Author: Simon Beckett
Category: Thriller
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/simon-beckett/page,9,50621-the_restless_dead.html
She gestured towards a door in a small cubicle tucked away in one corner. I nodded, but I’d noticed something was missing. ‘Where’s the bed?’
I was hoping I wouldn’t have to sleep on the small sofa, but Trask’s wife went over to a section of wall panelled with rough-hewn planks. Taking hold of a leather strap, she heaved and the entire panel swung out to reveal a pull-down bed.
‘I’ve brought bedding and towels in the car,’ she said unenthusiastically. ‘You might as well take it easy while I get everything made up.’
I didn’t argue. An armchair was next to the arched window. I sank into it, light-headed and shivering despite the warm air from the heater. I was feeling feverish now, my whole body aching and weak. Outside, I saw that the water level in the creek looked much lower. For as far as I could see there were only fields, dunes and water. I wondered if I’d done the right thing, if I shouldn’t have just found a hospital. If my condition deteriorated it would take a long time for any help to get out here. I’d be on my own.
But I was used to that.
I got to my feet when Trask’s wife came back, but she brusquely waved aside my offer of help.
‘It’s OK.’ She actually gave me a smile. A strained one, but still a smile. ‘You should sit down before you fall down.’
She had a point. It didn’t take her long to make up the bed. That done, she straightened and looked round.
‘OK, I think that’s everything. I’ve left tea, coffee, some soup and a few other things, so you shouldn’t starve. Do you need anything else?’
‘No thanks.’ I just wanted her to leave so I could collapse onto the bed.
‘I’ll take your boots with me. We’ve got a drying room we can put them in. Someone can drop them off for you tomorrow.’ She regarded me uncertainly. ‘Are you sure you’re going to be OK?’
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘I’ll write you my number down in case … Well, just in case.’ She scribbled it down on a pad from one of the kitchen drawers and handed it to me. ‘Is there anyone I can call to let them know? Your wife or someone?’
‘No. But thanks anyway.’
She still looked unhappy as she went to the door. She reached out to open it then paused. ‘Look, I’m sorry I gave you a hard time earlier. It’s been … a strange day. Emotions have been running a bit high. For all of us.’
If I hadn’t felt so wasted I’d have wondered what that meant. ‘Don’t worry about it. I appreciate what you and your husband have done.’
‘My husband?’ She looked puzzled, then her face blanked as she understood. ‘You mean Andrew?’
Seeing her expression, I realized my mistake. ‘I’m sorry, I thought …’
‘Andrew’s not my husband. He’s my brother-in-law.’
Colour had risen to her cheeks. She went to the door while I floundered for something to say.
‘Call if you need anything,’ she said without looking at me, and went out.
The door closed behind her. I looked down at the notepad in my hand, already knowing what I’d see. In looping script above the phone number she’d written her name.
Rachel Derby.
8
THE CALL OF seagulls woke me next morning. Their raucous cries dragged me from a deep sleep, so loud it sounded as though they were in the room with me. There was a gentle light against my eyelids, which was strange because I slept with the curtains closed. I tried to ignore both, loath to rouse myself, but then opened my eyes. I stared up at the unfamiliar pointed ceiling, with its white-painted roof beams, with no idea where I was. Then I remembered.
Still alive, then.
I lay there for a while, comfortable and warm under the duvet. I felt no great urgency to move as I cautiously took stock of how I felt. Better, I decided. Much better.
And hungry.
That was a good sign. I’d hardly eaten anything the night before. After Rachel Derby had left I’d briefly entertained the idea of a shower, but didn’t feel I had the strength. I took a couple of paracetamol to bring down my temperature, then opened a can of tomato soup, putting it to warm on the electric hob while I got out of the still-wet trousers. I ate what I could, shaking so much that the spoon rattled against the bowl.
I’d no appetite, though. Leaving most of the soup unfinished, I crawled into bed and pulled the duvet over me. I ached all over, and as fits of shuddering racked through me I wondered again if, in a day already littered with bad decisions, coming here rather than a hospital might be the worst one yet. For a few hours I’d dozed feverishly, but at some point I’d sunk into a proper sleep.
