With mechanical efficiency, Stemper ensured that there would be traces of semen to consolidate the impression that this was a sex game gone tragically wrong. While he worked, he could see Jerry weakening, the oxygen deprivation putting an enormous strain on his heart as the muscles in his legs succumbed to the will of gravity, slowly throttling the life out of him.
It was now safe for Stemper to pop downstairs and fetch the DVD from his briefcase. He added Jerry’s prints to the DVD and put it into the machine. By the time the first images of hardcore amateur porn appeared on the screen, Jerry Conlon was spared the sight of them.
He was dead.
It was both a strange and a strangely fine evening. Although he wouldn’t have admitted it to Robbie, Dan found it remarkably cathartic.
He had no desire for food, but once the pizza had been microwaved and he caught a whiff of melted cheese and hot pepperoni, he realised he was starving. He didn’t intend to have a second beer, either. Or a third. Or a fourth. But it was Saturday night, and he wasn’t going to be driving home, so why the hell not?
‘See, we’re giving the Fiesta a nice send-off,’ Robbie said, after he’d packed up the boxes and put them by the door.
‘Like a wake?’
‘More like a Viking funeral.’ Robbie thought that was hilarious, for some reason.
As it turned out, destroying the car wasn’t as simple as they’d anticipated. Noise was one factor that Robbie hadn’t considered. It was a dry evening, and not windy enough to muffle the clang of hammer against metal.
It was Dan who found the solution, fetching a thick cushion from one of Hank O’Brien’s armchairs. Then they took it in turns, one of them holding the cushion by its edges and placing it against the car, while the other swung the sledgehammer. They tried to pick random spots, working harder on some areas, but still the end result was a bizarre pattern of damage that didn’t look remotely natural.
‘Anyone can see it’s been vandalised on purpose,’ Dan said.
‘Yeah. But where’s the damage from Tuesday night?’
Dan peered at the bonnet and around the edge of the shattered windscreen.
‘It’s gone.’
‘Exactly. And that’s the point. Now it’s just a write-off, ready for the crusher.’ Robbie reached for the fuel can. ‘
Almost
ready.’
‘I’m still not sure about this.’ Dan swallowed down a burp. Four empty bottles on the barn floor, and somehow he had a fifth one on the go.
‘I’m completely sober,’ Robbie assured him, though there were three empties next to his pizza box.
‘And you seriously want to do it in here?’
‘Yeah. Why not?’
‘There’s no chimney.’
‘It’ll be fine. Trust me.’
****
At that, Dan burst out laughing. He couldn’t explain what he found so funny, but Robbie probably had a fair idea, judging by the sour look on his face.
They opened the big roller door as well as the access door to create a through draught. Robbie carried the document boxes out and put them in his car for safety, ignoring Dan’s argument that they should be returned to their hiding place. Dan watched him pick up the fuel can and start sloshing petrol over the Fiesta’s upholstery.
‘Don’t overdo it. You’re filling the air with fumes. Light a match and the whole place’ll go up.’
Robbie sniffed once or twice, then shrugged. ‘Yeah. All right.’
They stood outside for ten minutes, allowing the air to clear.
‘Wish I still smoked,’ Robbie said. ‘Maybe I’ll start again.’ A chuckle. ‘Cigars. Those big fat Cuban ones, like movie producers have.’
Dan had no comment. He was steadily consuming his beer, having decided there was every reason to get totally pissed. Perhaps Robbie was right about him. He needed to loosen up, be more like Robbie. More like Louis.
‘Party animals,’ he muttered.
‘Eh?’
Dan shook his head. ‘The other night, when Louis and his friends were causing that trouble ...’
‘Mucking around.’
‘Whatever. I don’t think it was just booze. I think some of them are doing drugs.’
Robbie gave a regretful smile, as though Dan was the most naive man he’d ever met.
‘What d’you want me to say? I was up to all sorts at seventeen, and you could’ve been too, if you’d wanted.’
‘So you reckon they are? Louis as well?’
‘Maybe. But they’ll know not to go crazy.’ He tutted. ‘God, Dan, even after a few drinks you’re still trying to carry all the world’s problems on your back. Just give it a rest, eh?’
