Simon Beckett - The Restless Dead

I shifted to a more comfortable position in the armchair, stretching my feet out as I watched the afternoon slipping by outside. I’d only seen a little of the Backwaters, but I liked it here. The low-lying saltmarshes under the high sky had a restful, meditative quality. It seemed a long way from the noise and clamour of London, where the only green spaces were parks hemmed in by arterial roads. I’d not realized how tightly wound I’d become, how wrapped up in the grind of commuting and traffic. And the boathouse was a good place to stay: basic but with everything I needed. I’d be sorry to leave the peace and quiet.

Is that all you’ll be sorry to leave?

I didn’t know I’d dozed off until the sound of an engine outside woke me. I sat up, rubbing my eyes as I checked the time: I’d been out for over an hour. I felt better for it, though, still tired but clear-headed again. Thinking it must be Jamie with my car, I got up from the chair and almost tripped as I stubbed my foot on something under the rug. I swore, hobbling over to open the door just as someone knocked on it.

Rachel stood on the doorstep, hand raised. ‘Oh,’ she said, startled.

‘Sorry, I thought it was Jamie,’ I said, then felt like an idiot as I realized that didn’t make much sense.

‘What’s wrong with your foot?’ she asked, seeing me favouring it.

I straightened, trying to ignore the throbbing of my stubbed toes. ‘Nothing. I just caught it on something under the rug.’

‘That’s my fault, I should have warned you,’ she said, looking pained herself. ‘There’s an old trapdoor in the floor. The handle sticks up, so it’s a bit of a trip hazard. That’s another of those last-minute jobs I still need to do. Please tell me you haven’t broken it?’

‘I can’t vouch for the handle, but my foot’s OK.’ I smiled. Even if it wasn’t there was no way I was going to admit it. ‘How did it go with the CSIs?’

She shrugged. ‘There wasn’t much for them to do. They just took a few photographs of the creek where we found the shoe and then gave me a lift back to the house.’

She’d changed out of her wellingtons but wore the same red waterproof jacket as before. It was open to reveal a chunky Aran sweater that went well with her jeans.

‘Do you want to come in?’ I asked, standing back.

But she shook her head. ‘I’m not staying. I’m on my way to pick up Fay from a friend’s, but I told Jamie I’d drop by. The good news is that your car’s nearly ready. He’s changed the oil and stripped and cleaned everything, so it should be OK. He says you’re lucky it’s not a new car, because they’ve got more complicated electrical systems and he wouldn’t have been able to fix them.’

I tried to muster up some enthusiasm. ‘That’s great.’

‘Don’t build your hopes up. The bad news is it needs new spark plugs. Jamie doesn’t have any, so you’ve two options. There’s a big car spares store about twenty-five miles away that’s open on a bank holiday. He’s offered to pick some up from there. He says it shouldn’t take him long to get the car running again once he’s got them. I think he feels bad he hasn’t managed to finish it yet.’

That wasn’t his fault, and what he was suggesting would involve a fifty mile round trip for him, on a bank holiday Sunday afternoon. There was bound to be traffic once he hit the busier roads, and he’d still have to fit the replacement spark plugs when he got back.

‘What’s the other option?’ I asked.

‘There’s a petrol station at Cruckhaven that should have them. It’s only a local one, so it’ll be closed now. But it’ll be open tomorrow morning, if you don’t mind staying another night.’

I’d been so resigned to leaving that evening I didn’t know how to respond. God knows, I didn’t feel up to driving back to London after trekking across the marsh: I’d pushed my luck enough for one day. The sensible thing to do would be to rest up until to morrow, and Trask had already said that would be OK. But even if Clarke wasn’t already annoyed that I’d involved Emma Derby’s family, there was another potential drawback.

‘This petrol station isn’t called Coker’s, is it?’ I asked, remembering my attempt to call out a mechanic.

Rachel gave me a wary look. ‘No. Why?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

For a moment I thought she was going to pursue it, then she evidently decided against. ‘It’s up to you, but I’ve got to go into Cruckhaven in the morning anyway. I can pick up the spark plugs then and you’ll be on your way by lunchtime. It just depends how much of a hurry you’re in.’

No hurry at all, I thought, thinking about the empty flat waiting for me. I felt my resolve wavering.

‘What does your brother-in-law say?’

‘Andrew doesn’t mind either way.’ She pushed a hank of dark hair from her forehead, and for an instant I saw a resemblance to her sister. ‘It’s not as if you’re getting in anybody’s way out here.’

Again, I thought back to my conversation with Lundy. I’d told him I’d only stay until my car was repaired, but I didn’t say when that would be. One more night couldn’t make much difference, not if Trask didn’t object.

Besides, I’d already been thrown off the investigation.

‘Can I walk to Cruckhaven from here?’ I asked, stalling. I’d put on the family enough as it was without Rachel’s having to fetch sparks plug for me as well.

‘You can but it’s the best part of an hour, depending on the tide. And there’s not much point when I’m going there anyway.’ She gave me a sudden smile that carried a shade of embarrassment. ‘If it makes you feel any better why don’t you come with me?’

There were still any number of reasons why I shouldn’t. I felt a brief, internal tug of war.

‘I’d like that,’ I said.

It was the best night’s sleep I’d had in months. I’d slept on my first night in the boathouse but that had been more like exhaustion, as my body fought off the infection. This was a deep, restful sleep of a kind I’d almost forgotten.

After promising to pick me up at ten next morning, Rachel had left, leaving me to wonder if I’d done the right thing. It was still only late afternoon, and I’d no idea what I’d do to pass the rest of the time. There was no internet or TV, or even any music or books. Or work. Usually when I was working on an investigation I’d spend any downtime going through reports and case notes. That didn’t apply now, and although I had my laptop I couldn’t even go online to check emails.

But for once the need to work, to do something, didn’t nag as loudly as usual. Rachel had offered to bring more groceries, but — providing I didn’t mind soup or eggs again — I’d enough food left to see me through till morning. There was no pressing need to go anywhere if I didn’t want to, so I didn’t. Instead I kept station in the armchair, staring through the window at the slowly ebbing tide and trying not to read too much into an innocent offer of a lift.

Prodded by a rumbling stomach, I made an early supper from what was left of the tomato soup with an omelette and toast. Not exactly haute cuisine but I enjoyed every mouthful. As the last of the light faded from the sky, I took an after-dinner walk along the bank of the muddy creek, this time heading out to where it fed into the estuary. The going was much easier than when I’d headed into the Backwaters that morning. There was no path as such, but the ground was drier and firmer underfoot, the marsh giving way to low sand dunes covered in tough, spiky reeds. After a while I came to an overgrown shingle embankment, part of an old tidal defence that had been allowed to crumble so the tides could reclaim the land. Climbing up on to it, I looked out at the exposed mudflats of the estuary. Further inland was a cluster of lights I thought must be Cruckhaven, while out to sea I could see the lights of container ships making their slow way across the darkening horizon.