Swimming with the Dead

by Peter Guttridge

  ‘How can you turn down such an offer?’ she said, sounding a little disappointed. He looked at her lovely face. How indeed?

  Constable Stansfield had been one of two policemen to stumble upon the former director of the Royal Pavilion digging up skeletons in a graveyard on the other side of the Downs a few months earlier. Since then he’d been transferred into the city and had been attached to a small task force dealing with kids spraying graffiti around Salthaven and particularly on Salthaven Lido.

  Gilchrist hadn’t liked him much when she had first met him some months ago and she saw no reason to change her opinion now. He was lazy and reactive rather than proactive.

  ‘There were four of them who were the most persistent,’ Stansfield said now, slouching to attention in Gilchrist’s office. ‘I have their names but they refused to give me their addresses and as they were children I could not insist, ma’am.’

  ‘Their real names?’

  ‘I doubt it, ma’am. However, there are photographs.’

  ‘CCTV?’

  ‘Not entirely. More of an aide memoire for me and my partner.’

  ‘Did you insist on photographing them?’

  Stansfield started to smirk then saw Gilchrist’s look.

  ‘It was covert surveillance, ma’am.’

  ‘Where are these photographs now?’ Heap said.

  ‘On our phones. Want us to email them to you?’

  ‘No,’ Gilchrist and Heap said together. Gilchrist wasn’t surprised that Heap was as aware as she of the dangers of leaving an email trail. She was about to implicate herself in an illegal activity. The less evidence for it the better.

  ‘What then, ma’am?’ Stansfield said. Gilchrist frowned. What indeed? She looked to Heap for the answer. He took out his own iPhone and gestured to Stansfield to take out his. Stansfield scrolled to the pictures and Heap photographed the photographs.

  When Stansfield had gone, Gilchrist and Heap huddled over the photographs of three tough-looking boys and an even tougher-looking girl.

  ‘Recognize any of them, Bellamy?’ Gilchrist said. Heap nodded. ‘Darrel Jones,’ he said.

  ‘Let’s bring him in,’ she said. ‘With his mother, of course.’

  Darrel Jones was a malnourished, thin-shouldered, bony-faced boy with enormous hands. He was sinewy and Gilchrist guessed would be very strong if he got fired up. He sat in the interview lounge usually used for rape victims, on a sofa with his mother, a buxom, spotty-faced woman on one side and a harassed-looking, straggly-haired woman from child protection services on the other.

  ‘Thanks so much for coming in, Darrel – OK if I call you Darrel?’

  Darrel shrugged.

  ‘OK, then, we’re hoping you can help us solve a serious crime.’

  ‘My Darrel ain’t done no serious crime,’ his mother interjected.

  ‘We’re not saying he has,’ Gilchrist said soothingly, ‘but we’re hoping he knows something about it.’

  ‘He don’t know nothing about one neither,’ his mother said.

  ‘Well, we’re hoping he knows something he doesn’t know he knows,’ Gilchrist said, ‘if you get my meaning.’

  Darrel gave an exaggerated shrug. ‘No idea what she’s talking about.’

  ‘You mind your lip,’ his mother said, then looked belligerently at Gilchrist. ‘But what do you mean?’ she said.

  ‘Well, I know Darrel is a bit of an artist with a spray can—’

  ‘Are you accusing him of graffiti?’

  ‘No, I’m not accusing him of graffiti. We don’t mind a bit of graffiti these days. But if I were good with a spray can I’d want to use it on those lovely white walls of the lido …’

  ‘Never been near it,’ Darrel said, a smirk on his face.

  Gilchrist exaggerated her sigh and look of disappointment. ‘That’s a shame. Especially as there could well be a reward.’

  ‘Reward?’ his mother said.

  ‘You never know,’ Gilchrist said. ‘One hasn’t been posted yet, or anything, but it’s the kind of case—’

  ‘What kind of case are you talking about?’ Darrel’s mother said.

  ‘Murder. On the night of the fifteenth.’

  She glanced quickly at Darrel. ‘Why would he know anything about a murder?’

  ‘A man was stabbed to death,’ Gilchrist continued, watching Darrel for any reaction. He gave none, instead just looking sullenly at his feet.

  ‘Why would Darrel know about that? He doesn’t carry a knife, do you, Darrel? Do you?’

