Death of a Painter

by Matthew Ross

  He was a big daft bastard, he really was. When we were at school Nick was string-bean thin with a mop of shaggy black curls and sticky-out teeth. Now he’s a heavy lump with a baldy head and sticky-out ears, but somehow still looks exactly the same with that big daft bastard face.

  ‘I only wanted to let you know about Chapman,’ he said. The surprise mention of the name felt like ice water dripping down my spine.

  ‘Chapman? What about him?’ I hoped my reply sounded disinterested enough.

  ‘The Coroner came back. Said he died of natural causes two or possibly three days before he was found. He was grossly overweight, suffered a massive heart attack. We think a burglar broke in on the off-chance, saw him and fled in panic.’

  A couple of familiar faces entered from the street, I looked up to give a wave and a hello as they passed to keep up appearances. No need for the world to know my business. I may have lost a day in the cells, convinced that if the key hadn’t yet been thrown away it had certainly been mislaid at the bottom of a distant, forgotten drawer, but as far as they’re concerned it’s all an adventure, a jape, a funny anecdote. You don’t mention your guts still ache from heaving up sour yellow bile in fear, or your eyes still sting after seeing your past, present and future all crash together like a derailed train, you just wave and smile and pretend all’s right with the world.

  ‘So, in short, your alibi checked out fine, there’s nothing to link you with the scene. It’s being written up that Mr Chapman died from natural causes. Senia doesn’t want to tell you yet, but you know me Mark, I don’t think it’s fair letting you dangle, not when you’re off the hook. But, let’s be crystal clear, you didn’t hear it from me.’

  ‘Sure, thanks Nick. So, how is Mr Senia settling in to Medway life?’

  ‘I don’t think he can make it out. He says it’s too far out to be London, and too far in to be Country.’

  He was right, Medway’s a peculiar little hybrid all of its own, adopting customs and expressions from near and far, has been for centuries, ever since the dockyard opened its gates and ships started arriving from all over the four corners of the globe. Bit of a mongrel race, that’s us. I realised it was good to see Nick again and we spent the remainder of our pints talking about old times like normal people do.

  ‘Nick…’ He was putting his jacket on, ready on to leave. ‘Do you remember Rob Beach? Do you know what ever happened to him?’

  ‘Rob Beach, now there’s a blast from the past. Funnily enough I’d not heard his name mentioned for years and years, and now that’s the second time I’ve heard it this week.’

  The friendly conversation and lunchtime drinking had loosened him up, he was now on the verge of telling me things he probably shouldn’t. By the look on his face he realised this seconds after me, as he quickly fumbled with his jacket, suddenly in a hurry to leave. I placed a gentle hand on his forearm to encourage him to calm down and assure him I wouldn’t deliberately put him in a predicament. He looked around to see who was nearby, then sat back down and leaned inwards. I copied him, two conspirators together.

  ‘Rob Beach was a dirty little peddler back in the day selling all kinds of shit, and I mean proper nasty shit, cut with all sorts of stuff, to just about anyone. Even schoolkids. He was filth. Rumour had it he had a falling out with Hamlet.’

  ‘That’s right, I remember.’

  ‘Then he vanished off the scene for several years.’

  ‘Banged up?’

  ‘No, other than a couple of motoring offences he’s got a clean record. He moved away, that’s all. Anyway, he came back here about two years ago.’

  ‘Don’t tell me, he’s a reformed character, a family man.’

  Nick gave a sideways smile. ‘Not quite.’ He looked over his hunched shoulders at the room again then back to me. ‘I shouldn’t be telling you this, but we think he’s still dealing, but it’s such small-fry stuff it’s not been worth wasting the manpower to chase it down.’

  Across the room I could see Disco giving Boris The Plastic a big wet kiss on the top of his wrinkly bald walnut of a head. I’m guessing he’d just been paid, so that meant Disco would be in here for the rest of the day drinking through his wages. Disco saw me looking at him and did the internationally recognised ‘Pint?’ gesture to Nick and me. I nodded gratefully on behalf of both of us.

  After a half-hearted resistance Nick began his next pint and continued talking about Beach.

  ‘He’s not important. From what I gather he fancies himself as a bit of a boutique.’

