Why We Die (24 page)

Another noise from overhead interrupted him: a sound both familiar and unwelcome – a rattling, scratching disturbance; it took Tim a moment to pin it down. The roof. There was a loose slate on the roof, and when the wind hit a certain angle it worried it, trying to prise it out with no other tool than its own blustery nothingness. Perhaps the slate would survive the night; perhaps not. Either way – Tim made a mental note – he’d get around to fixing it soon. Perhaps next weekend.

. . . When he’d arrived in Totnes, after dark, he had parked near Katrina’s father’s house. He couldn’t think where else she’d fetch up – news reports indicated she’d been released, but Tim didn’t think her likely to return to the marital home, which was, anyway, in need of a new form of address. Circumstances had rendered ‘marital home’ Orwellian in its incongruity. It was now the murder flat, the death location; a starter home for widows. He’d been parked a while before what should have been his first observation struck him – that the Dunstans’ van sat a short way down the road . . .

Staying put wasn’t an act of courage. Fact was, Tim was afraid that starting his car would attract attention . . . It occurred to him that, last Wednesday, Arkle hadn’t even been pissed off. Firing his crossbow at strangers was Arkle in neutral. Since then, his brother had been killed. This wasn’t someone whose attention Tim hungered to attract.

Thoughts like this only took you so far, and in the end left you where you started: behind the wheel of a parked car, watching a house whose front windows were dark, but shone with the hint of lights round the back. Tim unpeeled his fingers from the steering wheel. Somebody sneaked down the passage by the side of the house:
Katrina
. She was out of sight before he’d decided it hadn’t been. Too solid. In his mind, Katrina had assumed an ethereal quality not entirely consistent with the details his memory had processed: Matisse-print dress; healthy hair; autumnal bruise carefully powdered over . . . Jesus, enough. It hadn’t been Katrina because she looked too big; she moved differently. It was another while before things had started happening.

First, Arkle appeared in the street, looked up, looked down, then returned inside, to re-emerge moments later with somebody shorter, his face bandaged like the invisible man’s. They got in their van and drove off. Tim’s fingers had stuck to the wheel again, and sweat had broken out over his upper body . . . But Arkle hadn’t seen him; Arkle’s tail-lights were turning the corner, and would be down the hill any moment. Tim wondered what had happened to the woman. Soon, when he could trust his legs, he was going to find out . . . When he looked up, another man was heading past. Whether he’d come out of the house, Tim didn’t know, and he’d vanished into shadow before Tim got a good look.

He yawned suddenly. Hugely, in fact. Stopped pacing long enough to finish his wine and wonder about pouring another, but that would make three, and he’d decided not to drink tonight . . . He’d sit instead, while remembering what happened next: how he’d gone into the back yard, to hear muffled thumping from, he’d thought at first, the hearse . . . Tim didn’t believe in ghosts, but it was instructive how ineffectual lack of belief was in the face of spooky thumping.

Except it had come from the freezer, not the hearse, and when he opened its lid, he found the woman who’d rescued him from Arkle with an apple. He hadn’t recognized her sneaking in: memory, in fact, was shaky all over. ‘I thought you were a redhead,’ he told her later.

‘Yeah, I get that a lot,’ Zoë said.

. . . And then Tim must have slept, because light was creeping through the curtains, and the rain’s soft hiss had been replaced by proper noises; the hum of life. The toy-town rattle of a milkfloat. His bladder ached and his mouth felt rusty. Misplaced priority had him switch the kettle on before rushing to the bathroom; after which he checked upstairs for – what, exactly? Intruders? A dim recollection of nocturnal rustling nudged him. Now it was safe, he was making sure. How smart was that? But he did it anyway, and of course both rooms were empty . . . There was a loose slate overhead, that was all. Feeling ridiculous, he returned downstairs. How could Arkle Dunstan have traced him anyway? They’d not been followed last night. Zoë had been sure of that.

He spooned coffee into a mug, opened the fridge, and found no milk. Toast, he thought. This was the way the mind worked: leapfrogging the immediate problem. Lack of milk was the immediate problem, but he’d already heard the float; there’d be a pint on the doorstep. How could Arkle Dunstan have traced him anyway? Out of nowhere, a smell arrived: a damp mouldiness of the sort that lurks on beaches. Wet sand . . . Tim shook his head to clear the image, but it persisted. Wet sand piled up in pens whose wood had rotted, spilling their contents over the concrete ground.

