Burial (7 page)

Mark knuckled at his raw eyes. 'You really are a little prick, aren't you?'

Nathan looked at Howard. Howard raised an eyebrow and shrugged.

Mark said, 'Unless she turns up, and soon, the show's fucked. I've already been interviewed by the police. How long do you think it'll be before the tabloids get hold of that?'

'I see,' said Nathan. 'Right.'

'Right.'

There was no show that evening - they'd be playing a 'best of compilation, one of several they kept behind for illness and other emergencies. Howard and Mark had turned up simply from habit, to sit in the half-lit offices, drinking coffee. Neither was married. Not any more.

Nathan said, 'I'm sorry. For Saturday night. Trying to hit you and that.'

Mark waved it away. They could hear the late-night traffic outside.

Nathan

felt insubstantial.

He said, 'I thought she was going to sleep with you.'

'Who? Your bird?'

'Yeah. Sara.'

'Fat fucking chance. All she did was jabber about you. Rabbit fucking rabbit.'

Nathan's head twitched.

'I'm sorry?'

'All she did was talk about you. How brilliant you are. How I could use you better. Blah blah blah.'

Nathan smiled at his lap.

'Right,' he said.

'The funny thing is, I was sort of starting to believe her.'

Nobody spoke until Nathan said, 'Fuck it. Shall we go for a drink ?'

The only place they could find was a cheesy nightclub. The music was too loud for conversation -- so they just sat round a table and drank, and got drunk, and caught taxis home.

The next morning, a smiling snapshot of Elise Fox was on the front page of the Daily Mirror. But the main photograph was of Mark Derbyshire. He looked unshaven and haunted, snapped getting into his BMW. He wore a polo shirt that was too small for him, and a leather jacket that was too young for him, jeans that were too baggy, and a baseball cap and sunglasses that did not suit him.

The headline read FEARS GROW FOR PARTY GIRL, 19. The subheading was Elise 'Not Seen' Since Disgraced DJ's Showbiz Party.

In the snapshot, Elise was smiling. Nathan stared at it. He couldn't connect the face to the dead girl they had lain face down and naked in the soil.

The full story was on pages 9--13, and Nathan looked it up. But all he saw was a rehearsal of Mark Derbyshire's previous, disastrous run in with the tabloid press -- and a sneering list of the Z-list celebrities 'rumoured' to have been in attendance at his party.

In the evening, Nathan turned up for work as usual. But again, Mark Derbyshire didn't.

The deep scores in Howard's face were deeper. Tonight there was no 'best of tape. Instead, the station had pulled Dave Huckabee, a retired breakfast DJ from a chair on the local television news. Dave had agreed to host the show until Mark Derbyshire returned.

Mark Derbyshire had been accused of no crime, but from the moment another man slipped on his headphones and sat before his microphone, that became a technicality. So did Mark's acquittal, fully thirteen years before. All that mattered to the press was the past accusation and the humiliation that followed it: Mark's 'fall from grace'.

Nathan looked at the newspaper photograph of Mark and was moved to a terrified pity. But he knew he'd let Mark go to prison forever before he allowed himself to be implicated in Elise Fox's disappearance.

He thought of his own face in the newspapers, and felt the world spinning out of control.

The next afternoon, two police officers came to his door.

10

The man -- who was compact, with reddish hair - introduced himself as DS William Holloway. With him was PC Jacki Hadley.

Nathan invited them in.

Holloway asked if he might have a glass of water, then went to the kitchenette and took a mug from the drainer. The mug had been sitting there so long its base was filmed with dust.

The woman, Hadley, stood by the window. A double-decker bus went past. Hadley was watching it. Nathan understood. There was something surreal and fascinating about it: an upper deck of oblivious strangers, sailing directly past your living-room window.

Holloway drained the water.

'Do you mind if I sit?'

'Please.'

He took a dining chair, the first person to sit in it since Sara, in just a T-shirt, reading the Guardian Review.

Hadley stayed by the window, hands clasped at the small of her back, watching the intermittent buses go past.

Nathan sat on the sofa and crossed his legs, offering Holloway a cigarette. Holloway said, 'Not since New Year's Eve, 1989,' and took a biro from his jacket. 'So, Mr Redmond.'

'Nathan.'

