The Restless Dead

2

It was still dark next morning when I set off. There was traffic even at that time, the headlights of lorries and early commuters snaking along the roads. But they grew sparser as I drove out of London and headed east. Soon the roads were unlit, and the stars brightened as the crowded suburbs were left behind. The muted glow of the satnav gave the illusion of warmth, but that early in the morning I still needed to turn on the heater. It had been a long, cold winter, and despite the calendar the promised spring was still no more than a technicality.

I’d woken feeling sluggish and aching. I’d have put it down to a low-grade hangover if I’d had more than a single beer the night before. But I felt better after a hot shower and a quick breakfast, too preoccupied with the day ahead to worry about anything else.

It was peaceful on the early morning roads. The Essex coastal marshes weren’t too far from London; flat, low-lying towns and countryside that fought a perpetual, and often losing, battle with the sea. I wasn’t familiar with that stretch of the south-east coast, though, and in his emailed directions Lundy had again warned to allow plenty of time. I thought he was being over-cautious until I’d looked up maps of the Saltmere estuary online. The ‘rat’s nest’ of creeks and saltmarshes the DI had mentioned was an area called the Backwaters, a tidal labyrinth of waterways and ditches that bordered one of the estuary’s flanks. On satellite photographs it resembled capillaries feeding into an artery, most of it only accessible by boat. And not even then at low tide, when it drained to become a barren plain of mudflats. The route I’d be taking only skirted its edges, but even so the roads looked small and tortuous.

The glow from the satnav dimmed as the sky directly ahead continued to lighten. Off to one side, the refineries of Canvey Island were silhouetted against it, fractal black shapes sparkling with lights. There were more cars on the road now, but then I turned off on to a side road and the traffic thinned down. Soon I was on my own again, heading into an overcast dawn.

I switched off the satnav not long afterwards, relying solely on Lundy’s directions. All around, the landscape was flat as a stretched sheet, scribbled over by thickets of hawthorn with only the occasional house or barn. The DI’s directions took me through a small, dismal-looking town called Cruckhaven that lay close to the neck of the estuary. I drove past pebble-dashed bungalows and stone cottages to a harbour front, where a few dirty-hulled trawlers and fishing boats slumped at angles on the mud, waiting for the returning tide to give them grace and reason.

It looked an unprepossessing place, and I wasn’t sorry to leave it behind. The road continued alongside the estuary, the tarmac eroded in places where the tide had overflowed the banks. Recently, by the look of things. It had been another bad winter for flooding, but wrapped up in my own problems in London I hadn’t paid much attention to news reports of coastal storms. Judging by the sea-wrack stranded on the road and surrounding fields, they would be harder to ignore here. Global warming was more than an academic debate when you were this exposed to the results of it.

I followed the road out towards the mouth of the estuary. With the tide out all that was left was a muddy plain dappled with pools and runnels of water. I began to wonder if I’d missed a turn-off, but then up ahead on the shoreline I saw a row of low buildings. There was an assortment of police vehicles parked outside, and if I was in any doubt the wooden sign a little further along confirmed it: Saltmere Oyster Co.

A PC stood by the gate. He spoke into his radio before letting me through. I pulled on to a crumbling patch of tarmac, alongside where the other cars and a police trailer were parked behind the derelict oyster sheds. After the warmth of the car the cold morning was as bracing as a shower when I climbed out, stiff from the drive. The air carried the mournful cry of gulls along with a smell of rotting seaweed and the salty, earthier scent of exposed seabed. I took a deep breath, looking out over the tidal landscape. The drained estuary looked as though a giant had gouged a long scoop out of the ground, leaving behind only a muddy plain dappled with trapped pools. There was a lunar bleakness about it, but the tide was already beginning its return: I could see rivulets snaking back along channels etched into the estuary bottom, filling them up even as I watched.

A change in the wind brought the rhythmic thrum of a police or coastguard helicopter. I could see the distant speck tracking back and forth across the water. It would be making the most of daylight and the low tide to carry out a visual search of the estuary. A floating body wouldn’t ordinarily give off enough heat to be detected by infrared and would be hard to spot from the air, especially if it was drifting below the surface. There wouldn’t be much time to find the remains before the tide returned and carried them off again.

