A Heart in the Right Place Page 5

  Nick imagined a forensics team coming into this house. The place had become a smorgasbord of forensic fun. There were enormous amounts of DNA, both Oz’s and his own. What would they make of it all? It didn’t matter, it was not a trail left by an innocent man. He saw the dog had spread footprints around the carpets and furniture. And so had he.

  “I’m sorry, Oz.” Nick went back the way he’d come, squeezing past the body. Oz’s face had been resting downwards on something like an electric-powered cookie-cutter; the effect was a cross between Munch’s The Scream and a butcher’s window display.

  “I need to sort this,” Nick said, not knowing what he meant by it.

  He felt a deep physical urge to make the situation go away. It needed to go away. He needed it to vanish. He looked at his phone. Seventy thirty-one.

  Yes, he needed to sort this out. He needed to tidy. Oz and the power tools and the workbench. Disassemble, tidy, hide.

  He grabbed the feet of the fallen Black and Decker workbench and hauled it away from Oz’s corpse. It came with various slicing, sucking and grinding noises he’d didn’t want to think about and would never forget. He looked at the workbench and tried to remember how they folded. He remembered if he got it wrong there would be pain and squashed fingers in his near future. A little lever here and a spring-loaded gizmo there.

  The workbench snapped together and crashed at his feet. He lifted it, all of the clamped-on tools dragging in its wake, and shoved it into the cupboard under the stairs. That left Oz, currently slumped in the hallway, half-on and half-off the rug. There were little pellety things on the floor, among the gore. Nick prodded one with his foot and it cracked open. White powder spread, soaking up still-drying blood. Pills. Maybe Oz had dosed himself up before embarking on his last DIY project.

  Rolling the body up in the rug seemed sensible, inevitable even. Nick debated which way round. If he rolled Oz up from the short edge, then his feet and head would stick out. If he turned him round and rolled from the long edge, he suspected the rug wouldn’t go around properly. With a sigh he rolled from the short edge. He’d need a bag for Oz’s head.

  How practical I’m being, he thought. An inappropriate surge of pride swept through him, as though he’d just put up a shelf or remembered to put down dust sheets before painting a wall. Clearly some part of his brain thought neatly disposing of a body was worth ticking off in the entirely imaginary book of Top Skills to Master as an Adult.

  When Oz was neatly rolled up, Nick surveyed his work. The hall still looked as if a bloodbath had taken place. He tried to imagine how long it would take to clean up. Even if he spent the entire weekend with a full set of cleaning supplies, there was no way he could make this house look normal. The thought of the weekend made him check his phone. Seven forty-eight.

  He had twelve minutes until his dad arrived. And Tony would be on time; always on time.

  Nick took a deep breath. Problem solving – he could do this. His thoughts went to the cottage he’d rented. One of the reasons he’d chosen it was its isolated cragginess. There were warnings for parents on the website, saying the site was not suitable for those with small children, as the grounds contained a deep and ancient well—

  “Coo-ee!”

  A shrill female voice came through the letterbox, close enough to make Nick jump.

  “I just wanted to make sure you’re all right. I thought I heard breaking glass and screaming. Someone on the internet was asking about you, so I thought I’d check. I’m from next door.”

  Next door? Was it AshleysNan? Nick froze, silent. As the dog came bounding past and Nick managed to grab hold of its collar.

  “Shh.” He gave its ears a tickle, hoping it would stay quiet if he distracted it. The dog barked loudly. Bloody traitor. The dog wagged its tail and barked some more.

  “Are you all right in there?” shouted AshleysNan. “Shall I call someone?”

  Nick couldn’t risk that. He looked at Oz’s head, poking out of the edge of the rug. Much of it was a bloodied pulp, but there were clearly some grey hairs among the wet red, plus a few wrinkles here and there. He reckoned Oz would have been fifty-something, sixty-something. Maybe even the same age as his dad. He cleared his throat and did the best impression he could manage of his dad.

  “All fine here,” he declared throatily. “No need for alarm. Just doing some DIY.”

