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Dark Waters: The addictive psychological thriller you won’t be able to put down
Mary-Jane Riley
A darkly compelling psychological thriller, full of twists and turns, perfect for fans of Louise Jensen, Cass Green and Alex Lake.Secrets lie beneath the surface…Two men, seemingly unconnected, are discovered dead in a holiday boat on the Norfolk Broads, having apparently committed suicide together.Local journalist Alex Devlin, planning an article on the dangers of internet suicide forums, starts digging into their backgrounds.But Alex’s investigation soon leads her to a much darker mystery – one that will hit closer to home than she could possibly have imagined, and place the lives of those she loves in terrible danger.



Dark Waters
MARY-JANE RILEY


A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

Copyright (#uefcda61b-480a-591a-8ce3-26e5b31140dd)
KillerReads
an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018
Copyright © Mary-Jane Riley 2018
Cover design by Micaela Alcaino © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018
Cover photograph © Shutterstock.com (https://www.shutterstock.com/)
Mary-Jane Riley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it
are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © March 2018 ISBN: 9780008285104
Version: 2018-02-19

Dedication (#uefcda61b-480a-591a-8ce3-26e5b31140dd)
For The Tillster
Table of Contents
Cover (#uda0a34b1-13c8-555a-8e43-b733d41ed39a)
Title Page (#u2171c8c2-c4b0-5fb3-8bdf-4b4a535ff078)
Copyright (#ue1891245-1287-5596-85f2-56f1ce2c4fc6)
Dedication (#u7d723a02-d9a8-5a53-832f-a0bf20d3fd2a)
The Norfolk Broads (#u1c8a59af-ba00-50c6-af2b-2ddd35248877)
Three Weeks Earlier (#udb5200b4-cfcb-5829-a0db-47f622dd1021)
Chapter 1 (#u1bfde7f6-eaf5-5cb4-9e37-3e109b007e1b)
Chapter 2 (#uc9d1d815-4f3d-5177-a092-f8b74a2cbc8a)

Chapter 3 (#u7f653edc-2613-5960-8b6c-914cb56153b2)

Chapter 4 (#u11204267-7c76-501e-9c56-f11884346fbe)

Chapter 5 (#ufad3e61c-c2d1-513b-bd6b-362ecf1d6deb)

Chapter 6 (#ud8cf3261-f9da-540d-801c-995dc1d22328)

Chapter 7 (#ub66bdf57-29a9-5326-bcf1-be24e7737e7b)

Chapter 8 (#ua5dee300-1ce8-5fb8-90eb-e0570d69fab7)

Chapter 9 (#uc80e0d48-669d-5308-85ee-5606d86f0e52)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 37 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 38 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 39 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 40 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 41 (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Keep Reading... (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
The Norfolk Broads – a haven of peace and tranquility simply waiting to be discovered and explored. And a boating holiday on the Broads opens up a world of beauty, cruising through reed marshes, woodland and meadow. Find hidden waterways teeming with wildlife. Moor close to welcoming riverside pubs, quaint villages, and market towns. Choose a Harper’s Holidays cruiser and start unwinding today!

Three Weeks Earlier (#uefcda61b-480a-591a-8ce3-26e5b31140dd)
Decomposition sets in.
First, both hearts stop beating and the cells and tissues are starved of oxygen. The brain cells are the first to die – all that ‘being’ ended.
Blood drains from the capillaries, pooling in lower-lying parts of the body, staining the skin black. Rigor mortis has been and gone by now, the muscles becoming stiff three hours after death, but within seventy-two hours rigor mortis has subsided. The bodies are cool. They are pliable again.
As the cells die, bacteria begins to break them down. Enzymes in the pancreas cause each organ in each of the bodies to digest itself. Large blisters appear all over the bodies. Green slime oozes from decomposing tissue, and methane and hydrogen sulphide fill the air. Bloody froth trickles from the mouths and noses.
And all this time the insects are enjoying themselves. One fly can lay three hundred eggs on one corpse, and they will hatch within twenty-four hours. The hatching maggots use hooks in their mouths to scoop up any liquid seeping from the bodies. They are efficient, these maggots. Their breathing mechanism is located on the opposite end to their mouths so they can breathe and eat at the same time.
Within a day the maggots reach the second stage of their lives and burrow into the putrefying flesh.
The pleasure cruiser has been tied to the wooden mooring post on Poppy Island for at least three days. There has been no movement. The curtains are drawn. The doors and windows are closed. Somebody will find them soon.

