Salt Lane

by William Shaw

  ‘Don’t you like it here with me and Zoë? The three of us.’

  ‘I just like to have my own space, that’s all.’

  Cupidi said nothing; tried to read the book.

  ‘It’s up to you, really.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Cupidi, looking up again. ‘I’ll sort out some sheets in the morning.’

  ‘Don’t sound like that.’

  ‘I was just hoping we’d get along better down here. You and me.’

  ‘We are getting along,’ said her mother and went back to watching the TV.

  She tried reading the book again in bed, but only managed half a dozen pages before her eyes closed.

  She was back at her desk on Friday morning looking through Hilary Keen’s arrest records that Moon had left for her: CONVICTIONS (8). DATE FIRST CONVICTED. 14/1/1983.

  Her first two convictions had been for criminal damage. The subsequent six had been for possession of controlled substances. She thought of what the dentist had said about the dead woman’s teeth. Maybe she was Hilary Keen. She was making too much of her hunch.

  Two people in plain clothes pushed open the door to the office; Cupidi didn’t recognise them, but straight off she knew who they would be. Each held a folder. The man wore a light grey suit, his hair tightly cropped; the woman short, thin, with a diplomatic smile fixed to her face. ‘We’re looking for Inspector McAdam,’ she said.

  ‘You’re IPCC, aren’t you?’ Cupidi led them back out of the incident room door, towards McAdam’s office.

  ‘That’s right.’ It was the smile of a vicar visiting a mosque.

  Cupidi walked to the back of the office, knocked on the door and opened it. ‘To see you, sir.’

  ‘Ah.’ McAdam stood, did his best to return the smile.

  ‘That will be all, thank you so much,’ the woman said to Cupidi and turned towards her, waiting for her to close the door.

  Back in the office, people chattered obliviously. Ferriter was sitting on Moon’s desk; Cupidi could smell her perfume across the room. As she watched her she pulled her buzzing phone from her jacket pocket and looked at the screen. ‘Shit!’ she said.

  Moon looked up.

  ‘Can’t make tomorrow night,’ she said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Something better to do.’ She smiled. Ferriter walked across the room holding the phone out to her. ‘Look.’

  Moon just shrugged.

  Cupidi stood, took the device and read the text message: Meet at the tank tomorrow 10 pm. Have info. Najiba.

  ‘It’s her, isn’t it?’ said Ferriter. ‘The woman from last night.’

  Cupidi nodded. ‘I think so. What’s the tank?’

  ‘You know, that socking great one in St George’s Square. There goes my Saturday night.’ She looked back at Moon.

  Cupidi remembered now. The ugly rhomboidal First World War machine plonked in the middle of a small urban square, oddly out of place.

  ‘You think she’s got something for us?’

  ‘If it is her, you can’t go alone,’ Cupidi said.

  ‘Why? Don’t you trust me?’

  ‘No. Of course I don’t.’ And Cupidi started to tidy her desk, dividing the piles into those she’d leave and those she’d take home to work on at the weekend. Before she left she glanced back at McAdam’s door; it was still closed.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Friday night was the book group. She cooked a casserole for her mother and Zoë and then took a taxi to Lydd.

  The meeting was held in the large house of a woman who used to be a TV producer and had a habit of dropping the names of famous people she knew into the conversation, but she was the only one of them with a big enough living room to host a gathering like this. Peering at the label of the bottle of wine Cupidi had bought, she said, ‘I’m sure it’s lovely.’

  They were all women, mostly Cupidi’s age or older. Two younger members sat apart, discussing their children and schools. Somebody was complaining about the council.

  ‘How are you, Alex?’ Cupidi turned. She recognised the well-dressed woman in her thirties who had moved to make space for her on the sofa from the last meeting, but had no idea who she was.

  ‘Fine.’ She sat down. ‘And you?’

  ‘Pretty awful,’ the woman said quietly. ‘As you might expect.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  Cupidi tried to place her. The woman was very beautiful. Her dress was plain but in a classy way. She stared at her with dark eyes. ‘You don’t know who I am, do you?’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Cupidi said again, helplessly.

