Harrison chewed the inside of her lip as she thought about it.
‘It’s pretty chaotic when someone reaches the other side. Everyone is focused on the swimmer. It’s conceivable someone could offload some cargo into the sea, near one of the warning buoys, to be picked up later. Or pick up something. What kind of cargo are we talking about?’
‘Drugs, presumably. Diamonds, conceivably.’
‘We were wondering about low-level but regular human trafficking,’ Heap said.
‘Picking up refugees when the pilot boat reaches France? It’s possible, I suppose.’
‘Perhaps bringing over a whole boat load from France when someone tries to swim from there to here.’
‘Nobody starts from there,’ Harrison said. ‘The French don’t allow it. So you’re talking about one, maybe two, people per trip but that would mean the collusion of the swimmer and the swimmer’s support team. These people’s focus for months and months is solely on that swim. I’m sorry, but I just can’t see it.’
Gilchrist was inclined to agree. Heap looked a little abashed as he stared at the pulsating dots on the monitor.
‘Look,’ Harrison said. ‘One of the pilots is popping in to see me in a moment. Phil Kettner. Pilots the Argos. Why don’t you talk to him – unofficially? But, as I said, please tread carefully.’
The pilot had a weather-beaten, raw-red face and a gap-toothed smile. He was medium height and chunky.
Introductions made, Gilchrist said: ‘We’ve got an investigation underway that involves in some way – we don’t know how yet – cross-Channel swimming.’
Kettner just listened.
‘How fast do swimmers go?’ Heap said.
‘At any given time you have maybe five Channel swimmers moving at 1.5 knots per hour. And they’re cutting across all the shipping lanes. There are so many international vessels passing through the Strait that shipping lanes are essential and ships must stick to their own lane. On the English side, the south-west lane is for vessels heading down Channel to the Atlantic. The north-east lane, on the French side, is for vessels up to North Sea ports. Then there are local inshore zones on both coasts.’
‘And the route of the swimmers cuts across these zones?’
‘Exactly. Swimmers usually start from Shakespeare Beach here in Dover so they immediately join the English inshore traffic zone. That’s about five nautical miles wide. Then they cross the south-west lane – that is four nautical miles wide. Mid-Channel they cross the one-mile-wide Separation Zone into French waters and the north-east lane. That’s five nautical miles wide. The French inshore traffic zone is at least three nautical miles wide, depending on where the swimmer is in relation to the French beaches.’
‘And your job is to ensure the swimmer can just do her or his job safely,’ Heap said.
‘More and more women doing it – and, yes, that’s a lot of my job. Some of these vessels are big – a thousand feet long, with hundred-foot-deep draft – and weighing over three hundred thousand tonnes. If you’re in the way, who do you think is going to come off worse?’
‘We’ve been hearing about accusations against a Rasa Lewis about her swim.’
Kettner nodded.
‘The man who started it calls himself “Sting Ray”. That twat – excuse my language – he’s done some Iron Man competitions so he thinks he’s tough. But crossing the Channel requires a different sort of tough.’ He tapped his head. ‘It’s all in here, you know.’
‘So I understand,’ Gilchrist said. ‘So what Rasa is accused of isn’t possible?’
‘Is it possible Ms Lewis didn’t do her whole swim?’ he said gruffly. ‘No.’
Heap nodded. ‘Could you say a little more?’
‘We’re tracked for the entire crossing by these coastguards here. And though I hate to give praise, even where it’s due, Harrison and her team are bloody brilliant. Bloody brilliant.’
‘Why, Phil, that’s the nicest thing I’ve ever heard you say,’ Harrison called across the room.
‘Aye, well make the most of it,’ he called back. ‘You won’t be hearing it again.’
Harrison grinned.
‘We report to the coastguard as the swim begins,’ Kettner continued. ‘Check in with them as we enter each of the shipping lanes and then again as the swim finishes. The coastguard advise shipping of the presence of our pilot boats as they cross the shipping lanes and keep a watchful eye on our progress.’
‘That’s the boat. What about the swimmer?’
