Sealfinger (Sam Applewhite Book 1)

by Heide Goody

  “I can’t remember,” said Sam. “It’s nothing. Forgive me, I think I might already be tipsy.”

  “Of course.” Jacinda downed her Body Bag and hurried away – paused a second, turned, said, “Remember to vote for me,” and hurried away.

  Delia plonked down next to Sam. “Who’s that?” she asked.

  “Her name’s Jacinda Frost,” said Sam.

  “Ah, her.”

  “Her?”

  “Her dad was Bob Frost, the building guy. You wouldn’t know him necessarily. Except a year or so back – it might have been money worries, or depression or something—”

  “Yeah?”

  “I think he was into his shooting. You know, pheasants and grouse. Bang, bang.”

  “Okay, I see where this is going,” said Sam.

  Delia gave a little sigh. “She inherited the company.”

  “And wants to make a name for herself. She ask you to vote for her as businessperson of the year?”

  “Nope, but I am now a signed-up member of the guild,” said Delia. “Alistair gave me a form to fill out. I’m supposed to write business goals on them.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, that’s a joke obviously. Come on, you’ve seen my place. It doesn’t make any money.”

  “Well, I think it’s great you’ve joined and are now one of us.” Sam dropped her voice to a zombie monotone. “One of us. One of us.”

  “Thanks,” said Delia. “And we must now celebrate.” She nodded at Sam’s empty glass. “You’re liking the cocktails then?”

  “The woman’s a genius.”

  Sam gestured to Cleopatra and made general cocktail summoning gestures. Cleopatra began to work her magic.

  42

  Jimmy answered his ringing phone. He had a new SIM card in the phone and hundreds of waiting texts and voicemails when he’d finally reconnected to the network. He deleted nearly all of them without replying. Even now, up to date, he felt disinclined to respond to communications. Isolation was preferable. If he didn’t talk to people, then he couldn’t betray himself. Stay hidden, in the dark, he told himself.

  However, this phone call was from Jacinda and there was no hiding from her.

  “Yes?”

  “The woman in Welton,” hissed Jacinda. “Someone is investigating it.”

  “What?” said Jimmy.

  “A woman from DefCon4. She’s investigating it.”

  “DefCon4?” Jimmy thought, then it clicked. Little Miss Marvellous. Sam. She of the spangly top.

  “She says she has clues!”

  Jimmy wondered how Sam Applewhite could possibly know anything other than the barest details. The body was safely hidden. They’d cleaned up the house good and proper.

  “She’s not a threat. I know her. She’s just a gopher in a dead-end job.”

  “She’s looking for a one-footed man!”

  “How…?”

  “You need to get to know her a lot better,” said Jacinda, still hissing and rasping with rage and worry. “Where are you?”

  By the minimal moonlight coming in through the newly installed windows, he could see Wayne sprawled on the makeshift bed. The cargo container home was filled with the man’s stink. Jimmy had been sitting silently in the dark ever since nightfall. He hadn’t eaten. He hadn’t turned the lights on. He’d just been sitting in the comforting, silent dark.

  “Shore View,” he said.

  “Yes, well you need to be back in town and sorting out this mess you created. I am not going to prison for you, Jimmy MacIntyre.”

  She hung up. Silence resumed.

  43

  Rich slid onto a stool next to Sam and Delia as the women worked on Delia’s application form together, while trying to find inspiration in a fresh round of cocktails. Sam was supping another Life’s What You Make It and Delia had been presented with a violently fruity 99 Red Balloons. Rich tipped a finger at his pet mixologist and Cleopatra began to make him a drink.

  “Application form,” he read over Delia’s shoulder. “Business goals.”

  “It’s a bit of a struggle,” said Delia.

  “Let’s have a look.” He whisked the paper from under her hands and scanned it for a second. “So, your business goal is to ‘spend enough time in the shop to avoid household duties and family in general’?”

  Delia looked sheepish. “Maybe I wasn’t taking it as seriously as I should have.”

