Murder Between the Tides

by Campling Michael

  “So, the victim led a double life, keeping his past hidden. Thanks for that. It’s always good to get a bit of corroboration, so I’ll do you a favour. Yes, I met with Roz. She dragged me out to Fistral Beach. I was instructed to wait by the statue. You know, the one with the dolphins. The whole thing would’ve been very cloak-and-dagger if she hadn’t turned up on her pushbike. That kind of spoiled the moment.”

  “Go on. What did she say?”

  “She offered me a story. It was about Rudge but, at the time, I wasn’t interested.”

  “Why not?” Alan asked.

  “She was trying to do a hatchet job on him, spilling the beans. But that’s not what I do, and anyway, it wouldn’t stand up. She wasn’t a credible source. Quite frankly, after her high jinks with Hatcher, I couldn’t use any of the stuff she gave me. Any decent editor would just laugh in my face.”

  Alan furrowed his brow. “Are you referring to the disagreement between Roz and Edward’s publisher? I don’t see what that’s got to do with it.”

  Charlie’s laughter was hollow and without humour. “Wake up, mate! This isn’t some spat over a couple of scribbles. Roz and Hatcher were having an affair, sneaking into hotel rooms then creeping out at the crack of dawn, leaving lacy knickers in the bed. One whiff of that, and the tabloids would’ve been all over it. And my in-depth piece on Hatcher would’ve been spiked. I can’t afford to take that chance. I’ve got a mortgage to pay, and a wife and kids to feed.”

  “I know,” Alan said. “I spoke to your wife earlier. She was charming. She was making Christmas cards with the children.”

  There was a pause before Charlie replied. “You don’t have kids, do you, Alan?”

  “No.”

  “Thought not. Well, if you ever get around to it, you’ll know what I’m talking about. When it comes to motivation, there’s nothing like having a couple of hungry mouths to feed.”

  “I’m sure that’s true,” Alan said. “But nevertheless, I’d be amazed if Roz and Edward were engaged in any kind of relationship. And even if they were, I still don’t see the connection between that and Dominic Rudge.”

  “Has anyone ever told you you’re naïve, Alan?”

  “Frequently. But I don’t see it as a criticism. You may go through life seeing the worst in people, but I prefer not to.”

  “Hm. Not bad. Uplifting. I might be able to work that into my piece.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” Alan said. “Your story isn’t about me. And you still haven’t answered my question.”

  “It’s simple. Roz had a history with Dominic Rudge. A fling, we might call it. They were photographed together at various literary functions, and she was on his arm at a couple of award ceremonies. Quite the couple. The darlings of the literati.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “But it’s true,” Charlie said. “And it paints Roz in an unfavourable light. You see, to the great British public, she’s traded up, spurning Rudge, the literary prize-winner, so she can slide between the sheets with Hatcher: a man who’s much older and a great deal wealthier. Hatcher is worth an absolute mint, and I should know. But his money makes Roz look like a calculating gold-digger, and that, my friend, means she’s lost all credibility.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Alan protested.

  “It’s a double standard, but so what? Have you read a newspaper recently? They’re many things, but fair isn’t one of them.”

  “Even so,” Alan began, but Charlie didn’t let him finish.

  “Listen, according to Roz, Dominic was a bully, a nasty piece of work, but that doesn’t mean she can use the press to sling mud at her ex. I wasn’t interested in her story, so I fobbed her off, told her I’d think about it. Mind you, the situation has changed.”

  “Does that mean you’re going to use Roz’s story after all?”

  “Yes and no,” Charlie said. “I’m not interested in what she was up to with Hatcher, but unfortunately for Roz, she’s still in the frame for shoving her old boyfriend off a cliff. The cops might’ve let her go, but officially she’s still helping the police with their enquiries, and we both know what that means. Plus, she had a motive. The worm that turned.”

  “Oh, come on. You were with her that night. You admitted it. Would she have met up with a journalist and talked about Rudge, then turned around and killed him?”

