Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 127, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 775 & 776, March/April 2006

Stuff Happens by Adrian Magson

Adrian Magson has been writing and selling short fiction for many years, while also pursuing various careers including grill chef, bartender, and sales manager for a publishing company. In 2004 his first novel, No Peace for the Wicked, a mystery that introduced investigative reporter Riley Gavin and ex-military cop Frank Palmer, was published by Crème de le Crime. The second in the series, No Help for the Dying, came out in ’05.

The man is standing on the bottom of the pool. His white shirt billows gently with the movement of water, and his arms are reaching up towards me as if he wants me to join him. In view of his situation, this is not surprising, because McCluskey never did like me. He’s also looking as if he’d like to say something important, but can’t. But maybe that’s because his face is some way below the surface and he’s forgotten his snorkel.

Behind me, Big Nev, the night security guard for the Copelands Health Spa, is hopping from foot to foot and trying not to heave his supper into the pool. Somewhere in the distance, a door is banging like an old drum.

“How long?” I ask Big Nev. There’s no point me going in; I can see McCluskey is long past the point where mouth-to-mouth would do any good. Besides, what contact I’ve had with him over the years doesn’t make me want to get my toes wet, much less kiss him. I still get pains in one knee as a result of a previous encounter, when he tried to muscle in on a fitness club belonging to a friend of mine. It was a messy business and he’d never forgotten it.

Big Nev doesn’t hear me at first, so I repeat the question, wondering why anyone would hire a security guard with defective hearing.

“About an hour, Mr. Medway,” he says, swallowing hard. “I last did my round an hour back. He wasn’t here then. The lights was on and they shouldn’t be.”

I nod. Make that two hours. I doubt they pay well enough to get Big Nev out of his chair at the front desk more often than that. He’s built like a giant marshmallow on legs, and exercise is an alien concept. But he’s big enough and scary enough to keep the local scallies at bay, which is his main function.

“I couldn’t think of no one else to call,” he explains slowly. “I didn’t want to call the fuzz.” Big Nev and the police aren’t on the best of terms ever since they caught him trying to steal a patrol vehicle from outside the station. You’d have thought the red stripe down the side and the big, slavering police dog inside would have warned him off, but he claims he was drunk at the time.

“What about Kilpatrick?” Kilpatrick is the general Fuhrer at Copelands, and would have been the first one to call, but Big Nev is intimidated by him, which means he avoids him whenever possible. Instead, he’d called the only person he could think of who wouldn’t panic and run for the hills out of an instinctive sense of guilt.

“Didn’t think, Mr. Medway,” he admits dully. He’s called me Mister ever since I rescued him from a couple of drunken squaddies one night. “Is he dead?”

“He’d better be,” I say. “Unless he’s got lungs like a goldfish.”

I kneel by the edge of the pool and feel the cold moisture from the ribbed tiles soak through the cloth of my pants. I can see my reflection in the water, my dreads hanging down around my head. A faint mist is lifting off the surface as the colder air from outside meets the warmer temperature of the pool, and I debate maybe going in, anyway, in spite of it being McCluskey. Then I glance down at his feet and decide not to bother. Coiled tightly around his ankles is a heavy steel chain, the links bright and glistening against the dark of his trouser cuffs. Holding it in place is a heavy-gauge padlock.

“You’d best get the police,” I tell Big Nev carefully. “I know it’s against your religion, but I don’t think McCluskey was here for a midnight dip. And tell them to bring something to cut through quarter-inch steel chain. Oh, and breathing gear.”

“What?” Big Nev’s voice rises to a squeak at having to process all this information, and he backs away as if distance will keep him out of this one. I don’t blame him; McCluskey never had any real friends, on account of being what passes as a local crime boss. But his Neanderthal employees and colleagues are the type to go in feet first and think about the consequences later. At a hint of his death, they’d all be tooling up and looking for somebody to bury under the nearest new building project. It makes me wonder what McCluskey had been doing here; I never had him down as a fitness freak.

While Big Nev tries to make up his mind which country to emigrate to, I focus on McCluskey’s knuckles, just breaking the surface of the water. The meaty fingers, with a sprouting of coarse, dark hairs, are curled into fists. This is probably the genetic norm in his family, but now they’re gripping a thin nylon lane marker running the length of the pool. Slackened and stretched out of place, it’s the only thing keeping the body upright. Ironic, really, because with his arms up like they are, it’s like McCluskey, a former keen and vicious football hooligan, has been caught frozen at the peak of his final triumphant Mexican wave.

