Dead in the Water

by Wilfred Jules

  He decided to clear his mind by walking along the Marina boardwalk as he had planned to anyway. When he came to the East Jetty, he walked down the ramp towards the gates, curious to have a look at Polaris himself. The turnstile gate was locked however but he spotted a young woman sporting a VHF handheld fifteen walking back to the gate. She frowned when she noticed him standing there, obviously waiting for her. He showed her his warrant card and introduced himself.

  “I’m the harbour master, Moira Kelly. If you are looking for DCI Ianthe Seymour, she has just left.”

  “Actually, I’m on her team all right, but I hoped to have a quick look at Polaris. My colleagues have seen her, but I haven’t. I sail myself, too,” he added a little superfluously. She smiled at that. A genuinely nice freckled smile, he saw, and he felt himself turn red.

  *

  Ben glanced at his watch and saw it was already eleven past eight. There had been so much traffic. Endless roadworks in Brighton. He was wondering if the maintenance companies tore up roads just for fun in an endless carrousel. He had finally negotiated the way from The Gladstone to King’s Road via Montpellier Road. He turned left at the seafront and just before the atrocious BA tower he turned left again into Preston Street and right into lovely Regency Square. He did not park in the Regency Square Car Park though but at the end of what appeared to be a dead-end street he turned right into a small street called Queensbury Mews. He often parked there at the back of the Hilton Metropole Hotel. The street was somewhat hidden, it was all one way and there was no through traffic. He got lucky tonight again and found a parking spot right there. He took the small alley past the Regency Tavern, which he found quite cosy, and turned right into Cannon Place and left into Russell Road to come out almost next to the George Inn on West Street.

  He entered the pub and was again hit by its dreary atmosphere. Subdued lighting, ancient carpet of uncertain colour, rickety tables and chairs. Sure enough, Dutchy was at his usual table in the back again. Ben ordered two double Plymouth Gin Navy Strength on the rocks at the bar and took both glasses to his table. The dutchman warily eyed him when he sat down without asking to be invited.

  “I trust this is not becoming a habit, detective sergeant,” he said.

  “Not to worry, Dutchy, this is going to be a quick one. Cheers.”

  They both drained their glass in one go.

  “What brings you here then?”

  “Does the name Brandon Nicholson mean anything?”

  Dutchy shrugged.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “His name has come up in our investigation into the murder of Bert Devos I told you about. We arrested him on charges of dealing drugs. Found some evidence at his house. I just want to know how serious this kid is, and how connected.”

  “He’s just a small-time dealer, Ben. Basically, a hobby dealer who gets a kick out of doing something naughty. Not worth your time at all in my opinion.”

  “Can’t say I’m surprised,” Ben commented and started to get up again.

  “It’s curious there is so much interest in him though,” Dutchy added cryptically.

  “What do you mean by that?” Ben asked, sitting down again.

  “Just the other day I was asked exactly the same question by someone who works for Ricky Rowlands, that’s all.”

  “Ricky Rowlands again, huh?” Ben wondered.

  Dutchy nodded.

