Death at the Seaside

by F. R. Jameson

  He couldn’t wait on the promenade, it would be actually fatal to him to be caught in such close proximity, yet he couldn’t stop staring at the tide. There was no way he could walk away if he didn’t know. The waves pulled back and fore, back and fore – but were they going in or out? Even his bones were shaking now. He clutched the railing, right then it was the only thing holding him upright. He couldn’t help waiting, couldn’t help watching, and then wonderfully it happened. A wave lapped against the body.

  The tide was coming in! It would take the whore out! She’d find a happy home underwater with bloody Lestrade!

  Everything was going to be good for Larry Castle.

  Almost giggling, he turned and staggered towards his chalet. He fell to the crumpled bedsheets and slept the kind of sleep which earlier that evening he could never have imagined enjoying again.

  Twelve

  The dreams which came to him were cold and cruel and filled with Lestrade’s laughter. The only image which stayed with him was that dead girl’s soft pleading eyes. He woke with a scream that lodged silent in his throat but rattled his insides.

  Normally he woke with a smile, with a sense of God-given anticipation. He’d been lucky in life and every morning he awoke expecting that luck to continue. This morning – despite the heat of summer – he woke cold. Raising his head from the pillow, he felt groggy and hungover. His stubble itching against his face as if it was wire-wool. Miserably he gave a cough and a grumble, and felt a pain that dug six inch nails into his chest.

  Surely he’d felt blessed relief last night, surely it had all gone well. Or at least as well as such a thing could go. But now there was vomit bubbling just below his throat, lingering where it wouldn’t settle into his stomach or be forced out to the toilet bowl – instead just hanging there and making him feel bad.

  It wasn’t guilt (he was too big a man to care about some cheap seaside hooker), it was worry. What if it had somehow gone wrong? What if some bloody nosy-parker had seen him? What if the game was going to be called that very day? Slowly he sniffed. The vomit in his chest was the only smell he got.

  With a deadness in his skull, he realised that there seemed to be some commotion outside. It was a quiet commotion – no charging or screaming or cries in the morning sun – but it didn’t sound quite the way the camp normally did. It seemed less restrained, faster somehow. There was normally a stately progress, satisfied campers ambling to and from the breakfast hall. Now there was something exciting, quickening the pace.

  Scrambling from his bed, he scraped his hand down his all-night beard and tried to compose himself. Doom sinking right to the soles of his feet, he hooked his braces over his shoulders and reached for the door handle.

  For just a second he had the image of a dutiful young constable the other side, here to ask some questions if you don’t mind, sir.

  He shook his head. That wasn’t going to happen, that couldn’t happen. Nonetheless, his eyes closed as he opened the door.

  There were no police officers the other side, just a parade of campers. They were all marching in the direction of the beach, an intense gossip shared between them.

  “Oi!” he yelled, his voice sounding gruff even to him. “What’s going on?”

  It was a young lanky kid who answered, tall and bequiffed, excited by the news he had to tell. “They found a body on the beach.”

  “A body?”

  “Yeah, woman’s body. Murdered she’s been.”

  “Oh, thanks,” he muttered and ducked into the sanctuary of his room. He slammed the door and felt momentarily safe in the shade of the drawn curtain.

  It couldn’t be. The tide had come in and taken the body. He could remember it.

  Maybe, he told himself, it was some other poor cow. But what were the chances of that? It had to be the same one, didn’t it? But how?

  Perhaps he’d been mistaken – he’d been drunk and agitated, there was a chance he’d been wrong as well. A possibility his eyes had lied to him. If so he had to be careful. Fingerprints could come into play, almost certainly there’d be witnesses who saw them together.

  Then there was that other tart who knew the kinds of games he liked to play. If she flapped her bloody mouth it would make for a very awkward conversation with the constables.

  He had to get out of town before any heat came his way.

  But then maybe it was another body. Castle had to go down, see for himself. He had to know what the odds now were.