1 (#uefcda61b-480a-591a-8ce3-26e5b31140dd)
Gary Lodge and his wife, Ronnie, both noticed the boat as they motored past the island on the second day of their holiday. It looked brand new, its white paintwork gleaming in the sunshine. Although it was the middle of the day, the curtains were closed. They didn’t remark on it to each other, though – Gary thought the people on board had probably been on the razz the night before (though when he thought about it later he realized there was no pub on the island and no way off it except by boat). Ronnie thought it was a case of daytime nookie; though, if it had been her, she would have left the curtains open.
Three days later, the Lodges, after lazy days of boating, drinking and sweaty sex, travelled back down the Broads.
‘Isn’t that the same boat?’ said Gary.
‘As what?’ Ronnie was enjoying the cool breeze on her face.
‘You know. As when we came by the other day. It had its curtains closed then. Still does.’
Ronnie smiled, put her arms around Gary and nuzzled into the crook of his neck. ‘Probably, babes. I don’t know. We’ve had a good time though, haven’t we?’ She didn’t want to think about other people, she wanted to keep hold of this loving feeling she had towards Gary – all too rare during their mundane everyday life that seemed to be filled with work and just getting by.
But Gary didn’t react to Ronnie’s amorous advances. He started to turn the wheel of the boat.
She looked up. ‘What are you doing now?’
‘Just want to have a look,’ he said, guiding the boat across the water and behind the other cruiser. ‘Tie her up, will you?’
Ronnie frowned. The loving feeling evaporating into thin air. She wanted to tell him to jump off the boat and tie the frigging thing up himself. He’d thought himself some sort of Captain Birdseye, but without the beard, the whole bloody holiday. But she didn’t say anything. She swallowed her irritation, sighed, grabbed the rope and jumped out onto the bank. That was one thing she wouldn’t miss: all this jumping on and off.
‘Okay,’ she called when she was done.
‘Done the right knot?’
Same question every time. ‘Yep.’
Gary stepped on to the bank, then hesitated.
‘What now?’ said Ronnie, hands on hips, scowling.
Gary rubbed his hand around his mouth. ‘I dunno.’
‘They’ve probably left it and gone somewhere. Done a runner or something. Come on, let’s get back on our boat. We’ve gotta get it back to the yard. I don’t want to be caught up with loads of traffic on the A12.’ She turned away from him and began fiddling with the rope.
‘It doesn’t …’ Gary hesitated. ‘It doesn’t feel right.’ He sniffed the air. ‘It smells funny.’
Ronnie sniffed too. ‘That’s just the countryside, isn’t it?’
Gary put a foot on the other boat and knocked on the sliding canopy. ‘Hello? Anybody there?’ He glanced at Ronnie, then tried the door. It was stuck.
He knocked again, and frowned. ‘I’m just gonna—’
‘Gary. I think you should leave it.’ He was bound to make a mess of things and then they’d be in trouble. And she wanted to get out of there. Pronto.
Too late. Gary tugged at the door. It slid open. He stuck his head inside.
‘Ronnie, it smells minging in here.’
His voice, thought Ronnie, was wavering, as if he was scared, and all at once she was worried. ‘Perhaps you shouldn’t go in, Gary.’ She shivered and looked around. Goosebumps. Why had she got goosebumps? There was nothing but water and sky and flowers and green stuff. Too much green; she preferred the concrete blocks of home. ‘Gary, come on, let’s go. We’ll tell that lot at the boatyard when we get back. Let them come out and deal with it.’
But Gary had already stepped inside.
Twenty seconds later he stumbled out, fell off the boat, and threw up in the grass.