  *

  At thirteen minutes past eight pm DS Ajanta Ghani opened the door to their flat on 40 Buckingham Place and stepped into the small hallway. Immediately after the call with Aswini she had returned to her workstation to send her the email she had required, asking for the location and usage details for the phone numbers of Brandon Nicholson and his mother Rowena. After a slight hesitation she had added the numbers for Bert, Josephine and Helen Devos. Then she had left. In the car park she abruptly had felt overwhelmed by the emotions generated by the phone call. A desperate sense of loss had suddenly engulfed her. She had felt utterly alone. Her eyes had watered, and she had had to find her balance against her mini. At that moment of weakness, she had noticed DI Vik Gorti was watching her from his atrocious Vauxhall. She could not stand his condescending ways. He was always looking at her with that typically disrespectful sneer on his face, making it obvious how much he disapproved of her as a person. She found his arrogant presence almost unbearable in meetings. She had thought his attitude towards her was triggered by the fact she was a non-conformist Asian girl. He must know she was living together with a non-Asian person and made it clear he very much disapproved her disrespecting traditions. Even though he was not even a Muslim but a Telugu Hindu. But then she had seen how he equally disrespectfully glared at DCI Ianthe Seymour, and the rude way he talked to her. Without any reason whatsoever. To any bystander it had been rather obvious why Ianthe had been promoted over Vik. And she could understand that must hurt, in particular as Vik had been a DI way longer than Ianthe and was probably eight years older than she was. But beside some successes on the narcotics scene where Vik had been instrumental in solving a couple of drug related crimes, his track record was not on a par at all with Ianthe’s when it came to solving high profile cases. And there was something fishy about the drug related crimes he had solved, she had always thought. But she had never been able to put her finger exactly on what disturbed her in them. He also had a reputation for not being able to hold on to his team either. People just did not like to work with him and tended to ask for transfers within the year if they had been allocated to him. Quite a contrast with Ianthe whose team every detective Ajanta knew wanted to join. And for good reason, she thought. She failed to understand why Ianthe was being so patient with Vik. It was not as if he had brought a lot of value to the team yet. She guessed the super or even the ACC must have insisted on Vik joining the team of Operation Blackbird, for whatever reason. She sort of hoped Ianthe’s career would not move too fast, lest they would lose her to the Met, or she would be offered an ACC posture somewhere else. Although she doubted Ianthe was interested in that kind of position. But then, how much did she really know her boss?

  When she had seen Vik leering at her, she had jumped in her Mini and torn away, faster than she would normally have. Driving had fortunately calmed her down and she had made a quick stop at the ASDA in Hollinghurst, which was actually across from their old offices in Sussex House. Then she had been caught in one of the many traffic jams that were generated by the endless road works in Brighton. Fortunately, finding a parking space close to home had not been too difficult tonight. She was planning to make a curry for Sean, and then have an early night to make certain she would be on time for the briefing tomorrow morning.

  Sean was at home but had obviously not heard her enter. He was probably at work in the second bedroom that functioned as an office. She went into the open plan living room and kitchen on the left. She was actually quite happy with this apartment, which was very close to the Seven Dials shopping area and had a nice view over Brighton all the way to the Downs. Still, it would actually make a lot more sense if they moved closer to Malling House in Lewes. No doubt, flats were cheaper to rent there as well. But Sean’s office was next to the Railway station and he preferred to walk there. Then again, he was working more and more from home. Maybe they should discuss it again. The flat was spotless. Fortunately, they had the same idea about cleanliness. As soon as she had deposited her purchases on the kitchen counter, her phone bleeped. A quick look showed her an email from O2’s technical department with PDF files annexed with the phone details she had requested. They had managed to send it even faster than expected. Excellent. That meant she could look at it still tonight after dinner. Ianthe would hopefully be impressed if she had the results to share tomorrow morning. She laid out the chicken filets, the cauliflower and peppers she had bought as well as the coconut paste, put the bottle of ‘Vacqueras Clefs d’Or 2019’ in the fridge to chill, selected ‘Mehvashaa’ by Suzana Ansar on Spotify to play on their Sonos and set about pr
eparing dinner. The music brought a sad smile to her face.

  “Hello darling.”

  She had not noticed the door opening and Sean entering the room. He came up to her and gave her a quick kiss on her lips. Sean Flaherty was by all means a handsome boy. At six feet one inch a bit taller than Ajanta. Close cropped brown hair, green eyes behind fashionable heavy rimmed glasses and a thin beard, which was a matter of desperation for him as it grew unbelievably slowly. Not a gram of fat on him, even though he did not do any sports, except electronic games, at which he was quite good.

  “’Mehvashaa’ again, huh?” he commented, while he appreciatively looked at the bottle she had just put in the fridge, then turned to hunt for a corkscrew.

  “Yup,” she smiled. “Sorry if I disturbed you in something important. And that bottle is definitely not cold enough yet.”

  “We can add some ice,” he said defensively. “And no bother. I was finished anyway and waiting for you to come home. I kind of like this album, too, in particular the duets.”

