Burial

10

The man -- who was compact, with reddish hair - introduced himself as DS William Holloway. With him was PC Jacki Hadley.

Nathan invited them in.

Holloway asked if he might have a glass of water, then went to the kitchenette and took a mug from the drainer. The mug had been sitting there so long its base was filmed with dust.

The woman, Hadley, stood by the window. A double-decker bus went past. Hadley was watching it. Nathan understood. There was something surreal and fascinating about it: an upper deck of oblivious strangers, sailing directly past your living-room window.

Holloway drained the water.

'Do you mind if I sit?'

'Please.'

He took a dining chair, the first person to sit in it since Sara, in just a T-shirt, reading the Guardian Review.

Hadley stayed by the window, hands clasped at the small of her back, watching the intermittent buses go past.

Nathan sat on the sofa and crossed his legs, offering Holloway a cigarette. Holloway said, 'Not since New Year's Eve, 1989,' and took a biro from his jacket. 'So, Mr Redmond.'

'Nathan.'

'So, Nathan. I expect you'll have gathered why we're here.'

'Pretty much. Mark's party.'

Holloway pointed the biro at him, as if to say Well done!, then said, 'What time did you arrive at the party?'

'I don't know. Nine, maybe. A bit later.'

'And what time did you leave?'

'That, I can't tell you.'

Holloway scrutinized him.

'Drinking,' said Nathan. 'Quite heavily. Quaffing.'

There was a patch of sweat between Nathan's shoulder blades.

Holloway said, 'And while you were there - quaffing - did you see, or speak to Elise Fox?'

'Not that I know of

'Not that you know of

'I mean - there were like a million people there. So all night you're hello this and excuse me that. So I suppose I might have, whatever.

Said hello or something.'

'There's no need to be so nervous. I'm not hungry.'

Nathan boggled at him.

Holloway said, 'I'm not going to eat you.'

'Oh. Ha ha. Yes.'

Holloway grinned, and from his pocket he took a packet of Chewits. He unwrapped four of them, placing the wrappers neatly back in his pocket. Then he popped the sweets into his mouth, four at once, and, chewing, said, 'Did you, to your knowledge - accepting the fact of your heavy drinking - did you see Elise Fox?'

'Not to my knowledge, no.'

'So, I understand you left the party - and then came back.'

'That's right.'

'You left at what time?'

'I'm not sure. Pretty late.'

'After midnight?'

'Before, I'd say. Just before. Quarter to? But I can't be sure. I was--'

'Drinking heavily, I know. So what happened?'

'How do you mean?'

'You left the party, why?'

'Oh. I had an argument.'

'With . . . ?'

'My girlfriend. You know how it is.'

Holloway's cool look implied that no, he didn't know how it was.

And Nathan began to wonder if his apparent ennui might not be some kind of affectation.

'You argued about what?'

'Well, it wasn't an argument. Not at first.'

'Then what was it?'

'I saw her. Dancing with Mark.'

'Mark Derbyshire?'

'The one and only. Yes.'

'And . . .'

'And I got pissed off

'Because she was dancing with him?'

'Because of the way she was dancing.'

'How was she dancing?'

'I don't know. He was, like - he was practically goosing her.'

'And you didn't like that.'

'No, I didn't like that.'

'And you - what, stormed out?'

'I did. I stormed out.'

'With what intention?'

'I don't know, really. I just sort of went for a walk.'

'A walk to where? There isn't really anywhere to go.'

'That's what she said.'

'Who?'

'Sara. My girlfriend.' He ground out the cigarette. 'Ex-girlfriend.'

'Right. That'll be Sara Reed, of this address.'

'That's right.'

'And where is Sara now?'

'She's staying at her friend's. Michelle's. I'd need to look up the address.'

'No need. And how did you get back to the party?'

'A bloke called Bob came driving past.'

'Driving past.'

'He'd left the party. He was on his way home. But he stopped to pick me up.'

'Right. I assume we're talking about Robert Morrow here?'

'Probably. I mean, yes. I didn't know his surname.'

'He picked you up and took you back to the party.'

'That's right, yes.'

'And how long have you known Mr Morrow?'

'I don't really know him. Not really. We met once, a few years back. I hadn't seen him since. Tell the truth, he's a bit odd. He's into ghosts and what have you. Spends his time in haunted houses.'

'I know.'

'Oh. Right. I see.'

'It takes all sorts.'

'Apparently.'

'So. You and Mr Morrow were gone for some time.'

'Probably.'

'What were you doing? Ghost-hunting?'

'Ha. No. I'd stormed off. I was pissed off. Drunk. I had this idea, that I'd walk into the nearest town, village, whatever. Call a minicab.'

