Dark Waters Read online

  She turned left opposite the primary school with three distinctive arches at its entrance and a couple of cars parked on the bit of grass next to it, past a newsagent, a butcher’s shop, a deli and an imposing church with a tall tower, and on to the road out of town.

  After a few more twists and turns Alex drew up outside a five-bar metal gate. A wooden board at the side of the gate proclaimed it to be Hillside Farm. Excellent, she thought, as she parked up on the grass verge.

  The soothing sound of a harp made her look at her phone. It was a text message from Gus, at last.

  Hi Ma, it said, planning to get a flight from Ibiza to Stansted in the next day or so. Will try and let you know tomorrow what time and when. I’ll make my own way to Sole Bay, just get the food in, I’m Hank Marvin!

  Alex smiled. She was looking forward to seeing her son again – it was many months since he’d gone to Ibiza to meet his father for the first time. Gus had slotted into his father’s family of Argentinian wife and three children as if he’d known them all his life. Which was a good thing. A really good thing. And it was good that he got on with his dad. It was the right thing to happen.

  So why did she always feel that twist of jealousy when she spoke to him over FaceTime and he waxed lyrical about what fabulous people they all were and how he was enjoying working for his father and how he couldn’t believe he’d waited so long to find him? Alex nodded and made encouraging noises, all the while feeling the envy and the slight resentment (slight? really?) that he should have this much enthusiasm for a man she’d had a one-night stand with and who hadn’t wanted to know her the next morning.

  Stop it, she told herself. Just stop it. Gus was happy and that was all that mattered.

  Great, she typed. So looking forward to seeing you.

  Texts, she thought, were lifesavers. She could stop worrying about Gus, and she’d had one from Sasha earlier that morning telling her not to worry, that she was with a friend. Right then, she wouldn’t worry. Much.

  She jumped out of the car and pushed open the gate, shutting it behind her. Then she took a picture of the pebble-dashed bungalow in the distance with her phone, and a close-up of the veg garden.

  Walking up the drive she marvelled at the rows of young vegetables growing either side of the gravel. If she was a proper gardener she would have known what was there; as it was, she could only identify some curly lettuces, the beginning of frondy carrot tops and wigwams made out of canes ready for runner bean plants to curl around. As she got closer to the house she sniffed the air. The sweet, earthy smell told her there were pigs in the vicinity, and she heard the triumphant crowing of at least one hen that had just laid an egg.

  Police tape had been fixed across the front door of the bungalow. They must have come yesterday, maybe looked for clues to – what? – to see why he killed himself? She frowned. So, the house was still the subject of a forensic investigation.

  She walked around the back and found a number of fenced-off areas with chickens, pigs, and sheep. There was also a goat tethered in one corner underneath an apple tree. When she got closer she saw large plastic buckets of feed and water. So the animals were being cared for.

  ‘What do you want?’

  Alex turned and saw a woman whose age could have been anything from thirty-five to sixty with a sharp, ferrety face. She was carrying a bucket and a shovel and was wearing wellington boots together with a muddy-coloured skirt (or perhaps it was muddy) and a faded pink tee shirt, partly covered by a flowery cardigan. So much for nobody else being about this early. She hadn’t thought about someone coming along to feed the animals.

  The woman put the bucket and shovel down. ‘I said, what do you want?’ There was no friendliness in her voice.

  ‘I was worried,’ said Alex, thinking quickly, ‘about the animals.’

  ‘Why would you be worried?’

  ‘Because—’ Alex floundered.

  ‘RSPCA, are you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘DEFRA?’

  ‘No.’ Did she look like someone from a government department then? She would have to take more careful note of what she wore.

  ‘So what business is it of yours?’

  ‘None really, but—’

  ‘Well, bugger off then. Go on. Roger doesn’t like visitors. Never has. Never will.’

  With a sinking feeling Alex realized the woman probably didn’t know about the death of Roger Fleet on the boat.

  ‘I’m sorry, but—’

  ‘Did you not hear me?’ She raised her voice. ‘I’ll call the police if you don’t leave. Now.’

