by William Shaw
—You blame yourself?
—I’m not sure what I could have done differently though.
—The first two events were violent. I don’t see where the violence was in that last one. At least, not in relation to you.
—I didn’t say it was violent. You just asked me what were the things that I thought had contributed to my trauma.
—And that story . . .
—It’s just like the others in some ways. Because you’re a police officer you have to do this stuff. And I think it leaves a mark.
Alex pushed her bike across the shingle to the pale-blue cottage with the white windows. It was a sweet-looking place, the sort of building a child might draw: a symmetrical roof with a red terracotta chimney at one end. There was a light on in the main room. Alex knocked on the wooden door. Nobody answered. She stepped to the right and put her face against the glass.
Seven
A crunch of stones underfoot; Stella appeared around the side of the house. ‘Oh. It’s you.’ She stepped forward and threw her arms around a startled Alex, hugging her tightly.
Another voice came from the far side of the shack. ‘Who is it?’
‘That beautiful woman copper who lives in the Coastguard Cottages who saved your bloody life from the madwoman. Come on. We owe you a drink. We’re round the back.’
Tina was sitting on a small, two-seater sofa that sat on the shingle behind the bungalow. She had a glass in her hand and there was a small bamboo table in front of the sofa with an ashtray and a packet of cigarette papers with a tell-tale tear on the cover. ‘Curly said you’re all right for a copper.’
‘I should have that on a T-shirt.’
‘We’re having some cava. Want some?’ asked Stella.
‘Still celebrating?’
‘God, yes. It’s been a bloody long time coming.’
Stella went inside to the kitchen and returned with a wine glass full of pale, bubbling liquid in one hand and a deckchair in the other. She handed Alex the glass and then set about the task of unfolding the chair.
‘Thanks,’ said Tina quietly. ‘For what you did. You were amazing.’
Stella was still struggling with the chair. ‘Hey. That double murder up in Romney? Curly says . . . he says you do that kind of thing. They slit the woman’s throat, I heard.’
‘Who from?’
‘Friend works for Ocado. It was one of them found her . . . So there’s some kind of weirdo loose, then?’
‘I’m not working on that. I’m on sick leave right now. Otherwise I would have been there instead of having a coffee at the station cafe yesterday.’
‘Here’s to sick leave then.’ Stella raised her glass. ‘What’s wrong with you?’
‘Stella! Don’t be rude.’
‘Stress,’ said Alex.
Tina leaned forward, picked up the ashtray and laid it on top of the packet of cigarette papers, probably hoping that Alex hadn’t noticed them. Then she sat back and made room for Alex on the small sofa while Stella arranged herself in the deckchair.
The air was warm and balmy. Around them, hidden in the sea kale and gorse, the crickets had started singing. ‘How long have you been together then?’
Tina and Stella exchanged a glance. ‘Eight years,’ said Tina.
‘Oh.’
Stella chuckled. ‘She was working in the chip shop. Her old man was one of the fishermen supplying the fish there. Awkward.’
‘The one on The Stade?’ The Stade was the town’s old dock, where buildings huddled onto the quay overlooking the harbour.
‘Not the posh one,’ Stella said. ‘The one that does proper fish and chips.’
‘So you were already going out when Tina’s husband disappeared?’
The noise of crickets filled the silence. Stella took a large swig from her glass.
‘We kept it secret,’ said Tina quietly.
‘Back then I was out. Everyone in town knew I was a dyke. But nobody knew Tina was.’ Stella picked up tobacco from the table and started looking for the papers that Tina had hidden. ‘Not even Tina. Came as a bit of a shock to me first time she kissed me.’
‘Shock to me, too,’ said Tina.
‘Her, a married woman.’
‘Don’t,’ said Tina. ‘None of it is funny. I didn’t know I was gay when I married him. I was too young.’
Stella had started looking under the table. Alex leaned forward, lifted the ashtray, picked up the papers and handed them to Stella.