  Now that was a new term on me and I told him so.

  ‘What I mean,’ said Nick, ‘is that he now only has a few choice clients. He’s going for quality over quantity, he’s given up on that crap mixed with curry powder and brick dust and now supplies premium grade stuff to spoilt rich kids who like the personal service.’

  Against much insistence and despite hesitation on his part, Nick left after his third pint. It had been good to see him and thanks to him I was even more confident now that I was right about who Charlie’s mutual friend supplying the ‘party favours’ was. I decided to leave at the same time but it took me a while to get out as there were so many familiar faces to say hello to. Disco caught up with me at the back door and bundled me through before I could realise what he was doing.

  ‘Cookie’s after you,’ he said, using being outside as an opportunity to light up a smoke, a proper one, not a roll-up, so clearly he had been paid if he’s splashing out on branded cigarettes. I told him: ‘Calm down, I’ve no problem with Cookie.’

  ‘That’s what I said to Boris.’ Disco looked very agitated. ‘But he said Cookie was in here today looking very angry, we missed him by about half an hour.’

  ‘It’s probably nothing,’ I said knowing exactly what it was and it was so far from nothing you could barely see nothing without a telescope, nothing was a dot way, way back on the horizon. I wished him a happy weekend overflowing with hops and barley.

  Heading home, I didn’t give Tommy, Champagne Charlie and Rob Beach a second thought, I was more concerned about Cookie.

  32

  I was mother.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Perry. I’d poured her enough tea. She mixed in a dash of milk and then whilst leaving it to stand, broke off the corner of a biscuit.

  I sat back in my seat, but found everything a little uncomfortable and cold – the chair, the coffee shop, the atmosphere. It had been decorated art deco style: glossy tiled walls, marble table-tops and straight high-backed chairs in black tubular steel. The only way I could sit comfortably was leaning forwards, elbows on the table. Mum would have been appalled. We’d beaten the lunchtime crowd, although it was now beginning to fill up.

  Perry was polite, pleasant company but that was all. The spark from Friday night was missing. It had taken a lot of charm and persuasion to get her to come out, and I genuinely thought the historic beauties of Rochester High Street would be a sure-fire winner. We’d spent a couple of hours wandering around the Castle garden, around the Cathedral, and up and down the red bricked High Street and when I suggested stopping for a drink and bite to eat before heading home Perry chose this place because it was an independent. Being too eager to please I agreed, but my aching back was beginning to regret it.

  Small talk felt like hard work. Before too long we had stopped speaking and sat there smiling fake smiles. I couldn’t think of anything new to say and my mind started drifting. I didn’t like this place – white glazed brick tiles with a black band course screamed public toilet to me rather than roaring twenties. Black-and-white prints of Rochester landmarks in identical black frames were fixed to the walls symmetrically, although the fourth one along was pissed and stood misaligned, not by much, but enough to notice if you were trying to pass the time waiting for the other person to speak.

  The low midday sun coming through the front windows cast shadows across the ceiling making the skips in the plaster stand out. They hadn’t trowelled it firmly enough, the trowel’s meant to
glide smoothly in long strokes but if it’s held too flat to the ceiling it can drag, leading to marks like those. Mind you the decorator’s equally at fault for not fine filling and smoothing it out when he painted it. Putting it all together – the misaligned picture frame, the shaky plaster and the poor decoration – it said DIY to me, the guy buttering the baguettes is probably the same guy who grouted the tiles. Thinking Tommy would have got that ceiling as smooth as glass, it took me a few seconds to notice Perry speaking to me.

  ‘I like you Mark, you’re a nice guy, but what’s going on with you? It’s all a bit too…’

  ‘Complicated?’ I said, pre-empting what she was struggling to say.

  ‘I was going to say weird, but complicated will do.’

  ‘It’s work stuff, but yeah, it’s all a bit weird.’

  ‘Really? All this with the police? How can that be work?’

  ‘It just is,’ I said, and it was true, all I wanted to do was earn a living yet somehow, I’m up to my neck in everyone else’s problems.

  From the way she reached for her teacup and sat sideways on from me I could tell Perry wasn’t convinced.

