Simon Beckett - The Restless Dead

And then my car was bumping up on to the track and off the causeway. The Land Rover carried on going, towing me well clear before it stopped. Water streamed from the car, and when I opened the door the footwells were a sodden mess. But the door seals had kept out the worst of it, and the seats were dry. I looked back at the flooded creek bed. The water completely covered it now, with no sign whatsoever of the causeway.

I turned at the sound of the Land Rover’s door slamming. The man looked in his mid to late forties, the unkempt dark hair shot through with the same grey that stubbled his chin. There were deep lines running from his nose to the corners of his mouth, and the creases on the broad forehead suggested a disposition more inclined to scowl than smile. He wore thick-framed but stylish glasses and a brown leather jacket over a navy sweater and jeans. All were well worn, but the jacket looked expensive, and I noticed the discreet designer logo on the side of the glasses.

I held out my hand. ‘Thanks. I thought I was—’

‘What the hell were you doing?’

His vehemence took me aback. I lowered my hand, my face beginning to burn. ‘The satnav showed this as a detour. There was somebody in the—’

‘Are you blind or just stupid? See all that wet stuff? That’s water . You don’t try driving across a causeway when the bloody tide’s in!’

‘The tide wasn’t in, and if I’d known there was a pothole I wouldn’t have tried to cross. But I appreciate your help.’

I kept my own voice calm with an effort. I didn’t need anyone telling me I’d been stupid, and even though I was in his debt I wasn’t going to be yelled at by a complete stranger. And not one who’d clearly thought long and hard before deciding to come back.

He glared at me, and I could almost feel the desire to argue radiating from him. I couldn’t believe it was just because he’d had to pull my car out of the creek. But I was aching, soaking wet and terminally late for the pathologist’s briefing. Whatever his problem was, right then I didn’t care. I stared levelly back at him, holding my own temper in check.

After a moment he looked away, breathing out as though audibly letting go of something. ‘What are you doing here anyway? We don’t get many people coming this far out.’

I hesitated. But by now Sir Stephen Villiers’ driver wouldn’t be the only person who knew a body had been found. And if this man was local he could hardly have missed the police helicopter that had been circling since first light.

‘I was here for a police operation,’ I said after a moment.

His gaze suddenly became more piercing. ‘You mean the body? You’re a police officer?’

Here we go again . My headache had never gone away, but now I became aware of its dull throbbing again. ‘No, I’m not a police officer. And I’m not going to tell you what I’ve been doing, so there’s no point asking.’

It came out sharper than I intended. Now it was his turn to look taken aback. ‘Well, that’s honest, at least. What are you, some sort of police consultant? Or can’t I ask that either?’

That much was hardly a secret. ‘I’m a forensic anthropologist.’

It wasn’t giving much away but he nodded, apparently satisfied. ‘Sorry for taking your head off. I’m Andrew Trask.’

He said it as though it should mean something. It didn’t, and I was too on edge to pay much attention. I shook the offered hand. ‘David. David Hunter.’

A gust of wind suddenly made me realize how cold and wet I was. It belatedly occurred to me that Trask wasn’t much better. Water pooled round his boots, and the denim of his jeans was darkened up to the knee as he looked past me at my car. I could almost see some sort of internal debate going on.

‘You’re not going to be able to call a recovery service.’

‘I’ve got breakdown cover,’ I told him, misunderstanding. This wasn’t the first isolated place my work had called me out to, so I’d made sure I wouldn’t be stranded if I broke down.

‘No, I meant you won’t get a phone signal. Reception’s patchy out here.’ He paused, and again I got the impression of a decision being made. ‘I’ll give you a tow to my house. It’s not too far and you can make the call from there.

‘That’d be great. Thanks,’ I said, surprised by the offer after his earlier hostility.

But I wasn’t about to refuse. I’d need all the help I could get if I was going to even make the post-mortem itself, never mind the briefing.

He shrugged, looking as though he were already having second thoughts. ‘I can’t leave you out here. It’ll be easier for directions and my son’s good with engines. He might be able to help.’

‘No, that’s OK. I’m putting you to enough trouble already.’

That was true enough, but I didn’t want an amateur mechanic making things worse, no matter how well intentioned.

Trask gave me an odd look. ‘Hardly matters, does it?’

At another time I would have wondered what he meant, but I was too tired and dispirited to give it much thought. Some of the energy seemed to drain out of him as he looked down the creek, then he straightened.

‘Come on, let’s get back,’ he said.

While Trask turned the Land Rover around so the rope could be retied to the rear tow bar, I tried my phone. As well as the recovery service, I needed to call Lundy to let him know I’d be late. I’d no idea what damage the salt water would have done to my car, or how long it would take to repair. But if I had to I’d leave it here and worry about that later. My priority now was getting to the mortuary.

Trask was right about the poor mobile reception. I tried wandering round, but my phone stubbornly refused to find a signal. Fretting over the delay, I put it away as Trask finished securing the rope to his Land Rover. I took a last look back at the creek before I climbed into my car again. It was completely flooded, seabirds bobbing on the small waves that ruffled its surface as they were swept along by an invisible current. There was no sign of the causeway at all, and from the erosion on the creek’s soft banks from the normal high-water mark, the level was still rising. If Trask hadn’t towed me out my car would have been completely submerged before much longer, and there was ample evidence that the tides sometimes rose even higher. A line of dead and bedraggled vegetation lined the creek’s banks, detritus from what looked like a recent flood. With the land around here so low-lying, it wouldn’t take much for it be overwhelmed.

The tow took fifteen uncomfortable minutes. My arms and legs were cold and soaked through, and my boots squelched whenever I moved. The road meandered, following a convoluted path through the wetlands. From what I could see there was more water than land, a maze of reedy channels and pools in the boggy-looking saltmarsh. The Backwaters were well named.

I saw a few small boats dotted around as I steered behind the Defender, but most of them looked either abandoned or were still battened down from the winter. There weren’t many houses, and most of the buildings I saw were old ruins steadily crumbling back into the waterlogged landscape.

Even so, Trask wasn’t the only person who lived out here. We passed a converted boathouse, an old stone building that jutted out into the creek’s waters. A sign by the small parking area announced, Holiday cottage to let . It seemed a remote place for anyone to want to stay, but it was certainly peaceful. With the creeks and channels glinting in the muted sunlight, I couldn’t deny the Backwaters had a desolate appeal. At another time I might have liked to stay there myself.

But this was no time to let my concentration wander. My head still ached, and I was starting to shiver. It was an effort to keep the car on the winding road behind the Land Rover, and I wasn’t sorry when Trask pulled off on to a gravelled parking area. Behind it was a copse of young trees, and through their still-bare branches I could see a contemporary-looking house on the bank of the creek.