The Restless Dead

31

Three weeks after the flood, Rachel called to say we needed to talk. She didn’t say why, but I could tell by her voice that something was wrong. She sounded different. Distant.

We met in a café in Covent Garden. The ease I’d felt with her before was absent today. I watched her walk across the room, the worn sweater and jeans replaced by a slim-fitting dress, and her thick dark hair taken back. She looked lovely.

‘I’m going back to Australia,’ she said, looking into her coffee. ‘I wanted to tell you in person rather than over the phone. I thought I owed you that much.’

I couldn’t say her announcement came as a surprise. A blow, yes. But not a surprise.

We’d continued to see a lot of each other in the days after I returned to London. To start with there had been long conversations over the phone, followed by dinner in Chelmsford one evening. Then she came to London for the weekend. I thought it might feel strange for us to spend time together in such a different environment, but any nervousness was forgotten the moment she arrived. Being with her seemed natural, as though we’d known each other far longer than the few weeks it had actually been.

After the grim horror of those last days in the Backwaters, the weekend had seemed one of those charmed periods that occasionally touch our lives, apparently endless yet over too soon. Spring was hurrying into summer, and the bright sunshine seemed to promise a fresh start after the dour winter months. When Rachel left it was understood that she’d come out again soon. For longer next time.

And then something changed between us. It was hard to say how, exactly, and I told myself it was only to be expected after what she’d been through. That she had a lot on her mind.

Now I knew what. I felt numb, the sort of deadness that precedes the pain of a bad injury. It’s your own fault. You were expecting too much. I stirred my own coffee, giving myself chance to absorb the news. ‘That’s sudden, isn’t it?’

‘Not really. I’ve been treading water for too long as it is, I need to get my life back. Too much has happened here. And I keep thinking about Bob Lundy. I can’t…’ She broke off as her eyes filled up. ‘Shit. This is exactly what I wasn’t going to let happen.’

She shook her head when I reached for a tissue, taking a paper napkin to angrily dab her eyes.

‘You can’t keep blaming yourself,’ I told her, knowing it wouldn’t do any good. We’d had this discussion before, though not like this.

‘Yes, but if not for me he’d never have gone out to that bloody place. If I hadn’t been so pig-headed he’d still be alive.’

‘What happened to Lundy wasn’t your fault. He was a police officer, he was doing his job.’

And I knew the DI would do it again if he had to. In the week following his murder I’d gone to see his wife at their home. The cherry tree blossoms that had lined the road had largely fallen now, the delicate pink petals turned to brown mulch in the gutters. Sandra Lundy had been quietly dignified as she’d asked how her husband had died. I’d told her it had been saving the lives of Rachel and myself, that if not for him we’d have been killed as well. She covered her eyes for a moment, then smiled.

‘That’s good. He’d be happy about that.’

I didn’t mention the call-back from hospital that Lundy had been worried about on the morning he’d been shot. It was possible she might not even know about it, and I couldn’t see how it would serve any purpose to tell her now.

Rachel had taken the DI’s death hard, but I’d thought she’d been coming to terms with it. She’d certainly given no indication that she wanted to return to Australia.

‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’ I said, looking at the smooth lines of her face as she balled up the napkin.

She took a moment to answer, making minute adjustments to her cup and saucer.

‘Pete’s been in touch.’

‘Pete?’ I asked, though I could guess.

‘The marine biologist I told you about. Who I split up with.’

‘The one with the twenty-two-year-old post-grad in a bikini.’

I regretted the jibe straight away. A smile quirked a corner of her mouth, but it was sad rather than wry.

‘Yeah. He heard about… what happened. Even made the news in Australia. He was worried, wanted to see if I was OK.’ She looked across at me. ‘He wants to give it another go.’

I looked out of the café window. Tourists thronged outside, more than I could count. A street musician was playing a jazzed-up version of ‘What a Wonderful World’ on a guitar. ‘And what do you want?’

‘I don’t know. But we were together seven years. It wasn’t all bad.’

Until he ran off with someone else, I thought, but managed to keep it to myself this time. ‘So…?’