Tina blushed.
‘I’m hardly going to shop you,’ said Alex. ‘I’m all right for a copper, allegedly.’
Somewhere people were having a party. The low repetitive bass from a hip hop record pulsed in the darkness.
‘Stella was really cool. She made her own clothes. I once saw her walking through town in this skirt she’d made from pink and yellow Marigold gloves. I was, like –’ She dropped her jaw wide.
‘Only wore it that time. It was a bit sweaty.’ Stella laughed.
‘I thought you were so cool. Nobody I’d grown up around was like that.’
‘Her ex would have gone ape if he’d ever found out Tina loved me.’
‘Would he?’ asked Alex.
Another nod.
‘Did he ever find out?’
Stella looked at Tina. ‘Nope. Never did.’ Stella lit her cigarette. A bird cried in the night. It was a sad sound; a short, plangent wailing. An owl maybe. Zoë would know.
‘Wouldn’t be the first fisherman’s wife to play for the other side when her man’s at sea,’ said Stella.
Even in the porch light, Alex could see Tina’s blush deepening, but she smiled.
‘It was lovely,’ she said, quietly. ‘Longer he was at sea, the happier I was. What’s bad is I used to pray that he’d never come back. And then one day, he didn’t.’
‘He fell overboard,’ said Stella. ‘Did you hear about that? I’d have pushed him myself if I’d been on the boat.’
‘Shut up,’ said Tina, a little too loudly.
Stella ignored her. ‘And a year after he’d gone, we moved in together and ever since then, that psycho Mandy Hogben has been accusing her of killing him.’
‘She’s not well, Stella.’
‘It’s not the first time, then?’
‘Show her, Tina.’
Tina sighed, then turned her head to Alex, picked up her hand and laid it on her scalp. ‘Feel that.’
Alex’s finger found a bump of flesh; a line about two centimetres long. ‘She did that to me in Asda. I was doing the shop and she was there. She saw me, started screaming and shouting and throwing stuff at me.’
‘Tina had concussion after that.’
‘A can of something. I bled like a pig all over the aisle. It was horrible.’
Stella sounded angry now. ‘At the inquest they said it. He got onto the boat and sailed off in it and never came back. What more does she want? She was bloody there at the inquest but she won’t believe it.’
‘It’s OK, Stell.’ Tina’s voice was soft.
The pulse of the distant bass continued. The spit of land seemed full of people tonight.
Stella flicked her cigarette butt into the air; it flew in a red arc into the blackness. ‘More splosh, anyone?’ she said, standing.
‘When did you hear that he was dead?’ asked Alex.
‘They were fishing out of Folkestone. Just a two-man crew. The other man on board called it in to the coastguard the moment he discovered he’d gone over, but he hadn’t seen him go, and he wasn’t sure when, so the search area was huge. The sea was pretty big too and they knew they’d no chance of finding him alive. I had a copper come to my door to tell me he was lost overboard. I said, “Have you told his mother yet?” They hadn’t, of course, because they wanted me to do that. Thanks a million.’
Tina nodded.
Alex drank. ‘But you had to wait seven years to marry because they never found his body.’
‘Controlling bastard, even after death.’
‘Stella!’ chided Tina.
They drank a little more wine. Satellites and planes moved above them, tiny dots of light. The sky here was enormous, Alex thought. ‘You never had kids with Frank?’
‘He wanted them. I never did. You got kids?’ Tina asked.
‘One. Teenage girl. Seventeen. She’s out there somewhere. She’s gone feral.’ She waved in the direction of Big Pit. Her girl spent little time at home these days.
‘Short fair hair? Skinny as a pin? Has a backpack?’
‘Zoë, isn’t it?’ said Tina.
‘That’s her.’
‘She’s brilliant.’
‘You know her?’
‘We just met her today. Early this morning I was watching a yellow-legged gull out at the patch, and she was there too.’
‘Was she?’
