The Guilty Party

by Mel McGrath

  But no, shit, of course, he can’t do that because it’s her, and she might recognise him, put two and two together and then – boom! And even if she doesn’t, supposing some have-a-go hero pitches in? Dex isn’t in any fit state to fight back. Bo would have no choice but to intervene then.

  So far no one has got involved, though Bo can see that others have noticed what’s going on. Not surprising in the circumstances, because Dex has grabbed the girl’s bag now, breaking one of the straps, and is peering inside. With his left hand he’s holding the bag while the right scoops around. The girl is literally crying, her hands in a tight knot.

  Bo is working out his next move when a bloke built like a Viking steps from the chill-out tent. Bo watches as the Viking’s eyes flit from the girl to Dex and back again, sees the guy’s prey instinct kick in and feels himself freeze. This isn’t going to end well for Dex. A pressure ridge builds up at the back of Bo’s skull. Fight or flight? He has no idea. His head is such a jangle of clips and samples and dubbed-over noise. Any case, it’s not good. It is the very opposite of good, whatever the fuck that might be. He thinks for a moment but nothing comes. Words are the absolute least of all his worries right now. Oh crap. The Viking has swivelled on his heels and he’s striding over to Dex and the girl. What follows is a moment of intense conversation, if you can call it that. Dex is waving his hands and the woman is shouting and the Viking’s body language suggests he isn’t having any of it. This thing is ready to blow.

  Bo’s fighting spirit, if that’s what it was, has suddenly drained out of him, the pressure in the skull replaced by a whorl of bees and a dry swelling in his throat. That guy is an Alp. Bo watches him move in and give Dex a shove, thinking, strike that, this guy isn’t any old Alp, he’s the Matterhorn, he’s Mont Fucking Blanc. He watches as if in slow-mo as Dex stumbles backwards but then gets his bearings and begins to come at the big bloke with a raised fist. The situation is beyond finessing. No way is Bo going to take on some Nordic gorilla just because his friend has decided to be a shite monkey. Did Dex seen him? Bo doesn’t think so. He could just slip away and no one will be any the wiser. Sorry, mate, but you know, you did bring this on yourself. Plausible deniability. Been doing a lot of that lately. Not great but a whole lot better than the alternative. Angling his body away from Dex, he lowers his head, digs his hands in his pockets and strolls casually away, taking the roundabout route back to the girls, shaking his head and muttering to himself. For fucketty fuck’s fucking fuck-sake.

  10

  Cassie

  6.50 a.m., Friday 30 September, Isle of Portland

  Dawn breaks and I am awake in bed, unable to drift back off to sleep for the unsettling feeling of being watched. Who knew the countryside could be so disturbing? The night has been a racket of howling and hooting. Mostly hooting, from some bloody owl in the trees right outside my room.

  Twit twoo.

  What did you do?

  Is that what the owl would say if it could speak? Owls are supposed to be wise. The owl might say, doing nothing doesn’t make you innocent. But what does an owl know? An owl is just a bird. Shut up. Leave me in peace

  A new, blue light pushes in from behind threadbare curtains and makes its way past my hangover to the more sentient parts of my brain. Yes, I remember now, this weekend is supposed to be fun. Sorry, Marika Lapska. Dex says I can’t mention your name again till after the fun is all over and done. Well, then.

  I rinse off the night’s rime in the shower, pull on new underwear, new clothes. Fix my hair. Head still fuzzy from last night. As I leave the room I’m thinking about some strong coffee but the moment I reach the top floor landing a strong sense of being observed overcomes me. Above the door the fossil urchin sits immobile, as if watching. How odd to feel overlooked by something so inanimate, so very long dead.

  Revenant. Bo’s word. I don’t believe in afterlives or hauntings. You have your time on earth and then you are gone. This is how nature works.

  I need that coffee.

  The house is as still as a cliff. In the kitchen the mess from last night’s bacchanal is scattered over the countertop. The living room’s worse. There’s a smell of sour wine and stale grass everywhere. Plates and cheese rind. I pick up a mug and some escaped crisps skitter across the floor. This is too much. I’ll do it once I’ve come to. For now, though, there’s nothing for it but to retreat back to the kitchen.

