Dark Waters Read online

  Dark Waters

  MARY-JANE RILEY

  A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  Copyright

  KillerReads

  an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

  Copyright © Mary-Jane Riley 2018

  Cover design by Micaela Alcaino © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

  Cover photograph © Shutterstock.com

  Mary-Jane Riley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it

  are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Ebook Edition © March 2018 ISBN: 9780008285104

  Version: 2018-02-19

  Dedication

  For The Tillster

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  The Norfolk Broads

  Three Weeks Earlier

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Keep Reading...

  About the Publisher

  The Norfolk Broads – a haven of peace and tranquility simply waiting to be discovered and explored. And a boating holiday on the Broads opens up a world of beauty, cruising through reed marshes, woodland and meadow. Find hidden waterways teeming with wildlife. Moor close to welcoming riverside pubs, quaint villages, and market towns. Choose a Harper’s Holidays cruiser and start unwinding today!

  Three Weeks Earlier

  Decomposition sets in.

  First, both hearts stop beating and the cells and tissues are starved of oxygen. The brain cells are the first to die – all that ‘being’ ended.

  Blood drains from the capillaries, pooling in lower-lying parts of the body, staining the skin black. Rigor mortis has been and gone by now, the muscles becoming stiff three hours after death, but within seventy-two hours rigor mortis has subsided. The bodies are cool. They are pliable again.

  As the cells die, bacteria begins to break them down. Enzymes in the pancreas cause each organ in each of the bodies to digest itself. Large blisters appear all over the bodies. Green slime oozes from decomposing tissue, and methane and hydrogen sulphide fill the air. Bloody froth trickles from the mouths and noses.

  And all this time the insects are enjoying themselves. One fly can lay three hundred eggs on one corpse, and they will hatch within twenty-four hours. The hatching maggots use hooks in their mouths to scoop up any liquid seeping from the bodies. They are efficient, these maggots. Their breathing mechanism is located on the opposite end to their mouths so they can breathe and eat at the same time.

  Within a day the maggots reach the second stage of their lives and burrow into the putrefying flesh.

  The pleasure cruiser has been tied to the wooden mooring post on Poppy Island for at least three days. There has been no movement. The curtains are drawn. The doors and windows are closed. Somebody will find them soon.

  1

  Gary Lodge and his wife, Ronnie, both noticed the boat as they motored past the island on the second day of their holiday. It looked brand new, its white paintwork gleaming in the sunshine. Although it was the middle of the day, the curtains were closed. They didn’t remark on it to each other, though – Gary thought the people on board had probably been on the razz the night before (though when he thought about it later he realized there was no pub on the island and no way off it except by boat). Ronnie thought it was a case of daytime nookie; though, if it had been her, she would have left the curtains open.

  Three days later, the Lodges, after lazy days of boating, drinking and sweaty sex, travelled back down the Broads.

  ‘Isn’t that the same boat?’ said Gary.

  ‘As what?’ Ronnie was enjoying the cool breeze on her face.

  ‘You know. As when we came by the other day. It had its curtains closed then. Still does.’

  Ronnie smiled, put her arms around Gary and nuzzled into the crook of his neck. ‘Probably, babes. I don’t know. We’ve had a good time though, haven’t we?’ She didn’t want to think about other people, she wanted to keep hold of this loving feeling she had towards Gary – all too rare during their mundane everyday life that seemed to be filled with work and just getting by.

  But Gary didn’t react to Ronnie’s amorous advances. He started to turn the wheel of the boat.

  She looked up. ‘What are you doing now?’

  ‘Just want to have a look,’ he said, guiding the boat across the water and behind the other cruiser. ‘Tie her up, will you?’

  Ronnie frowned. The loving feeling evaporating into thin air. She wanted to tell him to jump off the boat and tie the frigging thing up himself. He’d thought himself some sort of Captain Birdseye, but without the beard, the whole bloody holiday. But she didn’t say anything. She swallowed her irritation, sighed, grabbed the rope and jumped out onto the bank. That was one thing she wouldn’t miss: all this jumping on and off.

  ‘Okay,’ she called when she was done.

  ‘Done the right knot?’

  Same question every time. ‘Yep.’

  Gary stepped on to the bank, then hesitated.

  ‘What now?’ said Ronnie, hands on hips, scowling.

  Gary rubbed his hand around his mouth. ‘I dunno.’

  ‘They’ve probably left it and gone somewhere. Done a runner or something. Come on, let’s get back on our boat. We’ve gotta get it back to the yard. I don’t want to be caught up with loads of traffic on the A12.’ She turned away from him and began fiddling with the rope.

