Grave Island

by Andrew Smyth

  ‘So?’ asked James. ‘What do you think? It’s quite an opportunity.’

  ‘That’s one way of describing it, but I’ll take her – for better or for worse until dry rot do us part.’

  The fact was that I was excited, not just by the extraordinary location of the boat, but that for the first time in my life I would be able to work towards a home of my own. Since I was a young boy I’d lived in places where I’d been sent and after joining the army there’d been little choice over the quarters I’d had to live in. There’d always been a drab uniformity about the places that the army allocated, as though personal taste didn’t exist and we were all expected to be the same. I used to read design magazines the way other people read pornography – furtively and worried lest anyone saw me doing it. I was no idealist – I’d done what I had to do in the army and had expected to carry on doing it for some years.

  But there are some values which are personal. To give people the security to feel safe in their own homes was just the start. With that security they were finally able to live their own lives and that was what counted more. I’d collected books about the great twentieth-century designers and had often wondered how I could use their ideas in a place of my own. Perhaps this was my chance, however temporary it might be. Perhaps now I could create my own space – it would give me a challenge. But first I had to meet with Sayed Alam.

  I was early at the park the following morning. It had been over a month since I’d last arranged a meeting with Sayed and then it had been at my request and he’d been as difficult to read as ever. He’d re-established contact with his mother who was happy that he was so far away from the fighting, but it was difficult to see when he might be able to go back and see her. It was a bit early for the children and the playground was strangely silent. In fact, there were few other people in the park and I hoped that I wasn’t too conspicuous in this predominantly Muslim area.

  When Sayed arrived he sat down with his back towards me but said nothing. When I asked after his mother, his reply was monosyllabic. I guessed that he was still undecided about helping us and I couldn’t really blame him. He’d had a foot in two camps now for some years and it couldn’t be easy. In his local community he had to give the impression that he was one of them so he could only regard talking to me as a betrayal – which I suppose it was, although it was difficult to identify exactly who he was betraying.

  We were both silent for a while. ‘We have discussion classes after Friday prayers,’ he started. ‘It’s something I go to, but my heart isn’t really in it. I don’t recognise my Allah in their speeches – my Allah is peaceful.’

  I didn’t say anything. He’d never spoken so personally before – he’d always kept his distance and I realised that he was finding it difficult. Things are straightforward in theory, but become more complicated when you have to deal with them in real life.

  ‘There’s someone who comes occasionally to the meetings. He’s a little older than I am and he’s always been quiet. But there was something about him. When he did speak he talked with such… such belief. It wasn’t like any of the others. And I think he’s been away, because he seems much more confident since he’s been back.’

  ‘So what do you think has happened?’

  ‘There are camps. We’ve been told about these special camps where they’re supposed to teach Koranic studies in detail but I think they’re more than that. We’re often asked if we want to go, but most of us know it’s not for us. I think that’s where he’s been.’

  I’d never seen Sayed so unsure of himself. Usually he was in control, but this time he seemed uncertain and I could only assume that he was having trouble facing the conflict. ‘Sayed,’ I said, ‘tell me straight. Do you think he’s been radicalised?’

  Sayed hesitated. ‘Perhaps not yet,’ he said eventually. ‘But I think they’re working on him.’

  ‘They?’ I asked, but it was a rhetorical question. If he knew who they were he would have told me. I thought about this. ‘Perhaps you could volunteer for one of the courses? Find out what goes on there.’

  ‘It could be dangerous.’

  ‘Not necessarily. You’re a Muslim; you’re a refugee from Afghanistan. There’s no reason for anyone to suspect you. But of course you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to,’ I added hurriedly. ‘I’m not putting any pressure on you.’

  ‘All I can say is that I’ll think about it.’ Sayed stood up. ‘I’ll think about it and be in touch.’

  I had to admit that the timing couldn’t really be worse. Here I was being given important information a few days after the intelligence services had told me they could manage without me. I decided I wouldn’t tell Sayed just yet about our separation. He was in such an unusually confused state that I thought it would only make matters worse. If he was going to live with himself, it had to be his decision, made without pressure or distraction.

  Although I hadn’t been planning on moving into the barge so quickly, I decided that at least it would keep me occupied while I tried to work out what to do, but I didn’t know how much time I had. My natural reaction to what Sayed had told me was to get Ali and the department involved, but something told me to hold back until I could get a handle on things.

  It took me a couple of weeks to get myself sorted out. There were forms to sign, lawyers’ representatives to consult, old colleagues to bid farewell. It was worse than my divorce, severing all ties with the family that had almost brought me up.

  I decided I didn’t need more clutter so I put my meagre belongings into storage along with my old uniforms. This was the new, slimmed-down Philip Hennessey, no ties and floating on hopes. But I wasn’t going to succumb to bitterness even though someone had set me up and the powers that be thought it appropriate to cut me loose. Did they really think so little of me? Yes, all right, there was some bitterness, but my shoulders were broad and I’d fight to show them that it was their loss, not mine. Knock me down and see me bounce back.