Passing through on your way where?

Oh, uh . . . St Ives.

From?

Oxford.

. . . What
’
s your name?

And this, too, he had answered. How could Arkle Dunstan have traced him? Because Tim had given him all the information necessary . . .

He reached out on automatic for his coffee cup, to find it held dry granules: duh. He added water from the kettle, then reached for the milk. Duh. There was milk on the doorstep, though . . . So Arkle Dunstan could have traced him, and it was important to let Katrina – let Zoë – know this, but what was more important was, it hadn’t happened yet. First thing first, which was fetching the milk. As he passed through the hall, he heard the slate rattling on the roof again: next weekend he’d fix that. It was a bright morning. The front path was five foot long, and spiders’ webs decorated the hedge that bordered it. From Tim’s angle of vision sunlight caught the overnight rain that clung to their threads, turning the hedge to lace and latticework; a dream of somebody else’s wedding. A milk bottle seemed to hover in front of him. He blinked. A milk bottle hovered in front of him. Wrapped round it was a hand, attached to an arm, attached to Arkle Dunstan.

‘Looking for something?’ Arkle said.

iv

It was late when they got to bed. Even so, Zoë didn’t sleep right away. She’d put Katrina in the spare bedroom; had to shepherd her around stacked boxes, unhung pictures, Joe’s filing cabinets; had nearly apologized for the mess. Now she lay staring at the ceiling, sums of money dancing round her head. Katrina knew how to put her hands on the Dunstans’ treasure; the cash Win’s boss had converted their stolen jewellery into. Zoë had flirted with this possibility once already, and it hadn’t seemed realistic. But this edged closer to the plausible, and she couldn’t deny the money would be useful . . . A lifesaver. The only downside was, it was stolen money. Well, not the only downside. Others were that the Dunstans wanted it too, and that Arkle had a crossbow.

‘You mean, they don’t know where it is?’

‘Baxter was in charge of the money,’ Katrina had told her.

Because that was how they’d done things: each of the brothers had their role to play.

‘No wonder they came looking for you,’ Zoë said.

‘Don’t imagine they’ve given up yet.’

Round and round her head it went, like tigers round a tree. At length she must have been sucked into sleep, because she was wandering a corridor which kept turning corners without arriving anywhere. Overhead lights flickered nervously, while drawers were opened and closed, almost – but not quite – noiselessly. Electrics fizzed and plumbing burped. Somebody stepped into her room and Zoë woke with a start. Katrina stood by her bed, a cup of coffee in her hand. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you.’

Creeping into her room wasn’t the best way to achieve this.

Zoë sat up and took the proffered cup. ‘What time is it?’

‘Just gone eight.’

Which meant she’d had about four hours’ sleep. ‘Thanks.’

‘Sorry. I couldn’t sleep. I was worried.’

‘About whatsername,’ Zoë said. Katrina’s brow furrowed. ‘Helen Coe,’ Zoë remembered.

‘Yes. There must be someone we can call.’

‘Must be. Not from here, though.’ To stop another brow-furrowing, she added, ‘I don’t want my number on anybody’s callback. Not while people are looking for you.’

‘Oh.’ Katrina sat on the end of Zoë’s bed. Zoë moved her feet to make room. ‘I’m not too good at this.’

‘I’m not an expert myself,’ said Zoë. The coffee was too hot. Probably be non-supportive to mention this. ‘Look, go and lie down. I’ll get dressed and find out what I can.’ Which would not be much, and nothing good. Pretending to rub her eyes awake, she squeezed them shut instead; mentally replaying moments on a rainy road in the city last night – she’d known what Arkle Dunstan was looking for; felt certain there’d be no good news of Helen Coe. But what could she have done to stop the bad things happening? Fragments assembled in her mind, and curled into excuses.
I climbed a wall. I rescued Katrina
. Which was all very well, and might be a comfort to Helen Coe. If she was in any shape to receive it.

‘I can do it.’

‘That’s okay.’ Her response to having somebody in her flat was to want to leave it. She meant nothing personal by this, she would say if ever asked.

She banished Katrina, showered and dressed. Afterwards, she spent some time with Joe’s filing cabinets, then went online and collected phone numbers. In between, she made more coffee. Things weren’t always better with coffee, but they were reliably worse without it. Then she warned, or perhaps just asked, Katrina to stay inside, and left for the nearest phone booth, a few streets away.