2 (#uefcda61b-480a-591a-8ce3-26e5b31140dd)
Afterwards, Alex Devlin would associate the music of Wagner with the time her relatively settled life began to slip from her control.
The day hadn’t started well, beginning with a disjointed conversation with her parents, just as she wrote the last sentence of her most recent article for The Post.
‘Your father would like to see you, Alex,’ her mother said, her tone mildly censorious.
Guilt immediately corkscrewed through her. ‘I know, Mum, I will come.’
‘When though? You always say you’re going to visit and then you don’t. Here’s your father. Talk to him.’
There was the muffled sound of the phone being handed over.
‘Who is this?’ Her father’s once mellow voice now reedy.
Alex clutched her phone tightly. ‘Alex. Your daughter.’
‘Oh yes, Alex.’ He paused, and Alex could almost hear the effort he was making to form the right words. ‘When are you coming? Your mother says you haven’t been.’ Another pause. ‘For a long time,’ he finished.
‘I’m—’
‘You like balloon animals.’
She closed her eyes, hearing the note of anxiety in his voice. The making of animals out of balloons had been one of those things that they had done together when she was young, just her and him. It used to make her laugh.
‘I’ll make some for when you come round.’
Alex’s throat was blocked. The time for her father to make balloon animals had passed long ago.
‘The weather’s been nice.’ It was her mother again.
‘I’ll come over,’ said Alex, knowing she must.
‘Can you make it later? This afternoon some time?’
‘Of course.’ She looked out of her study window, and could just about see the sun glinting on the water of Sole Bay.
‘Thank you.’ Her mother put the phone down.
Her plan had been to spend the rest of the morning and the afternoon on the beach after having been immersed in the world of extreme couponing for the last few days. (Spend hours scouring the Internet! Browse newspapers and magazines and cut out vouchers! Organize your vouchers in folders and ring binders! Keep your vouchers handy in your purse!) Not exactly stretching the brain but it did at least help pay the bills. And gave her tips on how to save money at the supermarket, which was particularly appropriate as she was going to have to fill the fridge with food for Gus who was coming to stay with her in Suffolk. How was it that she spent a fortune in the supermarket (vouchers or no vouchers) and the food she bought was all gone in an instant as soon as her son turned up? Locusts could learn a lot from him, she thought. Still, it was going to be lovely to see him. It had been a long time. And thank God she’d finished that wretched article, and had sent it away with the press of a button. Couponing. Channel 4’s Cathy Newman she was not.
She sighed. It had to be done. No, she wanted to do it. God knew life had been hard enough for her mum and dad, what with having to cope with her sister, Sasha, as a troubled teenager – unsuitable boyfriends, self-harming, all spit and fire. Alex had done as much as she could, although she hadn’t been a model daughter either.
But it was so hard to see her once gentle father slowly turning into someone else. Early-onset dementia, they called it. A miserable twist of fate, she called it. And because she had found it hard, she had not given her mum as much support as she should have done. Her excuses had been her work, visiting Sasha in the mental health unit – anything, really. But it wasn’t good enough.
She looked out of the window of her study. The sun and the promise of the kiss of warm early summer air on her skin beckoned. An hour? Maybe half? To recharge her batteries, that was all. Then she would go and see her parents. She pushed back her chair and went to fetch a towel.
Alex settled on the sand, finding a comfortable spot where there weren’t any pebbles sticking into her skin. She was sheltered from the worst of the sharp sea breeze by the dunes.
The sun was warm on her face. She closed her eyes, feeling drowsy. A few more minutes she thought, though it was becoming more difficult to ignore the creeping guilt.
In the background, she heard the sea dragging on the shingle at the shoreline, mingling with the insistent barking of a dog, and children playing a game of volleyball on the beach.
‘It’s my serve,’ said a girl.
‘No, it’s not, it’s mine.’ A boy’s voice, younger. Brother perhaps?
A sigh. ‘Go on then.’
Thwack! The sound of the ball being hit.
‘Yesss!’
‘Oh.’ This from the girl. ‘Shall we call it a draw?’ she said.
‘No, you lost,’ said the boy.
Alex smiled. Kids arguing. Fine when they weren’t your own. She sat up and then leaned back on her elbows. A few hardy souls were trying to swim in the North Sea, their screams testament to how cold it was. A dragon kite was flying high above her. She was trying to clear her head – be mindful, as some yoga teacher had once told her – trying to think of nothing.
‘Ride of the Valkyries’ boomed out from her bag. Her phone.
For a brief moment she considered not answering it. But it could be anything – Gus finally telling her what time he was arriving (what was it about children that they didn’t realize you had a life, too, and to be able to organize it was helpful?), or (please God, no) something more to do with her sister, or maybe someone offering her work.
She sighed and rolled across to her bag, fishing inside until her fingers made contact with the hard case. She squinted at the screen, but the sun was reflecting off the sand and she couldn’t see a thing.
‘Hello?’
‘Alex Devlin?’
She didn’t recognize the voice, but all sorts of people had her number – it was how she often got commissions. ‘Yes, hello.’ She had her friendly I-can-do-work-for-you voice on.
‘I was wondering if you could help me.’ The voice was smooth.
‘I’ll try.’ She kept a smile in her voice.
‘It’s about your sister, Sasha Clements.’
Alex froze. ‘Who is this please?’
‘My name’s Penny, and I wondered what your reaction was to her being released from Leacher’s House?’
‘None of your bloody business.’ She stabbed at the screen and thrust the phone back in her bag.
She lay back on the sand, a knot of irritation tying itself up inside her stomach. And so it starts, she thought, all over again.Of course journos would want the story, want to rake over the events surrounding the killings for which her sister had been responsible.
And now Sasha was returning to society and Alex was to look after her. It was a chance to do more for her sister.
She was dreading it. And trying not to think about an email she’d received that morning about Sasha. It had to be a mistake, though, surely? Push it out of your mind, she told herself. Don’t worry about it now. Deal with it later.
‘Ride of the Valkyries’ again. She snatched up the phone, any pleasure leaching out of the day. ‘Go away, I don’t want to speak to you.’
‘Is that you, Alex?’ Uncertainty clouded her mother’s voice.
Alex suppressed a sigh and forced a smile onto her face. ‘Mum. Sorry. I thought it was a … never mind.’ Any mention of journalists or newspapers would send her mother into a right state. ‘I’ll be leaving soon,’ she said.
‘I was wondering if you could you go via Great Yarmouth and go to that Greek shop? I thought your dad might like some of the Greek tagliatelle he loves. And a pound of those special smoked sausages.’
Alex’s heart twisted. Her mother was trying so hard, but her father wouldn’t be in the least bit bothered what pasta or sausage he ate, not these days. And Great Yarmouth was hardly on the way to her parents – more like a bloody great detour. Still, her mum didn’t ask for much.
‘Of course I will,’ she said.

