Stephen Booth - Already Dead

As so often happened when Ben called at Bridge End Farm, Matt himself was nowhere to be seen. He’d be lurking in the workshop or the machinery shed, or poking about in a blocked drain to divert that flow of water he could see streaming across the yard, scouring a winding track through the mud.

So he called to say hello to Kate and the girls first. Now that his nieces were growing up he didn’t see them quite so often, and he hardly recognised them sometimes. They changed so fast. Worse, they seemed to have no interests in common with him any more, but talked only about their friends and their complicated social lives, or about programmes on TV that he never watched. Yes, they were definitely growing up, or he was getting old. Or possibly both.

At least his sister-in-law hadn’t changed much. Kate was a rock, who’d held the family together on more than one occasion. As far as Ben was concerned, marrying her was the best thing his brother had ever done. It was amazing that he’d ever got round to it.

When he came into the kitchen, Kate looked round at him with an expression he recognised. Ben’s heart sank.

‘What’s the matter, Kate?’

‘This came,’ she said.

‘What?’

A parcel lay on the dresser. It was a substantial package, a large postal envelope enclosing a cardboard box. It was addressed to him, but at Bridge End Farm. He thought he knew why that should be the case.

Kate had been a big help after Liz’s death. She’d stepped in to sort out all those details of the wedding preparations that Ben had been unable to face. She’d picked up Liz’s lists, attached herself to a phone for hours on end, and dealt with everything. She’d cancelled the booking for the venue, the hotel room, the honeymoon flights, the wedding cars. She’d informed everyone who needed to know, accepting their condolences on his behalf, deflecting at least some of the unstoppable tide before it overwhelmed him.

‘What is it?’ he said.

‘I think I must have missed something, Ben.’

‘It’s not your fault, Kate. You’ve been brilliant.’

‘Do you want me to open it?’

He hesitated. But time had passed since then. Surely he ought to be capable of a simple task like opening a package?

‘No, I’ll do it. Thanks.’

He tore open the outer paper, but within seconds he knew it was going to be bad. Inside the box, he could feel rectangular shapes, something heavy. When he got through the last of the packaging, he saw pristine white card, and silver lettering. Of all the things it might have been. His wedding invitations had arrived.

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Kate, looking over his shoulder. ‘I couldn’t cancel them. They’d already been printed.’

‘We ordered them months ago.’

‘I asked them just to destroy them,’ she said. ‘Really I did. I have no idea why they just decided to send them anyway.’

Ben freed one of the invitation cards from the wrapping. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said.

‘It might be best …’ said Kate.

‘What?’

‘Well, perhaps best not to look at them, Ben.’

But it was too late. He’d spent so long over these cards with Liz anyway that they were imprinted on his memory. Colin and Linda Petty invite you to the wedding of their daughter, Elizabeth Anne .

He heard Matt come in from outside, clattering noisily in the doorway as he kicked off his boots and thumped down the passage to the bathroom. There was no mistaking his presence in the house. It was like a slow rumble of thunder threatening to break the heavy silence of a humid summer’s day.

‘You’ll be staying for dinner with us, Ben,’ said Kate, making it a statement rather than a question. ‘I know Matt wants to talk to you about something.’

In the dining room, Matt Cooper waited until Kate had taken the two girls out of the way. Then he took a deep breath. He reached down beside his armchair and laid a gun slip on the table in front of his brother. He put it down gently, almost reverently, like a priest placing an offering on the altar. Then he lowered his head and looked at his hands, as if surprised to find them empty. He turned them palms upwards and back again, absorbed in their appearance.

‘What’s this?’ asked Ben at last.

Matt still didn’t look at him. ‘It’s my Remington.’

‘Your Remington?’

‘Yes. The new one.’

Matt unfastened the straps and opened the slip. The shotgun lay between them, the stock gleaming. Ben could see that it had been cleaned, lubricated and polished. His brother always looked after his guns well, but this one had been the object of lavish attention quite recently. He could smell the cleaning solvent and the stock oil as soon as the slip was opened.

‘Yes, I can see it is.’

‘There are plenty of cartridges. Number one shot. I use them for foxes.’

For a long moment, neither of them said anything. The ticking of the old grandfather clock against the far wall became very loud. Ben could hear the voices of his nieces somewhere in the house, asking Kate a question. One of the dogs outside began to bark, probably at a passing hiker.

Matt seemed to take his silence to mean something. He slid a drawer out of the mahogany sideboard and placed a box on the table next to the shotgun. A grey box, full of bright blue cartridge cases. Express Super Game, forty-two grams.

‘They lose pattern density if the range is too great,’ said Matt. ‘But otherwise they do the job fine.’

‘You mean…’

‘If you need them,’ said Matt. ‘It’s up to you. Then you can’t say that I never helped you.’

‘Helped me?’

‘Well, you can’t go on like this,’ said Matt. ‘You’ve got yourself into a state that’s no good for you. So you have to make a decision, Ben, one way or the other. For God’s sake, do something about it — or move on.’

Matt got up from the table, heaving himself wearily upright. His increasing bulk was weighing him down more and more, his heavy shoulders hunched as if he was carrying the whole world.

Ben looked up at his brother. ‘Matt…’

‘I’ve got a few things to do,’ said Matt. ‘I’ll say goodbye to Kate and girls for you, if you need to get off.’

Ben nodded, and swallowed, struggling to find anything to say. He only managed one word.

‘Thanks.’

Half an hour later, after Ben’s Toyota had driven out of the yard, Matt Cooper came slowly back into the dining room. The shotgun and the box of cartridges had gone from the table where he’d left them. Matt breathed a long groan of despair.

‘Oh God,’ he said. ‘What have I done?’

Fry had been expecting the incident in which Charlie Dean had died to be similar to the spate of botched petrol thefts in the county. Brake lines cut in mistake for the fuel line. Local officers had been despatched to ask questions of the neighbours and check other vehicles on Green Hill and neighbouring properties on The Dale. Given the nature of the roads and their steep inclines, the exercise had been given priority. The results were already in. Nothing. No other reports of brake or fuel lines being tampered with.

‘Deliberate, then?’ asked Fry when she arrived back at the garage, taking Luke Irvine with her from West Street.

‘Certainly,’ said the vehicle examiner. ‘And one other thing I can tell you — this was a professional job.’

‘Professional?’

‘Skilled, anyway. Oh, the lines are steel and you can cut right through them easily enough with a wire cutter. If a line is cut, the fluid takes the path of least resistance, which is the hole. It won’t leak out of a small hole unless you press on the brake, and then you’ll feel it getting mushy. A big hole will leak it all out before the person gets in the car, and the dead brake will be pretty obvious right away.’