Martyn Pig (25 page)

Breece was there, sitting unobtrusively at the back, dressed in the same blue suit he always wore. And there were one or two others I recognized: Aunty Jean, of course, a couple of fat sods from Dad's pub, the man from the off-licence. But the rest of them were strangers. Strangers in a strange place.

After a good half hour or so of depressing music, the vicar stood up and started spewing out a load of rubbish about Dad. Good man, God's will, final resting place, blah blah blah ... I tried not to listen, staring instead at the coffin perched on a trolley just a few feet in front of me. Dad in a plywood box, lying there as nothing in the hollow darkness. I wondered what he looked like now.

Hymns, prayers, more words, more hymns. Stand up, sit down, close your eyes, open your eyes, stand up, sit down ... then, eventually, the words dried up, the trolley rolled, the curtains closed and the box was gone.

And that was that.

The case is still officially open, but I haven't seen Breece or Finlay for months now. Breece kept digging away at first, asking thousands of questions, interviewing people, searching for evidence, but he never got anywhere. The ball of string was too knotty. He found plenty of stuff, but it was all just bits and pieces, nothing that would fit together well enough to prove anything. He knew I had
something
to do with it, but he couldn't work out what. I think he was pretty sure that Dean killed Dad – the hairs and cigarette end in the sleeping bag, the letters and signatures in his flat, the story I made up about him – but, again, he couldn't prove it. And, what's more, he couldn't see a reason for it. Why would Dean want to kill Dad? If he was trying to get hold of Dad's money, why kill him?

As to who killed Dean, I think he had me pegged for that. But there was nothing he could do about it. My story – the school dance, the girlfriend, the mysterious black-haired biker friend – that got checked out pretty thoroughly. No one remembered seeing me talking to a pretty blonde girl, no one even remembered seeing me at the dance. But then again, no one could prove I
wasn't
there, either.

One of my neighbours – the woman from number seven, the knicker-flashing can-can dancer – she confirmed she'd seen a tall boy with a ponytail outside my house on the Thursday and again on the Monday. She
thought
there might have been someone else with him, someone who
might
have been shorter than Dean, who
may
have had black hair. She
might
have seen someone squatting down behind a parked motorbike fiddling with the wheels, but she wasn't sure. It could even have been a girl.

Maybe, if, might have, could have been ...

As to what happened to the thirty thousand pounds, I don't think Breece had a clue. Video footage from security cameras at the bank showed a blurred figure cashing a cheque for thirty thousand pounds on the Tuesday morning. Despite being well wrapped up against the cold in a coat, scarf and hat, the blurred figure still bore a passing resemblance to Mr William Pig. Same size, same age, same grubby brown jacket beneath the coat, same shambling gait and baggy eyes. But how could that be? The autopsy had proved that Dad was already dead by then. And so was Dean. So who the hell was it?

Not me, that's for sure. I'm way too short.

Aunty Jean gave a sworn statement saying that Dad was still alive on the Friday. He was ill in bed, she said, he'd looked like death warmed up.

There weren't any tyre tracks or footprints at the gravel pit, the ground was too hard, frozen solid. Dean's fingerprints in my house proved he'd been there, but the only prints upstairs – apart from mine and Dad's and Aunty Jean's – couldn't be identified. So maybe there was someone with Dean when he came round on the Monday? Or maybe Dad had a mysterious lady friend? Who knows? (I always wondered if Breece had contacted Maeve, the not-
that
-lonely heart. It wasn't something I lost sleep over, exactly, but I sort of hoped he hadn't.) My fingerprints were all over the place, of course. But I lived there, so that proved nothing.

Someone remembered seeing some kind of car or van parked outside my house on Saturday evening, someone else thought they heard someone shouting ... the list was endless, dozens of scraps of puzzling evidence all of which proved absolutely nothing at all.

You see, it doesn't matter what the police
think
, it doesn't matter what they
know
, all that matters is proof. If they can't prove something, there's nothing they can do. Nothing. They're stuffed. That's the way it is, that's the way it works. That's justice.

After about two or three months the whole thing began to fizzle out. The case was wound down, put on the back burner. It was a waste of time.

Alex was only ever mentioned once. Breece had dropped in on one of his frequent visits, questioning me again about something or other. I'd grown used to it. It's easy. All you've got to do is stick to what you've already said, and if anything tricky comes up, you can't remember. And when in doubt, say nothing. Anyway, it must have been somewhere around the end of April. We were in the conservatory at Aunty Jean's house. My house. Aunty Jean was spring-cleaning. I could see her through the French windows, polishing like a mad thing in the front room, stooped over the dining table with her sleeves rolled up, her polishing arm pumping away like a piston. Spring sunshine flooded in through the open conservatory doors, a smell of fresh flowers breezed in the air. Breece was slouched in a wicker chair, bored, sipping tea from a cup, looking wearier than ever. Same old worn-out suit, same old worn-out face. He was just rambling on about something when suddenly, without warning, he stopped in mid-sentence and said, ‘How well did you know Alexandra Freeman?'

I nearly choked on my tea. ‘Who?'

‘Alexandra Freeman. She lived down the road from you.'

‘Oh, right. Alex. Yes. I remember her.'

‘Friend, was she?'

‘No, not really. Well, sort of. We hung around together sometimes ... you know.'

‘No, I don't know.'

I shrugged.

‘Did she ever come to your house?'

‘Once or twice.'

