Dark Waters Read online

  ‘Indeed. I understand you’re working on a piece for your newspaper about the deaths of those two men on the Broads in Norfolk, God rest their souls?’

  ‘That’s right. And thank you for seeing me.’

  ‘I have a niece who is studying journalism at university and I know she will be asking for work experience favours eventually. I like to help where I can.’

  Alex rooted around in her pocket and handed a business card to Father Paul. ‘When the time comes, tell her to get in touch with me. I might not be able to help, but I could point her in the right direction.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t mean—’

  ‘I know you didn’t, Father. But tell her.’

  ‘Thank you, I will. That’s very kind of you. Now. I don’t know how I can help you. I mean, we’re a long way from the Broads here.’ His smile was calm.

  ‘One of the men who died was a Roger Fleet.’ She watched, hoping to see recognition dawn on his face, but there was nothing. ‘He taught here, some years ago. In the mid- to late nineties.’

  ‘Ah.’ Father Paul shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you there. I didn’t arrive at the college until 2004.’

  Alex slumped back on the bench. A dead end.

  ‘Tell me, my dear, what sort of information were you after? And what makes the sad deaths of those two men newsworthy? According to the BBC website, it is most probably suicide.’

  ‘I know, Father. But one of the men is Derek Daley, a prominent businessman. He owns a successful magazine. And the other was Roger Fleet, a former priest who, as I said, taught here. There doesn’t seem to be any connection between them. Apparently they met on the Internet on a suicide forum.’

  Father Paul winced. ‘What troubled souls they must have been.’

  ‘I know. So I want to do a piece about these forums, how much they encourage people to take their own lives. I believe they should be shut down, though I know the Internet is hard to police. I also want to look at what sort of people Derek Daley and Roger Fleet were.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘It’s not sensationalist. If anything, I want to look at the dangers, maybe even get a debate going about it.’ Alex was warming to her theme. This was exactly what she wanted to do. Campaigning journalism, doing something that would make a difference.

  As long as she could get Heath out of the way, or to agree to her doing part of the story. But where should she go now?

  ‘Anyway, Father, thank you for your time.’ She began to get up off the bench.

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t help you, but Father Vincent might be able to.’

  ‘Father Vincent?’

  ‘Yes. He lives in the presbytery by the church. He’s being looked after by the parish priest, Father David.’ Father Paul laughed. ‘I can see by your face that all these Fathers are confusing you.’

  ‘A little,’ Alex admitted.’ There must be a collective noun for you all, surely?’

  ‘A prayer of priests?’

  ‘Not bad.’ Alex grinned. ‘In fact, I rather like that one.’

  ‘So it shall be.’ He inclined his head with a twinkly smile. ‘So. Father Vincent was at Goldhay for years. He taught here about the same time as your Roger Fleet, and he might be able to help more than I can. Now he’s not in the best of health and can be a bit curmudgeonly. I’m afraid I can’t give you anything about Roger Fleet from our records as they are confidential, but that’s not what you want anyway, is it?’

  ‘No, I’m after the person. Though facts do provide the scaffolding.’

  Father Paul looked at his watch, picked up his book and stood. ‘I’m afraid I have a class to teach, but I will email you over what I can, and I will phone the presbytery now and warn them you are coming. It’s at the Church of Our Lady of Perpetual Succour, and it’s only five minutes from here. As I say, Father Vincent can be bad-tempered and doesn’t like journalists much.’

  ‘Is that a warning?’

  Father Paul laughed. ‘I suppose it is.’

  Fifteen minutes later Alex was knocking on the door of the presbytery. It was a small bungalow built in the grounds of the church, which was a very modern building in the shape of a cross, constructed of light wood and glass with gardens and a car park wrapped around it.

  ‘Welcome, welcome.’ A young man in a black suit and a dog collar answered the door. ‘I’m Father David. Father Paul let us know you were coming. Father Vincent is in his study.’

  Father Vincent was like a children’s storybook version of a priest. He was large and round, with a thatch of wild white hair. He wore a black cassock and a large wooden cross around his neck. A red plaid rug was tucked around his legs. ‘Forgive me if I don’t stand up,’ he said. ‘My knees are bad today.’

