The Restless Dead Read online

  Trask was right about the poor mobile reception. I tried wandering round, but my phone stubbornly refused to find a signal. Fretting over the delay, I put it away as Trask finished securing the rope to his Land Rover. I took a last look back at the creek before I climbed into my car again. It was completely flooded, seabirds bobbing on the small waves that ruffled its surface as they were swept along by an invisible current. There was no sign of the causeway at all, and from the erosion on the creek’s soft banks from the normal high-water mark, the level was still rising. If Trask hadn’t towed me out my car would have been completely submerged before much longer, and there was ample evidence that the tides sometimes rose even higher. A line of dead and bedraggled vegetation lined the creek’s banks, detritus from what looked like a recent flood. With the land around here so low-lying, it wouldn’t take much for it be overwhelmed.

  The tow took fifteen uncomfortable minutes. My arms and legs were cold and soaked through, and my boots squelched whenever I moved. The road meandered, following a convoluted path through the wetlands. From what I could see there was more water than land, a maze of reedy channels and pools in the boggy-looking saltmarsh. The Backwaters were well named.

  I saw a few small boats dotted around as I steered behind the Defender, but most of them looked either abandoned or were still battened down from the winter. There weren’t many houses, and most of the buildings I saw were old ruins steadily crumbling back into the waterlogged landscape.

  Even so, Trask wasn’t the only person who lived out here. We passed a converted boathouse, an old stone building that jutted out into the creek’s waters. A sign by the small parking area announced, Holiday cottage to let. It seemed a remote place for anyone to want to stay, but it was certainly peaceful. With the creeks and channels glinting in the muted sunlight, I couldn’t deny the Backwaters had a desolate appeal. At another time I might have liked to stay there myself.

  But this was no time to let my concentration wander. My head still ached, and I was starting to shiver. It was an effort to keep the car on the winding road behind the Land Rover, and I wasn’t sorry when Trask pulled off on to a gravelled parking area. Behind it was a copse of young trees, and through their still-bare branches I could see a contemporary-looking house on the bank of the creek.

  We’d arrived.

  Making sure the handbrake was on, I stiffly climbed out. The cold air on my wet clothes sent a chill through me. Trying to disregard it, I looked around. There were two other cars there. One was a Mini convertible that had been covered by a plastic tarpaulin. It stood on a banked-up area of ground to keep it clear of flooding, and from the grime on the tarpaulin I guessed it hadn’t been moved for some time. Nearby was another Defender, this one white and ancient, once again with the stovepipe of a snorkel sticking up from it. The young man working under the open bonnet straightened to stare at us.

  Trask jumped out of the Land Rover. ‘Jamie, run and fetch a towel, will you?’

  The request was met with reluctance. ‘Why, what’s happened?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, just get the towel.’

  The younger man’s expression made it clear what he thought. He was seventeen or eighteen, good-looking and nearly as tall as Trask. The resemblance was clearly that of father and son, and judging by the teenager’s expression they shared a similar temperament as well as looks. Wiping his hands on a piece of cloth, he irritably tossed it down before heading for the house without another word.

  If Trask was embarrassed he didn’t show it. ‘You should get a signal out here if you want to call a recovery service.’

  ‘Thanks. Nice house,’ I commented, looking over at the building visible through the copse. The cedar-clad walls were faded to a silver-grey that blended in with the trees, and the sloping roof was lined with solar panels. It faced out over a broad stretch of creek, and I saw now it sat on thick concrete pilings that raised it off the ground. It had obviously been designed to withstand floods, which said a lot about the sort of weather they must get out here.

  Trask looked surprised. He glanced at the house as though it wasn’t something he usually thought about. ‘I built it for my wife.’

  I expected him to say more, but that seemed to be as much information as I was going to get. He obviously wasn’t one for small talk. ‘What’s the address? For the recovery service,’ I added when that prompted a frown.

  ‘It’s Creek House, but the postcode won’t help them out here. Tell them to take the road into the Backwaters, then follow the creek until they reach us. If they wind up at Willets Point they’ve gone too far.’