I wait until Big Nev lumbers away in search of a phone, then take a look around. After six years in the Royal Military Police Special Investigation Branch, the instinct to delve is still strong, even though I know I should get out and leave the crime scene to the plods. Well, it’s not every day I see one of my least favourite people where he can’t hurt anyone, is it?

A limp twist of newspaper is hanging from the side of the pool, probably blown in when Big Nev first trundled by. I scoop it out. It’s a copy of a national tabloid, the banner headlines announcing the unexplained death of a renowned heart surgeon, a two-for-one offer on their weekend issue, a police crackdown on local serious crime, and, on the back page, the shock sacking of a First Division soccer manager. I roll the damp newsprint into a ball and slam-dunk it into a waste bin against one wall. Great news; just as they’d been lining up to head the league, too.

Further out from the side is a long, wavy strip of brown cardboard, hanging in the water like a snake. Another piece drifts close to the grill, and I wonder how long it will be before the pump shuts down with the strain of trying to suck mushy paper through the filters. Not my problem, and I’m not supposed to be here, anyway, so I leave.

I’m back a few hours later, this time through the front entrance. There’s no sign of Big Nev, who’s probably ended his shift and handed over to the receptionist and day staff.

“Can I help you?” A police sergeant bars my way and eyes my sports bag before switching his gaze to my hair. They always look at my hair, like they’ve never seen dreadlocks before.

“I’m here to take a class,” I tell him politely. “What’s all the activity?” There are several police cars scattered out front, an ambulance, a whole bunch of uniforms shuttling about in the foyer, and a few would-be early swimmers looking sour-faced at being told to go home because the pool needs cleaning. Nobody mentions that the cleanup includes a dead body, which is probably just as well; most of the early birds are of an age where that kind of news can be a nasty shock to the system.

“What sort of class?” the sergeant asks, ignoring the question.

“I teach t’ai chi,” I explain. “A nine-thirty session.”

“T’ai chi? Isn’t that the poncey stuff the Chinks do?” The sergeant makes it sound like a deviant practice, a faint sneer tugging at his thin lips. I don’t rise to the bait, but I ease forward half a pace until the smile goes and he swallows, because suddenly I’m a lot taller than he first realised. “Do you have any identification?” he gabbles quickly.

I show him my business card, the one saying I teach t’ai chi, yoga, and tae kwon do. My name and phone number are there in solid black lettering. The sergeant turns it over and flicks it with a dismissive thumb. “Driving licence?”

“No car. No point.”

“Oh. All right. Go inside and make yourself known to the constable at the desk. And don’t go anywhere until he says so.”

I take my card back and walk into the reception area, where a group of five men and a woman are huddled on one side, heads bowed in conversation like a prayer group. Four of them are in suits, while two are dressed in white scene-of-crime clothing. One of the men is Kilpatrick, the boss man, who’s yakking away importantly. No change there, then. Beyond them a wide corridor leads through the heart of the building, with doors opening off each side to changing rooms, studios, and the pool. A faint hint of chlorine hangs in the air. Along with a palpable air of tragedy.

A uniformed constable materialises in front of me, and the conversation dies as they all turn and look my way.

“It’s okay,” Kilpatrick says to the constable. “He works here.” He walks over and nods at my sports bag. “They’ll want you to open that,” he says gruffly, like he’s suddenly taken over the investigation. “We’ve had a problem in the pool, but it shouldn’t interrupt your class.”

The bag holds my track suit, some lightweight kwongs — training shoes — a towel, and wash bag. I wait while the constable does a quick search, and wonder what he expects to find. Kilpatrick looks pale and strung out, as if he hasn’t slept much. A nasty scrape down the side of his jaw looks vivid and painful, and his tie has the appearance of having been tied with more energy than care.

“What’s happened?” I ask him. We’re on nodding terms, but that’s all. I’m classed as “casual tutoring staff” since I only work here a few sessions each week, and I get the impression he watches me like a hawk in case I run off with his cute female masseuse.

“They’ll tell you soon enough. Could you sign in?” He turns and indicates the visitors’ log on the desk, and the receptionist, Tanya, hands me a cardboard badge with my name on it. I sign with a flourish and pin the badge on my coat.

Kilpatrick indicates the policemen. “They want to talk to everyone who works here. You won’t mind waiting, will you?” The question is polite but plainly rhetorical. Kilpatrick walks away, leaving me under the scrutiny of the police officers.

One of them turns towards me and comes over. He’s tall, steel-haired, and wearing an expensive grey suit. He has a tight, distracted look about him, as if he’d rather be off doing something more important.