She gave a lost shrug. ‘So I’ve said we can talk about it when I get back.’

I sat very still, feeling as though the ground had shifted under me. ‘You’re definitely going?’

‘I–I have to. Too much has happened, I need some time to work things out. And it’s not like I’m needed any more.’

Isn’t it? Her hands were resting on the table. I reached out and laid mine on one of them. ‘Rachel—’

‘Don’t. Please, I can’t…’ She broke off. ‘This is hard enough already.’

The numbness had been replaced by a disappointment that pressed down on me with a physical weight. ‘So there’s nothing I can say?’

She looked at me for a long moment, her thumb lightly stroking my hand. Then, with a gentle squeeze, she let go. ‘I’m sorry.’

So was I. I forced a smile as I moved my hand back to my cup. ‘When are you going?’

Some of the tension seemed to leave her. ‘As soon as everything’s tied up here. Andrew’s found a place to rent in Chelmsford until things are sorted out. It’s a nice area, and there’s a good school nearby for Fay. He’s going to put Creek House on the market as soon as he can. They can’t stay there, not after everything that’s happened. It’s not going to be easy for them, but maybe a fresh start will help.’

‘Sounds like a good idea.’

In hindsight, there had been something unhealthy about the beautiful house on the edge of the saltmarsh. For all its modern aesthetic, all the planning Trask had put into its design, it had been an unhappy place. It seemed forced upon the landscape rather than a part of it, and that applied to the people who lived in it as well. Trask had been a careful man, but he’d been so busy safe-guarding his family against the Backwaters he’d forgotten that tragedy can come from the inside too.

I hoped the house’s next occupants would have better luck.

The street musician was winding up the song, to scattered applause. People drifted away as he bent to count coins in his guitar case.

‘What will you do when you get back?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know yet. Maybe see if my old job’s still open.’ She hesitated. ‘Will you be OK?’

I turned away from the window. My smile felt more natural this time, but then I’d had plenty of practice. ‘Sure, I’ll be fine.’

She looked at her watch. ‘I’d better go. I just wanted to see you again, to explain. And I never really thanked you.’

‘For what?’ I asked, confused. I couldn’t see what there was to thank me about.

Rachel gave me a quizzical look.

‘For finding Emma.’

By dawn the morning after Porter’s shooting, the floodwaters had disappeared. In their wake was a miles-long swathe of mud and shingle. The tidal surge hadn’t been bad compared with others that had inundated the east coast in the past, and certainly nowhere near as severe as the storm tide of 1953. A few hundred houses had been evacuated, roads rendered impassable and sea walls breached or washed away. But everyone agreed it could have been worse. No one had died.

At least not because of the flood.

Wearing yet more borrowed clothes of Trask’s and wrapped in a blanket for the second time that day, I was checked out by paramedics who arrived at Creek House with the police. They’d seen to the others first, all of whom needed attention more than I did, one way or another. I’d barely spoken to Rachel after the shooting. Once I’d called the police I’d hurried them all downstairs, away from the body of Lundy’s killer. Rachel had taken Fay into her room to console the hysterical girl, while I’d stayed with Jamie. That was more to make sure he was all right than to prevent him from going anywhere. I didn’t think he’d try to leave.

He’d had enough of hiding.

The paramedics suggested I go to hospital, but I’d refused. I knew the warning signs of hypothermia or a resurgent infection well enough, and didn’t have either. Two mugs of warm, sweet tea and dry clothes borrowed from Trask’s wardrobe had stopped the worst of the shivering. I felt exhausted, but I could rest later.

I wanted to see this through.

Clarke came to see me after I’d given yet another statement at police HQ in the early hours of the morning. She arrived in the beige interview room with two polystyrene cups of tea, one of which she handed to me. I wasn’t sure if it was a peace offering but accepted it anyway.

‘How are you feeling?’ she asked, sitting down across from me.

I shrugged. ‘OK. How are the others?’

