Simon Beckett - The Restless Dead

‘So is it him or her?’

I looked at him, surprised. ‘I’m sorry?’

Smoke wreathed his head as he regarded me. Except for pockmarking on his cheeks, the legacy of old acne, he had the sort of face it’s hard to recall afterwards. The same could be said for the rest of him. Average height, average build, neatly cut mid-brown hair. From a distance I’d thought he was around forty, but now I saw the signs of aging: a lightening of the hair around the temples and faint lines around the mouth and eyes. Nearer fifty, I thought.

He tapped ash from his cigarette. ‘The body you’ve just brought back. Is it him or the woman?’

By him he’d mean his employer’s son. He’d have to have been blind not to know what we were doing at the quayside, and it wasn’t much of a leap for anyone to guess the body must be either Leo Villiers’ or Emma Derby’s.

But I wasn’t about to fuel any gossip. ‘Sorry, I can’t help you.’

A smile played around his mouth. ‘OK. Just making conversation.’

Paying me no more attention, he drew on his cigarette as he kept watch on the corner of the oyster sheds. I carried on to my own car, my mind returning to the scene on the quayside yet again. But no matter how many times I replayed what had happened, or went over my reasoning about the time-since-death, I didn’t come out of it feeling any better.

Opening the car boot, I perched on its edge as I tugged off the waders and then wrestled out of the heavy coveralls. Despite the cold, I was sweating underneath, more than I should have been. Now the recovery was over, I realized I was aching and feeling more out of sorts than ever. Hoping whatever I was coming down with would at least hold off until later, I towelled myself off and took a drink of cold water from one of the bottles I’d put in the cool-box. The Brie I’d bought to take to Jason and Anja’s was in there as well, and I felt my spirits sink as the sight of it reminded me I still had to drive all the way across country to the Cotswolds.

Focus on the job and stop feeling sorry for yourself . Shivering in the chill air, I put the lid back on the water bottle. As I pulled on my jacket Sir Stephen and Dryden appeared from behind the sheds: whatever discussion Clarke had wanted to have in private was over. There was a brisk handshake, and then both men went to their separate cars. The Daimler’s driver was now ramrod straight, his cigarette nowhere in sight as he went to open the rear door with practised efficiency. Sir Stephen climbed in without giving me a glance. Neither did the driver as he closed the door and then got in himself. The big car started with a low thrum, and then crunched across the broken tarmac to the gates.

By now more police officers were emerging from the quayside. Clarke headed straight for a VW, followed shortly afterwards by Frears. The pathologist had already stripped off his coveralls and looked sleek and well fed in a tailored pinstripe suit and tan brogues. The coveralls had disguised an unexpected plumpness, but he had the confidence and flamboyance to carry it off.

He gave an airy wave as he headed for a BMW that looked as polished as he did. ‘See you at the post-mortem,’ he called.

I raised my hand in return, feeling scruffy and unkempt in comparison. Now the stretcher appeared, carried by two marine unit officers. Lundy was with them, and peeled off to come over as they headed for a windowless black van.

‘Sorry about that. I wasn’t expecting Sir Stephen to be here,’ he said.

‘Everything OK?’

He smiled. ‘I think it was what’s called a frank exchange of views. Meaning he expressed his, and we listened. Didn’t have much choice with the Deputy Chief Constable standing there.’

‘Is he involved with the investigation?’ I asked. A DCC didn’t normally take such a hands-on approach, let alone attend a recovery in person. Dryden hadn’t looked exactly happy about it himself.

‘Not officially. But like I was saying earlier, Sir Stephen’s got a lot of clout and no one wants to ruffle his feathers. Getting the DCC down here’s meant to show how seriously we’re taking this. Keeps us on our toes as well.’

It would do that, all right. ‘What Sir Stephen said about his son’s death being an accident. He can’t still believe that, can he?’

Lundy absently rubbed his stomach with a look of faint discomfort. The DI was evidently having problems, I thought, remembering the antacids. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. His lawyers have come down like a ton of bricks on any suggestion of suicide ever since Leo went missing, but that’s one for the inquest. Let’s get the post-mortem out of the way first. You clear on how to get to the mortuary for the briefing?’

I said I was. Before a post-mortem, the police team would meet with the pathologist, mortuary technicians and any forensic experts such as myself to brief on the case. The mortuary was in Chelmsford, a good hour’s drive, although once I was away from the winding roads around the estuary it should be easy enough to get there.

When Lundy had gone I took a few moments to unwind the kinks from my neck. The feeling that I was coming down with something persisted, and a headache had started to form. Doing my best to ignore it, I put my muddy waders and coveralls into bin bags before cramming them at the back of the boot.

Closing it, I paused to look at the estuary. The returning tide had wrought a dramatic transformation. The barren mudflats had vanished, replaced with a broad stretch of choppy sea. The Barrows were all but hidden, the tips of the highest sandbanks only just breaking the surface, creating oily, flattened patches of water around them. Further out, the three towers of the derelict sea fort stood at the mouth of the estuary on stilt-like legs.

I looked round as an unmarked black funeral company van crunched past, on its way to the mortuary with the body. Following it came the marine unit Land Rover, bouncing over the potholes with the RHIB behind it on its trailer. Quiet settled again once they’d gone. I took a moment to enjoy the estuary’s mud and saline air. Although it wasn’t exactly picturesque, there was still something restful about this landscape. I would have liked to stay longer, but I was the last one there. The parking area was empty except for my car.

It took more of an effort than it should to rouse myself. I got in my car and drove through the open gateway, then pulled up while I shut the gate. There was no way to lock it, but perhaps there was no need. The oyster sheds had none of the broken windows or graffiti-covered walls you’d expect to find nearer a town or city, and I doubted there’d be anything left to steal. It would take a very bored or determined vandal to come all the way out here.

I backtracked the way I came earlier, passing through the same run-down town that if anything looked even more dismal in full daylight. After that, though, it was a different route. Now I was on the edge of what Lundy had called the Backwaters. The road itself wasn’t quite single track, but it wasn’t far off. It meandered and twisted back on itself, forced to follow the dictates of the waterlogged landscape. High hawthorn hedges bordered it on either side, making it difficult to see what was around the bends. I took it steadily, checking Lundy’s directions from time to time to make sure I was still heading the right way. It was hard to tell, but it wasn’t as if there were many other roads to choose from.

Still, as one featureless field or marsh merged into another, I began to worry I’d somehow taken a wrong turn. I reached to switch on the satnav; even if it struggled to find a route, it might at least give me a better idea of where I was.

I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel, waiting for the spinning disc to be replaced by a map.