It was Trish’s idea to let him do his work experience at the station. Georgie had been reluctant. She’d only agreed because things were quiet, figured he could clean the place a bit, wash the windows – God knows the station could do with it – maybe help prepare their community stall for the spring fair on Saturday. Though things have changed now. She’ll phone, tell him not to come in today. Maybe cancel the whole week. The school won’t blame him for that, surely.
‘Was Andy seeing Dr Cosse? Is that the connection?’
Trish thinks for a minute, and Georgie isn’t sure whether she’s trying to remember the truth or trying to formulate a lie. Luckily Trish isn’t a very good liar, and she knows it; she opts for the truth.
‘I don’t think so,’ she says.
‘There was no mention of Andy, or any of the Barrs, in his day planner.’
‘Did you see the advert he put up last year, for summer workers? British only?’
Georgie takes a deep breath, the way she’s learned to over the years. ‘It was unpleasant, that. And he was warned. But we follow the evidence here. It’s all we can do.’
‘Fingerprints. Ink. Paper,’ Trish says, reusing Georgie’s words from earlier that morning. ‘I’ll call forensics.’
‘They’re already on their way. I think we’ve got a lead to follow.’
‘You’ll not find anything at the Kingfisher.’
‘No harm in giving them a call.’
She’s got her phone out already, Georgie, she can move fast when she wants to and she has this feeling that there’s something to find, in the Kingfisher. Could be Trish’s certainty that there’s not, could be something else. Maybe it’s an easier route to take, a way to avoid the nastiness – that’s what Trish thinks of her. Perhaps that’s what they all think of her. Is that what she’s become, to survive? A coward? She doubts herself for a second, then makes the call.
Trish watches her as she’s talking on the phone. As she asks about the reservation last night in Dr Cosse’s name. As she listens to the reply that comes a bit at a time, that yes there was a reservation, for two, at 8 p.m., and no, it looks like he never arrived. She’s quite glad Trish can’t hear the other side of the conversation; she’s careful not to repeat the information she’s being told. She just listens, with that same feeling of dread, as they call over a waiter who was on last night, as he describes the man waiting at the table for someone who never showed up, waited for a full hour, tapping away into his phone all the time. He says they didn’t get his name, since he hadn’t booked the table, but yes, he looked distinctive enough. Blond hair. Piercing blue eyes. Upset he was, when he left, the waiter says, knocked the chair right over as he grabbed his jacket from the back of it. Looked like he was ready to do someone an injury.
‘Thank you,’ says Georgie. ‘You’ve been really helpful. Thank you.’
‘It can’t have been him,’ says Trish, quietly, once Georgie’s hung up the phone. ‘I mean, whatever happened between them at the Kingfisher, it can’t have anything to do with the murder. This note, this is racism…’
Georgie lets her get to where she knows she’s going.
‘It wasn’t Simon,’ Trish says. ‘He’d never hurt anyone.’
‘But you do know it was Simon who Alexis was supposed to meet at the Kingfisher?’
Trish nods. She looks worried. In fact, unusually for Trish, she looks like she could be hurt. ‘But he didn’t kill Alexis. He’s not capable of that.’
‘They never are,’ Georgie replies.
