Martyn Pig (23 page)

‘His body was found at the quarry,' she said.

‘Where?'

‘The old quarry. Do you know it?'

I shook my head and wiped at my eyes. ‘What happened? Was he drunk? Was it an accident?'

Sally looked to Breece again. He removed his hands from his pocket and ran a hand through his hair. ‘It's too early to tell,' he said. ‘We'll talk about it later, when you feel up to it. We'll need to ask you some questions.'

‘What about?'

‘Later.' He tugged at the loose skin on his neck. ‘Your aunt is here.'

Damn. How did they find her?

‘She'd like to see you.'

‘No.'

Breece eyed me suspiciously. ‘She's here now.'

‘I don't want to see her.'

‘Why not?'

‘I just don't.' I cried harder. Sally's hand tightened on my knee. ‘I don't have to, do I?'

‘Well, no,' said Breece. ‘Not if you don't want to. But I don't see—'

‘I don't. I don't
want
to see her.'

His eyes narrowed. He didn't like it, but there wasn't much he could do, was there? He couldn't
make
me see her. He rubbed at the stubble on his chin. ‘Do you want anything to eat? Some breakfast?'

I shook my head.

‘Sally will stay with you for a while.'

I sniffed and swallowed and tried to be brave. ‘No, thanks. I'm all right. I think I'd like to be on my own for a bit.'

He shrugged and turned to go.

Sally gave me a final squeeze and a sad smile. ‘Are you sure, Martyn?'

‘Yes,' I mumbled.

She rose to follow Breece through the door.

‘Inspector?' I said, just as the door was closing.

Breece stopped.

‘Could I have a cup of tea, please?'

He stared at me for a second, nodded, then closed the door.

Not bad, I thought. Not bad at all. Pretty convincing. It's actually quite easy to make yourself cry. Alex told me how to do it. All you do is think of something really sad. I thought about this dog I used to have when I was a kid. Jacko. A little brown mongrel with a black eye-patch. He was just a puppy. I really liked him. Loved him, I suppose. I'd never had a pet before. We used to go everywhere together. Me and Jacko. We were inseparable. Then, one day, I came home from school and he was gone. Dad had got rid of him because he kept peeing on the carpet. Sold him to someone down the pub.

I don't think I ever got over that. Even thinking about it now there's tears in my eyes. He was a bastard, my dad, he really was.

After Breece left I thought about Jacko some more and carried on snuffling and looking distraught for a while. There were probably video cameras somewhere, behind the mirror, hidden in the wall. Breece might be sitting in the room next door, watching me on a blurred monitor. I wasn't falling for that.

A little later, Sally brought me a cup of tea. She reminded me of someone, but I couldn't think who it was. Someone off the television. Her mouth ... something about the shape of her mouth, that funny little pout ... Polly, that's who it was. Polly whatever-her-name-is from
The Bill
, the nice blonde one. Polly the Policewoman.

‘Cup of tea, Martyn,' she said softly, placing the mug on the table with another sad smile.

‘Thanks,' I said mournfully.

After she'd gone I put my head in my hands and began crying again. This time the tears really poured out. Maybe I'd taken things too far, overdone it, made myself grieve so convincingly that even
I
was fooled. Or maybe it was just everything – Mum, Dad, Jacko, Alex, Dean, Aunty Jean, life, death, emptiness, whatever ... everything. Maybe I'd just had enough of it all. Maybe. Who knows? Whatever the reason, I couldn't stop myself. I sat there on the edge of the bed and blubbed like a baby.

After a while the tears dried up and the sobbing eventually stopped. I felt drained. Tired. Dried up and sticky-eyed. I washed my face in cold water, drank some cold tea, then lay back on the bed.

It's hard work, crying. My body was absolutely exhausted. Dehydrated, I suppose. But my mind was clear again. I felt rejuvenated. I was back in control. The tears had sluiced away all the rubbish in my head. My mind was washed clean. Cleansed. Unjumbled. I could think.

I thought.

I didn't know how they'd found Dad, but they had. Which meant they would have found Dean's hair under his fingernails, found the cigarette end, probably matched it with cigarette ends from his flat. He'd be their prime suspect. Now Dean was dead and he was linked with me. Oil. Oil from Dean's motorbike on a flannel in
my
bathroom. First problem.

