by Heide Goody
Ogendus contemplated the rope-soled shoes hanging casually from his fingertips. “Tha’s sayin’ they’re yorn?”
“Obviously mine,” snapped Greg and made to get them back.
Ogendus lifted them out of his reach with a casualness that masked his quick reflexes. “I don’t see your name in them, Saxon.”
“Because I’m not a six-year-old.”
“Maybe you want to get them DNA tested. I say it’s finders’ keepers.”
“You didn’t find them.”
“I found them on the beach.”
“Where I’d put them!”
“Abandoned them, eh?”
Greg turned pleadingly to Sam. She didn’t have the energy for this, and certainly had no sympathy for Greg Mandyke, but she did need to present herself as an authority figure. However, before she could speak, Rich cut in.
“If they had washed up on the shore, technically they could count as flotsam or jetsam.”
“Aye,” said Ogendus.
“I put them there with the intention of collecting them afterwards,” said Greg.
“That’s lagan, that is,” said Sigurd.
The Odinsons behind him mumbled in agreement.
“Lagan?” said Greg.
“Lagan,” said Ogendus.
“He’s right,” said Rich. “Although if you find any salvage you need to inform the Receiver of Wreck.”
“That’s a thing?” said Sam, who couldn’t help but be caught up in the bizarre conversation.
“An’ I was just about to do that very thing,” said Ogendus. “Don’t want a get fined for doing owt improper.” He nodded deferentially at Sam.
“Would this cover Capitalist Whores?” asked Delia, waggling her haul.
“That it might,” said Ogendus to much murmuring from his family.
“They’re fucking Gucci’s!” squealed Greg. “They cost five fucking hundred pounds!”
“An’ the Receiver of Wreck can determine if they’re yorn,” said Ogendus.
“Can we go home now, please?” said Stacey.
Sam nodded. “Back to the car park.”
Greg spasmed in confused rage. “Is no one going to help me get my espadrilles back?”
“Receiver of Wreck,” said an Odinson simply.
“We’ll sort it at the car park.”
After the excitement of the morning, it was an uncomplicated pleasure to walk back along the beach to Wolla Bank.
“You gonna need a drink after today?” said Delia.
“I think I already had an offer from that builder back there,” she said.
Delia glanced back. “The slightly hunky dark-haired one.”
“If you say so.”
Back at Wolla Bank car park, the bin bags of rubbish were put in the council dumpsters. It was an impressive haul of shoreline crap, be it flotsam, jetsam, or whatever dog-walkers and holidaymakers had thoughtlessly left behind. Delia emptied her haul into the boot of her own car. There was an animal cage on the folded down back seat.
“You taking those turkeys everywhere with you now?” said Sam.
“Twizzler’s got a little limp. I was going to take him to the vet.”
“He’s probably just faking so you take pity on him and don’t eat him for Christmas.”
Sam signed off the hours for all the participants. Most of them she’d be seeing again to finish off the hours still owed. Greg Mandyke came to Sam demanding she resolve the espadrille problem, but even as he began speaking, she pointed out the Odinsons had vanished into the dunes, taking Greg’s shoes with them.
“Police matter now,” she said. “Try Sergeant Hackett at Skegness police station. Missing espadrilles will be right up his street. Assuming you can prove they’re yours.”
“How do you expect me to do that?”
“Like Cinderella,” suggested Delia. “You know, but with espadrilles. If the shoe fits…”
Sam was struck by a curious thought. She still had the single trainer wrapped in a carrier bag in the back of her van. If local hospitals weren’t going to help her in the search for a one-footed miscreant, maybe there was another way of finding out who the shoe belonged to.
“Which vet are you taking the turkeys to?” she called to Delia.
“Why?” said Delia, shutting her boot.
A white van pulled up onto the car park.
“Hunky builder alert.”
Sam gave her a silly scowl and went over to the van as Jimmy wound down the window. “Forget something?” she said.
“That drink, perhaps?”
“Didn’t our last drink together end awkwardly and really badly.”
“Not really badly,” he said. “And this is just a daytime ‘settle your nerves after a traumatic experience’ drink. We can still do a cup of tea. I know a place on the promenade that does the most disgusting hot chocolate and whipped cream combo.”
“Astonishingly tempting.”
“That’s a yes.”
“I’ve got an errand to run first,” she said. “A crazy idea’s just occurred to me.”
“Not just fobbing me off?”
“No,” she assured him. “After the morning I’ve had, a restorative hot chocolate sounds good. A nice quiet innocent drink. I’ve had enough drama and near death experiences for one day.”
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She took it out. It was the drone app.
“Battery depleted. Returning to base,” she read. “Ah.”
She looked round, wondering where the drone might be. And then it hit her.
51
While Delia drove her to the veterinary clinic in Hogsthorpe, Sam rubbed her temple again and detected the beginnings of a bump.
“Honestly, there’s nothing there,” said Delia. “Barely a scratch.”
Sam made a doubtful noise. In the back of the car, the drone sat next to the cage, unsullied from where it had dive-bombed her. Twizzler the turkey made noises at the drone and strutted up and down in his cage. He was either trying to impress a would-be mate or ward off a rival. Either way he was going to be disappointed.
