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Fortunate, at least, that he hasn’t yet transferred ownership from his mother. He has her death certificate and a copy of her will naming him as executor, which means he can sell the car without ever registering as its owner. Whether that will prevent police from linking it to him or Max, should either of them fall under suspicion, he doesn’t know. It might depend on whether an ANPR camera snapped the Honda last night – and whether the patrol car that followed him from the BP garage was equipped with one. Because if policestartwith the Honda, rather than with Max, its connection to Joseph will doubtless be unearthed.
The only men’s tailoring business in Crompton is Grayson’s, a dark and Dickensian establishment with crown glass bay windows and uneven floors. Inside, Joseph parts with three times more than he’d usually spend and walks out with a Stenströms shirt in black linen. In a homewares shop five doors down he buys a washing-up bowl, a mop and a dish scrubber. Then he visits Samsons.
Erin’s meat order is far larger than he’d expected. The butcher takes a while to box it all up. Joseph stands in the sweltering heat, his nose filling with the smell of raw meat. While he waits, he stares through the glass-sided display at the neat rows of steaks, short ribs, topside joints, briskets, gammon hams and pale slabs of pork belly the colour of the dead man’s flesh.
From the back he hears what sounds like bones being cut by a band saw. At the end of the counter he sees another butcher feeding a smoked bacon through analuminium slicer. As he’s paying Erin’s bill, a wasp flies into the wall-mounted zapper and is fried with a crackle that makes him jump.
Joseph carries his purchases to the car, his stomach flopping. Halfway up the steps of the multistorey, he feels the wound across his abdomen split open again, as if the butcher just ran the slicer over his skin. Grimacing with pain, he pauses in the stairwell to check his clothes. Fortunately, the Elastoplast seems to have stopped any blood from leaking through.
After dropping off the meat, he retraces his steps to the high street. He’ll have to buy something in Sainsbury’s to validate his parking, but first he wants to check on Max.
As he recalls his son’s words from last night –It was a kindness, what I did– an image comes to him of the dead man’s ruined face. Batting it away, he hurries across the street.
NINE
The Grind House is more akin to an upmarket opium den than a coffee shop: Moroccan rugs, mosaic-inlaid tables, low sofas crowded with kilim cushions. Candle flames bob and smoke inside iron lanterns set with tiny stained-glass windows. Over the hiss and splutter of the espresso machine, an Arctic Monkeys track is playing.
Tilly and Drew are sitting in semi-darkness, at a table furthest from the window. Unlike most days, Drew’s only make-up this morning is a scarlet slash of lipstick. Her turquoise hair, feathered to baby blue at the tips, spills through the back of a white baseball cap. She looks about as uncomfortable as Joseph has ever seen her – cheeks flushed, eyes downcast, her focus on the phone case decorated with turquoise rhinestones beside her coffee cup. Max, wearing a black T-shirt beneath a hessian barista’s apron, is standing over the table, looking just as awkward. Clearly, they hadn’t been expecting Tilly – and now, partly thanks to Joseph, they’ve been caught.
Tilly’s gaze moves between her stepbrother and her best friend, her expression difficult to read. Perhaps she’s starting to figure out what’s going on between them.
As Joseph manoeuvres around the other tables, Maxglances up and spots him. Something passes between them that Joseph can’t define but worries him even so.
‘Hi, Dad,’ the boy says, looking relieved at the distraction. ‘You want a coffee? Staff discount?’
‘Thanks, no. I just grabbed a Costa.’
‘Oof. Don’t let Sally hear you say that.’
From somewhere Drew finds a smile. ‘Hey, Mr Carver,’ she says, her nose twitching. ‘I amlovingthe newparfum.’ But when she picks up her coffee cup a moment later, the rim rattles against her teeth.
Max glances at her, then back at his father, eyebrows raised. For a moment, Joseph has the craziest thought that his son is jealous – and that it’s a dangerous kind of jealousy. But Tilly is watching him strangely, too.
Can they read my thoughts?he asks himself. Can they tell that last night I drove a dead man to Saddle Bank, in the boot of my late mother’s car? Do they know that I’ve been researching how quickly a corpse decomposes? How it bloats up and starts to leak fluids?
Abruptly, he realizes they’re probably just wondering why he’s here. ‘I was in Samsons,’ he says. ‘Picking up the meat order. Thought I’d come by and remind you about the party later.’
Max nods. ‘Barbecue, right? We’ll be there.’
‘Wouldn’t miss it,’ Drew says.
‘Great, you’re very welcome,’ he tells her, although he doesn’t really mean it. He’s always had a lot of time for his stepdaughter’s best friend – a decent girl saddled with an unreliable father and abandoned by an even more unreliable mother – but right now he wants the fewest possible visitors to the house.
‘Drew’s bringing her dad tonight,’ Tilly says.
‘Even better,’ Joseph lies.
He makes his excuses and leaves. Back inside his car, theraw meat smell of the Samsons order is so heavy it makes him retch. He drives home with the windows down and the aircon on full blast. When he carries his shopping into the house, he finds Erin in the kitchen, cutting into slices what at first he thinks is a human heart – until reality rushes back and he sees it’s simply a beetroot.
‘Good,’ she says, sucking beetroot juice from her thumb. With the point of her knife she indicates the sofa near the bifold doors. ‘You. Sit.’
‘I’ll just put the meat—’
‘Uh-uh.’ She jabs with the blade. ‘Sit. Talk.’
Joseph leaves his purchases on the side and eases himself on to the sofa.
Erin, still holding her knife, perches on the coffee table opposite.