The Killing Sands

by Rick Murcer

  Marielle was her mother’s daughter all right. When they’d all been living together as a family, the two of them used to gang up on him until he didn’t know which way was up, and which way down.

  ‘I’ll be arriving at Knightsbridge tube station at quarter to midnight. Can you pick me up?’

  ‘You want to stay with me?’

  ‘Where else would I go?’

  ‘I don’t think...’

  ‘Would you prefer your father to sleep in a cardboard box with a bottle of methylated spirits for company?’

  There was half a laugh on the other end of the phone. ‘We have hotels in London now, you know.’

  ‘I don’t have money for posh London hotels.’

  ‘You’re already here, aren’t you? Why didn’t you ring me before? Why wait until quarter past eleven?’

  ‘Can I stay with you, or not?’

  There was a long silence. ‘I have some rules.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You’re not to mention what I do for a living.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘You’re not to mention my lifestyle, or the way I live my life.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And you’re not to pick on my boyfriend.’

  ‘You have a boyfriend?’

  ‘I said you weren’t to mention him.’

  ‘No, you said I couldn’t pick on him.’

  ‘You’re not to mention him either.’

  ‘Is there anything I can talk about?’

  ‘No, not really. I don’t want to argue with you.’

  ‘I didn’t come all this way to have an argument.’

  ‘That’s not what mum says.’

  He smiled. ‘I promise, I’ll be good.’

  ‘You’d better be.’

  ***

  She was sitting in a black taxi outside Knightsbridge tube station waiting for him.

  When she opened the door and called his name he wanted to cry. What in God’s name had he been doing with his life? Three years wasted. Even at five minutes to midnight, Marielle looked like an angel. Her long, dark hair had been hastily tied back. Her face without makeup was that of his five year-old daughter chasing butterflies.

  He threw his overnight bag on the floor and climbed in. ‘Hi,’ he said. He was embarrassed, and didn’t know whether to kiss her, hug her, or shake her hand. In the end, he did nothing.

  She said, ‘Okay,’ to the driver, who obviously knew where he was going.

  ‘You look older.’

  ‘I feel older.’

  ‘How was your trip?’

  ‘Long and boring.’

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘A bit. I forgot to eat before I set off.’

  ‘Max is cooking you steak, chips, and salad.’

  ‘Max? Isn’t that a dog’s name?’

  Her lips turned white and pencil-thin. ‘You said...’

  He grinned. ‘I’m joking. I still have my wicked sense of humour.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Yeah, I’d forgotten about that.’

  The taxi pulled up outside a large block of expensive-looking flats.

  ‘Forty-seven pounds,’ the taxi driver said.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ He began rummaging in the inside pocket of his jacket for his wallet. ‘Are you sure you didn’t come via India to get here?’

  Marielle put her hand on his arm. ‘It’s all right, dad, I’ve got it.’ She passed the driver a fifty-pound note. ‘Keep the change.’

  ‘Hey, don’t bankrupt yourself, lady.’

  She put her hand out again. ‘You can give me the change back, if you want.’

  He grunted and pulled away.

  ‘I don’t know how you can afford to live in London.’

  ‘I manage.’

  He looked up at the block of flats. ‘Which one’s yours?’

  ‘The third floor.’

  ‘You’ll have to point to it.’

  ‘All of the third floor.’

  ‘All of it? Is it Max’s?’

  ‘No, dad, it’s mine. Come on, we don’t want to stand out here all night in the dark.’

  She led him through the reception area where a tall, grey-haired man in a uniform was standing behind a desk. ‘Goodnight, Walter.’

  The man nodded his head. ‘Goodnight, Miss Morgan.’

  He wished he wasn’t such a good detective. She didn’t say, ‘This is my father’ to the night porter. He must be used to her bringing back old men at all hours of the day and night. God, she was a prostitute. He’d known it all along, and that was merely confirmation.

  She used a key in the lift, and it took them up to the third floor.

