Nick nodded. He was ready for them this morning. They were going to try to soften him up again, but although he kept vigilant, the nastiness never emerged. Langley flicked a switch on the tape machine and began the interview.
"I want you to go through the events of Friday night one more time," he said, after the usual introductions. "I want you tell me precisely, and in as much detail as you can recall, what happened, what you saw, what you heard. Will you do that for me, Nick?"
So they started, all over again. For most of the time it seemed that Langley wasn't listening, then he would ask a question, querying an inconsistency, asking for more detail.
"She wanted to go away with you?" he asked, when Nick had described their argument in the woods.
Nick shook his head. "I don't think so," he said. "She was flirting. She'd been winding people up all evening. She was teasing me, leading me on."
"She wanted to have intercourse with you?"
"You make it sound cheap," said Nick, then he paused. "I suppose it was, though," he continued. "I think she probably wanted to, yes, but I'm not sure. I didn't wait to find out. I didn't just want a knee-trembler up against a tree. I realised I'd made a mistake."
"Did you hear anything afterwards?"
"I didn't hear her scream, if that's what you mean. I'd have said. I'd have gone back to her."
"Voices?"
"She was laughing when I left her. Then she stopped." He thought again, although it seemed he had hardly stopped thinking about that night. "I did hear voices," he said. "But they could have been anyone's. I assumed they were from some of the others at the chalets. I thought you said she was taken by surprise?"
"That doesn't mean she didn't talk to her assailant first of all. A few sharp words. A disagreement. She turns away disdainfully. He picks up a rock and hits her..." As he spoke, Langley was studying Nick intently, and when he had finished talking he continued to stare. "Do you want to tell me about it, Nick? It'll make things better in the long run."
Nick shook his head. "I'm trying to help," he said. "I've told you all that I know."
"Was anybody else at the Strand that night? Any other cars, any lights on?" It was clear from his questions that they had no real leads, unless this was all some elaborate trap for Nick: try to encourage him into a statement which could be proven false.
"The only cars I saw were parked by the chalets. Next to that long pool. My VW. Ronnie Deller's red BMW. Trevor Carr's Volvo saloon. And later there would have been Betsy's car—Marcus Betts—although I didn't see that until later. A metallic grey Rover. I believe Jerry came along with Marcus and Caroline Betts."
"You're sure there were no others?"
"There may be other places to park," said Nick. "I didn't go searching. But there weren't any signs of anyone in the other chalets."
"There are twenty-two chalets on the Strand. Can you be sure?"
The course of the questioning had changed this morning. Langley didn't seem so interested in provoking Nick, or in laying verbal traps. Perhaps they were starting to believe he was innocent.
"The cabins closest to Ronnie's were empty," said Nick. "I'm certain of that. We were out on the beach for most of the evening. We'd have noticed. After I'd left Jerry in the woods I came back along the shore from the East. So I passed numbers one up to Ronnie's twelve. I didn't notice anything." He paused, trying to think. "When we went looking for Jerry it was... I think it was Ronnie who went West along the shore. He'd have passed the other cabins. He might have noticed something, if there was anything to notice."
"You went up the Strand Lane, didn't you? Alone."
Nick nodded, then said, "Yes."
"Did you notice anything?"
"A parking place," said Nick. "No cars. Could you check the ground for tyre marks?"
Langley smiled, briefly. "We've had the best people in the trade checking out those woods," he said. "The ground was hard and dry. No tracks. You didn't hear any cars, earlier in the evening?"
Nick shook his head. "No."
"So the only people there were the six of you, plus Mrs Wyse."
Nick shrugged and they lapsed into silence.
Finally, Langley spoke. "We won't be applying to the magistrates' court to extend your custody," he said. "You've been with us about thirty-four hours. We're allowed thirty-six without magistrates' approval, unless we decide to proceed with criminal charges. We've decided against that course of action, for now."
"I can go?" said Nick. "This is it?"
