‘That they weren’t kissing and cuddling?’ Heap said. ‘I think so. But let’s not forget Bernard Bromley, unresponsive in Thailand.’
‘Who is unresponsive in Thailand?’ Bob Watts said, sliding into the seat beside Gilchrist. ‘Jimmy Tingley?’
‘What are you, a ghost?’ Gilchrist said. ‘Jimmy Tingley is in Thailand?’
Watts nodded. Gilchrist looked at Heap. Heap gave the slightest of nods.
‘Do you think he might locate somebody for us on the quiet?’ Gilchrist said. ‘Have a word with him? A nice word?’
‘Don’t maim him, you mean.’
‘That kind of thing,’ Gilchrist said.
Watts fished out his phone.
‘Shall I call him?’
Gilchrist looked at Heap.
‘Do we have the details?’
Heap lifted his iPad from the seat beside him. ‘All human life is here,’ he said.
Watts grunted. ‘And how sad is that?’
Watts copied down the details and excused himself. He went outside, dialling as he crossed the bar.
Heap put his device on the table between him and Gilchrist. ‘You can find anybody on the internet,’ Heap said. Gilchrist looked at the page.
‘Sting Ray?’
Heap nodded. Gilchrist started reading the first blog post.
‘Why do people expose themselves in this way?’
‘Well, his being a nutter could have something to do with it in this instance,’ Heap said.
Gilchrist frowned at him.
‘It’s not like you to call somebody a nutter, Bellamy.’
‘Read on, ma’am. Start at the bottom.’
There was a message on Wild Water Taming on a Monday morning in May. The subject heading was: ‘Rita Goodis swam around Jersey on the weekend.’
Rita decided to swim around Jersey on Sunday, and made it in eleven hours and twenty minutes. Quite the achievement given the water temperatures! Is this the earliest it’s ever been done? Well done, Rita.
‘Then Sting Ray commented.’ Heap read aloud:
Awesome, Ms Goodis! WOW.
Rasa Lewis added her congratulations:
Fabulous Rita! You did it on my birthday. We had a little swim and beach party in Brighton knowing you were doing all the hard work for us – although I’m next! :-)
‘Then what?’ asked Gilchrist
‘Well, this is where he, it, kicks off.’ Heap read out Sting Ray’s response:
No offense, Rasa, but just because Rita did it, don’t fool yourself into believing that you can do it too. I don’t even know you, and I already know you won’t succeed. Or get even close.
‘Hmm. Weird stuff.’
‘Exactly,’ Heap said. ‘And Rasa is cheesed off by this out-of-the-blue remark.’
Gilchrist read Rasa’s reply in which she pointed out she was the next person booked to do the Jersey swim and that Rita would be part of her crew. She had piloted around thirty swims, including two by Rita, her friend, in the last year alone.
She went on, now reading from Heap’s iPad:
Sting Ray – ridiculous name – there is no room in this fantastic sport for such nasty comments so whoever you are, I suggest that you issue an apology.
‘Fair enough,’ Gilchrist said.
Sting Ray had replied within minutes:
Lighten up, Ms Lewis. Can’t you take a bit of light-hearted ribbing and tongue-in-cheek humour? Why so serious all the time? I’m not a Channel swimmer and don’t intend to be one if everyone is so solemn. Try to enjoy your Jersey swim – and, Jesus, life in general.
‘Tongue-in-cheek humour. Right,’ Gilchrist said.
Rasa Lewis was back:
Dare I ask why you are even on this group? After all it is for Channel swimmers.
Gilchrist scanned Sting Ray’s reply. ‘Oops,’ she said. ‘Lots of capital letters.’
She read it aloud.
No, I am not one of your exalted Channel swimmers, just like you are not one who has run fifty marathons, ten ultramarathons, competed in six Ironman or any of the other ‘lesser’ accomplishments I have achieved as an athlete.
She looked at Heap. ‘James Bromley runs these ultramarathons.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Is this him?’
‘I’m wondering, but I need to make some calls to get the name behind the comments.’
Gilchrist looked back at Sting Ray’s comment.
