Martyn Pig (21 page)

No, not OK.

She can do anything: voices, the way people walk, their posture, anything. She's brilliant.

Her bag.

A big old rucksacky thing with pockets and zips all over the place, big enough to carry a small horse.

I went over to the bureau.

Just a bit queasy.

Opened it.

Would you mind going downstairs?

No chequebook, no cashcard.

The roar of the toilet flushing. Taps running. Footsteps on the ceiling. What is she doing?

No birth certificate, no marriage certificate, no medical card. No solicitor's letters.

Give me the cashcard and I'll put it back in the bureau.

How did she know?

Excuse me.

Why, Alex?

I'm not just a pretty face, you know.

Gone.

I'm not just a pretty face, you know.

Why?

I'm not just a pretty face, you know.

Why?

I'm not just a—

‘SHUT UP!'

I walked downstairs in a daze and sank into the armchair, devastated. I couldn't believe it. I didn't believe it. Whatever it was, I didn't believe it. She wouldn't do that. Would she? She wouldn't. No, there must be a simple explanation. Think about it.

I thought about it.

Alex at the wardrobe. Tense and fidgety, eyes darting all over the room. Alex at the bureau. Reality. Laughter. Alex being sick. Poor Alex. Pretty Alex. Smart Alex ... I thought about it until my head hurt, and then I thought about it some more – What about this? What about that? Yes? No? Maybe this. Maybe that. How? When? Why? What? Where? – but all it did was send me spinning round in circles. I couldn't think straight. It was like trying to get an octopus into a box: every time I got one leg in, another leg wriggled its way out. I wasn't getting anywhere. And then I remembered something Sherlock Holmes had said.
When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth
. So that's what I did. I made myself some tea, cleared my mind, then sat down and eliminated as much of the impossible as I could. And what I was left with was this: Alex took the chequebook, the cashcard, Dad's identification, and the letters. She also took the jacket. And probably some other clothes, too. A shirt, pair of trousers, maybe a coat. Stuffed them all in that damn great bag of hers and just walked out. Why? Think about it ... her mum. Of course! Her mum. She's about the same size as Dad, same age, same general appearance. She can act. Stick her in a dirty old shirt and jacket, bit of theatrical make-up ... she's got ID ... she dresses up as Dad, goes to the bank first thing this morning and draws out the thirty thousand. No one's going to know the difference, especially a bank clerk. It's not impossible. Improbable? Maybe. But it's not impossible, is it?

Yes, it is.

It's impossible.

But then again ...

I don't know.

Maybe.

Yes.

No.

The octopus was getting out again. I was losing it. I even started thinking that it was all just a joke. A surprise. All right, supposing Alex
had
taken the chequebook and clothes and everything, that her mum
had
gone to the bank and drawn out all the money ... it didn't necessarily mean they were cheating me, did it? Maybe they were just trying to
help
? To save me the bother of getting the money out bit by bit. After they'd got the thirty thousand pounds Alex was going to turn up at the front door with a big smile on her face and a pocket full of cash –
ta daah!
But something had gone wrong. At the bank. Yes, that's it. Something went wrong at the bank. They got caught. That's where they are now, at the police station, being interrogated ...

Don't be stupid.

If Alex's mum had been arrested disguised as William Pig, carrying a chequebook and birth certificate in the name of William Pig, trying to draw out thirty thousand pounds from the account of William Pig, the police would have been round here hours ago. You don't need Inspector Morse to work that one out.

The truth.

Face it.

Whatever remains is the truth. They've gone. She's gone. Taken the money and gone. Ripped you off. Conned you. Used you. Betrayed you. It was all an act. She's an actress. How could you ever have thought anything else? You, Martyn Pig, with Alex? Beautiful Alex. No chance. Not in a million years. What have you got to offer? Dean was right. She's a woman. Know what I mean?

Dean. She was in it with Dean all along. Doughboy. Not as dumb as you thought. The two of them. They just used me to get Dad out of the way ...

No.

She wouldn't have let me frame him. If she was in it with Dean, she wouldn't have let me frame him.

No.