‘Once or twice? No more than that?'

‘Maybe a couple of times more. I can't remember, really.' I swallowed. ‘Why do you ask?'

He put down his tea and looked out of the window. ‘Nice garden.'

‘Yes.' I followed his gaze. It
was
a nice garden. A long stretch of well-tended lawn bounded by neat flower beds, shrubs, several young willow trees and a small rockery dotted with frosty-green alpine plants. Nice and quiet. Peaceful.

‘Do you mow it?'

‘What?'

‘The lawn,' he said. ‘Do you mow it?'

‘No.'

He covered his mouth and coughed, a thick phlegmy rattle. ‘What did you and Alexandra get up to then?'

‘Nothing much. Like I said, I didn't know her that well.'

‘You spoke on the phone quite frequently.'

‘Did we?'

‘Very frequently, according to the telephone records.'

I didn't know what to say.

‘Especially around Christmas time,' Breece went on. ‘Two, three times a day. Sometimes more.'

‘She was helping me with something.'

He raised an eyebrow.

‘A project,' I said. ‘A school project.'

‘A project.'

‘Homework. For the Christmas holidays. About the theatre. Alex knew a lot about acting, she went to drama classes. She was helping me with the project.'

Breece nodded thoughtfully.

‘That was nice of her.'

‘Yes ... she was like that. Very helpful.'

‘Have you seen her recently?'

‘I think she moved away.'

‘When would that have been?'

‘I don't know ... soon after Christmas, I think.'

‘Any idea where?'

‘No. Sorry.'

He said nothing for a minute or two, gazing out at the garden, tugging occasionally at his earlobe. It was a beautiful day. Cloudless blue skies, willow trees waving gently in a slow breeze, birds singing. A lawn mower droned comfortably in the distance.

Breece leaned forward in his chair, looked me in the eye and spoke softly.

‘How does it feel, Martyn?'

‘What?'

‘Getting away with murder.'

I paused for a second, then answered calmly. ‘I don't know what you mean.'

He smiled. The first time I'd ever seen him smile. ‘No ... I don't suppose you do.'

That was almost the last time I saw him. I think maybe he came round once or twice afterwards, but he never mentioned Alex again. By then he was just going through the motions. I could tell by the look in his eyes that he'd just about given up.

I got a letter from her yesterday. From Alex.

I don't usually bother with the post, there's never anything for me, but I just happened to be passing the door when the postman shoved a load of stuff through the box. Even then, I normally would have left it, but Aunty Jean called out from the kitchen, ‘Is that the post? Bring it through, Martyn, there's a dear.'

That's another thing I hate, she calls me
dear
.

It was an airmail letter in a light blue envelope. The postmark was smudged: somewhere, something, California. Addressed to me. From Alex. Her handwriting. I held the envelope in my hand and stared at my name.
M. Pig.
Her handwriting. It burned a hole in my heart. I couldn't breathe. Then Aunty called out again – ‘Martyn!
Martyn!
What
are
you doing out there?' – and I came to my senses and sucked some air into my lungs. I shoved the letter into my pocket, delivered the rest of the post to Aunty then rushed upstairs to my room.

It was only one page. One thin page. The paper felt so fragile in my hand, as if it would melt away. As I read the words I could hear her voice in my head. It was unreal. Like in a film, where you see the hero, alone in his room, reading a love letter, and in the background you hear the disembodied voice of his lover. That's exactly what it felt like. Exactly.

Dear Martyn,

If you're reading this at your aunty's then it means everything turned out OK for you, so I hope you are. If not – well, I'm sorry. I tried to leave things pointing in the right direction.

You told me once that badness is a relative thing – you said that something's only wrong if you think it's wrong. That if you think it's right, and others think it's wrong, then it's only wrong if you get caught. I didn't understand what you meant at the time. But now, I think I do. I hope you still believe it. If not ... well, what can I say?

Anyway, here I am in the USA and I've finally made it as an actress. I got my first role last week. It's only an advert, but at least it's a start. It's for a deodorant. I have to walk up and down the beach in a bikini looking cool. What do you think of that? I'll be on television. I've got auditions lined up for proper parts, too – films, theatre, musicals. Proper acting.

So you'd better hurry up and write that murder mystery you told me about, the one where I play the murderer's beautiful mistress, because if you leave it much longer I'll be too famous to star in it – you won't be able to afford me!

So get writing, Martyn.

I'm sure you can think up a story.

Love A.

I put down the letter and looked out of the window.

It was starting to snow.

 

Martyn Pig
blew me away. It dropped through the Chicken House letterbox in an ordinary brown envelope when Kevin was unpublished and unknown, and I read the manuscript in one sitting – I knew it was special from the very first page.

Since then Kevin has gone on to great things and here, in his first book, you can see why. Reading
Martyn Pig
you'll feel all Kevin's raw power and humour, and marvel at his unique ability to write as though he's
inside
your head.

Perhaps
Martyn Pig
is a murder mystery, maybe it's a dark suburban comedy, whatever you want to call it it will grip you till the very last sentence, and I can almost guarantee you won't guess what happens in the end!

Barry Cunningham

Publisher

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Text © Kevin Brooks 2002.

First published in Great Britain by The Chicken House in 2002.
This electronic edition published by Scholastic Australia Pty Limited in 2013.
E-PUB/MOBI eISBN 978 1 925063 01 1

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher, unless specifically permitted under the Australian Copyright Act 1968 as amended.