'So, Nathan. I expect you'll have gathered why we're here.'

'Pretty much. Mark's party.'

Holloway pointed the biro at him, as if to say Well done!, then said, 'What time did you arrive at the party?'

'I don't know. Nine, maybe. A bit later.'

'And what time did you leave?'

'That, I can't tell you.'

Holloway scrutinized him.

'Drinking,' said Nathan. 'Quite heavily. Quaffing.'

There was a patch of sweat between Nathan's shoulder blades.

Holloway said, 'And while you were there - quaffing - did you see, or speak to Elise Fox?'

'Not that I know of

'Not that you know of

'I mean - there were like a million people there. So all night you're hello this and excuse me that. So I suppose I might have, whatever.

Said hello or something.'

'There's no need to be so nervous. I'm not hungry.'

Nathan boggled at him.

Holloway said, 'I'm not going to eat you.'

'Oh. Ha ha. Yes.'

Holloway grinned, and from his pocket he took a packet of Chewits. He unwrapped four of them, placing the wrappers neatly back in his pocket. Then he popped the sweets into his mouth, four at once, and, chewing, said, 'Did you, to your knowledge - accepting the fact of your heavy drinking - did you see Elise Fox?'

'Not to my knowledge, no.'

'So, I understand you left the party - and then came back.'

'That's right.'

'You left at what time?'

'I'm not sure. Pretty late.'

'After midnight?'

'Before, I'd say. Just before. Quarter to? But I can't be sure. I was--'

'Drinking heavily, I know. So what happened?'

'How do you mean?'

'You left the party, why?'

'Oh. I had an argument.'

'With . . . ?'

'My girlfriend. You know how it is.'

Holloway's cool look implied that no, he didn't know how it was.

And Nathan began to wonder if his apparent ennui might not be some kind of affectation.

'You argued about what?'

'Well, it wasn't an argument. Not at first.'

'Then what was it?'

'I saw her. Dancing with Mark.'

'Mark Derbyshire?'

'The one and only. Yes.'

'And . . .'

'And I got pissed off

'Because she was dancing with him?'

'Because of the way she was dancing.'

'How was she dancing?'

'I don't know. He was, like - he was practically goosing her.'

'And you didn't like that.'

'No, I didn't like that.'

'And you - what, stormed out?'

'I did. I stormed out.'

'With what intention?'

'I don't know, really. I just sort of went for a walk.'

'A walk to where? There isn't really anywhere to go.'

'That's what she said.'

'Who?'

'Sara. My girlfriend.' He ground out the cigarette. 'Ex-girlfriend.'

'Right. That'll be Sara Reed, of this address.'

'That's right.'

'And where is Sara now?'

'She's staying at her friend's. Michelle's. I'd need to look up the address.'

'No need. And how did you get back to the party?'

'A bloke called Bob came driving past.'

'Driving past.'

'He'd left the party. He was on his way home. But he stopped to pick me up.'

'Right. I assume we're talking about Robert Morrow here?'

'Probably. I mean, yes. I didn't know his surname.'

'He picked you up and took you back to the party.'

'That's right, yes.'

'And how long have you known Mr Morrow?'

'I don't really know him. Not really. We met once, a few years back. I hadn't seen him since. Tell the truth, he's a bit odd. He's into ghosts and what have you. Spends his time in haunted houses.'

'I know.'

'Oh. Right. I see.'

'It takes all sorts.'

'Apparently.'

'So. You and Mr Morrow were gone for some time.'

'Probably.'

'What were you doing? Ghost-hunting?'

'Ha. No. I'd stormed off. I was pissed off. Drunk. I had this idea, that I'd walk into the nearest town, village, whatever. Call a minicab.'

'Minicabs are thin on the ground, in that neck of the woods.'

'Well I know that now. The minute I started to sober up, I felt pretty stupid. It was really cold.'

'So Robert Morrow drives past. . .'

'Yeah. He sees me--'

'Limping along, thinks you're a spook . . .'

'Ha, yes. He stops. I get in. We have a chat.'

'About?'

'Love. Life. I tell him about the thing with Sara, her dancing with Mark. Bob convinces me to go back to the party. Talk to her.'

Holloway stared at him, chewing the sweets.

He said, 'Look, Nathan. There's probably not a great deal for you to be worrying about here. All I'm trying to do is establish a timeline.