  The lift doors opened first, and then his bottom jaw dropped open shortly afterwards. He stepped into a gigantic, open-plan living room with a white and beige colour scheme. Off the living room was the dining room in the same colours. His ex-Council house would have fitted at least six times into the space.

  ‘I’ll show you where everything is first, then you can eat.’

  He followed her through the living room, along a hallway, and into a bedroom with a double bed. The room had been decorated in a potpourri of grey shades. There was a huge LCD television screen on the wall facing the bed.

  ‘Very nice,’ he said, throwing his green holdall onto the bed.

  She led him out into the hallway again. ‘That’s our bedroom,’ she said pointing to a door on the left. ‘That’s the bathroom,’ pointing to a door on the right, ‘And this,’ she said opening the door, ‘is the swimming pool.’

  He walked through the door. Sure enough, it was a swimming pool – about twenty-foot long and eight-foot wide. ‘A swimming pool?’ he said squatting to dip his finger in the chlorinated water. ‘On the third floor?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s amazing, isn’t it?’

  ‘It certainly is, and I didn’t bring my trunks with me either.’ He hadn’t been swimming for as long as he could remember. In fact, he didn’t even own a pair of trunks.

  ‘You don’t need trunks, dad. Max and I swim naked.’

  He pulled a face. ‘Of course you do.’

  ‘It’s fine if you want to have a swim in the morning. Nobody will come in and surprise you; we usually swim at night.’

  ‘I don’t think so, but thanks anyway.’ The thought of what might be in the water would give him the heebie-jeebies.

  They walked back along the hallway, and turned right just before the dining room into a large kitchen. A man – like the Colossus of Rhodes – was standing against the kitchen worktop looking at the messages on his mobile phone. He had short, black hair like a US Marine, wore a red apron that stated ‘The Cook is Hot’, and had a physique which resembled a young Arnold Schwarzenegger.

  Inigo stood a head shorter, and had to tilt his neck backward to look at Max.

  ‘I’ll be back in a minute, dad,’ Marielle said and left.

  ‘Hey, Mr Morgan, I’ve heard a lot about you,’ Max said. He offered a hand that looked more like a crushing machine.

  Inigo took it, but wished he hadn’t. ‘Then you have me at a disadvantage, because I know nothing about you.’

  ‘Well, first off, take a seat at the table, I’ll serve your meal.’

  He did as he was directed, and Max put a plate of steak, chips and salad in front him.

  ‘Medium rare, help yourself to the condiments.’

  While he did that, Max turned a chair round and sat opposite him at the table. He crossed his arms, and Inigo could see that the biceps were as thick as his own thighs.

  ‘I’m a fashion designer, Max Allsopp Designs. I have my own company.’

  ‘I’m really pleased for you.’ All male fashion designers were gay, weren’t they? What would a man with a body like a brick shithouse be doing designing women’s clothes if he wasn’t gay? That would explain how Marielle could bring all the tricks back. He was probably using Max’s bedroom. He hoped the sheets had been changed. Max was probably bunking in with Marielle just for tonight. Maybe he was Mariel
le’s pimp.

  ‘You have a wonderful daughter, Mr Morgan.’

  ‘Thanks. Did you cook the steak?’

  ‘Sure did.’

  ‘Not bad for a fashion designer.’

  ‘Used to be a trainee chef until I reached for the stars.’

  Marielle came back in wearing a long pink dressing gown and old slippers.

  ‘Good to see you, Mr Morgan.’ Max stood up. ‘I’ll probably see you before you go, but if not, you take care.’

  Marielle poured herself a glass of milk. ‘Beer?’

  He nodded.

  She sat down in Max’s vacant chair after she’d turned it round to face the table.

  ‘He’s a good cook,’ Inigo said between mouthfuls.

  ‘Max is good at a lot of things.’

  ‘So, this is all yours?’ he said waving his knife around in the air.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not Max’s?’

  ‘No. He’s renting out his flat.’

  ‘How could you possibly afford something like this?’

  ‘I get paid a lot of money.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Modelling.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Mum still loves you, you know.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, we’ve been separated for seven years.’