So don’t stand about daydreaming. A policewoman at the trailer told me DI Lundy was on the quayside. Skirting the shuttered oyster sheds, I walked around to the front. The tubular hull of a police RHIB — a rigid-hulled inflatable boat — was on a trailer at the top of a concrete slipway, and I saw now why the search was being carried out from here. The slipway ran down to a deep channel in the mud immediately in front of the quay. The returning tide would fill it first, allowing a boat to be launched without waiting for the estuary to flood completely. The water wasn’t high enough yet, but from the swirls and eddies ruffling its surface it wouldn’t be much longer.

A group of men and women stood by the RHIB, talking in low voices as they held steaming plastic cups. Several wore almost paramilitary-looking outfits, dark blue trousers and shirts under bulky lifejackets that identified them as marine unit, but the others were in plain clothes.

‘I’m looking for DI Lundy,’ I said.

‘That’s me,’ one of the group responded, turning towards me. ‘Dr Hunter, is it?’

It’s hard to gauge how someone looks from their voice, but Lundy suited his perfectly. He was early fifties and built like an aging wrestler running to fat; out of shape but with bulk and muscle still there. A bristling moustache gave him the look of an affable walrus, while behind the metal-framed glasses the round face managed to look good-humoured and lugubrious at the same time.

‘You’re early. Find us all right?’ he asked, shaking my hand.

‘I was glad of the directions,’ I admitted. ‘You were right about the satnav.’

‘They don’t call it the Backwaters for nothing. Come on, let’s get you a cup of tea.’

I thought we’d go to the trailer, but Lundy led me back behind the sheds to his car, a battered Vauxhall that looked as durable as its owner. Opening the boot he took out a large thermos flask and poured steaming tea into its two plastic cups.

‘Better than the stuff from the trailer, trust me,’ he said, screwing back on the lid. ‘Unless you don’t take sugar? I’ve got a bit of a sweet tooth.’

I didn’t, but it was welcome all the same. And I was keen to hear more about the case. ‘Any luck yet?’ I asked, blowing on the hot tea.

‘Not yet, but the helicopter’s been up since dawn. The SIO — that’s DCI Pam Clarke — is on her way with the pathologist, but we’ve been given the OK to recover the body as soon as we find it.’

I’d wondered where they were. The senior investigating officer and a pathologist always attended when remains were recovered on land, where the site where they were found was potentially a crime scene and had to be treated as such. But that wasn’t always practical for sea recoveries, where the operation was at the whim of tides and currents. The priority in situations like this was usually to recover the remains as quickly as possible.

‘You said you’d a good idea where the body might be?’ I asked.

‘We think so. It was spotted out in the estuary around five o’clock yesterday afternoon. The tide would have been ebbing, and it’d have carried the body out at a fair old lick. If it’s made it out to sea then we’re wasting our time, but we’re betting it’ll have grounded before then. See out there?’

He levelled a thick finger towards the mouth of the estuary, perhaps a mile distant. I could make out a series of long humps rising from the muddy bed like low brown hills.

‘That’s the Barrows,’ Lundy went on. ‘They’re sandbanks, stretch right across the estuary. This whole region’s been silting up ever since they put in sea defences further up the coast. Buggered up the currents so that now all the sand that gets washed down ends up dumped on our doorstep. Only small-draught boats can get in and out, even at high tide, so there’s a good chance the body won’t have made it past either.’

I studied the distant sandbanks. ‘What’s the plan for recovering it?’

I guessed that would be where I came in, advising on how best to handle the remains without damaging them if they were badly decomposed. I still couldn’t see that my help would be strictly necessary, but I couldn’t think why else they’d want me there. Lundy blew delicately on his steaming tea.

‘Going to be a case of suck it and see once we know where it is. If it’s in the Barrows we won’t be able to winch it up to the chopper. The sandbanks are too soft to land on, and there’s too big a risk of anyone lowered down getting stuck. A boat’s the best bet, so we’ll just have to hope we can get out to it before the tide floats it off.’ He gave a grin. ‘Hope you’ve brought your wellies.’

I’d gone one better and brought waders, knowing from past experience what water recoveries could be like. From what I’d seen this promised to be worse than most. ‘You said you’d an idea who it might be?’

