On impulse, he pulled up outside a corner shop and went in. It was a news agent's, with bright modern decor and new racking along the walls for magazines and books. Tony asked for the biggest box of chocolates in the shop.
The young girl behind the counter was fat, spotty, and cheeky. She reached up for the chocolates, letting her nylon overalls ride up almost to her bottom. Tony looked away.
'Who's the lucky lady, then?' the girl asked him.
'My mum.'
'Pull the other one.'
Tony paid and got out fast. There was nothing more revolting than a revolting woman.
As he drove away he thought: really, with a million pounds I should do something more than just go out for a night on the town. But there was nothing else he wanted. He could buy a house in Spain, but he got too hot out there. He had enough cars; world cruises bored him; he did not want a mansion in the country; there was nothing he collected. It made him laugh when he thought of it this way: he had become a millionaire in a day, and the only thing he could think of to buy was a three-pound box of chocolates.
The money was security, though. If he went through a bad patch-even if, God forbid, he did a stretch-he could look after the boys more or less indefinitely. Running the firm could be expensive at times. There were about twenty blokes in all, and each of them looked to him for a few quid every Friday, whether they had had a tickle or not. He sighed. Yes, his responsibilities would weigh less heavily now. It was worth it for that.
He pulled up outside his mother's house. The dashboard clock said four thirty-five. Ma would have tea ready soon: perhaps a bit of cheese on toast, or a plate of baked beans; then some fruit cake or Battenberg; and canned pears with Ideal milk to finish off. Or she might have got him his favorite-crumpets and jam. He would eat again later tonight. He had always had a good appetite.
He entered the house and closed the front door behind him. The hall was untidy. The vacuum cleaner stood unattended halfway up the stairs, a raincoat had fallen from the hall stand onto the tiled floor, and there was some kind of mess by the kitchen door. It looked as if Ma had been called away suddenly: he hoped there wasn't bad news.
He picked up the raincoat and hung it on a hook. The dog was out, too; there was no welcoming bark.
He went into the kitchen, and stopped with one foot still in the hall.
The mess was awful. At first he could not figure out what it was. Then he smelled the blood.
It was everywhere: walls, floor, ceiling, all over the fridge, the cooker, and the draining board. The stench of the abattoir filled his nostrils, and he felt sick. But where had it all come from? What had caused it? He looked around wildly for some clue, but there was nothing, just the blood.
He crossed the kitchen in two big, squelching strides, and flung open the back door.
Then he understood.
His dog lay on her back in the middle of the little concrete yard. The knife was still in her-the same knife he had sharpened too much this morning. Tony knelt beside the mutilated corpse. The body looked shrunken, like a balloon with a leak.
A string of soft, blasphemous curses came from Tony's lips. He stared at the multiple cuts, and the bits of cloth between the dog's bared teeth, and whispered: 'You put up a fight, girl.'
He went to the garden gate and looked out, as if the killer might still be there. All he could see was a large pink wad of chewed bubblegum on the ground, casually thrown away by a child.
Obviously, Ma had been out when it happened, which was a mercy. Tony decided to clear up before she got back.
He got a spade from the outhouse. Between the yard and the garden gate was a small patch of poor soil, which the old man used to cultivate intermittently. Now it was overgrown. Tony took off his jacket, marked out a small square of ground, and began to dig.
The grave did not take him long. He was strong, and angry too. He trod the spade viciously and thought about what he would do to the killer if he ever found him. And he would find him. The bastard had done it out of spite, and when people did things like that they had to boast about it, either before or afterward, otherwise they would have proved their point to nobody but themselves, and that was never enough. He knew the type. Somebody would hear something, and tell one of the boys in the hope of a reward.
It crossed his mind that the Old Bill might be behind it. It was unlikely: this was not their style. Who, then? He had plenty of enemies, but none of them possessed both the hatred and the guts to do a number like this. When Tony met somebody with that much front he usually hired the bloke.
He wrapped the dead dog in his jacket and placed the bundle gently in the hole. He shoveled the earth back in and made the surface even with the flat of the spade. You didn't say prayers for dogs, did you? No.
He went back into the kitchen. The mess was awful. There was no way he could clean it up alone. Ma would be back any minute-it was a bloody miracle she had stayed out this long. He had to have help. He decided to ring his sister-in-law.
He went through the kitchen, trying not to spread the blood around. It seemed an awful lot of blood, even for a boxer dog.
He went into the parlor to use the phone, and there she was.
She must have been trying to reach the phone. A thin trail of blood led from the door to the body, lying stretched full length on the carpet. She had been stabbed only once, but the cut had been fatal.
The look of horror frozen on Tony's face changed slowly as his features contorted, like a squeezed cushion, into an expression of despair. He raised his arms slowly upward and pressed his palms against his cheeks. His mouth opened.
At last words came, and he roared like a bull. 'Ma!' he cried. 'Oh God, Ma!'
He fell to his knees beside the body and cried: huge, loud, racking sobs, like the cries of a child in total misery.
Outside in the street a crowd gathered around the parlor window, but no one dared to come in.
34
The city tennis club was an establishment which had nothing to do with tennis and everything to do with afternoon drinking. Kevin Hart was often struck with the implausibility of its title. In an alley off Fleet Street, squeezed in between a church and an office block, there was hardly room to play table tennis, let alone the real thing. If all they wanted was an excuse to serve drinks when the pubs were shut, Kevin thought, they could surely have found something more credible, like philately or model railways. As it was, the nearest they could get to tennis was a coin-in-the-slot machine which displayed a miniature tennis court on a television screen: you moved your player by twiddling a knob.
However, it did have three bars and a restaurant, and it was a good place to meet people from the Daily Mail or the Mirror who might one day give you a job.
Kevin got there shortly before five o'clock. He bought a pint of draft beer and sat at a table, talking idly to a reporter from the Evening News whom he knew vaguely. But his mind was not on the conversation: inside he was still seething. The reporter went away after a little while, and Kevin saw Arthur Cole come in and go to the bar.
To Kevin's surprise, the deputy news editor brought his drink across to the table and sat down.
By way of greeting Arthur said: 'Quite a day.'
Kevin nodded. He really did not want the older man's company: he wanted to be alone to sort out how he felt.
Arthur sank half his beer in one, and set his glass down with a sigh of satisfaction. 'I didn't get one at lunchtime,' he explained.
Just to be polite, Kevin said: 'You've been holding the fort on your own.'
'Yes.' Cole took out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter, and put them on the table. 'I've said no to those all day. I wonder how long I can keep it up.'
Kevin looked surreptitiously at his watch, and wondered whether to move on to El Vino's.