  Alex had to try again. ‘Are you Mr Fleet’s wife?’ Unlikely, she knew, as a wife would have been told by now of Fleet’s death, but she thought talking to this woman could be useful.

  The woman laughed. ‘Wife? That’s a fine one. Best I’ve heard yet. No, Roger hasn’t got a wife. Never had, never will, I shouldn’t think. Likes his own company. Anyway, what’s it to you? And why should you be worried about the animals? He loves them and always asks me to look after them when he goes away. He’ll be back later today or tomorrow at the latest. Not that it’s any of your business.’

  ‘You haven’t seen police here?’

  She shook her head. ‘Why should they come out here?’

  So she hadn’t seen the police tape at the front door. ‘Mrs—?’

  ‘Archer.’

  There was nothing else for it. She stepped forward. ‘Mrs Archer, perhaps we could go somewhere and sit down.’ She took her elbow.

  ‘“Sit down”?’ Mrs Archer shook off Alex’s hand. ‘What do I want to do that for? I’ve got animals to feed.’

  Alex took a deep breath. ‘Look, I’m really sorry to be the one to tell you this, but I’m afraid I’ve got some very bad news. Roger Fleet has passed away.’ She flinched inwardly as she used that phrase – she had always thought it mealy-mouthed – and she wanted to go and put her arms around the woman, but she didn’t think it would be welcomed. Instead, she watched as the colour drained from Mrs Archer’s face and her whole body sagged.

  ‘“Passed away”? Died, you mean? Oh my.’ Mrs Archer put her hand to her throat. ‘What was it? Heart attack? He never looked after himself properly, all the years I’ve known him.’

  ‘I don’t know how he died, I’m afraid.’ That much was true.

  ‘Where did it happen? In Penstone?’

  ‘Penstone?’

  ‘The Priory.’

  ‘The Priory?’ Alex frowned. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realize Mr Fleet had problems?’

  ‘Problems?’ Mrs Archer sighed. ‘He certainly had problems. No love, not that fancy place that’s always on the news with some celebrity or other falling through its doors. This priory is the Catholic place in Penstone. He was on a retreat.’

  ‘A retreat?’

  ‘Bugger me, girl, do you always repeat everything? He was praying and that. Searching his soul. That’s what he told me. He went ten days ago. Load of old nonsense, if you ask me. I was surprised, though, because I know he didn’t have a lot to do with religion.’

  ‘Did he say why he was going at this particular time?’

  ‘Said he needed to make his peace with God.’ She frowned. ‘And now he’s dead. Poor sod. What’s going to happen to his animals? I can’t look after them all the time. What’s going to happen, tell me that?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mrs Archer. Perhaps the RSPCA could help. Did he have any family?’

  ‘A sister. In London.’ She frowned as she thought. ‘Uptight piece she is. Treated me like I was the home help when I met her. I don’t think they got on. Not much love lost, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Do you know his sister’s name?’

  ‘Margaret. Margaret Winwood. Lives in Twickenham. I remember that because of the rugby. You know, the stadium. I want to go to a match one day. Love watching it. All those well-built men in shorts running around barging into one another. Do you like rugby?’

  Alex tried to keep a straight
face – she was having a hard time reconciling Mrs Archer with a love of rugby players. ‘I quite enjoy watching it sometimes.’

  ‘Anyway, why do you want to know about his sister?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Because I can’t stand here chatting all day otherwise the poor buggers’ll die of hunger and thirst.’ Mrs Archer picked up the bucket and shovel. Her lip wobbled slightly. ‘Roger wouldn’t want his animals to go without.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s a bad business. He was quite a troubled soul, I think.’

  ‘Oh?’ Alex wanted to keep her talking.

  ‘Something had gone on in his life that had made him sad. He never would tell me, well, I wouldn’t have expected him to, but he was a kind man. He would invite me in for a cuppa of a morning and we would sit and put the world to rights, though he would never say anything bad about anybody. Such a gentle soul. Educated too. “Mrs Archer”, he’d say, “things might not have always gone right, but I do have my animals and my land”. That’s what he’d say. And he loved his dogs, Bramble and Cotton. Two brown labs they are.’ She put her free hand over her mouth. ‘What’s going to happen to them? They’re with me for the moment, but I can’t keep them. Pigs and sheep and hens are one thing, but those lovely dogs. Oh my word.’

