‘Er, I left something at the garage. I need to go back for it.’
‘Can I come? I like the garage.’
‘No. You stay and have your breakfast. I’m not doing any work today. Later, we could go out for a pub lunch, if you fancy it.’
Scott realised he was over-compensating, but he couldn’t help himself. The prospect of a Sunday carvery always made Daniel jump for joy.
Not today, though. Daniel’s voice remained flat as he said, ‘Yes, that would be nice.’
Scott left quickly. The return to normality he had hoped for hadn’t yet materialised.
I’m expecting too much, he thought. Give it time. When I get this final bit done I’ll be able to relax. And when I’m relaxed, they’ll calm down too. We’re in the home straight now. Just one more little job.
When he exited from the rear of the building, he checked to make sure nobody was watching, then marched straight to the Toyota, climbed in and started the engine. He was breathing rapidly again, terrified of something scuppering his plans at this late stage.
He flipped down both sun visors on the car to make it more difficult for cameras to pick up his face, then drove out of the car park and headed south, away from town. Ten minutes later he saw the sign for the council refuse site. He took the turning onto the winding lane, and then into the site itself.
Being a Sunday, it was busy. Mostly men with trailers and large estate cars stuffed with junk. He had to wait for a parking spot to become free next to one of the massive containers for non-recyclable rubbish. He wanted the walk with his cargo to be as brief as possible.
He got out of the car, opened up the boot, stared at the array of black bin liners sitting there waiting patiently. He grabbed a couple and heaved them out, then made his way over to the container. He waited while a man threw in some stuff that included a toaster, even though there was a separate container for appliances, and he thought to himself, What if they spot it after I’ve thrown my stuff in? What if they see that there’s a toaster in there and they stop the machine and they climb in to look for other things that might have been dumped by mistake? What then?
Don’t be stupid. They’re not going to do that. The people who work here don’t give a shit. Besides, they’re hardly going to start ripping open bin liners.
Toaster man smiled as he made way for Scott, and Scott simply nodded. Starting an argument was the last thing he needed right now.
He chose not to toss the bags in for fear of them bursting open, but instead reached out as far as he could and gently lowered them into the morass below.
Two down.
He repeated the process. Two bags at a time, spread across several containers. Calmly and carefully. Just another bored husband carrying out his weekend chores. Nothing to see here, folks.
And then it was done. The car boot was empty. He closed it and clambered in behind the wheel again. Despite the queue of cars jostling for spaces, he remained where he was. Waited for the council refuse worker to move from container to container, pressing the big red buttons that woke up the dormant monsters and caused them to compact the garbage into their metallic stomachs.
Only then did Scott drive away.
He took the Toyota back to the garage, where he cleaned it up and removed the insulating tape. Then he got back into his own car and went home.
It was over. Scott and his family could move on with their lives.
Nobody would ever know.
11
She wanted an update, and she wanted it in person.
Ronan wanted simply to be allowed to get on with the job. He felt he was making some progress, but he still had plenty of other people he could talk to, and being dragged back to the farmhouse was an unnecessary hindrance.
But Myra Cobb always got her way.
There was a time when Ronan would not have been asked to comb the streets like this. But that was back when his dad was alive. Patrick Cobb wouldn’t have allowed one of his sons to perform such a menial task. If something needed doing, he would have clicked his fingers and it would have been carried out immediately by a squadron of his goons.
But all the soldiers had gone. With Patrick out of the way, the challengers crept out from under the rocks. They took bites out of the Cobb empire like hyenas nipping at the limbs of prey. Anyone with any sense traded in their membership cards.
So now it was just the twins and their mother. They survived on their reputation more than anything, but even that was dwindling.
In the kitchen, Ronan saw that there was a newly opened bottle of gin on the table, and his mother had that glassy look that told him she had entered a state of unpredictability. Next to the bottle were her phone and credit card. He wondered what wondrous trinkets she had purchased since this morning.
‘Found him yet?’ she demanded.
‘I’m making good progress,’ he said.
‘What the fuck does that mean? You’ve either found him or you haven’t. And if you haven’t, you need to get a bloody move on, you lazy bastard.’
‘Mam, it’s not that easy. Joey doesn’t always tell me what he does or where he goes. I’m doing all my own detective work here.’
‘Detective? Pah! You couldn’t detect your own arse with both hands. He’s your twin brother, for Christ’s sake. You’re supposed to know what the other one is thinking.’
‘We’re not telepathic, Mam.’
‘You certainly aren’t. Tele-pathetic, more like. So what have you managed to deduce so far, Sherlock?’
Ronan ran through the list of people he’d spoken to, and what he’d learnt about their last contact with Joey.
‘Is that it?’ his mother asked.
‘I thought it was quite a lot.’
‘Well, you thought wrong. You’ve talked to a set of druggies and pond life who’d tell you anything you want to hear if it keeps them out of trouble or in with a chance of getting high. I wouldn’t trust any of those maggots as far as I could throw them.’
