The Restless Dead

11

It was the best night’s sleep I’d had in months. I’d slept on my first night in the boathouse but that had been more like exhaustion, as my body fought off the infection. This was a deep, restful sleep of a kind I’d almost forgotten.

After promising to pick me up at ten next morning, Rachel had left, leaving me to wonder if I’d done the right thing. It was still only late afternoon, and I’d no idea what I’d do to pass the rest of the time. There was no internet or TV, or even any music or books. Or work. Usually when I was working on an investigation I’d spend any downtime going through reports and case notes. That didn’t apply now, and although I had my laptop I couldn’t even go online to check emails.

But for once the need to work, to do something, didn’t nag as loudly as usual. Rachel had offered to bring more groceries, but — providing I didn’t mind soup or eggs again — I’d enough food left to see me through till morning. There was no pressing need to go anywhere if I didn’t want to, so I didn’t. Instead I kept station in the armchair, staring through the window at the slowly ebbing tide and trying not to read too much into an innocent offer of a lift.

Prodded by a rumbling stomach, I made an early supper from what was left of the tomato soup with an omelette and toast. Not exactly haute cuisine but I enjoyed every mouthful. As the last of the light faded from the sky, I took an after-dinner walk along the bank of the muddy creek, this time heading out to where it fed into the estuary. The going was much easier than when I’d headed into the Backwaters that morning. There was no path as such, but the ground was drier and firmer underfoot, the marsh giving way to low sand dunes covered in tough, spiky reeds. After a while I came to an overgrown shingle embankment, part of an old tidal defence that had been allowed to crumble so the tides could reclaim the land. Climbing up on to it, I looked out at the exposed mudflats of the estuary. Further inland was a cluster of lights I thought must be Cruckhaven, while out to sea I could see the lights of container ships making their slow way across the darkening horizon.

I would have liked to go further, but it would soon be dark. I turned back, feeling an odd and unwelcome restlessness I couldn’t identify at first. It wasn’t until I was almost back at the boathouse that I realized seeing the estuary had reminded me of the Barrows, which had in turn jogged loose thoughts of the body we’d recovered from the sandbanks.

I tried to put it from my mind, telling myself it was no longer anything to do with me. It didn’t work. Even though I was now off the case, that didn’t stop me thinking about it. Besides, I hadn’t entirely finished yet: Lundy had asked me to email him the photographs I’d taken of the training shoe. I couldn’t send them to him from the boathouse, but I could at least transfer them onto my laptop, along with the ones I’d taken out at the Barrows.

And if I happened to take another look as I did, then where was the harm in that?

Back at the boathouse, I put the kettle on and connected the camera to my laptop. With a mug of tea next to me, I studied the images of the training shoe again. They were a lot more detailed on the laptop’s bigger screen, but with the foot largely hidden inside the shoe they didn’t tell me much I didn’t already know. I spent a while studying the gaudy purple sock, enlarging it to better see the fabric. Although it wasn’t my field, I was pretty sure the muddy cloth was man-made rather than natural, either polyester or some other synthetic.

I was only guessing about that, but there was no doubt about what else I saw. On the shoe’s sole, obscured by the coating of mud, were printed words I hadn’t noticed before. They’d been too small to see on the camera screen, but they were more clearly visible on the laptop. Again, I magnified the image, zooming in and playing with the contrast until I could clearly make them out. Three words, stamped or moulded into the sole’s rubber base: Made in China.

Cheap training shoes and colourful synthetic socks didn’t fit with the image I’d formed of Leo Villiers, but that was Lundy’s problem now. Even so, I still opened the photographs I’d taken of the body itself as it lay on the sandbank. The right ankle joint protruded from the sodden leg of the jeans, but not enough to see anything one way or the other. I went to the images of the head. The horrendous injury was as bad as I remembered. Opening another photograph to view alongside, I considered what I could see of the exit wound, trying to gauge the shot’s trajectory.

But it was pointless speculating. And I wasn’t going to see anything in a few photographs that the police wouldn’t find out for themselves. I made myself close the laptop before I could become too engrossed, knowing it would only frustrate me. Instead, I made myself another mug of tea and sat with the light off, watching night settle over the creek before going to bed.

I woke once, roused by a series of grunts and weird, mournful howling from outside. Seals, I realized drowsily. Rachel was right, I thought as I drifted back off to sleep. They did sound like rowdy Labradors.

The alarm on my phone pulled me from a deep, dreamless sleep. I felt more rested than I had in a long time. The only aftermath from whatever bug I’d had was a lingering ache in my joints, and a ravenous appetite. I showered and shaved, then toasted what was left of the bread for breakfast and ate it with the last of the eggs. I didn’t know if I’d be coming back to the boathouse after I’d got the spark plugs from Cruckhaven, so once I’d washed the dishes I packed what few things I had with me in my bag.