The DCI looked tired, the skin of her face pale and drawn after the long night. I knew I didn’t look any better. ‘Rachel Derby’s just got some bruising. The little girl’s suffering from shock but we released Andrew Trask earlier, so at least he’s with her again. We might have more questions for him later, but under the circumstances…’

Under the circumstances, letting a young girl be with her father was the humane thing to do. Especially when her brother had just killed a man in front of her.

‘And Jamie?’

‘He’s got a broken nose and a couple of loose teeth, but they’re the least of his problems. How much did he tell you?’

‘Most of it,’ I admitted.

Some I’d been able to piece together myself. From the moment I’d seen Trask’s son holding the hand-crafted shotgun I knew what it meant. I’d wondered why Porter hadn’t used the Mowbry at the boathouse, but the reason was simple: he didn’t have it. He never had. It had been hidden at the bottom of Jamie Trask’s wardrobe ever since the teenager had accidentally shot Anthony Russell.

It hadn’t been long after his father’s abortive attempt to confront Leo Villiers that Jamie had seen a light on at Willets Point. He’d been returning home from a night out with friends, and while he wasn’t exactly drunk, he wasn’t exactly sober either. No doubt he was worried what his father might do now Leo Villiers was back. But it wasn’t just the alcohol, or concern for his family, that made the teenager head out to the house on the promontory.

‘Did he tell you about him and Emma Derby?’ Clarke asked.

‘Not in so many words, but I guessed,’ I said. It wasn’t difficult: once Jamie had begun to open up his feelings for his stepmother had become obvious. ‘How far had it gone?’

She took a drink of tea, grimacing as she set it back down. ‘It doesn’t look like anything actually happened between them, but she’d been egging him on for a while. Flirting, leaving the door open when she was showering, that sort of thing. Probably just a bit of fun as far as she was concerned, but it was enough to mess with his head. It got so he didn’t want to be alone in the house with her when his dad was away. That’s why he was staying with friends when she went missing, because he didn’t trust himself.’

It wasn’t surprising. Teenage hormones on one hand, guilt on the other: it was a volatile mix.

Clarke shook her head, radiating disapproval. ‘Christ knows what she was thinking. She should have known better.’

Yes, she should. Rachel had told me how Jamie had abruptly split up with Stacey Coker even before learning she was pregnant, and now it was clear why. It was no secret there were cracks in Trask’s ill-matched marriage, and for someone like Emma Derby — vain and bored, missing city life — the teenager’s infatuation must have been a flattering diversion. She’d won over her stepdaughter by playing the big sister. For her stepson she’d taken a different approach.

‘Did Trask know?’ I asked.

‘He hasn’t admitted it, but he must have had suspicions. Teenagers aren’t the best at hiding their feelings, and I can’t imagine Emma Derby tried too hard to be subtle. It’s academic now, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Trask didn’t want to know. Probably scared of what he might find out, especially after his wife went missing.’

Christ, I thought, the emotional undercurrents in the Trask household didn’t bear thinking about. No wonder the relationship between father and son was so strained, or that Rachel had said being around them was like walking on eggshells. She’d not become involved with the family until after her sister had disappeared, so had missed the interplay between Jamie and his stepmother.

But there was no ignoring the tensions in the house afterwards. And for Jamie, months of jealousy, grief and guilt had reached a tipping point when he saw the light on at Leo Villiers’ house and thought his stepmother’s lover and killer had returned to Willets Point.

The teenager’s voice had been dull and nasal, muffled by the frozen peas he held to his broken nose, as he’d told me what had happened that night. Pumped up by alcohol and adrenalin, he’d parked outside Villiers’ house and been about to bang on the door when he’d heard glass breaking on the terrace. He’d gone round to the front and seen a man wearing a long coat standing on the water’s edge, collar turned up against the chill. On the terrace around him were empty glasses and bottles, some of them shattered as though they’d been used for target practice. A shotgun had been propped against a tree nearby. More to keep it out of Villiers’ reach than with any intent to use it himself, Jamie had picked it up.

The man heard him and turned. Even in the dark it had been apparent it was a stranger. Panicking, Jamie had thrust the over-and-under barrels at the man’s face, stammering a demand to know where Leo Villiers was.

