Dark Waters Page 3

  ‘Who was the man in your life, then?’ Lin had asked, after Alex had told her how someone she thought was “the one” who was going to share her life had buggered off without so much as a goodbye. ‘Gus’s father, or?’

  ‘The “or”,’ Alex had said with a wry smile. ‘Done and dusted and best forgotten.’

  Lin had nodded, and Alex had appreciated the fact she didn’t pry any further. And so began what was, for Alex, an easy friendship. Usually wary about becoming close to people, Alex made an exception for Lin who was relaxed and undemanding as a friend. And if Lin had heard from one of the many gossips around town about Sasha, she didn’t bring it up. Another reason, Alex felt, to like Lin.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Alex said now. ‘Why haven’t you been round?’

  ‘I’ve been in London on an art course. I told you about it – remember?’

  Alex frowned, then shook her head. ‘I’m sure you did but my brain is like a sieve. So what are you doing here?’

  ‘I was taking some pictures’, she pointed to the digital camera hanging from around her neck, ‘for my next project, you know? Boats and ducks and so on, and came across this commotion.’ She shivered dramatically. ‘How did they die?’

  ‘I don’t know yet, that’s what I’m hoping to find out.’

  ‘What have you got so far?’ Lin looked at her, wide-eyed.

  ‘Not a great a deal – I’ve sent off a colour piece and a one par breaking news story that’ll go on the website when I can confirm it: that’s it so far.’

  Lin nudged her. ‘Get you. Colour piece. Breaking news. Hope you get a whatsit, a byline. And get paid.’

  ‘Ha! Haven’t broached the idea of money yet. Depends how much more I do.’

  ‘Anyway.’ Lin looked at her watch. ‘I must go.’ She jumped in the Mini and put the window down. ‘Come round for supper later, let me know how you’ve got on.’ And with that she drove away.

  Alex shook her head, smiling. That was a hasty departure.

  Lin was right about the money, though. She’d been so eager to get something more worthwhile than celebrity news or how to collect coupons into The Post that she hadn’t mentioned money to Bud. How naive. And how – she struggled to find the word – how parochial. She’d never had any ambitions to be a foreign correspondent or an anchor on a TV show. She wanted to make a living doing something she enjoyed. So how had she ended up in Sole Bay writing features for The Post?

  Her choice.

  She had given it a go in London; Bud had given her work, but it was mainly fillers for the paper, hardly ground-breaking stories. Sole Bay was where her heart was, so she’d compromised and come home, and generally she was content. But on days like these, when something half decent came along, she had the adrenaline rush, the tightness in her belly, the fizz in her head.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  Alex turned towards the voice. It was PC Lockwood.

  ‘I thought you’d like to know’, he said without any preamble, ‘that there’s going to be a press conference at six. About the deaths on the boat.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Alex, surprised. ‘It was good of you to—’

  ‘It’s my job to tell you. It’ll be at the station in the town. Nobody’s saying anything until then.’ He nodded behind her. ‘Your mates have caught up with the story.’

  Alex turned. Sure enough, a couple of likely-looking reporters were scribbling in notebooks. She recognized one of them, from the local TV, setting up his own camera before turning and facing it and doing a piece to camera.

  She sent a text to Bud.

  Press conference at six.

  She got an immediate reply.

  Go. Reporter will meet you there and liaise.

  ‘And thank you for all your hard work, Alex,’ she muttered. ‘You’ve done really well, Alex. Liked the colour piece, Alex.’

  What else had she expected?

  Suddenly the crowd on the staithe fell silent.

  The police boat was pulling the cruiser across the water towards land.

  5

  Cambridge 1975

  The silence was terrifying as my dad and I heaved the battered school trunk we’d found in a junk shop through a small doorway at the side of the old stone building and up Staircase C. As it bumped up each tread, worn smooth by the shoes of generations of students, my heart sank lower and lower. What was I doing here? An ordinary boy from an ordinary town who did as he was told, stayed on an extra six months at the local grammar, passed exams, a three-day interview and was now at Cambridge.

  When Dad left, exhorting me to enjoy myself and meet people (subtext: a nice girl from a nice family – and thank Christ Mum hadn’t come: she would have been unbearably fussy), I sat on my narrow single bed staring at the beige carpet and nursing a glass of the Blue Nun I’d brought with me (‘to share with other students’, my mum had said hopefully), trying to ignore the slight smell of drains and praying nobody would knock on my door. Soon I would Blu-Tack posters of Bowie and college events to the wall and unpack my record player and books, but for now I was looking at bare magnolia walls, empty bookshelves, and a basin in the corner with an annoying dripping tap. And I kept glancing over to my desk nervously, looking at the array of invitations I had picked up from my pigeonhole in the porter’s lodge on my way through. I wasn’t sure I would have the courage to accept any of them. I had the sense that at any point I could be found out, that I didn’t deserve to be here, not really.

  Then, unexpectedly, I felt a surge of happiness. I was here. I’d made it. Cambridge. Bright, glittering. I could be whoever I wanted to be. I could reinvent myself. I could be exciting, intriguing, interesting. No longer dull. There would be people to fascinate me. I might fall in love. I would no longer be ordinary.

