Long Way Home (16 page)

‘Did he tell you about Andrus Tombak?’

‘Tombak, yes. Viktor said when he was here that this man has a lot of money. He joked that he could rob him and start a new life somewhere.’

‘Maybe he wasn’t joking. Your husband got into a fight with Tombak just before Christmas,’ Zigic said. ‘He broke Tombak’s wrist. We think it was over Viktor.’

Mrs Stepulov slammed the cup down. ‘Then you arrest him. He killed Jaan.’

‘We have arrested him but there are twenty people who say he was at home when Jaan died.’

‘So he paid someone to kill him,’ she said. ‘What kind of police are you? This is obvious.’

There was a cool head behind Stepulov’s death, Zigic thought. The lock on the door, the smashed window and the lighter fuel. Not exactly an execution, but it showed a level of care which suggested forward planning, a familiarity with Stepulov’s routine. He could imagine Tombak scoping out the situation and handing over instructions with a wad of cash.

It was elaborate though. A quick knife to the ribs would look more natural. They saw it often enough, put it down to quick tempers and too much drink. Those cases had a way of drifting into oblivion unsolved. An arson like this raised questions which demanded to be answered.

But Stepulov was a big man, seasoned and tough. Maybe Tombak wasn’t sure his hired thug would come out on the right side of a fight. He’d failed after all, even with a baseball bat in his hands. Who was to say a knife would be enough to fell Stepulov?

‘
HOW LONG ARE
you going to stay in there?’ Gemma asked, her voice muffled by the bathroom’s heavy oak door. ‘Phil, come on, that water must be cold by now.’

‘I’ll be out in a minute.’

The floorboard creaked as she shifted her weight.

‘Your tea’s ready,’ she said.

‘You eat, I’m alright.’

The handle turned but he’d locked the door and she rattled it sharply.

‘Phil. What’re you doing in there?’

‘For fuck’s sake, woman, leave me be, will you?’

A few seconds later he heard her going downstairs and he sighed at the ceiling, sinking lower into the tepid water, knowing that there would be an argument when he got out now, all for the sake of nothing.

He should have gone down to have dinner, sat across the table from her, forced the food into his mouth, forced himself to swallow it, while she watched him with the newly shrewd eye she’d developed, waiting for him to say something he knew she didn’t really want to hear.

She thought he was guilty.

She hadn’t asked and she wouldn’t accuse him, but she believed he’d murdered Stepulov.

He should have said something the minute they got home from the police station but he was tired and flat and all he wanted was a cup of tea and some silence to order his thoughts in. Now the moment was passed and any denial would sound like a lie.

The evening yawned ahead of him, stilted conversation and television programmes they would both look at but not watch. She’d offer to make tea, he’d drink it. They’d sit at opposite ends of the sofa with the dead man’s ghost filling the empty cushion between them. That’s how it was last night and that’s how it would be tomorrow. They would move further and further apart until the police charged someone and by then the damage would be done.

How could you love a woman who thought you were a murderer?

Last night he lay in bed watching the red numbers on his alarm clock changing, aware of Gemma awake next to him, not talking, hardly breathing, and every time his foot touched her leg she drew away. He wanted her to say something, anything, but she didn’t, and when he finally spoke to her, she only mumbled and told him to go back to sleep.

Phil pulled the plug out of the bath and the greyish water drained slowly, exposing his goose-pimpled body to the chilled air. The radiator in here had never worked properly. A cheap thing from Wickes he’d filched off a job. Gemma had been moaning at him to replace it for eighteen months.

Tomorrow he’d pick up a new one. She’d appreciate that.

He climbed out of the empty bath and towelled off, avoiding his reflection in the mirror over the sink. One night’s sleep missed and he looked like an old man, all jowls and eye bags and broken veins around his nose.

In the bedroom he pulled on a pair of jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt, shoved his feet into his second-best trainers and sat down on the blanket box to tie them. The room still smelled of smoke from the shed. Not as strong as yesterday but enough that he could still detect it under the plug-in air-freshener Gemma had moved up here from the living room. It smelled in there too. The whole house was permeated by it and he doubted they would ever shift it from the curtains.

At the weekend he’d take her to Dunelm for some new ones. She always bitched that he wouldn’t go in there with her, it would make her happy for a while at least, get her out of this fucking house.