  A glass containing a few dregs of some nondescript brew stands on the draining board. Without bothering to empty it first, I fill it to the brim from the tap, drink and repeat. After a bit I’m feeling human enough to locate an espresso pot in the cupboard above the kettle, fill it with ground coffee and put it on the stove to brew while I get to work clearing up, stacking the dishwasher with plates and hand washing the glasses. Judging by the mess something not-human has been at the chicken carcass. I don’t like to think too hard about what. The remains can go outside. I take it to the French doors and hurl it as far from the house as I can. The foxes can have it, or the Mer-Chickens or giant dogs or whatever other freaks of nature apparently lurk on this island. A fine rain is falling though splashes of blue visible through the clouds. I pluck my phone from the pocket of my trackies to check the weather, remember there’s no phone signal, go back inside and scope about for a Wi-Fi router or a house book and finding neither, remember the coffee which is both strong and bitter.

  Marika. I happen to know that the name derives from the Hebrew for bitterness, though it can also mean star of the sea. The fossil hanging above Anna’s door could be a Marika. Brittle star. Bitter star.

  How I know this I’m not sure. I’m good at collecting obscure facts and better still at hanging on to them. Maybe someone told me. The night creatures singing and screaming and carrying on in the garden.

  In the week or two after the festival I thought about Marika a lot, though, of course, I didn’t know her name then. I thought about going to the police and asking to give a statement but something stopped me. If I had to guess what, I’d say cowardice. Instead, I comforted myself with stories. What if I inadvertently brought something into the light which Marika herself would rather remain buried? What if the scene in the alley wasn’t what I thought it was? What if the young woman woke up the next morning completely oblivious to the night before? I might be invading her privacy to say anything. I might be putting her at risk. What would be served by my stirring things up? It might only re-traumatise her. What had happened was gone and done. The time to get involved was there and then.

  Timing is all, Anna said.

  ‘Anna?’ A voice is calling her name. I turn my head towards the sound and see a tall smiling man of about my age hovering by the back door. I like what I see.

  ‘I’m Will, the delivery guy?’ He transfers the bag to his left hand and comes forward with his right hand out.

  ‘Cassie, Anna’s friend. The others aren’t up yet. Bit of a late night.’

  I take the hand in mine and he squeezes it without shaking, which seems oddly intimate. The palm is warm and work-hardened. He has brought farm milk, bacon, eggs and home-made bread for breakfast, prearranged by Anna, of course.

  ‘I just made coffee if you fancied some?’

  Will seems pleased to be asked and nods a yes. Maybe he doesn’t get asked this very often, though with his looks, that’s difficult to believe. I get up to close the door to the stairs, praying Anna doesn’t hear the sound of his voice and come down because if that happens it’s all over. I’ll be Dolly to Anna’s Jolene.

  ‘Maybe you could recommend some proper fun things to do in the area? Not just lighthouses and museums. We’re here till Sunday.’

  ‘Sure, if you like.’ He pulls out a chair and folds himself into it like a cat, a smile playing on his lips to tell me that he’s got my drift and isn’t averse to the idea of fun things to do. I’ve never had trouble coming on to men, not because I think of myself as particularly attractive, but because I’m unashamed of my desire. And why not? I’m on
holiday, after all.

  The pot gives up two treacly espressos. Normally I’d add hot milk, and a lot of it, but there was none until Will brought it. Besides which, I want to appear sophisticated. Which, OK, is sad, but which of us doesn’t want to impress?

  ‘Sugar?’

  Will smiles and shakes his head. ‘Mind if I add milk?’

  There, see.

  ‘Of course not. Want me to heat it? I can put it in the microwave.’ I’m suddenly conscious of using my people-pleasing voice and have to clear my throat to get it to go away. Not sexy.

  ‘It’s fine,’ says Will. Of course. He smiles. He does not bare his teeth. ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’

  ‘Cassie. Well, Cassandra really. My parents had a thing about Greek myths.’

  ‘Not familiar, I’m afraid.’

