Simon Beckett - The Restless Dead

After the grim horror of those last days in the Backwaters, the weekend had seemed one of those charmed periods that occasionally touch our lives, apparently endless yet over too soon. Spring was hurrying into summer, and the bright sunshine seemed to promise a fresh start after the dour winter months. When Rachel left it was understood that she’d come out again soon. For longer next time.

And then something changed between us. It was hard to say how, exactly, and I told myself it was only to be expected after what she’d been through. That she had a lot on her mind.

Now I knew what. I felt numb, the sort of deadness that precedes the pain of a bad injury. It’s your own fault. You were expecting too much. I stirred my own coffee, giving myself chance to absorb the news. ‘That’s sudden, isn’t it?’

‘Not really. I’ve been treading water for too long as it is, I need to get my life back. Too much has happened here. And I keep thinking about Bob Lundy. I can’t...’ She broke off as her eyes filled up. ‘Shit. This is exactly what I wasn’t going to let happen.’

She shook her head when I reached for a tissue, taking a paper napkin to angrily dab her eyes.

‘You can’t keep blaming yourself,’ I told her, knowing it wouldn’t do any good. We’d had this discussion before, though not like this.

‘Yes, but if not for me he’d never have gone out to that bloody place. If I hadn’t been so pig-headed he’d still be alive.’

‘What happened to Lundy wasn’t your fault. He was a police officer, he was doing his job.’

And I knew the DI would do it again if he had to. In the week following his murder I’d gone to see his wife at their home. The cherry tree blossoms that had lined the road had largely fallen now, the delicate pink petals turned to brown mulch in the gutters. Sandra Lundy had been quietly dignified as she’d asked how her husband had died. I’d told her it had been saving the lives of Rachel and myself, that if not for him we’d have been killed as well. She covered her eyes for a moment, then smiled.

‘That’s good. He’d be happy about that.’

I didn’t mention the call-back from hospital that Lundy had been worried about on the morning he’d been shot. It was possible she might not even know about it, and I couldn’t see how it would serve any purpose to tell her now.

Rachel had taken the DI’s death hard, but I’d thought she’d been coming to terms with it. She’d certainly given no indication that she wanted to return to Australia.

‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’ I said, looking at the smooth lines of her face as she balled up the napkin.

She took a moment to answer, making minute adjustments to her cup and saucer.

‘Pete’s been in touch.’

‘Pete?’ I asked, though I could guess.

‘The marine biologist I told you about. Who I split up with.’

‘The one with the twenty-two-year-old post-grad in a bikini.’

I regretted the jibe straight away. A smile quirked a corner of her mouth, but it was sad rather than wry.

‘Yeah. He heard about... what happened. Even made the news in Australia. He was worried, wanted to see if I was OK.’ She looked across at me. ‘He wants to give it another go.’

I looked out of the café window. Tourists thronged outside, more than I could count. A street musician was playing a jazzed-up version of ‘What a Wonderful World’ on a guitar. ‘And what do you want?’

‘I don’t know. But we were together seven years. It wasn’t all bad.’

Until he ran off with someone else, I thought, but managed to keep it to myself this time. ‘So...?’

She gave a lost shrug. ‘So I’ve said we can talk about it when I get back.’

I sat very still, feeling as though the ground had shifted under me. ‘You’re definitely going?’

‘I–I have to. Too much has happened, I need some time to work things out. And it’s not like I’m needed any more.’

Isn’t it? Her hands were resting on the table. I reached out and laid mine on one of them. ‘Rachel—’

‘Don’t. Please, I can’t...’ She broke off. ‘This is hard enough already.’

The numbness had been replaced by a disappointment that pressed down on me with a physical weight. ‘So there’s nothing I can say?’

She looked at me for a long moment, her thumb lightly stroking my hand. Then, with a gentle squeeze, she let go. ‘I’m sorry.’

So was I. I forced a smile as I moved my hand back to my cup. ‘When are you going?’

Some of the tension seemed to leave her. ‘As soon as everything’s tied up here. Andrew’s found a place to rent in Chelmsford until things are sorted out. It’s a nice area, and there’s a good school nearby for Fay. He’s going to put Creek House on the market as soon as he can. They can’t stay there, not after everything that’s happened. It’s not going to be easy for them, but maybe a fresh start will help.’

‘Sounds like a good idea.’

In hindsight, there had been something unhealthy about the beautiful house on the edge of the saltmarsh. For all its modern aesthetic, all the planning Trask had put into its design, it had been an unhappy place. It seemed forced upon the landscape rather than a part of it, and that applied to the people who lived in it as well. Trask had been a careful man, but he’d been so busy safe-guarding his family against the Backwaters he’d forgotten that tragedy can come from the inside too.

I hoped the house’s next occupants would have better luck.

The street musician was winding up the song, to scattered applause. People drifted away as he bent to count coins in his guitar case.

‘What will you do when you get back?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know yet. Maybe see if my old job’s still open.’ She hesitated. ‘Will you be OK?’

I turned away from the window. My smile felt more natural this time, but then I’d had plenty of practice. ‘Sure, I’ll be fine.’

She looked at her watch. ‘I’d better go. I just wanted to see you again, to explain. And I never really thanked you.’

‘For what?’ I asked, confused. I couldn’t see what there was to thank me about.

Rachel gave me a quizzical look.

‘For finding Emma.’

By dawn the morning after Porter’s shooting, the floodwaters had disappeared. In their wake was a miles-long swathe of mud and shingle. The tidal surge hadn’t been bad compared with others that had inundated the east coast in the past, and certainly nowhere near as severe as the storm tide of 1953. A few hundred houses had been evacuated, roads rendered impassable and sea walls breached or washed away. But everyone agreed it could have been worse. No one had died.

At least not because of the flood.

Wearing yet more borrowed clothes of Trask’s and wrapped in a blanket for the second time that day, I was checked out by paramedics who arrived at Creek House with the police. They’d seen to the others first, all of whom needed attention more than I did, one way or another. I’d barely spoken to Rachel after the shooting. Once I’d called the police I’d hurried them all downstairs, away from the body of Lundy’s killer. Rachel had taken Fay into her room to console the hysterical girl, while I’d stayed with Jamie. That was more to make sure he was all right than to prevent him from going anywhere. I didn’t think he’d try to leave.

He’d had enough of hiding.

The paramedics suggested I go to hospital, but I’d refused. I knew the warning signs of hypothermia or a resurgent infection well enough, and didn’t have either. Two mugs of warm, sweet tea and dry clothes borrowed from Trask’s wardrobe had stopped the worst of the shivering. I felt exhausted, but I could rest later.