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  Theo laughed. He laughed and laughed and laughed and …

  On the following Wednesday a lawyer knocked on his door with the insurance papers to sign.

  “Good afternoon. I am from the firm of Hatfield and Bolton and I have a preliminary indemnity insurance here for your perusal. You will see that it states that whoever should kill you should you be found deceased within the next two weeks will pay no more than £75,000 for the cost of your death and here also you will find the equivalent statement for the murder of one Philip Arnslade, assuming that your respective deaths satisfy the circumstances laid out in clauses three through eight of the—”

  “I’m not signing this are you fucking kidding me I’m …”

  On the Friday morning, as he was walking home, Theo Miller was mugged by three men dressed in balaclavas, who beat the shit out of him and took only £10 from his wallet, leaving credit cards and another £40 in cash behind.

  On the Monday the lawyer came again.

  “… and you will see a discretion clause of course which has been drawn up at Mr. Arnslade’s own expense, he is generously covering the legal fees in this matter, which have been substantial, to guarantee that the indemnity is worth no more than …”

  Theo Miller threw coffee over the papers, and if only he’d planned ahead and made two cups, might have thrown something in the lawyer’s face.

  Two days later he got a phone call from his aunty, whose dog had been killed, its mutilated body left on her car bonnet, head balanced on the stump of its neck on the path from the front door.

  The day after that Theo Miller knocked on the door of his next-door neighbour, to discover him lying in bed with a swollen face and a split lip, torn almost exactly on the scar where as a baby his mouth had been gently stitched together, and Theo shouted, “You idiot why didn’t you say why didn’t you say this had happened you’re such an idiot why didn’t you …”

  Later they sat together in the kitchen. The floor was sticky with old spilt coffee, crunchy with shattered remnants of dry, uncooked pasta, ground into dust by weeks of neglect. The cleaning lady had given up trying to keep the place in order after someone boiled milk and eggs in the kettle.

  Theo said to the boy, “It’s stupid, of course. I don’t even know the girl’s name. But I walked into this room at the party and they were holding her down, and Philip had his cock out and was … it happens all the time. The contract doesn’t say that you’ll have to do anything, it’s supposed to be charity, but if you take the contract away then what have you got left? You’ve got dreams, I imagine. You let yourself dream, think for a moment that there was something else, a different future, and then when it stops you realise that there’s just this. Just this. That you’ve been bought as a whore for the master’s son, and they have the discretion to destroy your dreams whenever they want to, and you have nowhere to appeal and nothing to …

  … my father bought my mother, you see. She had dreams, and he bought them. Money buys dreams. But it didn’t work out, and so he bought my stepmother and my stepmother is actually a very impressive woman but she knows, she understands that as long as she dreams of money, they’ll be fine. They’ll have a wonderful life. It’s only if she dreams of something else that her world will fall apart. Only then.”

  The boy said nothing and thought briefly of Dani Cumali, felt a sudden surge of terror, panic even, and shifted in his seat and winced at the pain, and in that moment of distraction forgot again.

  That night Theo Miller called up the lawyer, who’d thoughtfully left a card, and signed the indemnity. “Tell Philip Arnslade that I’m going to blow his damn brains out.”

  “Mr. Arnslade will be most relieved,” replied the lawyer.

  Chapter 28

  “Your grandmother?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “I had no idea, it’s so …”

  “Sudden?”

  “You have a grandmother, Mr. Miller?”

  This is clearly a startling idea for her. Theo Miller is an artefact of the Criminal Audit Office; to imagine he has any existence beyond it is a struggle.

  “Had. I had a grandmother.”

  Theo gives his excuses and wonders if human resources are cross-checking as he speaks, looking for records of any previous absences. They won’t check if the grandmother is real—that’s not their job—but they will look through his work history and do a quick count of just how many grandmothers have died during his employment.

  None thus far. That’s a good sign. There are several in the office who’ve lost at least three. And no one credits Theo with much imagination. He’s never given them reason to credit him with anything of anything much at all.