Now, looking at my watch, I saw it was after ten. I stared at the wooden beams above me, listening to the scrabble of birds’ feet on the roof. No wonder it sounded as though they were in here with me: they practically were. There was another noise as well, one that it took me longer to identify. I was in the upper floor of what had been a boathouse, with the dock below. The tide must be in, and the sound I could hear was the gentle slap of water from under the floorboards.
I sat up carefully and swung my legs off the bed, taking a moment before I stood up. I still felt washed out, but nothing like the day before. The infection hadn’t been the onset of OPSI after all, just some short-lived bug that either the antibiotics or my own immune system had fought off. Provided I didn’t overdo things, in a day or two I should be fine.
Now I was famished. And badly in need of a shower, I realized, wrinkling my nose. Hungry as I was, I’d enjoy it more once I’d cleaned myself up. The bathroom was compact but as well designed as the rest of the studio flat. I stood for a long time under the hot needles of water, relishing the sting of it. Clean and shaved, I dressed in clothes I’d brought for my stay at Jason and Anja’s. Then I went to see about breakfast.
There was milk, butter and eggs in the fridge, plus a half loaf and an unopened jar of marmalade on the kitchen worktop. I toasted two slices of bread and scrambled a couple of eggs while the kettle boiled for coffee. I ate ravenously at the small dining table, then made more toast which I slathered with butter and marmalade.
When I’d finished I felt better than I had in days. Making myself another coffee, I took it over to the arched window, watching seabirds bobbing on the half-full creek as I finally allowed myself to consider the situation I’d put myself in.
It was a clumsy mistake by any standards. Lundy had told me that Emma Derby, the supposed victim of Leo Villiers, was married. It just never occurred to me that she might have a different surname from her husband. Even when Trask had mentioned his wife I’d failed to make the connection, assuming he must be referring to Rachel.
Emma Derby’s sister.
The scale of my gaffe appalled me. No wonder they’d all seemed so on edge. Trask and his family would have been going through all sorts of torture yesterday. If they hadn’t been told by police, they would have heard rumours about what had been found in the estuary. Even though Emma Derby had been missing too long for the floating remains to be hers, her family would still have wondered. And they’d be aware that, if not hers, the body probably belonged to the man who’d killed her.
Rachel had practically said as much the evening before: It’s been a strange day. Emotions have been running a bit high. For all of us. I winced to think how insensitive I must have seemed. As a police consultant, they’d have assumed I’d know who they were. Instead, blinded by my own problems, I’d had to have it literally spelled out for me. And then only after I’d blundered into the middle of a grieving family’s lives.
But I couldn’t change what had happened. All I could do now was apologize and leave them in peace as quickly as possible. Although, with my car still broken down outside Trask’s house on a bank holiday Sunday, that would be easier said than done.
Finishing my coffee, I called the recovery service. As Rachel had said, there was a signal in the boathouse, if only a weak one. I found a spot by the window where it seemed stronger, but when I rang the number and the ‘non-emergency�
�� option from the menu I found myself held in a queue. While I waited to speak to someone I looked around the studio flat. It was simple but well done, the sort of place I’d like to stay for longer under different circumstances. Trask’s wife had evidently had a knack for design, and as I thought about her my eye fell on the framed photographs stacked against the wall. I recalled Lundy’s saying something about her being a photographer. Curious, I started to go over, only to lose the signal as soon as I stepped away from the window.
I redialled and found myself at the back of the queue again. Great. Turning the phone’s speaker on, I set it down on the windowsill and went over to the photographs. They were obviously waiting to be hung on the boathouse walls, so I didn’t think anyone would mind if I took a look. There were about a dozen, various sizes but all black and white. At the bottom of each photograph was the same flamboyant signature: Emma Derby.