3 (#ulink_b6329665-516d-5d1a-85a9-64c5e9b3901a)
The road out of Great Yarmouth was slow, and Alex tuned her radio to the local station in time for the news on the top of the hour as she drove.
‘Two bodies have been found on a boat on Dillingham Broad in Norfolk, police have said,’ intoned the newsreader. ‘We’ll bring you more news as we get it.’
Her ears pricked up. Two bodies on a boat. Who? Why? ‘Come on, give us some more,’ she muttered, her journalistic instincts cutting in. She turned up the volume, as if that would entice the newsreader to give her some more interesting facts. Instead all she got was a story about a leisure centre being built on the edge of a Norfolk village and how Anglo-Saxon finds had been made at a wind farm site in Suffolk.
Only the bare facts then. Not even ‘Police are treating the deaths as unexplained’. Hmm. But then Norfolk Police were known for being cautious – only a few years before a couple had been found battered to death in their home but local coppers refused to say it was murder until all the ‘i’s had been dotted and all the ‘t’s crossed. Caution was probably a good thing, but it could go too far.
She glanced at her watch. Her mother wasn’t expecting her at any particular time, and a little detour to Dillingham wouldn’t take her that long. The story might be something and nothing. Or it could be interesting.
There was only one way to find out.
The countryside became ever more flat as she neared the Broads. The rivers and lakes of the Norfolk and Suffolk Broads had been formed by the flooding of medieval peat excavations that had provided fuel to Norwich and Great Yarmouth. She’d learned that somewhere. School, maybe? Or perhaps she had read it in a Sunday supplement. Today the watery landscape was home to a myriad of boats and yachts and old wherries and was a magnet for tourists wanting a relaxing holiday. The two on the boat, whoever they were, had certainly found relaxation – permanently.
She turned down the road that led to Dillingham Broad. It was lined with trees and very comfortable-looking houses with gardens that no doubt went down to the water. What sort of price they would go for she couldn’t imagine. Nothing she could afford, that was for sure. A few minutes later she reached the end of the road and pulled up on the staithe.
A small knot of people was gathered on the concrete apron looking into the distance. She recognized a couple of bored-looking journalists from the local papers and gave them a nod. A lone fisherman sat on his collapsible chair under a large green umbrella at the edge of the water, a rucksack on the ground next to him. He appeared unperturbed about the goings on around him. Alex shooed away the ducks and geese that came waddling towards her in the hope of food and, shielding her eyes with her hand, peered across the water to a line of trees that were almost in full leaf, and to the two boats moored up against the bank on Poppy Island. Figures in white suits and masks were looking busy around the boats. Forensic officers, she thought. Probably the pathologist was there too. She wondered how long the bodies had been on board and what state they were in now.
‘The poor sod that found ’em won’t forget his holiday in a hurry.’
Alex turned towards the voice with its distinctive Norfolk lilt. ‘Oh?’
The man had the tanned and weathered face of someone who’d worked on the water all his life and was probably younger than his leathery skin implied. He wore jeans that were slightly too tight for his stomach and a tee shirt designed to show off his biceps. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth.
He shook his head. ‘One of my boats, wasn’t it? Firefly Lady. And one of my customers who stopped to see what was what. Found the bodies. Or what was left of them. Then he came to tell me. I asked him why he hadn’t called the police and all he could do was look at me, couldn’t say anything. Shaking he were.’ He pinched the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger and drew the smoke deep into his lungs. ‘So I called ’em. Gave the poor sod some brandy.’ He nodded towards the police boat. ‘Now they’re all over there, aren’t they? Coastguard, fire, police. Overkill, if you ask me.’
‘Where is the “poor sod” now?’ asked Alex.
‘Jim here said he’s being given hot tea. So’s his wife. Bloody tea. I ask you, what use is that? And he’s being kept away from everybody.’
‘Aye.’ This from Jim. ‘A bad business.’
A satellite truck rolled up, and a reporter looking like an eager young puppy jumped out.
‘Vultures,’ said the boat man.
‘Aye,’ said Jim, nodding before he spat a blob of green phlegm onto the ground. The ducks and geese waddled over again, looking eager.
‘Not nice for you being involved in all this,’ said Alex, trying not to look at the green slime near her feet. ‘My name’s Alex, by the way.’
‘Colin,’ said the boat man. ‘Colin Harper. Of Harper’s Holidays.’ He gestured towards Jim. ‘And that’s Jim. And it’s a bad business and bad for business.’ He shook his head before drawing on his cigarette.