  “And when do you think you’ll be back, Mr. Miller? The limit on compassionate leave for this sort of thing is forty-eight hours for a domestic case and seventy-two for a …”

  “Forty-eight should be fine. Thank you.”

  “Of course. I’ll have your payslip updated. And … I do hope the funeral is nice. When my grandmother died the priest had a double booking, and started giving the eulogy for the wrong dead woman.”

  “My grandmother was an atheist.”

  “Oh yes, but that’s no reason to miss out on a church is it? Lovely bunch of flowers, music, the whole …”

  It wasn’t hard to find Dani’s supervisor.

  Seb Gatesman, twenty-nine, fiddling with his mobile phone round the back of a large, detached house on the edge of a park in Barnes, trying to take a photo of himself looking appalled, horrified and humorous all at once to send to his mate who had just suggested this thing they could do tonight, the most—you won’t believe—like we’re gonna totally fuck those bitches up it’s gonna be …

  “Excuse me?”

  Theo Miller, dressed in a suit and tie, stood beneath the ash tree and smiled politely. The younger man was nearly a foot taller than Theo, with a carefully trimmed dark goatee that he secretly oiled last thing at night and first thing in the morning. He wore a white shirt and black trousers, and was proud of this because all the patty bitches who worked under him had to wear the jumper with the name on it, like the parole sluts they were.

  “Excuse me?” repeated Theo. “Mr. Sebastian Gatesman?”

  “Who’re you?”

  Too early in the morning for Theo to be anyone important, the wedding party was still down the church. Gatesman was just here making sure his staff didn’t fuck up the reception, the champagne bar the ice sculpture the chocolate fountain the diamond hidden in the wedding cake health and safety had given him such shit over that and he’d been like it’s the size of a fucking fist no way you could fucking …

  … but it’d be just his luck if someone broke a tooth on it.

  “Mr. Gatesman, my name is Theo Miller, I work for the Criminal Audit Office. I’m here about Dani Cumali …”

  “Yeah? What’s she done?” Seb Gatesman is keen for the answer to be bad. Hit by a bus, fell off a roof, gnawed by an unexpected llama, he’ll take it.

  “She’s dead.”

  “Fuck off!” Not anger or sadness—just an outrageous joke being pulled, funny of course, it’s funny but also in bad taste, mate, like, that’s some bad taste.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “What the fuck? You’re serious?” A flicker of something—perhaps relief—before the important thoughts hit. “That’s the whole fucking rota fucking—I mean sorry, mate, like it’s all very—but that’s the rota that’s—fuck! How’d she die?”

  “She was murdered.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “You weren’t made aware by your managers.”

  “No! Last to fucking hear anything, last of the—”

  “Mr. Gatesman, my job is to audit the value of the crime. To do so I need to ascertain information concerning Ms. Cumali’s past in order to profile the societal impact her murder will have. Did she have dependants, was she in good standing, were there outstanding debts which have to be paid, these matters can be …”

&nbs
p; A snort of derision.

  Theo paused.

  Thought that in another time, another place, this garden would be beautiful. Autumn leaves falling onto thick green grass. The twisted spine of the hawthorn, the tall sweep of the oak, acorns dropping, conker shells cracking open to reveal their shining fruit, the distant sound of water trickling from a stone fountain crusted with yellow lichen, fresh-cut flowers all along the windowsills, their perfume drifting through the cold.

  The only ugly thing, he decided, was the face in front of his, but that was the face he had to deal with and so:

  “Mr. Gatesman? Your insight would be most useful for my audit.”

  “She was a patty, straight off the line. Twelve years or something, she was lucky she got this job, the company picked her up cheap too, you know what those women are like, once they’re in a way of thinking, there’s nothing, like she’s lucky she got what she got.”

  “Did she have children?”

  “Don’t think so. Dunno. Look, I’m her supervisor not her dad.”

  “What was her job, exactly?”

