Mo Hayder - Hanging Hill

She stopped the bike, cut the engine and stood on tiptoe next to the brick wall at the end of the road. The Mooneys’ house blazed with light. Every window seemed to be open, voices and music floating out through the night. The music was so loud she imagined she could feel it in her feet. On the driveway someone was revving a motorbike engine. She was surprised the cops weren’t there because the neighbours couldn’t be putting up with this, but when she looked around at the silent houses, one or two with coach lamps on, the gates all locked, it occurred to her that people didn’t live there. It was one of those streets where the owners lived in Dubai or Hong Kong and only kept a London residence to impress business colleagues. It could be that the Mooneys’ was the only occupied house in the street. No wonder Jason was having a party.

Cautiously she got on the bike again and started it. She drove slowly down the road, keeping her face forward, her eyes left. The gates to the Mooneys’ house stood open and seven large West Coast choppers were parked on the brick driveway. Behind them in the garage, lit like a tableau in a nativity scene, two men in sleeveless T-shirts stood drinking beer from cans and examining Jason’s Harley. They didn’t stop talking as she went by but one of the men lifted his head and followed her progress until she was out of sight.

She got a hundred yards down the road and swung the Shovelhead into a U-turn, came back to the house and let it cruise into the driveway alongside all the choppers. She parked near the hosepipe, hooked up to the front wall as obvious as could be, then swung her leg off and wandered into the garage, tugging at her helmet.

‘All right?’ said the bigger of the T-shirts. ‘OK there?’

‘Guess.’ She ran her fingers wearily through her hair and walked past them. They didn’t stop her, so she continued on through the door she’d gone through earlier and into the house. Everything inside was different. Dominic Mooney’s lifestyle was being systematically trashed. Every piece of furniture was draped with bike leathers and helmets. The kitchen was full of people drinking beer; girls, with barbed-wire tats on their arms and stilettos under their skinny jeans, were perched on the counters. Someone else was using one of Mrs Mooney’s wooden spoons to beat out an imaginary drum track. Zoë wandered around, peering into rooms, counting the nose rings and the forehead studs and the number of feet in oily boots resting on the Mooneys’ nice sofas. Her parents hadn’t thrown a single party for her – not after what she’d done to Sally. Certainly they’d never have trusted her alone in the house while they were away.

Jason she found in a bathroom on the first floor, lying fully dressed in the bath with a tin of Gaymer’s in one hand and an iPhone in the other, his head lolling on his shoulder, his mouth open. He was completely wasted.

‘Hello, Jason.’

His eyes flew open. He shot forward in the bath, splashing cider everywhere. When he saw who it was he gathered himself, made a vague attempt to wipe the cider away. Pushed his hair off his face. ‘Hello,’ he said, in a wavering voice. ‘Why did you come back?’

‘I had to. I dropped the pipe grips in the garage.’

‘I know. I found them.’

‘Didn’t know if I’d be welcome.’

He looked at her as if she perplexed him. ‘What did you want? What were you doing, sneaking around our back garden?’

‘I needed a pee, Jason. That was why I was round the back. And I’m sorry.’

‘OK, OK,’ he muttered, his mouth moving as if he was testing this excuse. Too pissed, though, to realize she could have just used the loo in the house, where she’d washed her hands. He shrugged. ‘Yeah – well, that’s cool, I s’pose.’

‘But, Jason, peeing on your mum’s roses kind of pales into insignificance when you look at the people down there drinking beer in your kitchen.’

Jason stared up at her. ‘What are they doing? I told them a couple of beers and then it was goodbye.’

‘A couple of beers… Jason? Do you know how many people are down there?’

‘Five?’

‘Five? Try fifty.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Serious? Uh, ye- es . I mean serious to the point of you’d better think hard about halls of residence and getting a job to make it through your smarty-pants science degree. Because I don’t know any mummy and daddy sainted enough to ignore this mess. Have you looked downstairs? Seen the cigarette burns on the carpet?’

‘Burns? Shit .’ He scrambled out of the bath. ‘Did they get the guest towels?’

‘The guest towels are the least of your worries. It’s like happy hour at Wetherspoon’s.’

Jason stood for a moment, his legs in their skinny jeans doing a little panicked dance. He was drenched with cider. ‘Is it that bad?’ He put his hands up to his face, gave her a look like that Munch painting you saw everywhere. The Scream . Horrified. Truly horrified. ‘What am I going to do? I didn’t ask them. I didn’t.’

‘Do you want me to scatter them? Make them run away in twenty different directions?’

‘Can you?’

She shrugged. ‘Only if you want me to.’

‘Can I stay here? Can I put the lock on the door and stay here?’

‘If you want.’

‘Then yes. Do it.’

Zoë hoisted up her trousers, tightened the belt a notch and felt in her pocket for her warrant card. ‘Are you ready to close the door?’

‘I’m ready.’

‘Then here goes.’

God knew, Zoë had cleared enough rooms in her life, and on a scale of one to ten the bikers rated pretty low. They didn’t exactly scatter to the four winds, hands over their faces in shame, but at least they didn’t jump up and get in her face, poke fingers at her, like some people did. The bikers were old hands at this: they knew how far the craic could go and when to back off. So when she walked round the house unplugging lights and CD players, dropping the place into silence, yelling, ‘Police,’ at the top of her voice, the bikers did the right thing. They picked up their lids, gloves and tobacco tins and slouched, grumbling, to the door. She stood on the driveway and watched them, talking politely to them – even helped one to get his sluggish chopper going.

When she went back inside Jason was sitting on the stairs. He’d stripped off his wet jeans and was wrapped in a fluffy white bath sheet. With the goosebumps on his bare legs and the way the towel peaked in a cowl above his head, he looked as wretched as a refugee. His eyes were like holes in his face. She had to stop herself sitting down and putting an arm round his shoulders.

‘You OK?’

‘You never said you were police.’

‘Because I’m not. I’m a veterinary nurse.’

‘A veterinary…’ He shut his mouth hard with a clunk of his teeth. Frowned. ‘But how did you make them think you…’

‘Showed them my driver’s licence. Said it was police ID.’

‘What? And they believed it?’

‘Yup.’ She pulled her licence out of her wallet and waved it in front of his face so fast he couldn’t read the name. ‘You’d be amazed what people will fall for. Just got to style it right.’

Jason gulped and put his hands to his temples. ‘Christ. This is all going so fast.’

‘I know. Have you seen the mess?’

‘I am so not going to survive this. What’m I going to do?’

‘You’re going to have a cup of coffee. It won’t make you less drunk, but it might wake you up a bit. We’re going to clean the place up.’ She helped him down the stairs, one hand under his elbow. Once or twice he lost his balance and nearly dropped the towel. She got glimpses of his pale body, the sparse hair, underneath, his old-fashioned lilac underpants, with a damp patch on the crotch. She got him downstairs, wedged him upright on a chair just inside the kitchen doorway and switched the kettle on.