Swimming with the Dead

by Peter Guttridge

  ‘People forget the Lakes have always attracted the wealthy,’ he explained. ‘It’ll make a change to see a bit of that.’

  Kate’s left shoulder was beginning to ache so she made a conscious effort to straighten her stroke. A swimming coach had advised her that each arm should go out in a straight line in front of her, the left arm being the ten and the right arm the two on a clock. She knew that when she got tired her right arm strayed in front of her head, sending her veering off to the left.

  She jerked her foot reflexively as it brushed against something or something brushed against her. She assumed there were carp and other big fish in here but she didn’t worry about what might be swimming beneath her. The jellyfish in the Channel worried her though. She knew it was irrational but she couldn’t help it.

  Dan had tried to reassure her.

  ‘There isn’t a real problem with jellyfish,’ he said. ‘It’s rare that a swimmer gets stung. Even if you do get stung it’s not going to hurt you. You’ll just get a blister. It’s more of a psychological worry.’

  ‘What if you’re allergic?’ Kate said.

  ‘Well, then you might get cramp or be sick or maybe have a heart attack.’ He saw her expression. ‘But hardly anyone is allergic to them.’

  ‘Isn’t there another sort of deadly one in a Sherlock Holmes story?’ Kate said.

  ‘You read Sherlock Holmes? You mean the lion’s mane jellyfish? Yes. It has very long trailing tentacles – around three metres – and a nasty sting that can cause muscle paralysis. They can be found in the English Channel but I don’t know any swimmer who has ever encountered one.’

  Kate glanced up at Liam. He was signalling five minutes again with his hand. She squinted ahead through the sun’s glare and could make out a narrow beach on the shoreline. A group of people were gathered there.

  She hadn’t looked at her watch for a while. She didn’t intend to until she was on the beach but she figured she had taken almost four hours, which would be her longest swim to date. Since she’d done it without a feed she was pretty pleased with herself. Not too pleased, though, because this was just the start.

  ‘A six-hour swim is your qualifier for the Channel,’ Dan had told her. ‘But don’t think you can stop there. That’s just the start, the easy part, when you’re actually swimming the Channel. That’s going to take you somewhere between twelve and sixteen hours.’

  Kate scraped her knee on a rock beneath her. She looked up and around. She could hear scattered applause. It was for her. She got to her feet unevenly, not exactly Venus emerging from the foam, and pulled off her goggles. Liam was sitting in his kayak, beaming at her and applauding. Bob was front and centre on the shore, already in shorts, T-shirt and Crocs.

  He stepped forward, her Dryrobe held open for her. She loved the long, towelling-lined, hooded robe for keeping her warm after a cold swim, even though it made her look like a boxer about to step into the ring.

  Bob waded into the shallows in his Crocs and put the robe over her shoulders. He put his arm round her and leaned down.

  ‘Three hours fifty-two minutes, Ms Simpson. Well done.’

  ‘Piece of cake,’ she said with a shaky laugh.

  He looked at her. ‘You OK?’ he said.

  ‘I haven’t had a feed!’ she wailed, laughing at the same time. Watts looked across at Liam.

  Liam nodded. ‘Flask broke,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve got feed – and food – in my bag,’ Watts said.

  ‘Jelly Babies?’ Kate said, and she and Watts both laughed. Jelly Babies were the great indulgence for Channel swimmers, held out as a lure by tough trainers for a job well done. For reasons of speed and efficiency liquid food was preferred but as a treat a couple of Jelly Babies were the thing as they were relatively easy to ingest. Others preferred half a banana or a mini-roll or a small Milky Way – all with energy drinks, of course.

  ‘The applause sounded a bit half-hearted,’ Kate murmured. ‘Am I the last?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Bob murmured back. ‘I think there’s an eight-year-old kid doing breaststroke, an eighty-year-old doing backstroke and a dead person.’

  She started to laugh but he leaned closer to her.

  ‘That was a dreadful thing to say – there actually is a dead person.’

  ‘One of the swimmers?’

  Bob nodded. ‘Heart attack probably. Occupational hazard of these long swims. A guy called Philip Coates.’

