The Restless Dead

9

There was less water in the creek than when I’d walked along its bank the day before. Although I’d no way of checking, from the look of it high tide was still an hour or two away.

I hoped it would be long enough.

Before I set out from the boathouse I tried to think through what I might need. My camera had been in my overnight bag, so luckily I had that with me. But even if I found what I was looking for, there was no way of knowing how easy it would be to reach. My waders were still in my car over at Trask’s, and after yesterday I didn’t plan on getting wet again. There was nothing in the studio that would help me, but I tore off several plastic bin-liners from a roll under the sink and put them in the freshly cleaned cool-box. Leaving the ice packs in the fridge’s small freezer to chill, I went outside to see what I could find.

A flight of steps led down to a jetty at the front of the boathouse. Halfway up the wall was a line where the high tide would reach; the stones dry and pale above, dark and damp below. The water level was lower than that at the moment, well below the top of the jetty. The entrance to the boathouse dock was at the far side, a large square opening that faced directly on to the creek. It was barred by a waterlogged timber gate that was secured by a rusty but solid-looking padlock. I wasn’t going to get in that way, but partway down the steps there was a small platform next to a hatchway in the wall. The rough wooden board covering it was only held shut by a loop of rope hooked over a rusty nail, so I didn’t think anyone would object if I looked inside.

The hinges protested as I pushed it open. A musty, cellar smell of water and damp stone greeted me. The opening was low and I had to duck to get through. I was almost caught out by the drop on the other side, where the floor level was lower. It was cold and dark inside as I paused to let my eyes adjust. Bars of light came through the gate in the front wall, enough to see by once I’d blocked the hatch open as well.

The makeover that had transformed upstairs into a studio flat hadn’t extended to down here. I was standing on a narrow walkway — too small to be considered a jetty — that ran along one wall. At high tide this lower level would be flooded with water, but right now the muddy creek bed was visible below the dock. The walkway’s timbers were slick and rotten, and held an assortment of old boating junk. A canoe with a gaping hole in its bottom lay on its side, half buried by cork buoys, disintegrating lifejackets and torn sections of wicker fishing baskets.

I’d been hoping there’d be a boathook or something similar, but the nearest thing I could find was a short oar with a broken shaft. Not ideal, but better than nothing. Taking it back outside with me, I hooked the rope back around the nail to hold the hatch shut, then went back up the steps to where I’d left the cool-box.

Just that small exertion had been enough to tire me. I rested for a few moments, catching my breath while considering the creek winding through the expanse of sandbanks and saltmarsh. I wondered if I was up to doing this. Less than twenty-four hours ago I’d been worried I might end up in hospital: now here I was about to set off hiking across tidal marshland on what was probably a wild goose chase.

But it was my own fault. Ill or not, I should have recognized what was right in front of me yesterday. I might have missed my chance already, and if I left it any longer I certainly would.

Picking up the cool-box, I struck out along the bank of the creek. The afternoon was brighter than the day before, but there was still a blanketing layer of clouds that turned the sky the colour of spoiled milk. There wasn’t much of a path to start with, just a narrow ribbon of muddy ground where the marsh grasses and plants weren’t quite so thick. Before long even that had disappeared. I tried to keep my eyes on the creek as I walked by the water’s edge, but it wasn’t easy when I had to constantly pay attention to where I was treading.

If anything the going grew even worse. The tides had carved an intricate network of waterways through the soft sandy soil of the marsh. The creek was like a giant root, from which smaller roots branched off, and then smaller ones from those. I found my way blocked by murky pools and partly flooded ditches. Some of them were small enough to step or jump over; others I had no choice but to detour round and hope I could eventually negotiate my way back to the creek. After following one channel for what seemed an age without finding a way across, I stopped to rest and get my bearings. The flat landscape was devoid of features other than sandy hummocks topped with spiky grass. Banks of rushes blurred the line between land and water, and looking back I could only just make out the boathouse.

Setting down the cool-box, I debated what to do. I’d hoped that by following the creek inland I’d eventually come to the same stretch I’d reached the day before, when I’d walked along it in the opposite direction from Trask’s house. But I’d no idea how far it was, and now I’d wandered so far off course it was hard to distinguish the creek from the numerous channels and ditches that also carved their way through here. The tide was already spreading back through the saltmarsh, and at this rate I was either going to get lost or break an ankle.

