Author: Simon Beckett
Category: Thriller
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/simon-beckett/page,8,50621-the_restless_dead.html
Six weeks was too long.
Fine. Then Villiers locked himself away and drank himself into a stupor for the missing fortnight. And then came out here and shot himself. It was possible. Although I was sceptical that someone like Leo Villiers would cut himself off so completely, I hadn’t known him. And people were unpredictable enough even when they weren’t contemplating suicide.
Yet I couldn’t believe that was the explanation either.
A shiver ran through me, reminding me that it was time to go back. Mobile reception was unreliable away from the house, and for all I knew Lundy might be trying to get hold of me. I needed to check on the situation with the recovery service as well, and I’d still to call Jason to let him know I wouldn’t make it to the party. That was a silver lining of sorts, I supposed.
Turning away, I began retracing my steps to the house. I’d felt better after the hot coffee, and thought a walk would help my headache. Now I was belatedly starting to think it hadn’t been such a good idea. Despite the cold breeze I was sweating heavily, and I couldn’t stop shivering. The journey back seemed to take an age. I was forced to detour each time I found the way cut off by another water-filled ditch, and there seemed far more of them than I remembered. By the time I reached the house I felt worn out, my arms and legs leaden. Another car was parked near mine on the gravelled parking area, though unfortunately it wasn’t from the recovery service. Not unless they’d sent an old white Ford Fiesta with a bright-red racing stripe across its top.
Trask’s son was again busy under the bonnet of the old white Land Rover. A blond girl I guessed was the Fiesta’s owner stood next to him, arms folded and lips clamped tight. She looked in her late teens, pretty but a little overweight. And overdressed: her tight skirt, high-heeled shoes and heavy make-up looked more suited for a Saturday night.
Neither of them noticed me approaching, and their voices carried clearly on the creekside path.
‘… come on, Jamie, why not?’ Her voice was pure Essex. Trask’s son answered without breaking off what he was doing.
‘You know why.’
‘But that was ages ago. I came specially when I heard!’
‘I didn’t ask you to. If you can’t—’
He stopped when he realized I was there. The girl turned to give me a glare, as though I were to blame for the argument. I mustered a tired smile as I continued past to my car. Disregarding me, she turned back to Trask’s son. Her fingernails were a bright, blood red, and the toenails peeping from the open-fronted shoes were painted to match.
‘Come on, Jamie, he won’t know.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘Then what’s the problem?’
He didn’t answer. I was trying hard not to listen but it was impossible not to.
‘Jamie, why won’t you talk to me?’ Again there was no response. The girl’s wheedling tone became accusing. ‘You didn’t use to be like this.’
‘Stacey …’
‘Well, you didn’t. It’s not my fault that—’
‘Jesus, give it a rest!’
There was a bang as the Land Rover’s bonnet was slammed shut. I looked round and saw Trask’s son stalking back to the house, leaving the girl standing behind.
‘Jamie? Jamie! Right, fuck off then!’ the girl yelled after him. The slam of the front door came through the trees. ‘Prick!’
She turned away, her face flushed and angry. She was close to tears, but then she saw me and her mouth twisted.
‘The fuck are you looking at?’
Yanking open the Fiesta’s door, she threw herself inside and started it up. Gravel scattered from its tyres as she pulled away, over-revving as she accelerated back towards the road.
I wasn’t the only one having a bad day.
The noise from the car engine faded. The only sound was the lapping of water from the creek and the calling of seabirds. I checked my phone for messages, but there was nothing from either Lundy or the recovery service. I was putting it away again when it rang.
It was the DI. ‘Just got your message, Dr Hunter. I’ve been in the post-mortem. Had a spot of bother, did you?’
I looked at the flat expanse of fields and water, as if they might offer some last minute inspiration. ‘You could say that.’
Without going into details, I explained that my car wasn’t going anywhere, and that I’d no idea how long a repair would take. I’d expected annoyance, but Lundy seemed as amiable as ever.
