Bleak Water

by Danuta Reah

‘That’s a nice outfit,’ Eliza said.

  Mel gave her an assessing look as she examined the remark for underlying barbs. ‘I made it.’

  ‘You ought to go into design. You’ve got the flair – you should have finished that course.’ Mel had dropped out of the design course at the local college.

  ‘They were all losers,’ Mel said dismissively. Then in a rare moment of confidence, she added, ‘I want to go to that college in London – you know, St Martin’s. It’s hard to get into, but Jonathan thinks I should go.’

  Jonathan was a St Martin’s graduate, and had worked there for a while. That would explain why Mel was prepared to hang on at the gallery and at least try to charm Jonathan – she wanted a reference that would carry some weight. In Mel’s eyes, Jonathan, with his one successful exhibition, and his name on a new and – for the locality – important gallery, was a big name in the art and design world. It was almost refreshing to find a chink of naivety in Mel’s armour, and Eliza felt more kindly towards her as they began the day’s work.

  ‘Is Jonathan in yet?’ she said.

  Mel was downloading e-mails. ‘Dunno.’ She checked her make-up as she waited.

  There didn’t seem to be anything interesting in the post. ‘Daniel Flynn said he might drop by. Let me know if he does.’

  Mel gave her a sidelong look. ‘He left early last night. I think he went off with that detective woman.’

  Eliza kept her face down, pretending to be absorbed in the letter she was skimming. ‘Did he?’

  ‘She looks like Angelina Jolie,’ Mel said. ‘I wonder where they went?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Eliza said, more sharply than she meant. She left Mel with instructions to check the papers and make copies of the early reviews to send to various organizations that she hoped would be prepared to support the gallery in the future. She went upstairs. She wanted to spend an hour going round the exhibition before they opened.

  The day was as busy as Eliza could have hoped for. The gallery thronged with casual visitors, groups from the art colleges, people from the Trust coming to look at the way their investment was dealing with its first major foray into the place where the art world and hard commerce met.

  Even Mel, looking very much the part, was animated and enthused by the sudden change of atmosphere the influx of new people brought. Only Jonathan seemed unhappy. ‘It’s a one-off,’ he’d said to Eliza in a brief hiatus. ‘It’s the combination of a fashionable name and a murder. We need something longer term than this.’

  ‘Which we’ll get.’ He was probably right about the murder. Eliza had talked to two journalists already who had come with a view to writing ‘canal of death’ features. ‘Most of these people are here for the show.’

  He shook his head. Eliza left him to it. She was finding his relentless pessimism wearing. Her mind was buzzing with plans for ways they could build on the success of the exhibition, and she wanted to get them into more concrete form before they died under the weight of Jonathan’s gloom.

  By the time they closed, she was exhausted. The evening was drawing in and she hadn’t seen daylight at all. She made herself a cup of camomile tea – a taste she had acquired in Madrid, the ubiquitous manzanilla – and sank into her chair. Silence.

  Mel appeared in the doorway. ‘Can I go now? There’s nothing else to do.’

  There was probably plenty to do, but Eliza didn’t have the energy to argue. Anyway, it was after five. ‘OK. Is Jonathan still here?’

  ‘He’s in his office. He’s got someone with him.’

  ‘Who?’ He hadn’t said anything to her about any appointments.

  Mel shrugged. ‘Dunno. Some art guy.’

  ‘About the exhibition?’ If it was anything to do with the exhibition, then she wanted to be involved.

  ‘Yeah. Or something.’ Mel extracted a piece of chewing gum from her bag and folded it into her mouth. She began to chew it noisily, something that never failed to irritate Eliza.

  ‘Christsake, Mel,’ she said.

  ‘What?’ Mel knew perfectly well what Eliza meant. ‘Daniel Flynn phoned. I told him you were busy.’ There was a moment’s silence. ‘Well, you were. He said it wasn’t important.’ Defensiveness. Eliza must have managed to get under her skin.

  ‘OK,’ she said. She didn’t much want to talk to him anyway. She waited while Mel collected her bag. Coats were, apparently, not worn this season.

  After Mel had gone, she went quickly downstairs to Jonathan’s office to see who the visitor was. His door was shut, but as she lifted her hand to knock, it opened. ‘Eliza.’ Jonathan looked taken aback to see her. ‘I thought you would have left by now.’

  ‘Mel said there was someone here about the exhibition.’