  That was the promontory where Leo Villiers lived. Conscious that Trask seemed to be watching me, I kept any reaction from my face. ‘Thanks.’

  His eyes went to my wet clothes. ‘Do you want a hot drink while you’re waiting?

  ‘A coffee would be great.’

  Trask gave a nod, already turning away. I couldn’t blame him for not inviting a dripping wet stranger into his home, although I’d have appreciated the chance to dry off and change. I’d brought fresh clothes for my stay at Jason and Anja’s, but I needed to sort out my car before I did anything else. Barring miracles, it wasn’t just the pathologist’s briefing I was going to miss.

  Conscious of how time was ticking by, I phoned the recovery service. I didn’t hold out much hope of getting a truck out here very soon, and what little I had was soon dashed. This was a bank holiday weekend and the roads were full of people going away. And breaking down, apparently. Priority was being given to lone women, medical emergencies and cases where the car might cause an accident, none of which applied to me. When I explained I was on my way to a post-mortem, the harried operator was less than sympathetic.

  ‘Well, they’ll still be dead when you get there, won’t they?’

  I was told they’d try to get a mechanic out in the next few hours, although even that couldn’t be guaranteed. There was no use in arguing, so I gave details of my location as best I could and rang off. Christ, what a balls-up. My headache was getting worse. Rubbing my temples, I tried Lundy next. I wasn’t looking forward to this call, and felt a sneaking relief when it went straight to voicemail. Without going into details, I left a message saying I’d be delayed because my car had broken down. Hopefully by the time he phoned me back I’d have better news.

  The shivering had grown worse. I needed to get out of my wet clothes, so I went to the boot for my overnight bag. At least the water hadn’t got in there, which was something. My trousers were soaked to mid-thigh, but I wasn’t about to strip off outside Trask’s house. Instead I settled for swapping my wet shirt for a thick sweater, and then pulled my only-slightly damp jacket back on.

  That done, there was nothing to do but wait. Even though I knew it was clutching at straws, I tried the ignition again. The engine gave a dull, grinding noise and then stopped. The next time it sounded even weaker. I waited a while and then reached to try it again.

  ‘You’ll only make it worse.’

  I hadn’t heard Trask’s son approach. ‘I don’t think it’ll make much difference.’

  ‘Maybe not, but it’s not going to start again until it’s dried out. Flooding the engine isn’t going to help.’

  The advice wasn’t quite surly, but it wasn’t exactly gracious either. He really did look like a younger version of Trask, loose-limbed and athletic in faded T-shirt and jeans. On his feet were some sort of neoprene surf shoes that had masked his footsteps. He held out a thickly folded towel.

  ‘Coffee’s on its way.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I took the towel, drying off my hands and forearms. ‘Your dad said you know about engines.’

  ‘A bit.’ He glanced at my car, clearly unimpressed. ‘If you’ve got salt water in it you’ll need the whole thing stripped down and cleaned. The oil’ll need changing, maybe the fuel. It’s a big job.’

  Fantastic. I’d been considering taking up his father’s suggestion and asking if he could take a look after all. But aside from h
is obvious lack of enthusiasm, it sounded as though I’d need an experienced mechanic anyway.

  ‘Is there a garage around here?’ I asked.

  He shook his head. ‘None that’d be any use.’

  ‘How about car hire? Or taxis?’

  If there was any sort of transport available in the nearby town I’d at least be able to get to the mortuary. I could worry about my car later.

  But he gave a snort. ‘Have you seen Cruckhaven?’

  I would have offered to pay him to drive me, but the truculent look on his face told me I’d be wasting my time. He clearly didn’t want to get involved in a stranger’s problems, and I couldn’t blame him. Frustrated, I swore under my breath as he went back to the house. I considered asking his father to take me to the mortuary, but quickly gave up on the idea. Trask had come close to leaving me stranded in the creek, and his entire attitude made it plain he was helping me under sufferance. I could imagine his response if I suggested putting him to any more trouble.