  Staring in the mirror, he saw a pale, jowly, tired, panicked face. In the hope it might refresh him, he splashed some cold water around his chops. It made no difference. Weary on his feet, he just covered his hair with his hat, put his jacket over his braces and undershirt and joined the crowd.

  Any seasoned watcher of Larry Castle would have instantly recognised there was a problem. It was evident in his stride. The Castle walk, as all his friends knew, was bouncing with confidence and forever on the verge of triumph. He often grinned on top of it, letting the world know the quality of life he expected. That day it was a shuffle, with his face carrying a reverse smile. Both ends of his mouth stricken by gravity.

  In contrast, the other holiday-makers seemed happy. This horrible news was just the extra spice their two weeks was craving, something they could really tell the neighbours when they got home. They were over-excited, desperate to soak up every detail – and Larry Castle walked in the middle like some kind of passenger.

  These were normal everyday people, and they were managing to look more animated and confident than Castle did. Fancy that! They were the suckers of the world, the ones to be ripped off and swindled, and here they were bounding along faster than him. There was clearly something very, very wrong with old Castle.

  He followed the crowd. The stupid dogs – someone blows a whistle and they all chase it. What did it have to do with them? Nothing. But here they were, all gawping and chattering and even taking photographs – what a happy holiday snap that would be. The chemist’s face was going to be a picture itself when he handed it over.

  Giving up on any of his delusional hopes that there was a second body, he followed the crowd onto the promenade. Then over to the railing and then not quite to the right place. They were congregating at the wrong spot.

  There was maybe a glimmer of salvation.

  It was the girl’s body all right, but it had moved. It was about a hundred and fifty yards from where he’d dumped it. What’s more, it was soaking wet. The sea had taken her out and then brought her in again.

  The result wasn’t ideal, but perhaps it wasn’t disastrous. Any fingerprints would have washed away, there’d be nothing to directly incriminate him. He stood and watched and somewhere inside he smiled, the elephant on his back climbing off and wandering away for now.

  Lestrade’s brutal laughter retreating to nothing.

  There’d be an investigation, of course. The boys in blue would question the other whores, and that tart who’d spat in his face would say he’d almost suffocated her. He wasn’t safe yet, but it was danger at a distance.

  It would take time, they might not even speak to her that day. Even then she didn’t know his name, and he’d bet all the horses in Arabia that with every chalet looking the same, she’d have only a hazy idea which one was his. She knew his face, admittedly, but there were a lot of handsome blokes his age.

  However, it would be a smart move to leave town as soon as possible.

  As a businessman, there was nothing suspicious in him suddenly shooting back to London. He could do it this afternoon – then he’d be clear of it.

  All he had to do was speak to the Montgomerys. He just had to finish that bit of business.

  And finish it, for them, as unpleasantly as he could.

  Thirteen

  Speed was everything. Castle didn’t go to his chalet to wash or get properly dressed, he didn’t retrieve that Messerschmitt. Instead he headed straight to find them.

  There was still no spark of memory when he thought
of them, no recollection of who they might be. He pondered where to begin. The boy was the obvious weak link as he’d actually said Lestrade’s words, and if he could get the little brat to tell him which of his parents had told him to – he’d have them. But if he couldn’t get to the boy, if they kept the boy safe, then he’d go for the mother. She’d be easy to scare. There’d be little trouble finding out what she knew, and if it turned out to be nothing – then he’d let the father have it. These people couldn’t muck about with him, he’d show them that. Give them a holiday souvenir they wouldn’t ever forget.

  He lurked near their chalet, cigarette between lips, like an errant schoolboy making sure he caught nobody’s eye. Knocking on the door might be the obvious course, but he daren’t – where was it going to get him if that shit Montgomery slammed the door straight in his face? He couldn’t hammer away at it without drawing notice, and he wanted all this sorted out as quietly as possible. So he stood back and watched.

  They were in all right. He saw movement the other side of the net curtains, thought he heard their voices.