  “Oh, I see,” said AshleysNan. “There was a man looking for you.”

  “Yes. Yes. I’m … I’m in the middle of something so I can’t come to the door. Bit of a mess in here.”

  He looked at the dog and thought it was laughing at him. He didn’t care about, he just needed AshleysNan to be convinced.

  “I think you splashed some paint on your curtains,” she said.

  Paint? Oh. “Yes. Yes, that’s right… Twiglet brown.”

  “Oh. Yes,” she said after a pause. “Can I help with anything?”

  “No thank you.” Why on earth was he being polite? She would just keep chattering. “Can you go away now?” he added.

  A few moments later, he heard the sound of her footsteps receding down the path and sighed with relief. He let go of the dog, went into the lounge and peeked through the window, and watched her go up the drive of the house to the left. When he returned to the hall, the dog was gnawing hungrily at Oz’s raw face.

  “For God’s sake!” he hissed. “That’s gross. Show a bit of loyalty to your former master. That’s a total cat move.” Nick meant for his words to sting.

  The dog gave him a hurt look and continued to eat, more daintily.

  “But it would be helpful if you could eat the whole thing,” he pondered out loud. He didn’t want to overlook an obvious way to dispose of the corpse. “How long would that take?”

  The dog was about a quarter the size of a full grown man; he obviously wasn’t going to manage to eat him in a single sitting. Nick checked the time again. It was probably unworkable, even if the dog was willing.

  No, the best option for body disposal was Scotland. Wide, wide, expansive Scotland. So many places to dump a corpse. A zillion miles away from the crime scene. The body: faceless and unidentifiable.

  He still needed a way of getting the body to his car without attracting the attention of the nosy neighbours.

  “Wheelie bin,” he said to the dog. “That’s what we need.”

  It took him a few minutes out the back of the house to locate the wheelie bin, tip the rubbish out onto the borders and drag it into the house.

  He set the bin down next to Oz’s body. All he had to do was lift the wrapped corpse and pop it in the top. He reached around the middle part of the rug and tried to lift. It was enormously heavy. Oz wasn’t a huge man, but Nick was beginning to realise a human body weighed a lot, and he wasn’t in prime body-lifting condition. Not for the first time, he cursed himself for not keeping up with (or not even starting) his New Year’s resolution to work out.

  “Bend at the knees,” he told himself. “Keep your back straight.”

  He heaved at Oz’s middle, unable to lift him so much as an inch off the ground. He needed to work smarter, use some sort of natural lever. What if he worked him up the wall? Nick pictured how that might work. He could drag Oz to a sitting position, propping him up on the wall, then somehow nudge him up a bit at a time: toppling him into the open wheelie bin when he was high enough. It was a convincing picture.

  A few minutes later, he had Oz sitting up. Nick had been able to get him into position by a hug-and-shuffle kind of a move. He could use the same technique to get him further up the wall. He grabbed Oz around the middle. It was way too intimate, but he had to get it done. He tried to shunt him up, just a little bit. Oz’s head fell forward; they were briefly face to face in a sort of horrific smooching session: red seeping wounds pressed to Nick’s cheek. He shrieked and fell backwards. By the time he’d crawled back, Oz was lying on the floor again.

  “Fuck my life,” he panted, on the verge of tears. He took a moment to collect
himself.

  He explored the cupboard under the stairs to see if there was anything which might help him. He found a length of strong rope: a new washing line. Interesting. He backed out of the cupboard, looking up at the staircase spindles. He tied the rope around Oz’s chest, armpit to armpit, and threaded it through the spindles, above the wheelie bin. He took a deep breath and hauled on the makeshift pulley. Woodwork creaked as the rope tensed. He hung on and glanced down. Oz’s body had lifted, not as much as he’d hoped, but he was off the ground. He looked like a seriously creepy butterfly emerging from its rug chrysalis now. Nick had tugged the rug down to get at Oz’s armpits, and it was slipping away.

