Why We Die (15 page)

‘Possibly he queried your gender.’

‘You fucking bitch.’

‘It’s been said. And what’s the upshot of that little chat, Win? You plan to knock him and his brothers over, take them for, what did you say, a couple of hundred grand?’

There was another silence: a shorter one. Then Win said, ‘Where’s this going?’

‘You ever get a look at Sweeney, Win? He’s kind of short, kind of bald. He has these fuzzy patches he can’t reach to shave, and on his best day, you’d not notice him twice. What makes you think he can’t carry a grudge any better than you?’

‘You think I’ve wound him up and pointed him, don’t you?’

‘I think you told him about the Dunstans as a way of leaning on me. And I think you forgot to take his reactions into account.’ Zoë paused. ‘Just because you’re kind of funny-looking doesn’t mean you have no pride.’

Win said, ‘You probably imagine you’re perceptive. But so what if the dwarf’s upset? It doesn’t affect our plans.’

‘Your plans. The dwarf’s my client. If he’s got it into his head to even the score, Arkle will eat him for breakfast. That’ll be your fault, Win.’

‘We’re partners. Remember?’

‘Only in your head. Anything happens to Sweeney, I’ll hold you responsible.’

She’d hung up before she got dragged into debate. And immediately afterwards, left the flat too; the image of Sweeney confronting the remaining Dunstans was not a happy one.

So she was driving to Totnes again. It was late Saturday afternoon.

The day’s calm dissolved after she’d spoken to Jeff, as if his disgruntlement had spread. The roads grew cluttered and sluggish, clogged by inexplicable tailbacks which felt to Zoë like a mechanic’s curse. It was evening before she drove into town, and the streetlamps were winking on. Echoing in her brain were details of another story, about a local woman who had stabbed her husband to death in their flat. Variations on the theme had occupied her radio the whole way down.

Spousal abuse
Win had said, and that was certainly the chorus. The facts were sketchy – Baxter Dunstan had died on Wednesday, the same day Zoë had last been here; Katrina Dunstan, née Blake, had been arrested that same day, after calling the police from the kitchen in which he lay dead – but the speculation mortaring the gaps left little room for doubt. Round-table discussions of domestic violence explored the outer limits of self-defence, and cases were exhumed in which convictions had been overturned, sentences reduced, and acquittals handed down to women who’d burned their husbands in their beds. Amid the token voices of dissent, the general feeling was that men who raised their fists to women wouldn’t be missed. Zoë could get behind that. And if his brother was anything to go by, Baxter had probably thought target practice a form of foreplay.

That was the discussion thread: the headline was, Katrina Blake had been released pending full investigation. The fact that she’d not been charged indicated what a hot-button topic this was, Zoë thought. There followed one of those throat-clearing moments you get when one part of the media admits that other parts exist, allowing her to gather that a newspaper – she was guessing a tabloid – had whisked Ms Blake off to its hideyhole. Give it a couple of months – trial safely over; acquittal safely bagged – and she’d be splurging her recently bruised emotions over pages 5–14, with pics. Though as far as any of this concerned Zoë, what mattered was the effect it would be having on Arkle and the other extant Dunstan.

She parked in the usual car park, walked into town – she was having visions of Sweeney nailed to a board in the Dunstans’ yard; a grief-maddened Arkle taking potshots at him. She rehearsed it again: why would Sweeney come here, hunting his stolen loot? Other than that he knew this was where it was? . . . And here, counter-argument collapsed. Zoë knew what desperation tasted like. Sweeney was staring at livelihood’s end. And everything she’d said to Win came back, and rang true: never underestimate the pride of a man who was a bit too short; a bit too overlooked.

By the time she reached the yard it was dark, and a pub down the road was spilling light on to the pavement. Knocking on the big gates didn’t seem a great idea. On the other hand, she wasn’t sure how to proceed otherwise. After making sure there was no one around, she dropped to her knees and peered through a gap. Everything in the yard was shades of grey – mounds of gravel, heaps of sand; all spent and wasted in the half-light. The tin cabin perched lifeless in the sky. Knowing herself an idiot she banged on the door, now she was certain the place was deserted. The only response was a faster creaking from the Dunstan & Sons sign overhead. A scrabbling, perhaps, from one of the grey mounds. Probably a rat.