Lundy took a slurp of tea and dabbed at his moustache. ‘That’s right. Thirty-one-year-old local man called Leo Villiers, reported missing a month ago. Father’s Sir Stephen Villiers?’

He made it into a question, but the name meant nothing to me. I shook my head. ‘I’ve not heard of him.’

‘Well, the family’s well known around here. All that land over there?’ He gestured across to the far side of the estuary. It looked marginally higher than where we stood, and rather than salt-marshes and waterways there were cultivated fields clearly marked with dark lines of hedges. ‘That’s the Villiers estate. Some of it, at least. They own a lot of the land on this side as well. They’re into farming, but Sir Stephen’s got his fingers in all sorts. Shale oil, manufacturing. These oyster sheds belong to him as well. He bought the fishery out about a decade ago and then closed it six months later. Laid everyone off.’

‘That must have gone down well.’ I was beginning to understand where the pressure Lundy had mentioned over the phone was coming from.

‘Not as badly as you’d expect. The plan is to develop it into a marina. He’s talking about dredging channels in the estuary, building a hotel, transforming this whole area. It’d mean hundreds of local jobs, so that took the sting out of closing the oyster sheds. But there’s a lot of opposition from environmentalists, so while the planning arguments go on he’s just mothballed the place. He can afford to play the long game, and he’s got enough political clout to win in the end.’

People like that usually did. I looked at the muddy bed of the estuary, where the tide was already returning. ‘Where does his son come into this?’

‘He doesn’t. Not directly, anyway. Leo Villiers was what you might call the black sheep. Only child, mother died when he was a kid. Got himself booted out of private military school and then dropped out of university officer training corps in his final year. His father still managed to get him enrolled in the Royal Military Academy but he didn’t finish. No official reason, so it looks like there was some scrape his father pulled strings to cover up. After that he went from one scandal to another. There was a trust fund from his mother so he didn’t need to work, and he seemed to enjoy stirring things up. Good-looking bugger, like a fox in a coop with girls, but nasty with it. Broke off a couple of engagements and got into all sorts of trouble, everything from drunk driving to aggravated assault. His father’s very protective about the Villiers name, so the family lawyers were kept busy. But even Sir Stephen couldn’t cover everything up.’ Lundy gave me a worried glance. ‘Obviously, this is all off the record.’

I tried not to smile. ‘I won’t say a word.’

He nodded, satisfied. ‘Anyway, long story short, for a time it seemed like he’d settled down. His father must have thought so, because he tried steering him into politics. There was talk of him standing for local MP, press interviews. All the usual fluff. Then all of a sudden it stopped. The local party found someone else to stand and Leo Villiers dropped out of sight. We still haven’t been able to find out why.’

‘And that was when he went missing?’

Lundy shook his head. ‘No, this was a fair bit before then. But someone else did. A local woman he’d been having an affair with.’

I realized then I’d read this all wrong. This wasn’t just about locating a missing man. I’d assumed that Leo Villiers was the victim, but he wasn’t.

He was the suspect.

‘This is strictly confidential,’ Lundy said, lowering his voice even though there was no one around to hear. ‘It doesn’t have any direct bearing on today, but you might as well know the background.’

‘You think Leo Villiers killed her?’

The DI hitched a shoulder in a shrug. ‘We never found her body so we couldn’t prove anything. But he was the only serious suspect. She was a photographer, moved out here from London two or three years back when she got married. Emma Derby — glamorous, very attractive. Not the type you’d expect to find somewhere like this. Villiers hired her to do his publicity photographs when he looked like going into politics, and then commissioned her to do some interior design for his house. Turns out that wasn’t all she did, because his housekeeper and gardener both claim they saw a half-dressed woman fitting Derby’s description in his bedroom.’

Pursing his mouth disapprovingly, Lundy patted his pockets and took out a packet of antacids. He popped a couple from the foil strip.

‘Looks like they had a falling out, though,’ he said, chomping the tablets. ‘We’ve got several witnesses who heard her ranting and calling him an “arrogant prick” at some swanky political bash not long before she vanished.’

‘Did you question him?’