‘Well, there’s not much point you coming to the mortuary now anyway,’ he said when I’d finished. ‘Frears was ready to wind things up when I came out. No major surprises. Probable cause of death a contact shotgun wound to the head. Body’s male, and the X-rays didn’t show any bone injuries that might make us think it’s not Leo Villiers. The watch has an inscription on the back from his mother, and the rest of the clothes all match ones Villiers wore. We can’t say for sure yet that they’re his, but they’re the same expensive brands he bought. So, pending DNA results, it’s looking like a pretty solid ID.’
‘What about the piece of metal stuck in the gullet?’ I asked, glancing towards the house to make sure no one was nearby.
‘Gone off to the lab with the cartridge wad. It’s badly deformed, so we still can’t say if it’s a pellet or not, but you were right about it being steel rather than lead. Stainless, by the look of it.’ I heard him sniff. ‘That’s about it. All fairly straightforward, so I don’t think you missed much.’
Neither did I, but I still should have been there. ‘I can take a look tomorrow. My car should be fixed by then.’
Even if it wasn’t, I’d hire one. I might not be able to add much to Frears’ findings, but I’d at least like to try. I heard the DI clear his throat.
‘Thanks, but I don’t think there’s any need.’
I could hear the embarrassment in his voice. I bit back the impulse to try to persuade him, knowing this would have come from Clarke. Nothing I said would make any difference.
‘OK,’ I said, masking my disappointment. ‘Let me know if you need me.’
Lundy assured me he would and rang off. I lowered the phone. Well, you did a great job today, Hunter. Congratulations. Unlocking my car, I sank wearily onto the driver’s seat and sat with my legs stretched outside. So that was that. It was hard to believe the day had started off with such promise.
I watched a seagull splash down into the creek. It was still full, small ripple-like waves lapping close to the top of the bank. Yet in another few hours the water-filled saltmarsh would drain and revert back to muddy ditches and channels. And then the whole cycle would repeat itself, again and again.
I was sure there was a healthy lesson in perspective there somewhere, but right now I felt too dispirited to appreciate it. I pulled my jacket tighter as another shiver ran through me. It must be turning colder, I thought. I shivered again, and then, as though my body had been waiting for me to notice, it occurred to me that I wasn’t feeling very good at all. I’d been so fixated on not missing the post-mortem that I’d shut out everything else. The shivers weren’t just down to the cold, I realized. I was starting to feel feverish. My headache was worse, joined by a soreness in my joints and throat, and when I touched the glands in my neck they felt tight and swollen.
I sat up straighter, realizing how stupid I’d been. I’d been feeling out of sorts for days, had even woken up feeling as though I’d a hangover. Getting soaked in the creek hadn’t helped, and even then I’d not had the sense to get out of all my wet clothes. And now, surprise, surprise, I was coming down with a chill. For most people that would be no big deal.
But I wasn’t most people.
As well as a scar on my stomach, the knife attack at my flat had left me without a spleen. That weakened my immune system, which meant I had to take prophylactic antibiotics every day for the rest of my life. Most of the time it wasn’t a problem: I’d recover from colds and bugs like anyone else. But there was always a risk that an infection could flare up into something called overwhelming post-
splenectomy infection, or OPSI. It was rare, but when it happened it could happen fast.
And it could be fatal.
I got to my feet, the weakness in my legs another sign of my stupidity. I was supposed to be a GP, for God’s sake, I should have known better than to ignore the warning signs. Now what had just been a frustrating day had turned into something very different.
I felt weak and unsteady as I went to open the car boot. My work often involved travelling – or at least it had – sometimes to places even more isolated than this, so I kept emergency antibiotics permanently packed. Amoxicillin was a broad-spectrum antibiotic, much stronger than the penicillin I took every day. Neither would be any use if this was a virus, but they’d help fight off a bacterial infection.
I swallowed the pills down with a bottle of water from the supply I also carried in the boot, then collapsed back on to the driver’s seat again while I debated what to do. If this developed into OPSI then I needed to be in a hospital. On the other hand, it might still prove to be no more than an annoying virus I’d shake off with no ill-effects.