  I found the work on Salacia to be therapeutic; it also allowed me to think back over the past few years and put them in some kind of context for the future. It was particularly satisfying to unload all the rubbish I’d cleaned out of her onto one of the Thames-based refuse contractors whose barges ply up and down the river. They came and moored a skip alongside which I filled to overflowing and although things looked a bit bare, at least I could now start to design the layout. It was like sloughing off my previous life and working towards a new one. I ordered in some light ash boards to put up as panelling, which, although not very nautical, made the place much more cheerful.

  I also found myself adjusting to the unique routine of the river: its constantly changing tides, the gurgling of the water as it rushed past the hull on the ebb. Slowly, the old girl started to take shape and the physical work was doing me good after my time behind a desk.

  It was after I’d been living aboard for a couple of weeks that I had a visitor. I was working down in the bottom of the hull and at first I didn’t hear the knocking. Whoever it was didn’t give up and eventually I went topside to see who it was. It was a woman, perhaps a bit younger than me. Well and expensively dressed, quite tall and attractive with shoulder-length hair, not quite blonde. She was standing at the foot of the gangway knocking on the hull. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ she said. She hesitated. ‘Could I come aboard?’

  ‘Be my guest,’ I replied, putting down the paintbrush I’d been holding.

  The tide was low and she obviously had difficulty clambering up the steep gangway. She was wearing a smart trouser suit which appeared to be designed to conceal whatever was causing her limp. I held out my hand to help her up, but she shook her head and pulled herself on deck. Whether it was pride or my paint-covered hands, I couldn’t tell. I led her towards the saloon and held open the door for her.

  Inside, she sat with some difficulty on the only low chair that wasn’t hidden underneath painting materials. ‘I’m sorry to come unannounced,’ she started. ‘But your
wife… I mean your ex-wife, Sally, suggested you might be able to help me. She said you had some time on your hands.’

  I held up my palms. ‘At the moment all I’ve got on my hands is paint. How did she think I could help?’

  ‘It’s about my father. I think he’s been murdered.’

  3

  I suppose that’s a pretty good way to get my attention. I wiped my hands on a nearby rag. ‘Sally suggested you came? What did she want me to do?’ It was clear that my visitor was on the verge of tears and comforting distraught strangers was not one of my strengths. ‘You’d better come in and tell me about it.’ I held open the saloon door and followed her in. I took a toolbox off one of the chairs and asked her to sit.

  ‘I should have rung first, but I needed to explain this face to face.’ She inspected the chair and brushed off the dust before sitting.

  ‘You say Sally told you about me. How did you know her?’

  ‘We were at school together.’ Seeing that I pulled a face, she added, ‘Yes, I know, a private school. Sally told me what you thought of them.’

  I shrugged. ‘It’s not your fault. But you’re here now so you might as well tell me about it.’ I sat down opposite her and waited for her to begin – I wasn’t at all sure I wanted to hear what she had to say – after all, I had my own problems. But then there were worse ways of spending time – it could turn out to be interesting.

  ‘It’s about my father. He went into hospital for an operation, but it was routine, there was no way he was expected to die. We were all shocked by it – even the doctors. It was so sudden that no one seems to know exactly what happened. It appears he had a heart attack after the operation and they couldn’t revive him.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I started. ‘Look, I don’t even know your name.’

  ‘It’s Greta. Greta Satchwell.’

  ‘Greta, I’m not a doctor, I don’t see how I can help.’

  ‘My father is…’ she hesitated. ‘He… was a property developer. Greg Satchwell. He was working on a development but it had turned sour. His partners were losing money and they blamed him. They’re people who… how can I put it? People with a lot of influence who don’t like to be crossed. They’re not exactly blue-chip investors. Before they started this development they’d taken out some kind of life insurance on my father. It was to pay off the partnership’s loans if anything happened. I think they did something, gave him something. He didn’t die naturally.’

  I thought about this. Despite her obvious grief, she seemed to be in control and didn’t seem the type to be making wild accusations. ‘I still don’t see how I can help. This should be a matter for the coroner – is there going to be an inquest?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I’m the only one who knows that there were people who wanted him dead.’

  ‘Have you been to the police?’

  ‘I got as far as the front desk then I thought how ridiculous it sounded, so I left without seeing anyone. They would simply have fobbed me off with some feeble excuse. I’ve never got the impression that the police are very interested in crime.’

  ‘It does seem a bit far-fetched.’ As I saw the expression on her face, I added quickly, ‘Not that it can’t happen. But this isn’t really my thing. I don’t know anything about murder.’ That didn’t sound right. ‘Not private-enterprise murder, that is.’

  ‘Your wife… I mean Sally, said you’d worked in intelligence. She said that you’d recently left the army and that you weren’t doing anything else. I can pay you for your time.’