  I didn’t know then that I would soon be craving an ordinary life.

  The first person I met was Stu.

  He knocked on my door that night while I was nursing my Blue Nun.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, hopping from one foot to another, pushing his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. ‘I’m Stu.’ He held out his hand. I took it and he gave me a firm handshake. His hair was receding, and he wore jeans that had been ironed. His accent was pure Birmingham. Coming from the Midlands I recognized it instantly.

  ‘I saw your dad helping you earlier. I thought—’ His glasses had slipped again; he pushed them back. ‘I heard your dad, and I thought you were probably from somewhere near Birmingham—’

  ‘Somewhere near,’ I said.

  ‘I’m not sure whether I should be here—’ He trailed off, looking around nervously.

  ‘Where? On this staircase?’

  ‘No. Here. In Cambridge.’ His smile was hesitant.

  I smiled back, warming to him. ‘I know what you mean.’

  ‘Do you?’ he said. ‘Do you really?’ He came in and sat on my armchair. ‘Perhaps we can pal up. Go to things together. I’m reading Philosophy.’

  ‘So am I,’ I said.

  So for the rest of the week Stu and I stuck together. It helped me because Fresher’s Week was an endurance, even though I guess that’s where it all began. It was a week packed with filling out forms, going to dusty rooms where professors lurked with warm sherry, and trying to avoid the jolly red-faced students trying to get us to sign up to their societies. But the old fear of being found out once again got in my way, so the only society I joined was the Philosophy Society. I felt that’s what you did at places like Cambridge.

  Stu joined the Philosophy Society with me. He eschewed the same societies as I did. He talked to the same people as I did. He was good to have around, if a little dull, and I wondered if I’d still be friends with him at the end of our three years.

  Then came the end of the week party at the college. I got ready carefully, putting on new jeans (unironed) and a tee shirt with some sort of logo on it, washed my hair and splashed out on aftershave that smelled vaguely spicy. The party took place in a dark hall – the Junior Common Room – with m
usic from the Sex Pistols making the walls and floor vibrate. No food – that wasn’t the point – and the evening dissolved into a blur of cigarettes and alcohol and a joint or a spliff; I wasn’t even sure what to call it I was that naive, but I smoked as though I knew what I was doing.

  Shamefully, I tried to shake off Stu, telling him I was going to get a drink, but I had no intention of finding him in the crowd again. I wanted some of that elusive excitement, and I thought Stu would cramp my style. Then I went back to someone’s room to carry on the party and started talking to a student who looked as though he had just stepped out of an Evelyn Waugh novel, complete with pullover, casually worn scarf (even at a party, and he told me later it was cashmere) and a cigarette in a holder. A mix of secrecy, amusement and decadence radiated off him. He told me his name was Willem. ‘Though I’d rather be Seb. After Sebastian Flyte,’ he explained, pinning me with his ice-blue eyes. ‘You can call me Seb, if you like.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said, suddenly giddy with the idea of standing up to someone with his air of entitlement.

  The time for my reinvention had arrived.

  6

  The Harper’s Holidays building was by the side of the River Ant next to Lowdham Bridge, some six miles from Wrexfield. Alex had driven past it many times, but had never had occasion to stop.

  Now she navigated the car across a yard full of boats of all different shapes and sizes, some covered with tarpaulins, others dilapidated and listing to one side, all of them looking out of place on dry land. Any number of bodies could be hidden around here, thought Alex. On the river she could see three sleek cruisers moored – presumably ones for hire. No sign of Firefly Lady – that particular crime scene would be with the coppers for some time to come.

  Alex parked next to a building by the water’s edge that appeared to be a large shed with a corrugated iron roof. She went through the door marked ‘Harper’s Holidays Reception’ thinking to find something akin to a tyre and exhaust workshop – a little grubby, a bit seedy, populated by men who were unused to office work. And with one of those coffee machines in the corner that dispensed execrable drinks. Instead she found a bright, clean office with three smart women working away at their computers. She should never think in stereotypes – she should have learned that by now.

  One of the women looked up and smiled a red lipstick smile. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Is – Colin here?’ As Alex asked the question she realized she didn’t know what she would do if he wasn’t in his office. He might have gone home after the events of the morning. Or be in the pub she’d noticed over the road, nursing a pint or two.

  ‘Is he expecting you?’

  ‘Not really. Though he did say to drop by.’ Alex gave her what she hoped was her best smile.

  ‘Is it to do with a booking?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  The woman’s smile slipped slightly.

  ‘If it is to do with a booking I’m sure I can help. Though we tend not to do hen parties. Or stag parties. Too much trouble. Was it a particular boat you wanted? Two or four? Or we do have boats that sleep up to ten. And when were you thinking? We are quite booked up from now until September, but we might be able to find—’

  ‘No, no, it’s not about a holiday.’ Alex wanted to stop her before the hard sell really began. At least she hadn’t said Colin wasn’t about.

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you press?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  The woman stood up, red lipstick glistening, her smile a gash in her face. ‘I think you should leave now, Miss—?’

