Mark Mills - Amagansett

‘Yes.’

‘If you’d been sober, would it have made any difference?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’

‘Lillian?’

‘No. It all happened too quickly.’

Manfred suddenly saw it, Richard’s strategy. He was playing to Lillian, the weak link in the chain, steering responsibility away from them and on to the girl, planting the belief that their only error lay in being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

‘This will destroy you, you know that, Manfred, don’t you?’

The words were meant for Lillian’s ears and Manfred dutifully took his cue from them.

‘There was nothing I could do.’

‘That’s clear.’

‘They were racing,’ said Lillian.

‘And who was the one who told me to overtake in the first place?’ retorted Manfred.

‘I’m not sure you should be looking to blame each other,’ said Richard.

‘If we’re doing that,’ interjected Justin, ‘then I’m at fault, for making fun of your car in the first place.’

‘We’re all to blame,’ said Lillian. ‘A girl is dead!’

‘Maybe that’s exactly what she intended,’ said Wakeley.

‘We don’t know that.’

‘Lillian, listen to me.’ Richard’s tone was calm, measured. ‘You see a car hurtling towards you at night on a country lane, what do you do? You hug the hedgerow; you do not step out in front of it just when it draws level with you. Think about it. From where I’m sitting, I’d say you’re lucky to be here at all. She might have killed you both.’

It was clear from Lillian’s expression that he’d convinced her, for now at least.

‘Here’s what’s going to happen,’ said Richard. ‘And it’s going to have to happen fast.’

The mastery of the plan swiftly hatched in his bedroom only became clear at a later date; for now they just did as they were told. Justin was instructed to return home by a roundabout route. While Manfred and Lillian hurriedly packed their bags, Richard took himself off to the garage, where he examined the damage to the Chrysler and cleaned off the gore as best he could. Fortunately, the nearside headlight was intact, reducing the risk of being pulled over by the state troopers on the long drive back to the city.

The main danger now was that Gayle would return, catch them in the act, and have to be won over. Fortunately, as they later discovered, she had chosen to go home with the handsome but dull copyright lawyer who’d been making a play for her at the dinner dance.

As instructed, they kept to the back roads until clear of Southampton. Soon after, they telephoned Richard at the house. He gave them the address of the gas station in Jamaica Bay, where they were met by the two men.

Manfred waited a couple of days before informing the garage that housed and serviced the Chrysler that it had broken down on the outskirts of the city, by which time he had received details of where it could be found. The Chrysler was duly towed back into the city, its bodywork as new, but with a clogged carburetor.

As long as they all stuck to the story, there was no reason it shouldn’t hold up. No one could attest to Manfred and Lillian’s presence in East Hampton during the critical, incriminating early hours of Sunday morning; and the temporary absence of the Chrysler could now be convincingly accounted for.

That was pretty much the last they heard of the matter. A few weeks later, Justin was visited by a local cop following up on the case, working his way through the guest list for the Devon Yacht Club dinner dance. Justin confirmed that Manfred and Lillian had visited him a little after nine on the Saturday night in question, returning to their house on Further Lane less than an hour later—well before the time of the girl’s death.

And that had been that; at least until Lillian had started behaving strangely. Now the ghost of Lizzie Jencks was back to haunt him in yet another guise—that of a local fisherman—only this time it just didn’t make any goddamn sense.

‘It doesn’t make any goddamn sense,’ said Manfred, lighting another cigarette off the first, not wanting to mess around with matches in the stiff breeze coming off the ocean and rustling the leaves above their heads.

‘It makes sense, we just can’t see it yet.’ Richard paused, thoughtful. ‘How does he know? Either you told him, I told him, or Justin did.’ He paused. ‘Or he heard it from Lillian.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m saying he wasn’t there when it happened; otherwise why wait till now to say something?’

Richard paced back and forth for a while, as he often did when working through problems.

‘Yes. Why wait till now? That’s the key. Because he’s only just found out. But how?’

‘All I’m hearing is more questions.’

Richard ignored him, pacing, pacing, head bowed. He stopped abruptly and looked up.

‘You know, I doubt he really knew for sure, just enough to bluff it out of you.’

‘I didn’t admit to anything. I didn’t say anything.’

Not true. He had messed up with that line about hurling accusations around.

Richard must have read the lie in his eyes. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘He would have known from your look when he sprang her name on you.’

Manfred stared at the ocean. ‘Christ, what have we done, Richard?’

‘No more than we had to. It’ll be all right.’

‘I’ll pay you whatever it takes.’

A cloud of disappointment passed across Richard’s face. ‘It’s not about the money, Manfred. It never has been.’

Richard looked away suddenly, as if embarrassed by his words.

‘I need time to think this through,’ he said, ‘find out more about this Conrad Labarde.’

‘He’s a veteran, I can tell you that.’

‘How do you know?’

‘He’s got a regimental tattoo on his arm, some kind of arrowhead, a red arrowhead.’

‘Are you sure? A red arrowhead?’

‘Yes I’m sure. Why?’

‘It’s nothing,’ said Richard, not wholly convincingly.

Twenty-Four

Conrad knew something was wrong when Rollo failed to show for work first thing Monday morning. He was never late. If anything, he was early. Conrad would often wake to find him sitting on the deck, waiting patiently, whittling a piece of driftwood or just staring into the distance.

Maybe he was ill. Unlikely. Conrad couldn’t remember the last time he’d been sick.

The answer arrived as he was finishing his breakfast. Two trucks pulled up beside the house. Four men got out. And Conrad knew immediately that he was in for a hard time.

He nodded at Rollo’s father. ‘Ned.’

‘Conrad.’

The other men cast their eyes around the buildings. None of them had visited before now; they’d never had reason to. Cap’n Jake Van Duyn showed particular interest in the barn, which was hardly surprising, seeing as his brother had sold it to Conrad a little over a year before.

‘Looks okay,’ he said.

He was a kindly man, blunt-spoken and fiercely proud of his Dutch origins. When he was in liquor he still railed against the politicians back home who had sold his ancestors down the Hudson River, trading New Amsterdam to the English for a handful of spice islands in the East Indies.

‘You know Jacob, Francis, Edwin,’ said Ned.

‘Sure.’ Though not well enough to call them by their Christian names. The familiarity of the introductions had an ominous ring to it.

‘You want some coffee?’

‘We’ll not stay long,’ said Ned.

‘Coffee would be good,’ said Cap’n Jake.

‘Why not?’

‘Sure.’

Ned wasn’t happy about being overruled, but he didn’t protest.

Conrad felt curiously detached serving coffee to the headmen of the oldest Amagansett clans. The Kemps, Paines, Songhursts and Van Duyns were known as the First Four. It was their forebears who had settled the village, dividing up the land amongst themselves, land that would prove to be the mainstay of their families’ enduring wealth and influence.