I was reluctantly considering turning back when I saw a figure some way off across the marsh. I was too far away to make out any details, but as it drew closer I saw it was a woman. I felt an odd sort of tension when I realized who it was.

Rachel Derby walked towards me on the other bank of the flooded channel I’d been trying to get round. She had a canvas holdall slung across one shoulder, more satchel than handbag. The thick dark hair was tied back in a loose plait, and she managed to make even the wellingtons, old jeans and red waterproof jacket look good.

She stopped opposite me, her expression bemused. ‘I didn’t expect to see you out here.’

‘I was… I thought I’d take a walk.’ Conscious of how bizarre I must appear, I raised the broken oar. ‘I borrowed this from the boathouse.’

‘So I see.’ Her gaze went to the cool-box. ‘Off on a picnic?’

‘Uh, no. I know it looks a bit strange…’

‘Not at all. I’m sure a broken oar’s going to come in very useful.’ She didn’t smile, which made me feel even more ridiculous. ‘I’m not going to ask why you’re out here. It’s none of my business and I’m sure you’ve got a good reason. But are you sure you’re up to it? You looked terrible last time I saw you.’

‘I’m feeling much better,’ I told her.

The green eyes were sceptical. ‘So long as you know what you’re doing. It’s going to be high tide in an hour or so, and I wouldn’t advise you to be wandering out here then. If you think this place is bad now, it’ll be a lot worse when it’s flooded.’

I looked at her wellingtons and satchel, unsure whether the idea that had come to me was good or bad.

‘How well do you know your way around here?’

‘Well enough to know which parts to avoid.’ She frowned. ‘Why?’

‘I’m trying to find my way back to the stretch of creek I reached yesterday. It wasn’t far from your house, so I thought if I followed the creek it’d bring me back to it.’ I gave a shrug. ‘It hasn’t been that easy.’

‘Welcome to the Backwaters,’ she said. I thought there was the hint of a smile, but I could have imagined it. ‘Whereabouts is it you want to get to?’

‘I don’t know exactly. The bank had crumbled away, and there was an old boat sunk in the mud—’

‘Near a dead willow? I know it. It’s not far, but if you don’t know how to get there it’s easy to get lost, and that really isn’t good when the tide’s flooding back. If you can get to it from Creek House can’t you wait until later and then try again from there?’

‘Not really.’ If I waited then whatever chance I had of finding what I was looking for would be gone. ‘Can you give me directions?’

‘Out here?’ Her tone made it clear what she thought of that. ‘This isn’t the sort of place you can just go for a stroll. I’d have thought you’d learned that after yesterday.’

‘It’s important.’

She shook her head, either resigned or marvelling at my stupidity. ‘Does it have something to do with my sister?’

It was a good question, and I took a second or two to answer. ‘Not as far as I know.’

I could tell her that much. For all I knew this could be a huge waste of time. But I had to know one way or the other.

Rachel looked off across the saltmarsh, brushing away a strand of hair that blew across her face.

‘OK,’ she said after a moment. ‘I’ll take you.’

We walked on opposite sides of the flooded channel until we came to a point where it narrowed. It was still too wide to jump, but thick weathered planks had been laid across to make a rudimentary bridge. Once I’d joined her on the other side, Rachel set off confidently back towards the creek. There was no obvious path, but she seemed to have no problem finding her way through the tough vegetation that covered this part of the marsh like a green mat.

We walked in silence at first. It wasn’t awkward exactly, more a case of feeling a way towards a safe territory for conversation. Rachel broke it first.

‘So… How was the boathouse?’

‘Good. I like it, it’s a nice place.’

‘Thanks. It isn’t quite finished. I’ve still got some odd jobs left before it’s let out for the summer.’

‘You’re doing the work yourself?’

‘It’s kept me busy. Most of it was done before… before I came here.’ She continued past the stumble. ‘Andrew’s an architect, so he did all the structural stuff and my sister was in charge of the interior design. They got contractors in to do the major work, so it’s just a matter of finishing off. A few bits of paint to touch up, pictures to hang. That sort of thing.’

Trask had said he’d built Creek House for his wife, but I hadn’t realized he was an architect. ‘I looked at your sister’s photographs. Hope that was OK.’