“Why are you here?” he asks bluntly. He consults a list in his hand. It’s a copy of the daily class rota, with my name near the top. “Mr. Medway.” No introductions, no wasted talk, not even the customary glance at the hair.

I figure Kilpatrick must have already told him who I am, but I go through it again anyway. When I tell him I hate being late for my students, he doesn’t seem to care much and stares at me, the muscles of his jaw working hard with some inner tension. When I finish, he says, “When were you here last, Mr. Medway?”

“Yesterday afternoon.” He knows this, too, because he’s got the log sheets from the previous day. Maybe he’s naturally distrustful.

“And where did you go while you were on the premises?”

“To the studio and changing room. Am I a suspect for something?”

The constable by the desk mutters something under his breath which sounds like “Why not?” and the suit spins round and glares at him. “Name?” he barks, the snap in his voice making everyone jump.

“Aris, sir,” says the uniform, and looks like he’s just soiled his pants.

“Two coffees, Aris, one with—” the man looks at me, but I shake my head — “and one without. Make it double-quick, then report to your duty officer.”

He watches the uniform scurry away towards the caféteria, then turns back to me. “Sorry, you went where?”

I tell him again. The studio is an easy half-dozen paces from the changing rooms. Both are at the opposite side of the building from the front entrance, near the end of a long corridor. I add that it was my final class of the day, lasting from five until seven.

“So you would have passed the pool each time?”

“I suppose. I didn’t look. Who are you?”

He considers the question and replies, “Chief Superintendent Martin Palliser. Did you go into the pool area at any time?”

“No.”

“Not even for a look? People often do, with swimming pools.” Palliser seems to find the idea surprising. “But you didn’t?”

“No. Seen one, you’ve seen them all.”

PC Aris appears carrying a tray and two cups. His face is red and he looks seriously peeved. Behind him a short, plump man pokes his head round the corner and mutters something cutting, giving Palliser a dark glare in the process before ducking back.

“What’s his problem?” says Palliser.

“He says with all the cops round the place, you’d think one of them would be able to stop the pilfering, sir. Some food and stuff’s gone missing from the kitchens.”

“Tell him,” says Palliser cuttingly, “we’ll get right on it as soon as we’ve solved this death.”

“Yes, sir.” Aris puts the tray down and walks away, and Palliser steps over and picks up the two cups, holding one out to me. “Do you swim, Mr. Medway?”

“I can,” I tell him. “But I prefer not to. Way too cold for me.”

He nods and scans my face. “I guess it would be. Where are you from?”

“St. John’s Wood, west London.”

He has the good grace to look sheepish. “Sorry. I assumed... Your parents, then.”

“My mother was white English and my father Antiguan.” Just to make him squirm further, I add, “Which side of the gene pool d’you reckon I’m from?”

Palliser looks embarrassed enough to spit, so he sinks into official mode. “A man was found drowned in the pool around midnight last night. It looks like suicide.”

I manage to keep my face straight and wonder if he’s kidding me. “How do you know that?”

“Because I can’t believe anyone would go to all the trouble of murdering someone by lugging in several pounds of chain and drowning them in a swimming pool, can you?”

Put like that, I guess it doesn’t sound likely. “Good point.”

He stares at me. “You don’t seem very surprised.”

I shrug. “Stuff happens before four in the morning.”

“What?”

“My father used to say it. Who was he?”

“A local wheeler-dealer. Nobody we’ll miss.” His tone says he’d rather be doing something useful instead of looking into the death of someone like McCluskey, although I can’t comment because I’m not supposed to know the victim’s name. “We need to establish,” he continues, “who may have come and gone over the last few hours, to see if anyone noticed anything.”

“That shouldn’t take too long.” I know they can do it by looking at the security videos, and hope Big Nev pulled the tape like I told him to. If not, I’m in deep trouble. Six-two of black guy with dreads, near a dead body in the middle of the night, is hard to miss even on a grainy tape.

“Can you account for your movements yesterday evening — say, after seven through to around two this morning?”

I think about it and don’t much like the result. “I can tell you where I was,” I tell him. “But I can’t prove it.”

“Go on.”

“I spent most of the evening working on my narrowboat down on the canal. I had something to eat, then I went for a run at about eight-thirty. I got back about ten, give or take.”

Palliser frowned. “An hour and a half for a run? That’s more like a marathon. Where did this take place?”

“Along the canal and back. Heading north.”

His eyebrows shot up. “You must have good eyesight. You always go that route?”

