The Restless Dead

by Simon Beckett

  But that hardly mattered: the important thing was I’d made it in time. I aimed the boat at the floating jetty, already thinking how best to handle this. I didn’t want to waste time on lengthy explanations, not with Porter still at large. The priority was to get everyone out of the house as quickly as possible. Everything else could wait until they were safely in the boat and we were well away from here.

  I was almost at the jetty when Rachel broke off from her reading. She glanced over her shoulder at the stairs, and downstairs at the same time I saw Jamie raise his head as well. I felt suddenly cold as I realized why.

  Someone was at the door.

  Rachel said something to Fay and put the book down. She started to get to her feet, but in the room below Jamie straightened and called something. Then he stood up and went out.

  To answer the door.

  ‘No!’ The boat rocked as I jumped to my feet. ‘Rachel! Rachel!’

  Frantic, I waved my arms, but she couldn’t see or hear me. I was invisible behind the window’s dark mirror. As the boat droned the last few yards I could only watch as she turned to listen to something downstairs. Suddenly both she and Fay gave a start. Rachel shouted something and jumped to her feet. She ran towards the stairs but she’d only taken a few steps when Jamie came sprawling from the top of them.

  Behind him was Porter.

  Wet and caked in mud, the driver yelled and gestured at Rachel. Looking confused, she shook her head. He took a step towards her, finger stabbing. Scrambling up from his hands and knees, Jamie launched himself at him, then reeled back as Porter drove a hand into his face. The windows muted Fay’s screams as her brother tumbled downstairs.

  Porter was already turning back to Rachel. She stood in front of Fay, her expression scared but determined.

  ‘PORTER!’ I screamed. ‘LEAVE THEM ALONE, I’M OUT HERE!’

  The wind carried my shouts away. I saw Rachel snatch up a lamp and fling it at Porter’s head. It sent crazy shadows as he ducked, before shattering noiselessly on the wall. Rachel made a grab for a vase, but he caught hold of her arm. Wrenching her away, he hit her across her face. She dropped to one knee, and I saw Porter take hold of her hair.

  ‘NO!’ I yelled. And then they were lost from sight as the boat passed below the window.

  By now I’d reached the jetty, but I didn’t slow. The propeller bit into mud and gravel as I opened the throttle and sent the boat over the flooded bank and along the side of the house. It carried me a few more precious yards before it ran aground. As it slewed to a stop, I leapt out and splashed through the knee-deep water. I was clutching the knife I’d taken from the boathouse, but I’d no plan, no idea what I was going to do as I rushed up the steps. The door stood open, the hallway beyond in darkness. I barged it aside and headed for the stairs.

  As I started up them the crash of a shotgun rang out.

  I staggered as though I’d been hit myself. No, I thought, numbly. No, no, no. Then I was running up the stairs. I burst into the room at the top.

  And stopped.

  A lazy drift of smoke hung in the air. The upper floor stank of gunpowder and blood. Rachel was kneeling by Fay, hugging the girl to her. They were both crying, but apart from a livid graze on Rachel’s face neither appeared hurt.

  The shotgun blast had taken Porter between his shoulder blades. He’d been flung into the bookshelves, and now lay sprawled among the scattered books. I started to go over, until I saw the extent of the wound in his back and realized there was no point.

  I turned to where Jamie stood nearby. Blood streamed from the teenager’s nose, and the haunted look in his eyes was as eloquent as any confession. He still had the shotgun raised to his shoulder, but offered no resistance when I gently took it from him.

  The photograph Lundy had sent hadn’t done the Mowbry justice. It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship. Two over-and-under barrels were set in a honeyed walnut stock, inset with ornate silver side panels. Engraved on them in flowing script were two initials.

  LV.

  31

  THREE WEEKS AFTER the flood, Rachel called to say we needed to talk. She didn’t say why, but I could tell by her voice that something was wrong. She sounded different. Distant.

  We met in a café in Covent Garden. The ease I’d felt with her before was absent today. I watched her walk across the room, the worn sweater and jeans replaced by a slim-fitting dress, and her thick dark hair taken back. She looked lovely.