  ‘It doesn’t …’ Gary hesitated. ‘It doesn’t feel right.’ He sniffed the air. ‘It smells funny.’

  Ronnie sniffed too. ‘That’s just the countryside,
isn’t it?’

  Gary put a foot on the other boat and knocked on the sliding canopy. ‘Hello? Anybody there?’ He glanced at Ronnie, then tried the door. It was stuck.

  He knocked again, and frowned. ‘I’m just gonna—’

  ‘Gary. I think you should leave it.’ He was bound to make a mess of things and then they’d be in trouble. And she wanted to get out of there. Pronto.

  Too late. Gary tugged at the door. It slid open. He stuck his head inside.

  ‘Ronnie, it smells minging in here.’

  His voice, thought Ronnie, was wavering, as if he was scared, and all at once she was worried. ‘Perhaps you shouldn’t go in, Gary.’ She shivered and looked around. Goosebumps. Why had she got goosebumps? There was nothing but water and sky and flowers and green stuff. Too much green; she preferred the concrete blocks of home. ‘Gary, come on, let’s go. We’ll tell that lot at the boatyard when we get back. Let them come out and deal with it.’

  But Gary had already stepped inside.

  Twenty seconds later he stumbled out, fell off the boat, and threw up in the grass.

  2

  Afterwards, Alex Devlin would associate the music of Wagner with the time her relatively settled life began to slip from her control.

  The day hadn’t started well, beginning with a disjointed conversation with her parents, just as she wrote the last sentence of her most recent article for The Post.

  ‘Your father would like to see you, Alex,’ her mother said, her tone mildly censorious.

  Guilt immediately corkscrewed through her. ‘I know, Mum, I will come.’

  ‘When though? You always say you’re going to visit and then you don’t. Here’s your father. Talk to him.’

  There was the muffled sound of the phone being handed over.

  ‘Who is this?’ Her father’s once mellow voice now reedy.

  Alex clutched her phone tightly. ‘Alex. Your daughter.’

  ‘Oh yes, Alex.’ He paused, and Alex could almost hear the effort he was making to form the right words. ‘When are you coming? Your mother says you haven’t been.’ Another pause. ‘For a long time,’ he finished.

  ‘I’m—’

  ‘You like balloon animals.’

  She closed her eyes, hearing the note of anxiety in his voice. The making of animals out of balloons had been one of those things that they had done together when she was young, just her and him. It used to make her laugh.

  ‘I’ll make some for when you come round.’

  Alex’s throat was blocked. The time for her father to make balloon animals had passed long ago.

  ‘The weather’s been nice.’ It was her mother again.

  ‘I’ll come over,’ said Alex, knowing she must.

  ‘Can you make it later? This afternoon some time?’

  ‘Of course.’ She looked out of her study window, and could just about see the sun glinting on the water of Sole Bay.

  ‘Thank you.’ Her mother put the phone down.

  Her plan had been to spend the rest of the morning and the afternoon on the beach after having been immersed in the world of extreme couponing for the last few days. (Spend hours scouring the Internet! Browse newspapers and magazines and cut out vouchers! Organize your vouchers in folders and ring binders! Keep your vouchers handy in your purse!) Not exactly stretching the brain but it did at least help pay the bills. And gave her tips on how to save money at the supermarket, which was particularly appropriate as she was going to have to fill the fridge with food for Gus who was coming to stay with her in Suffolk. How was it that she spent a fortune in the supermarket (vouchers or no vouchers) and the food she bought was all gone in an instant as soon as her son turned up? Locusts could learn a lot from him, she thought. Still, it was going to be lovely to see him. It had been a long time. And thank God she’d finished that wretched article, and had sent it away with the press of a button. Couponing. Channel 4’s Cathy Newman she was not.

  She sighed. It had to be done. No, she wanted to do it. God knew life had been hard enough for her mum and dad, what with having to cope with her sister, Sasha, as a troubled teenager – unsuitable boyfriends, self-harming, all spit and fire. Alex had done as much as she could, although she hadn’t been a model daughter either.

  But it was so hard to see her once gentle father slowly turning into someone else. Early-onset dementia, they called it. A miserable twist of fate, she called it. And because she had found it hard, she had not given her mum as much support as she should have done. Her excuses had been her work, visiting Sasha in the mental health unit – anything, really. But it wasn’t good enough.

