Wolf

  The woman takes the glasses to the bar and returns with a bowl of water, putting it down for Bear. She bends and scratches her head.

  ‘Boy? Girl?’

  ‘Girl.’

  ‘She’s part Border, isn’t she?’

  ‘I don’t know, for sure.’

  ‘I think she is. I used to have a Border. She’d sit on the back of my bike. She liked the wind in her hair, had a little bandana – see?’ She points to the wall where a framed photo of a shining bike hangs. A dog is perched on the back, its tongue hanging out. ‘And that’s my before photo.’

  The photo next to it shows a young woman in a Harley T-shirt, standing in front of an American diner, a broad grin on her face. Heavy dark hair hangs in wide curls across her shoulders. Her teeth are white, her mouth wide, her eyes clear. She was pretty. Very pretty.

  ‘What’s your name, old girl? Eh?’ The woman has dropped to a crouch and taken the dog behind its ears, putting its face close to her. ‘What’s your name, you pretty girl? You so good-looking.’ She peers up at Caffery, waiting for him to answer, to tell her the dog’s name. He drags his attention away from the photograph.

  ‘Bear.’

  ‘Bear? She doesn’t look like a bear – well, maybe a bear cub. Why Bear?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  She frowns. ‘You don’t know a lot about your own dog.’

  ‘It’s not mine.’

  ‘You’ve stolen it? You’re a dog rustler. You’re right – you’re not as normal as you seem.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘To my face?’

  ‘Yes. Your face.’

  ‘Acid.’

  ‘Oh,’ he says, not knowing what to say.

  ‘Exactly.’ She smiles. ‘Oh.’

  Caffery is surprised to find he’s comfortable about studying her. As if there’s something in her that almost invites it. As if this peeling away of skin has forced her to make herself naked to the world, and that now she’s as happy in this skin as she could be in any.

  ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘If I told you I was blown up in a mine disposal operation in Afghanistan, would that make you more or less impressed by me?’

  ‘It matters to you if I’m impressed?’

  ‘You’re a good-looking man – you probably know it. I’m a human being. Not entirely recognizable as one, I grant you, but I am human. Of course I want to impress you.’

  Caffery turns his glass around and around on the table. It leaves a wet circular stain and he keeps his eyes on it, because he thinks if he looks up and meets her eyes she’ll see the images that are there.

  ‘So,’ she says. ‘Are you impressed?’

  ‘It would depend. Was it a bomb in Afghanistan?’

  She gives a small, dismissive laugh. She straightens, hooks a bar stool under her and sits opposite him, arms folded. She has very long slim legs and very small breasts. The skin on the lower parts of her arms and hands is smooth and lightly bronzed.

  ‘No. I wish it was. I wish I could say it was a bomb or a helicopter accident, trying to save other troops, because half the clientele in here have got some story or other like that, being this close to the barracks. But no. I was born here.’ She waves her hand around the pub. ‘It’s my dad’s place – that’s him who served you. Manic depressive, or bipolar, or something. We just can’t work it out. He’s as sweet as you like to everyone around him, but he can’t seem to get himself happy. Clever man, too – educated as a physicist, but he couldn’t find a job in his field. Hence this place.’

  ‘And you? Army?’

  ‘No, no no. Too much of a layabout, and lots to look after here, with Mum and Dad not coping. No, I was twenty, working here, dating all the boys from the camp – the Signals – you can imagine.’ She nods out of the window. ‘A natural progression, living so close, to be dating all the grunts. Looking back I think I had my pick, but I chose the bad boy. He was always trying to impress me, always trying to show off – and I loved it. One night he smuggled me into the camp. Could have been court martialled for it, but he did it anyway because I wanted to see – I wanted to know what went on over the fence. He was in charge of the transport for one of the regiments so he showed me around a bit, showed me the trucks and the maintenance places and—’ She breaks off, taking a moment to replay it all in her memory. Then shakes her head. ‘Anyway, there’d been a problem with the air-conditioning unit. The batteries they use in the trucks, they’re supposed to be kept ventilated because they produce gas and it’s flammable – actually, it’s explosive. We had … you know, we’d stopped what we were up to, then he lit a cigarette and bam! I was right next to a battery and got it in the face. He was completely fine. He’s a major now. I saw him on the news in Afghanistan about a month ago.’