  ‘I’m going back to Australia,’ she said, looking into her coffee. ‘I wanted to tell you in person rather than over the phone. I thought I owed you that much.’

  I couldn’t say her announcement came as a surprise. A blow, yes. But not a surprise.

  We’d continued to see a lot of each other in the days after I returned to London. To start with there had been long conversations over the phone, followed by dinner in Chelmsford one evening. Then she came to London for the weekend. I thought it might feel strange for us to spend time together in such a different environment, but any nervousness was forgotten the moment she arrived. Being with her seemed natural, as though we’d known each other far longer than the few weeks it had actually been.

  After the grim horror of those last days in the Backwaters, the weekend had seemed one of those charmed periods that occasionally touch our lives, apparently endless yet over too soon. Spring was hurrying into summer, and the bright sunshine seemed to promise a fresh start after the dour winter months. When Rachel left it was understood that she’d come out again soon. For longer next time.

  And then something changed between us. It was hard to say how, exactly, and I told myself it was only to be expected after what she’d been through. That she had a lot on her mind.

  Now I knew what. I felt numb, the sort of deadness that precedes the pain of a bad injury. It’s your own fault. You were expecting too much. I stirred my own coffee, giving myself chance to absorb the news. ‘That’s sudden, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not really. I’ve been treading water for too long as it is, I need to get my life back. Too much has happened here. And I keep thinking about Bob Lundy. I can’t …’ She broke off as her eyes filled up. ‘Shit. This is exactly what I wasn’t going to let happen.’

  She shook her head when I reached for a tissue, taking a paper napkin to angrily dab her eyes.

  ‘You can’t keep blaming yourself,’ I told her, knowing it wouldn’t do any good. We’d had this discussion before, though not like this.

  ‘Yes, but if not for me he’d never have gone out to that bloody place. If I hadn’t been so pig-headed he’d still be alive.’

  ‘What happened to Lundy wasn’t your fault. He was a police officer, he was doing his job.’

  And I knew the DI would do it again if he had to. In the week following his murder I’d gone to see his wife at their home. The cherry tree blossoms that had lined the road had largely fallen now, the delicate pink petals turned to brown mulch in the gutters. Sandra Lundy had been quietly dignified as she’d asked how her husband had died. I’d told her it had been saving the lives of Rachel and myself, that if not for him we’d have been killed as well. She covered her eyes for a moment, then smiled.

  ‘That’s good. He’d be happy about that.’

  I didn’t mention the call-back from hospital that Lundy had been worried about on the morning he’d been shot. It was possible she might not even know about it, and I couldn’t see how it would serve any purpose to tell her now.

  Rachel had taken the DI’s death hard, but I’d thought she’d been coming to terms with it. She’d certainly given no indication that she wanted to return to Australia.

  ‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’ I said, looking at the smooth lines of her face as she balled up the napkin.

  She took a moment to answer, making minute adjustments to her cup and saucer.

  ‘Pete’s been in touch.’

  ‘Pete?’ I asked, though I could guess.

  ‘The marine biologist I told you abou
t. Who I split up with.’

  ‘The one with the twenty-two-year-old post-grad in a bikini.’

  I regretted the jibe straight away. A smile quirked a corner of her mouth, but it was sad rather than wry.

  ‘Yeah. He heard about … what happened. Even made the news in Australia. He was worried, wanted to see if I was OK.’ She looked across at me. ‘He wants to give it another go.’

  I looked out of the café window. Tourists thronged outside, more than I could count. A street musician was playing a jazzed-up version of ‘What a Wonderful World’ on a guitar. ‘And what do you want?’

  ‘I don’t know. But we were together seven years. It wasn’t all bad.’

  Until he ran off with someone else, I thought, but managed to keep it to myself this time. ‘So …?’

  She gave a lost shrug. ‘So I’ve said we can talk about it when I get back.’

  I sat very still, feeling as though the ground had shifted under me. ‘You’re definitely going?’