It was just her and her mum. Mother and daughter. Has-been and wannabe. I'd been had by a has-been and a wannabe.

Yes.

When?

When did she plan it? Right from the start? And whose idea was it? Her mum's? Or hers?

No.

How could she?

She couldn't.

No.

So, where's she gone?

Where is she?

What's she doing?

What am I going to do?

What
can
I do?

Did I ever mean
anything
to her?

Alex?

Answer me.

Tell me what happened.

Tell me what you've done.

Tell me it's impossible.

Tell me.

Please.

I was still sitting there at midnight when the doorbell rang.

Everything bad I'd thought about her disappeared in a flash. I was wrong. I was stupid. I was an idiot. How could I ever have thought she'd do such a thing? Betray me? Alex? We were friends. Best friends. Maybe more. I raced to the door and flung it open.

‘We're looking for Mr Pig.'

The police. Two of them. The one who spoke was a silver-haired man with a weathered face and sharp eyes. Medium height, stout, round-shouldered. He had a crumpled look about him. Beneath his raincoat he wore a dark blue suit that didn't seem to fit properly.

‘Mr William Pig,' he continued. ‘Is he in?'

I shook my head.

He held out his warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector Breece. This is Detective Sergeant Finlay.' Finlay flashed his card. Tall, sad-faced, about thirty, he looked a bit dim but probably wasn't. Breece looked past me into the hall. ‘Where's your dad, son?'

House lights clicked on across the street, bedroom curtains twitched.

Breece looked at me. ‘Are you on your own?'

I nodded again.

‘What about your mum?'

I shook my head.

‘Can you
speak
, son?'

‘Yes,' I said.

‘What's your name?'

‘Martyn,' I said.
Martyn Pig. Martyn with a Y, Pig with an I and one G
.

‘Where is he, Martyn?'

‘Who?'

‘Your father.'

‘I don't know.'

He sighed. ‘Do you think we could come in?'

‘What for?'

‘Because it's bloody freezing out here, that's what for.'

I hesitated. Breece just stood there waiting.

‘Have you got a search warrant?' I asked him.

‘A search warrant?'

I shrugged.

Breece sighed. ‘Look, Martyn. We just want to have a chat. About your dad. It won't take a minute.'

I said nothing.

‘If you want a search warrant,' he continued in his dead-pan voice, ‘Sergeant Finlay will wait here while I drive all the way back to the station. Then I'll have to wake someone up to sign the warrant. Then I'll have to drive all the way back and by the time I get here I'll be in a foul mood. Is that what you want?'

I didn't even know if they needed a search warrant. I'd only said it because I couldn't think of anything else to say.

What could I do? I stepped back and let them in.

Breece followed me into the kitchen and sat down at the table while I started to make some tea. I heard Finlay clomping up the stairs.

‘Where's he going?'

‘Bathroom,' Breece answered.

I took three mugs from the cupboard and rinsed them in the sink. Breece's reflection shimmered in the kitchen window. He hadn't taken his raincoat off. His hair was wet. A notepad was open on the table.

‘Do you know Dean West?' he said.

I nearly dropped a mug. ‘What?'

‘Dean West,' he repeated patiently. ‘Do you know him?'

‘I thought you wanted to talk about my dad?'

‘Just answer the question, please. Do you know Dean West?'

‘Sort of.'

‘Sort of?'

‘I know who he is.'

Breece flipped through the pages of his notepad. ‘Tall, blond hair, ponytail? Rides a motorbike.'

‘Could be.'

‘When did you last see him?'

The kettle boiled. I filled the mugs. ‘I don't really
know
him,' I said. ‘He's a friend of a friend, you know.'

Breece stared at my back. ‘When did you last see him?'

‘I don't know. Months ago, in summer. In Boots.'

‘Boots?'

‘The chemists.'

‘Not since then?'

I shook my head. ‘I don't think so, not that I can remember.' Breece scribbled something in his notepad. ‘What's Dean got to do with anything?' I asked.

‘That's what we're trying to find out.'

Footsteps sounded from the stairs, then Finlay popped his head round the kitchen door. ‘Guv.'