  ‘Why do you think she’s never applied for a divorce?’

  ‘Because she’s been too busy.’

  ‘She told me about your pension.’

  ‘What does she know about my pension?’

  ‘She knows you’re not going to be able to retire next year.’

  ‘I’ll retire, even if I have to work down the coal mines.’

  ‘Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of retirement? I can help, you know?’

  ‘Help, in what way?’

  ‘With money.’

  ‘I don’t think so. I’d feel as though I was living off immoral earnings.’

  Her face went white. ‘What do you mean?’

  He put the last chip in his mouth and placed the knife and fork in the centre of the plate. ‘You’ve got to do more than a few modelling jobs to be able to afford something like this.’

  She stood up, shaking. Her fists were clenched, the knuckles white. ‘I offer to help, and you throw it back in my face. Get out.’ Tears streamed down her cheeks. ‘GET OUT.’ She shoved him through the living room and into the lift. ‘I never want to see you again. NEVER.’ She pressed the button for the ground floor, and the lift doors closed.

  Now I’ve done it, he thought. His bag was on the bed. Crap, what now?

  In the lobby the night porter said, ‘Going out at this time of night, Mr Morgan? Anything I can help you with?’

  ‘You know who I am?’

  ‘Yes, Marielle said she was picking up her father from the tube station when she first went out.’

  ‘No, I don’t need any help, I’m just going to get a bit of fresh air.’ He looked at his watch. It was ten past one. After turning right and walking up the road a short distance, he sat down on the edge of the pavement. God, he was probably the worst father in the world... in the universe. He put his head in his hands and sighed.

  ‘You’re a jackass, Mr Morgan.’

  ‘It’s probably a crime to verbally abuse a Detective Inspector.’

  ‘You’re lucky I haven’t ripped your head clean off your body.’

  ‘I bet you could as well.’

  ‘You need to know some things about your daughter. For one, she’s beautiful. For two, she has a brain. And for three, she and I are getting married as soon as our schedules ease off a bit. You don’t really think she’s a hooker, do you?’

  ‘I just wonder where she got all that money.’

  Max grabbed a fistful of Inigo’s jacket collar and lifted him up. ‘Come with me, Mr Morgan, let me show you how Marielle makes her money.’

  ‘I’d rather not.’

  Max propelled him back to the building and into the lift. Back in the living room he told Inigo to sit.

  After an hour of watching Marielle in television commercials for perfume, hair colour, hair spray, make-up, anti-ageing cream, beer, cars, and a dozen or more other consumer items, he realised Max was right – he was a jackass.

  ‘Marielle is one of the hottest models around. Everyone wants her, and they’re willing to pay millions to get her. And you know what else?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She does her own accounts, and she looks after her own investments. Marielle is one smart cookie.’

  ‘Why didn’t she tell me?’

  ‘Would you have believed her?’

  ‘Probably not. Any chance of a beer?’

  ‘And then you have to make things right with your daughter. She’s devastated. All she wants is for you to be proud of her.’

  ***

  Thursday

  He stood outside 221 Westminster Bridge Road. The narrow four-storey building looked odd wedged between a 1990s block of flats and a two-storey house. At ground level was a wide arch with a driveway that now led to a car park for staff. The car park exit was some streets away off Hercules Road. For many – between 1852 and 1927 – this would have been the start of their last journey to Brookwood Cemetery. The portal was the entrance to the London Necropolis Company railway station.

  The second and third floors had pillars in front of the windows like the Athenian Parthenon, and the fourth floor was topped with an elaborately decorated arch. He thought it was very impressive, and guessed the building was listed for protection, and that was why it was still standing.

  It was three thirty before he’d climbed into bed exhausted. After being shown how stupid he’d been by Max, he had tapped on the door and entered Marielle’s bedroom. She was lying on the bed, sobbing.

  ‘Max says I’m a jackass. I was going to arrest him for verbally abusing a police officer, but I have to agree with him – I’ve been a jackass for a long time.’