  It was ten thirty when they finally emerged. Presumably they’d already had breakfast and were off for another day’s adventure. The three of them together, holding hands. Junior in the middle, a handbag dangling from Mum’s free forearm, a wicker basket of food in Dad’s. Filthy bastards, the lot of them.

  Ducked out of sight, Castle watched them stroll merrily towards the beach, heading to the other end of the promenade. He followed them.

  The sun on their shoulders, they were happy, gay holiday-makers, enjoying their summer break. Their voices carried, inane chatter, a full-of-joy laughter. The brat was telling jokes, unfunny Knock-Knocks and his parents both laughed along and encouraged the little bastard to be more and more unfunny.

  Castle hated them. Whoever these people were he loathed them.

  If it wasn’t for them he’d have sailed away last night with Betty, he’d have a whole new life beckoning. If it wasn’t for them he wouldn’t have had that accident with the whore, he’d feel safe right now. He’d be relaxed and happy, his normal self. They’d done a job on his life over the last few days, really flipped it round, and now he was going to make them pay for it.

  What he needed was to get them alone. He had to isolate them, cut them off, make sure if they yelled few were going to hear. There were too many people around, too many good citizens who might take an interest.

  The Montgomerys were walking down the promenade, away from the murder scene, to the sandier beach. They cheered a “Hello” to some people who came past. Friends for the duration of the holiday probably. Unable to stop himself, he stared at those people with naked suspicion when a hundred yards later they walked past him and received equal looks of disdain in return.

  How was he going to get those bastard Montgomerys alone? They were clearly going to have sandwiches and cake on the beach, and there’d be too many eyes on them there. He needed them somewhere where they wouldn’t be eavesdropped – but how was he going to find that?

  And then, he saw it. Then they led him to a place he could use.

  Beside the beach was a penny arcade, and Junior clearly asked to go in. Since they were such happy and indulgent parents, they let him. All three stepping off the promenade and into the darkness of the games emporium.

  It was perfect: loud, cluttered and busy with those who only cared about what was right in front of them. The Montgomerys would have to separate in there, it wasn’t feasible for them to stay together. Castle grinned, not his bastard’s grin this time, instead it resembled a slash across his face.

  This arcade was an old wooden shack, which someone had spruced up by painting it bright red. The precise shade old Lenin or Stalin would have loved. Like in a Soho bordello, even the bulbs were bright red, tinting the patrons’ faces, arms and all their nice summer outfits a satanic hue. The machines whirred and shuddered and beeped all around them. Castle slipped through the crowd, it was hot and bustling. There were men, women, boys and girls; all laughing, playing, eating lunch – many with sandwiches and toffee apples and candy floss. Dropping pennies into the slots and seemingly just enjoying them rattling down the chutes. Throwing their money away, the fools!

  He moved cautiously, careful not to walk straight into that family of bastards. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that fat Irish navvy who was their summer neighbour, his tongue jammed in his cheek as he played a machine made for little girls. Slowly, watchfully, Castle circled again. Where were they? They couldn’t have gone out, surely not. They wouldn’t have come in and gone straight out again. Where the fuck were they?

  And then he had one. There next to a “Speak Your Weight” machine, loitering as if frightened to give it a go, was Mrs Montgomery. His cruellest grin rising to his cheeks, he sidled over just as she gave in to temptation and dropped in a penny. He roughly grabbed her wrist. Mrs Montgomery gave a startled cry, but it was lost amongst the children laughing and the rattling of coins. As if unseen by all, he jerked her back against the wall, nestling them between two machines.

  Terrified she stared at him, her jaw opening and closing in fear.

  “Who are you, you cow?” he snarled.

  She didn’t answer, shaking, her wrist twisting in his hand.

  “I asked, who are you? I know you know me, but now I want to know what you want, why you’re doing this?”

  Her voice was close to hysteria. “I don’t know what you mean!”

  “So it’s your husband then, is it? He put the brat up to this? Right.”

  Castle let go and shoved her with both hands, feeling satisfaction from her skull thumping the wall.

  He had to be quick.

