Mark Mills - Amagansett

The small landing at Wiborg’s Beach, on the other hand, a little further along, would have been ideal—remote, squeezed in beside the wasteland of the club’s west course. The village tryworks for rendering whale oil had once stood there, and since much of the big house just back from the dunes had been torn down, local people had started using the track again to gain access to the beach.

Conrad wrenched the Model A into gear and pulled away. He knew that what he was doing served no concrete purpose, nothing could possibly come of anything he found, it was simply that he needed to know: for himself, and for Lillian.

Rounding the bend, the small landing opened up in front of him. He found himself drawn to the gloom beneath the boughs of an oak, the natural spot to park up if you had something to hide. He turned the engine off, reached for the flashlight on the seat beside him and got out.

What would he have done next? Strolled up on to the beach, probably, to check the coast was clear. Returning to the car, he would then have shouldered the body and hurried as best he could towards the breach in the dune. No. This would leave him vulnerable for—what?—thirty or forty seconds, prey to the headlights of an approaching vehicle. Far better to cut through the undergrowth on the right. It offered perfect cover. If he happened to be surprised he could easily drop out of sight and hide there, undetected, until the danger had passed.

Conrad pushed his way through the hawthorn and dogwood, the thin, poor soil underfoot giving way to sand as he neared the back of the dune. He swept the rise with the beam of the flashlight, but the dense carpet of beach grass concealed any tracks there might have been leading up the incline.

The crest of the dune, however, was bald of any vegetation, and he found what he was looking for almost immediately; so quickly, in fact, that at first he doubted what he was seeing.

There was a shallow but distinct patch of flattened sand where the killer had laid her on the ground after the climb—carefully, no doubt, so as not to mark the body. Indistinct footprints disturbed the area around.

If this had been the movies he would have discovered a cigarette butt nearby—some rare Turkish brand that would identify the culprit. But all Conrad could see were two tracks in the crusty, wind-packed sand leading down the face of the dune on to the beach.

The scene presented itself to him: the killer hooking his arms beneath hers and hauling her backwards down the dune, her heels furrowing the sand in neat, straight lines.

The tracks led out across the beach a short distance before dissolving in the swathe of disturbed sand where others had strolled in the intervening days.

He carried on past to the water’s edge.

The waves were breaking low and clean to the east, their curling crests catching the light of the moon—strips of silver traveling gently along the shore.

So this was it, the place. He must have drenched himself in the process, dragging her out there beyond the break.

He had thought in terms of just one killer up until now, finding it easier to focus his confusion, his hatred, on an individual rather than a cast of conspirators. It was now clear he’d been right to do so. The lone set of footprints flanking the furrows confirmed it.

He wandered back to the dune, settled himself down and rolled a cigarette. His Zippo wouldn’t light, out of gas, and he slipped the smoke into his shirt pocket.

He laid his hand on the sand, feeling the contours of the indentations left by her heels.

It caught him like a rogue wave, a big sea surging up from the depths, unexpected, overwhelming. He choked, trying to keep it down, but it swept him before it, engulfing him, deep sobs racking his body, tears coursing down his cheeks.

Twelve

‘Abel, for Chrissakes.’

Hollis moved to block his friend’s path. Abel shimmied left, right, left again, brandishing his camera.

‘No photos.’

‘Tell that to my editor.’ Moonlighting for the East Hampton Star was another string to Abel’s bow.

‘I meant to,’ said Hollis. ‘I forgot.’

‘I can’t be held responsible for your failings as a police officer.’

‘Is there a problem?’ They both turned at the voice.

A squat, bull-necked man approached, his dark suit straining at the seams.

‘No problem, thanks,’ said Abel chirpily.

The man drew on his cigarette and exhaled, his porcine eyes shrinking to pinpricks as they fixed themselves on Abel.

‘It’s okay,’ said Hollis.

The man turned away grudgingly and sauntered back to the huddle of chauffeurs smoking near the verge. Beyond them, the run of parked cars stretched off into the distance down Main Street.

‘Who’s the gorilla?’

‘The guy who’s been hired to break the back of anyone taking photos in front of the church.’

‘Nice work if you can get it.’

Abel glanced over at the church, then up at the sun, judging the exposure. ‘Must be almost done in there.’

‘For me, Abel, as a friend.’

‘Oh, come on, Tom, don’t pull that one. You don’t call, you don’t write…’

‘I’ve been busy.’

‘So I hear.’ The knowing look was accompanied by a faint smile. ‘You and Mary Calder, eh?’

He shouldn’t have been surprised—it was a small town, tongues wagged freely and readily, he knew that.

‘All I did was give her a ride.’

‘There’s a joke there, but I won’t demean your love for her.’

‘Christ, you can be infuriating.’

At that moment the organ inside the church piped up and the mourners broke into song: ‘Dear Lord and Father of mankind, forgive our foolish ways…’

‘Breathe through the hearts of our desire,’ said Abel distractedly.

‘What?’

‘It’s “breathe through the heats of our desire”, but people always sing “hearts”. Have you noticed that?’

‘No.’

‘What about the cemetery?’

‘Out of the question. Anywhere else is okay.’

Abel looked over at the chauffeurs. ‘No photos in front of the church, eh?’

He was gone as the words left his mouth. Hollis could only watch helplessly as Abel approached the group and addressed himself to the Wallaces’ muscle. The man squared off at first, then the tension went out of his bulky frame and he nodded, acquiescing. The group returned to their discussion, albeit a little selfconsciously, while Abel circled around them, snapping with the Graflex, issuing instructions to his models.

Hollis turned back to the church. The two towers flanking the facade were so disproportionate to each other—one low and delicate, the other wide, clumsy, monumentally tall—that he found himself wondering what had driven the builders to shun symmetry in favor of such glaring discord.

The unseen congregation launched into another verse of the hymn.

‘Breathe through the hearts of our desire,’ they sang, ‘thy coolness and thy balm.’

Abel behaved. He was gone by the time the doors opened and the pallbearers shuffled from the church with the casket. Manfred Wallace was paired at the front, his moist eyes glistening in the sunlight.

His sister, Gayle, head bowed and face veiled, walked behind the casket, her arm hooked through her father’s. George Wallace stood tall and upright, his features devoid of any expression.

Hollis scanned the faces of the mourners as they trailed down the steps of the church.

Where was Mary?

He had arrived as the service was beginning so he didn’t even know if she was inside.

He cursed himself. He’d been too quick to assume she’d turn up. Foolish, when so much was riding on her attendance. Now he was facing the prospect of losing a possible lead.