And the shotgun had gone off.

‘It blew Anthony Russell back into the water,’ Clarke said with a sigh. ‘It was a spring tide that night, so the body must have been carried over the Barrows into the estuary rather than out to sea. Probably ended up in the fringes of the Backwaters, which is why it wasn’t found for weeks.’

Four of them, in fact. Once in the maze of creeks and channels, the body would have sunk to the bottom. Exposed to air and seabirds twice a day at low tide, and picked over by aquatic scavengers, eventually it had refloated and drifted back out into the estuary.

And then Lundy had called me.

‘What’ll happen to Jamie?’ I asked.

Clarke stared moodily into her polystyrene cup. The sight reminded me of Lundy doing the same thing only a few days before. ‘Porter was self-defence, no one’s going to blame him for that. But intentionally or not, he still shot Anthony Russell. He’d have been better off coming to us straight away. As it is…’

She hitched a shoulder, indicating it was out of her hands. Which it was: Jamie had killed an innocent man and then concealed it. Although he hadn’t intended to, he’d helped set in motion a series of events that had claimed yet more lives. Even allowing for mitigating circumstances, he’d be facing a custodial sentence. With luck and a sympathetic court, he’d be young enough to reclaim his life afterwards. But any plans for university and a normal life were now a long way in his future.

And yet, if not for the shotgun he’d had hidden, Porter would in all likelihood have killed Fay and Rachel, as well as Jamie himself. I was too tired to decide if that was fortuitous or ironic.

‘Have you found the shotgun Porter used at the sea fort?’ I asked.

‘Not yet, but we’re still searching his flat. He lived in quarters in Sir Stephen Villiers’ main house, so you can imagine how well that’s gone down,’ Clarke said drily. ‘There was an empty cartridge box in his bin, though. Number five bismuth birdshot, the same brand as Villiers used.’

And the same type of shot that had killed Lundy. But Clarke wouldn’t need reminding of that.

‘The thinking at the moment is that Porter took a shotgun and shells from Leo Villiers’ house when Sir Stephen sent him to clean up at Willets Point,’ she continued. ‘We knew there could be a second gun missing from the gun cabinet, but since Villiers had it moved into the cellar when the house was renovated no one could say for sure. We’re still trying to locate the shotgun, but my guess is Porter would have dumped it in the sea on the way back from the fort.’ The DCI looked across the table at me, the harsh overhead lights emphasizing the shadows under her eyes. ‘Lucky for you.’

It was, although I didn’t feel that way. On an intellectual level I realized I’d had two narrow escapes inside twenty-four hours. Emotionally, though, too much had happened for it to have sunk in.

But I thought Clarke was probably right about Porter getting rid of the shotgun. The weapon tied him to the shooting of a police officer, and he’d just had his face peppered with shards after firing it point blank at a rusted steel door. Even if the blowback hadn’t damaged the barrel, he must have decided it was too risky to keep.

Looking back, I could see how events had slipped out of his control ever since he’d gone out to the sea fort to confront Emma Derby and Mark Chapel. And when Leo Villiers, who must have seemed the perfect scapegoat, returned from the dead Porter’s own situation had become untenable. I could well believe he was telling the truth when he’d said things had got out of hand. But that was small consolation to the people whose lives had been destroyed because of it.

‘The empty cartridge box wasn’t the only thing we found at his flat,’ Clarke went on. ‘He was a magpie. The place was full of stolen items. Nothing big or obvious, mainly stuff like watches and jewellery. We’re still checking records, but we think at least some of them came from burglaries reported in the area last year.’

‘Around the same time Creek House was broken into?’ I asked.

Clarke tipped her head in acknowledgement. ‘It looks as though you were right about them being a smokescreen. Porter would have known there’d be copies of the photographs on Emma Derby’s computer, but he didn’t want anyone thinking the Trasks had been specifically targeted. There weren’t any stolen computers in his flat, so he must have got rid of those. But we did find a USB flash drive hidden behind a loose skirting board. We’re still going through the files, but the blackmail photographs are on there. Shots of Leo Villiers dressing in women’s clothes, all taken at long range through the windows of his house. There’s some film footage we think is from the video camera Mark Chapel took from work, but it’s poor quality and doesn’t show much.’