Langley nodded. He leaned forward to speak into the tape machine, then switched it off. "You'll be bailed to return here in fourteen days, when we may want to interview you again," he said. "We'll be watching out for you. One false move..."
They both stood. "Some advice before you go," said Langley. "The Inquest is tomorrow. The family will be there and we don't want them any more upset than they already are. Stay away, all right? And it would be in your interests to avoid any of the complications of talking to the Press. Do you understand?" From the doorway, he nodded briefly. "I'll be seeing you again, I expect." Then he disappeared along the corridor.
~
It was a sunny day, the sky a thin autumn blue, even though it was still only mid-September. Nick had his leather jacket again, pulled tight against the fresh seaside air. He needed a shave and a wash.
His car was parked in a cramped yard behind the station. He brushed off the seat with the side of his hand and climbed in. The driving seat was in the wrong position, the mirrors askew, the normally tidy interior messed up. Later, he would have to clean it out thoroughly.
He edged the seat back, adjusted the mirrors. Started the engine at the third try. He closed his eyes and imagined that he was out on some anonymous stretch of dual carriageway, the needle touching eighty with his foot right down to the floor. Behind him was the road. More and more road, filling the ever-expanding distance between himself and Bathside. He shook his head and sighed.
He pulled out onto a side-street, then right onto the Main Road. There seemed to be a lot of traffic for a Sunday. Just before the town centre he turned left onto Bagshaw Terrace, then right onto Coastguards' Parade. Within minutes he was parked outside the bed and breakfast.
He wondered if the police had been here during his enforced absence. They would be foolish not to have searched his room, but then, even if he had, on the spur of the moment, smashed poor Jerry's head in with a rock, there would have been nothing here to implicate him.
He reached for the letter box, but hesitated before extracting the key. Instead, he knocked, and the door opened almost immediately.
A short man stood there, in a raincoat and cap. He had grey hair and a moustache, and shaggy black eyebrows. He looked at Nick in surprise, then gathered himself. "Just on my way out," he said, in a gravelly Black Country accent.
Nick wondered if his old room had been taken already. "My name's Nick Redpath. I was staying here," he said, hesitantly. "I had to be away for a couple of nights. I was wondering if my room's still available."
"Oh, I'm sure it is," said the man. "Only you and me and old Jim. But I must be on my way." He patted his chest. "Doctor tells me I have to do two miles a day. On days like this I'm not one to object. But in a couple of months or so..." He sucked in air noisily and shook his head.
A door opened, off the hall, and their landlord emerged, a scowl smeared onto his features like the remains of a meal. "You going to let that bleedin' 'urricane blow through 'ere all day, are you? Well you're not coming complaining to me when you get cold, you hear? Heating never goes on until 'alloween. House rule. You goin' to shut that bleedin' door, then, or what?"
It was just about the longest speech Nick had heard him make. The other man smiled and his eyebrows bobbed up and down, and then he slid out of the door, leaving Nick to close it.
Jim McClennan was glowering at him. "So they let you out, then," he said. "You owe me for a week. Seventy quid, cash. In future I'll want it up front, if you're going to mak
e a habit of disappearing like this. Okay?" His tone was rapidly softening, as if he couldn't keep up his brusque facade for long. Then he added, "And I'll warn you—you listening? I keep a poker this thick "—he made an O with finger and thumb "—by my bed. Any trouble an' it'll be planted in your skull like a flippin' flag pole, you hear me?"
~
He had to talk to somebody. He couldn't stay in Bathside and not do anything.
He frittered away the rest of the day, first in an amusement arcade by the Prom, and then, when it became dark, in the bar of the Bay Hotel. He always seemed to end up in bars and clubs, they seemed to suck him in. It was his natural habitat, he supposed. People all around, a sense of belonging without any real threat of intimacy. Maybe he should ask here about bar work ... but not, he decided, tonight.
The following day, he was out on the Prom before it was light. Running off the build-up of nervous energy, trying to keep his brain off the awful rollercoaster. He ran past Queen Victoria, staring off into town as if the sea had mortally offended her, on past the end of Cliff Gardens and then Cliff Park.