The ‘patch’ was what some locals called the water just off shore by the power station, where heated water attracted the fish and where the fish attracted seabirds. Zoë had been up early, Alex remembered, before she had woken.
‘She’s your daughter?’ Tina laughed. ‘She’s absolutely nuts. We love her.’
‘Me too,’ said Alex.
‘Stella’s crazy about birds and stuff,’ said Tina. ‘This was her choice of place to go, not mine.’
‘Your Zoë said she’ll take us moth-trapping one night.’
‘Who goes hunting moths on their honeymoon?’ complained Tina.
‘Me. You’ve already had one honeymoon. This is my first. I get to choose what we do.’ For no particular reason, she stood and howled at the dark sky, like a wolf. ‘God, though. They said on the news there’s a psychotic killer out there. Pretty scary stuff. Killed two people, they said.’
Alex said, ‘Yes. Pretty scary.’
‘Don’t you worry about your little girl, out here on her own?’
‘All the time.’
They were all quiet for a minute. Alex drank a little more of the fizzy wine and realised she was a little bit drunk. Tina broke the silence by asking quietly, ‘How did you know she was going to pull out that blade?’
‘I didn’t. That’s what freaks me out. I stood up and walked over towards her, but I don’t know why I did.’
‘It’s like you’ve got a spidey sense.’ Tina giggled.
‘What?’
‘Like Spider-Man.’
‘Tina believes in that stuff. The third eye. Divination and destiny,’ said Stella. ‘I’m your destiny, aren’t I, darling?’ And she leaned and kissed Tina on her head, just on the spot where Frank’s mother had scarred her, and she left Alex and Tina sitting in the darkness while she fetched another bottle.
On the way back home, she noticed Zoë’s bike was propped unlocked against William South’s small porch, so she knocked.
William South lived in Arum Cottage, a small red bungalow that faced the nuclear power station.
South opened the door.
‘Have you got my girl in there?’
‘You want her back?’ He opened the door wide.
Zoë was sat at South’s dining table, hands in front of her. There was blood on them.
Eight
‘Jesus, love. What have you done?’
‘Been digging,’ her daughter answered.
‘My grave?’
‘I’m not burying you, Mum,’ said Zoë. ‘I’m leaving you for the crows.’ South sat down opposite her and picked up cotton wool. ‘An air burial.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Blisters,’ said Bill quietly. ‘Looks worse than it is.’
‘I said I was volunteering today up at the Romney Marsh reserve, remember? We were clearing out the drainage ditches. I was going for it. And then I was clearing grass with the scythe for the orchids. They have Spiranthes spiralis there. It’s a threatened species.’
‘Autumn lady’s tresses,’ said Bill, as if this were an explanation Alex would understand.
Since dropping out of sixth form college, Zoë had filled her time either protesting or volunteering. Whenever Alex had tried to get her to complete a CV, Zoë just replied that she didn’t need money and nobody actually wanted young people any more. Alex had given up arguing.
‘How could they let you get in that state?’
‘She’s fine,’ said Bill. ‘She enjoyed herself.’ He went back to sticking plasters on her fingers.
Zoë looked at her wounds with pride. ‘Eight hours with a scythe and shovel. Some of your lot were there too.’
‘My lot?’
‘Police. Asking if we’d seen anyone suspicious.’
South put a tin mug of tea down in front of her without asking.
‘You were community copper round here when Frank Hogben went missing, weren’t you, Bill?’
He picked up the scissors and cut another inch from the roll of plaster. ‘I was. Why you asking?’
Zoë clenched and unclenched her fingers, feeling the plasters on the skin, watching them both closely while trying to pretend she wasn’t listening.
Alex narrowed her eyes. ‘I’ve got a question for you. You think there was something off about the death of Frank Hogben?’
South placed the small pair of scissors he’d been using onto the roll of plaster and eventually said, ‘Aren’t you supposed to be off duty right now?’
‘That’s what they keep telling me.’
South sniffed. ‘Maybe you should take their advice.’