  ‘I – I have to. Too much has happened, I need some time to work things out. And it’s not like I’m needed any more.’

  Isn’t it? Her hands were resting on the table. I reached out and laid mine on one of them. ‘Rachel—’

  ‘Don’t. Please, I can’t …’ She broke off. ‘This is hard enough already.’

  The numbness had been replaced by a disappointment that pressed down on me with a physical weight. ‘So there’s nothing I can say?’

  She looked at me for a long moment, her thumb lightly stroking my hand. Then, with a gentle squeeze, she let go. ‘I’m sorry.’

  So was I. I forced a smile as I moved my hand back to my cup. ‘When are you going?’

  Some of the tension seemed to leave her. ‘As soon as everything’s tied up here. Andrew’s found a place to rent in Chelmsford until things are sorted out. It’s a nice area, and there’s a good school nearby for Fay. He’s going to put Creek House on the market as soon as he can. They can’t stay there, not after everything that’s happened. It’s not going to be easy for them, but maybe a fresh start will help.’

  ‘Sounds like a good idea.’

  In hindsight, there had been something unhealthy about the beautiful house on the edge of the saltmarsh. For all its modern aesthetic, all the planning Trask had put into its design, it had been an unhappy place. It seemed forced upon the landscape rather than a part of it, and that applied to the people who lived in it as well. Trask had been a careful man, but he’d been so busy safe-guarding his family against the Backwaters he’d forgotten that tragedy can come from the inside too.

  I hoped the house’s next occupants would have better luck.

  The street musician was winding up the song, to scattered applause. People drifted away as he bent to count coins in his guitar case.

  ‘What will you do when you get back?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know yet. Maybe see if my old job’s still open.’ She hesitated. ‘Will you be OK?’

  I turned away from the window. My smile felt more natural this time, but then I’d had plenty of practice. ‘Sure, I’ll be fine.’

  She looked at her watch. ‘I’d better go. I just wanted to see you again, to explain. And I never really thanked you.’

  ‘For what?’ I asked, confused. I couldn’t see what there was to thank me about.

  Rachel gave me a quizzical look.

  ‘For finding Emma.’

  By dawn the morning after Porter’s shooting, the floodwaters had disappeared. In their wake was a miles-long swathe of mud and shingle. The tidal surge hadn’t been bad compared with others that had inundated the east coast in the past, and certainly nowhere near as severe as the storm tide of 1953. A few hundred houses had been evacuated, roads rendered impassable and sea walls breached or washed away. But everyone agreed it could have been worse. No one had died.

  At least not because of the flood.

  Wearing yet more borrowed clothes of Trask’s and wrapped in a blanket for the second time that day, I was checked out by paramedics who arrived at Creek House with the police. They’d seen to the others first, all of whom needed attention more than I did, one way or another. I’d barely spoken to Rachel after the shooting. Once I’d called the police I’d hurried them all downstairs, away from the body of Lundy’s killer. Rachel had taken Fay into her room to console the hysterical girl, while I’d stayed with Jamie. That was more to make sure he was all right than to prevent him from going anywhere. I didn’t think he’d try to leave.

  He’d had enough of hiding.

  The paramedics suggested I go to hospital, but I’d refused. I knew the warning signs of hypothermia or a resurgent infection well enough, and didn’t have either. Two mugs of warm, sweet tea and dry clothes borrowed from Trask’s wardrobe had stopped the worst of the shivering. I felt exhausted, but I could rest later.

  I wanted to see this through.

  Clarke came to see me after I’d given yet another statement at police HQ in the early hours of the morning. She arrived in the beige interview room with two polystyrene cups of tea, one of which she handed to me. I wasn’t sure if it was a peace offering but accepted it anyway.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ she asked, sitting down across from me.

  I shrugged. ‘OK. How are the others?’

  The DCI looked tired, the skin of her face pale and drawn after the long night. I knew I didn’t look any better. ‘Rachel Derby’s just got some bruising. The little girl’s suffering from shock but we released Andrew Trask earlier, so at least he’s with her again. We might have more questions for him later, but under the circumstances …’

  Under the circumstances, letting a young girl be with her father was the humane thing to do. Especially when her brother had just killed a man in front of her.

