Simon Beckett - The Restless Dead

Six weeks was too long.

Fine. Then Villiers locked himself away and drank himself into a stupor for the missing fortnight. And then came out here and shot himself. It was possible. Although I was sceptical that someone like Leo Villiers would cut himself off so completely, I hadn’t known him. And people were unpredictable enough even when they weren’t contemplating suicide.

Yet I couldn’t believe that was the explanation either.

A shiver ran through me, reminding me that it was time to go back. Mobile reception was unreliable away from the house, and for all I knew Lundy might be trying to get hold of me. I needed to check on the situation with the recovery service as well, and I’d still to call Jason to let him know I wouldn’t make it to the party. That was a silver lining of sorts, I supposed.

Turning away, I began retracing my steps to the house. I’d felt better after the hot coffee, and thought a walk would help my headache. Now I was belatedly starting to think it hadn’t been such a good idea. Despite the cold breeze I was sweating heavily, and I couldn’t stop shivering. The journey back seemed to take an age. I was forced to detour each time I found the way cut off by another water-filled ditch, and there seemed far more of them than I remembered. By the time I reached the house I felt worn out, my arms and legs leaden. Another car was parked near mine on the gravelled parking area, though unfortunately it wasn’t from the recovery service. Not unless they’d sent an old white Ford Fiesta with a bright-red racing stripe across its top.

Trask’s son was again busy under the bonnet of the old white Land Rover. A blond girl I guessed was the Fiesta’s owner stood next to him, arms folded and lips clamped tight. She looked in her late teens, pretty but a little overweight. And overdressed: her tight skirt, high-heeled shoes and heavy make-up looked more suited for a Saturday night.

Neither of them noticed me approaching, and their voices carried clearly on the creekside path.

‘... come on, Jamie, why not?’ Her voice was pure Essex. Trask’s son answered without breaking off what he was doing.

‘You know why.’

‘But that was ages ago. I came specially when I heard!’

‘I didn’t ask you to. If you can’t—’

He stopped when he realized I was there. The girl turned to give me a glare, as though I were to blame for the argument. I mustered a tired smile as I continued past to my car. Disregarding me, she turned back to Trask’s son. Her fingernails were a bright, blood red, and the toenails peeping from the open-fronted shoes were painted to match.

‘Come on, Jamie, he won’t know.’

‘I don’t care.’

‘Then what’s the problem?’

He didn’t answer. I was trying hard not to listen but it was impossible not to.

‘Jamie, why won’t you talk to me?’ Again there was no response. The girl’s wheedling tone became accusing. ‘You didn’t use to be like this.’

‘Stacey...’

‘Well, you didn’t. It’s not my fault that—’

‘Jesus, give it a rest !’

There was a bang as the Land Rover’s bonnet was slammed shut. I looked round and saw Trask’s son stalking back to the house, leaving the girl standing behind.

‘Jamie? Jamie! Right, fuck off then!’ the girl yelled after him. The slam of the front door came through the trees. ‘Prick!’

She turned away, her face flushed and angry. She was close to tears, but then she saw me and her mouth twisted.

‘The fuck are you looking at?’

Yanking open the Fiesta’s door, she threw herself inside and started it up. Gravel scattered from its tyres as she pulled away, over-revving as she accelerated back towards the road.

I wasn’t the only one having a bad day.

The noise from the car engine faded. The only sound was the lapping of water from the creek and the calling of seabirds. I checked my phone for messages, but there was nothing from either Lundy or the recovery service. I was putting it away again when it rang.

It was the DI. ‘Just got your message, Dr Hunter. I’ve been in the post-mortem. Had a spot of bother, did you?’

I looked at the flat expanse of fields and water, as if they might offer some last minute inspiration. ‘You could say that.’

Without going into details, I explained that my car wasn’t going anywhere, and that I’d no idea how long a repair would take. I’d expected annoyance, but Lundy seemed as amiable as ever.

‘Well, there’s not much point you coming to the mortuary now anyway,’ he said when I’d finished. ‘Frears was ready to wind things up when I came out. No major surprises. Probable cause of death a contact shotgun wound to the head. Body’s male, and the X-rays didn’t show any bone injuries that might make us think it’s not Leo Villiers. The watch has an inscription on the back from his mother, and the rest of the clothes all match ones Villiers wore. We can’t say for sure yet that they’re his, but they’re the same expensive brands he bought. So, pending DNA results, it’s looking like a pretty solid ID.’

‘What about the piece of metal stuck in the gullet?’ I asked, glancing towards the house to make sure no one was nearby.

‘Gone off to the lab with the cartridge wad. It’s badly deformed, so we still can’t say if it’s a pellet or not, but you were right about it being steel rather than lead. Stainless, by the look of it.’ I heard him sniff. ‘That’s about it. All fairly straightforward, so I don’t think you missed much.’

Neither did I, but I still should have been there. ‘I can take a look tomorrow. My car should be fixed by then.’

Even if it wasn’t, I’d hire one. I might not be able to add much to Frears’ findings, but I’d at least like to try. I heard the DI clear his throat.

‘Thanks, but I don’t think there’s any need.’

I could hear the embarrassment in his voice. I bit back the impulse to try to persuade him, knowing this would have come from Clarke. Nothing I said would make any difference.

‘OK,’ I said, masking my disappointment. ‘Let me know if you need me.’

Lundy assured me he would and rang off. I lowered the phone. Well, you did a great job today, Hunter. Congratulations . Unlocking my car, I sank wearily onto the driver’s seat and sat with my legs stretched outside. So that was that. It was hard to believe the day had started off with such promise.

I watched a seagull splash down into the creek. It was still full, small ripple-like waves lapping close to the top of the bank. Yet in another few hours the water-filled saltmarsh would drain and revert back to muddy ditches and channels. And then the whole cycle would repeat itself, again and again.

I was sure there was a healthy lesson in perspective there somewhere, but right now I felt too dispirited to appreciate it. I pulled my jacket tighter as another shiver ran through me. It must be turning colder, I thought. I shivered again, and then, as though my body had been waiting for me to notice, it occurred to me that I wasn’t feeling very good at all. I’d been so fixated on not missing the post-mortem that I’d shut out everything else. The shivers weren’t just down to the cold, I realized. I was starting to feel feverish. My headache was worse, joined by a soreness in my joints and throat, and when I touched the glands in my neck they felt tight and swollen.

I sat up straighter, realizing how stupid I’d been. I’d been feeling out of sorts for days, had even woken up feeling as though I’d a hangover. Getting soaked in the creek hadn’t helped, and even then I’d not had the sense to get out of all my wet clothes. And now, surprise, surprise, I was coming down with a chill. For most people that would be no big deal.