A big party like that, it's complicated. Life's not like Inspector Morse, right? People are drunk, people take drugs, people have sex with people they shouldn't be having sex with. People get confused about what happened when. People get embarrassed about the way they behaved, they don't want to talk. They lie, pretend to have blacked out. So accounts differ - what happened when, to who, at what time.

It's the nature of these things. I don't care what you were doing in that car with Robert Morrow. I don't care if you two were taking drugs, making love--'

'Drugs,' said Nathan, quickly. 'Cocaine. We had a few toots of cocaine.'

'Good for you. I just need to know exactly when you were doing it--'

'For the timeline.'

'Spot on. So, you and Bob are in the car. Chatting. Love and life.

You neck a bit of Bolivian.'

'Quite a lot, actually.'

'You neck quite a lot of Bolivian. Bob says, don't do this, don't walk out on the girl of your dreams. Or words to that effect, and--'

'And we go back to the party.'

'This is what time?'

'This is, I'm not sure. I was, y'know. My state of mind. But there were some people around when I tried to hit Mark, so--'

'Yes, there were.'

'Oh. Okay. So what time was it?'

'Shortly after 2 a.m.'

'Right. Ouch. A lot of people saw it, then.'

'Quite a few. Something like that - drunken bloke punches the host, misses, nearly falls into the swimming pool - it makes for a bit of a highlight. People remember it. So we use it, a kind of tent pole.

To help establish the timeline.'

'I see. It wasn't a very good punch.'

'From what I hear, it was all a bit Charlie Chaplin.'

'Ah.'

'So, that's it? You left, round midnight. Bob picks you up. You get yourselves a bit fired up. Have a deep and meaningful chat. You go back to the party. Try to land one on your boss--'

'I embarrass myself horribly. Bob drives me home. I wake up, and I want to d
ie.
Merry Christmas.'

Holloway sat there for a few long moments, scrutinizing Nathan with mint-blue eyes. Then he sighed, glancing over at Hadley. She was still looking out the window, as if waiting for another bus to pass.

Holloway said, 'We may be in touch.'

'Okay. Do you think she's all right? The girl.'

'I don't know. I hope so.'

'But you think she'll turn up?'

'They usually do.'

'Good,' said Nathan. 'Good. This is awful. This is awful for every one.

Holloway gave him a courteous nod. Hadley gave him a mute glance. And they were gone, Nathan closing the door on them.

He sat down and put his head in his hands.

Then he went to the kitchen cupboard and removed a bottle of vodka.

He filled the mug from which Holloway had been drinking.

The vodka burned his gullet on the way down and sat like molten glass in his guts. He emptied the bottle. But it wasn't enough.

Sara called.

'Have you found somewhere to go?'

Nathan said, 'No.' And to her teeth-grinding silence he said: 'It's been a weird week. Have you seen the papers?'

Her voice was quiet when she said, 'What do you think? You know him. Is there, could there be anything in it?'

Mortally offended, he cut her short, 'The last thing Mark needs at the moment is his friends gossiping about him.'

Ashamed of herself, she gave Nathan another week in the flat.

One more week, and that was that. If he wasn't gone, she'd have him thrown out.

She had brothers.

He told her thanks, he'd find somewhere as soon as he could.

He put down the phone.

It rang again, immediately.

He picked it up.

'What?'

It wasn't Sara. It was a tabloid journalist called Keith. Keith offered Nathan half his annual salary to talk about Mark Derbyshire.

Nathan looked at the receiver as if it was firm and warm and damp, like a semi-erect penis.

He said, 'How did you get my number?' and, without waiting for an answer, he slammed down the receiver.

He curled on the sofa and tried to sleep.

He woke to the twilight and went to work. They fired him.

He and Howard, both unemployed now, went for a drink.

'Jesus,' said Howard. 'What a week.'

Nathan chinked his glass.

'Fuck it,' he said.

Mark Derbyshire's landline had been disconnected. So in the early afternoon, Nathan called his new mobile. Only four people knew the number. Mark answered almost immediately.

'It's Nathan,' said Nathan.

He didn't know where Mark Derbyshire was speaking from. But he got the idea he was alone in a hotel room, watching Sky Sports and waiting for the phone to ring.