They were mostly still-lifes or landscapes. There was a study of the boathouse and creek, all moody shadows and dark, reflective water. Another showed the sea fort, sun glinting off the waves as it was artfully silhouetted by a monochrome sunset. I was no expert, but they seemed competent enough, if slightly clichéd. One in particular, a shot of a gleaming chrome motorbike on a sandbank, was so obviously staged it practically shouted ‘poster art’.
There was only one portrait. It was of an attractive woman, long dark hair framing her face as she smiled at the camera, naked except for a tastefully draped white sheet. The title, written in the same handwriting as the signature, was simply Me.
It was the first photograph of Emma Derby I’d seen. Even allowing for the flattering nature of the self-portrait, she was very good-looking. And evidently knew it. It took a lot of self-assurance – or vanity – to pose like that. There was a knowing, self-satisfied look in the eyes that stared back at the camera, a suggestion of arrogance in the tilt of her chin. I knew it was unfair to make a snap judgement, but it was hard to imagine the confident woman in the photograph settling in a remote place like this. Or being married to Trask, I thought, an older man with a teenage son and young daughter. Lundy had told me Emma Derby had moved here two or three years ago when she’d got married, so she wasn’t Fay and Jamie’s mother. The DI had also said that her marriage was in difficulties even before her affair with Leo Villiers. Now I was beginning to understand why.
I found myself studying the photograph, looking for any resemblance between the sisters. There was a little around the eyes, and in the luxuriant dark hair, but if I hadn’t known their relationship I wouldn’t have guessed. Rachel Derby wasn’t as obviously attractive, but I didn’t think she’d rely as heavily on make-up and lighting, either.
And there’s another snap judgement. The recorded voice from my phone’s speaker continued to ask me to hold as I went through the rest of the framed photographs. I’d just leaned them back against the wall when a knock came on the door.
I gave a guilty start, as though I’d been caught out. Making sure the photographs weren’t going to slide over, I went to see who it was.
I felt a brief disappointment when I opened the door to find Trask outside. He was wearing the same battered leather jacket as before, although the stern face was clean-shaven today. He was carrying my boots in one hand, and what looked like the cool-box from my car in the other.
‘Can I come in?’
I stood back to let him inside. He glanced around the studio as though unfamiliar with it.
‘Can I get you a coffee?’ I offered.
‘No, I’m not staying. Thought I’d see how you were.’
‘Better, thanks.’
‘Glad to hear it. Here, I brought you these.’ He handed me my boots, setting the cool-box on the floor. ‘Rachel dried them out overnight but you’ll probably want to get them cleaned. The salt’ll rot them if not.’
‘Thanks.’ I appreciated the gesture, but I thought the real reason he’d come was to make sure their lodger had survived the night. Not that I could blame him. ‘Look, I need to apologize for yesterday. I’d no idea who you or your family were. I wouldn’t have put you in that position if I had.’
‘Yes, I heard about that.’ He shrugged. ‘You weren’t to know. I shouldn’t have assumed you did.’
He looked down at the cool-box, the lines on his face deepening. It was either mine or one just like it, and I thought he was about to explain why he’d brought it.
‘Jamie took it on himself to start working on your car,’ he said instead. ‘The salt water would have wrecked the engine if it was left any longer. Ordinarily I’d have checked with you first, but I assumed you’d be wanting to get away so I told him to go ahead. Hope that’s OK.’
I could understand why they’d want to see the back of me, but I wasn’t entirely happy about Trask’s son tackling the repair. He hadn’t seemed inclined to help the day before. And while I didn’t want to appear ungrateful, if the job was as complicated as Jamie had said I had mixed feelings about a teenager working on it anyway.
I picked my words carefully. ‘I thought it needed to go into a garage. Can he do it here?’
‘Provided the salt’s not corroded the engine too badly, he says he should be able to. Don’t worry, Jamie knows what he’s doing. He rebuilt his Land Rover, the old white one, from scratch. Saved up and bought it himself when he was fifteen, repairing what he could and buying spares from scrap yards and online. He’s perfectly capable of stripping and cleaning an engine.’