  “No, I like that playful tone,” said Rich. “And I think there’s probably a perfectly legitimate goal hidden away in there if we go looking.”

  “You think?”

  Sam said nothing. The two of them had been perfectly happy coming up with their own half-arsed ideas of what was right and Rich – same old Rich – just came along and inserted himself into proceedings.

  “You could simply re-phrase it as ‘optimise my work/life balance’,” he suggested. “But I feel as though that’s not quite right for you.”

  He stared at Delia, deep in thought. Delia seemed quite happy to stare right back.

  “Husband!” Sam coughed.

  Delia tutted. Rich smiled.

  “Is there perhaps a little bit of ‘establish my personal boundaries and ambitions, ensuring my family learns to respect and support them’?” he said.

  Delia looked shocked. “That’s ... that’s really good.”

  “Write it down,” said Rich. “Write it down and it’s one step closer to being a reality.” He turned to Sam. “And what are your business plans?”

  She tapped her pile of flyers, several of which were now soggy with spilled alcohol. “Not my business. I don’t need goals.”

  “Hence the attention to detail,” He placed a finger on an obviously corrected typo.

  Sam took it back. “It pays the bills.”

  “Not knocking it,” said Rich. “There’s been times in my life when I’ve been in desperate need of some clown management. At least I know who to call now.” He folded a flyer and put it in a pocket. “What have you got on this week then, assuming the clowns are looking after themselves? Is it risk consulting, event security, or training services?”

  Sam laughed, despite her attempts to despise him. “Tomorrow should be a fun day. I’m co-ordinating some community service work.”

  “Chain gangs breaking rocks on the side of the road?”

  “A beach clean-up.”

  “Nice,” said Delia. “You might find treasure.”

  Sam opened her mouth to comment if treasure took the form of broken flip-flops and bits of nylon rope, then it would be rich pickings. She closed her mouth again, realising those things probably were treasure to Delia, and shrugged. “Come and see if you’re curious. We can divvy up the treasure.”

  Rich smiled at them both as he stepped away. “I’ll be on the beach tomorrow too. Lifeguard duty. See you there.”

  “Sure,” said Delia.

  Sam rolled her eyes. She watched Rich move through the room, working the crowd, being best buddy to everyone in the world.

  “Lifeguard?” said Delia.

  “I have no idea,” said Sam. “Not even going to ask.”

  “Right,” said Delia, drumming fingertips on the bar. “Gonna hand my application in and then call it a night.”

  Sam checked the time and groaned. “Beach duty at nine a.m.”

  “And it won’t do for the community service lady to turn up late or, indeed, hungover,” said Delia.

  Sam groaned again because it was true. “I hate you.”

  “Careful now, or I’ll report you to the guild.”

  “You do and I might consider not voting for you as businessperson of the year,” said Sam, waving a voting slip at her.

  44

  The voice of Hank’s gently reassuring Californian tones filled the otherwise silent rooms of Duncastin’. Marvin was in the kitchen with the drone on the table in front of him, a morning coffee in his right hand and a plate of toast at his left.

  Sam took a raincoat from the cloakroom and
came back through the kitchen, checking her bag and pockets for all the things she needed for the day.

  “You using this?” she asked, holding up a coarse building supplies bag she’d found.

  “What is it?” said Marvin.

  “Dunno. That’s why I asked.”

  “It was blowing around the garden. Must have come from somewhere.”

  “Most things do. I was going to use it to take supplies to the beach.”

  He made an open ‘be my guest’ gesture.

  “I thought you’d finished that,” she said, pointing at the drone.

  “I have,” said Marvin.

  “But…” She pointed at the tablet on which Hank’s assembly video was playing.

  “Oh, I just like to have him on for company.”

  Sam couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. “He’s just telling you how to build a drone.”

  “It’s not what he’s saying; it’s how he’s saying it,” said Marvin. “You shouldn’t underestimate the power of a soothing voice. I did a run at the Bristol Hippodrome with Max Bygraves. I could listen to him tell his stories all night. I did sometimes. Couldn’t tell you a single thing he said, but what a voice!”