‘That’s what they’re there for. Or will be, once I’ve put them up. Except for a couple of the older ones, like the motorbike and the self-portrait, they were all taken round here. The idea was to sell them to people who stay at the boathouse, so they’re all for sale. Well, except for the self-portrait. I’ve been meaning to take that one away.’ A sour note entered her voice. ‘Not that Emma would mind.’

The disapproval seemed unconscious. But the mention of her sister gave me an opening for what I’d been wanting to bring up.

‘Look, about yesterday. I’m sorry, I should have realized.’

‘Don’t worry about it. Anyway, I should apologize for giving you such a hard time. I felt like a real cow when I found out you weren’t… you know.’

‘Malingering?’

Her wince was only partly feigned. ‘Yeah, something like that. Seriously, though, are you sure you’re all right? We can stop if you need to rest.’

‘No, I’m fine.’

I tried to say it with more conviction than I felt. The slog across the marsh was taking a toll. I could feel my leg muscles beginning to ache, and I would have liked to put the cool-box down for a few minutes. But I wouldn’t have admitted that even if we’d had the time. I’d made a bad enough impression the day before.

‘So you used to be a GP? What made you change?’ she asked.

That wasn’t something I wanted to go into. ‘Long story. Let’s just say I realized I was better at doing this.’

‘OK, I can take a hint. Can I at least ask how you lost your spleen? Was it a car accident or something?’

I’d rather have avoided talking about that as well, but if I kept ducking her questions it’d look like I was snubbing her. I didn’t want that. I tried to think of a less dramatic way to explain before deciding it was best to just say it.

‘I was stabbed.’

‘Yeah, right.’ Rachel’s wry look changed when she saw my face. ‘God, you’re not kidding, are you?’

She seemed genuinely shocked. I hadn’t intended to go into any details, but I found myself telling her about Grace Strachan. How I’d become involved when she’d left a trail of carnage on a tiny island in the Outer Hebrides, and almost became a victim myself when she’d attacked me on my own doorstep back in London. Rachel’s frown deepened as she listened.

‘She just turned up at your home and stabbed you?’ she exclaimed when I’d finished. ‘God, what a bitch!’

I started to say that Grace had been mentally ill, that she’d been the victim of abuse, but it didn’t seem worth the effort. ‘You could say that.’

‘What happened to her? Is she still in prison?’

‘No. They never caught her.’

‘You mean she’s still out there?’

‘The police think she’s probably dead.’ It wasn’t a subject I liked to dwell on. ‘How about you? You don’t sound like a local.’

‘I’m from Bristol originally, but I was living in Australia before I came here.’

‘Doing what?’ I asked, intrigued.

She gave a dismissive shrug. ‘I’m a marine biologist. I was researching how plastic contaminants affect the Great Barrier Reef but I’m on sort of indefinite sabbatical now.’

I paused to tug my boot free from a muddy tangle of marsh grass. ‘Must be quite a change coming here.’

‘No more so than switching from being a doctor to a forensic anthropologist,’ she countered. ‘The Backwaters isn’t so bad. I like the peace and quiet, and from a marine biology point of view it’s actually pretty cool. Not as exotic as the Reef, obviously, and I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t miss the sun. But there’s still something about this place. The ecosystems are just as complex as anything you find on the Reef, they’re just a bit…’

‘Muddier?’ I offered.

She smiled. It was the first real one I’d seen, and it lit up her face.

‘Definitely. But the overlap between fresh and saltwater ecology is really fascinating. And it’s not all about crabs and shellfish. We often get seals coming from the estuary, sometimes all the way up to Creek House. Did you hear them last night?’

I couldn’t remember hearing anything once I’d gone to bed. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘You’d know if you had. They’re rowdy devils; you can’t miss them. Sound like drunken Labradors. And then there’s eels.’

‘Eels…’

She glanced back at me, amused. ‘I know, they get a bad press. But they’re really unique, and we still don’t know much about them. You know they all swim back to the Sargasso Sea to spawn?’

I looked at her, trying to tell if she was serious.

‘It’s true!’ she protested. ‘Every single eel you’ll find here was born in the Sargasso Sea in the North Atlantic. Once they’ve hatched, the young migrate all over the planet. They live in estuaries or fresh water until they’re mature, and then they swim all the way back to the Sargasso Sea to mate so the cycle can begin again. They’re remarkable creatures, but thanks to overfishing they’re an endangered species. Their population’s dropped by ninety-five per cent, but no one…’

She stopped, shrugging self-consciously.