“Most days, if I have time.” I described the towpath. It’s mostly quiet with a reasonable surface, and I rarely disturb anyone apart from the occasional moorhen. It’s my quiet time, where I can allow my mind to drift into a kind of therapeutic slipstream. I picked up the technique in the army, when the alternative to work for single men was to stay in the mess or frequent the bars off-base and get out of your skull. Neither option was encouraged among the MP staff, mostly because the bar owners complained our presence was bad for business.

“So, apart from good night vision, you must be pretty fit.” It comes over as a statement of fact to fill the void, but he isn’t fooling me. There’s just a little too much interest in fitness and swimming.

“Yes, I am. So?”

“My young nephew does martial arts. Spends all his time with his mates, kicking seven bells out of each other. Still, it keeps them off the streets. You learn it in the army?”

So he knows I used to be in the army. Kilpatrick must have filled him in. That’s more than just casual detail. I shake my head. “The army taught me how to fight. I teach my students how to avoid it.”

“Very noble of you. So there’s no teaching some unassuming geek to beat the hell out of someone twice his size?”

“If there’s a geek, I prefer to teach him the main rule.”

“What’s that?”

“There’s always someone out there who’s harder, meaner, and hungrier. Always.”

“Even for you?”

“Even for me. Can I go now?”

Palliser nods. He seems to have run out of questions. I pick up my bag and walk towards the changing room. Over by the front entrance Kilpatrick is deep in conversation with two new arrivals. Their eyes swing towards me, then look away again. I’ve seen them before, but can’t recall where. I follow the corridor down to the changing room, where I slip into my track suit before going into the studio to wait for my class.

The room is long and narrow, with a large mirror down one side and panoramic windows on the opposite wall to let in the maximum amount of light. The floor consists of polished wooden blocks and smells of beeswax. It’s peaceful here, the atmosphere pleasantly warm and comforting.

I go through a series of floor-based stretching exercises, trying to void my mind of distractions and settle my breathing into a regular pattern. The room, Palliser, the questions, all begin to fade into the background. But it’s not enough. The image of McCluskey keeps drifting in, breaking my concentration. That and Palliser’s approach. I change to a complex tae kwon do pattern, flowing through a series of kicks, blocks, and counterpunches which take me across the room and back, working up a nice sweat.

When I finish, I discover a silent group of clients, several elderly men and a woman, watching in awed silence. They’re probably already unnerved by the police activity outside; now they’re looking at me as if I’ve sprouted horns and a tail. Great. Charlton Medway, master of stealth and awareness, caught off guard by a bunch of wrinklies.

As I take them through the Shibashi — the breathing exercise — I find myself thinking of the man in the pool; he’d have probably given anything to be here right now, doing it. The breathing, I mean.

When I get home to the boat, I find Kilpatrick waiting for me. He looks a bundle of nerves and rushes up to me like I’m his long-lost cousin.

“Charlton, you’ve got to help me!” he yelps, grabbing hold of my arm. This is a real first, because Kilpatrick is a strictly surname type of employer. And I’ve never seen him in such a state of acute agitation.

I lead him on board and tell him to sit down while I make some green tea. It might settle his nerves. If it doesn’t, I can always beat him over the head with the kettle and toss him over the side.

“What’s the problem?”

“The police... they’re saying it was suicide,” he says miserably. He’s twisting his hands together and looks strung out. Quite a change from the distant figure of snooty command he usually projects to the world of Copelands. “They’re suggesting I might have given him a key so he could get in and... do it. But that’s crazy! I mean, I hardly even know the man.”

“Man?” I pour water over the leaves and bite my lip. I’m not supposed to know the victim. Could this be an elaborate setup by Palliser to lure me into admitting I know more than I should?

“Yes. McCluskey. The dead man.” He shudders, drumming bony fingers on the tabletop. “He’s a local businessman... you must know him.”

“Thanks,” I say easily, and hand him a cup. “Yeah, I know him. Never struck me as the suicidal type, though.” Rumour has it he’s driven other people to top themselves in the past, however. McCluskey always possessed a mean streak and never forgot a slight, no matter how old. It was one of the reasons I always watched my back.

“That’s what the police are saying.” Kilpatrick looks at me. “What do you think?”

I don’t say anything. Silence is the greatest speech motivator known to man.

“They say he chained his feet together,” he continues, “then jumped in. He must have changed his mind at the last minute and tried to pull himself out with the lane rope.”

“How do they think he got in?”

“Through the back. A fire door.” I remember the banging I’d heard while I was by the pool. Kilpatrick hesitates, then says: “I’m really worried — I could lose everything over this. But it wasn’t me — honest! He must have forced his way in—”

“Who else has keys?” I ask, wondering about Big Nev. But he’s too obvious and couldn’t hide a secret if his life depended on it.