  “Hm. To be honest, I don’t much like it. When she came out to meet me, she was spitting feathers, know what I mean? Furious. But, after she’d poured it all out, she went flat. She’d been keeping it all under wraps, and once she got it off her chest, the fight went out of her. By the time she left, she was tearful, shaky, all over the place. She could barely pedal her pushbike, never mind tackle a bloke Rudge’s size.”

  “Have you talked to the police yet?”

  “Yeah. I’ve told them the same story,” Charlie said. “Not that it’ll do much good for Ms Hammond. I couldn’t tell them where she went after we talked. I told her to go and have a stiff drink, but by then she wasn’t listening to a word I said. She could’ve gone anywhere.”

  “And what are you going to report? Are you going to make her look guilty, even though you know it’s not true?”

  Charlie sighed. “Listen, I’m not here to sensationalise things for the sake of it, Mr Hargreaves. I’m a serious journalist. I report the facts, but others won’t be so generous. Rightly or wrongly, Roz is going to be in for a rough time in the press. People like to think there’s no smoke without fire, but they also have short memories. As soon as someone else gets charged with the murder, Roz will be forgotten.”

  Alan stared at the wall. He wanted to argue with the man, tell him he was wrong, accuse him of being a cynic. But he couldn’t. Instead, he said, “I’d better go.”

  “Yeah. But maybe we can help each other out. If you hear anything about the case, give me a heads-up, and I’ll make sure you get the chance to put your side of the story.”

  “And if you find anything, will you share it with me?”

  “Not bloody likely, mate. I’ve got a job to do.”

  “Goodbye, Charlie.” Alan ended the call, and thought, What do I do now? He’d have to meet Dan soon, and he wasn’t looking forward to their conversation. Rudge had a murky past, and the motive behind his murder was becoming clearer. But Alan didn’t know if he had the courage to carry on asking questions. He felt like a man who’d pulled on a loose thread, only to find he was unravelling the carpet beneath his feet. He already had a handful of thread, but if he continued to pull, the carpet would eventually be destroyed. The only alternative was to cut the thread and walk away.

  It was up to him to choose.

  CHAPTER 24

  Flo Walker strode along the clifftop path. She’d left her guitar at the flat, and she felt lighter without it; free to stand straight and swing her arms. And she didn’t feel the cold. Not today.

  She lost track of time, thought only of the rhythm of her footsteps on the path, the breath in her lungs. And soon, she was at the place.

  It hadn’t been hard to find; they’d shown it on TV. And the crime scene tape was a dead giveaway. It fluttered in the breeze, like a prop from a cop show. She’d never liked those crime stories, never seen the appeal. But now, a thrill ran through her. This was exciting. This was real.

  As she walked up to the yellow tape, a policeman in a high-vis jacket strode toward her, a clipboard in his hand. “Can I help you with something?” he asked.

  “Just curious,” Flo said. “Is this where it happened?”

  The policeman fixed her with a stern look. “If you have something to tell us, then we’ll talk. If you witnessed the incident that took place here last night, we’ll be glad to hear about it.”

  “No. I was in the pub last night.” Flo offered a smile, but the policeman wasn’t impressed.

  “Listen, if you don’t have a reason to be here, please keep walking. Otherwise, I’ll need to take your name and address.”

  “Why?”
r />   “Because that’s our procedure. What’s it to be?”

  “Been a lot of people coming to look, has there?”

  “Too many.” The policeman raised his clipboard, his pen poised. “Right, miss. Your name, please.”

  Flo reeled off her details. Really, she ought to have told him to get lost, but she was in too good a mood to make a fuss.

  The policeman waved her on, and Flo sauntered away. When she’d put a reasonable distance between herself and the cop, she stopped to admire the view out to sea. Leaning on the fence, she craned her neck to peer down to the water. The waves were small today, and she could hear them lapping against the cliff face below, but whether the tide was coming in or going out, she couldn’t tell.

  It doesn’t matter, she thought. Either way, it was a long way down.

  She pictured Rudge falling. Had he screamed in the moments before he’d hit the ground, or had he been paralysed by fear, his throat tightening until no breath would pass, never mind a shout or a scream or a sob? She knew what that was like.