  She looked out of the window of her study. The sun and the promise of the kiss of warm early summer air on her skin beckoned. An hour? Maybe half? To recharge her batteries, that was all. Then she would go and see her parents. She pushed back her chair and went to fetch a towel.

  Alex settled on the sand, finding a comfortable spot where there weren’t any pebbles sticking into her skin. She was sheltered from the worst of the sharp sea breeze by the dunes.

  The sun was warm on her face. She closed her eyes, feeling drowsy. A few more minutes she thought, though it was becoming more difficult to ignore the creeping guilt.

  In the background, she heard the sea dragging on the shingle at the shoreline, mingling with the insistent barking of a dog, and children playing a game of volleyball on the beach.

  ‘It’s my serve,’ said a girl.

  ‘No, it’s not, it’s mine.’ A boy’s voice, younger. Brother perhaps?

  A sigh. ‘Go on then.’

  Thwack! The sound of the ball being hit.

  ‘Yesss!’

  ‘Oh.’ This from the girl. ‘Shall we call it a draw?’ she said.

  ‘No, you lost,’ said the boy.

  Alex smiled. Kids arguing. Fine when they weren’t your own. She sat up and then leaned back on her elbows. A few hardy souls were trying to swim in the North Sea, their screams testament to how cold it was. A dragon kite was flying high above her. She was trying to clear her head – be mindful, as some yoga teacher had once told her – trying to think of nothing.

  ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ boomed out from her bag. Her phone.

  For a brief moment she considered not answering it. But it could be anything – Gus finally telling her what time he was arriving (what was it about children that they didn’t realize you had a life, too, and to be able to organize it was helpful?), or (please God, no) something more to do with her sister, or maybe someone offering her work.

  She sighed and rolled across to her bag, fishing inside until her fingers made contact with the hard case. She squinted at the screen, but the sun was reflecting off the sand and she couldn’t see a thing.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Alex Devlin?’

  She didn’t recognize the voice, but all sorts of people had her number – it was how she often got commissions. ‘Yes, hello.’ She had her friendly I-can-do-work-for-you voice on.

  ‘I was wondering if you could help me.’ The voice was smooth.

  ‘I’ll try.’ She kept a smile in her voice.

  ‘It’s about your sister, Sasha Clements.’

  Alex froze. ‘Who is this please?’

  ‘My name’s Penny, and I wondered what your reaction was to her being released from Leacher’s House?’

  ‘None of your bloody business.’ She stabbed at the screen and thrust the phone back in her bag.

  She lay back on the sand, a knot of irritation tying itself up inside her stomach. And so it starts, she thought, all over again. Of course journos would want the story, want to rake over the events surrounding the killings for which her sister had been responsible.

  And now Sasha was returning to society and Alex was to look after her. It was a chance to do more for her sister.

  She was dreading it. And trying not to think about an email she’d received that morning about Sasha. It had to be a mistake, though, surely? Push it out of your mind, she told herself. Don’t
worry about it now. Deal with it later.

  ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ again. She snatched up the phone, any pleasure leaching out of the day. ‘Go away, I don’t want to speak to you.’

  ‘Is that you, Alex?’ Uncertainty clouded her mother’s voice.

  Alex suppressed a sigh and forced a smile onto her face. ‘Mum. Sorry. I thought it was a … never mind.’ Any mention of journalists or newspapers would send her mother into a right state. ‘I’ll be leaving soon,’ she said.

  ‘I was wondering if you could you go via Great Yarmouth and go to that Greek shop? I thought your dad might like some of the Greek tagliatelle he loves. And a pound of those special smoked sausages.’

  Alex’s heart twisted. Her mother was trying so hard, but her father wouldn’t be in the least bit bothered what pasta or sausage he ate, not these days. And Great Yarmouth was hardly on the way to her parents – more like a bloody great detour. Still, her mum didn’t ask for much.

  ‘Of course I will,’ she said.

  3

  The road out of Great Yarmouth was slow, and Alex tuned her radio to the local station in time for the news on the top of the hour as she drove.

  ‘Two bodies have been found on a boat on Dillingham Broad in Norfolk, police have said,’ intoned the newsreader. ‘We’ll bring you more news as we get it.’

  Her ears pricked up. Two bodies on a boat. Who? Why? ‘Come on, give us some more,’ she muttered, her journalistic instincts cutting in. She turned up the volume, as if that would entice the newsreader to give her some more interesting facts. Instead all she got was a story about a leisure centre being built on the edge of a Norfolk village and how Anglo-Saxon finds had been made at a wind farm site in Suffolk.