Left You Dead

63

Niall Paternoster sat in the front passenger seat of the Skoda Superb taxi owned by his pal, Mark Tuckwell, as they drove out through the gates of the Brighton custody centre. It was 11.15 a.m.

‘Been a bad boy, have you?’ Tuckwell, a relaxed, good-natured man of thirty-five, jested.

‘That’s not funny — I don’t know what’s going on. They reckon I’ve offed Eden.’

‘And have you?’

‘Do I look like a murderer?’

Tuckwell was nonplussed. ‘Did Dr Harold Shipman or Ted Bundy?’

‘Thanks a lot, mate. Thought I might count on you for a bit of sympathy.’

‘Not if I’m driving a fugitive from justice!’

‘You are not driving a bloody fugitive.’

‘So what’s happened, talk me through it.’ Tuckwell grinned. ‘What weapon did you use?’

‘I’m not in a mood for joking, really I’m not, all right? Two sleepless nights in a cell — Jesus — I’m not surprised people confess to shit they haven’t done, just to get it over with. So, OK, right, Sunday we go out for a drive — Eden and me — we both like going to stately homes — National Trust places, that kind of thing. It’s something to do — and something to dream about, right?’

‘Dream about their heating bills and the cost of their roof repairs, you mean?’

Paternoster tutted. ‘We actually have the vision to look beyond that. When we go to these places, I’m looking for ideas, inspiration, right? I want inspiration for the kind of house I’m going to buy when my new business comes good and my first million rolls in.’

‘So until then, when are you going to open 507 Nevill Road to the public? Will you be serving cream teas? What attractions will you have in the grounds — a safari park?’

‘Haha.’

Paternoster stared for some moments through the windscreen, appreciating his freedom; appreciating being away from the confines and tedium of his cell and from feeling, in just that brief time, almost immediately institutionalized. It was a fine day. He’d barely seen any daylight since Monday.

‘You’ve got a nice back garden — maybe make it a dinosaur theme park?’

‘Will you stop this? I’m in serious crap, Mark, OK? I need your wisdom, not your rubbish humour. Seriously. Please?’

Tuckwell braked as they joined the rear of a queue of traffic on the slip road. He shook his head. ‘Tell you what, how long have we known each other?’

‘Since Year Ten?’

‘Pretty much — so — over twenty years. In all that time, all you’ve ever done is dream, you’re always wanting something more, something better than you have.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘What’s wrong is you don’t know when to stop, Niall. You’ve got a lovely wife in Eden, but I’m guessing she’s not enough; you’ve got a nice house — for a lot of people it would be a dream home — but you want something way bigger.’ He paused. ‘You know what I learned a long time ago?’

‘What?’

‘Success isn’t about wanting what you don’t have, it’s wanting what you do have.’

‘Yeah, well, obviously I’m not a success, yet. So, yeah, you’re lucky, you have the perfect life — a woman you love, and a great kid. Good for you. Do you want me to tell you what’s happened or are you going to carry on bloody lecturing me?’

‘I’m listening.’

‘So me and Eden went last Sunday to Parham House. We had a nice time there, wandering around, and a good lunch in their cafeteria. I wanted to get back to watch the Belgian Grand Prix and do a bike ride and she starts going on about needing to pick up some cat litter that I’d forgotten to buy the day before.’

‘Had you?’

‘Maybe, but hear me out.’

Tuckwell nodded.

‘So, Eden’s very specific, she wants to go to the Tesco Holmbush, because they stock the brand the stupid cat likes — I dunno — maybe it’s soft on its bum or something.’

‘Or it’s the cheapest,’ his friend suggested, subtly reminding him of his parlous finances. But the dig went over his head.

‘Whatever, she promises to be only a few minutes. But I know what happens when Eden goes into a store — she’s like, Oh, I’ll get some of this while I’m here, and, Oh, maybe we need more loo roll and we only have two bananas left and, oh, better get some more yoghurt and butter while I’m here, and, Oh, we’re running low on tomatoes and cat food and — and all the bloody rest, right? Cheryl’s the same, right?’

‘Aren’t we all when we go into a store?’ Tuckwell said pragmatically. ‘Don’t stereotype!’

‘Not me, I’m in, gottit, out — boom! Anyhow, so Sunday afternoon, I sit in the car, she swears blind she’ll be back in five minutes — and I reckon on turning that into fifteen. So twenty pass. Then twenty-five. The Grand Prix’s about to finish and the store’s about to close and I’m annoyed, so I go in to find her — and she’s not there. Like, gone.’

‘Walking back to your car?’ Tuckwell suggested.

Paternoster shook his head. ‘I look everywhere for her and there’s no sign. I call and text her — no response. I WhatsApp her, no reply. She’d done this once before, after we’d had a row, she bumped into a friend in a store and got her to drive her home. So eventually I drive home and she’s not there. Next morning, she’s still not home — I call the police. They come round to the house and I can see immediately they don’t believe me. The next thing, I’ve got some bigwig detective and his flunkey from Major Crime rocking up.’ He fell silent.

‘And?’ Tuckwell prompted.

‘I could tell from the way they looked at me and the questions they asked, they think I’ve done something. They treat me like I’m lying. I’m going mad with worry, but they don’t seem to see that. I looked again on all her social media accounts — nothing. Next thing, early Monday evening an entire posse rocks up. I’m arrested on suspicion of murder and our house is crawling with cops. God knows what her mother said to them, especially with her track record — she loathes me, always has, but anyhow, I’m told all kinds of rubbish the next day — Eden’s engagement and wedding rings and her passport have all been found, hidden. And that there’s two sacks of bloody cat litter in the house.’

‘Two sacks of cat litter?’

‘Yeah, big ones.’