  Nick tied the rope around the broom cupboard’s door handle so he could change his grip without losing the progress he’d made. He reached over his head and dragged the rope down. Oz was lifted to his knees. He lurched forward, closer to the wheelie bin. Nick had to swallow his fear, especially when one of Oz’s arms came loose from the rug and swung about. Nick repeated the manoeuvre, hauling Oz to his feet. As soon as the body was off the floor, Nick knew his plan was going to work.

  As Oz swung lazily, the haft of a knife still wedged in his chest nearly poked Nick in the eye. The dog reappeared and snatched at Oz’s left slipper, dropping it and going for the right. A moment later the dog turned its attention to the rug flapping like a terrible superhero cape. It dragged the rug off and down the hall, worrying it back and forth. Nick shook his head. At least it was a little bit less weight on the end of the rope.

  As Nick braced himself to haul a few more inches of rope, the dog leapt up to grab something else hanging from Oz’s pulverised front.

  “Ew! I thought we had a deal? You can’t eat his – ah what is that?” Once again Nick reflected his father would know the name of whatever organ the dog had grabbed in its mouth. It certainly came with extra gore attached. The dog flung it from side to side, splashing blood up the walls before dropping it and adopting a fake good boy pose.

  Nick sighed and pressed on. Six more hauls on the rope, the slack belayed around the spindle, and Oz was above the level of the wheelie bin. This was surely tougher than any gym workout. Nick carefully lined the bin up, directly under Oz’s bare feet, and released the rope as slowly as he could manage. The body successfully lowered, he grinned with relief and let the rope slide from his hands. The lid wouldn’t shut completely, but it wasn’t obvious what was inside.

  Nick wondered briefly about putting the bin out and hoping the bin men would just hook it onto the back of the dustcart. What were the odds of them not noticing the corpse dropping into the mashing thing? Fairly slim. No, he needed to get rid of the body himself. He’d completed step one and felt absurdly pleased with himself, given the circumstances. His foot squished on something: he’d trodden on the unidentified organ the dog had dragged out. It gave him the germ of an idea. One of the problems he faced was the wealth of evidence to indicate his presence at the scene. What if he obscured it with a whole load of other evidence? If he could create footprints and evidence trails leading away from here, it might buy him a bit more time.

  Nick pictured himself creeping out of the front door: the oozing organ in his hand, visiting several neighbouring houses, running along their drive to the front door and back, leaving trails of gory footprints, replenished with blood from Oz’s organ. Oh, how he’d fool the police! Oh, what a mystery he’d create! The street a confusing mess of footprints, evidence of a little army of killers...

  “No.” That was a bit too fanciful. He should be attempting to destroy the evidence, not just fling it about. Oz’s house was detached from its neighbours. If, say, there was an enormous, evidence-destroying conflagration, it was unlikely to hurt anybody.

  Burn the house down to destroy the DNA evidence.

  Take the body away.

  Dad, whisky, magical weekend, love and laughter.

  Result.

  Nick set about setting a fire.

  He went into the front room and piled cushions onto the floor – they were sure to burn well. He found matches in the broom cupboard, good. How long would it take the fire to get hold? He positioned the wheelie bin by the kitchen door so he could make a rapid getaway. A thought struck him. The bin looked innocuous enough, and would raise no eyebrows on the way back to his house, but he was covered in so much blood he looked as if he’d been swimming in it. He rinsed his face at the kitchen sink and went in search of something to wear. He found Oz’s big coat on a hook near the door and fastened it over his clothes. It was a giant sheepskin coat with enormous horn buttons. He’d melt if he had to keep it on for long, but hopefully he’d have time to change his clothes.

  He ran back to the front room, struck a match and threw it onto the piled cushions. It went out as soon as it hit the first one. He lit another and crouched more carefully, putting the blazing match to a tasselled corner. The tassel smouldered briefly, and went out. Nick repeated the same thing several times with no success. He considered the match box. It was a large one, and nearly full. He built a small pile of matches nestled inside the cushion pile and lit the bottom one. For good measure, he dropped the box and remaining matches on top. He smiled as he saw flames licking up the side of the box.