  She tips her head on one side. Searches Caffery’s face for a reaction. He keeps his expression level. It’s something he’s learned to do over the years: put up a blank wall to stop people peering in. She stares and she smiles, but she can’t get past it. So she stands and picks up his glass.

  ‘Another drink?’

  He should say no. It will mean he won’t be able to drive until at least ten o’clock. He’ll have to sit here drinking nothing but coffee for three hours.

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I’d like that.’

  When she brings the glass back and puts it down, he picks it up and drinks half of it at once. He sets it on the table and both he and the woman and the dog look at it in silence for a moment. Something has shifted in the atmosphere. He knows and she knows it. He picks up the glass and finishes the rest in one go, setting it on the table and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  ‘My name’s Jack,’ he says.

  ‘Mine’s Breanne.’

  ‘It’s nice to meet you, Breanne,’ he says. ‘How far down does that scar go?’

  The Last Job

  HONIG STANDS THREE metres away from the house, holding up a torch – shining it into the woods. Behind him Ian the Geek is working on the telephone box, using a headtorch to see what he is doing. He keeps swearing and muttering under his breath – so Honig is assuming all is not going well.

  He puts his hand in his pocket and closes it around Bubblegum Mania. He wishes he could call her. He is so on edge he can hardly keep still. Animal intestines tangled in a barbed wire fence? Placed so close to the Donkey Pitch where Minnet Kable killed the teenagers? Weird and weirder. Like someone in the area is orchestrating an enormous mindfuck.

  When they were at the bottom of the drive and had mobile signal, he did some phoning around, left messages in several places trying to get some intel on Minnet Kable. It sounds nuts, based on animal guts in barbed wire, but suddenly he wants reassurance that the guy is still in the slammer. No one had anything to tell him, though they’ve all promised to do some digging and get back to him. Then he had Ian the Geek spend half an hour searching the web for anything – any news about Kable being released. They found nothing. But then again, Honig wonders, would the authorities send information like that to the press?

  Minnet Kable can’t be out. Can’t be. And even if he were, this would be the last place he’d come back to. Surely? All the same, Honig is utterly rattled by the remains of that animal. It feels as if the air around the house and the surrounding woods is tightening like a fist with each passing hour.

  ‘Anything?’ He has his back to Ian the Geek and he keeps his eyes on the furthest boundary, where the semicircle of the torchlight meets the darkness. He is also, out of the corner of his eye, monitoring the back door, which is standing open, the light spilling out. Usually he is level-headed and rational, so he can’t explain why he’s suddenly as nervous as hell. ‘Anything at all?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Honig bites his lip hard to stop himself from swearing. His anger with Ian the Geek is under very shaky control at the moment. Not only does he find it incredible that the guy didn’t find anything odd about discovering those intestines, it also seems he can??
?t do the only thing he’s supposed to be good at – getting the fucking phone working. They need that phone. Really need it.

  He peers into the woods, ferreting around among his thoughts and sensations for some logic. He turns the torch beam to the scullery door. Studies it. Now he’s thinking about it, he has the strangest sensation that there’s something he’s missed which will make sense of everything. It’s something that happened the first day … something someone did, or said …

  The thought leaps and skitters away. He screws up his eyes, rubs his temples wearily, tries to get it back. But it’s gone. Completely gone. He turns. Ian the Geek is standing next to the junction box, a pained smile on his face.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He wipes his face with his sleeve. Shrugs and waves the pliers at the box. ‘I’m shit and I know it. Just can’t make it happen.’

  Honig shakes his head. It’s cemented his decision that this is his last job. He’s definitely leaving Gauntlet after this. He’s going back home to Bubblegum Mania.