‘You haven’t found the camera itself?’

‘Not yet. Porter was too savvy to keep anything that could easily be traced back to Emma Derby, but he obviously decided to hang on to the photographs. Makes you wonder if he planned to use them himself someday.’

Porter had been indignant when I’d suggested he was a blackmailer, but then he’d also denied being a thief. Although he might not have seen himself as either, he’d evidently left his options open in case he changed his mind.

‘He told me he wasn’t going to let them “muscle in” after all he’d done for the Villiers,’ I said. ‘What do you think he meant?’

Clarke raised the polystyrene cup again before thinking better of it. She set it back down with a sour expression. ‘I’m not sure, but the whole set-up seems odd. There doesn’t seem to have been any love lost between Porter and Leo Villiers, yet Sir Stephen sent him to clean Willets Point when he realized we were going to search the house. And why send his driver to deliver half a million pounds in blackmail money rather than one of his security team?’

‘He’d been employing Porter for twenty-odd years. He must have trusted him.’

Clarke gave me a sceptical look. ‘Exactly. But Sir Stephen doesn’t strike me as naïve, and Porter wasn’t what you could call the trustworthy type. We know he kept his boss’s money, and there were various bits and pieces at his flat we think he lifted from Leo Villiers’ house. Silver cutlery, gold cufflinks, a pair of high-end Zeiss binoculars, stuff like that. So how come a hard-nosed business leader like Sir Stephen put so much trust in his light-fingered driver?’

I rubbed my face, trying to organize my thoughts. Clarke was right, there was something wrong. I just couldn’t see what it was. ‘What does Sir Stephen say?’

‘Do you mean about his employee being a mass murderer or his son coming back from the dead as a woman?’ She pushed her cup of tea away as though it were to blame. ‘He’s making no comment about Leo, but he must have known he was transgender or he wouldn’t have stopped us seeing his medical records. Maybe he thought Leo really had murdered Emma Derby, as well. It’d explain why he was so keen for us to believe his son was dead. He knew there was a big fat can of worms waiting to be opened, and he was hoping to keep a lid on it.’

‘And what about Porter?’

‘Sir Stephen doesn’t have much to say about him at all. His lawyers have assured us how shocked he was, and said their client isn’t responsible for the independent actions of his employees. Oh, they also pointed out that Sir Stephen had his car stolen, so he’s a victim himself.’

‘You’re joking.’

‘I kid you not. I offered them the number of Victim Support, but funnily enough they declined.’ She gave a snort of disgust. ‘As far as the blackmail goes, they’re refusing to confirm or deny anything. My feeling is they don’t want people knowing Sir Stephen gave in to blackmail, so they’re hoping to bury it.’

‘Can they do that?’ I asked.

‘They can try. There’s no concrete evidence that Derby and Chapel actually blackmailed Sir Stephen, except for Porter’s version of events. And even that’s second-hand.’

Jesus, I thought, sickened. Blackmail or not, I couldn’t feel any sympathy for Leo Villiers’ father. There was a coldness to him that was unnatural, and a sense of entitlement and arrogance in the way he thought he was above the law. But then, with his money and connections, perhaps he was.

‘There is one more thing,’ Clarke said slowly. ‘The RSPCA took away the birds and animals from Holloway’s house before the fire. But when we made a start clearing the garden yesterday afternoon we found a sports holdall in the undergrowth. Looked like it’d been used for a sick seagull or something. As well as bird shit it was full of fifty-pound notes.’

I stared at her. ‘He used the money for a bird’s nest?’

A faint smile tugged at the corner of Clarke’s mouth. ‘I know. It was close to one of the trees that caught fire, so if it hadn’t been so wet it’d probably all have gone up in smoke. The notes were pretty scorched but it looks like most of it’s there. Five hundred thousand pounds propping up a seagull’s backside.’

