The Restless Dead

12

There are few sights sadder than a working town that doesn’t work any more. Cruckhaven had that look. On a bank holiday, any normal seaside resort should have been bustling. Here the main road was all but deserted and half of the businesses on the small harbour front were closed. There was an old souvenir shop that looked as though it hadn’t been open in years. Its window was lined with yellow cellophane to protect the display from the sun, but its corners had come away and now drooped forlornly. Dead flies lay in the window bottom along with crab-lines, seashell trinkets and bleached-out postcards, as though the owner had locked up one day and never come back.

There were a few people about, though not many. Harassed young mothers wore thousand-yard stares as they pushed prams, and a gang of teenagers sulked on a street bench, eyeing passers-by like potential prey. I’d not taken much notice of the town when I’d driven through it before, more concerned with getting to the recovery operation. Now I saw what a drab place it was.

I walked to the edge of the harbour and looked out. Where there should have been lapping water there was only oily mud, even though it wasn’t yet low tide. The harbour was almost completely silted up, so much so that weeds and wiry-looking grass were growing in it. An unsafe-looking wooden jetty extended out to the few small boats moored in what sluggish water there was, but it had the look of a makeshift, temporary measure.

I watched a black and white bird picking through the mud on delicate, stilt-like legs. Lundy had told me the estuary had been silting up for years, and the problem was obviously worse this much further inland. In a few more years the harbour would choke up altogether, and then Cruckhaven would have lost any remaining reason for its existence.

No wonder there was local support for Sir Stephen Villiers’ plans to build a marina. Having met the man, I couldn’t see him letting much get in his way, certainly not the concerns of environmentalists. And for the people trying to scrape a living here, the prospect of new jobs and regeneration must seem like a lifeline. But I could also remember the almost casual manner in which Sir Stephen had regarded the remains of his son, and was glad I didn’t have to entrust my future to that cold and indifferent gaze. Any pact with him was likely to be a Faustian one.

I’d dawdled long enough. Turning from the harbour, I set off along the road in the direction Rachel had indicated for the petrol station. The estuary was less clogged with silt out here, the mud mostly covered by small waves. At the water’s edge I passed the body of a gull, eyes pecked out of a head that rolled loosely back and forth. The sight reminded me of Edgar, scuffling along on his search for injured animals. Or dead ones, I thought, recalling the hedgehog he’d been carrying; he evidently couldn’t tell the difference.

I hoped the story Rachel had told me about his missing daughter was just a local myth, but I doubted it could all be made up. Even if the details had become blurred or exaggerated over time, the disappearance of a little girl from a small community like this wasn’t something people would forget, even twenty-odd years later. And perhaps it wasn’t so far-fetched after all that her father was still trying to find her. Looking back on my own behaviour, I wasn’t sure I’d been entirely sane myself after Kara and Alice died. Grief is devastating even for those with family and friends to support them. For someone living alone in an isolated place like the Backwaters, it wasn’t difficult to imagine how their mental health could disintegrate.

There but for the grace of God…

Whatever had happened to Edgar, I’d feel happier knowing that social services were aware of him. Making a mental note to check into it when I got back, I looked up and saw a sign for the petrol station up ahead. But before that, on the estuary side of the road, was another sign, this one large and hand-painted on peeling timber.

Coker’s Marine and Auto.

In smaller lettering under it were the words Salvage, Spares and Repairs. Not so good on the repairs, evidently.

The sign was suspended above a single-storey prefabricated building set on a small quay. Small boats of varying degrees of decrepitude were moored in cramped berths and lined up on the muddy bank by the quayside, exposing algae-smeared hulls. A muddy pick-up truck was parked in front of the prefab, along with several other cars in various states of disrepair.

I’d stopped when I realized what the place was. It crossed my mind to go and find whoever I’d spoken to — Coker, presumably — but there was no point getting into an argument. He’d evidently got some grudge against Trask, and a pretty weighty one if he was prepared to turn down work. From the look of things the yard wasn’t exactly thriving.

But before I could walk away a man stepped out from behind one of the boats. He was middle-aged, with oil-stained blue overalls stretched tight over a big frame. An equally grimy baseball cap was tilted back on the dirty blond hair. He held some sort of engine part in his hands, wiping it on a greasy rag. Shrewd eyes regarded me from a heavy-featured face running to fat as he tilted his chin in enquiry.

‘Help you?’