  By now they were at Bob’s small pile of things. He rummaged in his bag and came up with a feed bottle in one hand. In the palm of his other were two Jelly Babies.

  ‘Well done, Kate,’ he said, an unusually fond look on his face. She grinned and gave him a hug, but not before grabbing the Jelly Babies and popping them in her mouth.

  SIX

  There was a bit of ferrying to and fro as Watts drove Liam and Eric back to get their vans so they could put their kayaks on board. Then all four rendezvoused for a celebratory drink in one of the pubs in the centre of Coniston. It was still hot so they sat outside but in the shade of the building.

  Liam had a shandy, Eric a pint of local beer, Kate a lime and lemonade and Watts a pint of cider. After the congratulations, conversation was muted.

  ‘The guy who had the heart attack was a friend of Derek and Rasa’s,’ Liam said. ‘Perfectly fit, came out of the blue.’

  ‘They know for certain it was a heart attack?’ Watts said.

  Kate gave him a look. She turned to Liam.

  ‘Bob used to be a chief constable and now he’s a police commissioner – he sees crime everywhere.’

  ‘Hey,’ Watts said, ‘I didn’t mean there was anything suspicious about it. I’m a pen-pusher not an investigator. I just meant: might it have been something else?’

  ‘Heart attack is favourite,’ Eric said. ‘It happens with mountaineering up here too. Otherwise fit people – often extremely fit to a certain level – put unusual strain on their hearts and suddenly an undiagnosed heart condition kiboshes them. Happens a dozen times a year.’

  ‘It’s never happened to me with a swimmer,’ Liam said.

  ‘I’m relieved to hear it,’ Kate said.

  Liam smiled at her and Watts saw her look down. Watts wasn’t interested in anyone’s sex life – especially his own pretty disastrous one – but he knew that Kate’s had been complex. Women and men both. He was pleased about her new connection to Bellamy Heap but he wasn’t going to be judgemental if she was drawn to Liam. He imagined most women would be attracted to him.

  He was on the back foot when it came to judgements after the way he’d betrayed his wife, Molly, with Sarah Gilchrist. The start of the undoing of what he had complacently assumed was going to be a stellar career.

  After half an hour, Liam and Eric went their own ways, each a couple of hundred pounds richer and a couple of drinks heavier. Watts drove Kate back to the apartment he’d rented. It was just outside a village called Scarsland.

  It was a warm evening and the breeze that ruffled their hair was pleasing.

  ‘Sure you’ve got enough glue on the toupee, Bob?’ Kate said, a mischievous smile on her face when he glanced across at her.

  He tried to give her the finger with his left hand as he steered with it but that went a bit askew, as did the car. She laughed.

  ‘I’m not interested in Liam,’ she said a couple of minutes later.

  ‘None of my business,’ he said, watching the curves on the road.

  ‘No, it’s not,’ she said. ‘But I’m just saying. Bob, I’m not sure you understand the dynamics of relationships between young people.’

  ‘Undoubtedly true,’ Watts said, the thought of his daughter involved with a fundamentalist Christian vicar flashing across his mind.

  ‘I’m with Bellamy and I’m not going to risk messing that up. No, not just that – I’m not remotely interested in anyone else, because I’m with Bellamy, however much someone’s biceps flex.’

  ‘OK,’ Watts said. ‘You don’t have to explain.�
��

  ‘I know,’ Kate said. Then, after a moment. ‘Great biceps though.’

  ‘Indeed they are,’ Watts said as they pulled into the drive of the Georgian house they were staying in. There was a car just ahead of them and two people getting out. Derek and Rasa.

  ‘The Dolphin Smile people,’ Watts said as he pulled onto the gravel of their designated parking space.

  ‘Who?’ Kate said, distracted by looking for something in her bag.

  Derek and Rasa looked across at them as they got out of the Saab. Kate gave a half-wave.

  ‘Sorry to hear the news,’ he called.

  Rasa turned away but Derek gave a half-grimace, half-smile. ‘He was a good friend,’ he called. Then both went into the house.

  Watts fiddled with the stuff in the boot until he figured Derek and Rasa were inside their apartment. Then he and Kate went in.

  Their apartment was on the top floor. Getting up the stairs was taxing for both of them.

