Rupert Thomson - Death of a Murderer

“Traffic’s bad,” Billy said. “Going west, I mean.”

Not bothering to look up, the young man nodded. “There was an accident, apparently. Lorry shed its load…”

“When was this?”

“About an hour ago.” He rang up the soft drink and the paper, then glanced through the window, towards the pumps. “Any petrol?”

Billy shook his head. “No.”

Behind him, a slot machine gave off a series of muffled and incongruous sounds. The whinnying of horses, pistol shots — an Irish jig.

He reached into his pocket, bringing out a five-pound note and Mr. Prabhu’s business card at the same time. He placed the money on the counter. “I’ve been working all night,” he said. “I’m hoping the Lucozade will give me a bit of energy.”

The man handed Billy his change and turned away.

It was usually tiredness that caused accidents, Billy thought as he left the shop — that, or a momentary lapse of concentration. Some time after Sue’s crash, when she was no longer having the nightmares, he had asked her whether she had an explanation for what had happened, imagining she would blame treacherous road conditions, or the car’s light steering, but she had told him it was all her fault. She’d simply lost control. “But outside Emma’s school ?” he said. Even months later, he still found this aspect of the crash astonishing. “That’s the whole point,” Sue said. “I was thinking about the time I took her to Whitby, and how I nearly—” She broke off, unwilling — or unable — to complete the sentence.

As he walked to his car, Billy saw that it was getting light. Mist cloaked the wispy trees that divided one side of the A14 from the other. On a whim, he took out his mobile and dialled the number on the hi-fi dealer’s card.

He answered almost immediately.

“Mr. Prabhu?” Billy said. “This is Billy Tyler. We met in the hospital cafeteria.”

“PC Tyler,” Mr. Prabhu said. “Of course. So you’ve decided to take me up on my offer?”

Billy laughed. “No. Actually, I was just wondering about your wife. Is she all right?”

“She’s out of danger, I’m happy to say. It seems the operation was a success.”

“That’s wonderful. You know, I looked for you earlier, at about four, and then again when I left the hospital at seven, but there was no sign of you. I thought you must have gone home.”

“No, they let me sleep in the ward — on a chair. My neck’s killing me.”

“Well, anyway,” Billy said with a smile, “I’m glad your wife has come through it all OK.”

“It was very thoughtful of you to ring, PC Tyler. Thank you so much.”

“Well, goodbye, Mr. Prabhu.”

“Goodbye — and have a safe journey home.”

Ending the call, Billy felt something slacken inside him, something that had been stretched to breaking-point. He had wanted to talk to someone who would be glad to hear his voice. He had needed good news.

He slid the phone into his pocket and put the Lucozade on the roof of the car, then flicked through the paper. There, on Chapter 7, was a photo of the crematorium where the woman’s body would be burnt that evening. The caption said furnace heading for hell. Tucking the paper under his arm, he reached for the Lucozade and drank it standing beside the car. After two or three long gulps, he tipped his head back and stared at the sky. Another cloudy day. Thick cloud too. He thought of people in planes, and how they would be above it all, and he wished he could be catapulted straight upwards, into miraculous sunlight. He finished his drink, then dropped the bottle in a rubbish bin and climbed back into his car.

Ten minutes later, he passed the turning that led to his village, the trademark brick façade of a Travel Inn visible off to the right, but he only left the dual carriageway a few miles further on, at the last exit before the Orwell bridge. Ahead of him as he drove down the hill was Ipswich harbour with its marina full of yachts and its static, dark-blue cranes. He rounded the roundabout. A fire had been lit behind a wooden fence next to the boatyard, and smoke was drifting across the road. The acridity of the fumes told him that what was being burnt was probably illegal. Rubber, it smelt like — or plastic. Two Christmases ago, his brother had flown back from San Francisco, where he was now a successful paediatrician, and Billy had driven to Runcorn with Sue and Emma to see him. On Boxing Day night, sitting up late over a whisky, Billy had asked him what he remembered about their father.

“Not much,” Charlie said. “He gave me a toy saxophone once. It was gold.” He swirled the whisky in his glass. “I burned it.”

“Really?”

“In the garden,” Charlie said. “I threw it on the bonfire. For a few moments nothing happened, then it sort of went all floppy. It made a real stink.” He sipped his whisky. “I used to think that was the real him, that stink. I still do, actually.”

“Remember when I broke my toes?” Billy said, then told him the story of how he had gone to the Iron Door in Liverpool.

“What?” Charlie said. “You saw him play?”

Billy nodded.

“Was he any good?”

“I don’t know,” Billy said. “I couldn’t tell.”

Now they were both laughing, two brothers who rarely saw each other, and it was the kind of quiet laughter that never quite dies away. Just when you think it’s stopped it starts again.

Billy followed the narrow road that led out along the river. He should go and stay with Charlie one of these days. In fact, maybe that was the trip they should be planning. Not Amsterdam, but San Francisco. He would have to save, of course — or borrow — but imagine it! San Francisco, with its madly plummeting streets. Alcatraz, the Golden Gate — the fog…Pleased with himself for having such a good idea, he felt less guilty about visiting the estuary, and he put his foot down, speeding between the soaring concrete stanchions of the Orwell bridge. Looking to his left, he saw flat, slick expanses of mud. Low tide.

Somebody had parked a beaten-up silver Volvo in his lay-by, but there was just enough room beyond it, and he was able to reverse into the gap. He turned the engine off, but left the keys in the ignition. He seemed to remember that the woman who fed the swans drove a Volvo. She usually showed up later in the day, though: he would see her at around three in the afternoon, when he came off an early shift. Yawning, he leaned his head against the head-rest for a moment.

Trevor was high above him in a half-built house, busily hammering a nail into a rafter. Trevor? he called out. What are you doing? Trevor looked down, his body foreshortened, as if he were bearing the full weight of the bright-blue sky and it was crushing him. Billy wanted Trevor to join him on the ground, but he couldn’t seem to make Trevor understand. Trevor didn’t even glance at him again, let alone speak. The hammering went on and on — endless nails being driven into endless wooden beams.

Billy’s eyes opened. In a panic, he looked around. He’d forgotten something — or he was late for something. No, wait. He was in his car. Though all the windows had steamed up, he could see somebody peering at him through the glass. His body stiff with cold, he reached across and wound down the window on the passenger’s side. A wide face, corkscrew curls. It was the woman who fed the swans.

“Are you all right?” she said.

“I’m fine,” he said. “I must have nodded off, that’s all.”

“Your lights are on.”

“So they are.” He switched them off. “Thank you.” He yawned, then sat up straighter in his seat. “What time is it?”

“About nine.”

“Is it? God.” He rubbed his face with both hands. It felt rubbery and slack, and he needed a shave. “What are you doing here, anyway?” he said. “I thought you only came down in the afternoons.”