  ‘And Jamie?’

  ‘He’s got a broken nose and a couple of loose teeth, but they’re the least of his problems. How much did he tell you?’

  ‘Most of it,’ I admitted.

  Some I’d been able to piece together myself. From the moment I’d seen Trask’s son holding the hand-crafted shotgun I knew what it meant. I’d wondered why Porter hadn’t used the Mowbry at the boathouse, but the reason was simple: he didn’t have it. He never had. It had been hidden at the bottom of Jamie Trask’s wardrobe ever since the teenager had accidentally shot Anthony Russell.

  It hadn’t been long after his father’s abortive attempt to confront Leo Villiers that Jamie had seen a light on at Willets Point. He’d been returning home from a night out with friends, and while he wasn’t exactly drunk, he wasn’t exactly sober either. No doubt he was worried what his father might do now Leo Villiers was back. But it wasn’t just the alcohol, or concern for his family, that made the teenager head out to the house on the promontory.

  ‘Did he tell you about him and Emma Derby?’ Clarke asked.

  ‘Not in so many words, but I guessed,’ I said. It wasn’t difficult: once Jamie had begun to open up his feelings for his stepmother had become obvious. ‘How far had it gone?’

  She took a drink of tea, grimacing as she set it back down. ‘It doesn’t look like anything actually happened between them, but she’d been egging him on for a while. Flirting, leaving the door open when she was showering, that sort of thing. Probably just a bit of fun as far as she was concerned, but it was enough to mess with his head. It got so he didn’t want to be alone in the house with her when his dad was away. That’s why he was staying with friends when she went missing, because he didn’t trust himself.’

  It wasn’t surprising. Teenage hormones on one hand, guilt on the other: it was a volatile mix.

  Clarke shook her head, radiating disapproval. ‘Christ knows what she was thinking. She should have known better.’

  Yes, she should. Rachel had told me how Jamie had abruptly split up with Stacey Coker even before learning she was pregnant, and now it was clear why. It was no secret there were cracks in Trask’s ill-matched marriage, and for someone like Emma Derby – vain and
bored, missing city life – the teenager’s infatuation must have been a flattering diversion. She’d won over her stepdaughter by playing the big sister. For her stepson she’d taken a different approach.

  ‘Did Trask know?’ I asked.

  ‘He hasn’t admitted it, but he must have had suspicions. Teenagers aren’t the best at hiding their feelings, and I can’t imagine Emma Derby tried too hard to be subtle. It’s academic now, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Trask didn’t want to know. Probably scared of what he might find out, especially after his wife went missing.’

  Christ, I thought, the emotional undercurrents in the Trask household didn’t bear thinking about. No wonder the relationship between father and son was so strained, or that Rachel had said being around them was like walking on eggshells. She’d not become involved with the family until after her sister had disappeared, so had missed the interplay between Jamie and his stepmother.

  But there was no ignoring the tensions in the house afterwards. And for Jamie, months of jealousy, grief and guilt had reached a tipping point when he saw the light on at Leo Villiers’ house and thought his stepmother’s lover and killer had returned to Willets Point.

  The teenager’s voice had been dull and nasal, muffled by the frozen peas he held to his broken nose, as he’d told me what had happened that night. Pumped up by alcohol and adrenalin, he’d parked outside Villiers’ house and been about to bang on the door when he’d heard glass breaking on the terrace. He’d gone round to the front and seen a man wearing a long coat standing on the water’s edge, collar turned up against the chill. On the terrace around him were empty glasses and bottles, some of them shattered as though they’d been used for target practice. A shotgun had been propped against a tree nearby. More to keep it out of Villiers’ reach than with any intent to use it himself, Jamie had picked it up.

  The man heard him and turned. Even in the dark it had been apparent it was a stranger. Panicking, Jamie had thrust the over-and-under barrels at the man’s face, stammering a demand to know where Leo Villiers was.