The gravelly voice was the same one I’d spoken to on the phone. ‘No thanks.’

‘Then what’s so interesting about my yard?’ He wore a smile but there was nothing friendly about it. ‘Just admiring the view?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Yeah, people are always doing that. How’s the car? Still fucked?’ His smile broadened at my surprise. A crooked incisor gave him a faintly wolfish look. ‘I’ve got an ear for accents. And we don’t get that many visitors.’

‘I wonder why.’

The smile slipped a notch but stayed in place. ‘Trask’s son got it running, did he?’

‘Yes, he did.’ I wondered if I should just walk away. But for some reason this felt like a confrontation, and I knew better than to turn my back.

The man nodded. His hands carried on wiping the engine part, slowly turning it in the rag. ‘Thought as much. So you staying out there with ’em?’

‘Why?’

‘Because you can give him a message.’ His face twisted, all pretence dropped. ‘Tell that wanker—’

Before he could finish the prefab door opened and a girl came out. ‘Dad, I can’t find the—’

It was the girl I’d seen with Jamie two days before. She wasn’t dressed quite as skimpily today, but her red jeans and tight sweater still looked out of place in the salvage yard. She broke off when she saw me, recognition blanking her face. Then she hurriedly went on.

‘I, uh, I can’t find the petty cash tin. Do you know where it is?’

It was a good attempt but didn’t fool her father. His eyes narrowed as they went from one of us to the other.

‘You know him?’

‘No, course not!’ the girl said quickly.

‘Then why’d it look like you did?’ His daughter blinked, her mouth opening as though she hoped an excuse would form by itself. He turned to me. ‘Well?’

Behind him, the girl gave me an imploring look that seemed close to panic.

‘Well what?’ I asked.

‘Don’t get smart. How do you know each other?’

‘We don’t.’ It wasn’t quite a lie: I might have seen her before but I didn’t know her.

‘I’m not fucking stupid. She’s seen you somewhere.’

I guessed then what was going on, and bit back the impulse to say he should ask his daughter. The girl looked terrified. Whatever issue her father had with Trask, it was enough to make her scared he’d find out she’d visited his son.

‘I came through here the other day,’ I said. ‘She might have seen me then.’

‘What are you doing out here?’

‘That’s none of your business,’ I said easily.

It was my turn to stare him down. I could see the doubt forming as he wondered who I was. His daughter stood by, anxiously worrying at a glossy red thumbnail. It was a good time to leave.

‘Nice meeting you,’ I said, vaguely enough to mean either of them.

Leaving them there, I turned and walked away.

The petrol station was only a little way along the road. It was small, with two pumps that offered an obscure brand of fuel I’d never heard of. But as well as the spark plugs I needed it sold a few basic groceries as well, so I was able to buy replacements for the food Rachel had brought to the boathouse.

As I walked past the salvage yard I half expected to be accosted again, but there was no sign of anyone there.

Back at the quayside, I found a cashpoint machine and drew out what I hoped would be enough to pay Jamie. If it wasn’t I’d have to send the rest once I got back to London. The thought of returning was depressing, so I put it from my mind and went to meet Rachel.

The coffee shop was actually called just that, the words capitalized in case anyone wasn’t sure. It was more like an old-fashioned tea room than a café, with cakes and sandwiches behind a glass counter and red-and-white checked cloths on the cramped tables. There was even a bell that tinkled merrily when I went inside.

There was no Rachel, though. Or anyone else: I was the only customer. A tired-looking woman with a warm smile was serving behind the counter. I ordered a coffee and went to a table in the window. Even though I was feeling much better I was glad to sit down after the walk. Outside, the harbour didn’t look quite so grim now I couldn’t see the oil-stained estuary bed. Once upon a time I could imagine Cruckhaven might have been a nice place, before the estuary silted up and the water abandoned it.

I tried not to glance at my watch as I waited, but as soon as I stopped making a conscious effort not to I did anyway. Rachel was ten minutes late. Not long, but I found myself worrying that she’d changed her mind, or even forgotten we were meeting. And then I looked up and saw her hurrying along the harbour front.

She was carrying a shopping bag and looked distracted. Her expression cleared when she glanced through the window and saw me. The bell over the door chimed again as she came in.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Hi, Debbie, how’re you doing?’

‘Oh, surviving.’ The woman behind the counter seemed pleased to see her. ‘We’ve got some freshly baked orange and cinnamon muffins. Or there’s a coffee and walnut cake I made yesterday.’

