by Jack Benton
Slim, whose rocky patch with Lia had now lasted longer than their briefly euphoric good patch, just shrugged. ‘Not that I know of,’ he said. ‘No one much cares what I do in my private life.’
‘That’s the thing, isn’t it?’ Carson said, making himself comfortable. ‘I don’t doubt she has lovers of her own. I mean, I’ve caught her whistling while she’s making up the beds. It wouldn’t surprise me if half of Manchester has been through my bedroom while I’ve been out on location, but I have one little fling, do one little gram … and my career’s on the line. Ridiculous, isn’t it?’
‘Quite,’ Slim agreed.
Carson took him by the shoulder and leaned close. ‘I’m sensing we’re cut from the same cloth, you and me. Didn’t come down here for the fishing, did you? Not the kind on the brochure, at any rate.’ He pushed Slim’s shoulder until Slim had no choice but to turn in the direction of two middle-aged ladies sitting a couple of tables to their right. Both were a little overdressed, and while Slim saw only two faded wallflowers touched up just enough to turn the occasional reminiscent eye, he remembered Carson had nearly two decades on him. ‘I bet neither did they.’
‘I suppose you’d have to ask them,’ Slim said.
Carson grinned as one looked up and threw him a quick smile before ducking her head away. Cheeks painted with blusher appeared to take on an additional tint, although Slim supposed it could have been a reflection of the tabletop lacquer. ‘I already did. What’s say you and I head down to the harbour this evening and pick out a boat for a little river cruise? I could do with a wingman.’
Slim felt an urge to wash. He eased Carson’s hand off his shoulder and stood up. ‘While I appreciate the offer, I’m afraid I already have an appointment for tonight,’ he said, flashing a smile. ‘With my room and a newspaper.’
Carson’s countenance darkened. ‘Well, don’t come back begging me for another try tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Nobodies like you don’t get second chances with somebodies like me. I’m telling you, there are women in this town with more money than brains, and who cares about a husband off on his yacht somewhere?’
Slim resisted the urge to punch Carson in the face.
‘It was nice to meet you, Mr. Carson,’ he said. ‘If I spot a clean beer mat lying around I’ll come and find you for an autograph.’
As Slim made his way back into the hotel, he heard a coarse, ‘Don’t bother!’ aimed at his back, and wondered quite how low his karma stocks had fallen for him to have made an enemy on his first evening.
4
That night there was an arranged social event in the hotel’s banquet room. A trestle table laden with party food stood along one wall, with other tables and chairs haphazardly arranged around a politely sized dance floor. After an initial introduction and welcome speech by one of the tour company’s representatives, the guests were left to mingle. Slim, frustrated that there was a jug of orange juice and another of dandelion and burdock of all things, but no hot coffee, lingered near a window with a view out over the river.
Max Carson was nowhere to be seen, much to Slim’s relief. There was also no sign of either of the women Carson had been eyeing up, suggesting that there had been some truth to the aging radio personality’s claims. That or they were fighting a different kind of addiction and had realised a walk down through the village would be of more interest than the welcome event. Slim, feeling more and more like sneaking out to the nearest pub and to hell with recovery, was envious.
Worried he was beginning to look conspicuous, Slim reached into his back pocket and withdrew the folded tour brochure he had been handed on arrival. Another folded piece of card came out with it, and Slim stared at the crumpled remains of the birthday card Lia had sent him. He closed his eyes, thinking of calling her, then shook his head. No. It was better to let her go. She was fifteen years his junior, in the prime of her life. She didn’t need to ruin what should be her best years while he limped and struggled along beside her. It didn’t matter that she wanted to. It didn’t matter that she said that she loved him.
Sometimes, he thought, it was possible to disguise love with sympathy, and the misplacement of either could cause more hurt than it could remove.
A wastepaper basket poked out from beneath the nearest table. He went to throw the card away but changed his mind, sliding it back into his rear pocket. He would likely forget it when he next did his laundry anyway.
