The Man by the Sea (The Slim Hardy Mystery Series Book 1)

by Jack Benton

  Slim tried to pull the headphones off, but one cup caught on his ear, and as the hissing of the active line continued, he suppressed his immediate fear and pushed the phones back on. The voice felt so close it could have been speaking to Slim instead of Ted. It hissed, sibilant and crackly, as though rarely used.

  ‘Can I touch you? Please?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry. Please leave me...’

  Slim scrambled for the record button, but a loud thump followed and then the sound went dead. He jumped up, throwing the headphones to the floor.

  His phone was lying on the bed, but he had again forgotten to charge it. Feeling a well of anger rising up, he lifted the phone to throw it against the wall, then felt better of it and tossed it back on the bed. Instead, he grabbed his keys and headed for the door.

  He needed to call Arthur, or at least Emma, but without his phone he didn’t know their numbers. He cursed his incompetence, but at least he knew the way to the hospital.

  He stumbled downstairs, telling himself that he was fit enough to drive, that whatever he had drunk before Emma came had been burned off by a few hours’ sleep.

  His car was parked up the street, halfway back to his flat. He tried to control his breathing as he walked, his old military training reminding him that panic would set his nerves tingling and make even simple actions difficult. Even so, he fumbled with the key in the lock, dropping it to the floor. He cursed as he scooped it up again, this time using his free hand to guide it.

  The inside of his car seemed five degrees lower than the night outside, and momentarily the cold gave him focus. He started the engine and pulled out, quickly accelerating up to the junction with the main road.

  His mind whirred with possible routes to the hospital. The more direct route passed through the centre of town, but he would have to negotiate the taxis stopping outside the clubs and groups of drunks sauntering across the street. A quicker route circuited a park but the road was single-lane width, meaning he’d lose his advantage if he met another car.

  His thoughts clouded with indecision. As a lorry rumbled past, he thought of Ted, lying there inert, tubes poking out of his mouth while an apparition leaned over him, one in a black trench coat and smelling of saltwater, with shell-encrusted hair and clawing hands callused from climbing cliffs. Set into a face that was a tattered remnant of beauty, dark eyes watched him over an expressionless mouth, and a hand lifted to lay a little pile of broken shells on his chest―

  A horn blared. Slim spun the wheel but went right instead of left, and a collision he could have avoided happened as his front wing slammed into the rear end of a passing Ford. He jerked, the seatbelt he had remembered to use locking tight. His head lolled, and lights flashed. Metal scraped as the front car moved a short distance forward as though wanting to escape. Then it stopped, and a remaining brake light came on. The driver’s door opened. A man got out and stormed back to Slim’s car, still idling in the middle of the street.

  As the man began to berate him through the closed window, Slim leaned back and closed his eyes.

  42

  THE KEY RATTLED in the lock. Slim groaned, pulled back the thin blanket, and got up from the hard jail cell bed. He looked up as the door opened.

  ‘You’re bailed. You’re free to go,’ the police officer said, then frowned at Slim, as though, in reality, Slim would never be free again.

  At the reception desk he was read the last rites of his driving life―his license was suspended with immediate effect, and while he was free to return to the burned-out remnant of his home, he would be sent a court summons within a week, for a hearing most likely in December. The likely outcome was the suspension of his licence for at least a year, and a fine was a certainty. The good news―such as it was—was that as a first offense he would probably avoid jail, and an obligatory alcohol awareness course would be paid for by social services.

  The police receptionist handed him a box. ‘Here are your things,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks,’ Slim answered, taking a shoebox with a water stain down one side that felt symbolic of his entire existence. He went outside and sat down on a step.

  He still had his phone (uncharged) and his wallet (empty, besides a few coins). He was still booked into the hotel (the key not supposed to be removed had been in his pocket) but his smoke-damaged home felt like a better sanctuary, so he headed there, walking slowly, head slumped, the shoebox held in his arms as though it contained the ashes of a loved one.

  He was halfway to the bus stop when a police cruiser pulled up alongside.