'Minicabs are thin on the ground, in that neck of the woods.'

'Well I know that now. The minute I started to sober up, I felt pretty stupid. It was really cold.'

'So Robert Morrow drives past. . .'

'Yeah. He sees me--'

'Limping along, thinks you're a spook . . .'

'Ha, yes. He stops. I get in. We have a chat.'

'About?'

'Love. Life. I tell him about the thing with Sara, her dancing with Mark. Bob convinces me to go back to the party. Talk to her.'

Holloway stared at him, chewing the sweets.

He said, 'Look, Nathan. There's probably not a great deal for you to be worrying about here. All I'm trying to do is establish a timeline.

A big party like that, it's complicated. Life's not like Inspector Morse, right? People are drunk, people take drugs, people have sex with people they shouldn't be having sex with. People get confused about what happened when. People get embarrassed about the way they behaved, they don't want to talk. They lie, pretend to have blacked out. So accounts differ - what happened when, to who, at what time.

It's the nature of these things. I don't care what you were doing in that car with Robert Morrow. I don't care if you two were taking drugs, making love--'

'Drugs,' said Nathan, quickly. 'Cocaine. We had a few toots of cocaine.'

'Good for you. I just need to know exactly when you were doing it--'

'For the timeline.'

'Spot on. So, you and Bob are in the car. Chatting. Love and life.

You neck a bit of Bolivian.'

'Quite a lot, actually.'

'You neck quite a lot of Bolivian. Bob says, don't do this, don't walk out on the girl of your dreams. Or words to that effect, and--'

'And we go back to the party.'

'This is what time?'

'This is, I'm not sure. I was, y'know. My state of mind. But there were some people around when I tried to hit Mark, so--'

'Yes, there were.'

'Oh. Okay. So what time was it?'

'Shortly after 2 a.m.'

'Right. Ouch. A lot of people saw it, then.'

'Quite a few. Something like that - drunken bloke punches the host, misses, nearly falls into the swimming pool - it makes for a bit of a highlight. People remember it. So we use it, a kind of tent pole.

To help establish the timeline.'

'I see. It wasn't a very good punch.'

'From what I hear, it was all a bit Charlie Chaplin.'

'Ah.'

'So, that's it? You left, round midnight. Bob picks you up. You get yourselves a bit fired up. Have a deep and meaningful chat. You go back to the party. Try to land one on your boss--'

'I embarrass myself horribly. Bob drives me home. I wake up, and I want to die. Merry Christmas.'

Holloway sat there for a few long moments, scrutinizing Nathan with mint-blue eyes. Then he sighed, glancing over at Hadley. She was still looking out the window, as if waiting for another bus to pass.

Holloway said, 'We may be in touch.'

'Okay. Do you think she's all right? The girl.'

'I don't know. I hope so.'

'But you think she'll turn up?'

'They usually do.'

'Good,' said Nathan. 'Good. This is awful. This is awful for every one.

Holloway gave him a courteous nod. Hadley gave him a mute glance. And they were gone, Nathan closing the door on them.

He sat down and put his head in his hands.

Then he went to the kitchen cupboard and removed a bottle of vodka.

He filled the mug from which Holloway had been drinking.

The vodka burned his gullet on the way down and sat like molten glass in his guts. He emptied the bottle. But it wasn't enough.

Sara called.

'Have you found somewhere to go?'

Nathan said, 'No.' And to her teeth-grinding silence he said: 'It's been a weird week. Have you seen the papers?'

Her voice was quiet when she said, 'What do you think? You know him. Is there, could there be anything in it?'

Mortally offended, he cut her short, 'The last thing Mark needs at the moment is his friends gossiping about him.'

Ashamed of herself, she gave Nathan another week in the flat.

One more week, and that was that. If he wasn't gone, she'd have him thrown out.

She had brothers.

He told her thanks, he'd find somewhere as soon as he could.

He put down the phone.

It rang again, immediately.

He picked it up.

'What?'

It wasn't Sara. It was a tabloid journalist called Keith. Keith offered Nathan half his annual salary to talk about Mark Derbyshire.

Nathan looked at the receiver as if it was firm and warm and damp, like a semi-erect penis.

He said, 'How did you get my number?' and, without waiting for an answer, he slammed down the receiver.

He curled on the sofa and tried to sleep.

He woke to the twilight and went to work. They fired him.

He and Howard, both unemployed now, went for a drink.

'Jesus,' said Howard. 'What a week.'

Nathan chinked his glass.

'Fuck it,' he said.

Mark Derbyshire's landline had been disconnected. So in the early afternoon, Nathan called his new mobile. Only four people knew the number. Mark answered almost immediately.