‘See what happens when you get me started? God, eels and DIY. What a hedonist.’

‘So are you out eel watching today?’ I asked, pushing away a sudden image of the eel slipping from Leo Villiers’ ruined face.

‘No. I wanted to get out for a bit, so I thought I’d do some foraging.’ She opened the bag to show me a few strands of glistening wet plants. ‘It’s a bit early for samphire but you can sometimes find it if you know where to look. There’s all sorts of sea vegetables grow here, as well as mussels, shellfish, crabs… That’s one thing about the Backwaters, you need never starve.’

She halted, looking around.

‘Anyway, I’d better stop boring you. We’re here.’

I’d been so engrossed in talking to her I’d not paid any attention to where we were. A little way ahead of us, the rotting hull of the old boat emerged from the creek like a giant ribcage. Beyond it was the gnarled trunk of the willow tree, its dead branches trailing desolately in the water.

‘Was this where you meant?’ Rachel asked.

I nodded. ‘Thanks for the help. I’ll be OK now.’

She didn’t seem to have expected that. ‘How are you going to find your way back?’

‘I’ll manage.’

It shouldn’t be hard to find my way to Trask’s house from here, and then I could follow the road to the boathouse. Or even take my car if Jamie had finished repairing it. I was beginning to feel washed out again, but it was better if I was on my own for what I had to do next. And if I found what I was looking for I didn’t think Rachel would want to be there anyway.

But she had other ideas. ‘You do know that just because something was here yesterday it doesn’t mean it’ll still be here today, don’t you? Whatever you’re looking for, if it can float it’s probably been carried off God knows where by now.’

I didn’t need reminding. ‘I know.’

Rachel was looking at me with exasperation. ‘This is silly. If you tell me what you’re looking for I might be able to help you find it. I’m not an idiot; I know it’s going to be something gruesome. But I’ve seen shark attacks so you needn’t worry that I’m going to throw up or faint. And I’m guessing since you’re here by yourself instead of with the police you’re still not sure if it’s anything or not.’

‘No, but—’

‘Look, I’ve spent the last few months going mad because I can’t do anything. You’ve already said this doesn’t have anything to do with Emma, so chances are it’s about Leo Villiers. And if you think I’m going to get upset at finding one of that bastard’s body parts you really don’t know me.’

Patches of colour had risen on her cheeks, as they had when she’d been angry the day before. I seemed to have that effect on her.

‘It’s a training shoe,’ I said.

She stared at me for a few moments. ‘Well, that’s an anticlimax.’

I hoped that was all it was. Just the thought of it made me annoyed at my own stupidity. I’d been standing on the bankside right next to the shoe the previous afternoon, watching it bob around with the other flotsam snagged by the creek’s tide. At the time I’d been too busy worrying about missing the post-mortem to realize what might be staring me in the face.

For all I knew it might be nothing more sinister than an old trainer. But unless I found it I’d never know one way or the other. Rachel was right: I didn’t know the Backwaters the way she did, and if the shoe had drifted off I’d need her help to find it again.

‘So what’s special about it?’ she asked, as we made our way to the section of bank I’d been to yesterday. ‘Or do you just go around collecting old trainers?’

‘Not from choice. There was a case a while back in British Columbia,’ I told her. ‘Shoes were being washed up along a stretch of coastline. A lot of them, about a dozen over five years or so. There were boots and other shoes as well, but it was mainly trainers. And they’d all still got feet inside them.’

Rachel grimaced but didn’t look shocked. ‘Nice. What was it, a serial killer?’

‘That’s what the police thought at first. Or that it might be victims of the Asian tsunami. But it turned out that most of the shoes belonged to people who’d jumped or fallen from a particular bridge in Vancouver. Their bodies got washed out to sea, and…’

‘And the feet fell off.’ Rachel nodded. As a marine biologist she’d know about the effects of water better than most people. ‘How come they didn’t sink?’

‘Because they’d got air-filled rubber soles.’ I paused to wipe my forehead. My body was letting me know I was overdoing it, but we were almost there. ‘The soles kept them afloat, and the shoes stopped scavengers from getting at them. They drifted hundreds of miles before the sea currents washed them up on the same stretch of coast.’