The tour brochure offered five days of combined fishing and sightseeing trips, coupled with evening social events. Everything was designed to be low stress and companionable, casually drawing the guests away from what life perils had jogged them into signing up. He had already overheard two men sharing gambling ills, one who had lost his family and another hanging on to his by a thread. Nearby, a pair of middle-aged women barely held back tears as they talked, one lamenting a sex addiction which had broken up her marriage and forced her husband into suicide, the other fighting depression and PTSD after a car accident in which the taking of too many prescription painkillers had resulted in her nodding off at the wheel and hitting a truck head on, killing her young son and his school friend who had been larking about, unbelted, in the back.
Suddenly a little alcoholism seemed like nothing. Slim picked at some finger food for a few minutes then went out to the lobby, where to his great relief the self-service drinks machine was still switched on. He grabbed a coffee then headed for the outdoor patio.
With a firm, chilly wind blowing in off the river, the patio was empty. Slim sat and watched the lights of the town below glittering off the water. A couple of boats moved among the static lights of the dozens of moored yachts, perhaps late night fishermen or pleasure seekers taking some alone time away from the tourist crowds. At the thought of couples enjoying each others’ company, Slim pulled his phone from his pocket and opened up the messages, thinking of sending one to Lia.
As he stared at the blinking icon, however, he knew he had nothing meaningful to say. I’m sorry. What for? Me being me. For being as useless as I told you I would be, for letting you down as I said I would, for dragging you into my tempest and letting the storm of my life rag you and toss you aside. I’m sorry for everything I told you would happen.
With a frown, he switched off his phone and put it away, then took a sip of coffee that wasn’t nearly strong enough.
He didn’t sleep particularly well, but a few hours were better than none at all. The room’s phone woke him, an automated service calling him down to breakfast.
The bleary eyes around him made it clear some of the other guests had already fallen prey to their personal demons. Max Carson was again nowhere to be seen; he had no doubt been lucky or unlucky, depending on the circumstances. Slim sat at a table for four. On one side was an overweight lady with a scrunched face who introduced herself with a smoker’s rasp as Irene Long. On his other was a young girl with long hair and wide, unblinking eyes. Eloise Trebuchet. Opposite sat a big man with a thick beard running up to eyes shaded by an overhanging brow. He didn’t introduce himself nor even glance in Slim’s direction, but a self-written name tag pinned to his shirt pocket labelled him as George Slade.
Before Slim could attempt a conversation, a tour rep stood up and called for quiet. The man, around thirty, handsome and smart in a blue shirt and checkered tie, introduced himself in an overtly flustered manner as Alex Wade. A colleague standing off to the side was Jane Hounslow. Alex continued, talking through the day’s itinerary while wiping sweat off his brow, leaving his sleeve visibly damp.
An hour later, Slim found himself sitting in the prow of a motorboat with a chill river breeze ruffling his hair. Eight other people sat around him, including Irene from breakfast. The group had been split into three, with his breakfast companions George Slade and Eloise Trebuchet allocated to one of the other two boats. As they bumped and skidded over the choppy water’s surface, Alex pointed out various local sights, but otherwise there was little conversation.
The first stop was a small
inlet a couple of miles upriver where they disembarked at a rickety pier and followed a narrow path leading beneath the trees to a spot where Alex claimed they would find good perch and carp in beneath the riverbank. It was clear from the tackle carried by the passengers that the group ran the gauntlet from wannabe pros to complete beginners. While some had their own gear, others borrowed rods and tackle from the boat before making their way to secluded spots along the riverbank where deckchairs had already been arranged in the shade beneath the trees. There, they were left to their thoughts, with the guide, Alex, stopping past every thirty minutes or so.
Slim, proud to have remembered all his tackle, nevertheless caught only a piece of passing driftwood which became tangled in the line. A couple of fish had disturbed the water’s surface nearby, however, and he was convinced he was heading for a major catch when Alex wandered past and informed him it was time to move on.