'It's Nathan,' said Nathan.

He didn't know where Mark Derbyshire was speaking from. But he got the idea he was alone in a hotel room, watching Sky Sports and waiting for the phone to ring.

'What the fuck are you doing?' said Mark. 'I'm trying to keep this line clear, for Christ's sake.'

'They fired me.'

'I know that. It's still my fucking show. I know that.'

'It's your show. But I don't have a job on it any more. Neither does Howard.'

'Howard will be all right. He's probably got a job already.'

'I don't care about Howard.'

'As soon as I'm back on air,' said Mark, 'Howard will come back.

He'll be all right.'

'I don't care about Howard.'

'Well you fucking should. He's worth a hundred of you. A thousand.

A million.'

'Be that as it may. They didn't give me severance pay. I'm out without a penny in my pocket.'

'Because you were sacked for gross misconduct. You tried to hit me at my own party.'

Nathan sighed and said, 'Why are you doing this? Surely you need all the friends you can get?'

'You're not my friend. You were my employee. Now you're not even that. Right now, I need the station to love me. And if I can save them a few quid by firing you at no cost, and pulling in some work experience fuck who'll work twice as hard for fuck all, then that's what I'll do.'

'You're unbelievable.'

'Yeah. Well. Wake up and smell the monkeys.'

'But I haven't got a pot to piss in. Or anywhere to live. What am I going to do for money?'

'Listen. Good luck. Really. But I need to keep this line clear, so I'm going to hang up now. Okay? So fuck the fuck off But he didn't hang up. He was lost and alone and scared and desperate for somebody to talk to. Even Nathan.

Who said, 'But I need money.'

'Don't we all.'

'Listen, Mark. Just listen for one minute. Please?'

'One minute,' said Mark Derbyshire. 'Fifty-nine seconds. Fifty eight seconds. Fifty-seven seconds.'

'I've been fired,' said Nathan. 'Not made redundant. Which means I can't even claim benefit for - I don't even know. Months. And I've got to leave my flat because I broke up with my girlfriend. And don't say I should kick her out, because it's her flat. Yesterday a tabloid journalist phoned me. I don't know how they got my name or my number, but they were willing to pay me - and I'm not kidding here -- they were willing to pay me a lot of money.'

Mark Derbyshire stopped counting down.

'Pay you money to what?'

'Talk about you.'

There was another, longer silence before Mark said, 'Talk about me, how?'

'I'll say whatever they want to hear,' said Nathan. 'I can't afford not to.'

He didn't even feel empty. He felt like he didn't exist.

'Jesus Christ,' said Mark. 'How much do you want?'

'Thirty grand.'

'Fuck you. I haven't got it.'

'Sell something. They offered me fifty.'

'And if I pay? How do I know you won't go to the papers anyway

'Because I'm telling you I won't. You have to trust me.'

Three days later, 30,000 pounds was credited to Nathan's bank account.

The same morning, he stuffed some belongings into a black nylon holdall.

He paused to look at what he was leaving behind: his CDs, a few books, some videotapes. His television, his stereo, his sofa.

None of it meant anything. It seemed strange to think that it ever had.

He left the flat and checked into a seaside bed-and-breakfast hotel: the kind of place that shouldn't have existed since about 1975. It was a backdrop for repeated sitcoms, for laughter-tracks behind trapped lives in a bygone England.

But it was real. He dumped his bag on the single bed, and slept with the lights on.

Three weeks after Elise disappeared, Nathan endured the sight of her parents and her sister on the local television news, making a plea for her safe return. He stared at the screen.

The family knew Elise wasn't coming back. He could tell by the way they looked at the camera. By the way they looked through it, and directly at him.

In the early weeks of March 1998, it was leaked to the press that the police were interviewing Mark Derbyshire in connection with the case.

It got a lot of coverage. On television, Nathan saw it announced that an 'item relating to the case' had been found on Mark Derbyshire's property. This didn't sound remarkable to Nathan; everyone knew that Elise had been there. God knew what she might have dropped or left behind. But whatever the item was, it was enough for the police to take Mark in for questioning.

Once again, Mark Derbyshire's past was rehearsed in every newspaper and on every news report.

Mark was released after questioning: he was never charged. But the country knew he'd done it, even if nobody was legally allowed to say so. And so Mark Derbyshire's long career finally ended.

The police didn't find Elise's body, and nor did anyone else.

Nathan couldn't imagine why; he didn't think he and Bob had done such a terribly good job of burying her.

Perhaps the police were simply looking in the wrong place.

Every morning, he woke and immediately turned on the radio expecting to hear an announcement that her body had been found.

But the announcement never came.