Second problem. They'd know I'd lied about Dean. Why? Why should I lie?

Third problem. I had to assume they'd searched the house. Was there anything in the house? Any evidence? Traces of the burned tapes? It wouldn't matter, they wouldn't know what they were. What about the tape we made of Dad snoring? Where was that? Did Alex take it? Did it matter? No. They wouldn't bother checking tapes unless they had a reason. Or would they? No, surely not. Anything else? Dad's bedroom? The fireplace? Traces of blood? I cleaned it. What about the gloves? Shoes, clothes, fibres? Too much to think about.

Fourth problem. Letters, forged signatures in Dean's flat. How? Why?

Fifth problem, sixth problem ...

I didn't understand how it had all got so complicated. It's never so complicated in books. Well, it is, but in a different way. Complications in stories are simple complications. Clues, plots, twists and turns. Complicated but solvable. But these complications, real complications, these were all blurred together, all mixed up. It's like the difference between a well-constructed ball of string and a raggedy old pile of knots. With the ball of string you can get hold of one end, slowly unravel it and eventually you'll find out where it comes from. But with the pile of knots you pull on one end and the whole bloody lot moves at once. All together. It's just a mess. The austere simplicity of fiction versus the tangled wool of fact. Who said that? Einstein again? No. Who was it? I don't know. I must have read it somewhere. Or did I? Maybe no one said it? Maybe I made it up myself?

Anyway, it was ridiculous. Everything was all knotted up together. Even
I
didn't know what was going on, and I was the one who'd started it all. I was lost in a raggedy old pile of knots.

My stomach rumbled. This time it wasn't nausea, it was hunger. I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten anything and my stomach was empty from all that throwing up. I was starving. It was Christmas Day. I should be tucking into a big plate of Christmas dinner. Turkey, spuds, sausages, bacon, gravy, peas, sprouts ...

Forget it. You're in mourning, remember, you're too sad to eat.

I turned my attention back to the knots.

The interview room wasn't anything like the one in my dream. No bare concrete walls gleaming with condensation. No naked lightbulb. No hook-nosed Sherlock Holmes staring down at me with cruel eyes. It was just a room, an ordinary-looking office room: freshly painted walls, fluorescent light, a nice clean table, comfortable chairs, there was even a window. I could see pale clouds washing against a paper-white sky. The snow had stopped and the sun was out, just in time for Christmas.

The only similarities to my dream were the big black twin-cassette tape recorder set on a shelf against the wall, and me, sitting at the table, my hands sweating.

Sergeant Finlay reached across, inserted two cassettes in the tape recorder, and pressed a button. A high-pitched whine sounded briefly and a red light blinked. Across the table Inspector Breece looked bored as he loosened his tie.

‘Interview with Martyn Pig commenced—' He glanced at his watch. ‘—12.32pm, December 25. Those present: Detective Inspector Samuel Breece, Detective Sergeant Donald Finlay and—' He looked across at the man sitting next to me, inviting him to give his name.

‘Peter Bennett,' the man said.

‘—and Peter Bennett from Social Services.'

He was a weedy-looking young man with short ginger hair and a short ginger moustache that was hardly worth the bother of growing. It looked like a short ginger caterpillar. When Breece had introduced me to him half an hour earlier my first thought was that he looked like a bell-ringer. His skin was sickly and colourless and his lips were too thin. He looked as if he didn't eat properly. He'd sat me down and explained the situation – you're not under arrest, you're free to leave whenever you like, you don't have to answer any of the questions, blah blah blah – but his voice was too boring to listen to and I found myself staring at his clothes. Brown suit jacket over a collarless white shirt, buttoned to the neck, new blue jeans and brown slip-on shoes. He can't make up his mind what he wants to be, I thought. Smart business-like professional or cool young dude? I could have told him it didn't matter, whatever he wore he'd look like a bell-ringer.

Now, I watched as he snapped open a slim brown briefcase, removed a notepad and pen, then replaced the briefcase on the floor beneath the table. Breece watched him too, with barely disguised disdain, waiting while he opened the notepad, found a fresh page, clicked his pen, then looked up with eager eyes.