Not far, but she wasn’t there before her mobile rang. She leaned on a railing to answer it. Mobile phones had led to an alleged increase in brain cancers and tumours of the head, and a verifiable increase in people not looking where they’re bloody going. Zoë made a practice of coming to a halt before engaging in conversation with an absent other.

‘Zoë Boehm.’

‘Wonders never cease. Your phone’s switched on.’

It was true she’d had it turned off lately, because she’d been avoiding Jeff, who might still wonder where his car was. But this morning she’d reactivated it, in case Tim called. As Katrina said, the Dunstans wouldn’t stop looking. Anything might happen yet.

But it wasn’t Tim, it was Win – the pale babysoft driver with lips like roses and buzz-cut hair; all of it perched on the body of a pro-wrestler. Even bounced off a signal tower, her voice came over like a speech bubble. ‘I thought we had a deal.’

‘I know you did,’ Zoë said.

‘My boss has been trying to call the Dunstans.’ There was a sameness to the conversation already. This was how it was going to be: Win would carry on saying whatever she had to say, and nothing Zoë added would make the slightest difference. ‘Can’t get an answer. Like they’ve fallen off the planet.’

‘Perhaps they’ve gone on holiday.’

‘It’s as if they’re deliberately avoiding him. The way you’ve been avoiding me.’

‘Win. Win?’

‘I’m listening.’

‘There’s always a first time. Win, whatever you thought we agreed the other evening in the café, we didn’t. Can you follow that?’

Win paused. ‘You know what I think?’

Zoë shook her head. Behind the railing was a children’s playground, and though there were no children about, there was playful movement all the same: swings swung gently in the wind, and the roundabout creaked as it inched backwards and forwards over the same two degrees. There was a slide too, and a small smudged plastic horse or something, mounted on a thick spring; the only toy in evidence of which there’d been no direct equivalent in Zoë’s childhood playgrounds. The horse, if that’s what it was, was blue, and –

‘Zoë?’

‘. . . What do you think, Win?’

‘I think now would be a good time to check out their place. The Dunstans. While they’re elsewhere.’

‘Not answering your phone doesn’t mean you’re somewhere else. I’ve had mine switched off, and I haven’t been anywhere.’

‘But yours is a mobile,’ Win reminded her. ‘You can be anywhere whether you’re answering or not.’

Dream-logic was nothing Zoë wanted to dispute. ‘Win, I’m expecting a call. We’ll continue this some other time.’

‘You’re not going after the money yourself, are you?’ Something in that cartoon bubble carried the weight of the body it came from.
This would not be a good idea
was its undertow. ‘You wouldn’t do that, would you?’

‘It’s stolen money, Win.’

‘That’s often the best kind.’

‘You’ve been driving cars for the wrong man too long. People die over that kind of cash.’

‘People die anyway,’ said Win. ‘Money’s as good a reason as any.’

‘I’m about to go into a tunnel,’ Zoë said, and broke the connection. She turned her phone off, put it in her pocket; walked on to the post office.

But when she reached it she kept walking; went as far as the bookshop before turning down a short road ending at a wall. Making this call from her mobile didn’t matter. Harold Sweeney already had her number; besides, his were stored in her Nokia, not in her head. She rang the shop first, and got the same nothing as last time . . . The image it conjured was the same, too: a rotary phone rattling on a dusty counter, while junk mail piled up behind a locked door, and brittle sunlight chiselled through flaws in the metal shutters. There was a certain bleak romanticism here, but it didn’t encourage Harold to answer. After a while Zoë gave up, and tried his home number instead.

She wasn’t expecting a response. Why was she calling then? Because you tried all the doors; when you were looking for something, you kept opening doors until you found it. That it was always in the last place you looked was one of those irritating universals you had to put up with . . . These past days, when Zoë hadn’t been reflecting on the death she’d lived through, or looking for Katrina Blake, she’d been wondering where Harold Sweeney was, and whether he’d indeed gone hunting Arkle Dunstan. A picture which kept morphing into one of Elmer Fudd: little brown suit and cap, shotgun at the ready . . . Either way, he remained her client until he’d paid her bill, and while Zoë’s occupation probably ranked near politician in any public grading, she liked to think she’d retained certain standards. Knowing where her client was seemed a bare minimum. At the very least, she’d know where to send that bill.