You are also right that it is not my intention to attempt a Channel crossing, as I think that it MAY be beyond me. Apparently that means I am not welcome on this HOLY SITE, reserved for the Super Elite Club of Superhumans you so righteously belong to so I will return to my lowly existence as a mere human, with flaws and shortcomings, along with dreams and aspirations. I am sorry that I have offended you so, who chooses to treat fellow humans with nastiness and unfounded snobbery. In closing, in spite of the ugliness and nastiness of your writing, I wish you nothing but the best, not only in your future swim attempts, but with life in general.
Humbly.
‘Is it me or did that get intense really quickly?’ Gilchrist asked.
Heap nodded. ‘Can’t hold it in. Then someone else joins the conversation.’
Gilchrist nodded. ‘I see it. Jessica.’ She read out:
Don’t sweat this Sting Ray, Rasa. Ultra-runners in the States are so wrapped around distances they don’t get the swimming concept at all.
‘That isn’t going to go down well,’ she said.
Sting Ray replied within minutes.
I see that, like the pious Ms Lewis, you too are nasty, psychologically ugly, vicious and insecure. I am not ‘wrapped around’ any of the insignificant activities of my insignificant life. I am replying to you because as a fellow human you deserve the respect and decency you have signally failed to accord me. I also want to show to the other members of the group what a bitter, nasty and pathetic human you seem to be.
Gilchrist laughed. ‘I love the way he signs off after that tirade: “lovingly yours”.’
Heap smiled. ‘That’s good from such a solipsist.’
‘Careful, Bellamy, I’ve been able to keep up with you so far. Don’t be throwing big words at me.’
‘Ma’am.’ He looked back at the screen. ‘It took Jessica an hour or so to respond. She was clearly googling this man because when she came back she said this to Rasa.’ Heap read out:
Oh my God!! Sting Ray lives in the United Kingdom!! I am so disappointed and embarrassed. Oh, well, anyone can live here, including serial killers.
‘Ha!’ Gilchrist said. ‘I like Jessica coming to her friend’s aid but she shouldn’t poke the bear.’ She looked at Heap. ‘You know where she found him?’ He nodded. ‘You found him too?’ He nodded again.
She carried on reading. Sting Ray had replied quickly to Jessica:
You are attempting to humiliate me in front of a rather large audience. I can’t allow that. I am not a serial killer. However, I would be wary of being in the same room with you (or Ms Lewis, for that matter) if you had a handgun in your possession. How many more nasty, insecure, bitter, angry and vicious people am I going to meet in this group? Maybe it’s from spending too much time in cold water. With much love and warmth to everyone.
Then Philip Coates pitched in about half an hour later.
A word of well-meaning advice, Sting Ray. We have a saying in England: when you’ve dug yourself into a hole, stop digging.
‘It’s late now,’ said Heap. ‘When Sting Ray wakes he writes to Philip.’
Thanks for the unasked for advice. Why don’t you take it and place it where the sun doesn’t shine. There is a saying in America: Get a life. I have chosen to disassociate myself from your thin-skinned and intolerant group. I wish you and your cohorts nothing but blessings as I get on with My Life.
Finally, Rita Goodis, the woman who had long ago been congratulated, pitched in. She thanked everybody for the congratulations then asked that the thread end.
I ha
ve not previously been exposed to this in my swimming career. Please stop.
This brought the inevitable reply from Sting Ray in the form of a self-serving apology.
I need to issue a formal apology to ALL members of ‘The Group’ for my involvement in that horrid thread of yesterday.
‘For starting the horrible thread, maybe?’ Gilchrist said.
‘He’s not going to admit blame, is he?’
Sting Ray went on:
In my daily living, I try to practice the principles of unconditional love for all fellow living beings. However, I am a weak person with many serious flaws and I responded to perceived attacks on my character. I should have maintained silence and humility but I lashed out and said deliberately hurtful things. I am sorry for every word I uttered. You won’t hear from this pitiful creature again.
Gilchrist blew out breath. ‘OK, so the guy has problems. He can’t admit that he started the nastiness, for instance, but has he done more?’
‘He’s written more, yes: once she does her Jersey swim he casts doubt on it. And the Channel swim. She posted about getting across.’ He pointed at the screen. ‘There it is.’