‘Ready?' asked Breece with a hint of sarcasm.

‘Go ahead, Inspector,' Bennett replied, pen poised.

Breece turned his haggard attention to me. ‘You understand that you're here of your own free will, Martyn?'

I didn't think I was, but I nodded anyway.

‘Could you answer out loud, please, for the benefit of the tape.'

‘Yes,' I said.

‘You don't have to answer any questions if you don't want to, you're not under arrest. We just want to clear a few things up.'

‘Right.'

‘Good.' Breece glanced down at his own notepad. ‘When we spoke to you at your home on Tuesday night, you said you'd last seen your father on Saturday.'

‘Yes.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Sure that I said it or sure that it was Saturday?'

He looked at me. ‘I'll ask you again. When did you last see your father?'

‘Saturday. That's when he started feeling better.'

‘Better? What do you mean?'

‘He was ill.'

‘When?'

‘When what?'

‘When was he ill?'

I looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully. ‘At least until Friday. That's when Aunty Jean came round. She'll tell you. She saw him. He was still in bed then. Flu or something.'

‘But he was better on Saturday?'

‘Yes. He started feeling better in the morning, then later on, about five or six, he told me he was going out.'

‘Did he say where?'

I shook my head. ‘Just out.'

‘What did you do when he didn't return?'

‘Nothing. I told you, he often didn't come back. He drank a lot.'

Breece stared at me for a moment, disbelief evident in his eyes. I looked down at the table and glanced across at Bennett's notepad. The page was filled with neat, girly writing – big, round letters in pale blue ink. Circles for dots. His pen, an expensive-looking gold thing, hovered over the page, waiting for the interview to go on.

Breece rose from the table, hitched up his trousers and walked to the window. ‘Do you own a sleeping bag, Martyn?'

I looked bemused. ‘A sleeping bag?'

‘A sleeping bag.'

I glanced at Bennett.

‘Is this relevant, Inspector?' Bennett asked.

Breece ignored him. ‘Do you own a sleeping bag?' he repeated.

‘No,' I replied.

‘Are you sure?'

‘Why should I?'

‘I fail to see the rele—' Bennett began.

‘Mr Bennett, the question is relevant to our enquiry. Please allow Martyn to answer.'

Bennett scribbled petulantly in his notepad and Breece went on. ‘What about your father? Did he own a sleeping bag?'

‘I don't know,' I said. ‘He might have. I don't know.'

Breece glanced over my shoulder at Finlay, blinked, then looked back at me. ‘Your father's body was found inside a sleeping bag. Fibres similar to those found in the sleeping bag were removed from your house last night by forensics officers.'

‘Inside a sleeping bag?' I said, bewildered.

‘Inspector ...' Bennett piped up in his for-goodness-sake-this-is-a-child-you're-talking-to voice.

Breece ignored him again. He walked slowly back to the table and sat down, watching me all the time with an expression that managed to convey both concern and distrust. ‘The sleeping bag was stapled together, weighed down with stones and then sunk in a water-filled gravel pit.'

‘Really, Inspector!' Bennett snapped as he jumped up out of his chair. ‘I can't allow this!'

Breece raised his head slowly and fixed Bennett with an insolent glare. ‘Sit down, Mr Bennett.'

‘You're going too far, Inspector. Martyn's—'

‘Sit
down
, Mr Bennett,' Breece ordered.

Bennett's face glowed red as he lowered himself back into his chair. I almost felt sorry for him.

Breece went on. ‘Preliminary reports indicate that your father may have been dead for some time.'

‘I don't understand,' I said.

‘Neither do we. That's why we're talking to you.' He paused, scratching absently at the back of his neck. ‘Is there anything you want to tell me, Martyn? Anything you might have
forgotten
?'

‘About what?'

‘Anything.' He paused. ‘Dean West, for example.'

This was the tricky part. I hesitated. ‘Maybe ...'

Breece leaned back in his chair. ‘Maybe?'

I waited, blinking my eyes, looking nervous. ‘I was scared.'

‘Scared of what?'

‘Of him, Dean.'

‘Why were you scared of him?'