GONE ONE
When Simon left Burrowhead playground that morning, he hadn’t walked back to the police station as he’d told Georgie he would. She and Trish were working the case anyway, which meant he’d have been as alone at the station as he would have been at home. Something about being inside and alone – he can’t handle that today. Needs to be out in the storm, closer to the brutality of it. He’d turned off High Street once he was out of view, cut down past the old community shed and looped back to the coast further out of the village. The sea was calling him. Maybe that was it. Or the rain wasn’t enough inland, he needed the force of the wind, the scream of waves hitting stone. He’d scrambled over the rocks, boulder-sized and slimy with seaweed on that strip of coast, scraped his hands on the barnacles when he fell. And he did fall, more than once – was glad of it, too. Some bit of him needed to feel the pain. He didn’t care that stale water had seeped through his shoes and soaked his socks, didn’t care how the wind was making his ears throb, his face burn with the sting of salt rough as sandpaper. He slipped and ran and forced his way to the tideline, where the rocks gave way to shards of shells and the grit of sand, and he fell to his knees in the freezing cold and he stared down at the brownish grey froth of the waves. He didn’t even know he was doing it, when he let out a cry. It came from somewhere down past his lungs, somewhere nearer his stomach; a shout that wrenched something out of him – that belonged to the crashing sea and the jagged cliffs, and to the cave hidden somewhere within them. He didn’t know it was behind him. Couldn’t see it when he turned, so he didn’t know he was being watched. He thought he was alone and it was a desperate, pleading noise he made, and he stayed there, kneeling on sharp stones in the waves, letting his body retch until there was nothing more to come out. When he finally stood up again the cliff’s edge was impenetrable and his expression closed. It’s still that way now as he trudges back to the police station with the cold moving past his wrists, past his elbows and curling in around his chest. He keeps walking only because the world has disintegrated into the movement of parts and the basic functioning of the human body. He thinks about a breath, and he breathes. If he didn’t think about it, he wonders if it would happen. Standing still doesn’t seem like an option, so he lifts a foot and places it ahead of his body, then shifts his weight. Repeats it again, on the other side. And again.
He’s been sick that many times there’s nothing left in his stomach. He retches again, brings up nothing but a string of yellowish fluid. He leans over with the cramp of it though, notices for the first time that his trousers are wet. A dark stain around the knees where he knelt on the beach. A bit of seaweed stuck to the fabric. Brown and bulbous. He watches nothing but the ground, thinks of nothing but each footstep. But the shame, that clings. He’d been so angry.
Georgie has probably worked it out by now. He hadn’t meant to hide anything, just couldn’t find the words earlier. Up half the night, pacing back and forth along High Street, then at home, lying awake and playing it over, the possibilities of what went wrong. The sick feeling of jealousy, lodged in his belly. And the noise in his ears, wailing like a siren that won’t stop.
He stares at the ground and tries to think about the last time he saw Alexis.
No, not the last time. Not there at the playground, when everything was too late and broken. The last time they spoke.
Alexis was nervous.
He wasn’t normally like that. So well put together and precise, the way he held himself you’d never think he could be nervous underneath it all. Underneath those perfectly pressed shirts. Simon used to take the piss out of him for those. It became a thing they did. Not a joke, exactly, though it amused him to exaggerate his role every time, it was just that Alexis got smarter and smarter, with his cufflinks and his straight ties and the hanky he used to fold into his top jacket pocket, an equilateral triangle of coloured fabric. And Simon would turn up in a creased black T-shirt and jeans, hands rough from being out all day. Police work, he’d say, voice fake-gruff as he kicked off large muddy shoes. But that last time, Alexis didn’t have his suit jacket on at all.
He’d taken all the exams already, for the citizenship, sent them all the documentation they asked for. Filled the forms out perfectly. They were spotless, even though they were filled in while raging. Simon had seen them, he could confirm everything – every i dotted and that. And somehow, stupidly it seemed now, blindly, Simon had always thought everything would be okay. They’d joke about w
hat they’d do, fight the bastards in court, make a campaign out of it; they’d share their anger over dinner. But underneath, Simon always thought they couldn’t not give Alexis his citizenship. The last couple of years there had been stories in the papers about deportations, but no one from around here, no one Simon knew. It didn’t seem like it could be real. It didn’t seem like a thing that could actually happen.
But then Alexis got called for the interview.
It was a last chance. They both knew that; you got your citizenship or you got called for the interview, and after that, usually, you were gone. It was happening to them. It was insult and threat and exam all rolled up into one. Talk of fighting the bastards in court didn’t seem to cut it any more, so instead they got pissed.