Rasa had written:
I did it! I set off in darkness at 1am and the first few hours were fine until the middle of the swim when some oil in the water I swallowed or the fumes from the support boat made me violently sick. This slowed me down considerably and as a result the tide took me far off course. Then right at the end, when I was weakest, I was swept down the coast of France and it took me several hours to land.
In spite of everything that happened earlier, it was the most challenging part of the swim. I was physically exhausted and France looked tantalizingly close yet I just couldn’t reach it. But eventually I did and when my feet touched the sand, it was the most profound and incredible experience I’ve ever had. I can now proudly say I am a Channel Swimmer.
Heap nodded. ‘He started dissing her after that.’
‘Dissing her, Bellamy?’
Heap flushed. ‘I believe that is the correct terminology,’ he said.
‘I suspect not for the past decade,’ Gilchrist said.
‘Ma’am. Now look in that file called Pumping Legs. It’s a running blog. Seven entries from before and after Christmas. The last one dated fifteenth of January.’
‘This is Sting Ray in his running guise?’
Heap nodded.
‘So he stopped writing this Pumping Legs blog months ago.’
‘And then not long after that he turns up on the swimming website. But by then he’s unable to run. In his last post on Pumping Legs he said he was borrowing a friend’s motorbike to go up into the mountains to chop wood for him. When he first pops up on the swimming website he says at one point that he had a bad motorcycle accident and broke both his legs.’
‘On his friend’s motorbike,’ Gilchrist said.
‘I would think. Anyway, ma’am, it isn’t going to take long to track him down.’
She read on:
Twenty-one December. I wish Christmas did not exist. We should be kind to each other EVERY day, not just some arbitrary day in December every year. Need to kick up the running mileage. Did nine yesterday morning then fourteen down to my girlfriend’s last night at close to race pace, nine home this morning. Feeling stronger and faster every day. Ordered 25-lb weight vest yesterday. I intend to run in it every day. That should make things somewhat unpleasant! LOL.
She looked at Heap. ‘He has a girlfriend?’
‘His girlfriend has her own blog site called Mad Cow. He talks about her in the next blog.’
‘Aha.’ She read on. ‘Sting Ray talks about running twenty-four miles with his lovely and beautiful girlfriend riding her bike alongside. Then he spent the night with her and her cat. According to this, Bellamy, he was able to give more fully of himself, addressing his girlfriend’s physical and emotional needs, since his were essentially taken care of – at least for the time being.’
Heap said, ‘You’ll see that he thinks she is too good for him and someday she’ll realize it. But until then, he’s going to keep on enjoying her company and soaking up her love and caring.’
‘I feel nauseous,’ said Gilchrist.
The next blog was addressed to a ‘Mr Krupicka’.
‘He doesn’t like this Krupicka guy. Who is he?’
‘According to Wikipedia he’s the ultimate ultra-runner. The best in the business. So I guess Sting Ray – excuse me, Pumping Legs – is seething at that.’
‘Hmm. He thinks Krupicka is boring because all he writes about is running. He calls him a simple-minded soul and a single-minded moron.’ Heap read out:
Is twenty-two miles at eight minutes per mile what people really want to hear? Isn’t there more to life – how about cleaning a kitchen to perfection?
‘Cleaning a kitchen to perfection …’ Gilchrist repeated.
‘I don’t think he realized how odd that last comment might sound to most people,’ Heap said.
‘So he’s obsessive compulsive. Oh look, he intends to tidy a forest.’ Gilchrist read out loud again.
Taking my friend’s motorcycle up to the mountains for a week of gathering wood, splitting wood, stacking wood, arranging wood, burning wood. Plan is to rise early, run twelve miles, labour for seven to eight hours, then run twelve again. Then sleep 8 until 6. When I’m done the woods will be completely cleaned out of dead and fallen trees, wood neatly stacked, kindling arranged in a bucket, order restored. My friend will want to pay me, but this time I’m not accepting any money (and he can whine all he wants). He’s doing me a favour giving me solitude, hard work and good runs.