What followed was lunch on the boat and then a trip to a local sightseeing spot where the group climbed a steep path through the forest up to the ruins of a stone-age hilltop fort. Despite a few grumbles, most people seemed in good spirits, and Slim found himself sharing pleasantries about the view with a Londoner called Dan who mentioned something offhand about a recently completed prison sentence.
After a short lecture on the site’s history, the group were given twenty minutes to wander before heading back down to the pier. Upon reaching it, they found an agitated Alex talking on his mobile phone, and as the guests climbed back into the boat, Alex’s look of dismay grew. When everyone was assembled, he ended his call then signalled to the driver to wait before starting the engine.
‘Can I have everyone’s attention, please? I’m afraid we have to cut short the day’s excursion.’ He paused to wipe his brow before taking a deep breath. ‘There’s been an incident.’
5
Alex refused to give any specific answers until everyone was back in the hotel’s banquet and function room, insisting that he knew little more than they the reason for the group’s unexpected recall. All sorts of rumours were circulating, but when two police officers climbed onto a podium at the far end of the room, Slim knew it was serious.
With everyone assembled, Alex took a microphone and called for order. As the hush settled, he introduced the police officers as PC Dave Rogers and WPC Marion Oaks. WPC Oaks, a slim, pretty lady a full head taller than her squat, muscular counterpart, took the microphone and cleared her throat.
‘I apologise for interrupting your day’s activities,’ she said. ‘I’ll get straight to the point. There’s been an accident.’
A ripple of noise passed through the crowd. Slim, standing near the back, glanced at Irene standing nearby. She had a hand over her mouth, her eyes already tearful.
‘Early this morning the body of a Mr. Max Carson, a guest on your tour, was found near Greenway House, a couple of miles upriver. Greenway House, as you may be aware, is owned by the National Trust and is a famous local tourist attraction. Mr. Carson is believed to have fallen from an unfinished railway bridge on an abandoned section of the Kingswear-to-Paignton line, a fall of approximately thirty feet. Early coroner’s reports suggest he died from a broken neck.’
As questions rose out of the ensuing noise, WPC Oaks lifted a hand. ‘There’s not a lot more I can tell you at this stage,’ she said. ‘Our investigation is still in progress. However, I would like to ask that all of you remain here at the hotel for the next forty-eight hours, until we have spoken with each of you. If anyone has what you believe to be relevant information, please come forward in a few minutes and get the attention of PC Rogers or myself. I’d like to mention that none of you is considered implicit in anything that might have occurred. We simply wish to establish Mr. Carson’s last movements, and whether anything he said gave a clue as to what later transpired.’
Regardless of the police officer’s words, people began to mutter among themselves about the falling eyes of suspicion, about how someone in the room had to be guilty of something. With so many fragile people present, within a couple of minutes several had begun to cry, one wailing so loudly that a couple of hotel staff helped the sobbing figure from the room.
Slim slipped into observation mode, finding a place near the wall from where to watch proceedings. Alex and Jane had taken up positions at the back of the room from where they were dispensing information about the likely course of events. Slim caught snippets of conversion about refunds, reschedules, upsets caused to recoveries, and various veiled accusations that the incident was in some way the tour operator’s fault.
‘Why do you think he offed himself?’
Slim jumped at the sound of the voice at his shoulder. Eloise stood there, her intense gaze fixed on the two police officers answering queries from the stage. One hand brushed a curtain of hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear.
‘Excuse me?’
The girl shifted from foot to foot as though she was late on a medicinal dose. A smile, unsure of its welcome, came and went like a nervous twitch. ‘I mean, he must have, otherwise they’d be a little more careful about keeping us from mixing, in case we were getting our stories straight.’
‘You’re familiar with police procedures?’ Slim asked.
‘Got into training college once,’ Eloise said, still not looking at him. ‘First case as a trainee I borrowed a bag of drugs from a haul and got myself a habit. Things went downhill from there.’
