“Come on, Mum,” said Malcolm again.
Mrs. Poole shook her head. “We don’t even know who it is,” she said. “At least let’s make sure.”
Keiko looked back at the heaps on the floor, searching for something to tell her that these bundles had been Mr. Byers, and for the first time her stomach threatened to give way in a slow roll forward like a child tumbling over in water.
Mrs. Poole crossed to the bench, to another neat stack, this one only a bundle of clothes, and picked up a wallet from the top of the pile. She opened it gingerly, fingering the contents with great tenderness, as if a small display of respect could make up for the degradation behind her. Keiko felt the urge to laugh but caught herself. Hysteria had no place here.
Mrs. Poole put down the wallet and turned to them with a nod. Then she cast her eyes around the room with a speculative gaze, so unfitting to the moment that if Malcolm had not been there, Keiko would have felt fear at being near her.
“There’s tape over the doors,” she said. Keiko looked at her in puzzlement for a moment before turning to the big double doors to the street. They were sealed around their edges and over the keyhole with broad grey tape. She glanced at the small window. It was covered with a square of cardboard cut from a crisp box and taped around the edges.
“Nobody can see that the light’s on,” Mrs. Poole said. She nodded and cast her eyes around again with the same calm, thoughtful look.
“It’s over, Mum,” said Malcolm. “Come on. It’s over now.”
“Wait,” said Mrs. Poole. “Just a minute. We need to decide what to do.”
“What are you talking about?” Malcolm said. He ran one massive hand, dark-looking against his candle-white face, over his mouth.
Mrs. Poole’s voice was lighter than Keiko had ever heard it as she answered. “Everything’s changed now. Let me think. Stop rushing me.” She looked away from his set face and towards Keiko.
“Are you talking about trying to cover this up?” said Malcolm.
“Trust me,” said his mother. “No good would come of letting it out.”
“Mum, you can’t be serious,” said Malcolm, plaintive and wheedling now. “We could never clean this up, never mind explaining where Byers and-” He choked on the name and pressed his hand against his mouth again.
“I think Malcolm’s right, Mrs. Poole,” said Keiko. Malcolm held out his arm towards her, displaying her to his mother like evidence. Mrs. Poole watched him for a moment, then Keiko saw a spark of light in her eyes and a suggestion of a smile twitch at her lips.
“What?” Keiko asked her.
“No, we couldn’t manage it,” she said, “but I can think of someone who’ll help us.” She was almost laughing. “Who can you think of who knows how to do everything, or thinks he does, and would do anything in the world for me without turning a hair, would do anything for this town?”
Keiko smiled back at her.
“Jimmy McKendrick?” said Malcolm. “You’re going to ask Jimmy McKendrick to cover up murder? Mum, please. You’ve lost your mind.” His voice was rising.
Keiko looked between one and the other. If Malcolm was beginning to panic, then it was up to her. What she had to do was get Mrs. Poole away from here so her senses would return to her.
“Let’s at least ask Mr. McKendrick what to do,” Keiko said. “And whatever he says, we’ll be guided by him. We can phone him from my flat.”
Mrs. Poole picked her way around the edge of the tarpaulin, moving towards Murray. Keiko watched her bend over, smooth his hair up away from his face. Briefly, she saw the peak on his forehead and the hook of his brows before it fell forward again. Mrs. Poole pushed down his eyelids with the tips of her fingers.
“My bonny baby,” she said. The toe of one shoe was in the blood and Keiko hoped she would notice and not need to be told to wipe it clean before walking out into the lane. “My baby boy.”
As she let go of Murray’s face, Mrs. Poole rocked her foot back onto the heel and looked at the blotch. She didn’t wipe it, but took her shoe off and cradled it in the crook of her elbow before turning and limping away.
thirty-three
Somewhere between the workshop and the lighted warmth of her kitchen, Keiko’s calm deserted her and she started to shake, unable to stop her teeth from chattering behind her cold lips, unable to make her feet move in anything but a clockwork totter that would have pitched her down the stairs had it not been for Mrs. Poole’s strong arm across her back.
Malcolm sat opposite her again, as he had less than ten minutes ago, in that other world where she had lived before here. Mrs. Poole pressed a mug into her hands and cupped them around it, got another for Malcolm, then went into the living room to the telephone.
His face was white now, not grey, only the absence of stubble showing where his lips began, and the thumbprint smudges between his eyes were darker, as though some brutal giant had pinched him there. And when he looked at Keiko, his expression told her that her own face must be just as stricken, just as strange. He slid one arm across the table towards her, and she unlaced her hands from the mug and put a fist into his upturned palm.
Mrs. Poole must have stayed in the living room for some time after she put down the phone, because she had been back with them for only a minute-chafing Keiko’s hands, smoothing Malcolm’s hair back in a gesture that made all three of them shrink at the memory-when they heard the purposeful clack of Mr. McKendrick’s brogues climbing the stairs. He let himself in and came to join them. Despite the late hour, he was dressed in his usual array of coat, waistcoat and tie, pressed trousers, and polished shoes. His hair was neatly combed across his head, but his eyes were wide open without a trace of a wink or twinkle and his mouth hung open too, making his face a foolish egg-shape. He plopped down onto a chair with none of his customary bustle.
“Tea, Jim?” said Mrs. Poole.
He turned to her and stared. “Not just now, Gracie, you’re all right,” he said. He wet his lips by pushing the bottom up over the top then the top out over the bottom, before he spoke again. “So. Murray has killed Byers and himself and they are both in the petrol station. You’ve all seen them.” He put out a hand to Mrs. Poole. “Grace, I’m sorry for your loss.” Keiko was sure that this phrase, from the way he said it, was a stock condolence. There was the answer: Mr. McKendrick would do what was right and proper. “Terrible thing,” he went on. “Feelings running very high about the development. A laddie who’s just lost his father and an old troublemaker like Byers stirring everything up. I blame myself for this, Gracie, I do.”
“The thing is,” said Mrs. Poole, “he didn’t just knock him over in a brawl, and as soon as the police come they’ll know it’s more than that.” Mr. McKendrick pursed his mouth and waited. “I had to look at Byers’s wallet to be sure who it was.” Her voice had lost its calm and sounded harsh. “He’s in pieces. Dismembered. Butchered.” She swallowed, squeezing her eyes to help her clear her throat with a dry click.
Malcolm shifted in his seat as though to prepare himself to speak, but Mrs. Poole continued, her voice ragged now. “And the thing is, Jim, the trouble is… it’s happened before. Or I think it’s happened before. I can’t be sure. And it’s going to come out now, unless you can help us stop it. It’ll all come out and no good of it to anyone.”
Malcolm had squeezed Keiko’s hand in a single, tight spasm, but he was not looking at her. He stared at his mother and tried to say something, but what came out was no more than a croak.