‘I gather there were two people on board. That’s what the radio said. A man and his wife, wasn’t it?’ asked Alex nonchalantly fishing for information, still looking over the water.
Colin shook his head and threw the stub of his cigarette onto the ground, grinding it under his heel. ‘They might be a couple but it ain’t a man and his wife.’ He chuckled. ‘One of them was someone from London, young Eddie told me.’
‘Eddie?’
‘Copper. I’ve known him since he was knee-high to a grasshopper. Little sod. Said the stink was like nothing he’d ever smelt. Them bodies had been there for at least three days. Humming, it must have been.’
Alex winced. It had been unseasonably warm over the last few days. ‘Three days.’ She whistled. ‘Wow.’
‘Yup. That’s when I hired the boat out. They didn’t get very far, did they?’
‘And the other one?’ she asked.
‘Other one what?’
Alex damped down her impatience. ‘Body. The other body. You said one was from London. What about the other one? Was it a man or a woman?’
Colin turned slowly and looked at her. ‘Why you so interested then?’
Alex shrugged. ‘I’m from round here.’ Almost. ‘Like to know what’s going on in my back yard.’
‘Well the coppers said I wasn’t to talk to anybody until I’d given a proper statement.’ He puffed out his chest. ‘So I shouldn’t be talking to you.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Alex. She stared out over the water again.
The silence didn’t last long.
‘It were two men,’ said Colin. ‘Dead on my boat. The one from London was supposed to be someone well known. I didn’t recognize the name. Probably some reality show type. I dunno. The other from over the border. Suffolk,’ he added, as if Alex wouldn’t understand what he meant.
A well-known man found dead on a boat. That could be some story. ‘So,’ said Alex, knowing she had to tread carefully, ‘what was the name? Of the man from London?’
‘Who wants to know?’
‘Only wondering.’
More silence, though this time Colin obviously didn’t feel inclined to fill it.
‘Now you’ve got to clean the boat up,’ Alex added eventually, in a sympathetic tone.
‘Too right. Clean it up meself. I can’t ask the staff; there’d be a mass walk-out if I did.’ He gave a mock shudder. ‘Won’t be pleasant. Can you imagine the stink?’
No, she couldn’t. And she wouldn’t want to be the next holidaymaker to hire it. Colin would probably be best to change its name. Though there would be some ghoulish enough to want to holiday on the actual boat where people had died.
‘Which one of them hired the boat?’
Colin frowned. ‘Coppers want me to check that. I think it was done, you know, online. I don’t have a lot to do with that side of the business. I’m more hands-on.’ He sighed as he pulled a crumpled packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and peered into it. ‘Bugger.’ He screwed up the packet and shoved it back in his pocket.
‘Here.’ Alex pulled a packet out of her bag and offered him one.
‘Ta, love,’ he said, brushing her fingers as he took one, then lit it.
Alex put the packet back in her bag, glad she kept some cigarettes for times like these. ‘Can you remember a name or names? You know, who was booked on the boat?’
‘Nah, not offhand.’ He looked at her suspiciously. ‘You ask a lot of questions.’
Alex shrugged. ‘You’ve got to ask or you never find out.’
Colin grinned. ‘Too right, gel.’ He blew out a stream of smoke. Shook his head. ‘But I can’t rightly remember. I leave it up to the girls in the office to do the paperwork. Me, I like messing about with the boats when I can. Less trouble than people.’ He shrugged. ‘They’re back in the office anyhow. Names, I mean.’ He looked her up and down, a sly grin appearing on his face. ‘Come and have a look some time if you like.’
Alex smiled sweetly. ‘I might just do that. What about your “poor sod”?’
‘You mean the one who found the bodies? What about him?’
‘What was his name, do you know? He’s going to be famous soon. So are you. More people wanting to hire your boats.’ She knew she’d pushed the right buttons when she saw the gleam in his eye.
‘No reason why I shouldn’t tell you, is there? Gary. Gary Lodge. And his wife’s name is Ronnie.’
They both turned back to look at the boats across the water. Alex shivered as she tried not to think of the state of the cabin interior.
‘You reckon it could do me a bit of good?’ Colin didn’t look at her as he spoke.
‘I reckon.’
‘Daley. That was the name of the man who hired the boat. Least that’s what the girls in the office told me. Derek Daley. Is he a reality star?’
‘No.’ Alex’s heart began to beat furiously. ‘He’s not a reality star. Or anything like it. He owns a magazine.’
‘Is that all? Still, I suppose if it was someone really famous the publicity could follow me round like a bad smell.’ He laughed. ‘If you pardon the joke.’
Derek Daley. Magazine proprietor. Wealthy. Influential. Climbed the ladder not caring who he stepped on as he made his way up.
Interesting.

