Simon Beckett - Fine Lines

“No, I came straight over.”

I opened the storeroom door and went inside. The cotton dust-sheet slid a little on the underlying polythene as I walked on it. “So no one knows you’re here?”

“No! Dammit, will you tell me what they said?” he shouted, and then Zeppo stepped out from behind the door and swung the crowbar against the back of his head. I moved aside as he pitched forward and fell face down onto the floor. His glasses skidded off and came to rest at my feet, and I held up my hand as Zeppo raised the crowbar again.

“Wait.” The suitcase had dropped loosely from Marty’s fingers. I moved it out of the way and draped a fold of the dust sheet over his head and shoulders. He was breathing noisily, twitching a little but otherwise still. I stepped back. “AH right.”

Zeppo brought the crowbar down. The end was wrapped in a towel to prevent blood splashing on the initial blow, but not enough to significantly deaden the impact. By the third swing, patches of red were already beginning to soak through the white dust sheet I let him swing once more, then motioned for him to stop.

I crouched and took hold of Marty’s wrist. Incredibly, there was still a flutter there. I stood up and moved out of the way. “Not quite.”

Zeppo hefted the crowbar and brought it down several more rimes before he stopped and waited for me to check Marty’s pulse again. There was an unpleasant smell. I wrinkled my nose against it and counted up to sixty. Then I put his wrist back down. “That’s it.”

“Is he dead?” Zeppo was breathing heavily.

I straightened and looked at the bloodstained sheet. It clung wetly to the broken object underneath. “I think we can safely assume so, yes.” My voice was amazingly steady.

Zeppo’s shoulders sagged. “Thank God for that.” His cheeks were flushed, but the rest of his face was pale. He made to set the crowbar on Marty’s body.

“I wouldn’t put that down just yet,” I said.

He jerked back. “Why? He’s dead isn’t he?”

“Yes. But now we’ve come this far, we might as well do the job properly.”

“What are you talking about? How much more properly can you get than that?” He nodded at the figure on the floor.

“He can be identified from dental records if his teeth are intact.”

Zeppo stared at me. “You want me to smash his teeth?”

“I think it’s a sensible precaution, yes.”

“No way! You didn’t say anything about that before.”

“It hadn’t occurred to me before. But I think we should.”

“No, you mean you think I should! Well, forget it! If you want his teeth smashing, you do it!”

“I don’t see what you’re being so squeamish about. They hardly matter to him now.”

“I’m not breaking his teeth!”

I could see he meant it. “All right, if you feel that strongly about it. I don’t suppose it really matters. It was only an idea.” I still thought it was a good one. I had also brought paint stripper to remove his fingerprints. But there was no point now. “We’d better start to clean up.”

Zeppo emptied Marty’s pockets and removed his wristwatch. Then we wrapped him in both the cotton and polythene dust-sheets and manhandled the entire bundle into a large refuse sack.

By the time we had finished, I was exhausted, and Zeppo was sweating heavily.

“Jesus, I need a drink,” he said.

“You can have one later. The last thing we need is for the police to stop you for a breathalyser test.”

“Oh, come on, Donald! One isn’t going to do any harm! I need something after that!”

“No.”

We stared at each other. In spite of what I had just seen him do, I did not feel at all threatened by him. Far from it. He seemed unnerved, his aggression more petulant than arrogant. I held his eyes until he shrugged and looked away.

“Oh, all right, all right, I’ll not have a bloody drink. Can I at least go for a piss? Or is that too risky as well?”

While Zeppo was at the toilet, I went through the articles he had taken from Marty’s pockets. There was a wallet containing credit cards and a relatively small amount of money, a passport, and an address book. I took the money from the wallet and then, as an afterthought, bent each credit card in half. I did not want Zeppo to succumb to temptation. Leaving all this in a small pile, I opened the suitcase.

There was nothing of any interest in it. A few clothes, hastily packed. A soap bag, a chequebook, and some more money. Marty had obviously been a prudent person. I put everything except the money in the suitcase, and was just closing it when Zeppo returned.

“Doing a spot of grave robbing are we?” he said, grinning.

“If it offends your principles, I suppose you won’t want the cash he was carrying.”

He picked up the thin bundle of notes and counted through them. “Waste not, want not, eh?” His eyes were unnaturally bright. He seemed to have suddenly recovered his self-assurance. I wondered if it was reaction.

“If you’re ready, I suggest we see about getting that” — I nodded at the bulky plastic sack — “into the car.”

“You’ll have to give me a hand to lift it.” There was a hint of malicious pleasure in his voice. I had the suspicion that he was quite capable of managing on his own, but said nothing as I went to help. Much of the weight seemed to fall on to me before Zeppo finally announced that he had it.

I switched off the light in the corridor before I opened the back door. It was dark outside. The alley at the rear of the building was unlit, and the lights from the street failed to penetrate into it. There was no one in sight, and when I opened the car boot it shielded us from anyone who might be passing. Inside was a brand new spade and pick-axe, overalls, Wellington boots and a pair of gloves the rest of Zeppo’s purchases. I took them out and beckoned to him. He staggered out and quickly lowered the sack into the boot. While I put everything else back inside, Zeppo fetched the crowbar and Marty’s suitcase from the storeroom. The crowbar, now wrapped in plastic, went on top of the sack, the suitcase on to the back seat. That done, I handed Zeppo the car keys. I had reluctantly decided that my grey BMW was less conspicuous than his red sports car.

“Have you got the map?” I asked. He patted his pocket. “And you’re sure you know where you’re going?” We had put much thought into where to dispose of Marty’s remains, finally deciding on the North Yorkshire moors. The exact spot would be left to Zeppo’s discretion.

“If I get lost I’ll ask a policeman.”

He got into the car and turned on the ignition. The lights came on, dazzlingly lighting the alley. I watched as he slowly edged out into the road and pulled away. The noise of the motor quickly died in the distance. I went back inside and closed the door on the darkness and smell of exhaust.

Without the sheeting, the storeroom looked the same as ever. I looked around for any sign that Marty had been there, but there was none. The last half-hour might never have happened. Feeling utterly calm, I turned out the lights, locked up, and made my way home.

I was waiting at the airport when Anna arrived next morning. I felt a proprietorial thrill when I saw her walk through the customs area. She smiled as she came towards me, but her smile faded as soon as we had greeted each other.

“I didn’t get it,” she said. For a moment I did not know what she was talking about. “It went for eight-seven in the end.” She gave an apologetic shrug.

“Oh well, win some, lose some,” I said, realising what she meant. “It can’t be helped.”

“A Japanese woman bought it. Someone else stayed with her up to eight-five, but then dropped out. I’m afraid they left me well behind.”