  ‘Get in,’ Arthur said. ‘I tried to catch you but I heard they kicked you out.’

  ‘Have you seen Ted? I asked them to call you but they said I was drunk and threw me in the cells.’

  ‘I got a call this morning. He’s fine. Well, the same. Come on, get in.’

  Slim sighed and climbed in, but he had barely sat down when Arthur’s fist slammed into his cheek, throwing him against the door. He turned, thinking he was in a fight, but Arthur was staring out the front, shaking his head, absently flexing the fingers on his left hand.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but you need to wake up. What were you playing at last night? This is very bad for you. Someone could have been killed. What were you thinking?’

  ‘I had to get to Ted. She was there—I heard her.’

  Arthur didn’t look convinced. ‘I had checks done to see if anyone was shown on the hospital’s CCTV. I have a man in there, plain clothes, and he reported nothing.’

  ‘He must have dozed off.’

  ‘You need to stay in control. Have you been drinking yet?’

  ‘I only woke up half an hour ago. Give me a chance.’

  ‘Well, once we’re out on the boat, you can work on keeping a clear head.’

  Slim groaned. ‘I forgot about that.’

  Arthur rolled his eyes. ‘I thought you might have.’

  They drove on in silence, toward, as Slim remembered now, the harbour at Carnwell, where Arthur had rented a boat and captain to take them out to examine the cliff around the headland at Cramer Cove. Resentment radiated off Arthur like heat from a stove fire. Slim didn’t need the police chief to tell him he had screwed up again. He knew it. He couldn’t just accept the blame, though. The Joanna Bramwell case was gaslighting him.

  ‘I think I’m going insane,’ Slim said at last. ‘And I don’t think it’s my fault. Let’s hope we find her at last.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to seeing the back of you both,’ Arthur said, and although Slim waited for a revealing smile, none came.

  The boat was waiting by the port. The captain, an ageing local fisherman, was ready to cast off. Out on the open water, to his surprise, Slim felt the kind of freedom he no longer felt on land, and the urge to pitch himself over the side into the blue-grey water became so great that he held onto the side guard rail for support.

  The flat, open bay of Carnwell drifted past them and the cliffs began to steepen. Sandy beach turned into a succession of barely accessible shingle inlets, tiny semi-circles of grey between jagged cliffs.

  Slim quickly lost track of where they were, and only when the captain began to slow and pointed to a beach unfolding behind a jagged promontory did he realise they had reached Cramer Cove.

  ‘Any way you can pull us in closer to the cliff?’ Arthur asked the captain.

  The old fisherman shook his head. ‘No chance. You’re not paying enough for a replacement boat.’ He nodded at an inflatable dinghy lashed to the stern. ‘You can go in on that, though. Don’t drown, and don’t damage it. I’ll wait out here off the rocks.’

  Slim looked at Arthur, who nodded.

  The water was a lot choppier than it looked from the deck of the fishing boat, with the dinghy bucking about in crosswinds cutting around the promontory. Slim and Arthur rowed manfully, aiming for a break between two outcrops of rock that made a small natural harbour. At first they seemed to get nowhere, straining against a current that was intent on pushing th
em out to sea; then, when Slim felt his strength about to give, rocky crags began to encircle them, pulling them into the embrace of the towering cliff.

  ‘My word, it’s remote,’ Arthur said. ‘It would be almost impossible to reach from the beach.’

  ‘Except for an experienced climber,’ Slim said, remembering Andrea Clark, who had died out here on these rocks. ‘It’s pretty treacherous, though.’

  ‘A good place to hide. Let’s go take a look.’

  Slim had done some river training in the army, but that was over twenty years ago. Still, he had more experience than Arthur, so he climbed out first as they steered the dinghy up onto a flat lip of rock. He held it steady as Arthur started to climb out, then as the police chief caught an outcrop of rock with his hands and started to loop his leg over, Slim gave the dinghy a shove. Arthur slipped, one leg going into the water, soaking him up to the waist. As he cried out, Slim grabbed his arm and pulled him up.

