Simon Beckett - The Restless Dead

I could understand why they’d want to see the back of me, but I wasn’t entirely happy about Trask’s son tackling the repair. He hadn’t seemed inclined to help the day before. And while I didn’t want to appear ungrateful, if the job was as complicated as Jamie had said I had mixed feelings about a teenager working on it anyway.

I picked my words carefully. ‘I thought it needed to go into a garage. Can he do it here?’

‘Provided the salt’s not corroded the engine too badly, he says he should be able to. Don’t worry, Jamie knows what he’s doing. He rebuilt his Land Rover, the old white one, from scratch. Saved up and bought it himself when he was fifteen, repairing what he could and buying spares from scrap yards and online. He’s perfectly capable of stripping and cleaning an engine.’

It sounded more a statement of fact than a boast. I couldn’t help wishing the offer had been made yesterday, but they’d had enough to deal with without having to bail me out as well.

‘I can still get a breakdown call-out,’ I said. ‘I don’t expect your son to give up his bank holiday.’

‘He won’t mind, it’s his hobby. If you’re happy with what he does you can always pay him. He’s going to university next year, so he can use the money.’ Trask tipped his head at my phone, which was now playing tinny music. ‘Doesn’t sound like your breakdown service is coming any time soon.’

He had a point. If his son could repair it I’d probably be out of their hair a lot sooner than if I waited for a recovery truck to arrive. But something else had occurred to me. I looked over at where my car keys lay on the kitchen worktop.

‘How did he open the bonnet?’

‘Same way we got in the boot. You left the car unlocked.’

I’d been more out of it than I’d thought. I could remember fetching my travel bag from the boot while Rachel loaded the Land Rover, but for the life of me I couldn’t recall locking the car again afterwards. I hurriedly tried to think what was in the boot: muddy coveralls and waders, plus the flight case containing my forensic equipment. Nothing confidential or sensitive, but I was normally more careful than that.

‘That’s why I brought this.’ Trask made as if to nudge the cool-box with his foot, but stopped short of touching it. His frown had deepened into something like distaste. ‘Jamie noticed the smell. We didn’t open it, but I didn’t really want it outside my house.’

Now he’d mentioned it I could smell it myself: a pungent, ammoniac odour coming from the box. I bent down and unfastened it. The stink suddenly became stronger. Trask took a quick step back as I opened the lid.

‘I was supposed to be staying with friends yesterday,’ I told him, letting him see the cheese and wine inside. The ice packs that had been in with them had long since thawed. The wine would be fine, but the lack of chilling hadn’t done the already ripe Brie any favours.

Trask looked startled, then gave a laugh. ‘Jesus, I thought... you know.’

I did. Given my work, he’d assumed the box must hold some grisly piece of evidence. Trask’s face settled back into its habitual severe lines as his amusement faded.

‘I had a call from DI Lundy earlier,’ he said, trying to sound businesslike. ‘Not an official one, just... a courtesy. He told me the body in the estuary was almost certainly Leo Villiers.’

I was surprised, but of course Lundy would know the Trasks from when Emma Derby went missing. Putting their minds at rest so soon might not have been standard protocol, but it was a humane thing to do. The DI went up in my estimation because of it.

But I wasn’t going to comment either way. I gave a non-committal nod. Trask frowned down at the floor.

‘Look, yesterday was... well, wires got crossed. Jamie’s hoping to get your car done by this afternoon, but he won’t be sure until he knows what the damage is. If it takes longer...’ He seemed to be struggling for words. ‘What I’m saying is this place is supposed to be for renting out. If you need to stay for another night you can.’

It wasn’t the most gracious of offers, but I could understand why he’d be conflicted. ‘Thanks, but I’d prefer to get back.’

He nodded, brusqueness covering what I guessed was relief. ‘Up to you. The offer’s there if you change your mind.’

I gave him my car keys and phone number, so Jamie could run the engine, and let me know when the car was ready. After Trask had gone I took the ruined cheese from the cool-box, tentatively sniffing it before deciding it was too far gone. Wrapping it in a plastic bag I found on a roll in a kitchen cupboard, I threw it in the bin outside. The cool-box still stank, so I washed it out to get rid of the smell. Even that exertion left me feeling shaky, so I made a mug of tea and sat down by the window. The thought of Trask’s misunderstanding made me smile again. It was understandable, I supposed. And I couldn’t blame him for not wanting a body part left outside his house.

I knew from experience what that was like.

Something was pricking at my subconscious, but it slipped away again almost straight away. I felt better after the short rest, so after I’d finished the tea and washed out the mug I went to examine the boots Trask had returned. They weren’t meant to be soaked in seawater, but despite being a little stiff they were still wearable. I was about to set them down when the feeling of unease returned. Stronger this time. I stared at the boots, trying to think what was bothering me. And then I realized.

‘Oh, you bloody idiot,’ I breathed.

There was less water in the creek than when I’d walked along its bank the day before. Although I’d no way of checking, from the look of it high tide was still an hour or two away.

I hoped it would be long enough.

Before I set out from the boathouse I tried to think through what I might need. My camera had been in my overnight bag, so luckily I had that with me. But even if I found what I was looking for, there was no way of knowing how easy it would be to reach. My waders were still in my car over at Trask’s, and after yesterday I didn’t plan on getting wet again. There was nothing in the studio that would help me, but I tore off several plastic bin-liners from a roll under the sink and put them in the freshly cleaned cool-box. Leaving the ice packs in the fridge’s small freezer to chill, I went outside to see what I could find.

A flight of steps led down to a jetty at the front of the boathouse. Halfway up the wall was a line where the high tide would reach; the stones dry and pale above, dark and damp below. The water level was lower than that at the moment, well below the top of the jetty. The entrance to the boathouse dock was at the far side, a large square opening that faced directly on to the creek. It was barred by a waterlogged timber gate that was secured by a rusty but solid-looking padlock. I wasn’t going to get in that way, but partway down the steps there was a small platform next to a hatchway in the wall. The rough wooden board covering it was only held shut by a loop of rope hooked over a rusty nail, so I didn’t think anyone would object if I looked inside.

The hinges protested as I pushed it open. A musty, cellar smell of water and damp stone greeted me. The opening was low and I had to duck to get through. I was almost caught out by the drop on the other side, where the floor level was lower. It was cold and dark inside as I paused to let my eyes adjust. Bars of light came through the gate in the front wall, enough to see by once I’d blocked the hatch open as well.

The makeover that had transformed upstairs into a studio flat hadn’t extended to down here. I was standing on a narrow walkway — too small to be considered a jetty — that ran along one wall. At high tide this lower level would be flooded with water, but right now the muddy creek bed was visible below the dock. The walkway’s timbers were slick and rotten, and held an assortment of old boating junk. A canoe with a gaping hole in its bottom lay on its side, half buried by cork buoys, disintegrating lifejackets and torn sections of wicker fishing baskets.