  On the TV, they’d said that his hands had been tied. Helpless, she thought. Good.

  She stayed for a couple of minutes, letting her mind empty. Then she straightened and felt in her coat pocket for the journal. It was only a cheap notebook: a gift from a friend. But when you’re eleven years old and away from home for the first time, you value each kindness, each friendly gesture, each gift.

  The journal was held closed with a thick rubber band, and that was fine, because she didn’t need to open it. Many of the pages were blank, but not all. And for those she’d filled in, she could recall almost every word she’d written. She knew precisely what those clumsy sentences said, and what they didn’t say, couldn’t say.

  She waited for the wind to drop, then she hurled the little book with all her might. It spun through the air, then it tumbled. A second later, she thought she heard a splash, but maybe that was her imagination. She’d always had a vivid imagination; everyone had always been keen to inform of her of that fact. It had been used to explain her nightmares, her fear of the dark, her anxiety about pretty much every damned thing. And those fears had defined her, held her down.

  “Not anymore,” she whispered to the wind. Those days had gone. She’d given her fears to the sea, and good riddance.

  Flo took one last look at the sea, then she turned away and headed back to town, walking quickly. She didn’t even glance at the policeman as she passed, and as the sound of the waves faded away behind her, a melody came into her mind. It was new. She’d learned to recognise these moments, and she let the tune play all the way through in her mind. Not too shabby, she thought. Now all she needed was some words. And they would come to her. It was time for a new song.

  CHAPTER 25

  Dan knocked on the hotel room door, then he stepped back, waiting. He’d asked Alan to forward the spreadsheet of allotted room numbers, and mistakes notwithstanding, he’d tracked down and called on almost all the remaining attendees. Only Albert Fernworthy remained, and from the sounds of frenetic typing coming from within, he was hard at work.

  Dan held his breath. Was that typewriter keys he could hear? He prepared to knock again, but the door swung open, and Albert thrust his face into the gap. “Yes?”

  “I was hoping you could help me out with something,” Dan began, but he was distracted by the clatter of keys still emanating from the room. He tried to peer past Albert’s shoulder, but with little success. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but do you have a typewriter? Are you working with someone?”

  “No. I’m here alone, but I am working, so unless there’s something important, I’d like to get back to it.”

  “It is important. It’s about Dominic Rudge.” Dan gestured toward the door. “But I can hear someone typing.”

  “All right, if that’s what’s bothering you, I’ll fix it.” Albert tutted. “Honestly, it’s not that loud. I don’t know what people are complaining about. It’s not my fault the damned walls are so thin.” He turned away from the door, leaving it open. “You’d better come in.”

  Cautiously, Dan stepped inside. The room was similar to his own: sparse but functional. But in Albert’s room, the bed was entirely covered with sheets of paper, magazines and at least half a dozen paperback books.

  “Hey Google,” Albert said. “Stop.”

  Dan spotted a Google Home Mini sitting on the desk beside a laptop. The smart speaker’s lights pulsed, and abruptly the sound of typing stopped.

  “Ambient sound,” Albert explained. “It helps me work. Some people like rain or the buzz of a coffee shop, but I like the sound of typing. It seems right somehow.” He smiled ruefully. “I’m sorry about the noise. I tried wearing headphones, but it wasn’t the same. I need the sound to fill the room. The problem is, I’ve got so used to it, I can hardly do a damned thing without it. Writers, eh? We’re a weird bunch.”

  “Certainly idiosyncratic.” Dan glanced at the plethora of material on the bed. “I suppose, writing science fiction, you must need to do a lot of research.”

  Albert chuckled. “Yes, but probably not in the way you’re imagining. When it comes to the science stuff, the Internet is my friend. But as for the meat of my story…” He crossed to the bed, plucking a thick paperback from the pillow. “That’s where this kind of thing comes in handy.”

  He offered the book, and Dan took it. “War and Peace?”