  “Cleaning. Also went on a few catering gigs to clean the glasses and unload stuff.”

  “Where?”

  “Anywhere we needed staff, got a lot of big contracts, corporate stuff. Doesn’t take much to clean a glass, even a patty is good for that.”

  “Anyone she disliked or who seemed to dislike her? Anything stand out about her behaviour or the behaviours of others towards her?”

  A shrug.

  “Any friends?”

  Another shrug, and sensing that maybe this wasn’t quite enough: “Look, man, she was just a patty, okay, I mean like is it such a—”

  “I hear that a lot of patties—women like Ms. Cumali—are sold for sex to wealthy clients.”

  A series of expressions cross Seb Gatesman’s face, rippling like wind across a flag.

  First, default: indignation, fury, clownish, comical, he’s outraged how could you even—if you weren’t such a stand-up guy and I wasn’t so reasonable I’d

  This phase lasted a few seconds, then died before Theo’s steady blinking gaze.

  Second, cheeky: hey, actually, you know what, you and me, you and me, men like us, we’re men of the world we know how it and it’s not illegal so long as you pay for the indemnity is it it’s not illegal it’s just expensive and if these girls they want to make a pretty buck then well who are we?

  Finally: a shrug.

  In answer to most things, Seb Gatesman has a shrug.

  Does it matter?

  Does any of this fucking matter?

  And despite himself, another flash across Seb Gatesman’s face, for there was a night not so long ago when a girl came off the patty line and he sat her down and said, “You’ve had it tough I get that, but here we help our own if they help us if you play ball with me I’ll …”

  Fuck me that had been one hell of a—she had totally known what he needed and …

  Standing in the autumn garden, wet leaves beneath his feet, popped red berries crushed underfoot on the flagstone path, Theo watches the journey of the mind across Gatesman’s face, and feels suddenly hot, and wants to be somewhere else, and has to force himself to keep looking the other man in the eye. “Was … Ms. Cumali part of this arrangement?” he blurted, moving his briefcase from one hand to the other, feeling suddenly short, awkward against the lounging sprawl of Gatesman.

  “Nah. Look I’m not supposed to talk about this, will this be in a …”

  “The report is about Ms. Cumali’s murder, not her work. Unless it’s relevant I don’t see why you need to be …”

  “Only I’ve got family I’ve got—”

  “If you cooperate, I’m sure I can keep your name out of this. Now the arrangement, the … uh … the providing of physical services to wealthy gentlemen …”

  “Some women do it. It’s a choice.”

  “Ms. Cumali didn’t participate?”

  “Nah. Coulda made a couple of quid if she’d played it right, but you could see she was trouble, sometimes you can get paid for that too—a biter a screamer there’s a market for everything but when supply outpaces demand …”

  Once again Gatesman’s thoughts deteriorated into a shrug. Economics: what’s a guy to do? What’s a stand-up guy to do?

  Theo grunts: “I need to know Ms. Cumali’s movements for the last two months.”

  “Uh, I don’t know if like I can … is this like … part of your audit? Only I’ve never heard of it being so …”

  “Have you ever been audited, Mr. Gatesman? As victim or perpetrator, I mean?”

  A shifting of weight that wants to give way to another shake of the shoulders, and wisely doesn’t go through with the motion.

  A silent conversation, conducted in great detail in meeting eyes.

  Seb, phone now forgotten in his hand, wondering what Theo knows.

  Theo, matching his gaze, and at the back of his mind a few words blurted by Dani while he tried to pretend she didn’t exist, and they hadn’t been children together, and that her daughter wasn’t also his.

  I’ve got this boss. Gatesman. I got dirt, and now he’s fucking scared of me. Embezzling from his bosses, naughty. He’s scared and I can ask for any job I want, and I said—I want into the Ministry. Get me into the Ministry.