As he headed for the stairs he noticed the door to Craig’s bedroom was open. Gemma had been in, tidied up the clothes he’d left on the floor, turned back the covers to air the bed ready for his next visit.

Kerry wouldn’t let him come over this weekend, not after what had happened. She’d say she didn’t want him upsetting. He was too young to deal with something like this. And if he argued she’d lose her temper, tell him Craig wouldn’t be safe there. It was just the excuse she needed to stop him seeing his boy.

In the kitchen Gemma was sitting smoking at the table, staring into middle distance with a frown between her eyes.

‘What’s for tea, love?’

‘Love, is it now?’

‘I’m sorry.’ He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed the top of her head. ‘You know I never meant it. I’m just a bit – I dunno – shell-shocked.’

‘That makes two of us then.’

He pulled a chair up close to her. ‘We’re alright, aren’t we?’

‘Yeah.’ She stood abruptly and went to the oven. ‘We’re fine.’

He got a beer out of the fridge and drank it at the worktop, looking at the burnt-out hulk of the shed, just a darker shade of black against the unlit garden. Gemma moved briskly behind him, slamming down the cutlery and banging the spatula against the tray as she dished up their fish fingers and chips.

‘Can I do anything?’

‘No.’

She threw the tray in the sink and something broke in the scummy water.

They sat opposite one another at the table and tried to make conversation. She asked how work was with an edge in her voice. She hadn’t wanted him to go in today and he could feel her spoiling for an argument. He told her it had been fine, didn’t mention that his boss had given him the third degree about the fire, acting amazed that they’d let him out already. Then she talked about Jeremy Kyle and
This Morning
, faking lightness and laughing with her mouth too wide, as if she was on the verge of tears.

This would be his evening, Gemma play-acting normality until it was respectable to turn in. Then another long night without sleep, the conversation they needed to have running through both their minds as the silence boomed in the bedroom.

As she was scraping the uneaten food into the bin he found his wallet and tucked it into his pocket.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’

‘Fancy a pint,’ he said. ‘Don’t mind, do you?’

She smiled thinly. ‘No. You go. Go and enjoy yourself.’

‘I’m only going over the road.’

‘You don’t need to explain yourself to me, Phil.’

‘I’ll stay here if you want.’

There were tears in her eyes. ‘I can’t take much more of this.’

‘It won’t be like this forever.’

‘Won’t it? Everyone thinks we’re guilty,’ she said, her hands clawing the air next to her head. ‘My mum phoned today and told me to leave you. She begged me to come home.’

‘That bitch never liked me.’

‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’

He sighed. ‘You know what she’s like. Take no notice of her.’

‘Don’t you care what people think of us? My own mother thinks you’re a murderer for Christ’s sake.’

His gut felt hollow suddenly. ‘I only care what you think.’

She closed her eyes.

‘You know I didn’t do it, Gem. Look at me.’ He grabbed her arms, fighting the urge to shake her. ‘For fuck’s sake, look at me when I’m talking to you.’

She opened her eyes; they were small and bloodshot.

‘I know you didn’t do it,’ she said quietly. ‘You’ve not got the arsehole.’

He stormed out of the house, slamming the front door after him, and the cool night air hit him like a slap around the face. He was relieved and furious all at once. Part of him wanted her to think he did it, have a bit of respect for him.

He crossed Highbury Street and went into the Hand & Heart. A skinny ginger mongrel was tied up just inside the front door, a bowl of stout on the floor next to it. The dog was asleep, back leg kicking as it dreamed.

The bar was busy for a Thursday night, a handful of regulars lost among a crowd of fat, bearded men all wearing the same red CAMRA T-shirts. The pub was famous on the real ale circuit for its original art-deco interior and every now and again a gang of aficionados would descend on it.

He was grateful for the cover, didn’t feel like talking to anyone.

The landlord clocked him through the bodies crowding the bar, smiled and pointed and started to sing,

‘
He’s a firestarter. Twisted firestarter
.’

A couple of the regulars chuckled and Phil dug deep to find a smile that made his cheeks ache.

‘Usual?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Just messing with you, Phil lad.’ The landlord took a pint glass down and started to pour his Guinness. ‘How’s the missus holding up?’

