by Heide Goody
She grabbed two bags from the freezer.
“Those are three for two,” said the nosey shopper. “You need another one.”
“No, I’m fine,” said Sam. Her phone rang. It was her dad again. “Yes.”
“You don’t know the question yet,” said Marvin.
“I’m in the middle of something.”
“Look, you’ve got to have three,” said the shopper. “Third one’s free.”
“It’s about that fish… I just needed to check whether you could or you couldn’t.”
“Busy, dad.”
“Sorry. Still in Hull?”
She nodded. “In a supermarket. In Hull.”
“Oh, well, if you’re already in the supermarket…”
The shopper had opened the cabinet and presented Sam with a third bag of sausage rolls.
“I don’t want three,” said Sam.
“But it’s free. It only makes sense.”
“I only need two.”
“What’s that?” said Marvin.
“Someone wants me to get three for two sausage rolls.”
“I’m not thinking a finger buffet. More a light, cultured supper. Some white fish, some greens.”
“Don’t you want them?” said the shopper.
“I’m happy with two,” said Sam.
“I mean if you’re buying the sausage rolls and they’re three for two…” said Marvin.
“If you don’t want them, I’ll come to the till with you and you can give them to me,” said the shopper.
“I’m not buying you sausage rolls!” said Sam.
“You might as well get them,” said Marvin. “Makes economic sense.”
“They’re not costing you nothing,” said the shopper.
Sam growled and snatched the bag from the interfering woman.
“Got to be money smart these days,” said Marvin. “Tez is good with money. We need to make a good impression.”
“Do we?”
“So get the sausage rolls, and maybe some monkfish or pollock. Oh and some asparagus.”
“I’m not buying asparagus! I haven’t got time.”
Sam stalked towards the tills, searching savagely in the freezer compartments for something to satisfy her dad’s demands en route.
“Am I getting those free sausage rolls or not?” the shopper called after her.
Sam paid, ran towards the van and jumped into the driver’s seat.
“Right!” she declared angrily and set about creating a cold space for the mammoth sample. She hoiked the mammoth chunk and turkey out, put in a layer of sausage rolls, placed the mammoth on it, surrounded and layered it with yet more sausage rolls, then crowned it with several white fish fillets from the chiller cabinet.
There was no longer any room for Drumstick, who had to be placed with very little ceremony in a bag in the back.
“There’s sixty miles to Skegness,” she said to Doug Junior. “We’ve got a chunk of frozen mammoth, a hundred and eight sausage rolls, it’s starting to rain and my hands smell of fish. Let’s hit it.”
Doug Junior wobbled on his dashboard pedestal as she drove.
At the Humber Bridge there were three toll booths open, but a man leaned out of one to wave her forward. It was the toll collector she’d seen coming over. “Is that it?” he said, nodding with evident excitement at the box.
“Er, yes.”
“I mentioned it to Humberside Police boys.”
“You what?”
“Bit of a hurry, yes?”
“Well, yes, but…”
He leaned further out of his booth, resting one hand on the roof of her van and waved again. “This is her, lads!”
“What’s going on?” Sam said.
“Police escort.”
“What?”
“Skegness, yes?”
“What?”
“No charge either,” he grinned.
Sam really didn’t know what to say. She really, really didn’t.
The barrier went up. She drove through onto the four-lane bridge. Seconds later, a police pursuit car slipped in front of her and a second slotted in behind her. Their blue lights flashed although there were no sirens.
She considered it was probably the most ostentatious escort ever given to a lump of meat, a ton of sausage rolls and some cold fish. It was surreally pleasant, but she had no idea what she was going to say to them when they got to their final destination.
7
The delivery address was along Drummond Road in Skegness. The app said it was the LRPC Research Centre. Skegness was the centre for many exciting things, but not for any kind of research. Unless it was along the lines of ‘How much money can one kid feed into a slot machine in an hour?’ or ‘How many vodka shots does it take to get a hen party from Worksop paralytic?’
Drummond Road, one street back from the sea front, featured a mix of second-rate pubs and shops, suburban family homes, and small hotels shoehorned into spare plots of land. Every once in a while (especially on the corners) there might be a surprisingly grandiose building, with turrets and balconies. Sam’s precise delivery address was one of these grander buildings, a seemingly abandoned hotel. There were ornate gateposts, a driveway car park looping around a defunct fountain covered in coppery rust, and a cracked white façade that looked one winter storm away from crumbling entirely.
The old hotel’s name, a rather unimaginative Hotel Splendid, was just about legible as a series of faded marks across the crenelated roof top. A much smaller plastic sign had been placed immediately above the door: LRPC Research Centre – Making Tomorrow’s Future Now – Today!
“Okay, Doug,” said Sam, pulling up. “Skegness is the centre of scientific research. Who knew?”
Two police cars pulled in beside her. A chunky cop poked his head out of one. “I thought this was a transplant thingy. Aren’t we going to a hospital?”
Sam lifted the box as she got out. “Research samples,” she said, deciding not to mention the sausage rolls and fish.