  ‘His knees are bad every day,’ said Father David. ‘I’ll get you both some tea. Sit down, Ms Devlin.’

  Alex looked around the study. It was a bright and airy room, with bookcases along two walls, and a desk in the large window that looked across to the church.

  ‘So?’ said Father Vincent. The priest may have been large and round and kindly looking, but his eyes didn’t twinkle and he had no smile on his face. ‘I don’t see what I can help you with. If I’d known earlier that Father Paul was sending you here I would have told you not to bother.’

  Curmudgeonly was being too kind. Alex plastered her very best professional smile on her face. ‘I am looking into the death of Roger Fleet. He died on a boat on the Broads.’

  ‘I’m aware of that,’ the old priest said, testily. ‘Father Paul told me. Suicide. What’s it got to do with you?’

  Alex tried not to be knocked off course in the face of the hostility that was coming off Father Vincent in waves.

  ‘I haven’t anything to say. Especially not to journalists who twist words and meanings.’

  Alex tried again. ‘It’s thought that Mr Fleet met Derek Daley – the other man who died – on an Internet forum. I want to raise awareness of—’

  ‘“Raise awareness”. What a terrible, empty phrase that means nothing.’

  ‘I’m sorry you feel that way.’

  ‘I do. So if you’ll excuse me …’ he waved his hand over his desk, ‘I have work to do.’

  ‘I really want to do my best by Mr Fleet.’

  ‘Do you? Well, you’ll have to do it without any help from me, I’m afraid. Roger Fleet was a very private man with a troubled soul and it doesn’t need me to be adding fuel to the fire.’ His eyes bored into her. ‘That’s all, Miss Devlin.’

  At that moment the door opened, and Father David came in with a tray of tea and biscuits.

  ‘We won’t be needing those,’ said Father Vincent. ‘The young lady was just leaving. Weren’t you?’

  Alex knew when she was beaten. ‘I was. But thank you for your help.’ Again she gave him a wide smile. She always liked to be overly polite to those who were rude to her.

  ‘Er … right … I’ll see you out.’ Father David put the tray down next to the other priest. ‘You may as well have your coffee anyway, Father.’

  The younger priest showed Alex to the front door. ‘I’m sorry you caught Father Vincent on a bad day.’

  ‘You mean he has good days?’ said Alex, wryly.

  Father David laughed. ‘Not often, no. But …’ he looked over his shoulder, then turned back to Alex. ‘He has spoken to me of Roger. He said they didn’t try hard enough to help him here at the college. That’s all I know.’

  Alex nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  The door closed behind her, and Alex let out the breath she had been holding. And she thought priests were supposed to be gentle and polite and, well, nice.

  Father Vincent was obviously deficient in the milk of human kindness.

  13

  The restaurant terrace overlooking the beach was packed. The sound of the sea mingled with the clinking of glasses and the chatter of diners. Alex spied Heath sitting at a corner table and waved, making her way over to him, swerving to avoid a waiter balancing an enormous
platter on the palm of his hand loaded up with lobster, mussels, crab, oysters, langoustines, winkles and whelks all over crushed ice and decorated with seaweed.

  ‘Good choice,’ said Heath, as Alex slid into the seat opposite him. ‘And popular. How did you get a table?’

  Alex smiled. ‘The owner is an old friend of my mother’s. He can usually squeeze me in however busy it is.’ She picked up the menu. ‘And one of the chefs trained with Marcus Wareing. I thought it would suit your sophisticated London taste buds.’

  ‘It certainly looks good. I’ve ordered a bottle of rosé.’

  Alex raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I hope that’s okay?’

  He looked worried, so she decided to let him off the hook. ‘Yes, perfect for the start of summer. Thank you. And I could do with some alcohol, it’s been a long day. Lots of driving.’ She stifled a yawn.

  ‘Worth it?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when I’ve had something to drink. And some food.’

  Heath nodded, then frowned. ‘Am I that boring?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He nodded towards Alex’s phone that she had placed prominently on the table.