Breece rose and went out into the hall. He had a slight limp, as if one foot was heavier than the other. Voices muttered briefly and then Breece came back in and sat down at the table again.

I heard Finlay move into the front room.

‘What's he doing?' I asked.

‘Where's your dad, Martyn?'

‘I don't know.'

‘What about your mum?

‘She doesn't live here.'

‘Where does she live?'

‘I don't know.'

He shook his head. ‘When did you last see your dad?'

I spooned teabags from the cups, threw them at the bin and missed. ‘Saturday.'

‘Where?'

‘Here. He went out.'

‘Where was he going?'

I poured milk into the teas, stirred them and passed one to Breece. ‘To the pub, probably.'

‘And you've not seen him since?'

I sat down at the table. ‘No.'

‘Aren't you worried?'

‘He often stays away for days. He drinks.'

Finlay came back in and stood by the window. He looked bored.

I didn't understand what was going on. What did they know? Did they know about Dad, or not? Why were they asking about Dean? I couldn't work out what to say, whether to lie or just say nothing. It's hard to lie convincingly when you don't know how much the other person knows.

Breece drained his cup, reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out some papers. He unfolded them and laid them out on the table for me to read.

Dear Mr Pig, Further to our meeting on 1st December, I write to confirm that, as requested, a cheque in the amount of £30,000 was paid into your account this morning, being full payment ...

I looked up and met Breece's gaze. Pale blue eyes drilled into mine, unblinking. Wordlessly, he placed another sheet of paper on the table.

Signatures.
W. PIG. W. PIG. W. PIG. W. PIG
... Big droopy
W
, scrunched up little
PIG
.

I heard Alex's voice in my head –
You don't want to leave this lying around, do you? I'll flush it
.

‘Letters addressed to William Pig,' Breece said simply. ‘Your father.'

‘I don't know anything—'

‘And forged signatures. These were found at Dean West's flat this morning.'

‘Dean's?'

‘He was killed in a road accident yesterday afternoon.'

‘Killed?'

‘His motorbike went under a bus. Just down the road, at the roundabout at the bottom of the hill. The brake lines failed.'

‘What?'

‘Failed. Snapped. Possibly severed. Intentionally.'

‘I don't understand.'

Breece stared at me for a moment then reached into his pocket again and removed a clear plastic envelope which he placed on the table. Inside it was a folded blue cloth. Like a face flannel. It was a face flannel. Mine.

‘Sergeant Finlay just found this in your bathroom,' said Breece.

There was a black smear smudged on the flannel.

Oil.

Brake lines.

Dean.

Alex.

No, I thought. It's not real. Severed brake lines? Not in real life. That's the kind of thing that only happens in books. It's ridiculous.

‘I—' I began.

‘Where's the oil from, Martyn?'

‘I don't know.'

‘What was Dean West doing here?'

‘He wasn't—'

‘Where's your father?'

‘I don't
know
.'

‘Where were you yesterday afternoon at twelve-thirty?'

‘I was here!'

‘Guv,' Finlay interrupted.

Breece looked up, annoyed. Finlay just looked at him. Some kind of warning. Breece sighed and turned back to me, his voice calm. ‘Is there anyone you can call? A relative. An aunt, uncle?'

‘What for?'

‘We need to ask you some more questions. You're a minor. There has to be an adult present.'

‘I don't have any relatives.'

‘Friends? Neighbours?'

I shook my head.

Breece stood up. ‘Get your coat, Martyn.'

‘What for?'

He ignored me and turned to Finlay, buttoning up his raincoat. ‘Call Social Services, Don.'

I don't know what kind of car it was, but it was a nice big one, warm and comfortable and quiet, with a dashboard full of softly lit dials. Finlay drove while Breece sat in the back with me. Up close, I could smell his sweat and the sour tang of whisky on his breath. We drove down through the High Street, the car purring almost silently through the night. The snow had turned to a black winter rain. A single wiper scythed effortlessly across the rainswept windscreen, slicing back and forth like a thin black sword.
Shoosh-shush, shoosh-shush, shoosh-shush
...