‘She’s a bit – you know?’

‘Fucking shock for you, I bet.’

‘Yeah.’

He took his pint to a table under the window and tried to close himself off from the chatter around him. Two blokes at the next table talking about Syria like they’d just wandered in from a NATO summit, a group on the other side of him dissecting last night’s Champions League game, saying how Barça’s tactics had been hacked now and they were beatable.

He knew he was being watched but he ignored it. Sipped his pint and tried to think of something to say to Gemma when he went home. Maybe the best course was to pretend nothing had been said and keep going like before. She needed time to recover. That’s all. A few more days to remember what a regular life felt like.

It would be easier once the remains of the shed were gone. Having it there waiting for you every time you looked out of the window . . . how could they hope to move on?

His face was prickling. He kept ignoring it.

They were curious. Some of them thought he was guilty and he couldn’t change that. He shouldn’t have come in. Not so soon. But did they really believe he would saunter over for a pint if he’d killed a man? Who did that?

Before he knew it his glass was empty and the landlord asked if he’d have another, on the house.

Why not? It was early still.

He put his glass on the bar and went to the Gents.

The door opened as he was zipping up at the urinal and he felt that stinging sensation at the base of his neck.

‘Alright, Phil, long time no see.’

Clinton Renfrew was standing between him and the door, older and thinner than Phil remembered, but how long had it been? Ten years, twelve. Before him and Gemma. Renfrew had been inside, he saw it in the paper. Arson.

‘How you doing, mate?’

‘Not as well as you,’ Renfrew said. He reached out and weighed the gold chain hanging outside Phil’s T-shirt. ‘The building’s still paying.’

‘It’s fucking slack.’

‘What d’you expect, all these immigrants about?’

Phil stepped around him, washed his hands quickly and dried them on a fistful of paper towels. Renfrew moved as well, still blocking off the door.

‘Had a visit today,’ he said. ‘Couple of coppers come to see me at work.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Wanted to know if you paid me to torch your shed.’

The floor lurched under him and he gripped the edge of the sink to stay upright. ‘What did you say?’

‘Told them to get fucked, didn’t I?’ Renfrew took a step closer. He reeked of dirty clothes and diesel. ‘Now, what I wanna know is why you sent them after me.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Don’t treat me like a cunt, Phil. They’ve let you go, you gave them something.’

‘Why would I say anything about you?’

‘Cos you’re shit up.’

Phil pushed away from the sink, tried to get around him, but Renfrew grabbed the front of his T-shirt and shoved him back so hard he slammed into the edge of a cubicle.

‘Look, Clint, I never said anything.’ He heard the tremble in his voice. ‘I swear to God.’

‘Don’t do me much good now, does it?’ Renfrew shoved his face close. ‘I lost my fucking job. You ever tried getting fixed up when you’ve been inside?’

‘No.’

‘You’ll see what it’s like. If you survive it. Which you won’t.’

‘I’m sorry, Clint.’

‘Fuck your sorries.’

‘I don’t know what else to say, mate.’

Renfrew smiled. ‘I know what to say. Tomorrow morning I’m going down to that cop shop and I’m telling them you gave me five hundred quid to torch your shed.’

‘They won’t believe you.’

‘You wanna bet on it?’ Renfrew said, a crazed fervour in his eyes. ‘They’re already sure you did it. All they need’s a push.’

‘You’ll go down too.’

‘Think I give a shite? What’ve I got out here to worry about? No job, no money, I’m living with my brother and his cunt of a girlfriend, kids all over the place. I’ve got nothing to lose.’

‘You can’t –’

‘Fucking watch me, fat lad.’

‘Please, Clint, don’t do this. You know I never did it.’

Renfrew laughed. ‘So what? Place is full of blokes never did what they’re in for.’

Phil felt the room closing in on him, a deep-buried claustrophobia making the walls curve and bend over him. He felt his chest tighten, thinking of Gemma, but more of himself. Banged up, trapped with men like Renfrew and worse.

‘Less you wanna help me out.’

‘OK, alright, yeah,’ Phil said, mind racing. ‘Look, you need a job, yeah? Why don’t you come and work with me? You’re pretty handy, aren’t you?’