It sounded more a statement of fact than a boast. I couldn’t help wishing the offer had been made yesterday, but they’d had enough to deal with without having to bail me out as well.
‘I can still get a breakdown call-out,’ I said. ‘I don’t expect your son to give up his bank holiday.’
‘He won’t mind, it’s his hobby. If you’re happy with what he does you can always pay him. He’s going to university next year, so he can use the money.’ Trask tipped his head at my phone, which was now playing tinny music. ‘Doesn’t sound like your breakdown service is coming any time soon.’
He had a point. If his son could repair it I’d probably be out of their hair a lot sooner than if I waited for a recovery truck to arrive. But something else had occurred to me. I looked over at where my car keys lay on the kitchen worktop.
‘How did he open the bonnet?’
‘Same way we got in the boot. You left the car unlocked.’
I’d been more out of it than I’d thought. I could remember fetching my travel bag from the boot while Rachel loaded the Land Rover, but for the life of me I couldn’t recall locking the car again afterwards. I hurriedly tried to think what was in the boot: muddy coveralls and waders, plus the flight case containing my forensic equipment. Nothing confidential or sensitive, but I was normally more careful than that.
‘That’s why I brought this.’ Trask made as if to nudge the cool-box with his foot, but stopped short of touching it. His frown had deepened into something like distaste. ‘Jamie noticed the smell. We didn’t open it, but I didn’t really want it outside my house.’
Now he’d mentioned it I could smell it myself: a pungent, ammoniac odour coming from the box. I bent down and unfastened it. The stink suddenly became stronger. Trask took a quick step back as I opened the lid.
‘I was supposed to be staying with friends yesterday,’ I told him, letting him see the cheese and wine inside. The ice packs that had been in with them had long since thawed. The wine would be fine, but the lack of chilling hadn’t done the already ripe Brie any favours.
Trask looked startled, then gave a laugh. ‘Jesus, I thought … you know.’
I did. Given my work, he’d assumed the box must hold some grisly piece of evidence. Trask’s face settled back into its habitual severe lines as his amusement faded.
‘I had a call from DI Lundy earlier,’ he said, trying to sound businesslike. ‘Not an official one, just … a courtesy. He told me the body in the estuary was almost certainly Leo Villiers.’
I was surprised,
but of course Lundy would know the Trasks from when Emma Derby went missing. Putting their minds at rest so soon might not have been standard protocol, but it was a humane thing to do. The DI went up in my estimation because of it.
But I wasn’t going to comment either way. I gave a non-committal nod. Trask frowned down at the floor.
‘Look, yesterday was … well, wires got crossed. Jamie’s hoping to get your car done by this afternoon, but he won’t be sure until he knows what the damage is. If it takes longer …’ He seemed to be struggling for words. ‘What I’m saying is this place is supposed to be for renting out. If you need to stay for another night you can.’
It wasn’t the most gracious of offers, but I could understand why he’d be conflicted. ‘Thanks, but I’d prefer to get back.’
He nodded, brusqueness covering what I guessed was relief. ‘Up to you. The offer’s there if you change your mind.’
I gave him my car keys and phone number, so Jamie could run the engine, and let me know when the car was ready. After Trask had gone I took the ruined cheese from the cool-box, tentatively sniffing it before deciding it was too far gone. Wrapping it in a plastic bag I found on a roll in a kitchen cupboard, I threw it in the bin outside. The cool-box still stank, so I washed it out to get rid of the smell. Even that exertion left me feeling shaky, so I made a mug of tea and sat down by the window. The thought of Trask’s misunderstanding made me smile again. It was understandable, I supposed. And I couldn’t blame him for not wanting a body part left outside his house.
I knew from experience what that was like.
Something was pricking at my subconscious, but it slipped away again almost straight away. I felt better after the short rest, so after I’d finished the tea and washed out the mug I went to examine the boots Trask had returned. They weren’t meant to be soaked in seawater, but despite being a little stiff they were still wearable. I was about to set them down when the feeling of unease returned. Stronger this time. I stared at the boots, trying to think what was bothering me. And then I realized.