And in love.
Hey, that’s what weekends were for, weren’t they? Partying and getting trashed – oh, and going to church, but the less said about that the better. Not really his thing, church, he was starting to think. He wasn’t much enjoying spending time either with old ladies with hatpins and elderly rectors with clattering teeth, or the happy clappy alternatives. You could do God without doing church, right? God was inside you: in your heart, in your head, in your eyes.
God was in the vision of Suki Yang. She was Chinese-American, over here working for an IT media company; he’d met her late on Friday night in Brighton’s hip Bohemia bar. They’d slept together in the small hours of Saturday morning, and spent most of the rest of the weekend heavy-duty shagging, fuelled by all kinds of stuff they’d swallowed and snorted.
The slight problem was the few lies he had told her. Like he hadn’t mentioned the other lady he was seeing, he didn’t actually own the flat, as he had claimed, but only rented it, and he didn’t at the moment have enough dough for the next quarter’s payment – due in seven weeks’ time. And he’d lied about the great job he had in media. Well, Mountainpeak was a media company. Sort of.
There were six teams of five telesales people and a manager – all men – in this second-floor office on the industrial estate just outside the port of Newhaven, ten miles east of Brighton. Each of them in shirtsleeves, some with ties at half-mast, some open-necked, seated at bland modern desks. No one in here, apart from the pleasant boss, Alan Prior, seated over the other side, was older than thirty-five. Each of them had a flat screen in front of him, a keyboard, a phone, coffees and bottles of water. It was 9.30 and Gareth had only been at his desk for thirty minutes, but the morning was already feeling several hours old. Nine calls so far and no sales. Maybe now he’d get lucky.
Gareth sucked on a small scab on his right knuckle, then dialled the number in front of him, abdicating responsibility to God for the call when it was answered. Hey, despite everything, God owed him a whole bunch of credits. This one’s down to you, God, he mouthed silently, his eyes momentarily closed.
A female voice, sharp, brittle. You could tell from the way they answered if it was going to be a tough or an easy sell. This already felt tough. He looked down at the script in front of him and read from it, sounding all bright and breezy.
‘Hi there, it’s Gareth Dupont here. I’m calling on behalf of the North Brighton Golf Club. May I speak to the business owner or whoever’s in charge of your marketing and advertising, please?’
Silence at the other end. He wondered if the cow had already hung up. Then she said, ‘What is this about, exactly?’
He skipped down the script to the paragraph that dealt with this kind of a response, then read aloud, still sounding breezy and chatty. ‘The reason I’m calling is that we’re producing the official annual corporate brochure for the North Brighton Golf Club in a couple of months’ time, and we’re going to be distributing extensively across the area. Thousands of homes and most businesses in the area will be covered, not to mention the club itself.’
‘We don’t have any connection with golf in our business,’ she replied icily.
‘Well, you might not think that. But I’ve been asked to source well-established businesses and offer them an opportunity to get involved. With your particular category, we see it as an ideal match. We’re targeting a demographic of wealthy and affluent people who have the money to pay for your services, and I’ve been asked to make sure that only reliable and professional companies go in. What I’m doing is making it so there’s only one of each profession or trade available within the entire publication. It literally locks out all of your competitors and means you’re the only company available to turn to.’
‘We are funeral directors,’ she replied. ‘Why would we want to advertise in a golf club brochure?’
‘The club is bound to have many elderly members. Sooner or later they’re going to die. I’ll give you the broad strokes, briefly—’
There was a click.
The bitch had hung up.
Thanks a bunch, pal, Gareth Dupont mouthed to God. He moved on to the next name on his list, took a swig of his water, and punched in the number.
*
By five o’clock, when the office was winding down for the day, Gareth had sold one half-page, to a flooring company in Portslade called D. Reeves. Not a great start to his new job, he knew. But hey, maybe tomorrow would be better. It needed to be.
He left the office, pulled on his Ray-Bans against the bright, afternoon sun, climbed into his leased black Porsche cabriolet, started the engine and lowered the roof. He sat for a moment, pensively. He was thinking about the apartment rental, and the next lease payment due on the Porsche. Maybe a bit of prayer was needed, which he hadn’t done in a while, not in any serious way. Although he was always wary of praying too soon after he had pissed off God. Better to leave some distance.
He drove off, heading down into Newhaven. Then, as he threaded through the town, heading for the coast road that would take him home to the Marina Village, the Argus newspaper banner hoarding outside a newsagent’s proclaimed, in large black letters:
McWHIRTER MURDER £100,000 REWARD
Ignoring the car behind him, Gareth Dupont slammed on the brakes and pulled over onto the kerb. He ran into the shop, bought a copy of the paper, then stood in the entrance reading the frontpage splash, ignoring the traffic jam along the narrow street his car was causing.
Gavin Daly, brother of Aileen McWhirter, who was murdered in her Withdean Road mansion last week, has announced a reward of £100,000 for information leading to the arrest and conviction of his sister’s brutal killers.
He read on. There was a phone number to the CID Incident Room, and also the one for anonymous calls to Crimestoppers.
He grinned. Sometimes in life you got lucky! He mouthed, silently, Thank you, God. All’s forgiven!
26
The Scenes of Crime Officers had finished at his sister’s house, and the rota of scene guards had been stood down. Now, at six o’clock in the evening, beneath a clear sky, Gavin Daly sat in the back of his Mercedes at the top of the driveway down to the house.
Yellow police signs had been placed a short distance apart, either side of the driveway, each with the same wording on them:
WERE YOU HERE BETWEEN 6 P.M. AND 10.30 P.M. LAST TUESDAY, 21 AUGUST?
DID YOU SEE A VAN HERE?
IF SO, PLEASE CONTACT THE POLICE AND ASK FOR
THE INCIDENT ROOM FOR OPERATION FLOUNDER.
01273 470101
OR PHONE CRIMESTOPPERS ANONYMOUSLY ON:
0800 555 111
He instructed his driver to take him down to the house. Then he climbed out, told the driver to leave, that he would call him when he needed him back, walked around to the front of the silent house, and entered the porch.
His hand was shaking as he put the key in the lock of the front door, and he had a lump in his throat.
Then he hesitated, unsure if he actually wanted to go in. Except that he had work to do.
It was a warm evening, the garden was alive with birdsong, wasps, butterflies, and he could hear, a short distance away, the swish . . . swish . . . swish of a secluded neighbour’s lawn sprinkler. Summer was officially coming to an end in a few days. How many more summers would he see? he wondered.
How many more did he want to see?
Any?
Everyone he had ever loved was now dead. His mother in a hail of bullets in her bedroom. His father dragged away into the night. He had buried two wives and his brother-in-law. Now, when the Coroner released her body, he would be burying his sister.