Four Below (23 page)

‘Did you check?’ McLusky asked.

‘I did, actually,’ he said, smiling. ‘It wasn’t, but it was itself very clean. And empty.’

In the kitchen, McLusky opened the fridge compartment of the tall fridge-freezer. Apart from a tub of cholesterol-lowering margarine, there were no perishable foods in there, no charcuterie,
cheese or milk, no meat, no leftovers. The top shelf was empty apart from two bottles of non-vintage champagne; the door held two rows of condiments and salad dressings. The freezer below was
better stocked: some ready meals but also cuts of lamb and bags of sea fish. He opened the fridge door again for a last look. ‘Either he mainly ate out, or someone cleaned this up, too.
Something should have been festering in there by now.’ He turned his attention to the adjacent work surface. Next to a stylish electric kettle sat a stainless-steel breadbin. He flipped it
up. ‘That does it. There’s not a crumb in there. Someone blitzed the kitchen.’

McLusky and Austin spent the next few minutes on their phones, ordering up a storm of routine checks on Donald Bice’s life. Door-to-door enquiries would get under way soon. The entire
infrastructure of the man’s life would come under scrutiny: bank accounts, tax, credit-card use, internet history and phone records, DVLA and every other recorded contact with society, down
to the smallest parking fine. McLusky looked up at the large framed print on the wall above the sofa, a painting of a tea clipper under full sail. He wondered what detective work must have been
like when that was the fastest way to outrun the pirates. Back then you could step on and off a boat and you had disappeared. Got away. Not now. Most people left traces, most of them electronic,
long after their death. There were dead people with functioning Facebook accounts. He watched one of the SOCOs close a large clear polythene bag around the computer on the little writing desk in
the dining room. The contrast to Mike Oatley’s mouldy little flat in St Pauls was striking. Little lives left little trace. His own life probably still fitted in the back of a hatchback.
‘Right, what time are we meeting the yacht agent?’ he asked.

Austin checked his watch. ‘A Mr Hobbs will meet us exactly one hour from now. Want me to see if we can bring it forward?’

‘Forward? Why? They got pubs in this town, haven’t they?’

He knew they did. Portishead was home to Avon & Somerset HQ, and he usually felt the need for some fortification whenever he was required to visit it, which thankfully wasn’t often. To
McLusky, Portishead had an air of being on the edge of things, which of course it was, being situated on the estuary. It looked reasonably affluent and pleasant enough, but it had grown too fast
and was in danger of becoming a mere dormer town for commuters to Bristol.

The solid nineteenth-century Royal Hotel at the end of Pier Road also seemed to have had its soul refurbished away, though in summer it would naturally do impressive trade in its large beer
garden. Still, it wasn’t far from the marina, there was a fire and it served Guinness, so McLusky was quite happy to kill half an hour there. Despite the weather, he could glimpse Avonmouth
across the water, with its wind farm and loading cranes. They found a table, where McLusky split open a bag of crisps.

Austin blew his nose into a minute hanky and shook his head. ‘No point, can’t taste a thing.’

‘Oh, all right, you won’t want that beer I bought you, then.’

It was difficult not to talk shop. ‘Fenton is inside, and six months later the skipper of his yacht gets himself killed. In a similar manner and obviously by the same people as our local
small-time but up-and-coming drug-pusher, Mr Deeming. Suggests to me that Bice did more than just drive a pleasure boat.’

‘I don’t suppose anyone kept tabs on what he did when he got out?’

Austin looked pessimistic. ‘Why should we have done? He was acquitted; the big fish had been landed. Bice had a job, his paperwork was okay. He got paid a small fortune for skippering that
boat. There was no real evidence that he was anything but a minor employee. There was an outside chance he didn’t know anything about Fenton’s real business.’

‘The way he got himself killed suggests otherwise,’ McLusky said into his beer, then drained it. ‘Time to meet Mr Hobbs, I think, and see what he has to offer.’

