Simon Beckett - The Restless Dead

I would have liked to go further, but it would soon be dark. I turned back, feeling an odd and unwelcome restlessness I couldn’t identify at first. It wasn’t until I was almost back at the boathouse that I realized seeing the estuary had reminded me of the Barrows, which had in turn jogged loose thoughts of the body we’d recovered from the sandbanks.

I tried to put it from my mind, telling myself it was no longer anything to do with me. It didn’t work. Even though I was now off the case, that didn’t stop me thinking about it. Besides, I hadn’t entirely finished yet: Lundy had asked me to email him the photographs I’d taken of the training shoe. I couldn’t send them to him from the boathouse, but I could at least transfer them onto my laptop, along with the ones I’d taken out at the Barrows.

And if I happened to take another look as I did, then where was the harm in that?

Back at the boathouse, I put the kettle on and connected the camera to my laptop. With a mug of tea next to me, I studied the images of the training shoe again. They were a lot more detailed on the laptop’s bigger screen, but with the foot largely hidden inside the shoe they didn’t tell me much I didn’t already know. I spent a while studying the gaudy purple sock, enlarging it to better see the fabric. Although it wasn’t my field, I was pretty sure the muddy cloth was man-made rather than natural, either polyester or some other synthetic.

I was only guessing about that, but there was no doubt about what else I saw. On the shoe’s sole, obscured by the coating of mud, were printed words I hadn’t noticed before. They’d been too small to see on the camera screen, but they were more clearly visible on the laptop. Again, I magnified the image, zooming in and playing with the contrast until I could clearly make them out. Three words, stamped or moulded into the sole’s rubber base: Made in China.

Cheap training shoes and colourful synthetic socks didn’t fit with the image I’d formed of Leo Villiers, but that was Lundy’s problem now. Even so, I still opened the photographs I’d taken of the body itself as it lay on the sandbank. The right ankle joint protruded from the sodden leg of the jeans, but not enough to see anything one way or the other. I went to the images of the head. The horrendous injury was as bad as I remembered. Opening another photograph to view alongside, I considered what I could see of the exit wound, trying to gauge the shot’s trajectory.

But it was pointless speculating. And I wasn’t going to see anything in a few photographs that the police wouldn’t find out for themselves. I made myself close the laptop before I could become too engrossed, knowing it would only frustrate me. Instead, I made myself another mug of tea and sat with the light off, watching night settle over the creek before going to bed.

I woke once, roused by a series of grunts and weird, mournful howling from outside. Seals, I realized drowsily. Rachel was right, I thought as I drifted back off to sleep. They did sound like rowdy Labradors.

The alarm on my phone pulled me from a deep, dreamless sleep. I felt more rested than I had in a long time. The only aftermath from whatever bug I’d had was a lingering ache in my joints, and a ravenous appetite. I showered and shaved, then toasted what was left of the bread for breakfast and ate it with the last of the eggs. I didn’t know if I’d be coming back to the boathouse after I’d got the spark plugs from Cruckhaven, so once I’d washed the dishes I packed what few things I had with me in my bag.

That done, there was nothing left to do but wait. I sat by the window again, trying not to glance at my watch or acknowledge how nervous I was beginning to feel. She’s giving you a lift to buy car parts. Stop acting like a schoolboy . When I heard a car crunching over the cinders I jumped up, narrowly avoiding stubbing my toe again on the trapdoor handle hidden under the rug. I took a final look around the boathouse, feeling a touch of regret that this would be the last time I’d see it.

Then I grabbed my jacket and bag and hurried outside.

Rachel was leaning through the open rear door of the old white Defender, making room in the back. I could see a mess of sports equipment and what looked like a wetsuit thrown inside.

‘Morning,’ she said, pushing aside a box full of coiled rope. ‘I swear I don’t know where Jamie gets half this stuff from. You should see the state of his room — I looked in once and slammed the door as quick as I could. Here, do you want to put your bag in? There’s space now.’

She was wearing a tan suede jacket today, open to reveal a black sweater over her jeans. If she wore any make-up it was too subtly applied for me to notice, but her hair looked more carefully tied back than usual, exposing more of her smooth forehead and strong features. I found myself wondering if any of that might be for my benefit, before telling myself not to be stupid.

I crammed my bag on the floor under a seat, then got in the front passenger side next to Rachel.

‘I locked the door,’ I told her, handing her the key. ‘Force of habit. I’ve just had a failed break-in at my flat, but I don’t suppose you need to bother too much out here.’

‘You’d be surprised,’ she said, starting the engine. ‘There was a spate of burglaries not long after I arrived. Creek House was broken into.’

‘Did they take much?’ I was surprised thieves would go to the trouble of coming all this way.

‘Nothing that couldn’t be replaced, just computers and the usual stuff. But the timing wasn’t exactly ideal.’ Her face set at the memory as we pulled away. ‘Makes you wonder about people, doesn’t it?’

Rachel looked small behind the wheel of the big old car, but she handled it well enough. She was a confident driver, manoeuvring the reluctant gearstick into place with obvious familiarity. And less forcefully than the last time she’d driven me.

‘I used to drive one of these,’ I told her, trying to lighten the mood. ‘I thought that was pretty ancient but it wasn’t as old as this.’

‘Yeah, Jamie says this is one of the first models. He found it at a scrap yard and rebuilt it from spare parts.’ Trask had told me as much, but I’d not really appreciated what a good job his son had done. For all its age, the old Land Rover was beautifully restored. Rachel forcibly changed gear as we approached a bend. ‘What did you think of it?’

‘I liked it,’ I said. Being back in a Defender brought back associations for me, not all of them pleasant. But that wasn’t the fault of the car.

‘Yeah, they’re real workhorses. No power steering, so it’s a bit like driving a tank. On these roads they’re good fun, though.’

‘I imagine the snorkel comes in handy as well.’

She gave an arch smile. ‘Especially when some townie gets caught by the tide.’

‘Ouch.’

‘Don’t worry. You weren’t the first, and I doubt you’ll be the last.’ Her grin faded as she saw something up ahead. ‘Oh, great.’

A tall, thin figure was shambling down the middle of the road, heading away from us. Even from the back I recognized the man I’d almost run down on my way to the mortuary. He seemed oblivious of the Land Rover’s approach.

‘Come on, Edgar, get out of the way,’ Rachel said with a sigh, slowing almost to a stop.

‘You know him?’ I asked.

‘Everybody round here knows him. He does this all the time.’

‘I know. I nearly knocked him down the other day.’ I shrugged when she glanced at me. ‘That’s why I tried to take the causeway.’

‘Bet it seemed a good idea at the time.’ She wound down the window and leaned her head out. ‘Edgar? Edgar, can you get off the road, please?’