Simon Beckett - The Restless Dead

We’d found Rachel’s sister.

I didn’t attend the post-mortem. That had been one of Clarke’s conditions of my being present at the recovery: I could observe and advise on handling the delicate remains but that was all. Although I was loath to admit as much, it was probably for the best. I’d been getting by on reserves and adrenalin, and by then both had run out.

And so, for the second time that day, I’d returned to London. I slept for six hours, then got up and showered before throwing together a late supper from what I had left in my fridge. I’d tried calling Rachel, and felt a coward’s relief when it went straight to voicemail. The news about her sister needed to come from the police rather than me, and I didn’t want to speak to her before she — and Trask — had been told. I was wondering if I should try her again when my landline rang.

It was Clarke, calling to let me know the results of the post-mortem.

‘No fingerprints, obviously, so we’re cross-checking with dental records and DNA,’ she said. I was still getting over my surprise that the DCI had bothered to phone: I hadn’t been expecting her to. ‘But the clothes and jewellery match Emma Derby’s. After what happened with Leo Villiers I’m wary of jumping to conclusions, but this time I think we’re safe to assume it’s her.’

‘How did she die?’ I asked, massaging my back. My muscles had seized up from the punishment they’d had in the flooded boathouse.

‘Frears thinks she was strangled. Her hyoid bone was broken, and so was her neck, although that could have happened in the fall. She’d suffered the same sort of multiple fractures as Mark Chapel, so Porter obviously dropped them both from the tower.’

The probable cause of death came as no shock. Porter had strangled Stacey Coker as well, another unexpected witness he’d wanted to silence. But I felt no satisfaction at hearing it confirmed.

‘We found Leo Villiers’ dinghy in the estuary,’ Clarke continued. ‘Probably washed there by the flood, but it looks like that’s what Porter took out to the sea fort. There are fresh tyre marks on Villiers’ lawn that match the Daimler’s, so he must have gone back to Willets Point for the car afterwards and then left in a hurry.’

She didn’t have to say why, or explain the bitterness in her tone. ‘Was the other shotgun in the boat?’

‘No, but we found gunpowder residue on the outboard motor. We think it came off his gloves, which again makes me think he got rid of the gun overboard on his way back. And there were traces of blood as well.’

‘Chapel’s?’

As soon as I said it I knew it couldn’t be. Seven months’ exposure to rain and saltwater would have rendered anything belonging to him virtually unidentifiable.

‘Not Chapel’s, no. But we can assume Porter cleaned the boat after he’d taken the body to the Backwaters anyway. The blood we found was recent, and there were two different types. One was the same as Porter’s, so it probably came from his face after he caught a ricochet from the steel door. The other was off his shoe.’ There was a fractional hesitation. ‘It matches Bob Lundy’s.’

We were both silent. Clarke cleared her throat.

‘We’ve notified Emma Derby’s family. Hard news coming on top of everything else, but hopefully they’ll get some closure now. Oh, and one other thing,’ she continued briskly. ‘You were sent an email by accident. I’d be grateful if you’d delete it.’

It seemed an uncharacteristic mistake for Clarke to have made, but after the last twenty-four hours she was entitled to a small slip-up. ‘OK,’ I said, rubbing my eyes. I wouldn’t have given it any more thought, but she hadn’t finished.

‘I imagine it was probably somebody who didn’t get any sleep last night,’ she went on, and now her tone of voice had subtly changed. ‘I don’t expect it’ll be of any interest to you, but I’d prefer it if you didn’t mention it to anyone.’

Now curiosity was beginning to kick in. ‘No, of course.’

‘So we’re clear, then.’

‘I’ll make sure it’s deleted,’ I said carefully.

‘Thank you, Dr Hunter.’

She hung up. What the hell was that? Puzzled, I went to my computer. The email was waiting in my inbox, sent only a few minutes before. There was no subject or message, only an attachment. I hesitated, then opened it.

The attachment was a copy of a witness statement. When I saw whose it was my tiredness was suddenly forgotten.

Leaning forward, I began to read about the events of twenty-five years ago.

The summer when Leo Villiers turned nine was marked by a rare heatwave. August temperatures climbed to Mediterranean levels, prompting drought warnings and water shortages. The days were hot and still, the nights humid and close.

But Leo didn’t mind. He enjoyed the sun, and at the family’s summer home on Willets Point there was a sea breeze to take the edge off the baking heat. And away from the boarding school, with its teachers’ censorious gaze and the other boys’ pack-like mentality, he felt able to relax. When he was alone he could be himself.

It was when he was with other people that he felt different.

At Willets Point Leo was usually left to his own devices. Except for Sunday lunch and his parents’ occasional shooting party where he was expected to put in a showing, his mother and father let their son amuse himself. That was fine by Leo. He was used to being on his own, and found it easier than having to face his parents. Especially after what had happened at Easter.

Even though he’d known he shouldn’t, one afternoon Leo had sneaked into his parents’ bedroom to try on his mother’s clothes. The confusion and unhappiness he’d come to accept as normal seemed to fall away as he looked in the mirror and saw himself transformed. For all that the clothes were too big, the person staring back at him seemed a truer reflection of who he was. It was the everyday Leo that was a sham.

He’d only meant to spend a few minutes in there, but he’d lost track of time and been caught. Again. He’d never seen his father so angry. It had been terrifying, even more so than his usual cold disdain. Leo had turned to his mother, hoping she’d intervene, but she’d turned her face away.

The memory still made him ashamed and miserable. He’d hoped things would get better once they came to the house on Willets Point, but they hadn’t. To make things worse, his father’s usual driver had had to go into hospital and a replacement had been hired for the summer. A younger man, with smirking eyes and a pockmarked face. His name was Porter.

Leo didn’t like him. Porter had been a soldier and had driven in the army, and on days when Leo’s father didn’t need the car, he’d been instructed to look after his son. So instead of being able to come and go as he pleased, Leo found himself accompanied everywhere. There were drives to the beach, walks along the sea wall and into the Backwaters. Porter never played or talked with his young charge, but would smoke silently, clearly bored and resenting his babysitting duties. It seemed as though the entire summer was going to be ruined.

Then, one day when they arrived at the beach by the sea wall, a young woman was waiting. Porter smilingly told Leo to come back in an hour, and Leo was happy to oblige. From then on, that became the norm. The beach became their usual destination, and each time Porter would meet someone there. Sometimes it was the same young woman, sometimes another. The thought of telling his father never crossed Leo’s mind. The arrangement suited him as well. He was left alone, free to wander where he liked.

That was how he met Rowan.

She appeared while he was sitting by himself on the sand dunes one afternoon, a plain girl with freckles and straw-blond hair. Leo hadn’t had much contact with girls, but he found Rowan much better company than the boys at boarding school. She lived in the Backwaters, and said her mum worked in a shop in Cruckhaven while her father stayed at home most of the time. He wrote books on nature for schools, and in the past used to take his daughter out with him into the saltmarshes during the holidays.