Mr Hobbs offered house shoes. ‘There is a selection; I’m sure you’ll find something in the right size,’ he said. McLusky would have offered to take his
shoes off even had he not been asked to. Despite himself, he had been impressed by the sheer size of the boat even before they had stepped aboard. At just under ninety-five feet in length, it was
about twice the size he had imagined it to be. But even that hadn’t prepared him for what waited for them on board. He was not sure he had ever been in more luxurious surroundings. Every
item, every surface, every fitting had been designed to scream ‘expense’. If it wasn’t expensive enough to begin with, someone had gone and gold-plated it. Hobbs, a bland man of
about thirty with a confident, educated voice, read from the glossy catalogue produced for the sale of the boat. He was enjoying himself. These weren’t real clients and they seemed easily
impressed. He tried to impress them some more. ‘Four cabins, one master, one double, two twin. All with en suite. Berths for the crew forward. Bose hi-fi, flat-screen TV, DVD, PS3, satellite
TV in each cabin. Cherry wood cabinetry, zoned air-conditioning …’

‘What’s this boat called?’ Austin asked.

‘Ah, it’s nameless for the moment. It was felt that since it had belonged to a criminal, it would be unwise to sell it on with the original name. It was
Moondance
before.’

‘It’s bad luck, changing the name of a boat, isn’t it?’

‘Even more bad luck turning up in Tangiers or Miami and being pounced on by old associates of the previous owner.’

‘Good point. How much?’

‘One point six. She’s worth twice that.’

‘I don’t think my pension would stretch that far,’ said McLusky, ‘not even if they made me Chief Constable.’

The steel and glass galley could have served a restaurant. Every single item on the boat appeared to be controlled by touch screens or built-in sensors, from lights to toilet flush. Austin was
disappointed to find there was no wheel for the helm, only an insignificant-looking joystick.

‘What exactly is it you’re after?’ Hobbs asked when they were back on the bridge where the tour had started. ‘Customs and Excise and the drugs people practically ripped
her to shreds after the owner’s arrest. They had her in dry dock and caused a hundred thousand pounds’ worth of damage searching her.’

McLusky shrugged. ‘I know. Nothing was found.’ Not even the tiniest trace of drugs had turned up, no weapons, nothing incriminating apart from a few fingerprints of known villains.
‘The skipper of this boat was found dead. I wanted to get a feeling of where he used to work.’

‘Nice work if you can get it.’

McLusky wasn’t sure if Hobbs was referring to him or the skipper. If he meant the skipper, he’d have to disagree. Not such nice work if the people on board were criminals of
Fenton’s calibre. It was easy to disappear overboard. The
Moondance
was large; his own flat would fit several times on this boat, he judged. And yet … He tried to imagine the
yacht with its full complement of guests and crew, up to eleven people. Suddenly it seemed a crowded place to him. It would be difficult to keep secrets from the man who skippered the thing. Did
Donald Bice learn things here that got him killed six months later?

Back on dry land, after Hobbs had left, they looked back at the
Moondance
. ‘It’s the arrogance of it that amazes me most. To draw
that
much attention
to yourself, how safe must he have felt?’

‘It’s also not a bad getaway vehicle, I should think,’ Austin added. Hobbs had told them that the twin two-thousand-horsepower engines could propel the yacht to twenty-eight
knots. He had also said that at full speed they would burn a thousand pounds’ worth of fuel an hour.

‘Whoever took over from Fenton might be just as ostentatious. ‘

‘Yes. Fenton was highly visible but had so many legit businesses that explained his wealth, it took us forever to nail him.’

‘Perhaps we should keep an eye out for whoever shells out one point six million for Fenton’s old tub. In the meantime, I think they should use it to house a family on the waiting
list for a council place. Give them a break from living in bed and breakfast.’

They did not go back to the flat, and once they had returned to Albany Road, McLusky sent Austin home. The constant changes in temperature as they entered and left heated
places had played havoc with his throat, and his voice sounded increasingly croaky.

‘If you’re sure …’

‘Sure I’m sure. I don’t want to catch your sniffles anyway.’

Three hours of desk work later, discharged in his once more well-heated office, McLusky logged off, feeling his own throat getting a little raw. I’m probably imagining it, he thought.
‘You’re imagining it,’ he croaked experimentally, and went home.

