Martyn Pig (22 page)

Although it was late the streets were still busy. Pockets of revellers swayed drunkenly along the pavements, shouting and laughing in the rain, their faces shining with alcohol. Some of them wore tinsel in their hair and Santa hats, others sprayed Silly String or blew tunelessly on party squeakers. Office parties, nightclubs, Christmas celebrations.

Finlay swore quietly as he swerved to avoid a drunk-eyed girl in a short sparkly dress tottering on high heels in the gutter. Breece didn't seem to notice, he just sat there rigidly with his arms crossed, staring out at the rain. Fed up, probably. Working late. Christmas Eve.

I glanced at the clock on the dashboard – one o'clock in the morning.

It was Christmas Day.

The police station was clean and brightly lit. A low, pale brick building at the edge of town, it was surrounded by sparse lawns and smooth sloping driveways. A calming place. It was quiet. An oasis in a desert of small-town noise.

Inside, dark blue carpets covered the floors, deadening the sound of our footsteps as Breece led me past reception, through security doors, up a spiral staircase and then along a series of long narrow corridors. Keyboards clacked softly behind half-open office doors. Muted telephones rang. The hiss of radio static crackled intermittently from unseen radios.

I was taken to a little room, like an office, at the end of a corridor. Breece sat me in a chair and told me to wait, then he left. A uniformed policewoman stood by the door with her hands behind her back, staring at the far wall. She was short and dumpy with a bob of mousy brown hair. A stern woman. I looked up at her and smiled but she didn't smile back.

It was a poky little place, no more than a cubicle, really. A desk, filing cabinets, two hard chairs against the wall, a water dispenser, bits of paper pinned to a wallboard. The desk was a cheap-looking thing made of fake black wood and cluttered with all kinds of stuff. Computer screen, keyboard, mugs full of pens, a telephone, a framed photograph of two young kids with a dog, unwashed coffee cups, empty sandwich wrappers, files, folders, sheets of paper scattered all over the place. I wondered how anyone could work like that. It was a mess.

Lists of green numbers glowed faintly from the computer screen. I studied them for a while but they didn't make any sense.

The policewoman cleared her throat and I turned to look at her, thinking she was about to say something, but she wasn't, she was just clearing her throat. She carried on staring at the wall. She was good at that.

Breece returned after about ten minutes looking tired and irritated. Apparently, there was a problem getting hold of someone from Social Services. They were going to have to question me tomorrow.

‘Does that mean I can go home?' I asked.

Breece smiled humourlessly and shook his head. ‘No.'

I thought they were going to put me in a cell for the night, which would have been interesting. A cold empty room with white walls and a concrete floor, a bunk bed, a lidless toilet, a spyhole that slides up and down in the cell door. I could've sat on the edge of the bed holding my head in my hands, staring down at my feet, with moonlight from the barred window casting prison shadows across my face. But I was too young for that, it seems. So they put me in this odd little windowless room with a proper bed, a carpet, a couple of chairs, a separate toilet and wash-basin, pictures on the walls, there was even a little portable television. Very nice. It was like a cheap hotel room. Not that I've ever been in a cheap hotel room, but that's what I imagine one would be like.

The policewoman showed me into the room and stood by the door while I looked around.

‘Make yourself at home,' she said coldly.

I sat on the edge of the bed and took off my shoes.

‘Thank you,' I said.

She closed the door.

I should have known. I would have known. If it was a story, a murder mystery, I would have spotted the clues, I would have worked out what was happening. It was obvious.

Alex had killed Dean.

The footprints in the snow, leading across the street to Dean's motorbike – they were hers. On Monday. She must have hurried back from Dean's flat while he was at my house, cut the brake lines on his motorbike, then sneaked across the road, walked down to the roundabout at the bottom of the hill and waited for him. Hiding behind a parked car or something. Waiting for the sound of his brakeless motorbike to come hurtling down the road. Watching, making sure. Witnessing his death. That's why she'd acted so strangely when she came back, rubbing her hands, listening to the ambulance siren. She'd just seen him die.

I should have known. I'd
heard
it. I'd heard Dean's motorbike crash. Well, I hadn't actually heard it crash. But I'd heard it stop suddenly. At the bottom of the hill, at the roundabout. I'd heard it and I hadn't thought anything of it.
Acoustic illusion
.

Idiot.

The black smear on Alex's fingers, it was oil. I saw it. She must have wiped it off on the flannel when she went upstairs to the bathroom. And that's probably when she'd taken the chequebook and everything, too. Pretending to be sick so I'd stay downstairs, same as when she took Dad's clothes.

That's OK. You can shut the door, lock it if you want. I'll be in the front room. Don't worry, I won't hear anything.

It was embarrassing.

But cutting the brake lines? That was unbelievable. Like something out of a comic strip. How did she know what to do? Where to cut? How to cut? What to cut? Unbelievable. She was an assassin. Alex the Assassin, cold-eyed and calculating, a hunter, a killer ...

That was it, I think. That was when the reality suddenly hit me. ‘Hey,' it said, ‘this isn't one of your stupid childhood games. This isn't make-believe. It's
not
a murder mystery or something out of a comic strip. This is real. Think about it. She killed someone in cold blood. Your precious Alex actually
murdered
someone ...'

And as the truth sank in I felt my blood draining away.

Alex had killed Dean. Killed him. It wasn't an accident. It wasn't unintentional. It wasn't just one of those things. It was a premeditated act of revenge. He'd humiliated her, he'd made her feel like nothing. He'd used her. And he had to pay. I could understand that. I'd felt the same way myself. But
killing
him ...?

No.