  ‘I’m sure arrangements will be made.’ Alex felt helpless.

  ‘“Arrangements”. Poor bugger. I suppose they’ll let me know when the funeral is.’

  ‘I’m sure they will.’ Though Alex did wonder who ‘they’ were.

  ‘Anyway,’ went on Mrs Archer, who seemed to have found that once she started speaking she couldn’t stop, ‘you haven’t told me how it happened. Roger dying, I mean.’

  ‘It was on a boat. On the Broads.’

  ‘On a boat?’ Mrs Archer looked disbelieving. ‘Roger wouldn’t go on a boat, not for all the tea in China. He hated boats. And he was on a retreat.’

  Alex filed that away. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Archer, it seems after his retreat he went on the Broads. On a boat. I daresay the police will be able to fill you in, even if you’re not next of kin.’

  ‘I might not be next of kin, but I’m the one who knew him best these past years. What was it, an accident?’

  ‘The police aren’t totally sure,’ Alex answered. There was no way she was going to add to this woman’s distress.

  ‘I see. And who are you exactly?’ Mrs Archer suddenly eyed Alex suspiciously.

  ‘I’m—’

  ‘You one of them reporters, aren’t you?’

  ‘I am, yes.’

  ‘Guessed as much.’ She pulled her cardigan tight around herself. ‘Now bugger off, I need to get on.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Archer. About Mr Fleet, I mean.’

  ‘Yes. Well.’ Mrs Archer shrugged and walked away, her body stiff, her head held high.

  Alex watched her go, then hurried back to her car where she opened Google on her phone. Thank goodness 4G had reached even rural Suffolk; this part of it anyway. Penstone Priory was about an hour away. According to its website, it offered a ‘tranquil environment’ for people who wanted a ‘break from the trials and tribulations of everyday life’. It was run by Augustinian monks, who would doubtless keep their counsel and not breathe a word about what was troubling Roger Fleet even if they knew. Hmm. Maybe she’d keep that on the back burner.

  Now for Margaret Winwood in Twickenham. Her address. Surely it wouldn’t be as easy as – yes it was. BT Phonebook, thank you very much. Only one Winwood in Twickenham, and that was an ‘M Winwood’. Had to be her, surely? Unless Roger Fleet’s sister was ex-directory of course. She could ring, but— She looked at her watch. Thanks to her early start she had more than enough time to get down to London and be back in time to meet Heath at the Fox and Goose. Much better to talk to Mrs Winwood face-to-face.

  As she turned the key in the ignition there was a sharp knock on her window. Startled, she looked up to see the glowering face of Detective Inspector Berry. She glanced in her rear-view mirror. Bloody hell. She’d been so intent on looking up Penstone Priory and Margaret Winwood that she hadn’t noticed the car parked across the road from her.

  She pressed the button to lower the window, a smile fixed on to her face. ‘DI Berry. How lovely to see you.’ Be polite to police officers. That was always her mantra. Where possible.

  He leaned down towards her. ‘Fancy seeing you here, Ms Devlin.’ No smile.

  Ah. Not good when they remember your name.

  ‘And what are you doing here, may I ask?’

  ‘DI Berry,’ she said with great patience, ‘I’m a journalist. I needed some background, some colour on Roger Fleet. I wanted to see where he lived, that’s all.’

  ‘You’re trespassing.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Was trespassing. There are laws against that, you know.’

  ‘I’ve been speaking to Mrs Archer.’

  ‘Ah. The lady who feeds the animals. Yes. We are about to speak to her ourselves.’

  ‘Right.’ Alex couldn’t think of what to say.

  ‘Ms Devlin, please don’t interfere with our investigation.’

  ‘So it is an investigation?’