  The sobbing began to subside, but she didn’t acknowledge him.

  He continued. ‘I don’t blame myself though, that wouldn’t be right. I blame you and your mother. Somebody should have hit me over the head with the truth.’ He sat down on the end of the bed with his back to her. ‘You’ve let me live in my own little world for over three years, believing something that I’d made up in my head like a crazy person.’ He began to cry himself. ‘I’ve wasted all those years thinking the very worst of the only two people I love in the world, and those two people have got a lot to answer for.’

  She snuggled up behind him, and put her arms around his neck. ‘You wouldn’t see beyond what you believed to be true.’

  He squeezed her hand. ‘Yes, I knew you’d make it so it was my fault. If I’m going to apologise for being a complete jackass, then you and your mother have to take your share of the blame, which I’ve calculated as at least ninety-nine percent. And unless you agree, I don’t think we can move forward on the reconciliation thing.’

  ‘I agree, dad.’

  ‘What about your mother? She’s played a major role in this little fiasco.’

  ‘She agrees as well.’

  ‘Okay then.’ He stood up. ‘I think we should let Max get to bed, but you need to fill me in on those missing three years... if you’re not too tired?’

  And that’s what they did until three thirty. They were father and daughter again. He was still a jackass, but he kept that for other people now.

  He crossed the road towards the entrance to the Transmarine Shipping Company. The London Necropolis Company was in the past like his erroneous beliefs about his daughter.

  At seven thirty he decided he would have that swim, and crept along the hallway in his pyjamas with a towel slung over his shoulder. He wasn’t keen on swimming naked in his daughter’s swimming pool, but Inigo Morgan was a new man this morning and he thought he’d give it a go.

  He swam breaststroke for ten lengths, and felt ten years younger. He climbed out, and when he was in no-man’s land between
the pool and his towel, a woman walked in and saw him.

  Under normal circumstances, and with a normal person, she would have turned away embarrassed, but she didn’t. And he was caught like a rabbit in the glare of headlights. He didn’t know whether to jump back in the pool, or make a dash for his towel. In the end, he froze as rabbits do.

  She walked towards him. ‘Ah, Miss Morgan said she was having one of those Greek statues installed, but I didn’t expect it to look so real, or so old.’ She put a hand on his chest and began to move it downwards.

  He made a dash for his towel.

  She laughed. ‘I am Tracey Carter, your daughter’s cleaner.’

  He gave her a lopsided grin. ‘Marielle said there would be no one about.’

  ‘You’re lucky this week only. I swapped my days because of the school holidays, and I’m glad I did. I like surprises.’

  He made his way out to take a shower. Later, when he ambled towards the kitchen with his overnight bag in his hands and clean clothes on, he heard laughter. It was Marielle and Tracey the cleaner.

  ‘Sorry, dad, I forgot Tracey had changed her days.’

  He shrugged. ‘Maybe I should become a Greek statue to supplement my retirement income.’

  ***

  ‘Good morning, Sir.’

  He produced his warrant card, which he really shouldn’t have done. Yes, he was a copper as much here as he was in Haverfordwest, but it was common courtesy to tip your hat to the local constabulary. He hadn’t done that, didn’t have the time. A phone call would have done the trick, but it was too late now. He was a loose cannon operating in someone else’s area.

  ‘I’d like to see the person in charge, please. It’s about Verona Izatt.’

  ‘Just one moment, Sir. Please take a seat.’

  The reception was bright and airy with a parquet floor and brown leather sofas for visitors. He preferred to stand and gaze out of the window at the passers-by.

  ‘You’re here about Verona Izatt?’ a female voice came from behind him.

  He turned and showed his warrant card again. ‘Detective Inspector Morgan. Yes, if it’s not too much trouble? I won’t keep you long.’

  The woman was probably in her early forties, but trying to pinpoint a woman’s age – with all the help they get in trying to disguise their age – was akin to aiming at a moving target. She wore a dark blue skirt and jacket with a red blouse. Her hair was skewered at the back of her head like a peacock’s tail.