It was too much. Too real. It was
real
real. Not just ... well, not just whatever other
real
I'd been living in for the last week. It was
outside
real.

And it was too much to take.

As I sat there thinking about it my hands started shaking and then my stomach heaved and the next thing I knew I was kneeling in front of the toilet being sicker than I'd ever thought possible.

I've thought about it since, and I still don't quite understand it. I mean, I never liked Dean. I hated him. He was nothing, a stupid, worthless slob. He meant nothing to me. If he'd fallen off a cliff or died of a disease or something I wouldn't have shed any tears, so why did I feel so bad about Alex killing him? Why did it frighten me? What made it so
wrong
? The pain? The violence? The intention? The guilt? Did I feel sorry for him? Did I feel sorry for his parents, his brothers, his sisters ...?

I really don't know.

But something gripped me that night, and whatever it was it turned me inside-out.

After I'd cleaned myself up and walked around the room for a while, my stomach began to settle and my hands eventually stopped shaking. I still didn't feel too good, though. My legs were hot and tingly, I was covered in sweat, and my head was throbbing. I couldn't think clearly. Disturbing images kept flashing through my mind: Dean's motorbike crashing into the side of a bus; the sickening crunch of metal on metal; Alex rubbing her hands together, over and over again, rubbing, rubbing, rubbing ...

I sat down on the bed and stared at the floor, breathing steadily and keeping perfectly still. I don't know if it did any good, but I carried on doing it anyway, and after about ten minutes the headache eased and the images faded into the background. I was still sweating, but I could cope with that, and the hot tingling in my legs had cooled to a barely noticeable itch.

I was ready to start thinking again.

How did it happen?

Why did it happen?

Who thought of it?

Was the whole thing Alex's idea?

Did her mum put her up to it?

Or was it a bit of both?

I don't know. I suppose it all just fell into place. Luck. Fate. Destiny. Everything is determined ...

But however it happened, and whoever's idea it was, they'd certainly made the most of it. They'd thought of everything. They had the money, the tapes were gone, there was nothing to connect them with Dean, nothing to connect them with me, and nothing to connect them with Dad. And there was nothing I could do about it. Nothing Dean could do about it. Nothing Dad could do about it.

It was perfect.

The only thing I didn't understand was why Alex had left the solicitor's letters and forged signatures in Dean's flat. They implicated Dean in Dad's death, that was obvious. But the police didn't know that Dad was dead. And even if they did, Dean was dead, too. So why make the connection? All it did was send the police to me. So, was Alex pointing the finger at Dean, or at me? Or both of us?

Or maybe she was ...

It didn't really matter. None of it mattered. How, when, where, who, what, why ... it didn't make any difference. It was done. All that mattered now was saving my own neck.

I stretched out on the bed and closed my eyes.

It was time for some serious thinking.

I
was sitting on the edge of the bed tying my shoelaces when the door opened and Breece came in. It was eight o'clock in the morning. I hadn't slept. I'd spent most of the night sitting in a plastic chair, staring at the wall and racking my brains. It wasn't easy. There was a lot to think about. There was also a lot to not think about, and not thinking about things is hard work, especially when your world has been turned upside-down and you haven't slept for twenty-four hours. So, by the time Breece showed up I wasn't feeling too great, but I was as ready as I'd ever be.

Or so I thought.

Breece was wearing the same suit he'd been wearing the night before. Either he hadn't slept, or he only had one suit. From the bags under his eyes and the way he shuffled wearily into the room I guessed he hadn't slept. The policewoman who followed him in and closed the door looked friendlier than the one from the night before. Younger, prettier, with pale blonde hair and a kind face.

‘Morning, Martyn,' said Breece. ‘This is WPC Sanders. Sally.'

I nodded. Breece came over to the bed and sat down heavily beside me. He still smelled of sweat and tired whisky. ‘We've found your father,' he said, looking me in the eye. ‘He's dead. I'm sorry.'

When you're not sure what to do, it's always best to do nothing. So I did nothing, just stared at Breece with blank eyes. I hadn't expected this. I hadn't planned for this at all. How did they find him so fast? What should I do?
Do what you'd do if you were innocent
, the voice in my head told me.
Imagine it
.
You
are
innocent
.
You don't know anything about it
.

‘Dead?' I said, stunned.

Breece was studying me. I could tell. The sympathetic look on his face couldn't hide the doubt in his eyes. I held his gaze. You don't know anything, I told him silently. You don't
know
anything. You might
think
you know, but you don't
know
. You can never know what's in my head. Only I know that. I know it. You don't know anything.

‘I'm sorry,' he said.

But there was no sorrow in his eyes, just a world-weary suspicion. He stood up and made way for WPC Sanders. Sally. As she sat down and put her arm around my shoulder I couldn't help noticing the sweet smell of her perfume – so sweet it was almost sickly. But not unpleasant. It reminded me of the scent that the girls in the first year at school wear – cheap sweets and flowers.

She put her hand on my knee and spoke quietly. ‘All right, Martyn?'

I nodded and started snivelling, watching Breece from the corner of my eye. Cold, hard eyes stared back at me from across the room. He didn't want to talk to me, he didn't want to be close, he just wanted to watch from a distance. Was I a sad young boy or a cold-hearted liar?

‘How ... how did he die?' I asked, beginning to sob.

‘We don't know yet,' Sally answered.

I stared at her hand on my knee. Small, slender, ringless fingers. Soft and clean.

I wiped snot from my nose. ‘When did it ... when did it happen? Wh ... where was he?'

Sally passed me a tissue and looked to Breece for advice. He nodded silently – tell him.