  Obviously the stupid woman was going to make a fuss. She was going to warn her old man and so he had to get to that filthy fucker before she did.

  Intently he stared around, sweat pouring from his puffed-out features, his face flushed and angry.

  Where the fuck was fancy bathrooms Montgomery? Where had he got to?

  Castle couldn’t see him anywhere, he was nowhere in the crowd. The place was packed elbows to arseholes, but he couldn’t see Montgomery. Could Montgomery see him? Was he toying with him? Mocking him? At the back of his head he could hear Lestrade’s laugh again. Mr Montgomery’s good friend, Lestrade. Where the hell was that loathsome Brummy? Castle couldn’t see him at all, but right in his path was the bastard Montgomery boy. The brat was perfectly happy in his own world. Coins merrily shaking in his little fist, he’d finished one game and was heading elsewhere for seconds. He lost his grip on them all when Castle grabbed him; they clattered on the floorboards, rolling away.

  They were at the centre of the arcade. There were people at every angle, but Castle had reached a point beyond caring.

  “Where is he?” Castle growled. “Where’s your worthless shit of an old man?”

  The boy stared up at him with petrified eyes. Tears rolled from the corners.

  Jesus, the disgusting little brat wet himself.

  “Why’d he make you do it?” he yelled now. “What did he say to make you do it? Come on – tell me!”

  Around them were mutterings of discontent. Nobody was happy, but nobody could be sure this wasn’t the boy’s father.

  Barely in control of himself now, Castle screamed with rage: “Come on, you little shit! Why’d you do it? He must have given you a reason, now tell me – what the hell was it?”

  Then – for no longer than a moment – the boy’s face changed. It became thinner, feminine even, and eyed Castle in a way that was cool yet fearful at the same time, and said: “Please don’t hurt me too much, Mr Big Man.”

  Larry Castle blinked. They were the last words the dead whore had said to him.

  His stomach lurching, he shoved the kid away and staggered back. The boy landed on his backside with a thud and a cry, his mother swooping in and enfolding him in her arms – screaming something about this man hurting her baby.

  It all seemed to be happenin
g elsewhere for Larry Castle. He couldn’t breathe, it was too tight in emporium, the lights were too bright, the machines too noisy. And for an instant, one dreadful instant, he thought that amongst the staring crowd he saw the face of the dead whore. And next to her he thought he saw the face of Paul Lestrade, and they were both roaring with laughter at him.

  Suddenly there was a sharp pain in his shoulder, charging down his left side. Grimacing he spun around, then gasped audibly as he collided with the Irish navvy’s fist.

  His legs lost all feeling and he went down. There were hands and feet all over him, his vision filled with red fists and red boots. The blows landed heavy on his arms and legs, he could feel hard toes strike his stomach, he screamed as his cheekbone was shattered. A red mass was devouring him. He looked out from a cascade of blood and couldn’t see where one person ended and another began. There were just countless arms and legs swinging at him.

  Desperately he yelled, but all sound was lost. Lying on his side he stared out and saw the Montgomerys. Mr Montgomery holding his wife and child, turning their faces away from him. His gaze rolled upwards just as the Irish navvy smashed in his ribs. As he tried screaming, blood flooded his mouth, and he was choking. His eyes closed and then painfully opened again to the last sight he was ever going to see – Paul Lestrade and that dead girl holding hands as they gave him the final kick into death.

  Fourteen

  Another local woman identified Larry Castle as the man who had tried to murder her, and numerous witnesses swore that he’d attacked young Jeremy Montgomery. And the whole tale was written up luridly in The News of the World as “Business Man Goes on Violent Spree at Seaside.”

  The Irishman, Mr Michael Doyle, was charged with second degree murder, but there were numerous witnesses to say that he’d barely touched Larry Castle. That he’d just thrown him off the boy, pushed him in the floor, maybe hit him once again but nothing else. Why Castle started to spasm like he did, why he screamed out so was a mystery, but it wasn’t Mr Doyle’s fault.