Stephen Gallagher - The Boat House

On her way around to the side entrance she came across Bob Ivie, stretched as before out on his sunlounger. This time he wasn't even pretending to be interested in a magazine; he was simply staring off into space and looking about as forlorn as it was possible to get.

Diane couldn't help feeling sorry for him; and for Tony Marinello, whom she'd overheard in his room singing along with Rainbow one afternoon the previous week. Dizzy's minders were almost useless when lifted out of their city environment; but they'd have to stand it, because both of them knew that they were otherwise unemployable. They were probably yearning for the end of summer and their return to town, for the late nights and the bad debts and the fights quietly defused before they'd started, and for the legwork involved when Dizzy got tied up with some of the bizarre business ventures of his friends and which would sometimes actually make them all a spot of money. Life out here had been standing still too long for them, and like anything else in the same situation it was beginning to go sour.

"Bob?" she said, and he looked up, startled. "Sorry, Bob. Were you napping?"

"No," he said, "just thinking. It's getting to be a bad habit."

"Has Dizzy got anyone with him, do you know?"

Ivie slowly started to get to his feet, moving as if he'd gone soft from lying too long. "I don't think so," he said. "Was there anyone in particular you had in mind?" But she sensed more of an evasion than an answer, and Ivie shot a dark glance toward the parapet and Dizzy's apartments above. At that moment, loud rock music suddenly fell onto them like an airburst.

The level dropped straight away, but it stayed fairly loud; it was the effect of someone having switched on a sound system without realising quite how high they'd set the volume, and it was coming from the suite upstairs. For it to be so loud, Dizzy's verandah windows had to be open.

Diane looked at Bob Ivie, and saw that he was as tense as a wire.

She said, "Is something wrong?"

Ivie forced his attention back down to her. "No," he said, and then he seemed to make a conscious effort to relax. As they went in through the old kitchen, he said, "Spoken to Jed, yet?"

"I'll ring him tonight," she said, glancing around the kitchen for any hint of a visitor. "Thanks again from the transport."

"Anytime. Although I was relieved when I found out you meant Richmond, Yorkshire and not Richmond, Surrey. We had a good drive, stopped a couple of times."

"Did the old folks feed you?"

"Like a pig. I couldn't get away."

By now they were through into the hall, Ivie stepping aside to let Diane precede him through the doorway. The music wasn't as loud in here, blocked by interior walls and closed doors.

It certainly wasn't loud enough to cover one shrill, terrified scream.

"You carry on," Ivie said sharply to Diane as he started to move. "I'll handle this."

He ran for the stairs, with Diane no more than a couple of paces behind him. His previous unease and his present speed of reaction seemed to suggest that he'd been half expecting something of the kind.

Diane said, "Is it her? Is it the waitress?" But Ivie didn't answer. He took the stairs in twos and threes, all of his apparent softness gone as he raced to deal with something that he could at last understand.

The door to Liston's suite was locked, but Ivie fumbled out a passkey. "Diane," he said. "Do me a favour. Just go. I'll take care of everything."

He managed to get the door unlocked. It gave half an inch, and then stuck solid against something that appeared to have been jammed up under the handles on the other side.

"Dizzy?" he shouted urgently. "Boss?"

But there was no reply.

Diane reached into her jacket as Ivie tried the door again, again without getting anywhere. She saw the expression of surprise on his face as he turned to speak to her again and saw the compact police radio that she was switching on in the way that Ross Aldridge had shown her.

"Ross?" she said. "Pete? She's here, all right. In the house, upstairs."

They swung in through the narrow gateway with only inches to spare. The dirt road dash to the house was short, fast, and over in seconds.

Pete didn't worry about neatness, but left the car standing at the end of its slewed turn into the forecourt, blocking the end of the driveway and leaving deep, fresh scars in the gravel. As he ran for the house Aldridge was behind him, slowed a little by the shotgun. Their first sight as they charged into the hallway through the open doors was of Tony Marinello, faintly stoned and looking as if he'd walked into a long running play and discovered that he'd learned the wrong script.

"Up here!" Diane called from the gallery, and they headed for the stairs.

Bob Ivie was still trying to insist that everything was under control, but nobody was listening and he wasn't trying too hard. He got out of the way when he saw that Pete was aiming to hit the door, whether he moved or not. The first attempt at breaking through bruised Pete's shoulder and had little effect; the second, with the policeman's added weight, sent the door flying inward with a crash of splintering wood. They fell into the suite through the remains of the antique chair that had been keeping them out. Loud music hit them like an incoming wave.

Aldridge already had the shotgun levelled at the kneeling figure out in the middle of the polished wooden floor.

But it wasn't her.

It wasn't Liston, either; she didn't look much more than a child, and by her on-the-road uniform of T shirt, faded jeans and training shoes Pete would have guessed her to be one of the region's hitch-hikers. Her head was bowed, dark braids hanging, and she was holding her throat and trying to be sick. She heaved in silence, because the sound system was drowning her out.

There was nobody else.

Pete crossed the room, and switched off the stereo. The pause that followed was like a dead silence for the moment that it took them all to readjust, but then real sound started to return; their hollow footsteps on the boards, the faint breeze that was lifting the net curtains at the windows, the choking of the young girl. Diane crouched by her with a hand on the child's back, looking to find out what was wrong.

Aldridge said, "Other rooms?"

"Through there," Ivie said, and he pointed.

"Show me."

Pete followed them. Aldridge checked the rooms to the left, giving a quick glance into each and moving on when he saw nobody there, and Pete covered the rest of the wing. He was beginning to wonder if there would be any way of telling whether Alina had been here at all; but then, in the master bedroom, he saw something that confirmed it for him beyond a doubt.

Diane looked up as the three of them went back into the main room. Tony Marinello was with her now, and the child had stopped retching and was sitting upright. Here eyes were wide, and her skin was an awesomely pale tint of blue.

Diane said, "Any sign of Dizzy?"

"He's hiding in the bathroom and he won't come out," Aldridge told her. "We looked over the door, and he's alone. But the exit to the back stairs is still locked from the inside, and there's no other exit."

"There's the windows and the terrace," Pete said. "She was definitely here." And he showed them his find; her scrapbook of home, which he'd found with her other stuff on the chair by the unmade bed. He'd looked at the rumpled sheets and the king sized mattress, and he'd wondered.

Pete laid the book on the table before them, and fanned the pages. They all looked as the photographs went by in a blur; the display was totally personal, and pretty well meaningless to anyone other than the book's owner.

"That's him!" Diane said, reaching out and stopping the book at one of the pages. The paper's cheap binding was so worn that even this light pressure was enough to detach it, and it came away in her hand. "This is the man I met!"