‘Well, I’m tracking her. Are you suggesting Rasa’s pilot lied? That he colluded with her in making a false claim?’
‘Is that possible?’
The pilot shook his head wearily. ‘I’ve been doing this for thirty years and nobody has ever accused me of that. Why would I do that now?’
‘I’m talking hypothetically, not about you or Rasa’s pilot,’ Gilchrist said.
Kettner gave her a long, fierce look. Gilchrist held it.
‘I thought you realized. I am Rasa’s pilot. Look. People think swimming the Channel is a solo effort. It’s not. It’s a team effort. Every swimmer is supported by a team. Family, friends and colleagues. The team on my escort boat, the observer, me and my crew. Are you suggesting all of us colluded in this fraud?’
‘So what happened?’
‘She swam the channel.’
‘So where have these rumours come from?’
‘People are vicious. You think you’re part of a big supportive club and on the whole you are, but Channel swimmers have the same character flaws as anyone else. Maybe more because the determination that’s required is a kind of ruthlessness and brings with it a focus on yourself that excludes thoughts and feelings about anyone else. That means, if some of the people in this community see the merest hint of weakness or doubt, they pounce.’
‘So we’re discovering,’ Gilchrist said.
‘And anyway, the twat who started the fuss isn’t even a swimmer. Ultramarathon runner?’ Kettner snorted. ‘I’ve shat ’em.’
‘Sorry to waste our time again, ma’am,’ Heap said on the drive back to Brighton.
‘Not wasted at all, Bellamy. I learned a lot. Knowledge is power, isn’t it?’
‘They say, ma’am.’
Gilchrist’s phone rang. Bilson, she mouthed.
‘Which bit of exciting news are you going to impart first, Mr Bilson,’ she said cheerily.
‘Derek Neill’s DNA.’
‘Matches with …?’
‘Nothing. Nada.’
‘That’s distinctly unexciting,’ Gilchrist said. ‘What about Provocateur.’
‘Well, he’s splashed all over Gulliver’s apartment but not on that other wine glass.’
‘Do you have any exciting news at all?’ Gilchrist said.
‘Always save the best until last, Sarah. That’s a motto you might consider as you get older with regard to us older men.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ she said. ‘Now I’ve got Bellamy here waiting with bated breath.’
‘Tell the Boy Wonder he may abate that breath momentarily. Or do I mean unabate?’
‘Bilson!’
‘Philip Coates also had ketamine in his system.’
‘Great!’ Gilchrist exclaimed. ‘I mean …’
‘I know what you mean, Sarah,’ Bilson said. ‘Nothing so wonderful as establishing a thesis bit by bit. Even if it does involve real people and their suffering.’
‘There wasn’t poison in Roland Gulliver as well, was there?’
Bilson chuckled.
‘You do like icing on your cake, don’t you? What, you mean he was not only drowned and stabbed to death he was also poisoned? There would be a killer who took absolutely no chances. Well, I’m sorry I can’t tie it up all neatly with a bow, to mix metaphors, but no: toxicology came back with no indicators for poison in him.’
‘You’ve been great, as always. Do we have anything outstanding, professionally speaking, I mean?’ Gilchrist said.
‘I think I’ve given you everything I’ve got. Professionally speaking. I’m sorry we can’t do more with that man I saw Roland in the sauna with. I’m sure he’s crucial.’
Gilchrist thought for a moment. Bilson was right. He always was in his area of expertise but he was right about this. She chided herself for not paying more attention to him.
‘If there’s CCTV footage of him to watch then I’ll harass you about it.’
‘I look forward to your harassment.’
Gilchrist turned to Heap. ‘Even though the gym doesn’t have CCTV footage we should have checked who the day members were the day Bilson saw Gulliver in the sauna with this guy.’
‘The deaths started coming thick and fast for us just around then,’ Heap said.
‘I know. But let’s make it a priority, shall we? And what have we concluded about that fraudulent petition?’
‘It’s just sitting there,’ Heap said.