  They go into the house and pull out the camp beds. Ian the Geek falls asleep quickly, but Honig is restless and cannot get comfortable. He’s a city boy and the noises of the wildlife outside are alien to him. The night-song of birds, the bark of foxes. At four a.m. something large, possibly a pheasant, gets killed – judging by the squawk and shriek. He knows it’s just the sounds of nature, but they leave him as stripped-down scared as anything he’s ever heard in his life. He keeps Bubblegum Mania on his pillow where he can uncap it and inhale the smell, just to calm him. What has put it into his head that Kable is out of prison, he just doesn’t know, but all night he is pursued by the image of a man in the milky dawn, decorating trees with the intestines of two teenagers.

  Eventually he gives up the battle, and when first light comes, he pushes back the covers and gets up. He puts on the kettle and drinks two cups of strong coffee. Ian the Geek is still asleep. Snoring. Plus ça change, Honig thinks.

  He washes his cup, draws back the curtains and looks out. It is dawn and the pink light is filtering through the trees to the east of the house. He puts on his boots, finds a torch, and unlocks the door. He couldn’t care less if Ian the Geek, the bovine, gets woken, but he is such a sound sleeper that even the noise of three bolts being pulled back doesn’t stop the snoring.

  The world is white with dew. Honig knows he’s supposed to be a hard-bitten bastard, but even he sees something magical about it – sees where that ‘rosy-fingered’ quote comes from. He wishes his new wife could be here to see it. He’d take a photo of it, if he wasn’t superstitious about mixing work and pleasure. In his jacket pocket Bubblegum Mania bounces lightly against his thigh as he walks.

  He goes quickly down the path, conscious of the trees still and silent in the mist. Wet dew gathers on his trousers from the lavender in the borders. He has no idea what’s leading him out here or what he expects to find – all he has is an instinct that whatever is out of kilter has something to do with the intestines. With moving them to the woods.

  He stops outside the scullery door and, still not sure what he’s searching for, kicks around in the bright grass, shining the torch at his feet and along the path Ian the Geek used to take the bucket into the trees. He tries not to think about the images that have been woven through his dreams. Stomachs ripped open. Kable waiting in a cave. Waiting. Sometimes he wishes he hasn’t read all the paperwork the company supplied about the case.

  He pauses, staring down at his feet. Something is there. He picks it up and shines the light on it, examining it very closely. Immediately he is chilled. It’s as if the last breaths of those doomed teenagers is floating up the hillside. Condensing cold on his face.

  ‘Fuck,’ he mutters. ‘Fuck.’ He puts the object in his pocket and heads quickly back towards the house.

  International Art Thieves

  ‘THE WOMAN WHO is getting that from you every day is lucky.’ It is morning and Breanne lies on her back, one arm behind her head, the other resting on the sheet, a cigarette smouldering between her fingers. ‘Getting fucked like that on a daily basis.’

  Caffery lies next to her on his front, his head turned sideways, resting on his arms. He watches her out of one eye. The scars, it turns out, go down her chest and stop just above her nipples. The acid ate through the T-shirt she was wearing that night, but the bra underneath protected her breasts. There’s another small band of puckered skin above her navel where the acid splashed. The place on her face where the skin graft meets the original skin is raised. She’s encouraged him to touch it – has taken his hand and placed his finger there. Later he ran his tongue along the groove, his eyes closed, tasting the different textures.

  There is only one woman he’d like to be doing this with on a daily basis and it isn’t Breanne, sexy though she is. It’s the police sergeant who runs the search unit, the one he’s shared so many secrets with over the years. Again he wonders why he hasn’t made a move in that direction. He half suspects it’s to do with Jacqui Kitson’s closure and happiness. All the psychologists say: if you’re not healed yourself you can’t hope to have a relationship with another human being, and on some level he’s sure he’s avoiding her until he discovers what happened to Ewan.

  Breanne blows smoke in a long line towards the ceiling. ‘You’re still angry.’

  He blinks. Lifts his head up. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I can spot an anger fuck a mile away – and that’s what this has been.’ She licks her finger and puts it on his shoulder. Makes the hiss of scorched flesh between her teeth. ‘You’re burning up with it. Who is it? A woman?’