‘For all the good it did. He denied having an affair, reckoned she’d thrown herself at him but he’d turned her down. Hard to believe given his track record, especially when he didn’t have an alibi for the day she went missing. Claimed he was away but wouldn’t say where or offer anything to corroborate it. He was obviously hiding something, but the family’s lawyers were throwing up every obstacle they could. Threatened to sue for harassment if we so much as looked askance at him, and without a body or evidence there wasn’t much we could do. We searched the area around where Emma Derby and her husband lived, but it’s mainly saltmarsh and mudflats you can’t get to on foot. Ideal place to get rid of a body. Hellish to search, so finding anything in there was always going to be a tall order. And then Leo Villiers went missing himself, so that was pretty much that.’

I thought back to what Lundy had said on the phone the night before. ‘You said his disappearance wasn’t suspicious, but someone like that must have made enemies. What about Emma Derby’s husband?’

‘Oh, we took a good look at him. Bit of an unlikely match, to be honest. He was a good bit older than her, and it was no secret they were having difficulties even before she hooked up with Villiers. But he was out of the country when his wife went missing and then up in Scotland when her boyfriend disappeared. His alibis checked out both times.’ Lundy turned down the corners of his mouth. ‘You’re right about Villiers having enemies, and I dare say not many people will shed a tear over him. But there’s nothing to suggest any of them were involved, or that there was anything suspicious about it. There was a report that the gardener scared off a prowler from the grounds of his house not long before he disappeared, but that was more likely just local teenagers.’

I looked out beyond the oyster sheds to where the muddy estuary bed was disappearing under the returning water. ‘So you think Villiers killed himself?’

The DI’s caginess on the phone had made me think this was something more than an accident. Lundy shrugged. ‘He’d been under a lot of pressure and we know he had at least one failed suicide attempt in his teens. Sir Stephen’s lawyers have been blocking us from seeing his medical records, but going on verbal accounts from people who knew him there was obviously a history of depression. And there was a note.’

‘A suicide note?’

He looked pained. ‘We’re not officially calling it that. Sir Stephen won’t have anyone suggesting his son killed himself, so we’re having to tread carefully. And the note was found in Leo’s bin, so either it was a draft or he changed his mind about leaving it. But it was his handwriting, saying he couldn’t carry on. Hated his life, that sort of thing. And the housekeeper who found the note told us his shotgun was missing as well. Handmade by Mowbry and Sons. You heard of them?’

I shook my head: I was more familiar with the effects of shotguns than with their manufacturers.

‘They’re up there with Purdeys when it comes to bespoke shotguns. Beautiful craftsmanship, if you like that sort of thing, and phenomenally expensive. Villiers’ father bought it for him when he turned eighteen. Must have cost nearly as much as my house.’

A cheaper gun would have been just as lethal. But I was starting to understand why Lundy had been wary about saying too much earlier. Suicide was a difficult thing for any family to process, especially of a man suspected of murder. It would be a doubly hard blow for any parent to accept, so it was no wonder that Sir Stephen Villiers was in denial. What set him apart was that he had the money and power to enforce it.

That might be harder if this was his son’s body.

The distant speck of the helicopter was still visible, although now the wind was carrying its sound away from us. It seemed to have stopped moving.

‘What makes you think this is Villiers rather than Emma Derby?’ I asked. I doubted the yachtsmen who’d seen the drifting body would have been able to tell its gender.

‘Because she went missing seven months ago,’ Lundy said. ‘Can’t see her body just turning up after all this time.’

He was right. Although a body would initially sink once any air trapped in its lungs had escaped, it would float back to the surface if the build-up of gases from decomposition made it buoyant again. When that happened it could drift for weeks, depending on the temperature and conditions. But seven months was too long, especially in the relatively shallow waters of an estuary. The combination of tides, marine scavengers and hungry seabirds would have taken its toll long before then.

Even so, there was still something about this I wasn’t getting. I ran through what Lundy had said, trying to put it together. ‘So Leo Villiers didn’t go missing until six months after Emma Derby disappeared?’

‘Around that, although we’re not sure exactly when. There’s a two-week gap between the last time anyone had any contact with him and when he was reported missing, but we’re fairly sure that—’

The DI broke off as a whistle came from the direction of the quayside. One of the marine unit had emerged from behind the oyster sheds. He held up a thumb before turning and heading back.

Lundy shook the last few drops of tea from his cup. ‘Hope you’re ready to get your feet wet, Dr Hunter,’ he said, screwing it back on to the thermos. ‘Looks like the helicopter’s found something.’