Simon Beckett - The Restless Dead

I sat up carefully and swung my legs off the bed, taking a moment before I stood up. I still felt washed out, but nothing like the day before. The infection hadn’t been the onset of OPSI after all, just some short-lived bug that either the antibiotics or my own immune system had fought off. Provided I didn’t overdo things, in a day or two I should be fine.

Now I was famished. And badly in need of a shower, I realized, wrinkling my nose. Hungry as I was, I’d enjoy it more once I’d cleaned myself up. The bathroom was compact but as well designed as the rest of the studio flat. I stood for a long time under the hot needles of water, relishing the sting of it. Clean and shaved, I dressed in clothes I’d brought for my stay at Jason and Anja’s. Then I went to see about breakfast.

There was milk, butter and eggs in the fridge, plus a half loaf and an unopened jar of marmalade on the kitchen worktop. I toasted two slices of bread and scrambled a couple of eggs while the kettle boiled for coffee. I ate ravenously at the small dining table, then made more toast which I slathered with butter and marmalade.

When I’d finished I felt better than I had in days. Making myself another coffee, I took it over to the arched window, watching seabirds bobbing on the half-full creek as I finally allowed myself to consider the situation I’d put myself in.

It was a clumsy mistake by any standards. Lundy had told me that Emma Derby, the supposed victim of Leo Villiers, was married. It just never occurred to me that she might have a different surname from her husband. Even when Trask had mentioned his wife I’d failed to make the connection, assuming he must be referring to Rachel.

Emma Derby’s sister.

The scale of my gaffe appalled me. No wonder they’d all seemed so on edge. Trask and his family would have been going through all sorts of torture yesterday. If they hadn’t been told by police, they would have heard rumours about what had been found in the estuary. Even though Emma Derby had been missing too long for the floating remains to be hers, her family would still have wondered. And they’d be aware that, if not hers, the body probably belonged to the man who’d killed her.

Rachel had practically said as much the evening before: It’s been a strange day. Emotions have been running a bit high. For all of us. I winced to think how insensitive I must have seemed. As a police consultant, they’d have assumed I’d know who they were. Instead, blinded by my own problems, I’d had to have it literally spelled out for me. And then only after I’d blundered into the middle of a grieving family’s lives.

But I couldn’t change what had happened. All I could do now was apologize and leave them in peace as quickly as possible. Although, with my car still broken down outside Trask’s house on a bank holiday Sunday, that would be easier said than done.

Finishing my coffee, I called the recovery service. As Rachel had said, there was a signal in the boathouse, if only a weak one. I found a spot by the window where it seemed stronger, but when I rang the number and the ‘non-emergency’ option from the menu I found myself held in a queue. While I waited to speak to someone I looked around the studio flat. It was simple but well done, the sort of place I’d like to stay for longer under different circumstances. Trask’s wife had evidently had a knack for design, and as I thought about her my eye fell on the framed photographs stacked against the wall. I recalled Lundy’s saying something about her being a photographer. Curious, I started to go over, only to lose the signal as soon as I stepped away from the window.

I redialled and found myself at the back of the queue again. Great . Turning the phone’s speaker on, I set it down on the windowsill and went over to the photographs. They were obviously waiting to be hung on the boathouse walls, so I didn’t think anyone would mind if I took a look. There were about a dozen, various sizes but all black and white. At the bottom of each photograph was the same flamboyant signature: Emma Derby.

They were mostly still-lifes or landscapes. There was a study of the boathouse and creek, all moody shadows and dark, reflective water. Another showed the sea fort, sun glinting off the waves as it was artfully silhouetted by a monochrome sunset. I was no expert, but they seemed competent enough, if slightly clichéd. One in particular, a shot of a gleaming chrome motorbike on a sandbank, was so obviously staged it practically shouted ‘poster art’.

There was only one portrait. It was of an attractive woman, long dark hair framing her face as she smiled at the camera, naked except for a tastefully draped white sheet. The title, written in the same handwriting as the signature, was simply Me .

It was the first photograph of Emma Derby I’d seen. Even allowing for the flattering nature of the self-portrait, she was very good-looking. And evidently knew it. It took a lot of self-assurance — or vanity — to pose like that. There was a knowing, self-satisfied look in the eyes that stared back at the camera, a suggestion of arrogance in the tilt of her chin. I knew it was unfair to make a snap judgement, but it was hard to imagine the confident woman in the photograph settling in a remote place like this. Or being married to Trask, I thought, an older man with a teenage son and young daughter. Lundy had told me Emma Derby had moved here two or three years ago when she’d got married, so she wasn’t Fay and Jamie’s mother. The DI had also said that her marriage was in difficulties even before her affair with Leo Villiers. Now I was beginning to understand why.

I found myself studying the photograph, looking for any resemblance between the sisters. There was a little around the eyes, and in the luxuriant dark hair, but if I hadn’t known their relationship I wouldn’t have guessed. Rachel Derby wasn’t as obviously attractive, but I didn’t think she’d rely as heavily on make-up and lighting, either.

And there’s another snap judgement. The recorded voice from my phone’s speaker continued to ask me to hold as I went through the rest of the framed photographs. I’d just leaned them back against the wall when a knock came on the door.

I gave a guilty start, as though I’d been caught out. Making sure the photographs weren’t going to slide over, I went to see who it was.

I felt a brief disappointment when I opened the door to find Trask outside. He was wearing the same battered leather jacket as before, although the stern face was clean-shaven today. He was carrying my boots in one hand, and what looked like the cool-box from my car in the other.

‘Can I come in?’

I stood back to let him inside. He glanced around the studio as though unfamiliar with it.

‘Can I get you a coffee?’ I offered.

‘No, I’m not staying. Thought I’d see how you were.’

‘Better, thanks.’

‘Glad to hear it. Here, I brought you these.’ He handed me my boots, setting the cool-box on the floor. ‘Rachel dried them out overnight but you’ll probably want to get them cleaned. The salt’ll rot them if not.’

‘Thanks.’ I appreciated the gesture, but I thought the real reason he’d come was to make sure their lodger had survived the night. Not that I could blame him. ‘Look, I need to apologize for yesterday. I’d no idea who you or your family were. I wouldn’t have put you in that position if I had.’

‘Yes, I heard about that.’ He shrugged. ‘You weren’t to know. I shouldn’t have assumed you did.’

He looked down at the cool-box, the lines on his face deepening. It was either mine or one just like it, and I thought he was about to explain why he’d brought it.

‘Jamie took it on himself to start working on your car,’ he said instead. ‘The salt water would have wrecked the engine if it was left any longer. Ordinarily I’d have checked with you first, but I assumed you’d be wanting to get away so I told him to go ahead. Hope that’s OK.’