The upside was, there was no sign of Sweeney, either. The vision of him nailed to a board with metal bolts slapping around him faded, to be replaced by a different vision of him tied up in a cellar, she didn’t know where. Ridiculous. And how much of Zoë’s concern, anyway, was based on the fact that he owed her five grand? A question she’d successfully avoided so far, and planned to continue doing so: her next move was obvious. She went to the pub.

Which was themed to give the impression it had once been a library. From a distance, the rows of books looked impressive – uniform, leather-tooled – but on inspection proved to be book club editions: MacLeans, Wheatleys,
Reader
’
s Digest
’s condenseds. Zoë ordered a glass of wine, remembering the drive home in time to make it a small one. The clock above the mirror read 7:15. After he’d delivered her drink, she said to the barman: ‘You don’t have a phone book, do you?’

‘Yes, but I’ve no idea where. Sorry.’

‘Doesn’t matter.’

He was young, seemed pleasant enough: T-shirt and stubble, the just-been-surfing look. He said, ‘Anything else I can help you with?’

Zoë wondered if he was coming on to her. She quite genuinely lacked the equipment to be sure.

‘You know the Dunstans? From the yard along the road?’

‘You press?’

‘Would that make a difference?’

He shrugged. ‘Takes all sorts. Nicest guy I ever knew had a press card.’

‘Blimey. Anyway, no, I’m not press. I just need to speak with them.’

‘They drink in here, or did. You know Bax is dead?’

‘I read.’

‘He was the normal one. The other pair . . . I don’t like to see them coming in. On the other hand, I wouldn’t want to bar them.’

‘I’ve seen Arkle in action.’

‘You’ll know what I mean then. It’s not like he loses his temper. It’s more like lost temper’s his default option.’

‘Seems to have been Baxter’s problem too.’

The young man shrugged.

‘Or you think wife-beating’s just a foible?’

‘Fuck, no. Just didn’t seem the type, that’s all. Kay comes in sometimes. Came in. I never thought she looked . . . You know.’

He seemed uncomfortable. And no: Zoë didn’t know. Not exactly.

She said, ‘Did she watch him closely? Or would she talk to other regulars? Did she talk to you?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘When he was around?’

He thought about it. She liked him for doing that. He considered it, rather than just batting away whatever she was getting at.

At last he said, ‘I see what you mean. Yeah, maybe. I can’t be sure, not now. But maybe you’re right, she only talked to me when he was out of the room.’

It was Zoë’s turn to shrug. ‘Doesn’t prove anything, really. I was just . . .’

‘No, it’s a good point. You’re saying, I didn’t think he seemed the type, but that’s just because I thought he was an all right bloke. But if I’d watched properly, I’d have noticed she was scared of him.’

Okay: he was definitely coming on to her.

She said, ‘Anyway. Do you have any idea where I’d find Arkle now?’

‘Home address? Sorry. He’s not the all-back-to-mine type.’ He scratched his stubble. ‘Not that anyone would go.’

‘Thanks anyway.’

‘You’re not the first to ask today.’

‘Who else has been in?’

‘Like I said. Press.’ He paused to check nobody needed a drink, then said, ‘Funnily enough, I know where she lives. Kay. Where she used to live, I mean.’ He seemed to think this needed a reason. ‘Her dad used to be an undertaker. He buried my gran.’ He gave Zoë an address at the top of the High Street. Her grasp of the town’s geography was enough to give her the basic picture.

‘Can I buy you a drink?’

He said, ‘Why don’t I buy you one?’

‘I have to go. Sorry.’

And for almost a minute, she really was.

Passing an open café, she saw through its window a payphone and directory, so went in and jotted down the addresses of the four Dunstans listed. Outside, she sat on a bench and collated the addresses against her map, then worked out the quickest route round all four. At each, she would check for signs of Sweeney. What these might be she didn’t know, so it would be simpler just to get on with it.

Maybe she’d snatch him from the jaws of Arkle. Maybe as she did so, he’d notice he owed her five thousand pounds.

The first address washed out. She’d barely arrived when a car pulled up and disgorged about fifteen pre-teen squabbling boys, herded by a fraught mother and a man who looked like he wanted to get straight back in the car. They disappeared into the house, and all the lights went on. Zoë scratched it from her list, and left.

