One of Us Is Dead

65 Tuesday 11 October 2022

The wind rattled the patio doors that opened onto Paul Anthony’s terrace. Tonight they were firmly closed and the rain, flung at the glass by an increasingly strong sou’wester, sounded like buckshot.

Inside the warmth of his living room, Paul sat at his leather-topped desk, laptop open in front of him, Van Morrison playing through the speakers, a Cohiba burning in the ashtray and a tumbler of Haig Club Blue on the rocks on a coaster next to it.

And a beautiful woman, in ripped jeans and a loose, sexy blouse, leaning affectionately on his shoulder, crystal coupe of Billecart-Salmon Champagne in her hand.

All was good with the world. He used to tell Fiona that the secret of life was to know when it was good. And right now it didn’t get much better than this.

Two pinpricks of light appeared in the distance in the darkness. They disappeared, then reappeared. A ship, way out in the Channel. Not a good night to be at sea, much better to be in here in the snug warmth, on terra firma. With a beautiful lady.

Shannon was looking at the English Channel too, but not at the bitumen black one through the windows. She was focused on a bottle-green version on Google Earth on Paul Anthony’s laptop screen. On a section of sea some miles off the coast to the east of Newhaven Harbour. ‘That’s where Toby Carlisle goes fishing,’ she said, and with her forefinger on the trackpad moved the cursor to a point some miles further offshore. ‘That’s the shelf where the sea deepens. I’ve interrogated the boat’s satnav and that’s the area he fishes around. And because of its depth — 120 metres — it’s a good place to scuttle his boat after...’

She let the unspoken word hang in the air.

He looked up at her with a smile. ‘How did I cope before I met you?’

‘You know exactly how you coped. You coped fine. The question you should ask, is how you are going to keep me onside with your skewed moral compass.’ She strode across the room and, holding her glass, lay back on a leather sofa, kicking her barefooted legs over one of its arms.

‘You’re judging me? Seriously?’

‘When I met you, I thought you operated under some kind of moral code and I liked that, I respected you for that. You gave me the impression you were providing justice in a world where justice is too often the victim instead of the result. Sure, I was shocked that you did really sort out Professor Llewellyn. Shocked, but at the same time, I kind of liked you for doing it. He was a piece of shit and the world is a better place without him. But is the world a better place without Barnie Wallace? Dermot Bryson sounds like another slimeball, but did Tracey Dawson deserve to die just for dating him? Do you actually have any moral compass at all, or are you doing this purely for the money, using altruism as a flag of convenience?’

‘Hey, Shannon! That’s a big one you’re laying on me. We should be having fun tonight!’

Before she could respond, one of the three mobile phones on his desk rang. All of them were pay-as-you-go — burners. Only Shannon knew two of their numbers. And only one person knew the third, which was the one ringing. Anthony stepped out of the room with it, wondering what problem or demand she was going to throw at him tonight. Was one of their sons unwell?

‘Hello,’ he answered, curtly as always.

‘Mr Rorke?’

He was startled to realize it wasn’t Fiona. It was a man, his voice deep and slow. A voice he recognized but was taking a moment to remember. How had he got this number? For an instant, in sheer panic, he wondered whether to hang up. But the caller knew his name, and he was sure he did know the caller. ‘Who is speaking?’ he asked, guardedly.

‘John Baker.’

‘Hey, John!’ he said, startled. ‘Long time no speak. How — how are you?’

‘I been better, Mr Rorke. Maybe you can ’splain to me what’s going on?’

‘What do you mean, John? Explain what, exactly?’

‘Last week I had a British police officer — a detective — asking me questions about your disappearance. Seems like he wasn’t too convinced you were dead. Then today, I had someone else asking ’bout you, said he was a friend of yours, said your wife — widow — had asked him to find out more about your death.’

‘What?’ Paul Anthony exclaimed, and saw Shannon looking at him through the glass door. ‘Fiona?’ he said softly and turning away. ‘He said she’d wanted to know more?’

‘That’s what he said, Mr Rorke,’ John Baker said flatly. ‘And I’m wondering what is going on. You paid me to give a story about finding your torn jacket, with shark bite marks on it, to the police and you said that would be the end of it. I did what we agreed, and used the jaws of a tiger I killed a few years back. Did a pretty good job, I thought. Now I’m starting to feel real uncomfortable. I didn’t get paid enough to deal with all this stuff. So I called your Fiona and she said to phone you.’

‘I can send you more money. This man who came to see you today. What was his name?’

‘Taylor,’ Baker said. ‘James Taylor. Said he was a real good friend of yours. He wanted to understand more about how you died, so he could explain to your — widow.’ He said that word with a sarcastic tone. ‘You know him, this Mr James Taylor?’

‘Oh yes,’ he replied darkly. ‘I know him.’