“The security staff, obviously — and a couple of deputy managers. Oh, and Cramer.”

“Who?”

“A cleaner. He hasn’t been in since the day before. He’d have had keys for every door in the place. And...” He paused as if not wanting to say something, then forged on regardless. “Actually, I shouldn’t say this, but I saw him arguing with McCluskey the other day.”

“Did you tell the police?”

“Well, no. I didn’t like to.”

The idea of McCluskey having any contact with a cleaner at a health spa was a bit far out there... unless... “Was McCluskey a member?”

Kilpatrick shakes his head emphatically. “He came and went on a casual-user basis, but he never applied for membership. I think he felt it was beneath him.” He looked up at me like a small puppy about to be smacked by a rolled-up newspaper. “I need your help on this, Charlton. I’ll pay, of course.”

“Okay. Where does Cramer live?”

Cramer’s place is in a small cul-de-sac off the town centre. The house is an anonymous red-brick terraced job with a jumbled, untidy garden and an air of neglect. Tired-looking curtains hang limply across filthy windows, and the only sign of newness comes from a brand-new satellite dish on the wall below the sagging guttering. The front doorstep holds a gaggle of dirty milk bottles and a bag of refuse is mouldering by an overflowing wheelie bin. Suburban chic.

A large, pasty-looking character in grimy jeans and a football shirt opens the door and stares out at me. His prominent paunch and sagging breasts are straining the fabric in a way men weren’t designed to do, and his meaty arms are dotted with a few sparse hairs and orange-coloured freckles. He blinks rapidly behind thick spectacles and opens his mouth to reveal a line of uneven, yellowing teeth.

“Yeah?” His tone is wary, but there’s nothing dull about his eyes, which flicker sharply past me to scan the street. A smell of stale food and body odour hangs in the air, while from inside the house I can hear the electronic bleep of a modem dialling out.

“Derek Cramer?” I ask, and by the expression on his face, I know I’ve struck lucky.

“He’s out.” Cramer makes to slam the door, but I put my hand against his chest and propel him backwards. It’s not a pleasant feeling and I make a mental note to boil my hands afterwards.

Cramer’s legs pump rapidly as he tries to keep his balance, and he bounces off the wall behind him, blinking in shock. I keep up the momentum and steer him into a squalid living room by clamping one hand on his pudgy shoulder. He falls onto a sofa strewn with an array of camera equipment — lenses, tripod, bags, and a camera — and looks scared. A jumble of microwave-ready meal cartons cover a table nearby, the boxes stamped with the words “NOT FOR RESALE.” The air has a greasy tang so thick you can taste it, and I think I’ve just discovered who’s been pilfering from the Copelands kitchen.

“You haven’t been in to work,” I say casually. “Is there a problem?”

“Get lost,” says Cramer, his beady eyes flinching behind his glasses. A line of perspiration has broken out on his forehead and he’s trying to swallow without closing his mouth, like a beached whale. I wonder what’s making him so nervous.

“Can’t do that, Derek,” I tell him. “So what’s the deal at Copelands?”

“Deal? There’s no deal. Leave me alone — I haven’t done anything. What’s it to you?” His chins wobble furiously and a dribble of saliva oozes over his lower lip. He clutches a camera to his belly like a comfort blanket and picks at the carrying strap, refusing to look up. The camera looks new, as does the case on the sofa alongside him. Pretty toys for a big boy.

“I’m interested, that’s all. The staff are worried about you.”

“I’m fine. I decided to leave.” He rubs his arm. “I can leave if I want to.”

“Sure. But the question is, why so suddenly? Why now? All those wealthy clients... you must have picked up a few good tips, surely? Jobs like that are hard to come by.”

Cramer licks his lips and thumbs his glasses against his nose. “It was all right. I just fancied a change. No law says I have to stay in one place...” He stops and casts about as if something or someone will spring to his defence.

“So what are you doing now, then?”

“Eh?”

“You said you fancied a change. That means you’ve got a new job.”

Cramer shrugs and twists his pudgy hands together over the camera like twin coils of suet. “I’m looking.”

I look around the room. It’s full of cheap furniture, the sort you can get anywhere. On a sideboard is a Perspex storage box full of blank CDs and a box of labels next to it. The freshness of the disks looks out of place in this untidy room. I flick through the labels. “Fair enough, I suppose. But Copelands... strange place, isn’t it?” The titles are all current pop and I figure Cramer’s found a new career in the bootleg music business.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“It’s a health place, right? But they’ve got that...” I snap my fingers as if trying to recall a name. “Killingley, is it? A Scottish name, anyway. The boss.”