On the corner, checking her map, she found she wasn’t far from the street the barman had mentioned: where Katrina, or Kay, Dunstan had lived. If she ignored this now, she’d have to come back later when nothing else panned out. This had happened too often for her to dismiss. So she followed the street round to where it ended at a railed-off dead drop, twenty yards or so below which a big road skirted the town centre. Traffic squirted along it heading west, and she watched tail-lights forming ever-receding patterns for a moment, before turning to check house numbers.

The house she was looking for stood next to the drop, and even in artificial light had an air of neglect; its paintwork scuffed and worn; its wooden porch a ramshackle add-on. It was in darkness, but the front room curtains hung open, and a glow within suggested light at the rear. For no reason she could pin down, a shiver tickled Zoë’s spine. Then a reason materialized.

Parked on the kerb opposite was a van she recognized –
a shaven-headed man with a smile tight as a shark
’
s
.

Her mind flipped back, and she was outside the gravel yard again, watching Arkle torment Tim Willerby/Wallaby – would he really have put a bolt through him? Zoë couldn’t know. But Arkle’s smile suggested he’d do pretty much whatever he wanted, which was reason enough to give him a wide margin. Enough, in fact, to turn and walk away, but even as this sensible approach suggested itself, Zoë was trying the wooden door at the side of the house; pushing it open to find a passage leading to the back. The way was partly blocked by a hedge which hadn’t been shaved in a while, but she squeezed past with minor scratches, and reached the far end to find a hearse staring at her . . .

This was not the happiest surprise to encounter in the moonlight. Kay Dunstan’s father, though, had been an undertaker. The barman had told her that. The car was a tool of the trade, not a horror movie prop. She wasn’t going to find Sweeney stretched out on its rear shelf.

Zoë let her heart climb down to normal before registering everything else: the stone frog next to the overgrown pond; the dilapidated shelter under which sat a freezer, a wardrobe, some other odds and ends. Hardly ideal homes and gardens, but she was more interested in the light spilling on to the crazy paving from a recessed window. Falling to a crouch, she peeped round. Inside the house, an old man sat on a chair in the middle of a room. Of his companions, one had a bandage wrapping his head, and the other was Arkle.

It took most of Zoë’s nerve not to scoot away. But she was invisible: dark night, light on; the most they’d see through the window was their own reflection. So she stayed where she was, pointlessly eavesdropping – she heard nothing bar traffic. Arkle was pacing, talking; bandage-head, who must be Trent Dunstan, was slumped against the far wall. As for the man in the chair, he’d be Kay Dunstan’s father, and was somewhere else altogether – his attention fixed on a spot on the wall, as if a secret window blossomed there, the view from which was all-absorbing.

Perhaps the key element in the scene was that Arkle didn’t have his crossbow with him.

And at that moment Arkle turned and looked into the night, and stared directly at her. Zoë immediately forgot what she knew and ducked round the corner, her heart racketing against her ribs.
What was it with this guy?
She’d seen big; she’d handled mean. But she didn’t think she’d ever looked at anybody before and seen straight through to the darkness within. He was all silhouette; the kind of shadow children fear lurks under beds and in dark nooks. That would grab them if their bare foot hit the floor.

A noise behind her froze the blood in her veins. Then she clenched her fists; forced herself to her feet. Nobody appeared. She counted three, and risked a look round the corner. Arkle had his hand raised, but as she watched, he let it drop. Old man Blake didn’t appear to have moved a muscle, or possibly even breathed, in the intervening period. Nobody was looking through the window.
Feeling
better?
her inner Zoë asked. Her pulse slowed. ‘Much,’ she muttered.
Why are we still here, remind me?
But that was one she couldn’t answer. There was no sign of Sweeney, and whatever was happening in the house was none of her business.

If Arkle
’
s here
, her inner Zoë remarked,
then he
’
s not at his
own place
.

Which meant, she translated for her own benefit, that looking for Sweeney at the Dunstans’ would be a lot safer than hanging round here. So would returning to Dunstan & Sons, and shinning over the gate: the fact that Sweeney wasn’t visible didn’t mean he wasn’t in there somewhere. Maybe in that tin cabin, handcuffed to a radiator.
Or
underneath a mound of sand
. Beyond the reach of help: she hoped not.
Or beyond the reach of his cheque book
: yeah, thanks. Shut up.