4 (#ulink_325e262d-ed9b-5786-b8ef-8970a66abaec)
More locals were arriving by the minute, and the staithe on the edge of Dillingham Broad was becoming crowded.
Colin Harper shook his head. ‘I’ve had enough of this. I’m off.’ He looked across at Alex. ‘Don’t you forget what I said. My door’s always open.’ He gave her a knowing wink.
Alex tried not to roll her eyes. ‘Thanks, Colin. Nice to have met you.’
She looked around. She couldn’t see any likely stringers for the nationals yet, and it was too soon for journos from London to come calling. Then she spotted a police officer and hurried over to him.
‘Alex Devlin from The Post,’ she said, with what she hoped was a winning smile, while holding out her NUJ card as identification.
The officer, whose paunch more than filled his hi-vis vest, didn’t crack a smile, merely lifted a tufty eyebrow.
She wasn’t going to be intimidated. ‘And you are—?’
‘Police Constable Lockwood.’
‘Well, Police Constable Lockwood, I understand the deaths are thought to be suicide?’ She carried on smiling, hoping she didn’t look too manic.
Nothing.
‘And one of the people found on board was a—’, she pretended to consult her notebook, ‘Derek Daley, from London? The other man was from Suffolk?’
‘My, you have been busy.’
‘Are you able to confirm those facts for me, please?’ Now her cheeks were aching.
‘No.’
‘Right. Any chance you can give me a bit of a steer? Would I be wrong in thinking one of the people on the boat is called Derek Daley?’
He narrowed his eyes. ‘I couldn’t say.’
‘Suicide or an accident?’
‘Strange accident, if you ask me. Now, if you would let me do my job—’ He moved away.
Yesss, thought Alex, wanting to punch the air. No denial. Still not confirmed, but almost there. She moved away from the crowd and onto the rough grass lining the Broad, taking out her phone. There was a fluttering in her chest, a gnawing in her stomach. They were feelings she hadn’t had for a long time. She was excited, invigorated, chasing the story.
‘Yes.’ A gruff voice answered. A voice that said I am very busy so this had better be important. A voice that had the capacity to make even the most hardened hack turn pale if they didn’t know him. Bud Evans, the news editor of The Post and her previous boss. But he had been more than a boss. He had picked her up more than once when her life was falling apart, had been her mentor, had given her work and who had introduced her to the features editor of The Post when she had announced she wanted to return to live in Sole Bay. She owed him.
‘Bud, it’s me, Alex Devlin.’
‘Ah, Alex.’ His voice was slightly friendlier, about as friendly as it would get. And, of course, no small talk.
‘I won’t waste time—’
‘Good.’ She heard him vape.
‘I’m at Dillingham Broad, in Norfolk—’
‘Back of beyond. Godforsaken.’
‘Maybe, but listen. Two bodies have been found on a boat.’
‘And?’ He sounded almost bored.
‘It may have been suicide or an accident, but the point is one of the people who died is Derek Daley.’ She almost felt him sit up and begin to listen to her.
‘Daley, dead.’ Interest in his voice. ‘Sod’s definitely got what he deserved.’
‘Bud.’
‘What? Don’t speak ill of the dead?’ He laughed. ‘Come on, he was a rival. And a nasty piece of work. Are you sure it’s him?’
Alex wasn’t surprised at the careless way Bud was taking the death of someone in the industry. It was well known within The Post that Bud had little or no time for Derek Daley. Although Bud was known and admired as news editor of the paper, he was more than that – he actually owned The Lewes Press Group, of which The Post was a part. But he didn’t flaunt his success like Daley. He didn’t go to media parties, didn’t have fluffy magazine articles written about him, and if someone tried to take a photo of him, he would turn the other way. He gave money to children’s homes, but that was as far as he went. No, Bud Evans was an old-fashioned newspaper man with a flair for business, and that’s where it stopped.
‘Not totally confirmed yet, but there’s enough to get a flash ready for the website and something for the morning. I could even do you a colour piece if you want.’ She held her breath, realizing she really wanted this.
‘No, don’t worry about that. I’ll get someone onto it ASAP. Send someone to confirm and pick up any other strands.’
‘Oh.’ Alex was deflated. ‘Bud—’
‘Yes?’
‘I’d really like to do this.’
‘Why?’
‘Why not? I can write a story, you know that. I’m here, on the spot. Surely it would be a good idea if I at least got it started?’
More vaping.
‘Get some colour. We’ll prepare the flash here. Has PA arrived?’
Alex looked around to see if she could see Jon Welch from the Press Association, but there was no sign of him. He was probably in court somewhere. ‘No, I can’t see him yet.’
‘Right. Do me a one par story that can go when you get final confirmation, and then write me a colour piece. Email ASAP. I don’t want to see it on the wires. I want it in The Post first. And let me know when the press conference happens. If we hear about it first, I’ll let you know.’
Alex sat down on the grass, first making sure she wasn’t about to get duck droppings over her skirt. It was a bit damp, but what the hell. She was fizzing. She opened up a new email on her phone and began to type.
The one paragraph stating the bare facts was easy, and she had it written and sent over in a matter of minutes. The colour piece was more challenging. How to convey what was going on around her without sounding over the top and sensationalist.
‘Dillingham Broad,’ she wrote, ‘is at once peaceful and beautiful.’
Rubbish.
‘The peace of a beautiful part of Norfolk has been shattered by—’
Hmm. Not great, but she could build on it.
Ten minutes and one throbbing finger later and she had two hundred and fifty words that she hoped captured the essence of what was happening across the water. She checked the signal and pressed send.
As she stood and stretched her legs she saw a familiar face with a cloud of auburn hair standing by a Mini at the edge of the parking area. It was her friend, Lin Meadows.
‘Lin!’ she called, hurrying over to her. ‘How great to see you.’
Lin looked up, the frown on her face dissolving when she saw Alex. ‘What are you doing here?’
Alex grinned. ‘Doing a bit of old-fashioned reporting for my old-fashioned news editor.’
Lin looked at her, obviously puzzled.