  ‘She’s the daughter of King Priam and Queen Hecuba, the one Apollo fancied, so he gave her the gift of prophecy but when she refused him he cursed her by making no one believe any of her prophecies. It’s a bit bleak, to be honest. Why I prefer Cassie or Cass even.’

  Here endeth the sermon.

  ‘OK, then, Cassie,’ Will says. ‘So, fun things to do.’

  Christ.

  We chat for a while about pubs and cliff walks and local lore. I might mention I’m single. Will says he left the area only briefly to study biosciences in London but decided instead to return to the island. For the last few years he’s worked bar at The Mermaid pub in Fortuneswell, odd-jobbed for second homers and rental agencies and hired himself out as a fossilers’ guide. He’s familiar with every cove and turn and twist in the shingle from Portland across to Poole in the east and beyond Lyme in the west. And with all the currents and undertows.

  ‘Nothing interesting’s ever on the surface,’ he says.

  We finish our coffee and Will glances at his watch. He’s got another couple of deliveries to do further up the hill.

  ‘Are you driving?’ I’m thinking on my feet now. ‘I don’t suppose you could give me a lift? Anna told me there’s a mobile signal up there.’ Naturally, I’m not interested in the signal. Not that kind of signal anyway.

  Will has a Land Rover, one of the old ones that makes a racket, scattering birds from the hedgerows. At the crest of the hill he brings the vehicle to a halt and heaves on the handbrake, then leaning across me to open the door so that his body is almost pressed against mine he points to a small copse, still lovely in its early autumn livery.

  ‘If you walk through the quarry towards the prison, you’ll come to a car park on the other side of that wood. An amazing view of the beach and the sea.’ He draws himself back into the driver’s seat. ‘You’ll find me at the Mermaid. If you want. If I’m not there, Trev, the owner, usually knows where I am.’ We both know what’s going on now. The fact that it’s not been said out loud only makes it more delicious.

  I tumble from the car in my best casual manner, trying to swing my hair like Anna but Will doesn’t seem to notice. He pulls off the handbrake, checks me in the rear-view mirror and waves. Then he’s gone.

  The drizzle has cleared. Up here the air is cold and oddly still. A peregrine sails by making its plaintive wail, followed by a handful of quarrelling ravens. I cross the car park towards a muddy footpath between hedgerows. Further on, the path becomes stone and eases down inside the bowels of the quarry, a hell-pit of skinned earth, strewn boulders and violently exposed rock carved into strange and sinister shapes. At the quarry’s lowest point the ground turns soft and shaley. From here another path, damp and sprung underfoot like a dance floor, disappears into dark woods. I move through the trees for a while until the path warms with light and I find myself at the edge of the wood beside the car park once more, as Will said I would. Here the air smells densely of washed leaves. From where I am now I can see the trees surrounding Fossil Cottage and a scree path leading down from the cliff running roughly parallel to the road. Beyond that is the yellow sweep of Chesil Beach and the grey mass of the sea. If I had been on my own I might have wandered aimlessly along the cliff path for hours. As it is, I want to get back to the others.

  I’m about to make my way to the scree path when the tinny sound of ‘Greensleeves’ starts up from the far end of the car park and echoes across the cliffs. Turning towards the sound I spot an ice cream van, part obscured by trees. The owner waves. I wave back and as I do, the back of a familiar metallic silver BMW parked behind the van catches my eye.

  Gav is sprawled in the front seat, which has been flipped almost horizontal, with his mouth open, breath lightly misting the window, still fast asleep. I go back round to the front of the ice cream van and ask for a couple of teas then take them back to the Beamer, rest them on the roof and knock on Gav’s window. An eye opens, then another. Gav looks about then shakes his head free of sleep. It takes him a second or two to register me.

  ‘I’ve brought tea.’

  The corners of Gav’s mouth curl upwards. The door lock pops open and I slip inside, a tea in each hand. The interior smells like a drunk tank.