Alex frowned. South was being even more obtuse than usual. ‘If you don’t tell me, I’ll only ask Jill.’
‘Before her time,’ said South, standing. ‘She won’t know anything about it.’ He crossed the room and put the plaster in a small white wooden cupboard with a red cross on the door.
‘Off duty or not, I arrested Frank Hogben’s mother yesterday. She had a knife. She was accusing her former daughter-in-law of killing her son.’
‘She’s not well.’
‘You know all this?’
‘Yes. Mandy Hogben has been ill for years.’
Alex looked at him. He was avoiding her eye. ‘Do you think that’s even possible? What Mandy Hogben was saying?’
‘Tina and Stella?’ interrupted Zoë. ‘The two women who got married yesterday?’
‘Yes.’
‘I like them. Stella has a vintage clothes shop in Folkestone. She says she’ll give me a discount.’
‘Since when were you interested in clothes?’ asked her mother.
‘Course I am.’ Zoë held up her hands like they were some kind of prize.
‘Did you know Frank Hogben too?’ asked Alex.
‘And his father, Max. Everybody knew them. Max was one of the men who use fists first, then, if you’re lucky, talk later. Everyone was afraid of him, including Frank. I saw him walloping his son with my own eyes down on The Stade over some petty family squabble.’
‘He still alive?’
‘Max Hogben killed himself driving without a seatbelt, stupid arse. He had this car, a Ford Escort RS 1600-i. Supercharged thing. There were only a couple of thousand in this country. They were racing cars, really. His was “sunburst red”, they called it. You could see it coming miles away. It was his pride and joy. Another car just overshot the lights at Cheriton Road and went into the side of him. It was just a simple accident. The other car was only going, like, twenty miles an hour, they reckoned. The driver got out to apologise and Max Hogben was dead. Nothing suspicious about it. He’d hit his head on the B-pillar, internal cranial haemorrhage and that was it. Bad luck and not wearing a seatbelt.’
‘You were there?’
‘Ten minutes after it happened. Never liked Max, or the way he treated his boy.’
He went quiet for a minute, then said, ‘Funny thing. Frank Hogben kept the car. The chassis was fine, it wasn’t much of a bang, so he did it up, got it back on the road and used to drive it around, just like his father had.’
‘The car his father was killed in?’
‘Yep. Same seat and everything. Driving it up and down, one arm hanging out of the window. That’s pretty strange, don’t you think?’
‘Pretty strange.’
Zoë interrupted the moment by asking, abruptly, ‘Do you believe in ghosts?’
‘What?’
‘You heard. Do you believe in ghosts?’
‘No, I do not,’ said Alex. ‘I believe in what I can see with my own eyes.’
‘I know you don’t,’ her daughter said. ‘You don’t believe in anything if it’s a bit too weird for you. I was asking Bill.’
Bill shook his head. ‘Same as your mother. Never seen one. No reason to believe in them.’
‘What brought this on?’ asked her mother.
‘You know Kenny Abel?’ she asked South.
‘Course,’ he said.
Alex recognised the name. Kenny Abel was one of the men who worked for the Kent Wildlife Trust; he ran the group of volunteers Zoë had been working with.
‘Anyway. Wednesday night after work he was in the pub. When he came out, he reckoned he saw the spirits of the murdered people flying up into the air. He didn’t know what it was at the time. Only when he saw it on the news on Thursday . . .’
‘Kenny Abel said that?’
‘Today. Yeah.’
South said, ‘The clue might be that he was coming out of the pub.’
Zoë chewed on the inside of her cheek for a while, then looked away, out of the window. ‘I think it’s really sad that as you grow old, you get more cynical. You lose the ability to believe in anything.’
‘You’re in a funny mood tonight,’ said Alex.
‘Not really. I mean. What if you could see souls? Only, what if not everyone could see them?’
‘He was probably drunk, like Bill said. Things like that don’t really happen.’