“Kilpatrick,” Cramer corrects me automatically, his face going pale. The way the word drops away at the end, he doesn’t have any love for his former boss.

“Kilpatrick. That’s right.” I glance at him from the corner of my eye, gauging his reaction. “Can’t say I took to him. Unfriendly type.”

Cramer’s expression goes sour, but he clamps his mouth shut.

“He and McCluskey friends, were they?” I ask casually.

But he’s already pulled the shutters down and shakes his head. “I wouldn’t know.”

I pick up a sales invoice dated the day before. It’s for a whole load of camera gear and the bottom line isn’t cheap. They must be paying cleaners top wack these days. “So, you’re a bit of a snapper.”

“Might be.” He hugs the camera again as if I’m about to confiscate his new toy.

A squeak of floorboards comes from upstairs. I hadn’t thought about anyone else being in the house. I turn and fix Cramer with a cold stare. “Who paid you to stay away?”

His mouth opens but nothing comes out, so I lean over him and stare into his piggy little eyes. “You bunked off because you were told to. You know it, I know it. That’s where all the camera gear comes from, isn’t it? Now, of course, I’m not saying you were involved with McCluskey’s death, but the police might think different.”

His face sags. “What? I ain’t done nothing...”

“Ever heard of sins of omission?” He looks blank, so I guess not. “Not doing something about information leading to a capital offence is chargeable, did you know that? Conspiracy, they call it.”

Another noise upstairs, then a voice calls down, “Derek? Have you got those disks ready?” The tone is aggressive and demanding. “Today would be good for me!”

The effect on Cramer is dramatic. He waves me away, his face registering fear. “Coming,” he shouts back. “Just opening a new box.” He looks at me and hisses, “For Christ’s sake, get out of here! You’ll ruin everything!” Then he scrambles past me and grabs a handful of the new blank disks, his fingers shaking.

“Who’s upstairs?” I ask him.

“Never mind... he’s a business partner.” Cramer tries to barge past, but I stop him, making him roll his eyes in desperation. “It’s nothing to do with Copelands, I promise... or what happened there.” He shakes his head. “They just wanted a key, that’s all.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes — but that’s it! Apart from the other thing... from the kitchen. That’s why I had to take all this stuff.” He indicates the commercial food cartons on the table. “To make it look right.”

“Derek!”

“Two more questions, Cramer,” I say softly, digging my fingers into his flabby arm. He struggles but has as much chance of getting away as Big Nev has of becoming a brain surgeon. “What was this other thing... and who asked for the spare key?”

In desperation, and with the desperate edge of truth, he tells me.

This entering Copelands at ridiculous hours of the night is becoming a habit I can do without. I ease through the washroom window and slide to the floor, shutting out the traffic noise behind me with a soft squeak from the handle. I give it ten minutes, waiting in one of the cubicles for the first sounds of alarm, although if Big Nev is on the ball, I should have a clear run.

A fan starts up somewhere nearby, and I hear the soft rumble of air gusting along a vent above me. A gurgle of water makes a musical sound down a pipe, then something gives a high-pitched whirring noise for a few seconds. Night noises.

The washroom door eases open without a sound, and I scope the corridor, looking for the security camera. Big Nev or not, the last thing I want is to appear on a monitor somewhere, just in case this thing goes pear-shaped. But the lens is pointed the other way, the result of the whirring noise earlier. My signal to move.

Down the corridor to the corner, which Nev tells me is by the kitchens. Another whirring noise and I’m free to continue. I scoot through a door under a camera and sniff the air. Cooking smells and cleaning products; green vegetables and spices. There’s sufficient light to see where I’m going. Just by my shoulder is a large cling-film dispenser on the wall, used, I guess, to cover plates of sandwiches and salad in the caféteria. The roll is full. I head across to a door in the far wall. It hisses open and reveals a storeroom. I flick on a flashlight and see a large carton in one corner. A hole has been torn in one end, and I peer in. More rolls of cling-film, but there’s a gap. I pull the carton to one side, and find a mass of crumpled silver film, stuffed down behind it where nobody can see.

I leave the kitchen and head for the pool, timing my route according to Big Nev’s signals with the cameras. Now that I know the how, I need to find the proof of the why, which will make it a certainty rather than wild speculation.