He’d always thought it was great, the way Alexis got drunk. Simon was basically the same sober or drunk, and it took a lot of beer to have any effect at all. Just a gift he was born with. Simon was tall and broad and he had the nickname Simon the Viking at school. He’d been proud of that. He rowed. He climbed. Of course he could take his drink. But Alexis completely transformed. After the first few sips he’d lean back and loosen his tie, grinning like anything could happen, and his eyes got that sparkle of amusement at everything he saw, as though once his professional persona was dropped (and he didn’t drop it easily, he kept it up day and night, everyone found him so sure and so serious) he couldn’t keep the laughter in. Simon would see him like that and feel this sudden need to mess up his hair, rip open his shirt, grab him inside all those ironed clothes; he can feel the ache of it in his mouth now, how much he wanted him. Not that night, though. That night was different.
Screw it, Simon had said. Screw them. I want to go to Greece.
And he’d meant it too – of course he’d go to Greece. What’s not to like about Greece? True, he’d never actually been, but he could imagine it, the sun and the sea and the tavernas and that.
No, Alexis had said, closing his eyes against it. Don’t be stupid.
Simon had gone sullen then.
That’s not what it’s like, Alexis went on. That can’t be our life. You’d hate it.
How do you know?
I’d hate it.
Why the fuck would he want to stay here though? That’s what Simon couldn’t figure out. And he was suddenly furious about it all, about the interview and the forms and those fucking boats patrolling all the time, couldn’t even look out to sea these days without spotting them, slug-like, on the horizon. There was so much here to get away from, why not leave? And it wasn’t for him, wasn’t for Simon that Alexis was staying, because Simon had already offered to leave with him. It must have been something else keeping him here. What was it? Who was it?
He closes his eyes tight against it all, wraps his arms around his body and imagines it’s Alexis he’s holding on to. But Alexis is gone and he’s nearly at the police station and suddenly it’s like he doesn’t remember how to move. He just stands there as a pair of blackbirds squabble over by the fence, as Bobby drives past in his cab, as the water collects in the corners of his eyes and runs down his face. He stands there and waits for someone to see him. He thinks about his breathing. He thinks about Alexis. He remembers kneeling on the rocks by the sea. He remembers Georgie’s gloved hand touching his. He thinks about falling to his knees again, and then someone is tapping on his elbow.
‘Excuse me,’ the voice says.
He turns.
It’s Pamali. From the Spar. He looks at her like he’s searching through fog, like she’s someone from another life.
‘I’ve got to report a crime,’ she says.
He stares at her.
‘Is there something wrong with you?’ she says.
He doesn’t know what to say. He swallows.
‘What is it?’ he manages.
The sound of his own voice wakes him up.
‘I’ve decided, I’m not having this any more,’ she says.
He blinks. He becomes aware of the rain on his face, of the wind streaming off the coast.
‘I’ve been keeping a record, and now I’m reporting the lot. Come on!’
Pamali strides towards the front door of the police station, and finally Simon remembers how to move.
LOW TIDE
I need to understand where I am. Get to know this cave. I have walked the beach all my life and never found it before. Can’t stay here, cowering by the entrance, staring out at the sea. Below the wind there is almost a whisper. Can you hear it? Must be the wind through the rocks. Hairline cracks, for it’s not so stale, at least not here at the front. The wind is finding its way in. The voices.
I take a step back without turning and feel for a foothold, for somewhere safe to stand. The floor is not pebbled, not in here. It is a flat sheet of rock with shallow dips and troughs like footprints. I take another step back, deeper into the cave, but in the distance something catches my eye, deep green and bundled, near the dark stretch of wet rocks where the sea is edging forwards. Lapping. It’s not supposed to be there. But the water is going to take it. When I look again it will be gone. That’s the way looking works, sometimes.
There were people down on the beach today, despite the storm. Police, I think, walking with deliberate steps, watching the ground as though they’d be able to find anything between those rocks. They stared at the water’s edge – it must have been a search. Whatever is down there, though, they didn’t find it. Perhaps it was hidden from them. On my next step back my left palm touches rock, cold, a slimy feel to it. The air gets closer around me, like a response. I turn.