  The Company has no problem with Seb sleeping with his charges, using them for his own power and sex. In many ways, that just makes it easier to turn a profit, get them used to the idea that this is it, all that there’ll ever be, break them early. They’re just patty-line whores and anyway, using women, it was a story as old as time, no point punishing natural instincts, not when Seb’s performance indicators were so positive.

  But corporate embezzlement … for such a crime Theo had handed out indemnities that cost more than murder.

  And Seb looked Theo in the eye and saw the truth of it, and looked away, remembered the phone in his hand, put it back in his pocket, and was for the briefest of moments afraid.

  “So uh … not sure I can get you the last two months but I could maybe see if …”

  “Her pay record should include details of her shifts, yes?”

  “Yeah I guess that …”

  Theo’s head turned a little to one side, and the other man didn’t meet his eyes.

  “Did Ms. Cumali ever request a specific shift?”

  “Yeah. Sometimes she asked for stuff.”

  “Did you give it to her?”

  “I respect my employees,” intoned Gatesman—shutting down now, fear will have that effect, “so if I could help her I would.”

  “What shifts?”

  “Some office stuff. Cleaning after hours. Said she liked the quiet.”

  “Which office stuff?”

  “Government buildings, that sort of thing.”

  “Which buildings?”

  “Ministry of Civic Responsibility, mostly.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Cleaning.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Not really.”

  “Anything leap to mind, small details, it can be so easy sometimes for these things to be …”

  “She wanted to be sent to this swanky do, couple of weeks ago. Big house, something corporate.”

  “Did she say why?”

  “No.”

  Her exact words were in fact: You don’t fuck with me, I won’t fuck with you, you fucking get me?

  Seb Gatesman had understood and given her what she wanted. For now. One day he’d make her pay—he’d make her fucking suck his—but not yet not until he’d found where she was keeping the pictures he needed to get the photos off the bitch before he could

  “And where was this corporate event?”

  “Some place … Danesmoor Hall.”

  “And this was recent?”

  “Coupla weeks ago. You know it’s a busy job, we’ve been really … you know. You know. Dani murdered. Murdered. It’s not every day that you get—I mean you hear but you sure s
he didn’t top herself?”

  “Very sure.”

  “I guess it can happen to anyone and a patty I mean more than others you’d think wouldn’t you—who’s paying for the funeral?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “The Company isn’t liable for that stuff, you know. We don’t do flowers or nothing.”

  “You’ve been very helpful. If you think of anything then …”

  “Yeah, I mean, yeah, of course. Like. Yeah.”

  That was the only eulogy Dani Cumali would receive.

  Time is

  time was

  Theo closed his eyes and tried not to think too much about time

  Walked away from Seb Gatesman because there was nothing to be done, and that was how the world was.

  Theo Miller sits on the bus and despite himself, no matter how hard he tries to stop it, words well up from a burning place inside, and in his mind’s eye he sees—

  Lucy’s face, he doesn’t have a very clear image, it’s mostly fantasy really, but whoever she is, she’s just a child and there’s Seb Gatesman standing over her, a biter a screamer there’s a market for everything there’s a market for …

  Theo Miller watches the still surface of the canal in the dead of winter night, hands in his pockets, and nearly turns the engine back on at the thoughts he cannot stop from

  sees his father, when they took him to the patty line

  his mother, getting on the train to Dorchester, I think I’ll have a better life somewhere new, it’s not much but I just don’t want to be part of this any more it’s not

  Somewhere in the north there’s a place where they lock up girls like Lucy Cumali, worthless patty-line whores who’ll never amount to anything and they’ve got to help pay their way haven’t they, there’s a market for everything, there’s a market for …

  Lucy, Lucy come on it’s for the cost of things you want to help us pay for the cost of things and he said he’ll be gentle since it’s your first time since you’re so young he’ll be so …

  Dani: she’s your daughter.

  She’s your daughter.

  She’s your daughter.

  SHE’S YOUR

  Sitting on the bus, Theo Miller puts his head in his hands, closes his eyes and in an instant finds himself auditing the value of his own life.