  Darrel shook his head without looking up.

  ‘We thought he might have seen the man with another person around the time Darrel was spray-painting the wall of the lido on the evening of the fifteenth. Did you Darrel? Did you see anything?’

  ‘I didn’t see nothing,’ Darrel said, still keeping his head down.

  Gilchrist smiled to herself. ‘What time did you get there?’ she said, building on his implicit admission that he’d been at the lido.

  ‘Dunno,’ he said.

  ‘Do you remember what time your son came home on the night of the fifteenth, Mrs Jones?’

  ‘I never know what time he comes in. Keeps his own hours does Darrel.’

  ‘So after midnight wouldn’t be unusual?’

  She glanced her son’s way.’

  ‘More like “usual”,’ she said.

  Darrel smirked.

  ‘Were you with anyone else that night, Darrel?’

  ‘Why?’ he said. ‘Do you split rewards?’

  ‘Well, if there is a reward it would depend on who saw what. You said you didn’t see anything, as I recall.’

  Darrel was thinking quickly, Gilchrist could tell by the speed with which his eyes were moving from object to object.

  ‘I didn’t see no stabbing,’ he said.

  ‘Do any of your friends carry knives?’

  ‘Not that night,’ Darrel said.

  ‘But usually they would?’

  ‘Not that night,’ Darrel repeated.

  ‘Some nights?’

  ‘Yeah, sometimes. It depends on the vibe.’

  ‘And the vibe was good that night.’

  ‘Except for these two geezers having a barney.’

  ‘Physical?’

  Darrel shook his head then extended his hand and made a mouth opening and shutting with his fingers and thumb. ‘Plenty of that though.’

  ‘Arguing.’

  ‘A lot.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘On the steps of the baths.’

  ‘What time?’

  Darrel glanced at his mother. ‘Dunno.’

  ‘What did they look like?’

  ‘Like a couple of poofs.’

  ‘Can you give me a bit more detail than that?’

  ‘Geezer with a beer belly, the other had one of them big beards and his hair cut funny. Didn’t have any socks.’

  A hipster, Gilchrist thought. Great. Only about ten thousand of them in Brighton. That should make an identification parade fun, were one necessary.

  ‘What sort of age are you talking about?’ Gilchrist asked.

  ‘I dunno – in their fifties maybe?’

  Gilchrist remained impassive. ‘Did you hear what they were arguing about?’

  Darrel looked ferrety. ‘Maybe. How does this reward work exactly?’

  ‘You give us information leading to an arrest and a charge and, if there is a reward, it will go to you.’

  ‘What if my mates saw and heard the same thing?’

  ‘Then they’ll just corroborate your story. As I said if one of them knows anything truly significant then that might be taken into account when it comes to handing out the reward. If there is one.’

  Gilchrist slid a photograph of Roland Gulliver onto the coffee table. ‘Was this one of them?’

  Darrel glanced at the photo and shook his head. ‘Nothing like.’

  Gilchrist turned away to hide her surprise. She had been wondering how Gulliver could have been arguing if the p
remise about him being near-drowned somewhere else and brought to the steps of the lido was true, but she’d assumed the premise was wrong. Now she didn’t know whether this argument had anything to do with anything.

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘I told you: I dunno.’

  Gilchrist made a face. ‘Thing is, Darrel, we’re going to need a time and if you can’t supply it we’ll need to talk to your friends. That’s important information.’

  ‘About a quarter after midnight,’ he said, shooting a quick look at his mum.

  Gilchrist gestured to the photo. ‘And you didn’t see this man anywhere round the lido?’

  Darrel shook his head. ‘Just those two fairies.’

  ‘And what was there argument about?’

  Darrel glanced at his mum. She nodded.

  ‘Some bloke called Lesley,’ Darrel said.

  ‘What about him?’

  He shrugged. ‘Suppose they were both after him.’

  ‘You heard them say that?’

  ‘Not exactly but that was the gist.’

  Gilchrist handed him the photograph of Gulliver again.

  ‘Look again. You haven’t seen him any other time at the lido? He was there a lot.’

  Darrel squinted down at the photo. ‘What – some other time? Did I see him some other time?’

  ‘Did you?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘Not there, no. Saw him somewhere else though.’