  Sam shook her head.

  “You off courting again?” said Marvin.

  “In waterproofs and wellies on a weekday morning? No. It’s work. Wolla Bank. Someone’s got to earn the pennies, haven’t they?”

  Marvin gave his daughter a quizzical look. “If you’re short of a bob or two…”

  Unexpected, those words nearly broke Sam’s heart. The papers making up her dad’s finances; the bills with an inescapable amount of red ink. Was the man blind to the truth or wilfully ignorant?

  “Dad?”

  “Yes?”

  She tried to hold his gaze as she plucked up the courage to speak and found she didn’t quite have enough courage to look at him and speak at the same time. “Cards on the table—”

  Marvin tapped the table edge, clicked his fingers, and there was a playing card in his hand.

  “Jesus, dad!”

  “I mean I used to get applause in the old days, but I’ll settle for blasphemy.”

  “You’re in financial trouble, dad.”

  He put the card down. “Everyone is these days. It’s the credit crunch.”

  “That was years ago and I’m not talking about everyone. You. You are in financial trouble. There’s a mortgage on this house that you haven’t paid off yet.”

  “It’s a big house.”

  “That you can’t afford to pay off.”

  “I’m sure it’s just one of the back bedrooms left to pay for. Maybe that and the patio.”

  “It’s not funny, dad.”

  Her dad – Mr Marvellous, the clown, the magician – who always had a ready smile and ready words, dropped his smile and looked at her directly. “What is it then, Sam?”

  There was worry in his eyes. Worry and anger. Sam couldn’t help feeling like she was betraying him, treating her parent like a child.

  “How should I feel about this situation?” he said.

  “It’s frightening,” she replied. “You could lose your home. More. I’d be frightened.”

  “And what use is that?” he said coldly. “What use is fear?” His mouth twisted into an ugly expression. He stabbed at the computer tablet, pausing the video. “Shut up, Hank. No one asked you anyway.”

  “I don’t mean to upset you,” said Sam. “But there’s some hard financial realities you just can’t ignore.”

  “I’m not ignoring them.”

  “You’re doing a very good impression of someone who is.”

  He flung away the card he’d magically produced. It vanished into nothing before it left his fingertips.

  “That’s what I do!” he said with a quiet bitterness. “You think this external persona is the real me? All of me? Misdirection, Sam. You think I don’t know why you’ve been going through my bank statements? You think I’m just some stupid old man?”

  “No….”

  “I’ve got cards up my sleeves, Sam. I’ve got solutions.”

  “That’s great. I’ll—”

  “We’ll sell the Jag. Number one.”

  “Really?”

  “That will bring in seventy thousand pounds, easily.”

  “But you love that car.”

  He waved her concerns away. “What’s it doing except gathering dust in the garage?”

  “The memories…”

  He scoffed. “What memories? Apart from some unspeakably filthy behaviour with a Top of the Pops backing dancer, what memories?”

  “No, but…” She was going to say something else, something pertinent and meaningful, but got side-tracked by an entirely unwanted mental image of her dad and one of Pan’s People (or maybe Legs & Co) in the tight confines of his E-type Jag.

  “There. It’s decided,” he said. “I don’t need to cling onto the past. When a thing is done with, I’m happy to get rid of it.” He prodded the drone as though to push it away. Its little rubber feet squeaked on the tabletop. “It’s finished. Why don’t you take it to the beach and give it a test flight?”

  The MySky drone was a wide thing, but it would probably just about fit in the back of the Piaggio. “You want to come watch?” she asked.

  He shook his head slowly. “You go. I’ll be fine.”

  45

  There was something glorious about tarmac, thought Jimmy, immediately recognising he was clearly very tired. Of course there was nothing glorious about tarmac. Nonetheless, it was deeply satisfying to see a layer of hot black asphalt concrete being poured over the stubby branching roads that made up the Welton le Marsh housing development.

