Stick or Twist

by Diane Janes

  For a few moments he wanted to do nothing but luxuriate in this place of safety. He could not fall or slide: the earth would not suddenly dissolve from under him as he sat. He rolled from his knees to his backside, noticing that his clothes were filthy. Who cared? The sun was up, the sky was blue, it was a beautiful morning and he was alive. Complications tried to insinuate themselves into his mind, but he was having none of it. He sat and contemplated the bay, allowing the steadying rhythm of the waves to fill his head.

  He had reached the path at a point about halfway up the cliff – or halfway down, he thought, depending on your point of view. He did not feel as if he could walk very far, but he consoled himself with the thought that he did not need to, because there were now two forms of transport available to him.

  First and foremost there was his BMW, still parked in the layby, though he no longer had custody of the key. What had happened to the key? He forced himself to remember that Jude said she had left it in her coat – a garment he had last seen on the sitting-room floor of the cottage. Jude’s body lay somewhere between himself and the cottage, and unless he was much mistaken, there would be a second body in the kitchen. On the other hand, there were two dinghies on the beach, ready and waiting, each equipped with an outboard. He had once taken a holiday with some sailing friends. He knew how to handle a boat.

  Of course, Rob was somewhere on the beach too. Rob might still have the gun. Then again, the hideous noises of the previous night, followed by the long silence ever since, tended to suggest that Rob would pose no threat this morning. Logically, Mark knew that the two definitely dead people between himself and the car key presented no threat either, but a part of him dreaded coming face to face with Jude’s body. He had schooled himself to be fond of her, to the extent that he had taken her to be his wife. The woman had been absolutely beautiful. He had not been shamming the whole time. Even when he reminded himself that she had been party to a plot which would have seen him murdered by one or another of her pet thugs, it failed to raise the level of his anger to a pitch which blotted out the horror of her being dead. While his own intentions had not been strictly honourable, he had never intended something as awful as that.

  He sat for some minutes more before scrambling to his feet and starting to make his way down towards the sea, proceeding cautiously – occasional wooden platforms alternated with semi-natural steps and shelves – it would be awful if he missed his footing now, when the going was comparatively easy.

  He did not see Rob until he had almost reached the bottom. His adversary had been transformed into a crumpled figure, sprawled on its stomach, a few feet from the base of the cliff, its head facing towards the sea, its empty hands extended palms down on some of the loose stuff which had fallen with him. There was no sign of the gun.

  Mark’s instinct was to keep as far away from the figure as possible, but Rob lay on the direct route to the two inflatables, so an element of proximity was unavoidable. He tried to look away, because he expected something pretty hideous, but the reality was far less terrible than his expectations. One leg lay at an impossible angle. There was definitely some blood on Rob’s clothing and matted in his hair, and a series of vicious scratches were visible on one of his upper arms, where some of his clothing appeared to have been torn away. As he was noting all this, Mark fancied that he saw the fingers of one hand move. He halted and watched, but when nothing else happened he hurried on, skirting Rob’s outstretched legs and feet – one shoe was missing, he noticed – and making it to the boats with only a single glance back. From this angle he could see enough to be aware that Rob’s face was a mess. Impossible to decide whether or not his eyes were open.

  Suppose the guy was still alive? Mark knew nothing of first aid. He had no phone. He ignored the possibility and concentrated on the boats. There was nothing he could do for the guy, even if he had felt remotely inclined.

  Both the craft which confronted him were fairly standard inflatables, which had been tethered together and in turn secured by a long rope which had been passed several times around a large rock, and both were sitting well above the water line. This Stefan character must have been halfway towards being Superman, Mark thought, to have dragged them both that far up the sloping sand. Then he remembered the tide. It had probably been much higher when Stefan arrived. He stood watching the waves for a moment, trying to work out which direction the tide was going in now, but the treacherous, sparkly water seemed intent on playing some mysterious game of its own and his brain refused to compute.

  He would just have to shove one of the boats down far enough to get it afloat. He selected the craft which was several inches closer to the waterline, untied it from its fellow, then marched purposefully up the beach and disentangled the rope from around the rock. As he returned to the boat, he steadily wound the mooring line into nice equal loops, finally placing the coil neatly in the bows. His sailing acquaintances would have been proud of him, he thought.

  Pushing the boat down the sand proved almost impossible. It slid a reluctant inch, then stopped, like a creature which has dug its heels in and refuses to move any further. Struggling with the dinghy reminded him afresh of just how tired he was, and how much his body ached.

  He tried a different tack, grabbing a section of the thin nylon rope which was looped around the sides and dragging the thing around until its bows were facing the water. This was marginally easier and he began to make slow progress. It occurred to him that he was going to get wet before most of the dinghy did, so he took off his shoes and socks, and chucked them into the bottom of the boat, before renewing his efforts.