Tuckwell frowned.

‘None of it makes any sense. I mean, I can’t get my head round what’s happened. People don’t just vanish. What has happened to her? Did someone smack her over the head and drag her into a van or something as she walked across the car park? Or am I going crazy? I’m starting to wonder if I’ve got like, what do they call it — selective amnesia — or something? Seriously, I’m lying on my bunk in that cell, staring at the walls, wondering if there’s some great big blank in my mind. Did I imagine dropping her at Tesco? Did I do something to her that I don’t remember? Hide her rings and passport?’

‘Sounds more plausible than any other scenario.’

‘You’re really not being much help,’ Paternoster said.

‘OK, another thought. Has it occurred to you Eden might have vanished to teach you a lesson?’ Tuckwell suggested.

‘A lesson? About what? Why?’

As they finally reached the roundabout and drove up to the A27 on the far side, Mark Tuckwell gave him a sideways glance.

‘Wakey-wakey! Are you missing anything here? A certain lady?’

Paternoster blushed. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

Another glance. ‘Did you climb out from under a rock, Niall?’

‘Meaning what?’

‘Eden’s gone missing. The spouse or partner is always a prime suspect if you watch any crime show. And I read in the papers long ago that eighty per cent of all murders are committed by a spouse or immediate member of the family. The police aren’t stupid — it’s not going to take them long to connect you and your mistress.’

‘Girlfriend.’

Tuckwell nodded. ‘Is she wealthy?’

‘No, but she does all right.’

They were only a few minutes away from his house now.

‘Well, isn’t there a motive right there? You’re having an affair with a woman, neither of you have loads of money. Your wife owns the nice house you live in and has independent wealth. Suddenly she disappears. And you have got a bit of a temper on you, mate. Remember decking me when you were pissed that night at the Deep Sea Anglers?’

‘You’re not seriously suggesting I murdered Eden?’

‘No, of course not, but where is she?’

‘Jesus! Are you my friend or what? Are you hearing me? I don’t bloody know.’

‘So how do you think it looks to the police, Niall? You’re having an affair. They can’t find any evidence to back up your story that she went into the store — what do you expect them to think?’

‘Some friend you are, thanks a million.’

‘People don’t just disappear.’

‘No? Well, she has — into thin air. What game is she playing with me?’

‘You had another row.’

‘It wasn’t a row — it was just — we were just bickering.’

‘About what?’

‘Cat litter.’

Mark Tuckwell grinned. ‘So she’d done a runner on you because you’d argued about cat litter? If you need any, we can give you some.’

‘According to the police, we have plenty. I never saw it. How could she have forgotten she’d got two sacks of the stuff?’

‘Cheryl often makes me pick up stuff she’s forgotten she already has. That’s hardly grounds to arrest you on suspicion of murder.’

‘Oh, great, finally you’re actually taking my side?’

‘Sure I am, I don’t think you’ve murdered her.’

‘Hallelujah!’

Tuckwell shook his head. ‘No, you wouldn’t murder her because you know you’re too dumb to ever get away with it. You’ve probably got her chained up underground somewhere.’

Paternoster glared at his friend indignantly. ‘I don’t know why I like you.’

‘Because I tell you the truth that you don’t want to hear.’

They were approaching his house. As he’d been told upon his release, Niall Paternoster saw a line of crime scene tape fluttering above the pavement in front of it and a white van, signed CRIME SCENE INVESTIGATION UNIT, parked a short way down the road. A bored-looking uniformed police officer stood on the pavement.

Tuckwell said frivolously, ‘They’ve laid on a welcome home party for you.’

‘Pull up outside,’ Paternoster said. ‘I’m going to find out when they’ll be finished.’

Obediently, but with a cynical expression, Mark Tuckwell halted right in front of the house. Paternoster jumped out and approached the officer.

‘Hi, this is my home.’

‘I’m afraid you can’t go in, sir,’ she said.

‘I know that — when are you going to be finished?’

She shook her head. ‘This is a crime scene.’

A bright flash caught his eye, and he noticed for the first time two photographers, standing near, snapping him.

‘Oi, get lost!’ he yelled at them, then turned back to the officer. ‘I know I can’t go in but I need a change of clothes.’

‘If you need anything from the house, sir, like wash things and clothes, give me a list and I’ll ask if someone can bring them to you.’

‘Yes, and where do I sleep? In a shop doorway?’

‘Perhaps with relatives or friends — or in a hotel, sir.’

‘Great, I’ll get a suite at the Grand and charge it to Sussex Police, shall I?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t answer that.’

‘No, of course you can’t.’

‘What I can tell you, sir, is we should be finished by tomorrow.’

There were more flashes. He shielded his face, but well aware it was far too late. Turning, he hurried back to the taxi and jumped in.

‘Unbelievable!’ he said. ‘Go! Drive!’

‘Anywhere in particular?’

‘Just drive.’

‘No problem,’ Mark Tuckwell said. ‘Your shout — I’ve kept the meter running.’

‘You what?’ Paternoster looked at the dash and saw, to his astonishment, that it was.

£24.30 was clocked up.

‘Tell me you’re joking?’

As he drove away, Tuckwell said, ‘I suppose you’ll be wanting to add one night’s board and lodging to your bill? Full English included? Egg, sausage, bacon, black pudding and fried bread?’

‘Eden doesn’t approve of full Englishes. She calls them heart attacks on a plate.’

‘You sure you’re going to need to worry about her approval any more?’ Tuckwell said with a strange expression, which Niall Paternoster did not like. His friend had always seen through him.

‘Funny,’ he said, but it came out flat.

‘In case you do, Cheryl does a vegetarian option — it’s very popular.’

Paternoster didn’t respond.