‘That’s when he had the accident, I assume,’ Gilchrist said. ‘I hope on the way up there so at least the forest was saved from his obsessive-compulsive craziness.’ She sat back. ‘OK, I’m seeing a weirdo but that doesn’t make him a killer.’
‘He’s quick to anger,’ Heap said. ‘And all the traits he sees in others are just his own that he’s projecting onto them.’
‘But that’s a big step into killing.’
‘Not so big, ma’am.’
She returned to the screen. Pumping Legs writes:
I’m fucking sick of this. I just want peace in my life. And because I care so much for others, I want peace in their lives too. Some runs bring me the peace I long for. But endorphin highs are not reality. The emotional comedown soon occurs and I’m back in the real world. Maybe I’m not running hard enough. Do I need to run at a fucking six minutes a mile pace to find peace? Or will the problems still resurface, the depression come back. If so, why do it in the first place? I want PEACE. Leave me alone, LIFE.
Gilchrist and Heap were contemplating this when Watts came back to the table. He put drinks down and said: ‘Jimmy is on it. No maiming. You didn’t say anything about kidnapping though.’ He took a sip of his beer. ‘That’s a joke.’ Another sip. ‘I think.’
FOURTEEN
Gilchrist hated waiting around so thought she and Heap should go down to Dover to explore his hypothesis about people or drug smuggling. Heap made an appointment with the coast guard while Gilchrist cleared it with the Dover police.
The drive to Dover was a bit of a pain, up to the M25 then along and back down the M20, but it gave Gilchrist time to think.
The coastguard service was housed on the high cliffs just east of Dover harbour at a place called Langdon Battery. The coast guard officer who greeted them was a woman who looked familiar.
‘Welcome to Langdon Battery, I’m Kathleen Harrison,’ she said, holding out her hand.
‘Hang on,’ Gilchrist said as they shook hands. ‘I know you, don’t I?’
The woman tilted her head and scanned Gilchrist’s face. ‘You came to Shoreham a few months ago asking about smuggled artefacts from Asia.’
‘And you were the harbour master,’ Gilchrist said. She remembered now how impressed she’d been by the woman and how she thought they might have been friends. Before Gilchrist went into he
r mad slump.
‘I found that job a bit restricting,’ Harrison said. She held her hand out to Heap.
‘DS Bellamy Heap,’ Gilchrist said. ‘And I’m DI Sarah Gilchrist.’
‘So how can I help?’
‘Great view,’ Gilchrist said, looking over the sea spread before her.
‘You should see the office of CROSS – the French coastguard service – at Cap Gris Nez. Their view is absolutely spectacular.’
‘As I understand it, this is a busy part of the sea, but between you and the French coastguard, you track every boat.’
‘Correct. With radar and VHF we watch this whole area and liaise with every vessel using the Channel. We broadcast navigation bulletins every half hour and log vessels using the lanes to coordinate their movements and monitor safety. And, yes, the English Channel is one of the busiest shipping lanes in the world. Up to six hundred ships pass through the Dover Strait each day.’
‘Moving stuff all over the place,’ Gilchrist said.
‘Clothing, electrical goods, cars, molasses, oil, armaments, nuclear fuel. Then there are a hundred ferries a day, fifty to seventy local yachts and holiday makers, coastal protection vessels, naval vessels, cruise liners, fishermen, charter boats for anglers. All going at different speeds, from eight to forty-five knots.’
‘And then you have the cross-Channel swimmers crossing the paths of all these vessels,’ Gilchrist said.
‘Yes, God bless them, we do.’
‘How do you track them?’
‘We track the pilot boat alongside them. Every swimmer has one. Do you mind my asking why you’re asking – perhaps I can give more focused answers if I know what you’re looking for.’
‘We’re wondering if there might be some smuggling going on behind the swimming,’ Heap said.
‘Smuggling how? I thought the men were just budgie smugglers. Not much money to be made from that.’
Gilchrist smiled. ‘We’re thinking the pilot boats.’
Harrison frowned. ‘As I understand it, most of the pilots have been doing it for years. They are pretty well regarded. I’d be surprised if that were happening. And I’d tread very carefully there.’
‘They might not even know it,’ Gilchrist said, peering at different coloured boats pulsing on a big screen.
Swimming with the Dead Page 15
