by Tom Bale
and tomato plants in his greenhouse, a small red watering can bobbing
about in mid-air as if of its own accord. Jaden spotted him first, broke
his stride to call and wave, but there was no response. Either Donald
hadn’t noticed him, or he just couldn’t be bothered to acknowledge
the boy. Joe had a feeling it was the latter.
A few yards beyond the Weavers’ home the deck ended at a tall
gate, marked with a warning on the opposite side: RESIDENTS ONLY.
In case anyone should disregard the sign, one of the residents, Robert
Felton, had paid to install a basic combination lock, as well as adding
several yards of fencing to prevent intruders from simply climbing
around the gate. It hadn’t been a universally popular addition, but as
owner of two of the island’s five properties Felton’s wishes often tended
to prevail.
Jaden had already fumbled the gate open by the time Joe caught
up with him. They stepped down onto a gravel path, fringed by wild
grasses bleached almost white by the sun. Less than ten yards away
was the narrow shingle beach that ran along the island’s southern
shore, facing the open sea.
It was a beautiful, solitary location, neglected by the residents and
little known to the outside world. Visitors weren’t prohibited on the
Reach, but nor were they encouraged. There were no parking areas,
and the asphalt road gave way to a narrow track of beaten earth for
the last thirty yards between the Weavers’ home and the beach. By
way of further deterrents, nettles and brambles had been allowed to
encroach on the track, and a sign marked PRIVATE PROPERTY had been
erected – illegally – by Robert Felton.
Today, however, those deterrents had failed.
There was a stranger on the island.
Gough heard them coming before he saw them, but only by a second
or two. He didn’t have time to react, and he was professional enough
to know that sudden movements attracted suspicion. So did furtive
ones, in a situation like this. Better not to move at all.
He ignored them for a moment, then realised it would be unnatural
to show no curiosity. He turned and gave them a glance. A man and
a boy, dressed for the beach. The man had a couple of towels rolled
up under his arm.
They were from the Nasenko house, he decided. The kid must be
the wife’s bastard offspring. And the man was a bodyguard. Had to be.
Gough made eye contact with him, noted the man’s surprise, and
maybe something else. Something harsher. To counteract it he gave
the sort of quick nod that said: Hello but also: Yeah, I’m here, too. Get
over it.
Then he went back to ignoring them, hoping that they would ignore
him in return. He gripped his fishing rod and stared at the sea and
worked very hard not to look at the rucksack by his side. But he was
acutely aware of what it contained.
If they left him alone, all well and good.
If they didn’t, there was always the gun.
Three
The fisherman was in his thirties, Joe estimated. Wearing an Arsenal
shirt and three-quarter-length trousers. He had a good physique and
a hard face. Short dark hair under a black baseball cap. He was sitting
close to the shore, holding a cheap-looking fishing rod with the line
cast out fifteen or twenty feet. There was an open rucksack next to
him, a half-empty bottle of Evian water propped against it. A couple
of tabloid newspapers lay folded next to him.
As they crossed the beach Joe glanced back towards the road and
saw a motorbike parked on the track. A mid-sized Honda road bike,
perhaps 500cc, with panniers for storing the fishing gear.
Joe’s first reaction was disappointment, and he scolded himself for
it. He’d always been disdainful of the idle rich, living in splendid isolation,
and now here he was falling prey to the same selfish impulse.
It was the first time he’d seen someone fishing at this spot. The
island occasionally played reluctant host to birdwatchers, wildlife
photographers and hikers, but the sheer size of the harbour meant
there were always plenty of better-known and more accessible sites to
attract them.
Jaden ran to the shoreline and began searching the beach. Joe
followed him and sat down a few feet away. The sea lay flat and calm,
sparkling beneath the white-hot glare of the sun. The only sound was
the chittering of unseen crickets in the grass behind him, and the
distant trilling of a curlew. The tide was gently advancing, filling the
harbour basin, but the rich sulphurous scent of the mudflats lingered
in the air. At first Joe had found the smell distasteful; now, in an odd
way, he savoured it.
'Only ten minutes, remember,’ he said. 'Are you going to swim?’
Jaden, distracted, shook his head. He picked up a stone, examined
it, tossed it over his shoulder.
'Can we do skimming instead?’
Joe smiled. He might have known that Jaden would change his
mind. It was breathlessly hot and Joe would have liked a swim. But
if Jaden wasn’t going in, neither could he.
'Okay. Find me some flat ones.’
Gough kept his eyes on the sea, but his attention never wavered from
the other occupants of the beach. They were about ten yards away,
standing close to the shore. The boy was gathering stones and trying
to bounce them on the water.
They talked while they did it, and Gough overheard their names:
Joe and Jaden. The kid’s technique was improving, with the bodyguard
demonstrating how to hold the stone between forefinger and
thumb, the flick of the wrist and the low-angled release that produced
the best results. When Joe managed five, then seven bounces, Gough
was tempted to have a go himself.