  ‘No.’ He seemed uneasy. She waited. He glanced behind him and looked back at her. ‘Have you locked up upstairs?’

  ‘No need. The gallery’s closed now.’

  ‘Hello, Eliza.’ A man had come up behind Jonathan and was observing their exchange. She looked at him for a moment before she realized who it was. Ivan. Ivan Bakst. His fair hair was longer than she remembered it. His eyes, revealed without the dark glasses he customarily wore, were a strange light colour. Maybe the glasses were a necessity rather that the affectation she had assumed. He looked casual, relaxed, entertained by the interaction he was observing. It was a contrast to Jonathan’s edginess.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she said.

  He laughed. ‘That’s what you said last time you saw me.’

  Jonathan was looking from one to the other in nervous irritation. ‘Ivan was just going,’ he said.

  Ivan bowed his head in agreement. ‘But that was before I realized Eliza was here,’ he said. ‘As you can tell, she’s delighted to see me and we have catching up to do.’

  ‘I didn’t know you knew each other. But I do have a lot to get on with…’

  ‘I won’t keep you.’ Ivan was still watching Eliza, still smiling. ‘Eliza and I have a lot in common.’

  Eliza didn’t like the air of intimacy that Bakst was weaving around the two of them, isolating Jonathan. She explained quickly, ‘I met Ivan in Madrid, with Daniel Flynn.’

  ‘Daniel. Yes, of course. Now…’ Jonathan made shooing gestures with his hands. ‘We really…’

  Ivan kept his attention on Eliza. ‘That’s what we have in common, Eliza and I. The Triumph of Death. And Daniel Flynn, of course.’ He kept his eyes on her, as if he was trying to tell her something. ‘I wonder, if you wrote a genesis of this…’ he gestured at one of the posters advertising the exhibition, ‘…from conception to birth, what would you say?’

  Odd question. Her mind played with it. Conceived in Madrid, born…where?

  ‘Genesis?’ Jonathan’s gaze moved quickly between them, nervous, uncertain.

  ‘The Triumph of Death,’ Bakst said, catching Eliza’s eye with a quick smile.

  ‘It’s good,’ Jonathan said. ‘But I…’

  ‘It isn’t finished yet.’ Bakst said this to Jonathan, then returned to Eliza. ‘Jonathan thinks this might be a good place for me to exhibit,’ he said, looking round the gallery. ‘We’ve been talking about it.’

  He must mean his own Triumph. The idea he’d lifted from Daniel and had been unable to complete. This was what Jonathan was being so shifty about. He was negotiating some kind of deal with Bakst. The exhibitions programme was Eliza’s responsibility. He shouldn’t be discussing anything without letting her know, and he must have realized at once how closely linked the concepts of the two pieces of work were, no matter how differently they may be executed. Now he caught her eye over Bakst’s shoulder and shook his head. ‘Daniel Flynn suggested it,’ he said.

  Bakst was looking at the poster again. He flicked it dismissively with his finger. ‘Ideas have their time,’ he said. ‘One or two people latch on to something at the same time. Then everyone else jumps on the bandwagon. The trick is, getting on the bandwagon early enough.’ His smile was almost mischievous. ‘Some of us are v
ery good at that.’ He turned to Jonathan. ‘But I’m keeping you. I’ll be in touch. Soon.’ He raised his hand in farewell, and headed towards the entrance. His canvas jacket didn’t look as though it offered much protection against the cold.

  Jonathan waited until he’d gone, then blew out his breath. ‘Don’t ask,’ he said.

  ‘You aren’t seriously planning to –?’ Eliza wanted this settled now.

  Jonathan shook his head. ‘Bakst isn’t a gallery artist,’ he said.

  ‘You know of him?’

  ‘Someone suggested him.’ He seemed to think she needed more explanation. ‘Flynn thinks highly of him so I said I’d talk to him. We won’t be able to offer him anything. I don’t want to offend anyone. I was worried you were going to say something.’

  In Madrid, Daniel had seemed resigned to the fact that Bakst was prepared to lift his ideas. He hadn’t shown much sign, either then or more recently, of rating him as an artist. But they were friends. Daniel said he knew Bakst from college days. Maybe it was some kind of loyalty thing. Odd.