The problem was there was no way of knowing. At the moment I didn’t feel ill enough to go to hospital, but that could soon change. Especially if I sat around for much longer in wet clothes. All right, then. I quickly ran through my options. Going back to London obviously wasn’t an option, and neither was sitting around out here any longer. My head throbbed as I stood up. I waited for the light-headedness to pass and then set off along the gravel footpath running through the trees.
Up close, Trask’s house was even more striking, angular and contemporary, with weathered cedar walls designed to blend in with the natural environment. The concrete pilings raising it off the floor might make it flood-proof, but they also meant I’d a flight of steps to climb up to the front door. I felt as weak as a baby as I hauled myself to the top, pausing to catch my breath before knocking on the oiled wood. I heard the dog barking from inside, and a moment later Trask opened the door.
He didn’t seem overjoyed to see me. ‘Is the recovery here?’
‘No, I … there’s been a change of plan. Is there a hotel nearby?’
‘A hotel?’ Trask sounded as though that were an alien concept. ‘I’ve no idea. I don’t think so.’
‘What about a B and B? Or a pub?’
‘No, not for miles. Why? Don’t tell me you’re turning this into a holiday?’ Some of his irritation faded as he looked at me. His frown deepened. ‘Are you all right? You look bloody awful.’
‘I’m fine, it’s … it’s just a bug.’ I played my last card: after this I was out of ideas. ‘We passed a house on the way here, a holiday rental. Do you know who owns it?’
If the owners were local and prepared to let it out for a few nights then I could rest up until the antibiotics kicked in. Part of me knew I was being stupid, gambling that I wasn’t going to get worse rather than make a fuss. But I’d deal with that if it happened.
Trask was looking at me uncertainly. ‘The old boathouse, you mean?’
I nodded, relieved. ‘Do you know whose it is?’
‘It’s ours.’ He seemed taken aback. ‘My wife was renovating it.’
At another time I might have picked up that something was wrong, but right now it took all my energy just keeping upright. ‘I know this is an imposition, but can I stay there tonight? I’ll pay for a full week,’ I added, seeing his reluctance.
He looked away, running a hand through his hair. ‘I’m not … it isn’t really ready.’
‘It doesn’t matter. If there’s a bed and some heating, that’ll be enough.’
Trask still didn’t seem happy. But then he looked at me again, and whatever he saw must have decided him.
‘Wait here, I’ll go and get Rachel. She knows more about it than I do.’
With that he closed the door, leaving me standing outside. I felt too wretched to care, assuming he didn’t want me passing whatever I’d got on to his family. I leaned back against the wall, resting my head against the weathered timber. It seemed a long time before the door opened again. This time it was Trask’s wife. The attractive features were set in unforgiving lines, and the green eyes were cold as she faced me.
‘Andrew says you want to rent the boathouse.’
‘Just for the night.’
‘Bad case of man flu, is it?’ She handed me a set of car keys. ‘Here, go and wait in the car while I get some things together. You can put the heater on.’
Feeling too drained to be embarrassed, I trudged back through the copse to where the cars were parked. Trask’s wife hadn’t said which of them we were going in, but the keys had an electronic fob, so it wasn’t the antiquated white Defender. I climbed into the newer grey Land Rover, feeling a touch of déjà vu at the memory of the car I used to drive as I started the engine. While I waited for the heater to warm up I took out my phone to cancel the recovery. I hated causing Trask and his family any more trouble, but it wasn’t as though I had much choice.
I called Jason after the recovery service to let him know I wasn’t going to be able to make it to the Cotswolds. He was sceptical at first, assuming it was just an excuse to duck the party, but something in my voice must have convinced him. Watch yourself, he told me, sounding concerned. I said I would, aware that I’d left it a little late for that. I was putting away my phone when Trask’s wife reappeared. She was carrying a cardboard box and bags of what I guessed were towels and bedding. I got out of the car, a reflexive action to help, but she brusquely shook her head.
‘I can manage.’
It was perhaps as well. While she bad-temperedly dumped her parcels into the back of the Land Rover, I collected my laptop and travel bag from the car. My legs felt like water.