‘Wish I could.’
‘It’s easy enough. Just say you’re gonna do it. Then do it.’
****
At Dan’s suggestion, Robbie used one of the pizza boxes as a taper. He lit it while still in the doorway, and took a few cautious steps into the barn.
‘Should be okay now, yeah?’
Dan grunted. He stepped over the threshold, but decided he didn’t want to go much closer.
‘I keep thinking of those cartoons,’ Robbie said as he approached the car. ‘
Tom and Jerry
, or whatever it was.’
He imitated the sound of a burning fuse, then extended his arm and hurled the cardboard on to the back seat. The vapour inside the car ignited in a white flash and Robbie leapt back with a cry of alarm. He turned and ran, the Fiesta engulfed in fire by the time he stumbled out of the barn, laughing as he showed Dan his face.
‘Anything get singed? My eyebrows feel weird.’
‘No, you look okay.’
‘Smart thinking, mate, to wait out here for a bit.’
They watched the car burn, the smoke growing dark and foul within the confines of the barn until they could barely see the Fiesta at all. Gradually the smoke found an escape route and was sucked into the cool night air in thin grey strands like party streamers.
Dan looked at it and said, ‘Are you sure this was a good idea?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How long will it burn for?’
Robbie shrugged. ‘Fucked if I know.’
****
They were startled by a couple of small explosions, which Dan thought had come from the engine compartment. Not loud enough to attract attention, or so Robbie assured him.
The smoke was billowing out now, in dark boiling clouds. They retreated further to avoid the choking fumes, and then, since they were practically halfway to the house, it seemed like a good idea to fetch another beer. They took the drinks and stood on the lawn like guests at a boring wedding.
Dan said, ‘Cate knows you’ve got this place back on the books. She can’t understand what you’re doing.’
Robbie smiled. ‘That’s ’cause she thinks the way you do, like everything has to form part of a well-ordered plan. Whereas I prefer to act on the spur of the moment. Just wing it and see what happens.’
‘Like grabbing the steering wheel of your best friend’s car?’
The atmosphere could have changed then, because of the bitterness in Dan’s voice. He realised the alcohol was worming its way into his brain, changing his moods with bewildering speed: one minute carefree, the next angry and resentful, spoiling for a fight.
But Robbie kept the same equanimity that had seen him through scrape after scrape, good times and bad.
‘I know I should probably be saying how much I regret everything that happened this week. But the truth is, I don’t. Not really. I’ve never felt more alive than I have in the past few days. And I bet, if you’re honest, you haven’t either.’
He waited a second. Dan only shrugged.
Robbie said, ‘I mean, this is why we’ve got a pulse, isn’t it? Not for the usual boring day-after-day routines, but for the times like this, when the adrenalin’s pumping and it feels like your whole life is hanging in the balance. That’s what we’re alive for, Dan, to feel like this.’
‘What, are you saying we should celebrate killing Hank?’
‘No.’ Robbie raised his bottle and clinked it gently against Dan’s. ‘I’m saying we should celebrate that
we’re
still here.’
After making sure that nothing in the house contradicted the tableau he’d created, Stemper studied the street from an unlit window until he judged it was safe to depart.
Back at the car, he decided against returning to Sussex. He felt too weary for another encounter with Quills; besides, he suspected that his absence would only bind the unfortunate man still deeper into his obsession.
He drove out of London amongst the dwindling traffic of a Saturday evening, stopped off at a supermarket for a few overnight essentials, and then booked into a Premier Inn in Woking. From there he called the Blakes and confirmed that it was done.
‘Any problems?’ Gordon asked.
‘None at all.’
‘And it looks ...?’
‘Exactly as we planned it to look.’
Patricia took the phone. ‘There’s been an update from across the water. The meetings were a great success, apparently. Our friend Mark could be homeward-bound as early as Wednesday or Thursday next week.’
‘I see. We need to up the pace, then. I’ll try and complete the search tomorrow.’
‘What about the sister?’
‘I’m sure I can find ... a “workaround”, shall we say?’
‘Thank you. And then the woman on Monday?’
The question seemed innocuous enough, but Stemper thought he discerned another layer of meaning. In their meeting this afternoon he must have communicated some extra tension that Patricia, an impressively perceptive woman, had noted.