I duck beneath the scene-of-crime tape and ease the door open. It emits a powerful smell of chlorine and warm, damp air, and the splash of a fountain at the far end reminds me I should have gone before leaving the washroom. I slide inside and flatten myself against the wall. The security camera is pointing at the ceiling. I feel sticky and uncomfortable, and a trickle of sweat runs down my chest. Usually I’m okay with heat and humidity, but I prefer cool weather. Not the clammy interior of a swimming pool in the middle of the night.

I follow the wall, the water glistening a few feet away like a shimmering mirror. I draw level with where McCluskey took his final dip. On the wall nearby is a waste bin. A few feet away is another. I dip my hand in. With a bit of luck nobody would have thought of emptying them yet, what with all the police activity. But it’s empty. Damn. Wouldn’t you know it? I move to the next one and slide my hand in. My fingers encounter a crinkle of paper, slightly soft in parts but crisp in others, where the heated air has dried it out. I tug it out, the noise loud as a freight train in the silence of the pool. A brief click of the flashlight and I can see it’s the piece of newsprint I found and dumped last night. I move on to the next bin and delve inside. Nothing. The next is the same.

It takes me three minutes to cover every bin around the pool, by which time I come up with half an orange, a clutch of sweet wrappers, two apple cores, and several disposable cups, contents all sticky. For a health spa, the clients like bucking the rules.

There are loungers stationed around the pool edge. I find what I’m looking for under the fourth one, crumpled where somebody has thrown it, and ignored by the police team. As I scoop it up, I hear a noise from the door, and the place is suddenly a blaze of lights.

Kilpatrick, with his two friends from yesterday. They look hostile. Then I recall where I’ve seen them before: They’ve been hanging around with no obvious purpose, but with that air of men who own the place and are looking after their investment.

Kilpatrick looks pleased with himself, as if something he’d planned was going well. He signals to the two men, who move up either side of him. They’re both holding short lengths of metal pipe and grinning in anticipation. In the corridor behind them, Big Nev is shuffling uncomfortably, shaking his head and scowling.

“Well, well. Mr. Medway,” says Kilpatrick. “What a surprise seeing you here — and out of hours, too.” He looks up at the security camera, which is now pointing right at me. “What are you doing?”

“You know what I’m doing,” I reply. “I’m looking into how McCluskey died.”

Kilpatrick looks blank, and whatever signs of anxiety he’d been showing when he came to see me and ask for my help are gone. I begin to get a sick feeling in my gut. The kind you get when you know you’ve been stupid.

“Know what this is?” he continues, and waves a videocassette at me.

I don’t say anything, but at a guess, I’d say it comes from the security system.

“I discovered this today, purely by chance. It shows you here in the pool on the night of McCluskey’s unfortunate... accident. In fact, the timer on the tape shows it pretty much coincides with the estimated time of death.” He grins. “And to add to the speculation, a birdy tells me you and McCluskey had... what shall we call it — history?”

I glance at Big Nev, who’s now hopping from foot to foot like a demented Dervish and wearing a pained expression. He was meant to take care of the tape, but Kilpatrick must have got to him first. Furthermore, Nev knows all about my history with McCluskey, and would have been only too happy to chatter away if coaxed. Poor Nev, the penny hasn’t dropped yet; he’s about to get sunk the same way I am.

I glance behind me, looking for the fire door. But it’s down the far end and Kilpatrick’s two friends look a bit too quick. I edge sideways towards the wall, the tiles beneath my feet slick with moisture. It’s not the ideal surface for making sudden moves, and there’s not much room to escape those lengths of pipe the men are carrying.

“Wait.” Kilpatrick’s eyes narrow. He’s seen what I’m holding in my hand. “What’s that?” He glares at one of the men. “I thought I told you to clean up!”

The man shrugs. “No worries. We’ll get it back.”

“Oh, this?” I hold up the soggy mass from the floor. The longer I keep them talking, the more likely someone is to spot the lights... and the more impatient Kilpatrick will be to finish it. “I thought this was a piece of rubbish at first. Then Cramer told me something interesting. Remember Cramer?” By the look on Kilpatrick’s face, he’s wishing Cramer was roasting in hell. I wonder what the fat man’s life expectancy will be if these three get out of here. “Cling-film from the kitchen, right? The tube out of the centre?”

“You’re wasting time, Medway,” Kilpatrick mutters sourly. The scrape on his face is looking raw under the glare of the lights. “The police didn’t even bother to log it.”

“Ingenious way to threaten someone,” I tell him. “Drop him in the water, then give him a tube to breathe through. No way would Big Nev have heard you — he’s deaf. And you’d already taken care of the cameras. McCluskey must have been frantic, trying to shake off the chains. It would have taken at least two men to hold him, a big man like him. Is that how you got that scrape on your face? No wonder Palliser was so interested in whether I could swim or not.”