“It isn’t an emergency?”
“Maybe it’s the cure for a disease.”
“Like polio,” he nodded.
“Or one they haven’t cured yet,” she suggested.
While he talked to his colleague and reported back to base on the radio, Sam climbed the steps and went inside.
The foyer belonged in a magazine, or a Christmas movie. It had a mosaic tiled floor (missing a few tiles), a high ceiling, and a staircase with an ornamental balustrade that wound around the sides. A huge dusty chandelier hung down in the centre of the space.
There was no one at the reception desk.
“Hello!” Sam called. “Anyone here? Someone order a frozen mammoth?”
A man appeared at the curve of the stairs and paused for a moment, surprised, before approaching. He was short, and from his firm jaw and brown skin appeared to have some Polynesian ancestry. He wore a thin pencil moustache and a black double-breasted suit with shiny buttons. He looked suspiciously like a butler.
“I think I’m meant to be delivering this?” Sam said.
“DefCon4?” he said.
“That’s us. Me. That’s me.”
He nodded in understanding and gestured for her to follow. They went up the impressive sweeping staircase and then up a far less grand set of uncarpeted stairs to the second floor, where the man flung open a set of double doors to what might be the only furnished apartments in the otherwise neglected building.
The main lounge was richly furnished, with a balcony view over the beach and the North Sea. Even though it was a grey and dreary November day, the balcony doors were opened wide to let in the sea air. A man stood at the balcony, cocktail glass in hand.
“Rich?” said Sam.
Rich Raynor turned. “Sam! How lovely to see you!”
Was he surprised to see her? He didn’t look surprised.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she said.
“I own it,” he said, taking in everything with a wa
ve of his hand.
“Skegness?”
“This hotel!”
“And LRPC?”
“Is me!”
Richard Raynor could loosely be described as Sam’s ex, although it had been a long time since they were together. He could also be described as a millionaire businessman, but Sam rejected that label because Rich was so much more than that. And so much less. Yes, millionaire. Yes, inventor of some silly dog poo gizmo that had sold millions. Also international playboy, 24/7 party creature, non-stop man-child. At this moment he was annoying, definitely annoying.
“What the hell’s going on?”
He gestured at the organ box and made a face of childlike wonder. “Is that for me?”
“You ordered a lump of frozen mammoth flesh?”
“I certainly did. Peninsula, please.”
The butler stepped forward to take the container from her. Sam was too surprised by Rich’s presence to pay any attention as the box was whisked away.
“I’m just using this place as my base of operations for a few weeks,” said Rich. “I’ve got somewhere much more fun that I plan to move into shortly.”
“Where’s that?” asked Sam.
“I’ll show you as soon as it’s fit to make a visit,” he said, with an exaggerated wink.
“Sir!” came a shout from somewhere in the apartment.
Rich sighed. “He’s meant to come when I call, not the other way round,” he said blithely. “Come take a look.”
She followed him through several rooms to one of stainless steel work surfaces and cabinets: half restaurant kitchen, half laboratory. On a worktop, the butler had opened the cooler box.
“What is it, Peninsula?” said Rich. Then he saw and looked at Sam. “Sausage rolls?”
“Underneath,” said Sam. “That’s my fish too. Yeah, I had an issue with the cooling. I’ll be eating a great many sausage rolls in the near future.”
“We can cook some now if you like?” said Rich and nodded to his butler.
The butler lifted out the sausage rolls, tenderly but speedily excavating the mammoth chunk.
Rich gasped in delight as the lump of mammoth emerged, although it looked no more exciting than a joint of beef. The butler transferred it with some reverence to a tall freezer unit with an external thermometer and a secure locking handle.
There were trays, samples and sealed boxes on all the freezer shelves. Sam couldn’t be sure what any of them were, but one box was definitely labelled Siberian Cave Lion. A laboratory then, she decided.
“Would you like me to put madam’s fish in the chiller too?” asked the butler.
“It’s okay. I’m not staying,” said Sam.
“But the sausage rolls…” said Rich. He gestured to Peninsula. The butler swiftly turned on a nearby oven, as though that somehow decided the matter and the laboratory or kitchen conundrum was still to be solved.
“I’ve got to get home to my dad,” said Sam. “He’s trying to fix me up with someone over dinner, I think.”
“A date?” Rich looked momentarily shocked. They’d never been the most startling couple. It had been a relationship they’d fallen into rather than worked on, more an extended holiday fling than anything else, but Rich had definitely taken the split harder than she had. Sometimes he even forgot they were no longer an item.
“I don’t know,” she said with a weariness she truly felt.
“Sausage rolls,” said Rich and twirled his cocktail glass. “A small Manhattan. And I’ll show you my plans.”
The butler coughed politely.
“What?” said Rich.
“Non-disclosure agreement, sir.”
Rich waved him away. “That’s for ordinary people, Peninsula, not Sam. I can trust her.”
The little man made a grumbling noise but argued no further and set about laying defrosting sausage rolls on an oven tray.