Bad idea, he thought. Befriending them ran the risk of inviting
awkward questions, and his cover story wasn’t detailed enough to withstand
that.
He remembered that he was supposed to report any developments.
There was a mobile phone in the rucksack. He couldn’t
talk while they were in earshot, so he sent a text. Man and boy on
beach. Man is called Joe, kid maybe belongs to Nasenko wife.
Trouble?
The reply was almost immediate: No threat to us. Relax.
Gough snorted when he read that. Easy for you to say, he thought.
It seemed an age before they grew tired of the game, although it
was actually less than fifteen minutes. Cue some bratty whingeing
from the kid when the bodyguard said it was time to go, but Joe was
having none of it.
“Your mum will give me hell if we don’t go now.’ The bodyguard
turned towards Gough and added, for his benefit: 'Anyway, this poor
man can’t wait for us to leave. We’re scaring his fish away.’
Gough acknowledged the comment with a disinterested smile, then
saw to his horror that the kid was heading towards him.
'Have you caught anything?’ he asked.
'Not yet.’
'How long is the rod?’
Gough, mystified, began to stutter a reply, but Jaden beat him
to i
t.
'I think it’s about six foot. And it’s telescopic. They’re not very strong.
For beach fishing you need something longer.’
Gough glanced at the rucksack. There was a Browning semiautomatic
pistol tucked between a bait box and a folded-up jacket,
just the grip visible. The boy was two or three feet from it, and edging
closer in that fidgety way kids had. Another couple of steps and he’d
see the gun, even if he didn’t recognise what it was.
The bodyguard called: 'Jaden!’ But the kid didn’t seem to hear.
'I’ve got a ten-foot rod, with a Shimano reel,’ he declared, his eyes
shining with pride. 'My grandad has to help me with casting, but what
I catch is mine.’
Nice. Perhaps you took all the fish, eh?’ Gough tried a light-hearted
chuckle, but the boy just stared at him as though he was mad.
There’s loads of fish left.’ Jaden was still shifting nearer. 'You just
need more practice. And a better rod.’
Okay. Thanks for that.’ Gough casually tipped the rucksack towards
him, disguising the movement by grabbing the bottle of Evian and
taking a long drink.
Jaden! Come on. Now.’
This time the kid reacted, gave him an apologetic smile, turned
and ran off.
Thank Christ for that. Gough finished the water and tossed the
bottle away. Much as he’d have enjoyed wringing the little brat’s
neck, it was better for them all if the encounter passed without any
trouble.
Then he heard a crunching of footsteps on shingle. He looked
round and saw the bodyguard approaching. Jaden was hanging back,
uncertain, like he’d been told to wait where he was.
What now?
Joe saw the fisherman tense, as though he knew what was coming.
He shifted round, moving the rod to his left hand. His right hand
came to rest, almost protectively, on the rucksack.
'Beautiful beach, isn’t it?’ said Joe.
'Suppose so.’ The man’s voice was gruff, with an estuary accent.
He had a tattoo on the side of his neck: a crudely inked serpent,
poking up from the collar of his football shirt.
Joe gestured towards the Evian bottle. 'No bins here, I’m afraid.
You’ll have to take your litter with you when you go.’
The man seemed confused, then belligerent. 'What?’
Joe kept his voice friendly, but his eyes stayed cold. 'It’s a bugbear
of mine, people coming to enjoy a place like this and then thinking
it’s okay to leave their waste behind. I hope you’re going to clear up
after you.’
The man looked away, grinning as if at a private joke. 'Is that a
threat?’
'Do you need it to be a threat?’
'I don’t like being told what to do, I know that much.’ He stared
at Joe, his eyes narrowed.
'Consider it a suggestion, then. Or even a polite request. Please
take your litter with you.’
The man snorted. There was a long pause, of the kind that sometimes
precedes an outburst of violence. Joe readied himself for it, while the
fisherman stroked the top of his rucksack as if it were a pet.
Then he gave a sudden conciliatory smile.
'Sure, I’ll clean up,’ he said. You won’t even know I was here.’
Boiling with suppressed fury, Gough leaned over and retrieved the
water bottle. He felt Joe’s gaze on him for a few more seconds, then
the bodyguard turned and crunched his way over the stones. He
rejoined the kid and they walked towards the boardwalk, chatting
quietly, not hurrying.
Joe’s broad back made a perfect target. Gough longed to pull out
the gun and bring the fucker down. Shoot the kid too, for that matter.
He stuck his hand in the rucksack and felt the comforting solidity of
the Browning’s grip. Joe was punching in the code to open the gate.
There was still time to do it. Empty the magazine into them both,
then run for the bike. He could be out of here in seconds. . .