Rachel looked mock-pained. ‘You’re a bad influence, you know that? What are you having?’

She looked at me expectantly as she sat down, but I didn’t have much of a sweet tooth. ‘I’ll stick with coffee, thanks.’

‘He’ll have the cake,’ Rachel told the woman with a grin. ‘I’ll have a muffin and a latte, please.’

I raised my hands in surrender. ‘Coffee cake it is.’

‘You can’t let me eat alone.’ Rachel glanced across at the counter as the woman began making the latte, masking our conversation beneath a chug of steam. ‘I always try and stop off here when I come into town. Debbie lost her husband last year and she’s got two kids, so she needs all the support she can get. Plus everything’s homemade and she’s seriously good at cakes.’

‘It’s OK, I’m sold. Did you get everything you came for?’

‘Yeah, it was just a few things we were running short of. Someone finished off all our eggs and milk.’

‘Just as well I bought some,’ I said, lifting up my carrier bag.

She laughed. ‘That’ll teach me. Seriously, you didn’t have to do that. I wanted an excuse to get away from the house for an hour or two. Doesn’t hurt to give everyone a bit of space sometimes.’

It was the first real hint she’d given of the strain the family must be under, but it seemed more of a slip than an invitation. She quickly carried on.

‘So did you get the spark plugs?’

‘I did, yes. I had a fun encounter at the marine salvage yard as well.’

Her face fell. ‘What happened?’

I told her about trying to hire Coker to repair my car, and his subsequent antagonism. ‘There doesn’t seem to be any love lost between him and your brother-in-law.’

‘You could say that.’ Rachel stopped as the woman brought over the coffee and cake. She gave her a smile. ‘Thanks, Debbie. That looks evil.’

She was right. Looking at the slab of cake on my plate I wondered if I’d be able to finish it. Rachel’s smile faded as the woman went back to the counter. With a sigh she turned to me.

‘I’d no idea you’d had a run-in with him or I’d have warned you to steer clear. He’s got sort of a vendetta against Andrew and Jamie. Well, all of us really. It’s a long story, but I didn’t think you’d get caught up in it.’

‘You don’t need to explain. I just hope I haven’t caused any trouble.’

She smiled grimly as she stirred her coffee. ‘Believe me, when it comes to Darren Coker you can’t make things any worse.’

I wasn’t so sure about that. ‘His daughter was there as well.’

‘Stacey?’ Rachel looked up, the coffee forgotten. ‘How do you know about her?’

‘I saw her at the house the other day. She recognized me and her father picked up on it.’

‘Oh, God, she’s been out to see Jamie again?’

I had the feeling I was getting into murkier waters than I’d intended. ‘I didn’t say anything, and she denied it to Coker. But I don’t think he believed her.’

Rachel closed her eyes and sighed. ‘No, he wouldn’t. You probably gathered that Jamie’s got a history with Stacey. They were only kids but things got messy and… well, it caused problems. Her father’s banned her from seeing him, and to be honest Jamie’s not interested any more anyway. He hasn’t been for a while, but Stacey’s not the sort to take no for an answer.’

‘I sort of guessed that.’

That earned a smile, but it was strained. She prodded at the muffin with her fork. ‘I can’t blame her father for being protective. She’s his only daughter and Andrew isn’t exactly tactful when he loses his temper. But Coker’s gone way overboard, turning it into this ridiculous feud. It’s like the Montagues and Capulets, except it’s all one-sided and Stacey’s no Juliet.’

She looked surprised when I gave a laugh.

‘I know, that sounds biased. But this happened before I came here, so it wasn’t anything to do with me. The first I knew about it was about a month after… after I arrived and I bumped into Coker in town. I’d no idea who he was but he launched into this rant, going on about how it served Andrew right that Emma had gone missing, calling her a “stuck-up bitch” and worse. I mean, who says something like that? And to someone he’s never even met before?’

Her face had flushed, but I wasn’t sure if she was more upset or angry. ‘What did you do?’

‘I told him to fuck off.’ She picked up her fork and stabbed it into the muffin. ‘Seemed to work.’

I tried to imagine the slim woman in front of me facing down the loudmouth owner of the boat yard, and decided it wasn’t so difficult a stretch. ‘Did you tell the police?’

‘About that? No, but they’d questioned Coker when Emma disappeared, because of the trouble over his daughter and Jamie. More routine than anything else. He’s an arsehole, but that’s all.’ She tilted her chin at my plate, mouth quirking in a smile. ‘You should eat your cake.’