That done, there was nothing left to do but wait. I sat by the window again, trying not to glance at my watch or acknowledge how nervous I was beginning to feel. She’s giving you a lift to buy car parts. Stop acting like a schoolboy. When I heard a car crunching over the cinders I jumped up, narrowly avoiding stubbing my toe again on the trapdoor handle hidden under the rug. I took a final look around the boathouse, feeling a touch of regret that this would be the last time I’d see it.

Then I grabbed my jacket and bag and hurried outside.

Rachel was leaning through the open rear door of the old white Defender, making room in the back. I could see a mess of sports equipment and what looked like a wetsuit thrown inside.

‘Morning,’ she said, pushing aside a box full of coiled rope. ‘I swear I don’t know where Jamie gets half this stuff from. You should see the state of his room — I looked in once and slammed the door as quick as I could. Here, do you want to put your bag in? There’s space now.’

She was wearing a tan suede jacket today, open to reveal a black sweater over her jeans. If she wore any make-up it was too subtly applied for me to notice, but her hair looked more carefully tied back than usual, exposing more of her smooth forehead and strong features. I found myself wondering if any of that might be for my benefit, before telling myself not to be stupid.

I crammed my bag on the floor under a seat, then got in the front passenger side next to Rachel.

‘I locked the door,’ I told her, handing her the key. ‘Force of habit. I’ve just had a failed break-in at my flat, but I don’t suppose you need to bother too much out here.’

‘You’d be surprised,’ she said, starting the engine. ‘There was a spate of burglaries not long after I arrived. Creek House was broken into.’

‘Did they take much?’ I was surprised thieves would go to the trouble of coming all this way.

‘Nothing that couldn’t be replaced, just computers and the usual stuff. But the timing wasn’t exactly ideal.’ Her face set at the memory as we pulled away. ‘Makes you wonder about people, doesn’t it?’

Rachel looked small behind the wheel of the big old car, but she handled it well enough. She was a confident driver, manoeuvring the reluctant gearstick into place with obvious familiarity. And less forcefully than the last time she’d driven me.

‘I used to drive one of these,’ I told her, trying to lighten the mood. ‘I thought that was pretty ancient but it wasn’t as old as this.’

‘Yeah, Jamie says this is one of the first models. He found it at a scrap yard and rebuilt it from spare parts.’ Trask had told me as much, but I’d not really appreciated what a good job his son had done. For all its age, the old Land Rover was beautifully restored. Rachel forcibly changed gear as we approached a bend. ‘What did you think of it?’

‘I liked it,’ I said. Being back in a Defender brought back associations for me, not all of them pleasant. But that wasn’t the fault of the car.

‘Yeah, they’re real workhorses. No power steering, so it’s a bit like driving a tank. On these roads they’re good fun, though.’

‘I imagine the snorkel comes in handy as well.’

She gave an arch smile. ‘Especially when some townie gets caught by the tide.’

‘Ouch.’

‘Don’t worry. You weren’t the first, and I doubt you’ll be the last.’ Her grin faded as she saw something up ahead. ‘Oh, great.’

A tall, thin figure was shambling down the middle of the road, heading away from us. Even from the back I recognized the man I’d almost run down on my way to the mortuary. He seemed oblivious of the Land Rover’s approach.

‘Come on, Edgar, get out of the way,’ Rachel said with a sigh, slowing almost to a stop.

‘You know him?’ I asked.

‘Everybody round here knows him. He does this all the time.’

‘I know. I nearly knocked him down the other day.’ I shrugged when she glanced at me. ‘That’s why I tried to take the causeway.’

‘Bet it seemed a good idea at the time.’ She wound down the window and leaned her head out. ‘Edgar? Edgar, can you get off the road, please?’

It was like a replay of two days ago. The man trudged on unhurriedly without looking around. The baggy raincoat flapped around his knees as the muddy wellingtons slapped rhythmically on the road.

‘What’s that he’s carrying?’ I asked. His arms were crooked, clutching something to his chest, but from behind him I couldn’t see what it was.

‘God knows. He’s always rescuing things, even if they don’t need it.’ Rachel leaned out of the window again. ‘Come on, Edgar. Edgar!’

The gaunt figure continued along the road, giving no indication that he’d heard.

‘Bloody hell,’ Rachel muttered, and stopped the car. She got out, and after a second I did as well. The man hadn’t seemed violent, but cadaverous or not he still dwarfed Rachel. Me too, if it came to that.

She fell into step alongside him. ‘It’s me, Edgar. Rachel.’

Only now did he seem to register her presence. He spoke without looking at her or breaking stride.

‘I’m in a hurry.’

‘I know, but you need to walk at the side of the road, not in the middle. I’ve told you before.’ Rachel’s tone was firm but friendly.

‘What’ve you got there?’

‘It’s hurt.’