Kilpatrick says nothing, and his two pals are suddenly frozen at the mention of Palliser’s name. I hold up the wet cardboard in my hand. “He’d have been grateful for anything to stop himself from drowning, wouldn’t he? Anyone would. But he hadn’t reckoned on the cardboard becoming waterlogged. Or was it you who miscalculated?”

Kilpatrick mutters something to his colleagues, and one of them shifts forward. The other one stays where he is. Two-legged attack dogs.

“You were trying to get him off your backs, weren’t you?” I suggest quietly, easing back a pace. “What was it — a business deal that went sour? Did he want too big a slice of this place?” It would be the kind of thing McCluskey would have dreamed of.

“I don’t know what you’re blabbing about,” says Kilpatrick, but he’s looking uncomfortable, as if his plans are unravelling at the same rate the cardboard tube must have come unglued in McCluskey’s hands once it got good and wet.

“How long did he have when the tube started to go?” I ask. “One minute? Two, maybe?” I look at the two other men, especially the one who isn’t moving. “I bet one of you wanted to go in and pull him out, right? After all, it was only meant to scare him, wasn’t it? Trouble is, once you drop a clothed man in a pool with a few pounds of steel round his feet, there’s no way you’ll pull him out without a lot of help.”

The two men glance at each other. Then they look back at me and I know they’ve figured the odds of this getting out are low enough not to worry them. All they’ve got to do now is take care of the main problem: me.

Like a rehearsed team, they edge towards me, shuffling carefully on the tiled floor.

In the background, Big Nev is having trouble deciding what to do. I can’t be sure how much he’s heard, but I have to reckon it’s less than I need. As a witness to what’s happening, he’s dubious at best and a liability at worst. Hoping he’ll help is about as reliable as the soggy cardboard in my hand.

The first man makes a move. He slides forward, faster than I expect, and whips his pipe through the air with a hissing sound. I duck and make a kick stab at his knee. It barely connects but it’s painful enough to make him stop, and allows me to get out of range. Then the other man moves, thrashing at me with his pipe. I back up, moving against the brick wall behind me and kicking away one of the plastic loungers. First Man shuttles forward again, this time bending to take out my legs with his weapon. It’s not much of an opening, but I flick the mass of soggy cardboard into his face. It wraps itself around the sides of his head with a sticky sound, and he grunts with annoyance and half rises, trying to tear it away. I brace myself against the wall and bring my right leg up and round in a crescent kick. It’s not pretty and not designed to be gentle. The inside of my foot hits him just above the ear, the shock of contact travelling up my leg. He hits the floor and lies still.

Second Man looks stunned, then makes his charge, one arm above him in a protective stance. I deliver a front snap kick to his midsection, landing him flat on his rear with a grunt, his eyeballs rolling in agony. It’s always the simplest ones that catch them.

Kilpatrick hasn’t moved. His jaw drops at the sudden reversal of the situation and he seems lost for a moment, as if he can’t believe what’s happened. I guess I was supposed to cave in and allow them to “find” me returning to the scene of the crime. If I got hurt in the process... well, so what? I step towards him and hold out my hand.

“Best give that to me,” I tell him, my voice echoing around the walls.

Kilpatrick turns and tries to run past Big Nev. But whatever synapses Nev has left have finally kicked in, because he looks up as if he’s finally seen The Big Picture. With a howl of rage, he lumbers forward with his massive arms held out wide and hits Kilpatrick like a charging rhino, nearly lifting him out of his socks. The manager yells once and flips over backwards, then hits the surface of the pool, letting go of the cassette, which sinks into the depths.

We stand and watch him for a moment, until it becomes obvious that he’s not the world’s greatest swimmer. “Is there a hook thingy for getting drowners out?” I ask Big Nev as Kilpatrick thrashes around on the bottom, staring up at us with a look of stunned panic. The cassette is unravelling around him like a ghostly black ribbon at a funeral.

Nev shakes his head. “He was going to dump you in it, wasn’t he, Mr. Medway?”

“You, too, Nev.”

He nods. “He said you was working with him and it would be all right to do what he said. He gave me money. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Nev. You weren’t to know.” We stand there for a few more seconds watching Kilpatrick doing his bottom-feeder act, then I say softly, “You can’t swim, can you?”

Big Nev looks at me with a shy smile and a glint of cleverness, and I think maybe he’s not as deaf as he makes out. Or as dumb.

“Sorry, didn’t catch that, Mr. Medway. You want me to hold your jacket?”