“Here,” said Sam and pointed at the turning.
The vet’s clinic was in a long low wooden building attached to stables, set between a rough paddock and a neatly laid out show-jumping arena.
“Man must have some money,” said Delia.
“If people are willing to pay him to give their Christmas dinners a medical check-up…”
Sam helped Delia with the cage, walking it together through the front door of the clinic. The receptionist held the door for them to go through to the consulting room.
The vet, Sacha, looked up from his computer screen. He tucked a knitted tie into his shirt to put it out of the way.
“Ah, but this is Twizzler, yes?” he said and smiled at the two women. He had a dapper manner and perfectly combed hair to go with that crisp accent and the folksy country vet look he clearly cultivated. He flipped open the cage, scooped the bird out with ease and looked him over.
“He seemed to be limping,” said Delia.
Sacha pulled an interested face and put Twizzler down on the examining table to watch him walk.
“Careful. He might run away,” said Delia.
“Yes, but I have…” Sacha picked a pad of pink post-its from the side counter and put them on the table.
Twizzler tilted his head as he considered the post-its, then pecked at them. He ripped the top one off with his second peck and seemed most put out that there were more underneath.
“They are fascinated by bright colours,” said Sacha, crouching to inspect the bird while it played. He poked Twizzler and forced the bird to take a few steps. As he did, he looked up at Sam. “I’ve met you before.”
Sam had hoped he wouldn’t recognise her. The situation hardly put her in a good light. Maybe he wouldn’t remember the details.
“You fed carrot cake to a seal,” said Sacha.
He did remember.
“Er, yes. That’s me. I didn’t do it
on purpose.”
“Yes, but fed it to him all the same.” He stood, picked up and upended Twizzler to look at the base of his feet, and put him down again. “I could clip his claws if you like.”
“Do they need clipping?” said Delia.
“No,” smiled Sacha. “But it might make you feel better. There’s nothing wrong with him and I’ll be charging a consultation fee anyway.”
“I didn’t know if turkeys often had foot complaints.”
“No. And not many turkey owners come to me with just one turkey.” He played his fingertip around Twizzler’s beak and the inquisitive bird tried to peck at him. “Handsome fellows like this usually only need to live long enough to put on some weight, ready for the oven. Is he a pet or is it a Christmas bird?”
“Um, I’ve not decided yet,” said Delia.
Sam gave her an openly unimpressed look. “I knew it! You said you were buying him to eat…”
“He’s so cute though,” argued Delia.
“Yes, but what’s important is that he’s well cared for while he’s alive,” said Sacha.
“Er, speaking of feet,” said Sam.
“Yes.”
“Did you get called out to the alligators at Seal Land? I know the Seal Land guy, er Guy, said he was going to call you.”
Sacha nodded slowly. “Don’t tell me you had something to do with that too?”
“I was just curious. One of the alligators ate a foot, or at least part of a foot.”
“So they say.”
“I was just wondering how long it would take the foot to, er, pass through the alligator.”
Sacha frowned at the unusual question.
“I wondered if the bones would turn up?” said Sam.
“In its faeces?”
“You want to root around in crocodile poo?” said Delia.
“Alligator,” said Sacha and mimed an alligator jaw with both hands. “Different skulls and teeth. And no.”
“No?” said Sam.
“An alligator’s stomach acid is unbelievably powerful. Soft tissues are dissolved within hours. Bones are eventually reduced to nothing.”
Delia gave Sam a disbelieving look. “Were you going to try to piece them together? Do a morbid Cinderella thing and go round looking for a man whose bones matched?”
“It was an idea. A theory.”
“Stupid-ass theory,” said Delia.
“I’m sorry,” said Sacha. “If a man has his left foot bitten off by an alligator, it might take a week or more for it to be fully digested but, no, there will be nothing left after.”
Sam shrugged and sighed.
Sacha picked up Twizzler and clipped the tips of his claws with a pair of nippers. The turkey made no complaints, only chirruped at the vet with curiosity.
“There,” said the vet. “Good as new.”
Sacha presented her with a couple of leaflets on poultry care and held the door for them as Delia carried the cage back through to reception.
Sam paused halfway out the door. “You said left foot.”
“Sorry?” said Sacha.
Sam gathered her thoughts. “You said … if a man has his left foot bitten off by an alligator…”
“Yes?”
“How did you know?”
“Jeez,” said Delia, at the counter and looking through her purse for payment card. “Are you trying to do a Columbo on the vet?”
Sacha laughed. Sam didn’t.
“You knew,” she said.
“You must have said,” smiled Sacha.
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Someone did.”
“Only me and a police officer saw the shoe, and I don’t think he was keen to share it with anyone.”
“If you’ll forgive me, I am quite busy.”
Sam immediately felt silly. She was accusing the vet, and of what? Knowing it was a left trainer they had fished from the pool? Making a fifty-fifty guess or a blind assumption? And to what end? What did it matter if the vet knew? It clearly wasn’t his foot.
She looked past him through the open door at the consultation room and the long steel table.
