Стивен Бут - Drowned Lives

‘Fine. Finish it, then. Call your family off and get out of my life.’

‘It isn’t as simple as that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because of the book, of course.’

‘So there’s no way out. A stalemate. You’ll just have to wait for the book to come out then, won’t you?’

‘You don’t understand. It’s very dangerous.’

‘Oh, I know,’ I said, feeling the bump on my head. ‘It was particularly dangerous for Great-Uncle Samuel, wasn’t it? Do you know who killed him?’

‘Yes,’ she said. But she said it so quietly I hardly heard her.

‘Then it’s time you told me. I want to meet you. Tonight. And be sure you come alone.’

‘All right, I will. But for one reason.’

‘What?’

‘Because you’re the one who’s most in danger.’

We arranged to meet at Fosseway Wharf at nine o’clock that night. The choice had been mine. It felt like my home ground now, and it would be more than secluded enough for the purpose. Besides, it was somehow symbolic, since it was the place where it had all started.

But I didn’t want to go to Fosseway alone. I needed a witness to what Laura had to say. And, yes, I was a little afraid. I thought of William Buckley and what he had written to Reuben Wheeldon: ‘At every turn he seeks to thwart me.’ And then that courageous, foolhardy line: ‘Let him then send his bravos.’

So I considered my options. Frank was on hand, but he would only be a liability, even if I could persuade him to leave the house. Rachel was out of the question — I didn’t even intend to tell her where I was going. Who did that leave? My genuine friends were very few, when I actually tried to count them. There were far too many I’d drifted away from. Excepting the regulars at the Stowe Arms, there was only Dan Hyde, and he was the last person I’d ask for a favour.

And then I thought of Andrew Hadfield. Yes. He owed me one.

Andrew was surprised at the request, but agreed without too much coercion or the calling in of old debts when I explained what it was about. He was a kindred spirit, really — he shared my sense of curiosity, my urge to balance unfair odds. He couldn’t resist the chance to learn the outcome of a mystery that had begun when he’d first introduced me to Samuel Longden.

‘I remember Laura,’ he said. ‘Bit of a looker, isn’t she? She’s the one who latched on to you at Fradley.’

‘You might put it like that. She said she knew you.’

‘Mmm? I come across a lot of people. I dare say I’ve seen her about. Do you think she’ll tell you anything?’

‘She says she will. She knows who killed my Great-Uncle Samuel. I have to hear what she’s got to say, but I need someone else there as well. Someone independent.’

‘No problem, Chris.’

In fact, by the end of the call Andrew seemed positively keen to be involved, rather than have me wandering around the restoration site on my own in the dark.

‘You’d end up right up to your neck in mud in the basin if you weren’t careful,’ he said. ‘That wharf is pretty slippery after the rain, and the edges are crumbling away. You’ll be all right with me, though. I know my way around.’

‘So I’ve heard from the WRG girls,’ I said, starting to feel more confident already about the meeting.

‘Hey, all right. I’ve said I’ll come. As a favour to a friend, okay?’

We arranged to meet in the entrance to the car park at The Friary and go to Fosseway in my car. We had to be there before Laura arrived to find somewhere for Andrew to conceal himself, so she remained convinced I was on my own.

After the call, I had time for another drink at the Stowe Arms before I had to go back to the house to collect the car. The alcohol pushed me just to the stage where I felt charged with confidence and righteous strength, without making me giddy with recklessness.

What it didn’t do, though, was take away that nagging fear that had been at the back of my mind ever since the incident on Kestrel , since my first encounter with Simon Monks, in fact. I’d strayed into a world of violence that was unfamiliar to me, and the knowledge was a constant nauseous pain that I couldn’t forget, any more than I could rub away the swelling on my head where the windlass had connected.

In the front room at Stowe Pool Lane, I found Frank looking at the photographs of the visit by Lindley Simpson and Leo Parker to Fosseway.

‘Yes, that’s him there,’ he announced bitterly. ‘That’s the bloke I saw at the bowls club.’

‘I know who it is,’ I said. I was too busy planning the evening to pay proper attention to Frank. ‘But what I don’t know is how Laura Jenner is connected to him. He denies knowing her, and there’s no real evidence to link them. But how do I know who I can believe?’

He frowned. ‘But the funeral—’

‘Yeah?’

‘I thought you said—’

He shook his head, staring at the photos. ‘I suppose I’ve got it all mixed up.’

‘Don’t bug me about it now, Frank. I’m going to sort it out with her tonight. I’m meeting her in half an hour. Maybe I’ll have the answers when I get back. Okay?’

‘Where are you going to meet?’

‘The same place those photos were taken. The old wharf at Fosseway.’

‘Chris,’ he said. ‘You will be careful, won’t you?’

I couldn’t help but be touched by his genuine concern, despite my low opinion of him. ‘Don’t worry. Just for your information, I’m not going alone. I’m taking some support she doesn’t know about.’

‘A friend? It’s good that you’ve got a friend you can trust.’

‘It’s Andrew Hadfield from the canal group,’ I said, putting on my coat and collecting my car keys. ‘He’s a decent bloke. He’ll be watching my back, and acting as an independent witness.’

Frank put down the photos and seemed about to say something else important. Then he wiped his hand across his eyes like a man overwhelmed with weariness. I remembered the stress he’d been through and reminded myself to make allowances. I understood that too much fear and uncertainty could scramble your power to think logically, and wreck your ability to say what you meant.

In the end, Frank kept whatever he was thinking to himself, but followed me as I went to the door.

‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Chris,’ he said. ‘I don’t understand any of it now. Not any of it.’

The Fosseway Wharf site was totally unlit, and the darkness was palpable. I pulled the Escort into the damp undergrowth and turned off the headlights. The blackness closed around us immediately, and the only sound was the occasional car going by on the road behind us. The rain had stopped, but everything was wet and dripping.

Andrew and I slipped through a narrow gap in the steel fencing and picked our way carefully past the restored lock towards the wharf. Once we were off the towpath, the ground became sticky and treacherous underfoot, and we had to move carefully as we crept past the sheer drop off the edge of the wharf into the excavated canal basin.

Sensibly, Andrew had brought a powerful torch, which he directed towards our feet. He already seemed to have planned the exact spot for the meeting — just behind the abutment of the old bridge, where a fragment of an old warehouse still stood, its tumbled brickwork and overgrown scrub providing a complex of dark corners where he could remain completely invisible while Laura and I talked.

Ahead of us was a cleared section of wharf, and a fenced-off compound where the excavator and giant dumper trucks stood waiting for their next tasks. Beyond them, the earth was heaped up and piled with debris where work had yet to start on clearing the accumulated decades of infilling. There was a long stretch exposed here where the edge of the wharf was crumbling away, its retaining bricks rotten and worn loose. No one knew yet what the condition of the brickwork was under the debris. The area would have to be cleared by hand before it was safe to let the excavator on.