  She blushed. ‘Sorry, I know it’s a bit rude, but I’m waiting to hear from Gus.’

  ‘Even worse,’ he said in mock horror. ‘Out for dinner with one man while waiting to talk to another. Now you are making me feel really special.’

  Alex’s lips twitched. ‘Gus. My son. I have told you about him?’

  ‘Phew.’ He pretended to clutch his heart. ‘Not a rival then?’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘A mother’s son is always a rival, Heath. But not in your case. Because you and I don’t have that sort of relationship.’

  ‘Can’t a man dream?’

  ‘No. I’m waiting for a text from Gus telling me what plane he’s going to be on. He’s been abroad – long story – and now he’s coming to be with me for a few weeks.’ Or longer, she hoped. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing him.’

  ‘Of course you are.’ Heath’s eyes crinkled in a smile. ‘I like that about you, Alex. The way you love your boy.’

  Alex was irritated to feel herself blush. ‘It’s only natural, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not always.’ He picked up the menu. ‘Shall we order?’

  After they had spoken to the waitress and the wine had arrived, Alex settled back in her chair, her fingers curled around the stem of her glass. ‘So, what have you been doing today?’

  ‘This and that.’ He gazed around the restaurant. ‘Your parents’ friend must be making a mint.’

  ‘Heath,’ said Alex warningly, ‘don’t dissemble.’

  ‘I’m not. I only—’

  ‘Want to keep the story for yourself. Yeah, I get that. But I have helped you, stood around waiting to see what was going on, getting an “in” with the man from the boatyard. Giving you the addresses of Daley and Fleet.’

  He waved his hand, dismissing her work. ‘I could have got those quite easily. Anyway, I went to Roger Fleet’s house today.’

  Later than she had. She suppressed a smile.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing there apart from a few animals. When I had a snoop around a woman who was obviously looking after them told me to “bugger off”.’

  Alex put her hand over her mouth. She must not smile. She must not. She was damned if she was going to say anything about her own eventful day interviewing Roger Fleet’s friends and family. Not until Heath gave her something in return.

  The waitress set down the plate of roasted cauliflower with feta and olives that they had agreed to share. Then the calves’ liver with charred chicory for Heath, and the bavette steak with a spicy chocolate sauce for Alex.

  ‘And a side salad,’ said Heath, smiling at the waitress, who blushed, apologized, and hurried off to fetch it.

  They ate without speaking for a few minutes, but soon Alex couldn’t help herself. ‘What about the Lodges? Gary and Ronnie? Did you talk to them?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Not a lot. All they saw was the boat that looked closed – curtains shut and all that; Gary was worried, opened the door, and there they were. Derek Daley and Roger Fleet. Well, what was left of them anyway. Not pleasant by all accounts.’

  He was being deliberately cagey.

  ‘And have you come across the Logan and the Berry?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘DI Berry and DS Logan? The two officers who are on the case.’

  Heath laughed, raised his glass to her. ‘Are they really called that? Nope. I haven’t had the pleasure.’

  ‘Hmm. They appear to be following me around.’

  ‘Who wouldn’t?’

  ‘Thank you, Heath. Enough of that,’ she said, tartly. ‘What do you think, though?’

  ‘Think?’

  ‘Is there a story here? I think there is. Not just about what happened, but about the people involved. Derek Daley is famous, for God’s sake.’

  ‘In some circles, yes.’

  ‘And then there’s the whole Internet suicide thing. That’s incredible, something we could really expose.’ How she wanted to do this.

  Heath looked startled. ‘Hang on a minute. Internet suicide? How did you find that one out? I thought it wasn’t common knowledge?’

  ‘But you knew too?’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘It’s a good job I found out, then, isn’t it? As you weren’t going to tell me.’ She was irritated.

  Heath looked sheepish, then he put down his knife and fork. ‘Look.’ He poured them both some more wine. ‘It was really great of you to find out the addresses and stuff, even though I could have done it myself, but it looks like it’s an open-and-shut case of suicide – albeit an unusual suicide with the Internet connection. Worth a feature article, I guess.’