  ‘I’m Colette. Colette McAdam. I’m married to your boss.’

  ‘God. I’m mortified. New round here.’ She accepted a large glass of wine from the host. ‘So many faces.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Colette.

  ‘The IPCC inquiry?’ she asked.

  Colette nodded. ‘It’s not bloody fair,’ she whispered. ‘He’s a good man.’

  ‘These things can be extremely stressful.’ It was true. The whole team were feeling it. It was hard enough to do this job without the sense of someone waiting for you to make a mistake.

  Colette bit the side of her nail. ‘He likes you. When you applied for the job he said he wanted people like you.’

  ‘I like him too, a lot. He’s a good boss.’

  ‘He said you told him not to bring in the all the extra police.’

  ‘He was just doing his job. He’ll be fine, I promise.’

  Colette leaned in close, took her hand. ‘What if you don’t actually tell them that, though? He wouldn’t have done it if he wasn’t trying to protect you.’

  ‘Enough chatter,’ interrupted the host. ‘We should probably talk about the book for at least ten minutes. Otherwise, what’s the point?’ People laughed. Then she looked straight at Cupidi. ‘As we’ve got a real-life policewoman here, maybe we should find out what she thought of it first.’ Colette let her hand drop.

  And everyone was gazing at her now. Cupidi glanced around the room. All those expectant faces looking at her to say something clever about a book she hadn’t even read; Colette next to her, still frowning.

  ‘Well, I didn’t think it was bad,’ she said quietly, taking a sip from her wine.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘The main character was good. Excellent in fact. And the way it dealt with genetics was very interesting,’ Cupidi said.

  The host looked fascinated.

  ‘And did you find the policing details plausible?’

  ‘Not in the least. But that’s not the point is it?’ she side-stepped. ‘You wouldn’t be interested in half of what I do. This was entertainment.’

  And suddenly everyone was pitching in, agreeing with her that it was a very good book and saying how much they had enjoyed it. All except for one of the younger women who said she found it too violent for her taste, but nobody agreed with her.

  As they chattered, a woman with expensive-looking tattoos down the length of one arm leaned in. ‘I never actually got around to reading it,’ she confessed. ‘Do you think I should?’

  ‘Can you keep a secret?’ Cupidi lowered her voice. ‘Neither did I.’

  ‘Oh.’ Tattoo Woman laughed. ‘You’re very good.’

  ‘Of course, there’s been an awful murder close to here,’ the host said. The room suddenly quietened. Again, everyone was looking at Cupidi. ‘Are you involved in that?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cupidi. ‘I am.’

  On the sofa next to her, Colette was still looking at her pleadingly.

  ‘The Messenger says it’s criminal gangs of illegal immigrants. Absolutely terrifying.’

  ‘We don’t know that,’ said Cupidi.

  ‘Well, it’s what it says in the papers,’ said the host. ‘Who was he? The dead man.’

  ‘We have no idea. That’s part of the problem. We’re still working on trying to discover his identity.’

  Tattoo Woman said, ‘Didn’t I see you on telly the other week talking about a dead wo
man too? What about her? You caught the man, didn’t you?’

  ‘Was our Alex on the television?’ said the host, perking up.

  ‘It was just an appeal for anyone who could identify her,’ said Cupidi. ‘We think we may know who killed the woman, yes.’ She felt uncomfortable discussing this here. There was little she could share, and besides, this was supposed to be her escape from work. ‘Should we be choosing our next book?’

  ‘It was about money, wasn’t it, I heard. Some guy strangled her for her cash.’

  ‘That’s terrifying.’

  ‘I can’t say. We’re not allowed to talk about the detail of investigations,’ Cupidi said.

  ‘Oh come on. Just a bit,’ one of the younger mothers said mischievously, already tipsy.

  Another said, ‘I think we should have a right to know, just for our own peace of mind. After all, we’re the community, aren’t we?’

  Tattoo Woman came to her rescue. ‘What about something a bit racier next time?’ she asked loudly. ‘Anyone fancy reading something a little naughty, maybe?’