  ‘Where?’

  Darrel looked ferrety again. ‘How much is this reward likely to be?’

  ‘Hard to say but people don’t usually complain. When did you see him?’

  ‘The day before.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Meeting some geezer. Poncey guy with a beard.’

  ‘The same man you saw arguing the next night?’

  ‘No, different bloke. Same stupid beard though.’

  ‘And what were they doing?’

  Darrel had his ferrety look again. ‘Kissing and cuddling.’

  ‘Where was this?’

  ‘In Woodvale Cemetery.’

  Roland Gulliver’s lover, Francis Shaw, came into the police station the next morning. He was taken to an interview room to wait for Gilchrist and Heap. In the lift down to it, Heap told Gilchrist that Shaw had a website for his work.

  ‘What is his work?’

  ‘That’s not entirely clear,’ Heap said.

  ‘Well, what does it say on his website?’

  ‘Provocateur.’

  Gilchrist looked at Heap’s deadpan face and snorted.

  Shaw was a fastidious-looking man in a sharp suit. He had his hair stylishly cropped, short at the sides and combed back on top. He wore a full, brown beard. Gilchrist glanced at Heap.

  ‘You didn’t need to come in, Mr Shaw,’ Gilchrist said. ‘We said we’d come to your home.’

  ‘I was passing and I wanted to get this DNA thing over with,’ he said.

  ‘Very well, then, let’s get the swab out of the way,’ Gilchrist said.

  Shaw opened his mouth exaggeratedly wide. Heap took the swab out of its casing.

  ‘Thanks for that,’ Gilchrist said when Heap had finished the operation. She gestured to the chair behind Shaw. ‘I wondered if we might ask a couple more questions.’

  ‘Of course,’ Shaw said. He sat down and pressed his knees together.

  Heap sat down on the chair to his left. ‘Mr Shaw, we have a witness saying that someone fitting your description was having a row on the steps of the lido earlier in the evening on which Roland Gulliver died.’

  Shaw frowned, tugged on his beard and stroked his head. ‘My description? Good luck with the line-up.’

  ‘So you weren’t on the steps of the lido that evening?’

  ‘Since I have evidence for where I was the answer has to be no.’

  ‘You were abroad?’

  Shaw reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the stub of a boarding pass. ‘Voila – the evidence.’

  Heap took it and noted down flight details and booking reference. ‘Do you know why Mr Gulliver would have been in Woodvale Cemetery the previous day?’

  ‘Roland in Woodvale Cemetery?’ He stroked his beard. ‘With whom?’

  ‘Is that somewhere you’ve been with him?’

  ‘We hardly need to cottage when we’ve both got perfectly good homes.’

  ‘And you told us Mr Gulliver had never been into that kind of activity,’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘That’s right,’ Shaw said, clasping his hands over his knees.

  ‘I’m sorry to say this at such a time but we have heard stories to the contrary.’

  ‘Stories? I’m sure you’ve heard stories and I’m sure I know where they’re coming from.’ He leaned forward over his knees. ‘That bitch of a wife.’

  ‘She seemed convinced that he had been quite promiscuous throughout their marriage.’

  ‘I know for a certainty that once he met me there was none of that. And he had assured me there had been none of that before he met me.’

  ‘And you believed him,’ Heap said quietly.

  Shaw gave him a hostile look.

  ‘Yes. I believed him.’

  ‘What about you, Mr Shaw?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘What about me?’ He lifted his chin. ‘Oh, you want details of my sex life?’

  ‘You’re sure you weren’t in Woodvale Cemetery the day before Roland’s death? You were in this country then, I believe, so might conceivably have been. And someone broadly matching your description was seen with Mr Gulliver.’

  ‘Do you search for suspects by trawling through sexual stereotypes? How can you be so blundering when I’ve just lost my partner?’

  ‘I’m sorry if my questions sound crude, Mr Shaw, but I’m sure you’re as keen to find your partner’s killer as we are. These are routine questions.’

  Shaw worked his jaw.

  ‘But wait a minute. You say Roland was seen in Woodvale Cemetery with some queer that you think was me? What were they doing?’

  ‘Was it you?’

  ‘What were they doing?’

  ‘Mr Shaw, can you remember your movements the day before Mr Gulliver’s death?’