  DI Berry sighed and raised his eyes to heaven. Probably to find inspiration, she thought. ‘Until we have established the exact cause of death then it is an investigation. We are very thorough.’ His fingers tapped the top of the window. ‘A word of advice.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Leave well alone. Let us get on with our job. It’s hard enough without people like you running around like headless chickens.’

  Alex made sure her smile didn’t slip. ‘Of course, DI Berry. I won’t interfere.’

  ‘Thank you. That’s the right answer. We wouldn’t want to have to haul you in for impeding an investigation now, would we?’ He straightened up. ‘On your way.’ And he gave an irritating two bangs on the car roof.

  Alex drove away. Sedately. Giving a small wave to a boot-faced DS Logan who was climbing out of the parked car.

  She thought for a minute. Had he just threatened her?

  10

  Cambridge 1975

  Willem Major was the beginning of my reinvention. He was glamorous, exciting, fascinating. He took me under his wing. I completely abandoned Stu for Willem, who liked to baffle me with Wagner and Strauss, with Anouilh and Brecht, with any number of subjects I knew nothing about. I learned he had landed at the university three weeks early – ‘Parents didn’t want me hanging around,’ he said. But I was surprised he was only a first year like me; he seemed so confident around the university and the city, and he also greeted everyone he met as though he knew them. ‘Puts them on the back foot, darling,’ he said. ‘They think they should know you, but of course they don’t. It leaves them racking their brains for when they met you first. Great stuff.’ Then he would quote Chaucer or some obscure poet at me for no particular reason.

  Always playing a part was Willem.

  Those early autumn days were sharp and sunny, and Willem and I bought bikes that just about fulfilled the brief and we gloried in freewheeling down the hill in the sunshine and under plane trees with their golden leaves, and then we would go on to lectures or to sit in book-lined rooms in front of spitting log fires.

  We drank weak tea and ate cornflakes in the tiny kitchen shared by all on my staircase until he rousted me out and took me to drink weak coffee in backstreet cafés. Eventually Willem deigned to take me to Fitzbillies (‘What, have you never heard of it? You are so parochial!’) to gorge on proper tea and Chelsea buns. This is what I had dreamed about all those years in my dull Midlands town, what I had been reaching for. And no one questioned who I was or what I was. I made other friends, acquaintances; I even saw Stu from time to time, but Willem was the one who interested me, fascinated me, even.

  He introduced me to uppers and downers and everything in between. I was ripe for new experiences.

  Then I met Rachel.

  Rachel was small and slim, with fine white-blonde hair that hung
straight to her shoulders. She was studying English, and I met her in a café one day when I was, for once, without Willem. We got talking and found we had so much in common – books, music, bands. Her shyness, her delicate bones and porcelain skin, made me feel protective. I wanted to spend more time with Rachel and less with Willem. But Willem kept bombarding me with his company.

  ‘What do you see in her?’ he asked me. ‘I don’t understand it.’

  ‘She’s … sweet,’ I said.

  ‘Sweet? What does that even mean?’ And then he said: ‘Have you slept with her?’

  The colour that rose in my face told him what he wanted to know. ‘And I’ll bet it was the first time for both of you?’ he jeered.

  ‘Leave it, Willem,’ I said. ‘I like her, and I won’t let you spoil it.’

  One day I was working at my desk in two thick jumpers and a long woolly scarf, trying to get to grips with philosophical logic and failing completely, when Willem breezed in.

  ‘There’s a party going on at a house in Hills Road,’ he said.

  The nights were well and truly drawing in and I wanted to get to the bottom of this bloody branch of philosophy that seemed to involve a great deal of impenetrable maths and then have a drink in the bar and relax. Maybe play some pinball. Rachel was round at her friend’s house for the evening. I didn’t want to have to find my coat and shoes and go traipsing across the city in the dark and cold to some sleazy digs.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We haven’t been out together for simply ages.’

  As usual Willem got his way.

  The hallway of the party house was packed, as were the two rooms off it. Willem and I elbowed our way to the kitchen where we put down our bottles of cheap wine. Well, mine was cheap. I suspected Willem’s had been carefully chosen, even if it was only going to be necked by some student low-life.