‘That it?’ she asked when I came back. ‘Come on then.’
Despite the car heater I was still shivering as we set off. She didn’t speak but communicated her disapproval every time she changed gear. The silence built until I had to say something.
‘Sorry for putting you to all this trouble.’
‘It’s a holiday let. That’s what it’s for.’
Another emphatic gear change. I tried again. ‘I honestly didn’t know who owned the boathouse when I asked about it.’
‘Would it have made any difference?’
‘I’m just … I was hoping to get out of your way.’
‘Yeah, that’s worked out well, hasn’t it?’
Her face in profile was angry and uncompromising. I’d no idea why she was so upset, but I’d had enough.
‘Look, forget about the boathouse. Just … drop me off anywhere.’
‘So now you’ve changed your mind?’
Jesus. ‘Just pull over. I’ll get out here.’
There was nothing except marshland and fields either side of the creek, but I didn’t care. She frowned.
‘Now you’re being ridiculous. I can’t leave you in the middle of nowhere.’
‘Then drop me somewhere I can get a taxi. The town, anywhere, I don’t care.’
She glanced across at me. I tried to stop shivering but couldn’t. ‘You don’t look good,’ she conceded.
‘I’m fine,’ I said, knowing I was being stupid as well as stubborn.
Trask’s wife didn’t respond. She carried on driving for a while before she spoke. ‘This isn’t just a cold, is it?’
I was going to say it didn’t matter. But the more rational part of me recognized that I couldn’t afford pride just now.
‘There’s a problem with my immune system,’ I admitted. ‘What sort of problem?’
‘Nothing contagious,’ I told her, guessing what she was thinking. I didn’t want to have to explain, but I couldn’t see a way round it. Oh, hell. ‘I don’t have a spleen.’
‘Shit.’ She sounded concerned as well as shocked. ‘Shouldn’t you see a doctor?’
‘I am a doctor. I’m on antibiotics. I just need somewhere to rest up.’
That earned another glance, dubious this time. ‘I t
hought you told Andrew you were a forensic expert?’
‘I am.’ I wished I’d never started this. ‘I used to be a GP.’
‘Not a very good one. What the hell were you thinking, sitting around in wet clothes? Why didn’t you say something?’
In hindsight it wasn’t one of my better ideas, but I didn’t have the energy to argue. ‘I’ll be fine,’ I repeated weakly.
Trask’s wife gave me a look that told me what she thought of that. ‘I hope so. We’re there now.’
She bumped the Land Rover on to a cinder-covered parking area and put the handbrake on. The boathouse was a small stone building that jutted out from the bank of the creek. Its lower half stood in the water, stone walls stained with a line to show where the high tide came. The top half was a single storey built on a level with the creek bank. Two small windows were on either side of a door, like a child’s drawing of a house.
Trask’s wife went to it, balancing the box against the wall while she went through a large ring of jangling keys.
‘Come on, where are you?’ she muttered to herself.
Finally, she found the right key and nudged open the door with her hip. The inside was a surprise. There were no interior walls, just a single large room that had been decked out like a studio apartment. It was much brighter than I’d have thought from outside. The unplastered stone walls had been painted white, and light spilled through a large arched window facing out on to the creek. A small kitchen area had been built at one side, while a sofa and armchair stood either side of a wood-burning stove at the other. The furniture was sixties-style Scandinavian, plain lines and muted colours, and a deep-red rug covered most of the varnished floorboards.
Everything looked new and unused, and a faint smell of fresh paint still hung in the air. Small as it was, the place was bright and airy, the sort of thing that could feature in the pages of a glossy travel magazine. Trask had said his wife had renovated it, and she’d done a good job.
She dumped the box down on the kitchen worktop. ‘We weren’t expecting anyone to be staying here till the season starts,’ she said, going round briskly flicking switches. Warm air began to waft from a heater mounted on one wall. ‘It’s not finished but you should be comfortable enough. The woodburner works if you need it. No wi-fi or TV, but you can generally pick up a mobile signal. Oh, and the bathroom’s in there.’