  ‘I’m going to have a shower,’ Kate said the minute they were through the door.

  ‘Cocktails in twenty?’ Watts asked.

  ‘Passed out on the couch in thirty?’ Kate said over her shoulder as she went towards her room. ‘Actually, I’m going to lie down for an hour or so – drinks later?’

  Watts showered and changed then went into the kitchen and got a bottle of Prosecco out of the fridge. He was easing the cork out when the doorbell chimed. Frowning he walked down the corridor, bottle in hand.

  Derek Neill was standing in the hallway. ‘Didn’t mean to be rude earlier,’ he said. ‘I was wondering if you would like a drink.’ He looked at the bottle. ‘But it seems you’ve got that in hand.’

  Watts waved the bottle and stepped aside. ‘Join me, please.’ He looked out into the corridor. ‘Rasa?’

  Neill shook his head. ‘She’s taken to her bed. He was more her friend than mine.’

  ‘Heart attack?’ Watts said as they walked into the living room.

  ‘I assume,’ Neill said, stopping as he saw the view out of the ceiling-to-floor window. ‘Shit, this place is far better than ours.’

  Watts went over to the kitchen and finished getting the cork out of the bottle. He picked up a glass and tilted it to pour a drink for Neill.

  ‘I’m Bob Watts, by the way,’ he said.

  ‘I know,’ Neill said, accepting the glass and waiting for Watts to pour one for himself. ‘I mean I know not just because you signed up for the swim. I’m a Brighton boy so have followed your career with interest.’

  ‘The rise? Or just the precipitous fall?’

  Neill accepted the glass Watts proffered him and raised it.

  ‘Ever tried,’ Neill said. ‘Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.’

  Watts frowned. He hated psychobabble.

  ‘Sounds like a quote,’ he said. ‘Some New Age thing?’

  ‘You sound judgemental,’ Neill said quietly.

  Watts spread his hands. ‘Got me.’

  Neill smiled. He looked tired. He took a sip of his drink. ‘You’re a copper,’ he said thoughtfully.

  ‘Was,’ Watts said. ‘And not a proper one.’

  Neill frowned. ‘Meaning?’

  ‘I’m more management than boots on the ground.’

  Watts saw Neill lose interest. ‘You need a copper, Derek?’ he said.

  Neill looked out of the window. ‘The doe is back,’ he said, sounding abstracted.

  ‘Because of what happened in the lake today?’ Watts said. ‘You said it was a heart attack.’

  Neill took more than a sip of his drink this time.

  ‘That’s the assumption,’ he said. ‘But there has been a lot of weird stuff going on … Look, I’m going to stand by your window and hope the fawn joins the doe and I’m going to mourn my friend for a couple of minutes. A couple of minutes for now, I mean. Maybe you can make yourself comfortable and after the couple of minutes we can sit down and talk rubbish – well, I can talk rubbish and you can pretend to listen.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan,’ Watts said. ‘How are you about people snoring?’

  ‘Accustomed to it,’ Neill said, flashing him a grin.

  Watts busied himself in the kitchen. Then he took his glass of wine over to the long sofa. He looked up at Neill.

  ‘You want to stay for dinner?’ he said. ‘Rasa too? I’m doing a chicken thing.’

  Neill shook his head.

  ‘Thanks, though,’ he said. ‘I told you Rasa had turned in. I’ll get back to her shortly.’

  Watts nodded and gestured to the other end of the sofa. ‘Maybe you could sit down?’

  Neill did so.

  ‘What’s your concern about your friend’s death?’ Watts said.

  ‘Healthy as hell,’ Neill said. ‘No way that swim was going to kill him.’

  ‘But you know about undiagnosed heart conditions?’ Watts said.

  ‘Sure.’ Neill finished his drink. Anticipating this, Watts had brought the bottle over. He pushed it towards Neill, gesturing that he should help himself. Neill did and took another long draught. ‘But this was not a swim that would have exerted him. It was long but not that long. It wasn’t cold. How do you feel?’

  ‘I feel fine. How old was this guy?’

  ‘Older than you,’ Neill said. ‘My age.’

  ‘I thought we were of an age,’ Watts said.