  ‘Look, the other night, I’d had a drink and I got jumped. I can’t be the first mugging victim you’ve ever seen surely?’ She slowly shook her head as if carefully considering this thought. ‘And the murders, that’s the police clutching at straws. Tommy was my friend and Sally, as well as being someone I’d done some work for recently is – was – family, of sorts, distantly. The police have pounced upon the fact that I knew them both and tried to fit me up for an easy result, but as soon as they actually looked into it seriously that all fell apart. Hopefully they’ll now start doing their job properly.’

  She relaxed a little, and turned herself back towards me. I took this as a good sign.

  ‘Forget about all of that stuff, it’s noise, don’t worry about it, I’m not,’ I lied. ‘It’ll all work itself out in the end.’

  Perry reached across the table and placed her hand over mine. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Okay. Let’s go home.’

  Perry had made a point of telling me on the drive home she had some studying she needed to do when she got back. I took that to be a diplomatic way of kicking me into touch, so when I say I was pleasantly surprised I actually mean I was astounded when she suggested getting together later in the evening. Naturally I agreed. She offered to bring the pizza and the wine if I sorted out a movie – sounded a good deal to me.

  Mr Skinner had been asleep under a nearby tree, but bounded up the path to greet his new lady as we approached. Perry tiptoed up and planted a kiss on my cheek then said goodbye. I watched them both disappear inside the house, feeling the warm sensation on my cheek linger long after they’d gone. I was happy.

  Thinking things had gone far better than expected I sat in front of the television and started to drowse, only to be prodded back to life by my ringing phone.

  ‘Mark, it’s Cookie, are you home?’

  I confirmed I most definitely was not.

  ‘I know you are, I’ll be there in five minutes.’

  Three and a half minutes later my window exploded inwards and a tsunami of glass splinters rained down on me. A steel scaffold clip embedded itself in my sofa. Cookie’s angry face rose up through the window frame.

  ‘Outside. Now.’

  Stunned, I rose, shaking the glass from my hair, hearing it crunch beneath me. The sudden jolt of adrenaline meant I didn’t register it slicing into my bare feet. Outside waited the Cookie crew: Neil Cook and three of his scaffolding gang. None of them looked happy, but neither was I. The confusion had worn off, replaced by other emotions. My hands were shaking and the rage was erupting through me.

  ‘Cookie. What…You could have killed me!’

  ‘You’re lucky they’re here,’ he said. ‘I was going throw it straight at you.’

  ‘But… why? What?’

  ‘I want paying. You’ve paid the Blunts, I want mine.’

  This was what I was afraid of. Chapman really dropped me in it by dropping dead, because everyone from his job was entitled to their final payment. Everyone’s equally entitled, but being the most vicious of all animals gave Blunt more entitlement. The rest stood back to let him eat first, but once he was satisfied, I knew a feeding frenzy would ensue, they’d have all smelt blood and come in their packs for what’s left.

  Cookie was physically the complete opposite to Blunt. Roofers tend to be short, squat and agile with a lot of upper body strength. Scaffolders tend to be tall and lanky, with incredibly strong forearms and massive hands from juggling and tossing around twenty-foot steel tubes as easily as a cheerleader’s baton. Cookie looked like Steptoe on steroids.

  I felt the fury coursing through my veins, hot and spiky, I knew this was my last warning signal before my rage erupted, and looking at Cookie’s expression, I could tell he was in the same state. Instinctively, I felt myself all over, searching for anything that could be used as a weapon, as I could see he was preparing to charge.

  ‘Don’t insult me! I want my money.’ Cookie flexed the fingers of his massive hands, doubling them into even more massive fists. Sleeves of dense black ‘Maori’ tattoos ran from wrist to shoulder and the veins in his forearms bulged in tension beneath the ink. Those of us unfortunate enough to know Cookie from old knew those big solid black patterns masked copious Nazi filth beneath, but nobody could misread the hate burning in his eyes.

  ‘I don’t have it yet,’ I said. ‘I need a bit more time, I’m working on it. You know this.’

