve got one upstairs for you to try.”

  “I’ll look forward to that.” I slid away as if from danger. Hugh came up and requested a slice of cheesecake.

  “And one for Tamara?” I asked.

  “Er, no, she doesn’t do puddings.” Or anything else that was fun, from the look of him. Hugh was haggard. I wanted to smooth away the lines with my finger, but Tamara was watching, so I just handed him a spoon. “You’re busy,” he said.

  “For once. It should make Niall happy.”

  “Things have been bad here, then?”

  “Not so bad. It’s not your fault, Hugh, remember? You mustn’t feel responsible for any of this. You should be having a good time.”

  “Can you stop for a chat, Lannie?”

  “Yeah, sure. I’d like that, soon as I’ve handed these out.” I noticed AnneMarie had returned to the bar and was knocking back a large red wine. With any luck she’d soon be incoherent. But that didn’t solve my dilemma.

  The family fun was due to go on all evening. The kids, installed in the side room with DVDs and a carton of crisps, had dragged Fylington Freddy in with them and were busy trying to pull his ears off. I distracted them with cake, then went back to the kitchen and collected the rubbish. I stuck a palette knife in my pocket and a ladle in the bin bag.

  No-one took any notice as I carried the bag out. I went round the back of the clubhouse, removed the ladle and threw the bag in a wheelie bin, ignoring Becki’s presence. She watched me in her bloodstained T-shirt, waiting to see what I would do.

  I walked to the fence, the one Becki’s killers might have climbed over. Or might not. It was fiercely overgrown with brambles and overlooked only by the balcony of KK’s flat. There was still enough light for me to see what I was doing.

  I pushed at KK’s door, then inserted the palette knife against the lock and wiggled it. No go. So I tucked the ladle into my belt, clambered onto the fence and stood with my hands against the wall, wobbling precariously. I reckoned it was only the bramble stems that were holding the fence up. But from here I could just reach the corner of the flat roof over the ladies’ toilets, and pull myself up on the guttering.

  My heart was thumping with the effort of being quiet about it. I hoped any ladies in the toilet would think I was a cat on the roof. Luckily there was enough music and clatter coming from inside the club to cover any noise I made outside.

  I leaned back towards KK’s balcony: it was a stretch, but not impossible. I hoped the railings were stronger than the fence as I grabbed two of them, and then with a Hoo worthy of the front row swung my legs across and up and hooked them between the rails.

  “Bugger,” I said, dangling like an out-of-condition monkey. My left foot was stuck. I managed to work it loose and through so that I could get my knee round the rail. Then I got my right elbow through, and was able to rest for a moment before I went for the big push over the top.

  “Hoo!” Pure relief that time. Lying on my back on the balcony, I listened to the muffled applause below that probably meant speeches. After a moment I stood up. In KK’s flat all was dark behind closed curtains.

  The transom, as I’d thought, didn’t take much persuading to open: a mere nudge with the palette knife. I climbed up on the windowsill and stuck my chin through it, peering down. A ladle wasn’t my tool of choice for this job. Back home with Karl, we’d used a wire coat-hanger. Holding the bowl of the ladle, I groped clumsily for the window handle with the hooked end. Easy. But I couldn’t reach the bottom lever until I jumped down onto the balcony again, took off my belt and tied it round the ladle, then fished with it till I could lift the lever: push: and I was in.

  I slithered down under the curtains, landing on the sofa which had a duvet on it. I didn’t dare put on the light. Instead I switched on the tiny torch on my phone. As I trod softly over the floor, a rumbling of voices came up to me. Speech over, back to drinking.

  There was a full cake tin, open, on the counter of the kitchenette. I sniffed: peach. At least it was a step up from parsnip. I moved stealthily over to the bedroom door, eased it open, and was hit so hard on the side of the head that I staggered and fell over.

  Nest minute I was up, adrenaline pumping, and grappling in the dark with my attacker, until I realised that my attacker was much smaller than me and yelping like a puppy.

  “Jesus!” I said, and reached for the light switch. “Ashley?”

  Poor little lad. He looked stricken: terrified, and no wonder. As I opened my mouth to reassure him, he head-butted me. Fortunately he was too small to do it properly. He caught me under the chin, and I sat down heavily on the bed.

  “Stop it, Ashley,” I said. “Let me explain.”

  “I’m going down to get me Dad!”

  I put an arm across the doorway. “Hang on. Your Dad’s talking to a policeman.”

  He kicked my legs. “Good! I’ll get the policeman too!”

  “Not good,” I said. “Ashley, I’m not a burglar. Well, I am, but I’m trying to do your Dad a favour.”