  “Part one,” Albert corrected him. “The first instalment of the greatest novel ever written. What Tolstoy doesn’t know about story isn’t worth knowing.” He picked up a much slimmer volume. “And this little beauty, One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, it blows my mind. I read it once a year.”

  “Interesting. I wouldn’t have had you down as a scholar of Russian literature.”

  “So, just because I write sci-fi, I’m a know-nothing lowlife who spends all his time watching reruns of Star Trek TOS, and moaning about the way Firefly got cancelled.”

  “No, not at all,” Dan said, but he couldn’t stop the colour rising to his cheeks. Albert had read his mind perfectly, and they both knew it. To cover his embarrassment, Dan said, “TOS? Terms of service?”

  “The original series.” Albert grinned. “To be fair, I do spend a fair amount of my leisure time enjoying the continuing journey of the starship Enterprise, but that’s just for fun. When it comes to my work, I fall back on my first love, the classics. When you’re planning a series that plays out over a dozen books, and you’re building whole worlds, each with their own cultures, languages, technologies and traditions, you need to think on an epic scale. Not for nothing is it called space opera. Fortunately, I have a first-class honours degree in English literature, and that’s always stood me in good stead.”

  “Now that really is interesting,” Dan said. “I came to ask if I could see the note that was left in your room, but maybe you can shed some light on another little problem. We’ll get to that in a minute, but do you still have that note?”

  Albert regarded him from beneath lowered brows. “Sure, I still have the note. It’s around here somewhere. Why do you want it?”

  “I think it’s connected to Rudge’s murder. I’m almost certain of it. There’s a good chance it was written by whoever killed him.”

  “Seriously? Then why haven’t the police come looking for it?”

  “They probably will, but they haven’t got there yet. They’re still stuck on the idea that Roz was involved. But I’m sure she’s innocent, so I’m doing my best to figure out what really happened.”

  “I see. So, in this scenario, you’re playing Hercule Poirot. What does that make me, a suspect?”

  Dan looked him in the eye. “Potentially, yes.”

  “I’m not sure how to take that. Should I be hurt or flattered?”

  “I leave that to you. But if we look at that note, it might help you decide.”

  Albert smiled. He had an easy-going, lopsided smile, and Dan found himself warming to the man. “The other day,
at the meeting, you said that you’d left the note in your bag,” Dan went on. “You said it mentioned boldly venturing to new realms.”

  “So I did. Well remembered.” Albert strode over to the desk and bent down to search beneath it. “You obviously have a keen ear for dialogue and a first-rate memory. I can see I’ll have to be careful with you around.”

  Dan tensed. Albert’s last remark struck him as odd; if the man had nothing to hide, then why would he need to be careful? Roz had said something similar when they’d first met. Was that a coincidence?

  “Where the hell is it?” Albert muttered, his voice growing sharp with irritation. “I can never find a damned thing when I want it.”

  Dan tried for a casual tone. “There’s no rush.”

  “Give me a minute,” Albert said, but he was making heavy weather of the search. He’d dragged a small holdall from beneath the desk, and it sounded as though he was vigorously rifling through its contents with both hands, but he was hunched over the bag in such a way that his body shielded it from view.

  Dan took half a step back toward the door. “I could come back later. It’s no trouble.”

  “No, goddammit! I just need… one second.”

  “Seriously, don’t worry about it,” Dan said, but Albert straightened suddenly, wheeling around to face him, his hand held aloft, something long and thin protruding from his clenched fist.

  Dan almost flinched, but the only thing in Albert’s hand was a tightly rolled sheet of paper.

  “Got it!” Albert offered the sheet of paper as though presenting a scroll. “I rolled it up so that it wouldn’t get creased. It’s not every day I get valedictory messages thrust beneath my door.” His brow furrowed as he noticed Dan’s expression. “Sorry to make a fuss. It’s that damned bag. It’s supposed to keep me organised, but it has so many pockets it drives me wild.”

  “Right.” Dan took the proffered paper, unrolling it carefully. The sheet of paper was identical to the others and bore the Conqueror watermark. The typewritten text, too, appeared to be identical in layout to the other notes.