“He’d be a friend of yours, then.” Jersey spoke to the bartender. “Imagine that, Ray. Here’s a friend of old Ed’s.”
“Imagine that,” the bartender said.
“Imagine that, Vic.”
“Can’t,” Crewneck said.
“I didn’t know Ed had any friends left,” Jersey said. “Reggie neither.”
The remaining men had begun to approach the bar.
The woman at the machine tied on a rain bonnet, gathered her possessions, and exited.
“It’s just a question,” Jacob said.
“You got your answer, mate,” Jersey said. “Shove off.”
“I’m not finished with my beer,” Jacob said.
Crewneck took Jacob’s glass and handed it to the bartender, who diligently poured it out.
“You’re finished,” Jersey said.
Jacob eyed the three other men. They were the same as Jersey and Crewneck, except bigger and drunker. One of them actually had a streamer of drool resting on his chin.
“Can I get my change, please?” Jacob said to the bartender.
“What?” the bartender said.
“My change.”
“You said to keep it.”
“That was before you revoked my drink. Five’ll do.”
After a beat, the bartender put a wadded note on the bar and flicked it toward Jacob.
“Thanks,” Jacob said. “Have a great day.”
Jersey followed him to the door, stood there watching as he hustled through the downpour and climbed into his pathetic little rental car. He felt like a schmuck, doubly so as he stalled out. Finally he got the car in gear, driving half a block and glancing in the rearview.
A blue car was behind him.
He tried and failed to make out the driver, taking his eyes off the road long enough to nearly run down an old man in a plastic poncho, creeping along the muddy shoulder on a bicycle.
Jacob laid on as much speed as he dared, taking turns without signaling. At each, the blue car stayed behind. He tried to work the GPS on his phone but it was impossible to do while steering and shifting.
Fuck it, he thought, and pulled over.
The blue car followed suit.
The road he was on cut like piano wire through two vast muddy fields. A farmhouse on the horizon. An idle tractor. No people.
The driver of the blue car got out.
It was the poker-playing woman. Wind billowed her rain bonnet. She pinched it tight and hurried to Jacob’s passenger-side window and began tapping.
“Open the bloody door.”
He leaned over and pried up the lock.
She heaved herself into the passenger seat, flecking him with droplets. He smelled lipstick, tobacco, PVC.
“Some manners, leaving a lady in the rain.”
“Can I help you?”
“No, but I can help you.”
“Okay.”
Her mouth twitched. “I’ll have that forty first.”
“It was thirty.”
Fault lines appeared in her makeup as she smiled. “Inflation, what.”
He gave her half. “The rest when you’re done.”
“Right,” she said, tucking the money in her brassiere, “you’re not like to make anyone happy, mentioning the Heaps.”
“I noticed.”
“Reggie, he kilt that girl.”
Jacob said, “What girl?”
“They found her in the wood, back behind old Heap’s.”
“When was this?”
“Twenty-five years ago, like. Poor girl. Bloody awful. The animals had gotten to her.”
“Reggie Heap murdered a girl,” Jacob said.
“Hit her with a shovel. She worked for the family. Everyone knows. But old Ed’s old Ed, and they never could prove nothing, so la-dee-da-dee. Danny, the bloke what was back at the pub, it was his cousin, Peg.”
Twenty-five years ago was 1986, the year Reggie had won his drawing prize.
“Poor Mrs. Heap, her heart gave out. She was a nice lady. I don’t think she could stand living with those two bad ones.”
She gave him directions to Edwyn Heap’s house, using landmarks rather than street names.
“Any suggestions on how to approach him?”
The woman was pleased at being consulted. “I’ve heard it said he likes toffee.”
Jacob handed her another twenty. “Good luck at the table.”
“No need, love,” she said, tucking the money in her bra. “Britain’s got talent.”
Chapter forty
The decrepit fence surrounding the Heap estate told the story: land-rich, cash-poor. Jacob squeezed through a gap in the chain-link, carrying a package of Tesco brand toffee.
In the hour since the rain had let up, the pools in the pitted asphalt had been colonized by insects. If he hadn’t known any better, he might’ve looked at the teeming life and thought it the product of spontaneous generation. He couldn’t blame the ancients for making that assumption.
No beetles.
Still, he hurried up the driveway.
The door knocker came off in his hand. Jacob reinserted it on loose screws and circled around the house. Someone had carelessly left several upper-story windows open. Wet, ragged curtains ballooned and snapped in the wind.
Out back, he mounted a buckling terrace, surveying a wide, unkempt lawn, bounded by treeline.
He cupped his mouth and bellowed hello.
Silence.
He called again, received no answer, turned to knock on the French doors.
A clap and a whine and the concrete planter fifteen feet to his left cleaved in two.
The second shot removed the stump. Jacob had by then dropped behind the balustrade, balled up, his head between his knees, his arms around his shins.
A third shot shattered the planter to his right.
The gunfire was coming from the trees. Run and he’d be open season for the minute it would take to cover the lawn.
Option two was scrambling for the French doors. Kick in a panel, dive for safety. He’d cut himself. He’d probably still get shot. Obvious break and enter, no charges filed.
Frantically he keyed his phone. It loaded one agonizing byte at a time.
The fourth shot went wide, chunking the house’s brick exterior.
The number for emergency services in the United Kingdom was 999. You could also use 112 or, charmingly, 911.
He dialed.
The voice that answered was American.
Two more shots; two more exploding bricks.
He tried the other emergency numbers, without success; either his phone beeped at him or he ended up speaking to someone in West Virginia. He added a 1, then a 1–1, a 0-1-1. Futile; he returned to Google.
He was going to die while incurring massive data roaming charges.
The shots stopped, replaced by the sound of boots on grass.
“You’re trespassing.”
Without moving, Jacob called, “I knocked.”
“And therefore?”
Jacob dared to poke the box of candy over the balustrade. When his hand wasn’t blown off at the wrist, he rose, showing his badge. “I’m sorry. Really.”
The human bulldozer before him wore baggy flannel trousers. Seventyish, with snow-white streamers whipping from a sun-splotched scalp, he carried a string of hares slung over one shoulder, a hunting rifle propped on the other.
“Those were warning shots. Fifty yards. From this distance, I reckon I could shave you blindfolded.”
“I’m sure you could, sir.”
“So. Move along.”
Feeling like the butler, Jacob opened the box and held it out.
“What is that? Is that toffee?” The man clomped up the steps and selected a piece, pink cheeks reddening as he chewed. He grunted and grimaced, as if he were having his teeth torn out and enjoying every moment of it.
He swallowed. “This is revolting,” he said, reaching for another piece.
“Edwyn Heap?”
“Mm.”
“Jacob Lev. I’m a detective with the Los Angeles Police Department.”