  “Fuck off,” said Ashley. He was doing all right, for a nine year old.

  “I will, in a minute. Listen. I think the policeman downstairs has a search warrant for this flat. I don’t know for sure, but that’s what I’ve been told. And I’ve also been told that in this flat there may be some drugs.”

  Ashley fired up. “My Dad doesn’t have any drugs. He thinks drugs are sad.”

  “I know. I think he took these ones off a friend, because he didn’t think the friend should have them. But if the policeman finds them, he’ll arrest your dad for possessing drugs. You got me? So I’ve come to get rid of them first. Couldn’t ask your dad for the keys, now could I? Not when he’s talking to a copper.”

  “Are they your drugs?” He was quick.

  “No.”

  He rubbed his mouth. “I don’t want my Dad to get arrested.”

  “Neither do I. I just want to have look in the safe behind the bed. If you see me steal anything, then you can run down and fetch the policeman.”

  “You’ll be gone by then.” But he let me pull the bed away and sure enough, there was the safe like Niall had told me. Electronic lock. I put in t
he number: 4242.

  Ashley knelt on the bed at my shoulder. There was nothing in there but a plastic wallet. I removed it and tipped out its contents: passport, car insurance, building society card. No money, and no drugs.

  “Put them all back now,” commanded Ashley, and I obeyed. My head was aching.

  “What did you hit me with?”

  “My gamepad.”

  “What are you doing up here anyway?” I opened the wardrobe and began to rustle through its contents.

  “I was bored. I’ve seen that film before. And I don’t get on with – some of the other kids.”

  “Your cousins?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just don’t.”

  “Why, are they mean to you?” I turned to the chest of drawers and rummaged amongst KK’s underwear. He went in for red.

  “They’re snide. They gang up on me. Those are my things in the bottom drawer.” Miniature jeans and sweatshirts. “They go on at me cos I don’t play rugby.”

  “That is mean,” I said, slipping my hand between KK’s folded t-shirts. Nothing.

  “They think they’re so cool. But I’m gonna play league,” said Ashley. “I’m gonna play for Saints. You haven’t found anything, have you?”

  “No.” I peered under the bed. “Got any ideas?”

  “I know where Dad keeps things.” Ashley stared at me, weighing me up.

  “Go on, then.” I reckoned he wouldn’t have said that if he wasn’t prepared for me to know.

  “Are you his girlfriend?” It was a challenge.

  “Just a friend. I’m the cook for the rugby club.”

  “You’re the one he made the cakes for!” Ashley giggled, and then pulled a puking face. “The tomato one was disgusting.”

  “Yes, I imagine it would be.”

  He scrambled off the bed and pattered into the lounge. He turned on the light, took the left hand speaker of the hi-fi down from its shelf, and shook it. It rattled.

  “Careful,” I said.

  “It doesn’t work.” Ashley was trying to prise the hardboard back away with his thumbnail. I took it off him and used the palette knife.

  “Eureka,” I said.

  “What’s that? Is that drugs?”

  As I opened the pink plastic purse that had fallen out into my hand, I recalled seeing it in Becki’s. “Yup.” There were some papers inside the speaker too. Unfolding them, I recognised the circle over the i and wondered why Becki was writing letters to KK. I read a few of the loopy, whorly words – “if you want to, just give me a vodka on the house. I’ll know what it means. We could have a good time, no–”

  I read no further before replacing the letters. Maybe they explained why Becki resented KK: he’d never responded to her advances. Or perhaps he’d responded once, and once wasn’t enough for Becki…

  No. Stop speculation in its tracks. If she’d had written a come-on note to KK, and he’d kept it, that was nothing to do with me. A one-evening stand with KK, enjoyable though it was, did not give me the right to comment on his love-life.

  So I put the speaker with the letters back on its shelf, and inspected the contents of Becki’s purse.

  A few pound coins, which I handed to Ashley. No wraps: half a dozen Es twisted into silver paper, a few Diazepam still in their blister pack, a tiny plastic envelope of dirty powder, and a book of stamps, first class. I opened it. Tucked in above the postage stamps were some others, scraps of printed blotting paper. Jesus, Becki, what was all this lot, this lethal pick and mix stuffed into the purse like so much loose change? It was Karl’s sock drawer in miniature: all those little time bombs just waiting to detonate.

  Somewhere I felt Becki shrug. Nah, it’s good stuff. Harmless.

  “What’s that with the stamps?” whispered Ashley.

  “Possibly LSD.”

  “What you going to do with it?”

  “Flush it down the toilet,” I said.