He said, ‘Yes. Or sooner, if I can.’
‘Splendid.’
But it was not at all splendid, and when the call was over Stemper brooded for some considerable time.
The Blakes had Caitlin’s identity. Their research would soon unearth the names of any current or former partners, and one of those names would correspond with that of a murder victim.
Stemper knew he should tell them about it, but to do so was tantamount to admitting he was fallible. It was a question of which he valued most: their faith or their trust.
He took a shower and thought about it and decided, finally, that they were equally vital.
So then it came down to timing. If he kept silent, how long before they were likely to discover his error? How long did he have?
No. The real question was of a slightly different order.
How long did he
need
?
****
All day Gordon had been prey to a low-level neurosis, which the conversation with Stemper had done nothing to assuage. The news from America far outweighed these small advances in identifying their tormentors.
‘Time’s running out,’ he said, gesturing with the tumbler that contained his fourth whisky of the night.
Patricia had also drunk rather heavily. There had been the air of a vigil about the evening as they sat together in the living room and waited for Stemper to confirm that the night’s grim task was complete.
Now she swallowed the last of her Merlot and said, ‘I know. Those poor children ...’
She was maudlin again, close to tears. Gordon couldn’t recall so many emotional displays in such quick succession.
‘Well, at least the other thing’s done.’ He felt an odd reluctance to speak Jerry’s name.
‘I wonder if she’s home yet?’ Patricia said. ‘The widow.’
‘I doubt it. From the West End.’
‘Of course. She’ll use public transport.’
Gordon stood up and offered his hand. ‘There’s nothing more to do tonight. Let’s turn in.’
Patricia nodded, grasped his hand and rose, teetering a little, and he laughed and used the loss of balance to engineer an embrace. He held her firmly and they stayed that way for at least half a minute, Gordon at first amazed that she hadn’t pushed him away; then gratified and – in spite of the other thing on his mind, or perhaps because of it – aroused.
‘Bed,’ he said, and kissed her.
‘Mm.’ She responded, taking the kiss, her tongue against his, hungrier than he had known it for years.
Gordon led her upstairs feeling ten foot tall; the man of the house, with a raging erection and a head full of twisted images: bondage ropes and ball gags and unspeakable acts on a DVD – the props in a mercy killing, but ultimately it was mercy for them, not for Jerry.
****
In bed, still in his arms, Patricia said, ‘You know, my absolute worst nightmare is that we retrieve the papers and go ahead as planned, but when we confront him it turns out he’s already signed the deal in secret, and he just laughs in our faces. Can you imagine it, Gordon? The humiliation as we slink out with our tails between our legs ...’
He kissed her. He wanted her to put this aside for now, but she was determined to worry it down to manageable proportions.
‘Then should we try it anyway? As soon as he gets to the UK?’
‘Without the documentation?’
He nodded. ‘Yes. Bluff it.’
‘I thought you were fiercely opposed to our direct involvement. And to do it without the evidence ...’
‘Darling, it petrifies me. But I know what this means to you. If we have no other options, I’m prepared to give it a try.’
‘Stemper might still pull a rabbit or two from the hat ...’ Patricia’s eyes were misty. Gordon’s expectation of sex was receding fast, but he had to admit that this affection was a pleasure in itself.
‘Let’s hope he does,’ he said.
‘He hasn’t failed us so far.’ She yawned, gazed into his eyes until all his motives were laid bare. ‘Oh, Gordon, I’m so tired. Tomorrow, perhaps?’
He smiled. ‘Turn over. I’ll hold you.’
She faced away from him and he snuggled in close, her body large and warm and solid. He thought she was done with conversation, but after a minute of silence she spoke again.
‘We have to make it succeed now. For the sake of those who are losing their lives.’
He knew what she meant. He had spent much of the day examining his conscience. A necessary act, now that people were dying for the Blakes and their cause. Gordon had privately resolved that in tribute to Jerry Conlon he would purchase a less ostentatious yacht, and donate a million pounds or so to a worthwhile charity. Not necessarily a ‘selfish’ charity, either: not cancer or heart disease or diabetes.