‘A couple of men have been found dead on a boat out there, on the other side of the water. Look. You can see forensics walking around.’
‘Ah, that’s what’s going on.’ She pulled a face. ‘Gross. So what’s with the reporting?’
‘I heard about the bodies on the radio, and I was nearby, so I thought I’d come and see what was going on. Then I rang Bud – I worked for him when I lived in London and he gave me my first job – and he wanted me to look into it—’ She stopped. Lin was laughing at her. ‘What is it?’
Lin gave her a hug. ‘For a start, Bud? Sounds like someone from an American B movie. And for another thing, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this energized.’
Alex drew back. ‘Really?’
‘No, you look as though you’re enjoying yourself.’
‘I suppose I am,’ said Alex, realizing she meant it. ‘But I’m only doing it until the reporter from London turns up.’
‘What?’ Lin looked indignant on Alex’s behalf. ‘You don’t mind being someone else’s bitch?’
She shrugged. ‘No.’ That’s the way it worked sometimes.
Lin wrinkled her nose. ‘Right.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m not sure I understand, but, hey, what do I know? Lovely to see you, though.’
‘And you. It seems ages.’
Alex really was delighted. She had met Lin shortly after she’d moved back to Sole Bay. Lin was renting a house next door to her and had stopped to chat to Alex on her way to buy some food for her evening meal just after she’d moved in. Alex was weeding the little patch of earth that passed for a front garden, and Lin had stopped to admire the one good thing in that garden – a beautiful palm tree – saying she had a similar one in her garden in London. Her smile had been wide and her body language so open and friendly that Alex had to ask her what she was doing renting a house in Sole Bay. Hoping to find inspiration, had been Lin’s answer. She was an artist and wanted to live by the sea for a year and see where that took her in her work, she’d said. Sole Bay was such a beautiful place. Inspirational. She also wanted to find a local gallery to display and sell her paintings and collages. Perhaps, she had asked hesitantly, Alex knew which galleries might be receptive to her? Alex had invited her in, of course, and over coffee and cake gave her the names of some of the more friendly gallery owners. Then they fell into chatting about this and that and found they had a lot in common – both loved to be by the sea, both had hated school and both were single and in no hurry to go down the relationship route again.
‘Who was the man in your life, then?’ Lin had asked, after Alex had told her how someone she thought was “the one” who was going to share her life had buggered off without so much as a goodbye. ‘Gus’s father, or?’
‘The “or”,’ Alex had said with a wry smile. ‘Done and dusted and best forgotten.’
Lin had nodded, and Alex had appreciated the fact she didn’t pry any further. And so began what was, for Alex, an easy friendship. Usually wary about becoming close to people, Alex made an exception for Lin who was relaxed and undemanding as a friend. And if Lin had heard from one of the many gossips around town about Sasha, she didn’t bring it up. Another reason, Alex felt, to like Lin.
‘Where have you been?’ Alex said now. ‘Why haven’t you been round?’
‘I’ve been in London on an art course. I told you about it – remember?’
Alex frowned, then shook her head. ‘I’m sure you did but my brain is like a sieve. So what are you doing here?’
‘I was taking some pictures’, she pointed to the digital camera hanging from around her neck, ‘for my next project, you know? Boats and ducks and so on, and came across this commotion.’ She shivered dramatically. ‘How did they die?’
‘I don’t know yet, that’s what I’m hoping to find out.’
‘What have you got so far?’ Lin looked at her, wide-eyed.
‘Not a great a deal – I’ve sent off a colour piece and a one par breaking news story that’ll go on the website when I can confirm it: that’s it so far.’
Lin nudged her. ‘Get you. Colour piece. Breaking news. Hope you get a whatsit, a byline. And get paid.’
‘Ha! Haven’t broached the idea of money yet. Depends how much more I do.’
‘Anyway.’ Lin looked at her watch. ‘I must go.’ She jumped in the Mini and put the window down. ‘Come round for supper later, let me know how you’ve got on.’ And with that she drove away.
Alex shook her head, smiling. That was a hasty departure.
Lin was right about the money, though. She’d been so eager to get something more worthwhile than celebrity news or how to collect coupons into The Post that she hadn’t mentioned money to Bud. How naive. And how – she struggled to find the word – how parochial. She’d never had any ambitions to be a foreign correspondent or an anchor on a TV show. She wanted to make a living doing something she enjoyed. So how had she ended up in Sole Bay writing features for The Post?
Her choice.
She had given it a go in London; Bud had given her work, but it was mainly fillers for the paper, hardly ground-breaking stories. Sole Bay was where her heart was, so she’d compromised and come home, and generally she was content. But on days like these, when something half decent came along, she had the adrenaline rush, the tightness in her belly, the fizz in her head.
‘Excuse me.’
Alex turned towards the voice. It was PC Lockwood.
‘I thought you’d like to know’, he said without any preamble, ‘that there’s going to be a press conference at six. About the deaths on the boat.’
‘Thank you,’ said Alex, surprised. ‘It was good of you to—’
‘It’s my job to tell you. It’ll be at the station in the town. Nobody’s saying anything until then.’ He nodded behind her. ‘Your mates have caught up with the story.’
Alex turned. Sure enough, a couple of likely-looking reporters were scribbling in notebooks. She recognized one of them, from the local TV, setting up his own camera before turning and facing it and doing a piece to camera.
She sent a text to Bud.
Press conference at six.
She got an immediate reply.
Go. Reporter will meet you there and liaise.
‘And thank you for all your hard work, Alex,’ she muttered. ‘You’ve done really well, Alex. Liked the colour piece, Alex.’
What else had she expected?
Suddenly the crowd on the staithe fell silent.
The police boat was pulling the cruiser across the water towards land.