  The room went quiet.

  ‘I really don’t think so,’ said the host. And suddenly everyone was laughing again. Cupidi gave Tattoo Woman a grateful glance.

  Moths flapped at the glass behind them, attracted by the light through the French windows.

  On balance, she was enjoying herself, she realised. It was nice to drink wine and swap inconsequential talk in the company of other women. At the end of the evening, she was just about to call for a taxi when Colette McAdam appeared beside her again. ‘I can give you a lift if you like. I don’t really drink.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it. It’s out of your way.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ said Colette.

  Cupidi didn’t want to accept the lift with her, but didn’t see how she could refuse.

  She drove fast, braking hard at junctions. The air was full of flying bugs, caught in her full-beam lights.

  Colette was silent until they reached the single-track road on the beach, when she blurted, ‘Toby says you’re trying to prove Stanley Eason didn’t kill anyone.’

  ‘Well. It’s not really like that. I just want to be absolutely sure we are accusing the right person.’

  She stopped the car. ‘I mean, you can see how that looks, can’t you, questioning his judgement like that?’

  ‘Is that what he thinks I’m doing?’

  She laughed abruptly just as the lighthouse ahead of them flashed brightly. ‘No. He thinks the sun shines out of your bloody arse. He doesn’t even see how you’re undermining him.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘God. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say it like that.’

  Cupidi wondered if she should just get out of the car.

  ‘Just… Can’t you try and help him? How do you even know Stanley Eason didn’t kill that woman? You can’t prove it, can you?’

  ‘He’s a good boss, Colette. I’m sure the IPCC recognise that.’

  Colette grabbed her arm. ‘Please don’t tell him I said this. I’m only trying to help him.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  The two women sat in the car while the engine purred. Every ten seconds the lighthouse ahead of them flashed; each time it lit Colette’s face, the tears had trickled a little further down.

  Saturday was windless. Cupidi left the front and back doors of Arum Cottage open, in the hope of a breeze. She stood in the living room, looking at the dust that lay on the empty bookshelves. Her mother was in one of the two small bedrooms, unpacking her bag.

  ‘It’s a bit of a mess, I’m afraid,’ she called.

  ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘I meant to give it all a clean.’ She turned to look through the open back door, at the empty land dotted with pale curls of sea kale that rooted among the stones. Most of the other chalets were clustered together. This one was on its own, fifty metres from its nearest neighbour.

  Carrying fresh sheets she had taken from Cupidi’s airing cupboard, her mother walked from one bedroom, into the other.

  ‘You’re making up both beds?’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you? Zoë wants to sleep here tonight. To keep me company.’

  Through the bedroom door she could see her mother, putting clean linen onto the second double bed. ‘No, you didn’t.’

  With the flat of her palm, Helen was smoothing the sheet. ‘Is that OK?’ She paused, straightened, looked up. ‘Just for tonight? You’re out, anyway, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Cupidi. She left her mother to it and walked back up the track that ran alongside the power station’s perimeter fence towards her house.

  ‘I can’t help it,’ said Ferriter.

  Cupidi had just come back from the bar with half a lager for Ferriter and an orange juice for herself, to find Ferriter being chatted up by two young men.

  ‘Get lost,’ said Cupidi, and the men retreated, laughing. That evening, they sat at a table outside the Old Prince of Wales in Ashford. It was on the west side of the tiny square, at the centre of which sat the First World War tank, just a few metres away.

  ‘Used to be an electricity substation,’ Ferriter said. ‘No. I’m serious. Army gave it to the town as a thank-you for their effort in the war. What are you supposed to do with a bloody tank? So they gutted it and turned it into an electricity substation.’

  On a hot Saturday evening, the small square was full of drinkers spilling out of the pub. Cupidi was watching out for the woman they had seen on Thursday night. A couple of men were throwing beer mats, trying to make them land in a boot that seemed to belong to no one. ‘Move the boot closer,’ a woman said.

  It was ten o’clock now and there was no sign of the woman who had signed herself Najiba.