Her expression settled into a wide grin as she continued to stare straight ahead. It was hard to tell whether she was telling the truth, and the absence of any emotion in her eyes made Slim shiver.
‘I suppose they would,’ he said at last, wishing he were up in his room.
‘You know the bastard propositioned me last night?’ Eloise said. ‘Told me he knew what would make me cook and offered to throw in a couple of hundred to make the deal into a steal.’ She was still smiling as she spoke but now her smile dropped. ‘His exact words. I told him it wouldn’t be a good idea to indulge while I was still on probation.’ Finally she looked at him, her eyes blazing. ‘I stabbed a guy who tried to rape me.’
Wishing she would look away, he said, ‘The guy probably deserved it.’
Eloise shrugged. ‘He did. I got first degree murder reduced to self-defence, but because I let him bleed out instead of calling for help, I got five years. The judge suggested I was callous. He was right. I wanted the bastard to die slower than he did, and I was prepared to sit there all night.’
Eloise didn’t look old enough to have spent five years in prison, but Slim had learned the hard way that looks could be deceiving. Not trusting his tongue, he said nothing, but remembered a time he had tried to kill a man with a razor blade for sleeping with his now-ex-wife.
‘Believe it or not, I can sympathise,’ he said. ‘I’m no angel myself.’
‘Why are you here?’
‘I drink too much,’ he said, aware how casual it sounded after her confession.
‘How much?’
Slim grimaced. ‘Enough to lose my mind from time to time.’
‘Do you black out?’
Slim shrugged. ‘Sometimes. It’s been a while, though. I’ve been fairly … restrained of late.’
Eloise’s eyes flickered across his face as though trying to memorise the pieces of a puzzle. ‘I doubt you’ll fall under too much suspicion then,’ she said. ‘I’m expecting to be cuffed at any moment. Luckily I have an alibi.’ That insane grin again. ‘I was in bed with Alex.’
‘The rep?’ Slim remembered how flustered their guide had appeared at the morning meeting.
‘Another cat among pigeons, as I’m sure screwing the customers is against company policy,’ she said. ‘I imagine he didn’t expect the last few hours of his job to be so dramatic.’ She gave half a shrug. ‘I’m sure he’ll deny it, but I can prove it, if you know what I mean. Kind of a personal policy.’ She grinned. ‘A safety net.’
Slim had a nagging urge to end the conversation. Just by bei
ng in Eloise’s presence he felt a taint of her obvious insanity trickling into him.
‘Here they come,’ Eloise said, as PC Rogers got down off the stage and made his way through the crowd in their direction. Eloise, as though readying herself to unleash a prepared speech, smiled, briefly closing her eyes. As the last group in front of them parted, however, it was Slim to whom the police officer turned.
‘Mr. John Hardy?’
‘Yes?’
‘Do you mind if we have a word? We’d like to establish your movements during the afternoon and evening of yesterday. It appears you were the last person we can verify to having seen Mr. Carson alive.’
6
A small meeting room at the hotel’s rear was far nicer than an interrogation cell might have been. Slim sat on a plain office chair, facing the two police officers.
‘I’d like to point out that you’re not under suspicion of anything,’ PC Rogers told him, legs crossed as he leaned back in a plush leather chair most likely reserved for the head of a board meeting. ‘We just need to establish what contact you had with Max Carson.’
Slim sipped a coffee they had offered him before clearing his throat. ‘I spoke to him last night, shortly after arriving. I found him, for want of a better description, to be a clown of the highest degree. I’m happy to detail what I remember of our conversation but I don’t know if it will help.’
‘It might,’ PC Rogers said. ‘It could provide a clue as to his frame of mind.’
‘He wanted me to play wingman while he pursued a couple of women whom he considered available. I refused his offer and we parted on poor terms.’
PC Rogers jotted something down on a notepad. ‘Could you identify these women?’