  He retreated into the kitchen. If he spread out paper or something, it would be sure to catch. He grabbed the kitchen roll, picking up the letter from the table at the same time. He stuffed the letter in his pocket and kitchen roll under an arm, and turned on the gas hob. Adding a bit of gas to the mix would help things along a bit. He only turned one ring on: he wanted a good old cleansing fire, not a sudden explosion.

  He went back to check on his bonfire and was staggered to see it had gone out. All that remained was a blackened tower of burnt matches. No! He went back to the broom cupboard, but there were no more matches.

  “Bugger!”

  He would have to come back and light the fire after moving the body. Back in the kitchen the dog was sitting next to the wheelie bin, lead in its mouth.

  “What? Really? Well I guess I can’t leave you here.” Nick clipped on the lead and grabbed hold of the wheelie bin. He was about to leave when he remembered the whisky. After all of this he did not want to leave without it. He fetched the box and wondered how he’d carry it. There was a small rucksack on the hook where he’d found the coat. He put the precious gift inside.

  As he crossed the kitchen he realised there were two dog baskets under the island worktop. Two?

  “There’s not another dog here, is there?” he asked the dog.

  Its only reply was to cock its head, one ear up, one ear down. There was definitely only one dog. Maybe the other one was in kennels or something. Maybe this mutt was a dog of means, the owner of two baskets. There was no time to dwell on it.

  “Right, come on then,” he said to the dog. He managed to get the wheelie bin down the step from the kitchen, which wasn’t easy with a dog lead in one hand. Especially when the dog was desperate to go and sniff everything just out of his arm’s range. They went up the side of the house.

  11

  “Left here,” said Finn, reading from her phone. “Langollen Drive.”

  Adam yawned. “I sincerely hope it’s this one.”

  “Langford Drive. Langley Close. We’re running out of Langs,” said Finn.

  “I’m fairly confident it’s this one,” said a tired and terrified Audrey from the back seat.

  “You said that about the last one,” said Finn.

  “I struggle without my glasses.”

  “You don’t need your glasses to remember a street name.” muttered Adam.

  Finn took the printed photograph out of her lapel pocket. The photo of Oz Bingley provided little more than a profile shape and an indicator of Oz’s taste in clothing.

  “Number forty-two,” she reminded him.

  “I remember,” said Adam. He sounded testy. “I remembered it the last fifteen roads we tried.”

  He pulled up on the opposite side of the road and s
everal dozen yard further back. “There.”

  Their target appeared from around the side of the house. “Look, he’s got to be our guy. He’s wearing the same ridiculous coat he’s got on in the photo.”

  Finn considered the man from where they were parked and scrutinised the photo. He looked younger in real life. Where was the grey? But his hair was slicked back, wet. Hair looked darker when wet.

  Oz was struggling with a heavy wheelie bin, twisting, pulling, failing to steer it.

  “Audrey, is that the man?”

  Audrey leaned forward to look between the front seats. “I struggle without my glasses,” she said eventually.

  Adam picked up his notepad, and the remains of his ruined schedule. He looked at the many crossings out and notes in the margin. “You’re not making things easy, Audrey,” he muttered.

  “What’s so fun about easy?” said Finn. “If I only took easy jobs I’d get the hell out of here the second a police car turned up, wouldn’t I?”

  “What?” said Adam.

  She smirked and hooked a thumb at the white van which had pulled up behind them. A woman in dark combats stepped out.

  “Oh, shit,” groaned Adam.

  12

  As he reached the front of the house, a woman in a dark uniform approached.

  “Morning!” she said brightly.

  And that’s it, Nick thought. My life of crime over in less than an hour, door-stepped by a copper.

  Except she wasn’t a cop. The uniform, black combats, utility belt, hi-vis vest, looked very police-y but it wasn’t.

  “Council dog warden,” she said.

  “Oh, thank fuck!” he exclaimed and then coughed. “I mean, good morning.”

  “Indeed,” she said. “We got a call about this house, so I need to check up on things.”

  Nick gave her a wide smile. Perhaps it was a little bit too wide, because she backed away slightly.