  ‘Devlin. Alex Devlin.’

  ‘Well, Miss Devlin, we have been asked not to talk to the press about the – ah – incident. And, as you can imagine, it’s all been rather upsetting.’

  Alex stood her ground. ‘Colin said to call in.’

  ‘I don’t think Mr Harper meant you to call in now. While all this is going on. He’s only just got back from the police station himself.’ Her mouth made a moue of distaste.

  ‘It’s all right, Kerry, I’ll take it from here.’ Colin appeared from a door at the back of the office and winked at Alex. ‘Nice to see you again. Come on through.’

  Alex walked past the woman with the lipstick and followed Colin through a door into a back office.

  This office was more what she had expected: a jumble of papers, magazines, dirty coffee cups and a calendar with a picture of a boat tacked on the wall. There were a couple of spanners and an oily rag on the desk too. The air smelled of cheap cigarettes. The front office was for show: this was where the real business took place.

  Colin was still in his too-tight jeans and too-tight tee shirt. He gestured for Alex to sit. He took the chair on the other side of the desk and swept four mugs to one side with a clatter.

  ‘I’m sorry to come so soon after this morning—’

  Colin grimaced. ‘No worries. Had to come back to the office. There might be a couple of stiffs on my boat but the wheels of commerce still turn. At least, I hope the wheels haven’t come off the wagon. A living’s got to be made. Now.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘I’m guessing you’re not here to book a holiday on one of my boats?’

  Alex smiled. ‘You guess right.’ She looked around at the tottering piles of paper. ‘Looks like you’re really busy.’

  Colin nodded. ‘Yep. Lots of people want a Harper’s Holiday. That’s me. Colin Harper. Rent the boat, have a holiday of a lifetime.’ He grinned. ‘Unless you’re Derek Daley and his mate.’ He shook his head. ‘Still don’t know how I’m going to clear up the mess on that boat.’ He grimaced.

  ‘You could get professional cleaners in. You know, ones who clear up after unusual deaths.’

  He looked interested. ‘Didn’t know there was those sort of people.’

  ‘I’m sure the police would put you in touch with someone.’

  He gave a short laugh. ‘Those damn coppers don’t know their arses from their elbows. Running round like headless chickens, told me they didn’t know when I could have me boat back. Impounded it, they said. Evidence, they said. I told them it was costing me every day it wasn’t cruising down the river with some knobhead from London on board. I mean, what are they doin’? They’ll have scraped the bodies off it by now. Surely they’ve taken all the photos that are needed as well?’ He shook his head. ‘They don’t seem to care about a man’s livelihood. Or reputation. No one will want to hire a bloody boat from me at this rate. My granddad started this business with one small boat. Now we’ve got a fleet.’ He tapped his pockets and brought out his battered cigarette packet, this time full of cigarettes, which he offered to Alex.

  She shook her head with a smile.

  He shrugged, took a squashed cigarette out and lit it, ignoring the ‘No Smoking’ sign stuck to the wall.

  ‘So. Didn’t expect to see you so soon.’ He grinned. ‘Or mebbe I did. You’re one of them journalists, aren’t you?’

  ‘Can’t deny it.’

  ‘Knew it. And you want to know who else was booked on Firefly Lady, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. And confirm it was Derek Daley on that boat.’

  ‘See it with your own eyes, like?’

  ‘You’ve got it.’

  He smiled at her. ‘Jim said you’d be likely to pay me for information.’

  At least he didn’t beat about the bush. She nodded. ‘We can give you a bit of money. For your time, you know.’

  ‘Expenses like?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘How much?’

  Alex thought back to the conversation she’d had with Bud on the way to the boatyard when she told him what she was doing and how she hoped to confirm absolutely who had hired the boat. Give him what he wants, Devlin, he’d said. A pause. Within reason, of course. Of course, she’d replied, wondering what ‘within reason’ meant. How much Bud, usually tight-fisted with the cash, was willing to pay for information about a magazine editor who had been his rival in business.

&n
bsp; She named a figure. Colin looked disappointed, made to get up out of his chair. She stifled a sigh. Named another figure. Colin grinned.

  ‘Cash, of course.’

  Alex raised an eyebrow before delving into her bag and pulling out an envelope, thankful she’d had the foresight to stop off at a cashpoint on the way. She slid the envelope across the desk. Colin made to take it. She kept her hand on it. ‘One other thing.’

  Colin cocked his head to one side. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Have you got a boat here that’s like Firefly Lady?’

  ‘You mean, the same inside and that?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  He looked at her, then at the envelope. ‘I reckon that’s worth a bit more.’

  ‘All or nothing.’ She held his gaze.

  Finally he nodded. ‘Okay.’ He put his hand over the envelope and pulled it towards him. ‘Feels fat enough.’

  ‘So?’ asked Alex.

  ‘We’ll show you round one of the boats.’ He slid the envelope into a drawer. ‘And I’ll tell you another thing. For free.’

  ‘Oh?’ Alex could see he was bursting to tell her something.

  ‘Barbecue.’ Colin Harper leaned back in his dilapidated office chair, hands folded behind his head.