His voice was low and hushed, as though he was distracted. But at least he was responding, which was more than he’d done the last time I’d encountered him. I’d hung back so as not to unsettle him, but I was close enough to see the bundle of spines cradled against his chest. A hedgehog, limp and unmoving. I remembered the seagull he’d been carrying before.

‘It’s dead, Edgar,’ Rachel told him gently. ‘You can’t help it.’

‘It’s hurt,’ he repeated.

She gave me a what-can-you-do glance. ‘OK, Edgar. But you need to walk on the side of the road. The side, OK? Not the middle. You’ll get knocked down, like you nearly did a couple of days ago. Do you remember Dr Hunter?’

The man’s protuberant eyes passed over me. ‘Hello, Edgar,’ I said.

His Adam’s apple bobbed, but that was the only indication he knew I was there. Rachel motioned for me to drop back and lowered her voice. ‘It might be better if you stayed here. He doesn’t like anything new.’

I looked uncertainly at the scarecrow-like figure. ‘Are you sure you’ll be OK?’

‘Don’t worry, he’s harmless.’

I stayed back while she hurried to catch him up, although I kept close enough in case he proved her wrong. I still didn’t feel any sense of threat from him, but fear makes people unpredictable. Gangly or not, if he grew agitated he might hurt someone without meaning to.

But Rachel was already steering him to the side of the road, her hand on his grubby arm. She spoke to him in a reassuring voice too low for me to catch, but whatever she said seemed to do the trick. Watching him to make sure he kept to the edge of the road, she came back.

‘OK, let’s go before he changes his mind.’

We got back in the car. Rachel pulled away, driving slowly and giving the gaunt figure a wide berth until we were past him.

‘Will he be OK?’ I asked.

‘There aren’t many cars out here. Anyway, if we took him home he’d only come straight back out again.’

‘Have you any idea what’s wrong with him?’

‘Not medically. He just doesn’t seem aware of much that’s going on. I’ve wondered if he might be autistic or something, but no one seems to know. He’s got a thing about injured animals, though. Always rescuing something or other. God knows what he does with them all.’

I was no expert, but even if he did place somewhere on the autistic spectrum, I thought it likely he had other mental health issues as well. ‘Where does he live?’

‘In a run-down cottage in the Backwaters. I’ve been past a few times, and it’s pretty grim. If you think we’re isolated you should see that.’

‘He lives by himself?’ From what I’d seen, Edgar didn’t seem capable of functioning independently.

‘He does now. The story is that he was some kind of academic or naturalist. He used to be married with a young daughter, but then the little girl disappeared. Went out to play one day and never came back. Everyone thought she must have drowned, but Edgar never recovered. His wife left him, so now he spends his time searching the Backwaters for his daughter. If you believe the locals, anyway,’ she added.

‘The police never found her?’ I asked, struck by the eerie echoes to Rachel’s sister. If the story was true then Emma Derby wasn’t the Backwaters’ first victim.

‘No, but there’s no connection with Emma, if that’s what you’re wondering.’ Rachel kept her voice neutral as she spoke. ‘It was twenty-odd years ago, and it’s probably mostly gossip anyway. You even get some people saying Edgar murdered his own daughter, or that he rescues birds and animals because he couldn’t save her. It’s best to take it all with a pinch of salt.’

We’d reached the outskirts of town. Rachel fell silent as we passed a weather-beaten road sign that proclaimed Welcome to Cruckhaven. Below it someone had spray-painted Now fuck off.

‘Catchy slogan,’ I said, to change the subject.

‘Wait till you see the town.’

We passed a scattering of small bungalows and then came to a main street of brick and pebble-dash shops. She pulled up next to a concrete quay, stubby metal mooring posts sprouting from its edge like fossilized tree stumps.

‘Jamie wrote down what sort of spark plugs you need,’ Rachel said, handing me a piece of paper with scrawled handwriting on it. ‘The petrol station’s a bit further along this road. You can’t miss it. I’ve just got a few groceries to buy, so shall I meet you back here in, oh, half an hour?’

I said that was OK, trying not to show the unexpected disappointment I felt. What did you expect? Her to come along and hold your hand? ‘While I’m here is there anything worth seeing?’ I asked.

‘Depends how much you like closed shops and mud.’

‘I’ll take that as a no, shall I?’ I said, looking out of the car window at the tired seaside town.

‘Afraid so. Whatever Cruckhaven used to have going for it went belly-up long before I got here. There’s a fish and chip van that might be open, and a coffee shop on the quayside that’s making an effort. If you get bored with the sights they make a decent latte.’

‘Why don’t you meet me there?’

I said it before I’d even thought. Rachel looked surprised and I cursed myself for putting her on the spot. I was about to try to dig my way out of it when she surprised me in return.

‘Are you offering cake as well?’

I pretended to consider. ‘I might.’

She grinned. ‘See you there.’