Jimmy Tingley always felt like the ugly American when he was in south-east Asia, even though he wasn’t American nor particularly ugly. Nondescript is the way he tried to be and in decades of undercover work he felt he had succeeded. But in the novel and films the diplomat described as the ugly American did more harm than good, despite his best intentions, because of his woeful ignorance of the actual situation. That’s how Tingley felt.
He’d just got back to Bangkok when Watts phoned him to ask him to help out. Find a guy? His life’s work. Were it not so humid he wouldn’t even break a sweat but as it happened, lying in his cheap room under a wobbly wooden fan beside one of Bangkok’s many canals, he was already in a sweat. The ice-filled glass of vodka on his forehead helped.
He heard a ping and glanced at the laptop beside him. Bob Watts with further details. He read through the email, took a swig of the vodka and reached for his phone.
Gilchrist had been using her flat like a hostel for days. She’d been sleeping on the sofa, avoiding the bedroom and what she regarded as her polluted bed. The place she’d always regarded as her haven and refuge was soiled by her invitation to a stranger to share that bed. She wasn’t into self-examination but she knew something had changed for her the morning Bellamy had summoned her so early.
She made a pot of coffee and stripped her clothes off, leaving them where they fell on her bedroom floor. After she’d showered and put on her bulky dressing gown she stripped the bed too and threw the sheets and pillowcases not in the washing machine but in the bin.
She sat looking out on her balcony. How to make sense of all this? Finance was not her strong point, so the big business stuff baffled her, but people were her strength. She got people. However, figuring out their motivations, that was the tricky bit.
Her phone rang. Kate Simpson.
‘Kate, how are you doing?’
‘I’m trying to stay focused. What is going on?’
‘Best not to ask if you need to focus.’
‘Well, I’m just about to start going to Dover every week to do my regular six-hour swims then a ten-hour. I’ve got my date for my Channel swim. It’s in a month!’
Gilchrist realized that was all Kate was interested in. Anything else was a distraction. She wondered how Bellamy Heap felt about that. Probably fine – he was so bloody perfect.
‘I wondered if you’d come with me,’ Kate said, possibly for the second time.
‘Yeah, right – I’d get about two hundred yards.’
‘Not swimming, you chump. In the pilot boat. I can take half a dozen people with me as my team. It would be great if you were one of them. Bob is coming. And Bellamy, of course.’
‘But I wouldn’t be any use.’
‘You’re a policewoman; you could arrest any jellyfish that come for me.’
‘OK then. Glad I can be of some use. Is Bellamy there?’
‘Er, I’m not sure. I’m afraid I’ve been neglecting him rather. Hang on a second.’
Gilchrist got up and put her jacket on. Kate came back on the line.
‘He’s out.’
‘OK. Thanks, Kate – and thanks for asking. I need to find what I can charge them with.’
‘What?’
‘The jellyfish.’
Gilchrist phoned Heap.
‘You’re still working.’
‘I was just about to call,’ Heap said. ‘Rasa Lewis is around now if we want to see her.’
‘Well, we do. We definitely do.’
Gilchrist loathed Rasa Lewis on sight. As Lewis gestured with long elegant hands for them to enter her hidden, hippy house at the bottom end of Lewes High Street and follow her, her long blonde hair swayed above her perfect bum. She was long-legged, big-breasted and slender with a tiny oval face and perfect features.
Gilchrist wasn’t into psychoanalysing herself or others but she had always assumed that very long hair was something for little girls to look cute with but that any woman who wore very long hair over the age of about thirty was a self-absorbed narcissist who thought herself a fairy-tale princess. Just a theory.
Lewis offered them the sofa and, once they were seated, lowered herself into an ample armchair, bringing her feet and legs up into the cross-legged Lotus position. Trust her to do the look-at-me sitting posture, Gilchrist thought, wondering if she had actually just ground her teeth.
‘We’re here to ask about your relationship with various people,’ Heap said, introductions over. ‘Can we start with Roland Gulliver?’
‘I’ve known him and Tammy for years, though I wouldn’t regard them as friends. Just in the same loose circle.’
‘What did you think about their parting?’ Gilchrist said.