  Jonathan was on his way home. He left Eliza to lock up the gallery and set the alarms. She looked at the time. It was almost six. She was quite glad that her evening with Laura had been postponed. She was tired after the night before, and all the upheaval of the day. Her flat beckoned. She was going to have a bath, make herself…what? A bacon sandwich. A bacon and egg sandwich. She needed comfort food. OK, a bath, a sandwich in front of the television, and an early night. And just at the moment, that seemed like the best thing in the world.

  Kerry hated Saturdays. Saturday used to be the best day of the week when she got her money and she and Ellie used to go into town. Sometimes Dad would come too, and he’d get them burgers from McDonald’s. Don’t tell Maggie! It was one of their secrets. Mum always had a headache on Saturdays, so it was good to go out for the day. It had been a Saturday when she and Ellie and Dad had gone to Conisbrough.

  Kerry hated Saturdays.

  She sat in her room running a comb through her hair. She’d been going to do it like that photograph she’d seen, Buffy wearing loose trousers and one of those short tops with her hair up, but she couldn’t be bothered. There wasn’t any point really.

  She pulled her school bag from under the bed. Maybe she could do some homework. She was sick of getting into trouble. And if they found out she’d bunked off on Friday…But Stacy would say it was because she was ill and Kerry had taken her home. They’d believe Stacy, Stacy was always a favourite. She looked at the phone. She could call Stacy. She’d feel better once she’d talked to Stacy. Because then she’d know that Stacy was going to stick with the agreement and wasn’t mad with her. But…Later. She’d phone later.

  She picked up her bag and went downstairs. They were doing Romeo and Juliet at school, and she had to write about if it was different for Juliet than it was for people now. Kerry liked the play, even if it did have a sad ending. But when she got downstairs, the room smelled of Mum’s cigarettes and everything looked dirty where the sun was shining through the glass. Mum was sitting at the table in her dressing gown, smoking. Her green mug was on the table in front of her. ‘It’s twelve o’clock,’ Kerry said.

  ‘Oh, don’t nag, Kerry,’ she said. ‘It’s Saturday. I’ve earned a rest.’ She was looking out of the window. From what? Kerry wanted to say, but she didn’t. Mum’s face looked creased and sad, and she’d tied her hair back with a bit of blue ribbon that looked odd against the tangle of grey. ‘It reminds me,’ she said, looking at the sky. She turned away from the window. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I was going to do my homework,’ Kerry said.

  ‘Oh, take it upstairs,’ Mum said. ‘I don’t want you under my feet all day. Why don’t you go out? It’ll do you good to get out.’

  ‘Were there any letters?’ Maybe there was a letter from Dad. Mum shook her head.

  There was a knock at the door. Kerry looked at Mum, who was staring out of the window again, and went to see who it was. She didn’t think before she opened it, and she was suddenly back four years when she saw two coppers on the doorstep, a man and a woman. She began to push the door shut, but the man kept his arm against it and the woman said, ‘Kerry? Kerry Fraser? Is your mum in?’

  ‘What have you done now?’ Mum had come through from the front room and was standing in the hall.

  ‘DS Martin,’ the woman said to Mum. ‘Judith Martin. It’s nothing that Kerry’s done. We’re a bit concerned about one of her friends. Can we talk to you?’

  Mum shrugged and stepped back. ‘You’d better come in,’ she said.

  Kerry looked at the open door, but the man was standing there. He looked at her and shook his head slightly. Don’t even think about it. She followed Mum into the room. Her stomach had gone tight when the woman had said that about a friend. She thought about the canal side, and the mirror broken on the ground. Mum was getting a cigarette out of the packet, ignoring the one that was still burning in the ashtray. Her hands shook, and a cigarette fell on to the floor. The woman picked it up. Mum took it in silence and stood with her back to the room, trying to light it. Kerry could hear the flick, flick of the lighter as the copper, the woman, spoke.

  ‘We’re a bit worried about Stacy, Kerry. Can I talk to you?’

  Kerry didn’t want her mum there. She had seen the way the coppers looked at each other when Mum came through from the kitchen. Mum’s dressing gown was scruffy because she never bothered to wash it, and her feet were bare and they were dirty too. Her face looked creased and grey with angry red blotches on her cheeks, and her hair looked stupid with the blue ribbon tied round it. Mum’s hair used to be blonde like Kerry’s, but now it was a sort of grey colour too. And there was that smell again, and her voice was all…so you couldn’t understand what she said.