  ‘Blunty says you’re back in the money now,’ said Cookie. The dull sheen of his steel toecap poked through the boot’s worn leather; the last thing I want is that connecting with my head like a Ronaldo penalty. His hands twitched and his eyes were wide, any second now and he’d be on me. I’d found a splinter of glass, about four inches long, in the folds of my T-shirt and I gripped it down by my side, its edges cut the pads of my fingers but the discomfort would be worth it if I could use it like a shiv once he’s on me.

  ‘Blunt’s wrong.’

  ‘You’ve had long enough to pay me Mark, this has been going on for months. You either pay now, or––’ He didn’t finish the sentence, he didn’t need to. I had nowhere to go from here, I knew at that point I was as good as dead, they were going to kill me for sure and I couldn’t think of any reason that’d persuade them not to. I felt the splinter of glass bite into my hand as I squeezed it firmly. If I’m going down, I’m going down fighting. The blood pooling in my fist felt warm, I was ready, bring it on.

  ‘Get out of here, go on, fuck off!’ Everyone froze, taken aback by the interruption and turned to see where it was coming from. Perry was standing in her doorway.

  ‘I’ve called the police, now fuck off!’

  The crew looked at Cookie for instruction, Cookie seemed to be weighing up his options, before giving a nod in the opposite direction.

  ‘This isn’t finished. We will get this sorted,’ said Cookie. He wouldn’t break his eye contact with me so I didn’t notice one of his men had moved until he was delivering a powerful right hook that landed against the side of my neck and knocked me straight over. I struggled on to all fours and spat blood watching the Cookie crew make their exit.

  Cookie looked back. ‘Paki bitch!’ and spat a glob of milky mucus at Perry’s feet. The ink might be hidden on the skin but the ignorance had leached deep into the bones.

  Perry helped me to my feet and led me into her house. She sat me down gently. Neither of us spoke as she cleaned and bandaged my wounds, expertly extracting tiny diamonds of glass and dabbing antiseptic to my cuts.

  ‘Work stuff, eh? Complicated, eh?’ she said, and her upward inflection sounding like she was teasing. I looked at her and realised she wasn’t. ‘Do you think they’ll come back?’

  Probably, I thought. ‘No,’ I said.

  33

  We surveyed the damage. The front window had gone, glass sprayed in all directions over every surface. The
scaffold clip stuck out between my sofa cushions like a solitary jagged old tooth. It hadn’t ripped it, but looking at the size of the loose hanging bolt I imagine I’d be missing an eye if it had indeed come straight at me.

  ‘Cookie,’ I said to his voicemail, ‘listen, just give me a couple more days and I’ll sort this, just a couple of days. Please.’

  We took it in turns with the vacuum cleaner. It was well into the night before we could go over the same area of carpet without hearing that distinctive crunching sound as it sucked up miniscule splinters.

  In the shower, I held my head under the jet to feel the abrasive edges of countless tiny slivers scrape across my scalp, and over my face. I watched the blood sparkle as the light caught the fragments, blood diamonds swirling down the drain.

  Downstairs, Perry had wiped clean all the shelves and surfaces. ‘I think that’s the best we’re going to get it,’ she said, seeing me return. ‘Although I suspect there’ll be fine splinters everywhere for a long time to come; you’d better buy yourself some slippers.’

  ‘Whatever happened to the police? Too busy for a domestic dispute, I suppose.’

  ‘I’ve a confession to make.’ Suddenly she looked very girlish. ‘I never actually called them. Well, knowing you as I do, I thought you probably wouldn’t want them involved. Was that okay?’

  ‘Probably for the best. You were pretty impressive back then, standing up to that lunatic.’

  ‘A few weekend shifts in A&E hardens you up quick enough, you soon get used to drunks, thugs and racist arseholes.’

  I fixed a sheet of ply across the window as a temporary overnight measure and phoned Disco asking him to repair it properly in the morning for me. Whilst Perry set about heating up a pizza in my kitchen I let myself in to her house – there were things I simply didn’t want to risk having in mine whilst it was unsecure. I clutched my spare toolbox – Hamlet’s Peppa Pig tote bag full of money and Brennan’s file locked inside it – and I pushed it deep into the dark corner of Perry’s understairs cupboard, obscuring it with a few bags and shoes, figuring it’d be safe there.