  Slim offered Arthur a smile. ‘That’s for punching me.’

  ‘You reckless bastard.’

  Slim shrugged. ‘I haven’t had a drink yet today. I’m tense. Though I appreciated the pep talk. I’ll bear it in mind.’

  Arthur scowled, but allowed Slim to help him up onto the rocks.

  They pulled the dinghy out of the water and lodged it into a crevasse. Then they began clambering over rocks, looking for some sign that a person had been here.

  ‘By my best estimation, that ladder should be somewhere above us,’ Arthur said.

  The lower part of the cliff was jagged but climbable for someone with guts or experience, but from about halfway, the cliff turned almost sheer, a wall of treacherous shale ledges and outcrops. A slight angle left the top out of sight, and Slim peered up, trying to spot any sign of ladders or chains.

  ‘No caves or anything,’ Arthur said. ‘I mean, there are a few slight overhangs, but nothing someone could live inside. I guess it’s possible she was launching a boat from down here, but if that’s the case she could be anywhere. We’d have to search the whole coast.’

  Slim nodded. ‘That ladder went somewhere. Perhaps she climbs down and then swims for the beach.’

  They continued to look around for a while, climbing around the cliff as far as they were able without getting back into the water, but they could find no other trace of Joanna Bramwell. Frustrated, Slim squatted down by the water’s edge and watched the way it sucked and shoved against the cliff’s outcrops. There was something, just out of reach. He frowned, wishing he were drunk, that the offbeat viewpoints a little liquor gave him were here to spark his imagination.

  A horn blared.

  ‘That’s the captain,’ Arthur said. ‘I think we’ve overstayed our welcome.’

  ‘I’m thinking,’ Slim said. ‘Just a minute.’

  The horn blared again.

  ‘Do you want him to leave us here?’

  Reluctantly Slim followed Arthur back to where they had left the dinghy.

  Back on the boat, the captain informed them that the radio had warned of a turn in the weather, which, coupled with the rising tide, meant that within an hour it might be impossible to get off the rocks. Slim glared at what was still a calm sea, angry to be denied when he felt sure they had been close to a breakthrough.

  By the time they were back at the docks, clouds had rolled in and waves were slapping at the shore. Arthur drove Slim home to Yatton in pouring rain, but when Slim walked into the hotel, the manager was waiting to meet him.

  ‘Mr. Hardy?

  Slim felt as though he had jumped into the frothing seas off Cramer Cove. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, but your credit card has been rejected. We have to ask you to leave.’

  43

  THE LIGHTS in his flat didn’t work, but he found a plug low on one wall with a current, so he could at least charge his phone. Then, using an extension cord, he took a lamp from the bedroom and sat at the fire-damaged dining table to survey the wreckage of his life.

  His laptop wouldn’t work, but even if it would, the flash-drive on which he kept his data had been taken by the ghost who started the fire. He couldn’t cook because his cooker was blown, and the single plug wouldn’t handle the wattage of the microwave.

  His fridge had defrosted, his wallet was empty, and his last bottle of whisky was also empty.

  It felt like the end of the world.

  Joanna Bramwell had done a fine job of destroying the evidence he had assembled. He had little hope for his laptop, which had suffered both fire and water damage, while the box of papers Emma had provided—which had conveniently moved itself beside the cooker—was a heap of ash.

  He was just thinking to perhaps get a paperback from the shelf and embrace a little escapism when the single plug sparked and the light went out.

  He caught the last bus from Yatton back to Carnwell, waiting until he had walked within a couple of streets before he called Emma.

  She didn’t sound convinced by his explanation that he was worried about her safety with Ted still in hospital, but she told him to come around the back, out of view of the police officer already watching her house.

  ‘I’m not sure this is a good idea,’ she said, letting him in, then quickly shutting the door. She led him through into a rear living room which already had the curtains drawn. A newspaper was laid out neatly on a dining table of sheet glass covering an ancient-style sepia world-map-designed cloth. Full but tidy shelves filled one wall, a neatly ordered bookcase another. Curtains hung to a single inch above a polished mantel. The carpet, in contrast to the intricacies seen elsewhere, was a plain dark red.