  ‘They were fucking?’ Shaw pressed a fist to his eye. ‘The bastard.’

  ‘Your movements, Mr Shaw.’

  ‘I’d need to check my diary,’ he finally said. ‘The days roll by, you know.’

  ‘If it wasn’t you,’ Heap said gently, ‘can you think of anyone else it might be?’

  Shaw looked at him sharply. ‘I’ve no idea.’

  Neither Shaw nor Gilchrist said anything. Shaw looked from one to the other then stood.

  ‘Very well – if there’s nothing else.’

  Gilchrist and Heap stood. Gilchrist shook her head. ‘Nope – nothing further for now, sir. Though we will, of course, need to search your house.’

  On Saturday morning Watts found Kate among the bustle of people on the Palace Pier preparing for the Dolphin Smile race. Bellamy Heap was sorting her feed. Derek Neill and Rasa were twenty yards or so along the Pier. Neill gave Watts a little wave. Heap caught the wave and studied Neill for a moment.

  ‘Good to go?’ Watts said to Kate.

  ‘Six hours?’ she said. ‘Can hardly wait.’

  He smiled. ‘Let’s just take our time.’ He looked into the water. ‘No pesky kayaks for us to bump into today.’

  ‘Just other swimmers,’ Kate murmured.

  They watched as a dozen or so men strode onto the pier, each one wearing Victorian bathing gear and sporting big, black cardboard moustaches held on with elastic bands round the back of their heads.

  ‘I see the Captain Webbs are here,’ Watts said. Kate looked puzzled. ‘They’re all really good swimmers but they turn up at these things dressed as Captain Webb for a laugh.’

  ‘They swim with the moustaches on?’ Kate asked.

  Watts shook his head.

  Kate laughed. ‘Bob, I keep meaning to ask,’ she said. ‘What do you t
hink about when you do a long swim?’

  ‘I plan. I do a lot of planning. Then usually forget what I’ve planned when I get out of the water. You?’

  ‘Me too,’ Kate said. ‘And mostly remember. But one of my new swimming buddies said he sang songs to himself, imagining his ear plugs were headphones since he’s not allowed to use the real thing according to Channel swimming rules.’

  ‘You fancy doing that?’ Watts said.

  She shook her head. ‘I’d probably want to sing aloud at some point and end up swallowing half the Channel.’ She climbed down the ladder to check on her feed.

  Neill was suddenly beside Watts and Heap. ‘Good to see you again.’

  ‘How’re things?’ Watts said, shaking his hand.

  ‘The official verdict is that Philip died of a heart attack.’

  ‘Does that give you some closure?’ Watts said.

  Neill shrugged. ‘Doesn’t sit well with me but what am I going to do?’

  ‘If you still want to talk through some stuff …’ Watts tailed off as he saw Neill look beyond him.

  ‘Good God,’ Neill said. He squeezed Watts on the arm. ‘Enjoy today but excuse me now. I’ve just seen a ghost.’

  Watts watched him as he hurried back along the pier to the promenade but couldn’t see who or what he was in pursuit of. Kate rejoined them.

  ‘Who is Philip?’ Heap said.

  ‘The man who drowned in Coniston,’ Watts said. ‘Coates I think his last name was.’

  ‘Philip Coates?’ Heap said, or rather almost squeaked. Both Watts and Kate looked at him and Kate began to laugh.

  ‘Sounds like you know him,’ Watts said.

  ‘I’ve been trying to make contact with him for two days.’

  ‘You’ll need a Ouija board now, I’m afraid,’ Watts said. Heap nodded absently.

  There were some fifty or sixty swimmers along the pier, each one with a helper or two. The plan was that all would start from a long deck below the pier, getting there via three steel ladders. In the absence of support boats, bottles of feed were laid out in neat rows, all on long cords, ready for the swimmers’ helpers to throw them down to them.

  Watts and Kate clambered down.

  ‘See you on the other side,’ Watts said as they dropped into the water.

  Gilchrist was at her desk early that morning. Sylvia Wade came in about ten and immediately reported that the search of Shaw’s house had found nothing significant.

  ‘Bellamy said you were working your way through the calls Gulliver made and received. How are you getting on with that? Are we any nearer finding out who he met the day before in the cemetery and who he was sharing a bottle of wine with on his last day?’