Simon Beckett - The Restless Dead

I walked to the edge of the harbour and looked out. Where there should have been lapping water there was only oily mud, even though it wasn’t yet low tide. The harbour was almost completely silted up, so much so that weeds and wiry-looking grass were growing in it. An unsafe-looking wooden jetty extended out to the few small boats moored in what sluggish water there was, but it had the look of a makeshift, temporary measure.

I watched a black and white bird picking through the mud on delicate, stilt-like legs. Lundy had told me the estuary had been silting up for years, and the problem was obviously worse this much further inland. In a few more years the harbour would choke up altogether, and then Cruckhaven would have lost any remaining reason for its existence.

No wonder there was local support for Sir Stephen Villiers’ plans to build a marina. Having met the man, I couldn’t see him letting much get in his way, certainly not the concerns of environmentalists. And for the people trying to scrape a living here, the prospect of new jobs and regeneration must seem like a lifeline. But I could also remember the almost casual manner in which Sir Stephen had regarded the remains of his son, and was glad I didn’t have to entrust my future to that cold and indifferent gaze. Any pact with him was likely to be a Faustian one.

I’d dawdled long enough. Turning from the harbour, I set off along the road in the direction Rachel had indicated for the petrol station. The estuary was less clogged with silt out here, the mud mostly covered by small waves. At the water’s edge I passed the body of a gull, eyes pecked out of a head that rolled loosely back and forth. The sight reminded me of Edgar, scuffling along on his search for injured animals. Or dead ones, I thought, recalling the hedgehog he’d been carrying; he evidently couldn’t tell the difference.

I hoped the story Rachel had told me about his missing daughter was just a local myth, but I doubted it could all be made up. Even if the details had become blurred or exaggerated over time, the disappearance of a little girl from a small community like this wasn’t something people would forget, even twenty-odd years later. And perhaps it wasn’t so far-fetched after all that her father was still trying to find her. Looking back on my own behaviour, I wasn’t sure I’d been entirely sane myself after Kara and Alice died. Grief is devastating even for those with family and friends to support them. For someone living alone in an isolated place like the Backwaters, it wasn’t difficult to imagine how their mental health could disintegrate.

There but for the grace of God...

Whatever had happened to Edgar, I’d feel happier knowing that social services were aware of him. Making a mental note to check into it when I got back, I looked up and saw a sign for the petrol station up ahead. But before that, on the estuary side of the road, was another sign, this one large and hand-painted on peeling timber.

Coker’s Marine and Auto.

In smaller lettering under it were the words Salvage, Spares and Repairs . Not so good on the repairs, evidently.

The sign was suspended above a single-storey prefabricated building set on a small quay. Small boats of varying degrees of decrepitude were moored in cramped berths and lined up on the muddy bank by the quayside, exposing algae-smeared hulls. A muddy pick-up truck was parked in front of the prefab, along with several other cars in various states of disrepair.

I’d stopped when I realized what the place was. It crossed my mind to go and find whoever I’d spoken to — Coker, presumably — but there was no point getting into an argument. He’d evidently got some grudge against Trask, and a pretty weighty one if he was prepared to turn down work. From the look of things the yard wasn’t exactly thriving.

But before I could walk away a man stepped out from behind one of the boats. He was middle-aged, with oil-stained blue overalls stretched tight over a big frame. An equally grimy baseball cap was tilted back on the dirty blond hair. He held some sort of engine part in his hands, wiping it on a greasy rag. Shrewd eyes regarded me from a heavy-featured face running to fat as he tilted his chin in enquiry.

‘Help you?’

The gravelly voice was the same one I’d spoken to on the phone. ‘No thanks.’

‘Then what’s so interesting about my yard?’ He wore a smile but there was nothing friendly about it. ‘Just admiring the view?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Yeah, people are always doing that. How’s the car? Still fucked?’ His smile broadened at my surprise. A crooked incisor gave him a faintly wolfish look. ‘I’ve got an ear for accents. And we don’t get that many visitors.’

‘I wonder why.’

The smile slipped a notch but stayed in place. ‘Trask’s son got it running, did he?’

‘Yes, he did.’ I wondered if I should just walk away. But for some reason this felt like a confrontation, and I knew better than to turn my back.

The man nodded. His hands carried on wiping the engine part, slowly turning it in the rag. ‘Thought as much. So you staying out there with ’em?’

‘Why?’

‘Because you can give him a message.’ His face twisted, all pretence dropped. ‘Tell that wanker—’

Before he could finish the prefab door opened and a girl came out. ‘Dad, I can’t find the—’

It was the girl I’d seen with Jamie two days before. She wasn’t dressed quite as skimpily today, but her red jeans and tight sweater still looked out of place in the salvage yard. She broke off when she saw me, recognition blanking her face. Then she hurriedly went on.

‘I, uh, I can’t find the petty cash tin. Do you know where it is?’

It was a good attempt but didn’t fool her father. His eyes narrowed as they went from one of us to the other.

‘You know him?’

‘No, course not!’ the girl said quickly.

‘Then why’d it look like you did?’ His daughter blinked, her mouth opening as though she hoped an excuse would form by itself. He turned to me. ‘Well?’

Behind him, the girl gave me an imploring look that seemed close to panic.

‘Well what?’ I asked.

‘Don’t get smart. How do you know each other?’

‘We don’t.’ It wasn’t quite a lie: I might have seen her before but I didn’t know her.

‘I’m not fucking stupid. She’s seen you somewhere.’

I guessed then what was going on, and bit back the impulse to say he should ask his daughter. The girl looked terrified. Whatever issue her father had with Trask, it was enough to make her scared he’d find out she’d visited his son.

‘I came through here the other day,’ I said. ‘She might have seen me then.’

‘What are you doing out here?’

‘That’s none of your business,’ I said easily.

It was my turn to stare him down. I could see the doubt forming as he wondered who I was. His daughter stood by, anxiously worrying at a glossy red thumbnail. It was a good time to leave.

‘Nice meeting you,’ I said, vaguely enough to mean either of them.

Leaving them there, I turned and walked away.

The petrol station was only a little way along the road. It was small, with two pumps that offered an obscure brand of fuel I’d never heard of. But as well as the spark plugs I needed it sold a few basic groceries as well, so I was able to buy replacements for the food Rachel had brought to the boathouse.

As I walked past the salvage yard I half expected to be accosted again, but there was no sign of anyone there.

Back at the quayside, I found a cashpoint machine and drew out what I hoped would be enough to pay Jamie. If it wasn’t I’d have to send the rest once I got back to London. The thought of returning was depressing, so I put it from my mind and went to meet Rachel.