As the Prom took a sudden curve to the East, the Dubbs rose up on his left like a bad memory. He tried to picture a swish residential complex there, all brick and glass and expensive cars. A marina beyond. It didn't fit. His imagination was not adequate to project the architect's plans onto the ruins. He looked at the concrete gun emplacements, smothered in brambles and ivy. What risky, forbidden places would the local children have left to them when this old tract of War Department land was wiped clean?
He ran out along Stone Point. He felt a mess. He needed to get his head straight. He needed to know what had happened.
Back at his digs, he showered, then went down for breakfast. It was still early, and he ate alone. Afterwards, he checked a telephone directory. Betts was a local surname—there was even a Betts Road in Westquay—with an entire column to itself. There were six M-something-Betts, along with a scattering where M was a middle initial. The telephone might even be under Caroline's name. They'd be out at work until tonight, in any case, so he decided to leave them until later.
He checked the local shipping agencies. There were dozens to choose from. He guessed it was the sort of business that might often be run on a small scale: one man and his fax. He smiled. 'Import and Export' covered a multitude of sins.
He found a scrap of paper and made a note of all the offices in the old town at Eastquay. Walking distance from the Two Cups. By mid-morning he was outside again, jacket zipped high against a sudden burst of rain.
He drove down into Eastquay and parked under the impartial gaze of St Nicholas' Church.
He could have called all the agencies and asked if Ronnie worked there, but that wasn't Nick's style. He wanted to talk to him, he didn't want a telephone in the way. If he tried to arrange a meeting, he suspected Ronnie would make excuses and he didn't want to give him that opportunity.
There were twelve agencies on his list. He climbed out of his car and walked. There were offices over shops, and below, in basements. A few looked respectable, with smart premises and glossy receptionists beyond the doors; when Nick peered in through their windows he saw smart people at computers, telephone handsets tucked between shoulder and chin. He considered walking in, under some pretext, but he knew he wouldn't get far like that.
Ninth on his list was Sperry and Neeskens. Its address was a small yard, adjacent to Elizabeth Wharf. Behind high wire gates there were three Portakabins and a cluster of cars. One of them was Ronnie's red BMW. Nick wandered around the perimeter for as far as he could go. Two of the Portakabins were owned by a company which specialised in industrial cleaning, the third belonged to Sperry and Neeskens. Nick peered across the yard at the name-plate. A haulage firm shared the office, too, although Nick guessed it was simply another part of the same company.
It was nearly lunchtime, so he waited in the street until Ronnie appeared, heading straight for the Two Cups. Nick slipped into the pub before him, and was waiting with a pint of Adnams and his own orange juice.
Ronnie spotted him, and hesitated. Nick nodded at the pint and said, "You look like a man who needs a drink." Reluctantly, Ronnie joined him.
He drank deeply, then asked, "What do you want? Why have you come here then? Thought you'd be keeping your head down, right?"
"No reason to," said Nick. "I'm in the clear. Officially." He let that sink in. "I want to know what was going on. Everyone was sniping at each other all evening. Jerry was winding everyone up. What was it?"
"Leave it alone, all right?" Nick matched his stare, and Ronnie continued. "You were pissed. You're reading a whole lot of crap into it. We were all pissed. Some people get full of themselves when they've had too much. Others just fall asleep. Others end up bitching and stirring things up. We were pissed, Nick. Just pissed."
"Was Jerry always like that when she'd had too much?"
Ronnie looked down into the remains of his beer. "Jerry was like that all the time. She put it around, you know? Her and Matt, they had an open kind of thing going. They wanted a lot out of life, and not always from each other. You understand?"
"Her husband knew?"
"Course he did," said Ronnie. "He got a right kick out of it. Got off on it. They put it around, then they always went back to each other. Arguing, comparing notes. Always trying to go one better. Matt really got off on it, you hear?"
"So who was she having an affair with most recently?"