‘I didn’t think anything about it. These things happen. I’m not judgemental about what people get up to in their relationships.’
‘What about your relationship with Derek Neill?’ Gilchrist said.
‘What about it?’ Lewis said, running her long fingers through her long hair.
‘Are you together or not?’
‘Yes.’
‘Together?’
‘Or not. Neither of us feels the need to define our relationship, for in defining it we limit it. I’ve always tried to make my relationships as fluid as possible.’ She looked at Heap. ‘With no boundaries.’
‘When did you last see Roland Gulliver?’ Heap said.
‘It must be a couple of years. As I said, we weren’t close. And I can’t remember the last time I saw Tammy. I might have bumped into her in town but I don’t recall.’
‘But Derek has been seeing quite a lot of him,’ Gilchrist said.
‘You’d have to ask Derek about that.’
‘He didn’t say anything to you about those meetings?’
‘Isn’t that hearsay evidence or something?’ Rasa said. ‘I’m afraid I don’t do gossip.’
‘What about Christine Bromley?’
‘Obviously, I’ve known her for years. Though, again, we were never close.’
‘Do you have close girlfriends?’ Gilchrist said, imagining this perfect woman cutting a swathe through all the men she met, her long hair swaying as she strode over them. Steady, Sarah, steady.
‘I don’t have close anybodies,’ Lewis said, smoothing her hair again. ‘I learned early in life to be self-sufficient. Very early.’
‘What about Phil Coates? You were close to him, weren’t you?’
Lewis seemed to search for the most appropriate facial expression until it settled into sadness.
‘Philip could always be relied on. I will miss him.’
‘Can you think of anyone who might wish him harm?’
‘Harm? He had a heart attack and drowned, didn’t he?’
‘He was poisoned and he drowned as a consequence. His death is being treated as a murder.’
It seemed to take a moment for that to sink in. A single frown line appeared on Lewis’s flawless forehead.
‘I didn’t know his working life well enough to know if that would create enemies – although capitalism is essentially divisive. He lived up in
York but I’d seen him a little recently because he was working on a project in Salthaven.’
‘The lido,’ Heap said.
‘Yes. But I don’t think anything came of it.’
‘You weren’t part of the Save Salthaven Lido opposition to his company’s plans then?’
‘I don’t do protests. I focus in my life on living properly. If everyone did the same the world would be a better place, don’t you think?’
‘I’ll need to think about that,’ Gilchrist said.
‘Do,’ Lewis said simply. Gilchrist tried not to bridle at Lewis’s patronizing tone. She caught Heap glancing at her. Clearly she wasn’t succeeding.
‘You have been the target of online trolling by someone calling himself Sting Ray,’ Heap said. ‘Philip Coates tried to defend you.’
‘He was always gallant. But both of us decided to rise above such pettiness. What? Do you think Sting Ray could have harmed Philip? I thought trolls were so horrible because they’re too pathetic to engage in any real-world activity.’
‘That’s generally true,’ Heap said. ‘So there is nothing for you to worry about. But has anything been happening out of the ordinary in your life.’
‘Aside from people dying all around me, you mean?’
‘Yes, aside from that. Any interruption to your routine? Odd meetings or incidents? Anything at all.’
‘Not that I can think of,’ Lewis said, standing. ‘But if I think of anything I’ll be sure to let you know.’
Gilchrist would ordinarily have resisted being so summarily dismissed, but instead she laughed.
‘Just one final question, please Ms Lewis,’ she said, as she too stood. ‘A man in his late forties, early fifties. Paunchy, but strong-looking arms. Not gym-workout pretend strength, but properly exercised. Tanned. Dark hair, neatly cut. Ring any bells?’
‘Not the tiniest one,’ Lewis said. ‘Sorry.’
Back out in the street Gilchrist and Heap exchanged looks.
‘You don’t get many of those to the pound where I come from, ma’am,’ Heap said.
‘I don’t know where you come from and I don’t really know what you mean but your analysis sounds about right,’ Gilchrist replied.
FIFTEEN
Swimming with the Dead Page 16