  The hardcore sub-base had been laid the day before, and now the tarmac was being poured by a company out of Boston. Normally, Jimmy might have considered using the Odinsons for a job as simple as that (not much caring where they had ‘sourced’ their materials), but after the fiasco with the old woman’s corpse, he was going to steer clear of them for a while.

  The tarmac crew worked their way from the corners of the miniature estate and back to the existing road, filling in cul-de-sacs and drives before they tackled the access road. Jimmy stood at the side of the access road, now crucially fifty centimetres wider than it had been two days ago.

  When the tarmac was down, a neat black covering from kerb to kerb, he would consider this nasty business done. The Welton job – the grafting, the building, the murder, the disposal – would be almost behind him. They would sell the houses, all in various stages of completion, new families could move into the area. People would be happy. Everything would be done.

  His phone buzzed with a text.

  It was Jacinda, calling him to the Shore View site.

  He turned to Wayne, sitting on the verge in a folding deckchair, drinking a box of Ribena with a straw. In its squashed peg-leg contraption, Wayne’s stump was mostly invisible beneath soiled bandages. Where it poked through it was a deep purply-black, and shiny, like a tray of offal in a bad butcher’s window.

  “Jacinda wants me at Shore View,” said Jimmy. “You’ll be fine here.”

  “Got me juice. Catching some rays. What more could I want, eh?” said Wayne.

  Two feet, thought Jimmy. “Then later, we’ll take you home and get you properly cleaned up. Fresh clothes, eh?”

  “Smashing,” agreed Wayne.

  “And we’ll remember to tell your mum and your sister the right story about your foot. Crushed by an earthmover, yeah? And that you’ve spent the past week in the Pilgrim Hospital.”

  “I’ll tell ’em it weren’t bitten off by an alligator.”

  “No one’s mentioning any alligators,” said Jimmy. “At all.”

  “It’s a much cooler story though,” said Wayne, moodily.

  “We can’t say it was bitten off by an alligator,” said Jimmy. “Because then people will ask questions.”

  Wayne nodded reluctantly. “What about a tiger? I hear they’ve
got a tiger out at Candlebroke Hall. Coulda been bitten off by a tiger.”

  “Fuck’s sake,” said Jimmy and went to his van.

  46

  Wolla Bank Beach was eight miles north of Skegness on the Anderby Road, just half a mile shy of Anderby Creek. Sam parked in the sandy car park on the leeward side of the high dunes. The council had been as good as their word and put two empty dumpsters in place to take the rubbish.

  She had a clipboard full of names, gloves, hi-vis vests, litter picking grabbers and plenty of rubbish bags. She left them all in the van. She still had time before the community service offenders were due to arrive, time enough to perhaps set up and test the drone.

  She got it out, carried it through the gap in the dunes onto the wide featureless beach, and put it down. She planned to set it up on a repeating grid search pattern, right across the beach. If the documentation’s claims were correct, the live video feed would be sent directly to her phone, as well as backed up to cloud storage for later review and analysis. The battery – ninety minutes of flight-time – ought to allow it to cover most of the beach clearance effort.

  Sam spent a few moments double-checking everything she had set up (or the pre-flight checks as she now thought of them) before she sent it off. The drone was programmed to come back to base when the battery was low. And by base Sam meant the phone with the controlling app. She assumed it wouldn’t just try to land on her head. As long as it didn’t take a suicidal one-way trip out to sea like its predecessor, she’d be happy.

  It rose from the sand, looking majestic in the early morning sky. There was a brief moment of anxiety as a seagull swooped down to check it out, but the drone continued its ascent before moving out across the beach. It began to follow the set flight-path pattern, making slow turns across the sand. Sam checked the live feed and was staggered to see a clearly useable video stream.

  “Huh. Actually works.”

  She could zoom in and out if she wanted. She zoomed in on what she thought might be a seal, but it was a bin bag. Well, at least today’s activities would sort that out.