"Who wasn't she?" said Ronnie. "If you're looking for men she's dumped, or jealous wives, then why don't you just get out the 'phone book and work right through from A to Z? You're wasting your time, Nick. She was just unlucky: it was some fucking psycho, right?"
"Did she sleep with you, Ronnie?"
He didn't seem too bothered by the question. He had probably expected it. "Maybe. Who cares what she did with me? We're all adults. Look, Nick. I know where you're coming from, right? But after what happened on Friday, I don't think you should go round sticking your nose into all of this. None of us should. Jerry was trouble, all of the time. Lets just keep our noses clean, okay? I hate having the pigs sniffing around me like this. I've never done anything in my life, apart from a bit of speeding, but they make me uncomfortable, you understand?"
Nick nodded. He knew the feeling.
"I want to forget about all this," said Ronnie. "I'm going to keep right out of it, okay? I've answered enough of your questions, I've finished my beer and right now I'm going back to the office 'cos I've got a barrow-load of work to get through before I get away tonight. Okay?"
Chapter 8
That afternoon Nick set about tracking down Betsy.
He went through the Betts column in the telephone book again, compiling another list. As he wrote down each address, he tried to picture it. He tried to imagine what sort of house his old friend would live in. And probably more to the point, what sort of house Caroline Betts would choose to live in.
Twenty-six, maybe twenty-seven by now. A part-qualified accountant, Caroline had said. They must be fairly comfortable, because Caroline could afford to work only part-time, fitting it around her voluntary work. If Betsy's income was not good enough, then Nick was certain Caroline would be working full-time too. Their place would be spacious and tasteful, then, probably fairly new.
From his list of addresses, he was able to discount several immediately. There were two on the Riverside Estate where Nick had grown up. Council houses were not Caroline's style, even ex-Council houses. Church Street, perhaps: a cramped street in Eastquay, extensively renovated and gentrified since Nick had left Bathside. But certainly not Pound Avenue, a run-down Victorian terrace next to Deane College and leading down to the Hangings.
He decided to stay modern. More efficient, with straight lines and none of the shabby disorganisation of an older house. More Caroline, he thought.
The first number he tried belonged to a house in Avocet Close. He'd run past there one morning, during his first few days back in tow
n. It was part of the most recent spread of Long Meadows Estate. A cul-de-sac of detached boxes, each placed at an angle to the road, implying space where there was, in fact, very little. Each house was a slight variation on a standard pattern—some had leaded windows, some plain; some had full porches instead of the usual little half-roof over the front door; some had garages built-in, whilst others had only a drive or a rustic-style car port.
If Betsy and his wife lived in one of these houses it would only be for a few years, until they could afford to move somewhere better. But then he was only in his twenties, he had time to move on.
It was still mid-afternoon, but Nick tried the number anyway. At least by making some calls, he might be able to strike a few more from the list. He might even find a relative—all these people with the same surname must be linked somehow.
The Avocet Close address was the right one.
After four rings there was a pause, a click, and then a voice that was unmistakably Caroline's. "This is the Betts residence," she said. "I'm sorry, but neither Marcus nor myself can come to the telephone at the moment. Please leave your name and number after the tone and if you're not a sales rep we'll call you when we—"
She was interrupted by another click, another pause, then, "Hello? Sorry about that. I've just walked into the house. Hello?"
It was Betsy. He sounded rough.
"Hi, it's Nick here. Can we talk?"
~
The only pub on the Long Meadows Estate didn't open until the evening, so they met, instead, in the White Horse. It was one of the oldest buildings in Bathside, and across the Main Road it faced another: All Saints' Church. The first signs of settlement had been found in this part of the town, a bronze axe-head and evidence of some sort of stockade and ditch enclosure, dated to about 2000BC.
The White Horse dated back only as far as the early sixteenth century, but after the first swathe of modern housing this sprawling old coaching inn was the first hint any visitor to the town had that people had been here long before the ferries came, and the holiday camps. It was a great big lump of history, shoved into people's faces. It was history you could touch, history you could feel. History whose swing-doors you could push open and go inside for a pint and a ploughman's.
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