‘And you think this shoe might still have got Leo Villiers’ foot in it?’

I’d been careful to avoid any mention of either Villiers or her sister, but Rachel was no fool. ‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘It could just be an old training shoe someone threw away. But it looked like a man’s size.’

Ordinarily I wouldn’t have jumped to that sort of conclusion: women’s feet could be every bit as large as men’s. But that was rare, and even though I hadn’t taken much notice of it at the time, I could remember the shoe was a sizable one. Unless Emma Derby had abnormally large feet then it wasn’t hers, and I wanted to set Rachel’s mind at ease without being obvious about it.

She saw through my coded comment, though. ‘Don’t worry, my little sister wasn’t the training-shoe type. Emma was a swimmer, but if she’d gone running she’d probably have done even that in high heels.’

There was another note of disapproval in her voice, but I didn’t have time to reflect on any tensions between her and her sister. We’d reached the side of the creek. The water was lower than the last time I’d been here, but the crescent-shaped bite from the sandy bank was otherwise the same. Bits of wood, plastic bottles and other debris floated in it, and I saw the same doll’s head as the day before.

There was no training shoe.

‘Are you sure it was here?’ Rachel asked doubtfully.

‘Certain.’

I looked up and down the muddy water’s edge. Even though I’d known there was only a slim chance that the shoe would still be here, that the fast-moving tide had probably carried it off by now, it was still a bitter disappointment. A wave of fatigue washed through me, and if Rachel hadn’t been there I’d have flopped down on to the cool-box to rest.

‘The tide probably carried it towards the estuary rather than further inland,’ she said, her brow furrowing. ‘There’s a section where the bank’s collapsed down that way. It might have got caught there.’

We didn’t talk as we walked along the creek bank. I was beginning to feel shaky now. The sensible thing to do would be to call it a day, but I’d no intention of doing that. After about ten minutes we reached a section of bank that had crumbled, forming a partial dam. Rachel slowed.

‘This is it,’ she said. ‘If it’s not here it could be anywhere by now.’

My optimism was flagging along with my energy. I was already berating myself for missing what could well have been my only opportunity to examine the shoe when Rachel pointed.

‘What’s that over there?’

A small bush had fallen into the creek when the bank collapsed. The tangle of dead branches was draped with grasses and weeds, and now I saw something pale had snagged there as well.

Floating on its side was a training shoe.

‘Is that it?’ There was excitement in Rachel’s voice.

‘I think so.’

Unless there were two of them, which was possible but not likely. When we drew closer I could see that it was a right shoe. It was only a few feet from the side, caught on the straggly branches with its sole facing towards us. If I’d got my waders on I could have easily retrieved it, but I wasn’t going to paddle out in my boots. I set down the cool-box and carefully stepped on to the crumbled bank. My boots sank into the sandy mud as I tried to snag the shoe with the oar blade. It splashed into the water a few inches short. I leaned further out.

‘Here, grab hold.’

Rachel offered her hand. It was warm and dry when I took it, her grip strong as she pulled backwards to counterbalance me. I reached out with the oar and missed again, but only just. Next time the blade caught the trainer, knocking it clear of the branches and nearer the side.

I nudged the shoe closer, then used the oar to steer it through the water towards me. Rachel let go of my hand, and I tried not to notice the sudden absence of warmth against my skin.

‘I hate to rain on your parade, but that doesn’t look like something Leo Villiers would be seen dead in,’ she said.

I’d been thinking the same thing myself. Beneath its coating of mud, the training shoe looked cheap and chunky, designed with high street fashion rather than sport in mind. It didn’t fit my image of Villiers, a man who bought bespoke outdoor clothes from his tailors in St James’s and had a custom-built shotgun worth a small fortune.

‘Is that a purple sock?’ Rachel asked, leaning over my shoulder for a better look. ‘Definitely not Leo Villiers’.’

She was right. Although I’d known all along it was probably nothing, I felt a sense of anticlimax take what little energy I had left. I was about to let the shoe drift away again when I realized a discarded shoe wouldn’t still have a sock in it. And then I noticed something else.

The sodden laces were still tied.

‘You might want to move away,’ I warned. But it was too late. The trainer had turned in the water as I’d nudged it closer, presenting its open top towards us.

Nestling inside the training shoe, and half hidden by the lurid sock, was the pale bone and gristle of an ankle.