  “A bit melancholy though perhaps.”

  He looked at her in an inquisitive way. He took two strides and enveloped her in his arms.

  “Tell me what happened, love. I can see something is bothering you.”

  It felt good in his arms, she thought. And while her demons receded a little, she felt them watching still.

  “The curry will burn,” she answered, removing herself from his hold. “Let’s have dinner first. I have work to do after.”

  “Your DI is a regular slave driver, she is.”

  “She’s a DCI now, actually. She’s demanding all right, but most of all of herself.”

  He set the table while she cooked and thirty minutes later, they sat down to dinner. He poured them each a glass of the white wine she had bought and added a stainless-steel chilling stone to their glasses. Ajanta did not drink a lot of alcohol but she was not totally strict about it either.

  “Now tell me what happened,” he said after they had sipped the wine and had started eating.

  “Aswini called,” she answered.

  “Ah. What did she want?”

  “Well, actually, that isn’t true. I called her. You know she is in O2 management and I needed something urgently from them for Ianthe. Aswini had it sent already, which is what I need to look at after dinner. We have a briefing tomorrow morning.”

  “You do love your boss, don’t you? I mean, if she can make you call your sister. What did she say? Aswini, I mean.”

  “Nothing really. Or nothing new. We spoke for less than five minutes.”

  They ate in silence for a few minutes to the violin tunes of ‘Bewafa’.

  “I miss them, Sean. I’m sorry, but I do.”

  “I know. No need to be sorry. I was thinking perhaps you should take a trip to see your mum. Who knows, you might be able to win her over. I’ll come if you want to, but it might be better for you to go alone. What do you say?”

  She looked at him with a smile on her lips and in her heart, reached out to cover his hand.

  “I do love you Sean Flaherty.”

  “I know, babe. And I think you’ll also love the Merc I have an eye on for you,” he grinned.

  *

  Ianthe had had to park her car all the way on Nizells Avenue and take a ten-minute walk back to Belvedere Terrace and their flat. Traffic from the Marina had been a bitch and it had taken her thirty-two minutes, even this late in the evening. She had noticed DC John Ryan coming out of the ASDA in the Marina just as she had been walking to her car, but she had not felt like stopping and asking him what he was doing there on a Friday evening. The Marina was the opposite direction of his home in Worthing she knew. She had ignored him waving at her and driven off. If it were important, he would call her or let her know in the morning, she thought. It had been a long day.

  She opened the door at two minutes past nine pm and shoved the sneakers out of the way that were crowding the floor of the hallway. A quick peak into the lounge and the bedroom told her Tony was not at home. Good. She went into the drab kitchen that he had failed to clean after his lunch. She looked into the fridge and saw Tony must have cooked the steaks for his lunch. There was not much else in there. He also had used the last of the milk. She did not feel like putting things away right now either, so she just cleared a corner of the table and sat down with a bowl of Alpen muesli and a glass of water. As there was no milk left, and no yoghurt either, she just added some water to the muesli. The bottle of Pietra she had opened before was not empty though and after she had finished her meagre dinner, she poured herself the last glass of wine and took it with her to the lounge.

  She sat down with her policy book in which she noted all the decisions she had taken on Operation Blackbird and went through them. They were obviously missing something, she thought. She found it less and less credible Brandon Nicholson was the perpetrator they were looking for. That boy was bad news all right and he had more than one motive and a weak alibi, but he did not strike her as resourceful enough to plan the murder of Bert Devos. The fact that the killer she now assumed had had to come in from the sea made that even less probable. She could see him kill someone in anger or under the influence of drugs, but not plan a cold-blooded murder.

  But then, she had been wrong before. And of course, the murder could have been planned for him. But then by whom? She found Josephine Devos an unlikely suspect without a credible motive. Killing her husband would dry up her only source of income, wouldn’t it?