  ‘Tea? I’m afraid I don’t have anything stronger.’

  Slim grimaced. He could do it. Easy. He didn’t drink so much anyway.

  ‘Sure,’ he said, hoping his unease wasn’t evident.

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t cleaned,’ she said, when it looked like cleaning was all she did.

  ‘Don’t worry. I apologise for the suddenness of my visit. I’m not quite houseless, but I’m certainly lacking a decent quality home.’

  ‘It won’t look good,’ she said. ‘You over here, staying the night with me, while my husband’s in a hospital bed. You are staying the night, aren’t you?’

  Slim shrugged. ‘I guess, if it’s offered.’

  Emma smiled. ‘You know it is.’

  He let what he expected to happen, happen. It wasn’t easy; he was hungry, both for food and drink. But Emma was hungry too, and took from him what she wanted.

  Around midnight he awoke. Emma was snoring heavily beside him, but she had left a small nightlight on which cast the bedroom with a spectral glow. Slim, his hands trembling from a need he couldn’t deny much longer, got up, knowing there would be no more sleep until his cravings were satisfied.

  The bedroom was as neat as the living room downstairs. Something seemed odd that it took Slim, in his increasingly agitated state, a moment to realise, was that this was an entirely woman’s room, the bed a queen rather than king, suitable for sex but less so for two sleepers side by side, while the dressers and drawers and a dressing table showed no sign that a man had ever entered this room before him.

  So where did Ted sleep?

  Slim crept to the window and pulled back the curtain a crack. It looked down onto a back lawn that ended in a tall fence bordering a small park. The park had two entrances, and the plain-clothed police officer was positioned to view both. Slim, aware of the man’s presence, had taken great pains to climb over a chain link fence in the shadow of a stand of trees to gain access to Emma’s garden unnoticed, but if Joanna Bramwell was out there somewhere, it would be hard to get close to the house without alerting someone to her presence.

  Slim squinted. Was she out there now, watching? Or had she returned to the hospital to torment Ted?

  Emma was still snoring. Slim went out into a hall and closed the door quietly. Three doors led off. The first was a bathroom, the second a sparse guest bedroom. The
third was a man’s room.

  Slim slipped inside, closed the door, and then pushed the curtains wide to allow the faint glow from the streetlights to enter. The window looked out on the street, and he saw the same car outside, the police officer maintaining his vigil. He squatted down and waited for his eyes to adjust.

  The room was far sparser than Emma’s, but a bookshelf of action thrillers and a few books on fly fishing that looked rarely touched identified it as where Ted slept. The bed was neatly made, the duvet unblemished, a single teddy bear nestled in against the pillow. While Slim appreciated that in modern times it wasn’t unusual for married couples to sleep apart, it was an indication of the decline in the Douglases’ marriage that the separate room situation was so embedded.

  He also recognised the fortune of information his own misfortune had granted him. By the light of the streetlights, he began to search.

  Soon his shakes had got so bad that his frustration began getting the better of him. He struggled to replace unfolded clothes and old work documents in Ted’s perfectly sanitised man-space. Everything was so mundane that Slim wondered if he’d been mistaken all along. The Ted from the beach couldn’t be the Ted who lived a mannequin’s life of uniformity.

  By the time his bowels began to play up, Slim was ready to tell Emma he was done, that it was time for him to walk away. He sat on the toilet, harbouring a growing resentment toward Ted and Joanna for so thoroughly covering their tracks. He wished he could flush them away, too.

  The cabinet above the sink was ajar, and inside, Slim found a bottle of mouthwash. It was a poor man’s pick-up, but it was something. He took a long swallow, then topped up the level from the tap so Emma wouldn’t notice.

  As he was about to head for bed, he paused. He flushed the toilet again, frowning. There was something about the way the water swirled in the pipe that got him thinking.

  44

  ‘ARE you going to tell me what this is about?’

  Slim couldn’t keep the grin off his face as the sea wind rustled off his hair.