It was a fact that this place was close to Seal Land. That didn’t mean anything in and of itself but if – if – one had suffered a traumatic foot injury in Seal Land and urgently needed to seek medical attention, one could do far worse than go to the nearest vet. Especially if one didn’t wish to face the kinds of questions that would inevitably come from turning up at A&E with a foot missing. So, if someone had been involved in Mrs Skipworth’s disappearance and then, for reasons entirely unclear, tangled with the nasty end of an alligator, one might indeed end up on that steel table.
“Was he a big man?” she said. “Was there a lot of blood?”
“You will have to forgive me, but I am very busy.” Sacha closed the door between them.
He hadn’t answered her question, but he didn’t need to. In that moment before the door closed, she clearly saw it in his face. He wasn’t confused, or angry. The vet was terrified.
“What the hell was that about?” said Delia.
“I don’t know,” said Sam.
52
Jimmy came over with two paper cups stacked high with squirty cream, chocolate flakes and sprinkles. He put them down on the circular metal table in front of the Ice U Love stall and took the other seat. The stall was at the junction of Tower Esplanade and the narrow promenade called North Bracing, nestling in the shadow of the tall lifeboat rescue building.
“That’s your super-deluxe hot chocolate combo with two shots of mint chocolate Baileys liqueur and all the extras,” said Jimmy.
“Hmmm?” said Sam, lost in thought.
“Super-deluxe hot chocolate combo with two shots of mint chocolate Baileys liqueur and all the extras.”
“Sounds awful,” she said absently, wondering how she could tackle the drink without having to eat all the cream off the top first.
“You okay?” he said. “That drone didn’t give you concussion?”
She shook her head. The drone was in the back of the Piaggio, parked up next to Jimmy’s van fifty yards away – big van, little van, like mother duck and duckling.
Sam took out a flake and used it as a spoon to eat the fluffy topping.
He gestured at her temple. “You’ve got a bump coming.”
“I knew it!” she said. “But Delia insisted I didn’t.”
“That a work thing? The drone?”
She nodded. “Just testing it out and sending a report back to head office.”
“Your company has its fingers in a lot of pies.”
“Too many.”
“But you’ve not got a big office.”
“Nah, just me and Doug.”
“So, how’s your week been?” He tried to sip his own hot chocolate and got a big foamy cream moustache.
“Varied,” she said. “It must be nice to have a simple job like building.”
“Simple?” he said, eyebrows raised.
She backtracked. “I don’t mean you’re simple. And I don’t mean it’s easy either. I mean…” She sighed. “You build a house and there it is, a house. There’s got to be some satisfaction in that.”
“There used to be,” he said. By his expression Sam guessed he’d said something he didn’t mean to. His face shifted as he tried to compensate, and Sam realised with abrupt clarity there was a deep, deep fatigue in Jimmy’s eyes that she hadn’t seen the last time they’d met. It wasn’t merely tiredness; it was the thousand yard stare of a man who had endured too much.
“Used to be?” she said softly.
“Bob Frost was an excellent boss,” he said, the words spilling out. “He treated us as family. All of us. More of a dad to me than my own dad. He looked after us, made sure there was work for all of us.”
“I hear he, uh—”
“Killed himself?” Jimmy nodded. “Too much robbing Peter to pay Paul. I think. He never said. Never confided in anyone. Maybe over-extended himself with th
e plans for Shore View.”
“Oh, I thought you’d only just started building that. It’s just a bunch of containers up there at the moment.”
Jimmy wrapped his mouth around the dissolving cream and practically inhaled it. “Years of planning. The number of committees these things have to go through for a project of that size.”
“Some containers on top of a dune?”
“Those containers will become homes,” he said, his tone sharply defensive.
“Shipping container homes?”
“They’ve been doing it in London for a few years now. Stack ’em high, fill ’em with poor people who can’t afford modern rents.”
Sam had dug her way through the cream to the actual hot chocolate. She sipped. There was a sharply minty alcoholic kick to it. “I suppose the housing problem is as acute here as it is anywhere.”
Jimmy grunted, amused. “They’re not for locals. Not these ones.”
“Oh?”
“You set out to create a project like this – and there will be other sites if this a success – you need people all ready to move in. Councils – Doncaster, Scunthorpe, Leicester – they’ll pay a chunk up front to get homeless benefit claimants out of their authority and into our container villages.”
Sam was surprised, then wondered why she should be. Shipping the unwanted, the unemployed, out from the cities to the back end of nowhere was something the government had been doing since the Second World War. It was just Skegness’s turn to be on the receiving end. “It’s still homes for those who need them, I guess,” she said.
“Anyway,” said Jimmy, “you changed the subject. You were telling me about your week.”
“Was I?”
He nodded. “What have you been up to?”
It felt like an oddly phrased question, clumsy. Sam couldn’t work out why. “The usual.”
“Wild seals in the back of your van…”
“Okay, not quite.”
“No meals on wheels this week?”
“It’s only one week in three.”
“But you must get to know the old folks well.”
“I’m probably one of the few friendly faces some of them get to see. Me and Karen.”
“Who’s Karen?”