  There was a smell in the house, of all the things that hadn’t been washed and the kitchen bin that needed emptying, and it made her feel ashamed. She saw the expressions on their faces, like Mum was nothing, and like she was nothing, and she felt cold and angry inside.

  Detective Sergeant Judith Martin looked at the fair-haired girl sitting in front of her, and wondered if the defensiveness she saw coming off her, the closed face and the stiff, defiant shoulders, meant that Kerry had something to hide, or just that she was hostile to the police. It could well be the latter, she knew. Kerry Fraser, Mark Fraser’s daughter. She wouldn’t have made the connection if the boss hadn’t tipped her off. ‘You may not find Kerry or her mum too receptive,’ he’d said, and explained quickly about the girl’s background. Now, she was racking her brains, trying to remember the details of Fraser’s family, his arrest. It was a case that most of the officers at Sheffield HQ remembered well.

  Fraser had been accused of abusing his daughter – no, his stepdaughter, that was right. Had he been convicted of it? She couldn’t remember. But this girl was his natural child. Had her father abused her as well? She smiled at Kerry, trying to reassure her. ‘There’s nothing to worry about, Kerry,’ she said. The girl was silent. She probably knew that there was always something to worry about once the police hove into view. She sought round for a way to get through to the girl. She noticed that she was wearing a sweatshirt that had been jazzed up with beads and sequins to look like one of the shirts that all the kids were wearing at the moment. She remembered Stacy’s mother, Christine, saying, ‘And then that Kerry goes and encourages her, sews sequins all over it.’

  ‘Kerry, I’m here about Stacy, Stacy McDonald,’ she said again. ‘You’re her friend, aren’t you?’ She watched Kerry carefully, trying not to make her observation too noticeable.

  ‘Kind of.’ Kerry shrugged. ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘She’s there all the time.’ This was the mother, an overweight, rather sluttish woman who was slumped in a chair, smoking, her gaze vague and incurious. She smelt of acetone, and the dressing gown she was wearing was soiled and creased. Odd that such a heavy, ungainly woman should have such a pretty, delicate child.


  ‘Stacy didn’t go home last night,’ she said. Now Kerry did react. Her eyes widened in surprise and – was it? – alarm. The mother didn’t react, stolid in her chair. ‘So I wondered,’ she went on, ‘if you might be able to help us. Stacy’s mum’s really worried about her. And so am I. Did you see Stacy yesterday after school?’

  Kerry was looking down at her hands. She shook her head.

  ‘Did you see her at all yesterday?’

  A pause. A nod.

  ‘Did she say where she was going after school?’

  A pause. A shake.

  ‘She didn’t say anything?’ She was finding Kerry very hard to read. ‘Listen, Kerry, no one is going to get into trouble over this. We want to know that Stacy is safe, get her home again. Is it a secret? No one will say that you told.’

  Kerry shook her head again. She looked up this time. ‘She didn’t say anything. She wanted me to do her hair.’

  More interest in her appearance. The top, the make-up – and now a request for a hair-do. ‘Yesterday?’ she said. ‘She wanted you to do her hair yesterday?’

  Kerry shook her head. ‘Just sometime,’ she said.

  Martin couldn’t tell if Kerry was lying or not. ‘Does Stacy have a boyfriend?’ she asked.

  Kerry shrugged. ‘She didn’t say.’

  She felt on more secure ground now. ‘Oh, come on, Kerry. You and Stacy must have talked about boyfriends. What did Stacy say?’

  Kerry looked at her under her lashes, assessing. ‘She likes, you know, music guys and TV guys and things. She doesn’t have a boyfriend.’

  There was a wrong note here. She was hiding something. ‘But is there anyone she likes?’

  Kerry’s eyes slid sideways. ‘She likes Andrew,’ she said. ‘In our French group.’

  ‘Do they go out? Has Andrew asked her out?’

  Kerry shook her head. ‘I told you. Anyway, her mum won’t let her.’

  Everything Kerry was telling her fitted in with what she’d already been told. Stacy was shy and young for her age. There was just that slight wrong note. Adolescent secrets, and Stacy had been up to something on Friday. Would she have kept it secret from her friend? ‘Listen, Kerry, Stacy could be in serious trouble,’ she said. ‘I mean, something bad could have happened to her. If you’ve any idea at all where she might be, you must tell me. It could make all the difference.’