The temperature in his flat came as a shock even after the frigidity of the Mazda. He turned on every available heat source, including the three gas rings on the stove, then, still wearing
jacket and gloves, contemplated the chilly wastes of the fridge’s interior. He ought to go shopping more often. At intervals he stuffed his fridge to bursting with food, then ended up
throwing half of it away because it had gone off. Little and often was the solution, he decided. Rossi’s, the Italian grocer’s downstairs, where much of his shopping was done, had shut
up shop for today. He opened the freezer department and discovered an Indian ready meal for two, which he shoved in the oven. He hunted without success for some rice to go with it. Fifty minutes
later, with the kitchen nicely warmed up, he poured his curry-for-two over a steaming bowl of spaghetti and cracked open a first can of Murphy’s. When the phone in the sitting room rang, his
years of experience of life on the force made him take a long draught from the can and twirl more spaghetti into his mouth. Too many phone calls had curtailed too many meals in the past. He found
the handset on the sofa and brought it back into the warmth of the kitchen. He didn’t recognize the caller number, which to McLusky was a good sign.

‘Yup?’

‘Hello, Yup.’ The caller at least seemed to know who she was talking to. McLusky needed further prodding. ‘Your friendly neighbourhood chemist.’

‘Louise.’ Louise Rennie, senior lecturer in chemistry at Bristol University, had helped McLusky on his first case in Bristol, a few months ago. Their subsequent relationship had
progressed as far as the sofa next door but had been cut short by an unexpected caller. He hadn’t been in contact since.

‘Louise what?’

‘Louise, erm, nice to hear from you?’

‘Is it, Liam? I saw you yesterday outside the newsagent’s off Albany Road. I waved and you looked straight through me.’

‘Did you? Did I? I didn’t see you.’

‘Really? I was sure you had. Not ignoring me, then?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Thought I’d better check. But you’ve not been pining, either.’

He had of course thought about her on and off, only after their last encounter he hadn’t imagined she’d be too happy to hear from him. Wrong again, perhaps. But she was right. Not
pining. McLusky chose his words carefully. ‘I, eh, have of course thought of you. And of our last encounter, erm, with regret.’

‘Good. So … how would tomorrow night at eight at the Myristica sound to you?’

‘The Myristica again, isn’t that tempting fate? That’s where we went the last time.’

‘I like it there. And I could do with a good curry.’

McLusky looked down on his cooling plate of spaghetti vindaloo. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘So could I.’

Chapter Sixteen

Fifty thousand. A hundred thousand. Two hundred thousand. He had agonized about it. How much was enough, how much too much? If he asked for too much, the big man would never
pay up. Of course he couldn’t simply afford to refuse – the picture was too clear for that – so he would pretend to pay up. And then kill him. If he asked for too little, it would
hardly be worth risking his life for it. In the end he had settled for a hundred and fifty thousand. Chicken feed for the big man, surely. Not that he had asked for money yet. Let him sweat. With
every piece of the photo, he must feel more threatened.
A copy of this piece goes to the Herald. And of the next pieces.
He’d be wanting to pay up. He’d be glad of the
opportunity to pay up, to stop any more bits arriving. A hundred and fifty. It didn’t feel right, it didn’t feel enough. The price of half his eyesight, half his manhood. Not enough for
what he’d had done to him, not enough for what he was. Perhaps not Spain. Too close to England? Or India. You could live like a prince out there. Too hot, perhaps. A hundred and fifty.

Now he worried about the size of it. What did a hundred and fifty in used notes look like? Tens and twenties. How big a bag would it be? How heavy? Yesterday he had taken a carrier bag of
newspapers from a recycling bin up the road and brought it back here. He’d taken a pair of scissors to them and started cutting them into banknote-sized pieces. Until his thumb ached from
closing the scissors. It seemed to take for ever. Eight thousand pieces of paper. They fitted into quite a small space. Nothing to worry about there. Now he worried about the bits of paper. How
would he explain these? They were banknote-size, after all. Then he realized with relief that he didn’t have to explain them; no crime had been committed. He flung the wads into a bin liner
with the content of his kitchen bin.

The next question, the big question, the all-important question, was:
how.
A question of life and death if ever there was one.

‘I still find it hard to get over this déjà vu date,’ McLusky said, sipping his coffee and wishing he could smoke. It was as if they had tried to
re-create their last evening in the spring. Her fine blonde hair was still cut short, both wore the same clothes, though in McLusky’s case out of necessity rather than design, and both had
chosen the same dishes.