  Neill showed his teeth. ‘You’ve got to be a woman for that to have an effect on me.’

  ‘I’ll work on that,’ Watts said. ‘Tell me about him.’

  ‘Philip?’ Neill said. ‘That’s a long story. Another time, perhaps.’

  ‘These weird things happening?’ Watts said.

  ‘That too,’ he said.

  Watts frowned.

  ‘I thought you wanted a copper’s help.’

  Neill shrugged.

  ‘A passing thought. I’m just railing against God for killing my friend. And I don’t even believe in God.’

  ‘Well, I’m intrigued,’ Watts said.

  Neill stood and downed the rest of his drink in one.

  ‘Intrigue is what makes the world go round,’ he said. He nodded. ‘Until next time.’

  SEVEN

  Gilchrist and Heap headed to Lewes to interview Gulliver’s ex-wife. She lived on Cliffe High Street at the bottom end of the town. Finding somewhere to park was a bit of a bugger so eventually they abandoned the car on a double-yellow line. One of the perks of the profession.

  The narrow doorway between an antiques shop and kitchenware store clicked open when Heap rang the bell. It led down an equally narrow passage that opened out into a large courtyard garden with house, totally hidden from the street.

  ‘Mrs Gulliver?’ Gilchrist said, holding out her hand.

  ‘Tamsin Stanhope,’ the woman replied, taking Gilchrist’s hand gingerly then letting it drop. ‘I’ve reverted to my maiden name. For obvious reasons.’

  She ushered them into a narrow living room. She was a short woman, pretty but with a hard, set face. It was clear from her expression she was not the forgiving or forgetting type. Her cheeks were flushed, her mouth a terse line. Everything about this house was narrow, Gilchrist reflected, scanning Stanhope’s face.

  Gilchrist started to give her condolences but Stanhope put up her hand.

  ‘I’m glad he’s dead and I assume you’re here because I must be a prime suspect. And believe me, if I could have killed him, I would have.’

  Heap cleared his throat. ‘Since you’ve been so direct, Ms Stanhope,’ he said, ‘might I ask where you were on the afternoon, evening and night of the murder.’

  Her smile was as thin as her lips. ‘I was in Paris. All week. Staying with friends in their apartment in St-Germain. They can, of course, confirm that.’

  ‘When did you last see your husband?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘My ex-husband.’

  ‘Are you divorced?’

  Again that humourless smile. ‘I assume we are now.’


  ‘Ms Stanhope, was it the betrayal or was it the betrayal with a man that hurt you the most?’ Heap asked quietly.

  ‘Men,’ Stanhope answered him. ‘From before we were even engaged. He felt the need to confess to that when he announced he was leaving because he was in love with this paederast.’

  ‘Do you have any knowledge that Mr Gulliver’s new partner is a paedophile?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘I didn’t say he was,’ Stanhope said witheringly. ‘Don’t you know the difference, detective inspector, between “-erast” and “-ophile”?’

  Gilchrist tried not to frown as she wondered what the difference might be. She glanced at Heap. His attention was focused on Stanhope, who twisted her mouth into a horrible grimace.

  ‘The second is attracted to boys; the first sticks his penis up their arses,’ she said.

  ‘And you’re saying Mr Gulliver’s new partner does that with underage boys?’ Heap said. ‘That’s a serious accusation.’

  Stanhope shrugged.

  ‘He’s queer, isn’t he? I assume they all do things with bum-boys – or want to.’

  ‘That’s simply not true, Ms Stanhope,’ Gilchrist said. ‘And I must caution you against making such statements either generally or about specific persons if you have no evidence for the statement.’

  ‘Then I stand corrected. However, I know that Mr Gulliver stuck his penis up the backsides of a range of rent boys and total strangers he met in the dark or in pubs devoted to that express purpose. And it’s probable that he then came home and stuck the same penis into me without telling me where it had just been.’

  She grimaced.

  ‘I don’t know how you would feel about that, detective inspector, but I cannot begin to express my revulsion and disgust.’ She looked down. ‘One hears often about love turning to hate. I can testify that it can do so and when it does it is a powerful and terrible emotion. It can make you want to wish someone dead.’ She looked up. ‘But that does not mean I killed him.’