A lone pony wanders by the side of the pond, head bobbing as he walks. Steve eyes him suspiciously. Well, Steve eyes him. His looks are always suspicious. He gets in trouble for it at the pub all the time.
“You should be asleep,” he tells the pony.
The pony turns his head toward Steve, as if to say, “So should you.” Steve accepts that the pony has a point. The pony continues his slow walk, moving across the high street and down the passage alongside the greetings-card shop, stopping to nuzzle something in a dustbin along the way. Axley belongs to Steve once again.
Steve rubs his fingers across the brass plaque on the bench. Debbie’s name, the date of her birth, the date of her death. He presses “record” on his Dictaphone, because otherwise he would just be a man on a bench talking to himself.
“Hey, Debs. We came second in the quiz yesterday. Norman from the shop had his brother-in-law staying and he’s been on The Weakest Link, so we had no chance. The gang was going to lodge a complaint—seemed a bit suspicious, you know—but I took a look at it all when I got back home, and he really is Norman’s brother-in-law, so there’s not a lot we can do. Trouble killed a vole, first one in a while; nice to know he’s still got it in him. And he took it into Margaret’s house, not ours, so that was a result. Just saw a new cat on Mason’s Lane, ginger, tough guy, you know the sort. Umm…Amy’s working with Rosie D’Antonio, you know, the writer. Very beautiful, people say, but not my type. I’ll send her your love. Amy, not Rosie D’Antonio. I’ll get the gossip for you. There’s a new pie at the shop, chicken and something. I think you can just heat it up in the microwave; I’ll let you know if I feel adventurous. Nothing else this evening. Love you, Debs.”
Steve switches off his Dictaphone and puts it back in his pocket. He pats the bench.
“Love you, doll. I’m going to see if that cat is still around.”
Steve begins his walk back up the high street. Tomorrow he is resuming the search for a dog that got lost at a local campsite; the owners, down from London, were understandably beside themselves. Steve knows how dogs think—he’ll find him in no time. Five hundred pounds they’ve paid him, up front too, cash. Steve would have done it for fifty pounds. Londoners and their money are soon parted. And there’s a local shop that has had money go missing from the till. Steve set up a remote camera last week, and he’s going to head over to pick up the footage. It’s the daughter of the owner—Steve worked that out almost immediately. Steve knows how people think too; they’re surprisingly similar to dogs, in actual fact. But the owner isn’t going to believe it was her daughter until she sees the evidence.
Axley is peaceful and quiet, and Steve is grateful for it. Other old coppers he knew, they’re all in their late fifties now, are still chasing around on dodgy knees for dodgy bosses, drinking or smoking or stressing themselves to death. But Steve understands how life ends, and he has no intention of raging against it.
You can’t have the thrills of life without the pain of life, so Steve has decided to go without the thrills. He chooses to watch the TV, to do his pub quizzes, to help people when he can, but always to return to his armchair with a cat called Trouble.
When you arrest someone, you generally get two different types of reactions. Some people kick and scream all the way to the cells, while others go quietly, knowing the game is up.
Who knows when your own game will be up? When you’re standing on that platform and the train derails?
Whenever it might be, Steve intends to go quietly.
4
Jeff Nolan, CEO of Maximum Impact Solutions, is thinking about Andrew Fairbanks.
People have to be killed sometimes; that’s just business, and Jeff understands that more than anyone. But eaten by a shark? Sends a message, Jeff supposes, and perhaps that’s the point. When Bella Sanchez had been killed, it hadn’t really made much of a splash. Mark Gooch had got people talking a little, joining the dots, but this was the first one to really get serious attention. The first one that had people asking questions. The police for one. Jeff doesn’t like the police visiting him at work. He had tried to be helpful—after all, a young man was dead—but there is, after all, such a thing as client confidentiality.
Jeff knows the connection between the three deaths. Knows who’s behind them all too.
François Loubet.
Jeff has work to do. He’s not going to lose his business over three murders, for goodness’ sake.
The police aren’t the real problem here; they very rarely are. The real problem is the clients. Already this morning he’d had a Premier League footballer and a Dutch cannabis importer canceling their contracts. They no longer had confidence in Maximum Impact Solutions. You couldn’t blame them. There would be other calls as news spread. No doubt they’d go to Henk, his former partner, and very former best friend.
And now Max Highfield, of all people, has paid him a visit. You’d think Max Highfield would have better things to do with his time, and yet here he is, shoes off, feet on Jeff’s boardroom table, stirring up trouble.
“It makes me look bad, Jeff,” says Max, running a hand through his hair like a grizzled veteran who has seen too much war, rather than like a man who has just had breakfast at The Ivy.
“I see that, Max,” says Jeff. “I see that.”
Jeff knew it. As soon as Andrew Fairbanks had died, he knew that other clients would start putting two and two together. People google. Especially celebrities—they’re never off it.
“How much business do I bring you?” asks Max.
“Oh, plenty, plenty,” says Jeff. “That’s why we pay you three quarters of a million pounds a year, Max.”
That’s Max Highfield’s “consultancy” fee. Plus a ten-grand bonus for each new recruit. Introducing other famous people to the business. Actors mainly, but Max is handsome enough to know everyone.
“Three quarters of a million?” Max laughs. “D’you know what I got for the last Marvel movie?”
“No,” says Jeff. “And you don’t need to tell me. I’m sure its confid—”
“Eight point five million,” says Max. “Eight point five million. And that’s pounds, not dollars. You ever been paid eight point five million for a job, Jeff?”
“I have, yes,” says Jeff. “A number of times—but that’s beside the point. I understand, reputationally, that this is difficult for you.”
“Three clients dead,” says Max, now drumming out a pattern on his voluminous superhero thighs. “That’s a lot of dead clients.”
“I mean,” says Jeff, “playing devil’s advocate here, between us, not big clients, small fry, with all due respect to their souls. It’s not like Andrew Fairbanks was going to win an Oscar any day soon. He was a fitness influencer.”
Max suddenly turns very serious. He even takes his feet off the boardroom table. “Oscars are overrated, Jeff. It’s all politics.”
“I’m sure,” says Jeff. “Now, if—”
“Lot of great actors never won an Oscar,” says Max.
“Agreed, agreed. So here’s my plan,” says Jeff.
“Samuel L. Jackson has never won one. Did you know that?” Max Highfield is shaking his head, slowly and sadly.
“I confess I didn’t,” says Jeff. “I’ve got an operative on the scene in South Carolina, where Andrew Fairbanks was murdered. She’s—”
“Travolta’s never won one,” says Max. “Johnny Depp. Jason Statham. It’s politics. Your face has to fit.”