  I had to try something, though. The signal wasn’t strong enough to go online, so I phoned a directory enquiry number and asked for nearby garages. There might not be anything locally, but Trask’s son might only have meant the immediate area. Even if there was one a little further away it would be quicker than waiting for the recovery truck.

  Given the way my luck had been running I wasn’t optimistic, so I was surprised when the operator came up with a number. It was a boat and car repair business in Cruckhaven, the town I’d driven through earlier. Telling myself not to build up my hopes, I called the number. A man’s gruff voice answered.

  ‘Coker’s Marine and Auto.’

  ‘My car’s broken down. Do you do recoveries?’ I asked.

  ‘Depends whereabouts you are.’

  ‘In the Backwaters.’ I explained about getting caught on the causeway. There was a snort.

  ‘Bet you won’t try that again in a hurry. OK, I should be able to sort you out. Hang on, let me get a pen.’

  I offered up a silent prayer of thanks. Now there was an outside chance I could at least make the post-mortem. I checked my watch, gauging how much time I had left as the man came back on the phone.

  ‘Right, fire away. Whereabouts in the Backwaters are you?’

  ‘A place called Creek House. It’s not far from an old boathouse. Do you need directions?’

  For a heartbeat he didn’t answer. ‘Don’t bother, I know it. You a friend of theirs?’

  An edge had entered his voice, but I didn’t think anything of it. ‘No, they just gave me a tow. How soon can you get here?’

  ‘Sorry, can’t help you.’

  For a second I thought I’d misheard. ‘But you just said you could come out.’

  ‘And now I’m saying I can’t.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Is there a problem?’

  ‘Yeah, you’ve got salt water in your engine.’

  The line went dead.

  What the hell …? I stared at my phone, unable to believe he’d hung up. The suddenly hostility had come out of the blue, as soon as I mentioned Creek House. I hit the steering wheel and swore again. Whatever issue the garage owner had with Trask, it had just cost me my last chance of making the post-mortem.

  The headache was throbbing all the way from the base of my neck. Massaging it, I closed my eyes and tried to think what to do next. A dog’s excited barks made me open them again. A woman and a young girl were coming along the path through the copse, accompanied by a brown mongrel that pranced and yapped around them. The girl was precariously carrying a mug, holding it up as the dog bounced around.

  ‘… spill it! Naughty girl, Cassie,’ the girl was saying, but in a tone of voice that encouraged the dog even more. She was about eight or nine, with the same bone structure as her father and brother. Even though she was laughing, the thin arms and dark rings under her eyes suggested some underlying problem.

  I assumed the woman must be her mother, although there was no obvious resemblance between them. She was slim and attractive, considerably younger than Trask. She had dark, honey-coloured skin and thick black hair tied casually back with a black band. Her jeans were faded and paint-stained, while the chunky sweater she wore looked at least two sizes too big. It made her look even younger, and I found it hard to believe she could have a teenage son.

  ‘We’ve brought you a coffee,’ the young girl said, carefully offering the mug she was carrying.

  ‘Thanks. Here, let me.’ I hurried to take it, giving her mother a smile. She returned it, but it was a token effort that vanished as soon as it came. She wasn’t conventionally pretty, her features were too strong for that. But she was undeniably attractive, with striking green eyes that were all the more startling against the olive skin. I found myself thinking that Trask was a lucky man.

  ‘Dad says you got stuck on the causeway,’ the girl said, looking past me at my car.

  ‘That’s right. I was glad he was there to tow me off.’

  ‘He says it was a bloody stupid thing to do.’

  ‘Fay!’ her mother admonished.

  ‘Well, he did.’

  ‘He was right,’ I said, smiling ruefully. ‘I won’t do it again.’

  Trask’s daughter studied me. The dog had flopped down at her feet, grinning up at her with a lolling tongue. It was only young, hardly more than a puppy. ‘Where are you from?’ she asked me.

  ‘London.’