  I needed to think about this. I couldn’t see that there was really anything I could do, but on the other hand what did I have to lose? This woman, Greta, seemed very self-assured and not short of a few bob – she looked as though she could be interesting if you got to know her. As I looked at her, I saw lines of wafer-thin scars underneath her eyes – perhaps it was related to her limp, but they only added to my interest. I wouldn’t be taking advantage and it might lead to something – quite what, I had no idea. And being selfish about it, I might get to spend more time in her company which was an appealing thought. ‘Tell me more.’

  Greta shifted in her chair and crossed her legs stiffly. She was obviously in some discomfort and I started to help her but she shook her head impatiently as though annoyed with herself. ‘He went into a private hospital off Harley Street. It was to have a lesion cut out from his liver. He’d had MRI as well as ultrasound scans which indicated it was unlikely to be malignant, but they wanted to remove it to make sure. It was keyhole surgery, but he needed a general anaesthetic followed by a few hours in intensive care to monitor recovery. The surgeon said it was a straightforward operation and it went well and after a few hours they took him back to his room for overnight recovery.’ Until then Greta was showing remarkable self-control, but I could sense this was starting to slip.

  ‘He seemed fine in the evening.’ She took a deep breath before continuing, her eyes starting to water. ‘They called me early the next morning. He’d… he’d been taken back into intensive care. He’d had some kind of heart attack so they tried to give him emergency bypass surgery. By the time I got there, he was dead.’

  She started crying softly and I looked around fruitlessly for a tissue – all I had were dirty rags. ‘Did you ask the doctors what had happened?’

  It took a while before Greta could speak again. Finally she wiped her eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said unnecessarily. ‘They said they didn’t know what had happened. They said there’s always a risk in surgery and I should accept it. But they didn’t know what I know.’

  ‘About your father’s partners, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. They wanted him dead. I’m sure they killed him and that’s why I want you to investigate it.’ She had mastered her grief. Instead this was some determined lady and I thought that trying to find a murderer might prove easier than trying to say I wouldn’t.

  ‘Tell me about the partners,’ I said, as much to give me breathing space as anything.

  ‘My father never talked much about them, but he’d worked on other developments with them. They were money men, not developers at all, which was why they needed my father. He’d done well for them in the past.’ She reached into her bag and after a few moments’ search, brought out a business card which she handed me. “Tribune Investments” it read and a name, “Brendan E. Rogers” with just a phone number, email, and an address in London’s W1 district. ‘My father told me that the most recent development had hit some problems. The original survey had been botched and the land needed a big clean-up before they could start building. I work for an accountancy company and he showed me the original figures, but extra outlays like that might have destroyed any profit, not to mention the additional costs of delays and finance charges.’

  I thought about this before replying. As she said, it wasn’t as though I had anything else that was important. But this sounded like a non-starter to me. I’d had some experience of doctors and knew that they could throw up an impenetrable wall. Against that, what had I got to lose? That I wouldn’t mind meeting Greta again didn’t figure in my decision. ‘Okay. Since you’re a friend of Sally’s, I’ll go as far as talking to the hospital and see what they have to say but I’m sure there’s a good medical reason for what’s happened.’ I smiled at her in what I hoped was a reassuring way until I saw the resentment in her eyes and realised that I was merely being patronising. Her quiet force was quite persuasive. ‘Okay, okay,’ I said, holding up my hands in surrender. ‘I’ll talk to them and let you know what they say.’ It was like the army all over again. I seemed to have lost any free will in her presence and maybe I should have put my tongue back in my mouth. I scrabbled around for a writing pad and handed it to her. ‘Write down the names of everyone involved. Perhaps you should start with what you and Sally might know but I don’t, so I need all your details, as well as those of your father. And the hospital – I’ll need their details as well.’

  She took the pad and started writing and while
she did so I thought about this some more. I wasn’t really a gun for hire. What with the work on the boat, I had deliberately not given myself any time to think of the future. There were probably plenty of security companies out there who would employ me, but I wasn’t really yet ready for private enterprise. Perhaps I’d been waiting for some kind of delayed shock to kick in, when I would finally come to accept that my army career was over. Perhaps this was an opportunity being handed to me gift-wrapped, but I wasn’t sure that there was much future for an investigator working on his own. These days, things were too complicated.

  Greta finished writing her list, handed me the pad and put her hand on the chair and stood up before limping to the windows and looking out over the river. ‘Quite a view. My father used to love the river. He visited all the riverside pubs and read up on their history. He was a bit of a romantic, I suppose.’ She pointed downriver. ‘Over there’s The Mayflower. It was one of his favourites.’ I could hear her catch her breath but said nothing. ‘He was a fine man,’ she talked as though she was alone, as though I didn’t exist. ‘I’m going to miss him so much.’ She said nothing more but I could see her shoulders shake. I felt a coward not to go over to her but she seemed to be in her own world and I didn’t want to intrude.

  Finally, she sniffed hard and turned back to me. ‘I’m sorry. It’s all happened so suddenly. We were very close.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can.’ It felt so lame but I didn’t know quite what to say. ‘I’ll help you down the gangplank.’