  He soon found that fooling around at the seaside while wearing trunks or shorts was one thing, and trying to launch a small boat off a beach, single handed, encumbered by ordinary chinos was quite another. He had to go in up to his thighs and was splashed well above the waist, before he managed to coax his reluctant vessel onto the water. The waves were dragging at the sand beneath his feet, and he nearly lost his footing, eventually all but tumbling head first into the boat, when he finally swung the stern out onto the water.

  Oh well … that was OK, because he couldn’t go anywhere without being in the boat. He steadied himself and clambered over the central wooden seat to better reach the outboard. There was a second plank seat at the stern of the boat, ideally placed for the steersman, and Mark positioned himself on it, grateful for the stability it afforded. The outboard had been lifted up so that the propeller was clear of the water, but when he released the lever and tilted the motor and attached propeller down into the water, they snapped into place with gratifying efficiency. Now it was just a question of getting hold of the pull cord and sparking the thing into life. It was a bigger piece of kit than the one he remembered on his friends’ boat, but that didn’t matter, because the principle was surely the same.

  He took the loop on the end of the cord between finger and thumb and withdrew it hard and fast, to the full extent of his arm. Nothing happened. Bugger. Outboards were always fiddly, temperamental things. He tried again … and again … this time nearly jarring his arm in its socket. Then it occurred to him that there was something different about this outboard. It wasn’t emitting that stutter of hopefulness, which died away with each false start. It wasn’t making a noise at all. The engine needed to be switched on, before it would start. He looked more closely and immediately saw the place to insert the key.

  He knew that there was no point trying to look for the key in the boat itself. Firstly because there was nowhere in the boat to hide it, but secondly because the skipper would habitually remove the key whenever he left the boat tied up – even when leaving it in a remote spot where no one else was likely to come. Mark had never actually launched a boat on his own before, but even so, only an imbecile, he thought, would have forgotten about needing a key.

  Earlier doubts regarding the state of the tide now seemed ridiculous – it was undoubtedly ebbing. He noted with rising panic that even in the short time that he had b
een fiddling about with the outboard, a combination of the tide and a light breeze blowing off the land had carried the inflatable quite a distance from the shore. He wasn’t much of a swimmer and there might be dangerous currents to contend with, as well as the tide. He glanced desperately about. Not only was there no key, but there were no oars either, probably because the thing was too large to be rowed. Apart from the mooring rope (whose nautical coils now all but mocked his general lack of seamanship) and a plastic milk container, which had been cut down to serve as a baler, there was no other equipment at all, save for one small wooden paddle, probably better suited to fending off, than for any attempts to propel or steer his oversized coracle.

  FIFTY

  ‘Holey moley, Batman! Why on earth didn’t anyone check all this out before?’ Hannah sank into the driver’s seat and flicked the car’s ignition into life.

  ‘People off sick, people assigned to other jobs, court appearances taking you off an investigation for a week at a time, crossed wires, missed communications, downright lack of communication … Do you want me to write you a list?’

  ‘I know … but it’s taken us no more than a few computer searches, half a dozen phone calls and some flashing of warrant cards in a couple of estate agents’ offices to unearth a lot of information which puts this whole investigation into a totally different light.’

  ‘We’re a good team, Hannah.’

  If there was a particular nuance to his tone, she didn’t appear to notice.

  ‘I’m not denying it. But it’s taken us less than a day, for crying out loud. It’s a set-up. The Thackerays lied. Jude Thackeray’s real baby brother, Robin John Thackeray, died before he reached his first birthday. Goodness knows who that guy calling himself Robin Thackeray is, but it sure as hexes isn’t Jude Thackeray’s brother. None of those properties belonged to them, they were all rented. We already know that these people couldn’t produce anyone who’d known them while they said they were living abroad …’

  ‘Tomorrow we’ve got to take this to Ling.’

  ‘Ling isn’t going to like this,’ Hannah said rather grimly, as she took a right at the traffic lights.

  ‘Too right. I feel a massive arse kicking coming on for somebody.’

  ‘What I mean,’ Hannah said, patiently, ‘is that Ling isn’t going to like the fact that this all went tits up on his watch. This woman and her so-called brother have made complete fools of a team which was ultimately being led by him. The Old Man won’t like what it says about his leadership – or in this case – lack of it. He may well be inclined to shoot the messengers.’

  Peter said nothing, because he knew that she was right. He had always admired the boss, but the point which she was making had already occurred to him and he also recognized that she was right about the Old Man’s pride, and the fact that he took no prisoners. It didn’t help matters that they’d been pursuing the investigation on their own time, when the gaffer had expressly told them to leave it alone, and that in Hannah’s case, she was supposed to be off on compassionate leave. The triumphal fireworks which had metaphorically accompanied their discoveries abruptly fizzled out. He could see how when it came to outlining their activities to Ling, it would look suspiciously like a couple of junior detectives setting out to make their commanding officer appear incompetent.

  ‘Maybe you could tell him,’ Hannah suggested. ‘You’ve got nothing to lose. Not if you’re going off to be a rock’n’roll star.’

  ‘I’m not sure that a residency on a cruise ship comes under that particular heading – even if I go.’