Rich led her back through to the lounge. “There are lots of things that I’m going to need help with over the coming weeks,” he said.
“Me?”
“DefCon4. They’re ideally placed to provide that help.”
“You do know that DefCon4 in Skegness is just me, don’t you?” Sam said. “Unless you’re doing something in Manchester or Glasgow or whatever. There are loads of people working there. At least I think there are. I’ve never met any of them.”
“What, never?”
“Nope,” she said. “Apart from Doug Junior. He’s just started with us.”
“Wow. Anyway, this is very much a local thing. It’s your help I particularly need.”
“I see,” said Sam, even though she didn’t. Was it possible to get a sense of impending déjà vu? She had a feeling she was at risk of re-entering a pattern of behaviour she’d escaped once before. Rich tended to have such a clear view of how things should be, of bright, golden and fun-filled futures, that he would overlook the possibility other people might have a different view. Or even want a choice. It was probably that same single-minded vision which accounted for his vast wealth, but it could be disastrously bad for those in his orbit. Rich was generous and loving, but he assumed control at all levels.
“It will be interesting to see what you have in mind,” she said. “Although does this work have to be here? In Skegness?”
He stepped closer to the balcony. “Skegness today. But what was here before?”
“Fens and miserable farmers?” she suggested.
“Before that.”
“Vikings?”
“Before that.”
She shrugged.
“Doggerland!” he declared in a loud whisper of amazement.
“Er, what?”
“Doggerland!” he said in exactly the same tone.
“Um.” Sam had heard the word before, but she didn’t know what it applied to. She knew there was a region called Dogger on the BBC Shipping Forecast, between Tyne and Fisher if she recalled correctly. But Doggerland? If asked to guess she might suggest it was a theme park for people who enjoyed having sex in public.
“Doggerland!” he declared a third time.
“Nope,” she said.
“A prehistoric landscape. Where our ancestors hunted mammoth and woolly rhino across the ice and snow. It’s real. Utterly littered with amazing archaeological finds.”
He pulled her over to a display table which appeared to have been stolen right out of the British Museum. Flint arrowheads, crude tools and yellow-brown teeth sat on plinths, each with its own tiny label. He talked her through each, though she was perfectly capable of reading labels.
“And you want to – what—?” she said.
“Bring this historical wonder to a twenty-first century audience.”
“A museum.”
“A visitor attraction in Doggerland. Actually in Doggerland.”
“A sort of Doggerland-land.”
“If you must.”
“Sounds…” She wasn’t sure what word she was going for. ‘Fanciful?’ ‘Stupid?’ ‘Crazy?’ All seemed apt, but Rich, while being a naïve fool of a man, also seemed to be blessed with an astonishing amount of good luck, and words like fanciful, stupid and crazy would be no barrier to him. “Interesting,” she said.
“I’ve been various places over recent months,” he said. “Mostly I’ve been tracking down some specialised help which I’m going to need for the new project.”
“Your sausage rolls, sir.” The butler, Peninsula, appeared at the door with a shiny platter of steaming nibbles. Their smell filled the room and Sam’s tummy rumbled.
“Someone told me that you’d gone back to France or somewhere,” she said to Rich.
“France. Siberia. Pacific Islands. That’s where I picked up Peninsula here. Jurang Peninsula. Finest butler this side of the international date line.”
“You are too kind, sir,” said Peninsula, drily.
“But, no, I’ll be here in the Skegness area for the foreseeable future, among my own people.”
France, Siberia, the Pacific,
Skeg – hardly a natural progression, thought Sam. Rich had been photographed with supermodels, Formula One stars, actors and business moguls. The idea that he would prefer to rub shoulders with the oddball cross-section of society living in the east coast outpost of Skegness was almost laughable. Yet he clearly meant it.
“Doggerland is waiting to be reclaimed,” Rich continued, “and I expect you to play a big part.”
“Sure,” said Sam. “As long as you know I am very used to using my initiative and working unsupervised.”
“Understood!” said Rich with a smile. “You don’t like to be micromanaged. I’m sure DefCon4 have a very hands off approach to management.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” she said, taking a sausage roll from the tray.
8
There was a black saloon parked outside her dad’s house on Albert Road. Few visitors realised that there was a rambling bungalow of giant proportions behind those hedges until they were almost upon it. As Sam pulled up onto the drive, she wondered if the car belonged to the man her dad had invited to dinner.
Sam left the ‘organs in transit’ box in the Piaggio Ape, taking the chilled fish and remaining sausage rolls inside.
Marvin Applewhite sat at the kitchen table across from a fresh-faced Asian man. He wore a suit that made her think of religious evangelists or double-glazing salesmen.
“Evening,” she said and slid the food onto the counter.
“About time too,” said Marvin.
“This would be…” She brushed her hands on her jeans to wipe off the frosty damp, then considered they were probably still a bit fishy. “I won’t shake. Been handling unsavoury things. Tel, isn’t it?”
“Tez actually,” he said. He was more fresh-faced than she’d initially perceived. Positively schoolboy-ish.