And then what?
He thought about the text: No threat to us. Relax.
'Yeah, right.’ He dropped the fishing rod, grabbed the phone and
made a call. Joe and the kid were through the gate now, all but out
of sight.
'They’ve gone, but the bodyguard was suspicious.’
'Why? What happened?’
'Nothing.’ Gough knew he sounded too defensive. 'I just think I
should pull out. I can’t see fuck all from here.’
A moment’s deliberation. Then: 'All right. We’ll be coming in
ourselves soon enough.’
Four
Joe and Jaden were almost at the house when they heard the distant
roar of the motorbike. Joe was surprised that he might have scared
the fisherman away, but he wasn’t particularly sorry about it.
He resolved to wander back to the beach later and see if the man
had made good on his promise; maybe get a swim at the same time.
He had protection duties this evening, when he had to take Cassie
and the children to Brighton, but the next few hours were his own.
It wasn’t until he’d delivered Jaden back to his mother that Joe
realised how restless he felt. The run-in with the fisherman had got
his adrenalin pumping. He had a lot of energy to burn off, and he
knew just how to do it.
Valentin Nasenko’s house sat on a large plot: some two-thirds of an
acre. The frontage was a hundred feet wide and eighty deep, enclosed
within a rendered brick wall. Most of the space was paved driveway,
with decorative shrubbery along the borders. A month ago Valentin
had decided that the greenery served no useful purpose and should
be paved over.
Joe thought this was a shame, especially as it involved ripping out
plants and trees that had been planted at great expense just two years
before. But rather than bring the landscaping firm back, Joe had
offered to do the work himself in his spare time. It kept him busy,
and it kept him fit.
And sometimes it served as a kind of penance.
He’d completed one side of the driveway, and the other side was
coming on well. He’d excavated the land to the correct depth, laid
weed fabric and hardcore. The next task was to add a layer of sharp
sand and compact it to form a bed for the block paving.
Earlier in the week ten tonnes of sand had been delivered in bulk
bags and stored just inside the gates. Now, fetching a wheelbarrow and
a shovel from the garage, Joe began to transport the sand across the
drive and spread it over the hardcore. The ninety-degrees temperature
made it punishing work, but that was good. That was what he wanted.
Within a few minutes he’d settled into a pleasing rhythm. What
he found most satisfying was the simplicity of the task and the
immediacy of the results. He liked the solitude and the fresh air,
and the fact that he could go anywhere in his mind while he worked – or he could just let his mind go blank. Forget everything.
More than once Joe had reflected on the path his life might
have taken had he opted for a trade like this: a life of good honest
labour. If he’d chosen that route he might now be enjoying a happy,
&
nbsp; uncomplicated existence with his wife and daughters; instead he
was marooned here, in a seductive illusion of paradise.
He was running the wheelbarrow back for another load when he
caught movement beyond the gates. Angela Weaver was walking
past, pushing her sturdy mountain bike. With her wide-brimmed
hat and floral summer dress she resembled a character from Miss Marple, but her legs were as slim and toned as an athlete’s, and she
had the kind of deep natural tan that came from years of outdoor
living.
She was a familiar and treasured sight, sailing past with her long
grey-blonde hair whipping out behind her and Brel, her elderly yellow
Labrador, hustling in her wake. But Joe wasn’t accustomed to seeing
her like this, trudging by on foot, head down and face hidden.
'Angela?’
She didn’t respond. Joe left the wheelbarrow and walked across the
drive. He saw she was hobbling slightly, and the bike’s front tyre was
flat. Her Labrador looked every bit as tired and dispirited as she did.
'Angela? Are you all right?’
Now she glanced round, her face creased with pain. 'I’m fine.’ She
gave an unconvincing smile. 'I just took a tumble.’
'Let me see.’ Joe hit the button on the post that opened the wrought
iron gates. 'Come in for a minute.’
She angled the bike towards him, the flat tyre splaying on the
ground. For all her stoicism, Joe had the feeling she was actually quite
glad to see him. Brel escorted her through the gates, accepted a quick
rub around the jowls in greeting, then trotted off to investigate the
pile of sand.
'Donald’s always cautioned against my “reckless” cycling, and
now he has irrefutable proof,’ Angela said. She had a clear, well
modulated Home Counties voice; the sort that Joe’s parents would
have teasingly summed up with the word frightfully. But it fitted her
age and appearance so aptly, Joe couldn’t imagine how else she might
sound.
'Did you hit something?’ he asked.
-She shook her head, slightly ashamed. 'I’d just come over the bridge
when I heard an engine. I looked up and found a motorcycle haring
towards me in the middle of the road. Taking the racing line, I suppose.’
She sighed. Joe felt a twinge in his jaw and realised he was gritting
his teeth.
'Goodness knows what speed he was doing,’ Angela went on.