I took the hint and let the subject drop. We kept the conversation lighter after that, avoiding anything personal. She told me how Cruckhaven used to be a thriving little harbour town, benefiting from the nearby oyster fishery and home to a small fleet of fishing boats. But dwindling fish stocks and the silting up of the estuary had changed all that.

‘I don’t think anybody realized the silt was such a problem at first,’ she said, hands cradling her coffee cup over the remains of the muffin. ‘Because it didn’t happen overnight people tended to ignore it. They were more concerned with the fishing drying up than the harbour, and by the time everyone woke up to what was going on it was too late.’

‘Can’t it still be dredged?’

‘It could, but it’s so bad now it’d be prohibitively expensive. Give it another decade and this whole area will be like the Backwaters, either mudflats or saltmarsh. Which is no bad thing from an environmental point of view, but it’s like a slow motion disaster for the people who live here. In some ways it’s worse than a flood. At least once a flood’s over people can rebuild, even after something like the big North Sea one. Have you heard about that?’

I hadn’t. My grasp of history was sketchy at the best of times, and it seemed that every year brought depressing news of more communities hit by flooding. Though apparently that was nothing new.

‘It was a huge disaster in the 1950s,’ Rachel went on, setting down her cup. ‘There was a storm tide that swamped here and northern Europe. It killed hundreds of people on the east coast, and the south-east was really badly hit. Canvey Island was inundated, and Cruckhaven was nearly wiped out. The town survived that, but this is different. Without the harbour it’s hard to see how it’s ever going to recover.’

‘What about the marina development? Wouldn’t that turn things round?’ It was only after I’d said it that I realized anything connected with the Villiers family probably wasn’t the best topic of conversation.

She gave a huff. ‘Don’t get me started. OK, if it was done properly you could probably limit the damage. I’m not a tree-hugger; I know there have to be compromises. But this scheme is basically about taking a wrecking ball to the whole area, burying the marshes under concrete and tarmac and turning the estuary into a glorified waterpark. And because they know people are desperate, they’re dangling the prospect of jobs and prosperity to try and bulldoze any objections. God, every time I hear the name Villiers I could…’

She stopped herself, smiling self-consciously.

‘Well. Never mind. We should be getting back. I promised Fay I’d take her out later, and she doesn’t do waiting.’

She smiled as she spoke, her fondness for Trask’s daughter obvious. I wondered if that was why she’d stayed with the family as long as she had. But I hadn’t realized it was so late either: the wall clock behind the counter showed we’d been sitting there for well over an hour. Reluctantly, I stood up as we prepared to go. I insisted on paying, complimenting the coffee shop owner on her cake, even though my teeth still felt coated with sugar.

‘What are your plans now? I suppose the police want you to take a look at the foot from yesterday?’ Rachel asked as we went back to the Land Rover. She pulled a face. ‘That sounded weird. And don’t worry, I was just asking. I really don’t want to hear any details.’

‘You’re safe enough. I won’t be working on it anyway.’

She looked surprised. ‘How come? I thought you were an expert on that sort of thing.’

‘I think the police feel I’ve done enough.’

‘But if not for you they wouldn’t even have found it.’

I shrugged, not wanting to get into it. ‘That’s how it goes sometimes.’

‘So you’re heading straight off back to London then?’

‘Soon as my car’s ready.’

Rachel was quiet as we walked along the harbour front. I’d been surprised how easy talking to her was, and thought she felt the same way. Now a tension seemed to have come between us. She looked preoccupied as we reached the Land Rover. Taking out her keys, she unlocked it and then paused.

‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but—’

Her phone interrupted whatever she was going to say. Don’t take what the wrong way, I wondered uneasily? I tried to think if I’d done something else wrong as she answered her phone.

‘Hi, Andrew. I was just… No, why?’

I saw the change come over her expression. Whatever this was, it wasn’t good.

‘When?’ She listened. ‘OK, I’m on my way.’

‘Everything all right?’ I asked as she thrust the phone in her pocket and threw the shopping bag into the back of the Land Rover.

‘We need to go.’

She was already climbing in and starting the engine. I’d barely managed to get into the passenger side before she was turning the car round.

‘What’s happened?’

Rachel’s face was pale and intent, but the grinding as she crashed the gears betrayed her emotion.

‘Fay’s missing.’