It is different, facing inwards. No more sea. No more horizon. Just rock, deep brown and veined with shadow, fitting tightly around me. My eyes move slowly from the floor to the crossed twigs tied with red ribbons, balanced on every ledge. Why have people done it? The shadows intensify and I take another step and see a white stag gouged into stone, bright against the grey. My hand moves up of its own accord, following the curves as the cave draws me deeper. I pass a rusted metal figure, its limbs awkward and broken in places like snapped bones, its hands tapering to sharp points. The floor slopes down and I’m pulled further and there it is: a tiny, decaying doll wrapped in cling film. She must be suffocating. A worry doll. I remember them from when I was little. Whisper your worries to the worry doll before you sleep.
The smell back here is the smell of something rotten, worse than the blood on my clothes. The walls narrow as they rise, close in against the air, and the height of them crushes my chest as my eyes strain to see through the dark. Then something shifts and there are shapes pulsing in the rock. I try to turn. I can’t. My legs are paralysed. A scratch against my skin. I’d scream if I could but my voice catches in my throat. I stumble back and the shapes follow me, stretching high above me and I fall, my ankle twisting, my arms grabbing on to nothing and above me there’s only the height and the stone as my head smashes onto the floor.
13:25
Wet footprints lead into the police station. Georgie quietly looks around, walks in slowly, takes her time. There’s been nothing from the door-to-door but folk are asking questions, trying to push their way in. She can hear voices down the hall.
Burrowhead police station is the size of a small bungalow, with its front room a reception area in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint and its kitchen equipped for the staff with a cheap plastic kettle, a second-hand fridge, a square wooden table and four out-of-place dining-room chairs. There are two single bedroom-sized offices, one used by Georgie and the other shared by Simon and Trish, a small interview room opposite and a cell at the back with a low bench and a basin in the corner. The box room beside it currently houses a mop, disinfectant spray, broken furniture and some old, damp toilet roll but could be used as a second makeshift cell if such a thing were ever required – though it’s been years since anyone was locked in it. Cal and the forensics team are based up at Crackenbridge, where they have a modern open-plan office for their half-dozen staff, a small but reasonably wel
l-equipped lab and a mortuary. That’s where Dr Cosse will be now. But Georgie and the Burrowhead police are left to work here, in a station that hasn’t had funding for replacement light panels let alone computers for years, and the worst of it is that Georgie’s afraid to ask for the money. Some part of her thinks they’re only still running because everyone else has forgotten about them.
Down the corridor, towards the back office with the two desks, following the voices and the wet footprints glistening in the harsh fluorescent light, the door to the office is open. Inside, Georgie sees her friend Pamali sitting on the swivel chair and Simon beside her on his own, lower chair, leaning forwards like he’s trying to offer comfort. A mug of tea is on the desk.
‘What’s happened?’ she asks, something familiar twisting in her stomach. ‘What’s happened now?’
Simon stands up, offers Georgie his seat.
‘I’ll get another from the kitchen,’ he says, pausing, turning back. ‘The Spar’s been attacked.’
Georgie sits on the seat, falls into the same pose as Simon had a few seconds before and reaches for her hand but Pamali pulls away, her back rigid.
‘What’s happened, Pami?’
‘It’s not so bad as he says.’ Pamali smiles, though it’s a little forced. ‘They’ve been at it for a few months now.’
‘Who?’
Pamali shrugs. She looks restless, impatient maybe; Georgie wonders what she’s feeling underneath. She thinks about Trish, back at Dr Cosse’s office with the forensics team. About Dr Cosse lying under the swings this morning. And now this.
‘Tell me what’s been happening.’
Pamali nods. ‘I thought it would go away at first. I thought if I ignored it…’ Reaching into her bag, which is on the floor by her feet, she pulls out a notebook.
‘Look. I’ve been keeping a record,’ she says. ‘For the past few months. It’s little things, mostly. But…’
When the Dead Come Calling Page 4