  ‘I know someone from London. That’s where—’

  ‘OK, Fay, let’s leave the gentleman alone,’ her mother cut in. She regarded me with a look that was cool rather than unfriendly. ‘How long are you going to be here?’

  ‘I don’t know. It looks like I picked a really bad day to break down.’ The weak attempt at a joke fell flat. I shrugged. ‘The garage in Cruckhaven won’t come out, so I’ll just have to wait for the recovery service.’

  I saw her react when I mentioned the garage, but she made no comment. ‘When can they send someone?’

  ‘They can’t say. But I’ll be out of your way as soon as I can.’

  The green eyes considered me. ‘I hope so. Come on, Fay.’

  I watched them walk back to the house, Trask’s wife slim and poised as she rested her hand protectively on her daughter’s shoulder while the dog sprinted ahead. Well, that was blunt. I wondered if the inhabitants of the Backwaters were always this friendly, or if it was just me.

  But I’d more to worry about than local hostility, so I soon put it from my mind.

  7

  THE SOFT BANKS of the creek had been eroded away. Tides and currents had conspired to carve a sweeping arc out of the sandy earth, like a giant bite-mark flanked with reeds and marsh grass. It formed a natural trap, in which a variety of flotsam bobbed on the slow-moving water. Driftwood and twigs bumped alongside man-made detritus: a muddy training shoe, a doll’s head, plastic bottles and food containers, all caught in the circular eddy.

  It was peaceful out here in the Backwaters. The world seemed ruled by gulls, marsh and water. And sky: the flatness of the landscape made it seem huge and vaulting. If I looked back the way I came, Trask’s house was just visible behind the copse of trees a couple of hundred yards away. I’d headed out along the creek after I’d finished the coffee. There was a path of sorts, not much more than a ribbon of bare earth worming its way through the tough and wiry grasses. It soon petered out, though, and I found it wasn’t possible to walk any distance without being diverted by another water-filled ditch or pool. It would be much easier in a boat, although even then I could imagine quickly becoming lost in this maze of saltmarsh and reeds.

  I watched the swirling water nudge the trainer against a tennis ball without really noticing it. I’d been too restless to sit in my wet car while I waited for the recovery truck. I still hadn’t spoken to Lundy, but I knew the pathologist’s briefing would have already started. That wouldn’t take long, and then Frears would go ahead with the post-mortem whether I was there or not. Not that it would make any diffe
rence. I doubted I’d have been able to contribute much anyway. I was under no illusion about why I’d been included in the investigation, and my presence was even more redundant once Sir Stephen had identified his son’s belongings. Decomposed or not, confirming the ID and probable cause of death seemed likely to be a formality after that. Just as everyone had thought – with the possible exception of his father – Leo Villiers had killed Emma Derby, his estranged lover, and then cracked under the pressure and shot himself.

  So why did I still feel uneasy?

  I looked out across the waterlogged landscape. Not far from where I stood, a derelict old boat lay stranded with its bow on the bank and its stern sunk into the water, crumbling and rotten. On the bank next to it was a dying willow tree. The bottom half of its thick trunk was stained, and strands of dead grass and weeds trailed from its lower branches as a reminder that the creek wasn’t always so sedate. It wasn’t hard to see how Leo Villiers’ body could have remained hidden for several weeks out here, sunk to the bottom of some deeper hole until it refloated and was carried into the estuary by the tide. It was a perfectly plausible scenario.

  Except I still felt six weeks was too long for it to have played out in. Four, perhaps, but not six. Even if the body had remained on the creek bed for much of the time, it would still have been susceptible to the twice daily tides. It would have been dragged and pulled across the sandy bottom, bumped against rocks and stones, all the while subject to the depredations of whatever scavengers happened upon it. And during all that time its own internal decay would have continued, accelerating the body’s disintegration even more. I could tell myself that the cold water and air of the winter months would have preserved it, that estimating time-since-death wasn’t an exact science at the best of times, let alone in an estuarine environment like this. It didn’t matter.