Christ. I sat back, stunned. Porter had been wrong when he’d said Edgar wouldn’t have any use for the money. At another time it would have been funny. ‘What’s going to happen to it?’

‘Well, that’s an interesting question. Obviously if the money belongs to Sir Stephen it should be returned to him, bird shit and all. But for that to happen he’d have to admit to being blackmailed. So unless he does we’ll have no choice but to regard it as Holloway’s property.’

We shared a smile at that, both of us appreciating the poetic justice. And for me there was also an element of relief. Although I hadn’t wanted to acknowledge it, Porter’s accusation had lodged like a thorn at the back of my mind: If you don’t know where it is, that leaves Derby’s sister. I wondered what it said about me that I’d still harboured a doubt about her, even now.

Clarke was getting to her feet, signalling the interview was at an end. ‘I think we’re done here. Are you OK to get yourself back to London?’

I said I was. My car was a write-off, but I still had my wallet. I could catch a taxi to the train station and be back at my flat within a couple of hours. There was no longer any point in staying here, even if I’d had anywhere to stay. Rachel would have enough to deal with at the moment, and I needed sleep. Just the thought of it made my body feel twice as heavy as it should.

But there were still things I didn’t understand, frayed threads of questions that tiredness and caffeine only seemed to tangle more. ‘How would Porter have known about Edgar’s house in the first place?’ I asked, pushing back the chair as I stiffly stood up. ‘Has Leo… I mean Lena Merchant said anything about that? There must have been some reason why the Villiers estate let him live rent free.’

‘Sorry, I can’t discuss that.’

The sudden curtness surprised me. Clarke hadn’t seemed to mind talking about other aspects of the case. But I wasn’t the only one who hadn’t slept, and the DCI still had this unholy mess to sort out. Perhaps she felt she’d already shown me enough courtesy for one night.

Or day, as it turned out. I’d lost track of time in the windowless room, but when I left the police headquarters a thin grey dawn was breaking. It was far too early to call Rachel, and my waterlogged phone wasn’t working anyway. Clarke told me they’d need to hold on to my bags and belongings from my car for the time being, so I took a taxi straight to the station.

I dozed fitfully on the train, and caught another cab to my flat rather than contend with the morning rush hour on the Tube. It seemed strange to be back in the bustle and grime of London after the reedy isolation of the Backwaters. There was an unnerving sense of disorientation as I walked up the familiar garden path to unlock the front door. The sticky smell of fresh paint threw me until I remembered the attempted break-in before I’d left. It seemed a long time ago.

There was a bill from the decorator on the floor among the junk mail, courtesy of my upstairs neighbour. I dropped it on the kitchen table, feeling restless and out of sorts. My head hummed from fatigue, but I’d reached that fretful stage of tiredness I knew wouldn’t let me sleep. Putting on the TV more for distraction than any desire to see the morning news, I filled the kettle to make coffee.

When I turned round again the sea fort was on the screen.

Seeing it here, in my flat, felt utterly surreal. For a moment or two I thought I was hallucinating as an overhead shot from a helicopter showed tiny white-clad figures moving about underneath the tower. But of course the murder of a DI would be big news, more so than ever after the shooting of his killer.

I switched off the TV. There seemed no air in the room. An image of Lundy bleeding out on the metal steps came to me, so vivid I could almost smell the blood and gunpowder. I tried to busy myself making coffee, but a nagging disquiet persisted. I was familiar enough with the way my subconscious worked to know that the TV news had shaken something loose. It wasn’t just the shock of seeing the sea fort, or the reminder of Lundy’s death. I was overlooking something. I just didn’t know what it was. Come on, what is it? What have you missed?

I poured myself a coffee, picturing the fort again. I visualized the ladder climbing to the gantry and how the sea had boomed and echoed underneath the tower. Waves breaking against its hollow legs, the wet drape of seaweed as gulls fed on the exposed sandbank…

That’s when I realized. I put my coffee down, cursing my stupidity. Like so many things, it had been staring me in the face.

Crabs.