  ‘Hiya.’ I don’t have the heart to tell Gav how truly shit he looks. Instead I let him come to and drink his tea without asking any questions. As he tips the cup to catch the final drop, something seems to give. His body shakes and he begins to let out a series of extravagant sobs. Unsure what to do, and, frankly, a little alarmed, I put an arm around his shoulder and wait until he has collected himself, after which, in a voice freighted with misery, he says, ‘I’m dying, did he tell you that? The cancer’s everywhere.’ He runs a hand along his body as you would if you were showing off a new outfit but in Gav’s case the new outfit is fatal.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ What else is there? In any case, Gav’s not listening. He’s rattling on now about how Dex needs him, how he’s in trouble, how he can’t be trusted to look after himself. After a while, I interrupt.

  ‘Is all this about the missing money? Or what happened at the festival?’

  As suddenly as they started, the sobs dry up and he stares wide-eyed at me for a moment as if he’s trying to size me up, to determine what I do or don’t know.

  ‘I’ll get some more tea.’ When I come back Gav is up and by the looks of the hasty rearrangement of his trousers, has taken a leak before getting back in the car.

  ‘I feel ridiculous. I bet I look ridiculous.’ He brushes himself down.

  ‘You always look bloody brilliant.’ I lean over and brush a bit of cack off his shoulder.

  ‘Was it a lot of money?’

  Gav’s face scrunches and there’s a grimace on his lips. He sets his Styrofoam cup in the cup holder and turns to look at me. He seems perplexed, as if one of us hasn’t yet caught up but he’s not sure which.

  ‘The cleaner,’ I prompt.

  ‘Oh that. No. Well, yes. A few grand. A client paid me cash for a painting, off the books. But I’m more worried about the other thing.’

  The fight then. Of course, I wasn’t there when it happened. I was with Anna beside the main stage. When Dex came back shaking his knuckles he seemed to think it was a small thing, one of those freak events, a drunk looking for somewhere to park his fist and finding Dex’s face. Dex retaliating. Dex didn’t start it, he said, and I believed him. In all the years we’ve been friends, I’ve never known Dex be the first to throw a punch. He and Gav very seldom even have a disagreement. Neither of them is the type. The other guy must have filed pre-emptive charges just in case Dex went to the police himself, or maybe he was a chancer hoping for a payoff.

  ‘The fight?’

  Gav frowns and rubs his head as if he’s trying to chivvy a thought to the surface where he can catch it. A new energy comes into his eyes.

  ‘No. I mean the woman at the festival.’

  In a tone of mild curiosity, though my throat is throbbing with anticipation, I go on, ‘What did he tell you exactly?’ An old stalling trick I’ve often found useful – answer a question with another question, give nothing away until you are sure of the terrain. It pays
to move slowly.

  ‘The same as he told you and the police, I imagine.’

  He continued. ‘You know he didn’t have anything to do with it, right? She was off her face, pestering him for money. It was just unfortunate that they were caught on CCTV. They must have found a festival wristband on her body and checked the security feed. She never even told him her name.’

  On her body? The blood quickens. Could this be about Marika Lapska? If it is then Dex must have known about Marika before yesterday, known she was dead and that the police were treating the death as suspicious, which is odd because he gave a very good impression of being as surprised as the rest of us.

  The facts are beginning to resemble Scrabble tiles. If I can only get them in the right order they might make sense. What did Dex not do?

  ‘Obviously he didn’t do anything wrong,’ I say to be supportive, though I’m still not sure what, exactly, we are dealing with here.

  Gav begins to drum his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘That’s why I didn’t want to leave last night. I don’t really care about the money. I mean I do, but, you know, given what Dex is having to cope with right now . . . I got halfway to Exeter then I thought, I should turn around and make things right, so I drove all the way back here. I planned to have a drink or two to calm down.’ He grimaces and flicks his head to an empty bottle of Bell’s on the back seat.

  From the ice cream van ‘Greensleeves’ starts up but there’s only us, the van driver and the circling peregrines and the noisy ravens to hear it. I’m quiet now, waiting for Gav to make his move. Wiping a hand over his weary, baggy face, he says,

  ‘Did he tell you I gave him an alibi? I told the cops he was home by two. Which isn’t strictly true. But you were with him the whole night, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Also not strictly true. What am I doing? What am I saying? What am I committing myself to?

  Why is Dex keeping secrets from us?