  When Caffery doesn’t answer she rolls on to her side and drapes her hand over the edge of the bed, groping around on the floor for something. The light from the half-drawn curtains catches the fine invisible hairs on her skin and turns them gold. Caffery doesn’t move, he follows her movements with his eyes.

  ‘So …’ She’s found whatever she was looking for and rolls back. It’s the black police-issue wallet that contains his warrant card. Propping herself up on one arm, she gives a slow smile and lets the wallet fall open. ‘Something we forgot to talk about last night?’

  ‘I had other things on my mind.’

  ‘Nice try. But some things are basic etiquette to mention. You know – before. Not after. It should go with the condom discussion. Is this the real reason you’re such a long way from home? I didn’t believe you when you said you were just having a drive because it was a nice day.’

  ‘I’m not a good actor then.’

  ‘The worst I’ve ever seen. And I watch a lot of movies.’

  ‘I was in the camp. I’m trying to trace someone who was in the Signals. Years ago.’

  Her eyes gleam wickedly. ‘Who are you looking for? An international art thief? Go on, tell me. A murderer? A terrorist?’

  ‘All three. And none of the above.’

  ‘That’s a riddle and I don’t get it.’

  ‘I mean I don’t know who I’m looking for.’

  He explains to her about the ring. The image of Mercury and the names Matilda and Jimmy. Breanne lights another cigarette and listens carefully.

  When he’s finished she sits up and swings her legs off the bed. Goes to the wardrobe and pulls out a white shirt which she puts on, braless.

  ‘Are we going somewhere?’

  ‘Yes. We’re going to speak to my father.’

  ‘That’s great – though I think it’s early to be discussing the wedding.’

  She stops buttoning the blouse and gives him a patient, unamused look. ‘He’s been running this pub for thirty-nine years and he’s got a memory like an encyclopaedia. You should have gone to him in the first place, not to the regiment.’

  Alcohol

  HONIG SITS AT the table, his elbows on it, and watches Ian the Geek wake up. The Geek turns and pulls up the covers and tries to go back into his dreams, but each time he does Honig coughs a little louder, until eventually Ian the Geek gives up. ‘What’s the matter
? What’s going on?’

  ‘I think it’s time you woke up.’

  ‘Wha …?’ he begins, but seeing Honig’s face his expression changes to one of alarm. ‘What?’ He sits up nervously. ‘What is it?’

  Honig doesn’t answer. He beckons him with one finger. Ian the Geek hesitates, then gets up from the camp bed and pads over to the table. Honig points at what sits on the table in front of him. Ian the Geek peers at it, frowning.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A filling.’

  ‘A filling?’

  ‘Er, yes. That’s what I said. Do you know where it came from?’

  Ian the Geek shakes his head, bewildered. He rubs his eyes and sits down at the table opposite. ‘I don’t know. I just don’t know.’

  ‘I found it. In the grass. You chucked it there.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Let me take you back. A piece of “shot”. In the intestines?’

  Light begins to dawn in Ian the Geek’s expression. He picks up the filling and examines it.

  ‘It’s not lead shot,’ he admits. His face is red. ‘It’s definitely a filling. How did it get to be in the intestines?’

  Honig puts both fists down on the table and tightens his teeth, resisting the urge to drop his head into his hands. He concentrates very hard on not speaking because he knows if he does it will just be a stream of invective. He pushes the chair back and goes to the sink, where he rummages in the cupboard until he finds two pairs of rubber gloves. He pulls the knife from the block – the serrated one that Oliver told him to use three days ago, back when Honig was Detective Honey and they were playing games that Minnet Kable was out of jail and terrorizing the house. The irony of the situation isn’t lost on him.

  The two men go outside, with Honig stopping to lock the back door carefully. He gives the trees and the gardens a quick scan, then leads Ian the Geek into the dewy morning. They walk down through the gardens, into the woods and stand, hands over their mouths, looking at the mess Ian the Geek tipped out of the bucket. It stinks, but because of the cold at least it’s not covered in flies the way it was yesterday. There are just a couple of bluebottles, picking their way sluggishly through the entrails.