  She didn’t believe him. She speared a cauliflower floret and popped it into her mouth followed by a forkful of feta and black olives. ‘Perfect combination,’ she said, relishing the tangy, salty taste. ‘Pull the other one.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t believe this nonchalance from you about Daley and Fleet.’ She leaned forward. ‘Two men who don’t know each other meet over the Internet and kill themselves. Come on, Heath. Okay, maybe they were gay, couldn’t hack it any longer. Possible. But one was a well-known, mostly respected, magazine proprietor. The other was a farmer of sorts. Why would they want to die?’ She waved her fork at him. ‘Being gay in this day and age isn’t a crime between two consenting adults. And why on a boat on the Norfolk Broads? Carbon monoxide poisoning is painless I’m told, but they could have been found sooner, the barbecue might not have given off enough fumes, or any at all. It’s not a certain way to die, is it?’

  ‘No—’

  ‘Come on, you must have questions. You didn’t win journalist of the year all those years ago for nothing.’

  ‘Reporter of the Year.’ He looked affronted.

  Alex grinned. ‘Whatever.’ She waved her fork around before applying herself to cutting a piece of the steak. ‘Wow, this sauce is fantastic.’

  ‘Is everything all right for you?’ The waitress set down the side salad and smiled.

  ‘Perfect, thank you,’ said Alex. ‘The food is, anyway. Do you think the chef will give me the recipe for the sauce?’

  ‘I’ll ask her,’ said the waitress, before moving away.

  ‘Alex. Bud—’

  ‘I told Bud about the damned story in the first place. I got the names and everything. Not that he ran much before anyone else.’ She waved her fork again, this time with a piece of bloody meat on the end. ‘I saw Mrs Archer too. Got a lot more out of her than you did. And I did a lot more digging.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’ She felt triumphant.

  ‘What sort of digging?’

  ‘Don’t think I’m bloody well going to tell you that. Not at the moment. So what about Bud anyway?’

  He gave a deep sig
h. ‘Bud wants me to look around a bit more, put something together. There isn’t room for two of us on this.’

  ‘What?’ Alex felt the hope drain away. She hadn’t realized how much she was looking forward to getting her teeth into doing something, into exposing the danger, the sheer horror of Internet suicide forums.

  ‘If you could give me anything else you’ve got?’

  ‘Like?’ No way. No way at all.

  ‘Like you said you were exhausted, done a lot of driving today. Where have you been? Who have you seen?’

  Alex shook her head. ‘No. If Bud doesn’t want it, I’ll sell it somewhere else.’

  Heath sighed and put down his knife and fork. ‘Cards on the table?’

  Alex nodded. ‘Cards on the table.’

  ‘So, you know there are cutbacks all across the board?’

  She did know. It was proving harder and harder to get decently paid freelance work – it was only the fact she was well known in the industry that made editors come back for more. The Post took something from her most months, but she had heard that the paper was streamlining its operations, something to do with a sale in the offing.

  ‘I fucked up last year,’ said Heath. ‘I won’t go into the details. Let’s just say I went too far to get a story and I’m not Bud’s flavour of any month.’

  ‘Oh, Heath.’

  ‘I know, I know. That has put me at the top of the list for the push from the paper, and I can’t afford it at the moment. You see …’ He took a gulp of his wine. ‘My girlfriend is going to have a baby and I want us to be together.’

  Alex’s mouth dropped open. Heath Maitland the serial shagger, the biggest flirt in the office was going to settle down and have babies? Well, there was a thing.

  ‘All right, all right,’ said Heath testily. ‘I know how you feel. How all the girls are feeling right now.’

  ‘How are “all the girls feeling”?’ Her lips twitched.

  ‘Devastated.’

  Alex rolled her eyes.

  He grinned. ‘Just joking. But you see what I’m getting at.’

  Since Heath was too wrapped up in what he was saying to pour Alex any more wine, she helped herself then leaned forward. ‘Yes, I do. You think this could be a big story, a really big story.’ She drank from her glass.