Simon Beckett - The Restless Dead

It meant I was fighting against the full force of the tide and wind. The engine laboured, and the boat barely seemed to make any headway as it slammed into one wave after another. For agonizing minutes the creek didn’t seem to come any closer, and I thought I’d have no choice but to either run higher up the estuary or try to make for the nearest shore. Gradually, though, the whipping grasses that fringed the mouth of the creek drew nearer, until at last I was in its relative shelter.

The chop here was still heavy but nowhere near as rough as it was in the more exposed estuary. I tasted salt as I wiped the mingled rain and seawater from my face, relaxing my grip on the tiller as the tide carried the boat towards the Backwaters. Now it was less of a struggle to keep on course, I could appreciate how abnormally high the waters were. The swollen creek was already topping the lowest sections of its banks, spreading out on to the surrounding fields. And the tide hadn’t peaked yet.

Even though I’d known this part of the country was prone to flooding, had seen the evidence in the high-water marks left on trees and buildings, it hadn’t really struck me before how quickly it could be inundated. The weather wasn’t even especially bad: compared to an Atlantic storm I’d once been caught in on the Outer Hebrides this was no more than a squall. But the Hebridean islands were fortresses of cliff and rock. Here the low-lying ground was subject to the whims of the sea, vulnerable and easily overwhelmed.

Like now. I barely recognized the landscape around me as I steered the small boat up the creek. Sandy hummocks had become miniature islands, and reeds and long-stemmed grasses sprouted from the water’s choppy surface. It was growing dark, too, as what little daylight remained was choked off by heavy rain clouds.

But I didn’t have much further to go. I still had no idea what I’d do when I got back to the boathouse, and as though the thought had prompted it my phone rang. Easing off the engine, I let the tide carry me along as I took it from my pocket.

It was Rachel.

‘I got your message,’ she said, her voice breaking up from the poor reception.

‘I wanted to see how you were. Are you back at the house?’

‘Yeah. I caught a taxi after I’d given my statement. Where are you? I can hardly hear you.’

I turned my back to the wind, trying to shield the phone from the rain. ‘On the creek. I’m taking the boat back to the boathouse.’

‘You’re out in this?’

‘Not for much longer.’ I broke off while I avoided an entire bush that must have uprooted from the bank and was now being carried upstream. ‘What shall I do with the boat?’

‘It doesn’t matter, just leave it there.’ She sounded upset. ‘Have you heard?’

For a moment I was confused, thinking she was talking about Lundy. Then I realized she didn’t mean the shooting. This was something else.

‘Heard what?’

Her voice faded, then came back loud enough to hear: ‘... police... taken Andrew for questioning.’

Oh, Christ, I thought. Clarke hadn’t wasted any time. ‘I thought he was meeting a client? Can’t they confirm where he was?’

‘The client cancelled at the last minute. Andrew drove into Exeter anyway, but he didn’t see anyone so he can’t prove it. The police picked him up in front of Jamie and Fay , for God’s sake! Did you know about it?’

‘No, of course not,’ I said, correcting the boat.

‘Like you didn’t know about Mark Chapel, you mean?’

I stared at the dirty water pooling around my feet, too weary to respond. But Rachel quickly went on.

‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I just... I don’t know what’s going on any more! I keep thinking about... about what happened earlier. And now this. It doesn’t seem to stop.’

Rain dripped from my hood, running in cold rivulets down my sleeve as I tried and failed to come up with an answer. ‘Shall I come over?’

‘It’s better if you don’t. Fay’s in a state and Jamie’s beside himself. He almost lost it when the police took Andrew.’

‘Tomorrow, then. I’ll call you.’

Clarke wouldn’t like it, but if I was off the investigation it was none of her business. There was a pause. I thought the signal had died until Rachel spoke.

‘What will you do tonight?’

I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I couldn’t bring myself to go back to London, but I didn’t have the boathouse key any more. Even if I did, I wasn’t confident the flat would stay dry if the creek continued to rise like this. Where it had broken its banks it was starting to merge into a single body of water with the smaller channels and ditches. I looked out across the spreading floodplain, its full extent masked by the rain and deepening twilight.

‘I’ll find somewhere to stay.’

‘OK, but the roads around the Backwaters are going to be impassable if this keeps up. Be careful.’

I said I would, wiping the rain from my phone before tucking it inside the waterproof coat. At least Rachel, Fay and Jamie would be safe. These were the sort of conditions Trask had designed Creek House for, and its concrete pillars would raise it well above any flood.

I needed to get to higher ground myself. I opened up the engine again, wanting to get off the creek and away from the Backwaters as soon as I could. But I daren’t go any faster. I didn’t want to run aground, and with the creek overflowing it was becoming hard to see where its banks were. Trees and hedges seem to grow from a spreading lake, and off to one side I saw water streaming across a low stretch of road almost as fast as the boat was travelling. It would be touch and go to get my car clear in time, and I was relieved when I finally saw the boathouse up ahead.

The jetty was already submerged. Only the top half of the timber gate that closed off the boathouse dock was still visible, and waves now covered the lower steps almost to the small landing by the hatchway. But the creek’s bank was higher here, and the flooding hadn’t reached as far as the boathouse itself. That was just as well, since my car was parked behind it. As I drew closer I was relieved to see it was still on dry ground. Then, as the boat approached the jetty, I saw there was another car parked next to mine.

Even in the fading light I recognized the sleek black lines of Sir Stephen Villiers’ Daimler.

I cut the engine, letting the powerful current carry me the last few yards. Even so, I still hit the jetty too fast, the fibreglass hull thumping into it hard enough to jar my teeth. I threw the line around a post before the boat could be swept upstream, making sure to leave enough slack to allow for the still-rising tide before I clambered out.

The water covering the jetty almost reached my knees. Careful of my footing, I sloshed along it to the boathouse, which seemed to have shrunk to almost half its height as waves slapped against its stone walls. As I made my way to the steps, I saw that the wooden cover for the hatchway had come loose. It was banging against the wall, the rope that had secured it swinging in the wind. I didn’t bother stopping to shut it. It would only blow free again, and I was in a hurry to get on to dry land.

I wanted to find out what Sir Stephen was doing there.

Water streamed from my legs as I hurried up the steps, wondering what could be urgent enough to bring Leo Villiers’ father out in this. As I reached the top of the steps I saw his driver, Porter, walking away from the boathouse towards the big black car. He wore a thick overcoat but no hat, apparently indifferent to the weather. The wind and rain must have drowned out my approach, because he didn’t notice me until I spoke.

‘Looking for me?’