  ‘No,’ said one of the men. ‘I can do it.’ He threw another and missed by a metre. Everybody laughed.

  ‘Round here, folks make their own entertainment,’ said Ferriter drily. ‘Not used to drinking halves.’ Cupidi looked at Ferriter’s glass. It was empty already. ‘Mind if I get another?’

  ‘Go ahead. But you’re on duty, remember.’

  ‘A pint’s OK, though, isn’t it?’

  The woman arrived in the square while Ferriter was back at the bar. Cupidi watched her for a few seconds, scanning the crowd, scarf draped over the top of her head.

  A cheer went up, startling her. The man had finally succeeded in getting a beer mat into the boot. As she looked towards the noise, the woman spotted Cupidi raising her hand in greeting.

  Najiba frowned. ‘I was expecting the younger one,’ she said when she had pushed through the crowd to the table where Cupidi was.

  ‘The nicer one,’ said Cupidi.

  Najiba smiled. ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’

  ‘Yes. I am tired. I would like a beer.’

  Ferriter arrived with her half and smiled. ‘You made it.’ Like it was a girls’ Saturday night out. ‘A beer? I thought…’ She pointed to the headscarf.

  Najiba shrugged. So Ferriter returned to the crush of the bar to fetch Najiba her drink.

  She sat quietly while Cupidi looked at her.

  ‘What do you want from us?’ said Cupidi eventually.

  ‘Why do you assume I want something from you?’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. I want you to help me,’ Najiba said. A man carrying four pints of lager spilled some onto the ground; Najiba moved her feet away from the pool of beer.

  ‘I am assuming you’ve been refused Indefinite Leave to Remain by the court?’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’

  ‘And you appealed?’

  ‘All appeal rights exhausted,’ she said.

  ‘There’s no way back from that, is there? You have no legal right to be in this country.’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘Do you ever want to go home?’

  ‘They would like me to. It is so inconvenient of me to exist. But I cannot go home. There is no life for me t
here. And so I would like you to help me, but you cannot.’

  ‘No.’ In the small square people drank and laughed. ‘If it was up to me, you could stay. But it’s not.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t you have friends from there… other refugees?’

  ‘I used to. When I first arrived. But they are all politics, politics, politics. I hate politics. Politics is why we have no country.’

  ‘You fell out with them?’

  She looked down at her lap. ‘Yes. They want our country back from the Moroccans. They would fight for it if they had to. That is what I grew up with in the refugee camp. I don’t care anymore. All it has brought us is pain.’

  Ferriter arrived finally, with a bottle and three packets of crisps.

  Najiba looked up, smiled, took her drink and sipped from it. ‘That man…’ she said, ‘the one who died. Do you know why he died?’

  Ferriter pulled open a packet of crisps and laid them out on the iron table. ‘No. Do you?’

  ‘No.’ Najiba’s answer was curt; she picked up a handful of crisps and put them into her mouth.

  ‘I have been talking to your friend,’ Najiba said to Ferriter when she’d finished chewing.

  ‘My boss,’ said Ferriter.

  ‘You said you could help me,’ Najiba continued. ‘She says she cannot.’

  ‘I’m going to do everything I can,’ Ferriter answered. ‘I promise.’

  Najiba smiled at her. ‘What will you do?’

  ‘I can tell people you helped us.’

  ‘You see?’ said Najiba, turning to Cupidi. ‘She said she will help.’

  ‘I will. Really,’ said Ferriter.

  Najiba looked at her, still smiling. ‘One day I would like to have a farm here. In Africa my mother kept goats and chickens. I would like that too. A small house and a little piece of land. I think there might be economic value in raising goats here. There are immigrants who like to eat the meat. It is difficult to find here.’

  ‘Well,’ said Ferriter, slightly anxiously. ‘I can’t promise any of that.’

  ‘But I would very much want a farm.’

  ‘Well…’ Ferriter looked at Cupidi uncomfortably. ‘That’s not really down to us.’

  ‘She’s teasing you, Jill,’ said Cupidi.