  ‘You should go. You’ve got no ties. There’s nothing to keep you here.’

  He glanced sideways at her, but she was concentrating on the traffic. There was a Tesco home delivery van parked on a double yellow line, causing all sorts of problems. Had there been a slight catch in her voice? She’d asked him to stay until after her sister’s funeral, but did she maybe hope that he might stay longer? He would need to give Ginny an answer very soon. Instead of a vision of Ginny, belting out ‘Don’t Get Me Wrong’, he saw Granny Mina, eyes twinkling mischievously above a hand of cards. ‘Stick or twist?’ Should he gamble? Take an unknown card, which just might turn out to be an ace? But that meant discarding something else from his hand. His warrant card, represented by the trusty Jack of Spades? Or maybe Hannah, a Queen of Diamonds?

  ‘You’re very quiet.’

  ‘I was just thinking.’

  ‘About the Thackerays?’

  ‘About a card game that I used to play with my grandma.’

  ‘Great to know that it’s something important.’

  ‘Should we pick up a take-away?’

  ‘Only if it’s an Indian.’

  ‘I can live with that.’

  Hannah broke down unexpectedly, while they were eating their onion bhajis. As soon as he realized that she was crying, Peter abandoned his half-eaten starter, pushed back his chair and went to her side.

  ‘It isn’t fair,’ she sobbed into his shirt. ‘Why Clare? It isn’t fair.’

  Having no ready answers, he merely held her a little closer for a moment or two, then freed one hand and took advantage of the reach which had always made him a natural for goalie in the school team, in order to draw a box of tissues into a more convenient position for her.

  ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled, between dabbing her eyes and blowing her nose.

  ‘I told you before, you don’t have to apologize for being upset.’

  ‘I don’t know how I would have got through this without you.’

  He wasn’t sure what to say to that, either. It’s my pleasure was the phrase which came immediately to mind, because it mostly had been, but that sounded particularly crass and inappropriate.

  ‘I’ll never forget this.’

  ‘Nor will I.’

  ‘When I’m here alone, solving all the crime and locking up the bad guys,’ she attempted a laugh, ‘and you’re lazing on some Caribbean beach by day and playing duets with another woman by night, I’ll be thinking of that night when you made love to me, as the dawn came up over the gasworks.’

  ‘What night was that?’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t a specific occasion. I’m employing what’s known as poetic licence.’

  ‘For goodness sake, Hannah, don’t ever give up the day job to be a romantic novelist. Anyway, chances are I won’t be going to the Caribbean.’

  ‘I thought that’s where you said this ship was supposed to be going?’

  ‘I did. It is. I mean that I might not be going with it.’

  ‘But it’s the opportunity of a lifetime – you said so yourself.’

  ‘I know. But maybe there are too many reasons to stay.’

  ‘We’ll have the Thackeray case cracked before you go.’

  ‘I wasn’t talking about the Thackeray case.’

  FIFTY-ONE

  It was still reasonably light when Jigsaw reached the point on his nocturnal rounds where he had been spooked by that strange cry the night before. (His timing’s varied, though his route did not.) He approached the cottage near the cliffs with his usual caution, but nothing seemed to have changed since the night before. The door by which he had entered some eighteen hours earlier was still wide open and his sensitive nose picked up the same kind of smell, if much staler, which had been discernible during that previous visit. He could hear a couple of flies whining around inside.

  Jigsaw did not like flies (in his extreme youth he had been known to chase and catch the ones which made the mistake of entering the house). It was not the flies however, which made him hesitate. Just as before, there was no sound of voices, or indeed any of those other noises which he associated with human occupation of the house. No humans meant no titbits. Jigsaw was used to coming by and finding the house closed up and silent, but it was outside his experience to find the place open, yet surrounded by this odd atmosphere of desolation. He had not survived through fourteen summers without developing good instincts and tonight something told him
that no good would be achieved by making a diversion into the oddly quiet house. As a matter of form he scented the post of the still-open door, then turned east towards the rough bank near the little strip of woodland, where he still occasionally managed to pick off an unwary rabbit kitten.

  It was not going to be his night, when it came to the rabbits however, because the advancing dusk was hastened by a raincloud which brought a sharp shower, sending the rabbits underground and causing Jigsaw himself to seek shelter under the gorse bushes as best he could.

  Out in the field between the house and the sea, just a few yards landward of the coastal footpath, yet entirely hidden from it, Jude Thackeray’s body took the full brunt of the downpour. Streaks of blood, long since congealed, were diluted by the rain and ran in pale pink rivulets down the sides of her face and into the grass.

  Down on the beach, the hair and clothes of a second human form quickly became so saturated that a witness – had there been one – might have imagined that the outstretched body had just been dragged from the nearby waves.

  The rain storm lasted for almost twenty minutes. Once it had passed over, Jigsaw went immediately on his way again, this time heading for home, high-stepping to avoid the long damp grass, which wet his undercarriage, and twitching his ears in annoyance when drips fell on him from the surrounding bushes and trees.