  “No, I want to.” So we went to the bathroom and I gave him the tabs and pills to drop into the toilet bowl. On the point of emptying the bag of powder down too, I hesitated. I didn’t know what it was, but I was ready to bet it was class A, like the rest. What the hell had Becki been playing at?

  Playing at dealers, like a little kid. Playing silly buggers. Christ, Becki, you addled your brain with all that crap. You had no idea how the drugs would gnaw at you, how they could erupt explosively in your face and blow your life away.

  As for KK, he had no sense either, keeping this stuff in his flat – where Ashley could find it, too. Nonetheless, it was evidence. I just didn’t know what of, apart from stupidity. Remembering Grimshaw’s contemptuous comment about destroying the letter, I stuck the little bag of powder in my back pocket, along with the purse and the pill wrappers.

  Ashley flushed, twice.

  “Now wash your hands,” I said.

  “They’re snide about my Mum as well,” said Ashley, drying.

  “Just ignore them.”

  “They say she’s a two-timing slag.”

  “They say that?” I was startled.

  “They say Auntie AnneMarie says that. I hate her too.”

  “They’re liars,” I told him. “I’ve met your Mum and she was very nice.”

  “You have?”

  “Briefly. What about your Uncle Niall? Do you like him?”

  “He’s all right, I suppose,” said Ashley drearily. As the cistern filled up I flushed a third time. Didn’t want any E’s lurking in the S-bend.

  “Right,” I said. “That’s it. You staying up here, or coming back downstairs?”

  “I don’t want to come down.” He looked worried. “What do I do if the police come in?”

  “They won’t come in without telling your Dad, and he’ll tell them you’re here. They might not come at all. This is just a precaution. Better safe than sorry.”

  “I see,” he said, although I doubted if he did. He had Niall’s eyes, Michelle’s delicate nose, and KK’s tousled hair.

  “Go back to your game,” I said. “If anyone asks, you’ve just been playing it all evening. Okay?”

  He nodded, dubiously. I went downstairs and let myself quietly out. After throwing the empty purse and drug wrappings in the wheelie bin I grabbed a couple of empty beer crates from the pile beside it. Nobody looked at me as I carried them into the club, went behind the bar and carelessly clanked sticky bottles into them.

  Then I poured myself a half and went to join Grimshaw’s group. Grimshaw was drinking Coke, which worried me, while Niall was expounding to him about American football.

  “They’re not as soft as they look,” he told Grimshaw earnestly. “Those cages aren’t just for show. That’s twenty stone of prime American beef thudding into you.” He’d gone Irish again.

  “Mm,” said Grimshaw absently. He checked his watch. I took a long breath, and wondered how I could warn KK.

  “More like a Big Mac, with fries,” growled Bob. “Served very slowly. One fry, then time out.”

  “KK?” I put in. “Could I have a quick word with you in the back?” At once, I realised he might think I was angling for a canoodle in the kitchen. Well, that was too bad.

  “Whereas football’s fish and chips,” said Frank thoughtfully. “Find it everywhere, gets boring after a while.”

  “Premiership likes to think it’s bloody caviar,” Bob grunted.

  “City does,” said Stevo. “United’s just a dodgy fishcake.”

  “Bugger off,” said KK. “You don’t know owt about it. Does he, Morse?”

  “Uh huh,” said Grimshaw, his eyes flickering to the door. I began to feel sick.

  “KK?” I repeated urgently. “It’s about the barrels.”

  “Why, what’s up with them?”

  “Could you come and check them?”

  “But rugby’s bangers and mash,” said Stevo.

  “No no no no,” said KK, turning away from me indignantly, as the door opened. DI Cole was pushing through t
he crowd towards us. “Rugby is best beef fillet, medium rare, this thick, with pepper sauce, wild mushrooms on the side.” Inspector Cole was whispering in Grimshaw’s ear.

  “KK!” I said in desperation. “Please!”

  “And vintage port and stilton,” said KK.

  Bob said, “No, that’s snooker.”

  DI Cole cleared her throat. “Sorry to interrupt the menus, but I’d like a quick word with you, Mr Taylor.”

  “Sure,” said Frank.

  “Outside, I think.” Frank raised an eyebrow, shrugged, and followed her and Grimshaw over to the door. Grimshaw returned a moment later to pluck Frank’s jumper from the back of a chair.

  “You going?”

  “Back to the station,” he said.

  “With Frank?” said KK. “Bloody hell. You’re not arresting Frank, are you?”

  “An arrest has been made,” said Grimshaw formally. He looked at me. “Apart from the last few minutes, it’s been a delightful day.” He pressed his raffle tickets into my hand, and walked out of the club.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Charlotte