  She looked at her watch. Eleven past ten. Tony was still not home. She decided to go to bed to have a fresh start in the morning. It was quite cold in their flat anyway. She skipped brushing her teeth and slipped into her vivid red chequered cotton pyjamas. Tony did not like those and had often commented she looked like his gran in them, but she decided not to care. They were warm and he was not here anyway. She slipped under the covers and turned off the light.

  At nine minutes and twenty seconds to midnight her Astron told her she heard Tony arrive. He made a bloody racket in the kitchen. She heard him complain under his breath, no doubt about the lack of food in the fridge. Shortly after he came into the bedroom. Along with a smell of smoke and strong liquor. He undressed noisily, then slipped under the covers behind her. She acted as if she was asleep. He slid over and cupped her breast in his hand. She felt his erection push against her bottom. She did not react and continued to breathe evenly, pretending to be fast asleep. After a few minutes he gave up, moved away from her and turned on his other side with his back to her. Seconds later she heard him snoring. She was wide awake but felt dead to the world.

  *

  At eleven fifty-one pm Ajanta slipped out of the bed and put on the fuchsia silk bathrobe Sean had bought her from Harrods. He did not wake up but continued snoring lightly. She smiled at the little boy’s face she thought he had when he was sleeping. She was lucky to have him, she thought. And at the same time unlucky. Making as little noise as possible she left the bedroom and went to the kitchen. She picked up her bag and poured herself a glass of wine with what was left in the bottle. She then tiptoed to the study. She opened her computer and looked for the files the O2 technical staff had forwarded. She also logged into the secure Sussex police network and started to analyse the data.

  *

  At one minute to midnight DS Ben Armstrong was at home in Balfour Road, staring out of his bay window, seated in his favourite Two-Seater Ludlow Compact Antique Tan Chesterfield sofa he had been able to acquire at the Sale last fall. He was nursing a dram of Jura Superstition, a lightly peated single malt whisky from the Isle of Jura in Scotland. He had heard it was being discontinued, just like its heavily peated brother Prophecy, which he knew his boss favoured. That was a pity.

  It was a dark night. Just across the road from his house there was a streetlamp, but that had been malfunctioning for a while now. He had a direct view of the Primary School, but no lights were on in its grounds. By the glow from the windows of his neighbours he notic
ed a man walking by hastily on the pavement, his coat turned up against the wind chill. Where would he be going? Ben did not know him and doubted he would ever get to know him and as always marvelled at that. All these people with their own lives on their separate journeys. The man downstairs had no inkling of the doubts and uncertainties that crossed Ben’s mind. But he must have his own worries and misgivings.

  He sipped from his glass and felt the pleasant warmth of spice, honey, pine and peat dissolve in his mouth. The absolute silence in the house that was really too big for him alone was suddenly disturbed by the mahogany grandfather clock in the hallway downstairs chiming twelve times. Saturday. He feared and desired the day. There was no sleep for him tonight.

  *

  DC John Ryan was startled out of his slumber by his mother’s Howard Miller mantel clock’s Westminster chime. Midnight.

  Moira Kelly had shown him Polaris. Nice yacht, obviously maintained to high standards. But that was only normal, in particular as he had understood Bert Devos had been there almost every day and had taken her out quite often by himself. He had not gone below as it was still a crime scene, but he assumed it would be equipped with all modern gadgets. On top at least there was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.

  He had found the harbour master to have an attractive personality and after the visit they had walked back to her office. She was done for the day and he had heard himself ask her if she was up for a Friday evening drink with him. She had smiled her very big grin and said yes. She shared a flat on Eastern Road in Kemp Town and usually walked from home and since he did not have a passenger seat on his Harley nor an additional helmet, they had walked to The Daddy Longlegs Pub in Arundel Road, which was barely five minutes from the Marina anyway. It was an odd name for a pub, he had said. He associated it not with the common cellar spider but rather with perverts like sugar daddies. He had felt himself turn red as soon as he had said it. Moira had doubled up with laughter but had tried to stop when she had noticed his embarrassment. That must be his police mind, she had chuckled, tears of laughter running down her face. But it was an odd name indeed, she had conceded, considering most women were scared of arachnoids, including harmless ones like Daddy Longlegs.