5 (#ulink_dc22227c-c5fb-52aa-b114-b37c9f949797)
Cambridge 1975
The silence was terrifying as my dad and I heaved the battered school trunk we’d found in a junk shop through a small doorway at the side of the old stone building and up Staircase C. As it bumped up each tread, worn smooth by the shoes of generations of students, my heart sank lower and lower. What was I doing here? An ordinary boy from an ordinary town who did as he was told, stayed on an extra six months at the local grammar, passed exams, a three-day interview and was now at Cambridge.
When Dad left, exhorting me to enjoy myself and meet people (subtext: a nice girl from a nice family – and thank Christ Mum hadn’t come: she would have been unbearably fussy), I sat on my narrow single bed staring at the beige carpet and nursing a glass of the Blue Nun I’d brought with me (‘to share with other students’, my mum had said hopefully), trying to ignore the slight smell of drains and praying nobody would knock on my door. Soon I would Blu-Tack posters of Bowie and college events to the wall and unpack my record player and books, but for now I was looking at bare magnolia walls, empty bookshelves, and a basin in the corner with an annoying dripping tap. And I kept glancing over to my desk nervously, looking at the array of invitations I had picked up from my pigeonhole in the porter’s lodge on my way through. I wasn’t sure I would have the courage to accept any of them. I had the sense that at any point I could be found out, that I didn’t deserve to be here, not really.
Then, unexpectedly, I felt a surge of happiness. I was here. I’d made it. Cambridge. Bright, glittering. I could be whoever I wanted to be. I could reinvent myself. I could be exciting, intriguing, interesting. No longer dull. There would be people to fascinate me. I might fall in love. I would no longer be ordinary.
I didn’t know then that I would soon be craving an ordinary life.
The first person I met was Stu.
He knocked on my door that night while I was nursing my Blue Nun.
‘Hi,’ he said, hopping from one foot to another, pushing his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. ‘I’m Stu.’ He held out his hand. I took it and he gave me a firm handshake. His hair was receding, and he wore jeans that had been ironed. His accent was pure Birmingham. Coming from the Midlands I recognized it instantly.
‘I saw your dad helping you earlier. I thought—’ His glasses had slipped again; he pushed them back. ‘I heard your dad, and I thought you were probably from somewhere near Birmingham—’
‘Somewhere near,’ I said.
‘I’m not sure whether I should be here—’ He trailed off, looking around nervously.
‘Where? On this staircase?’
‘No. Here. In Cambridge.’ His smile was hesitant.
I smiled back, warming to him. ‘I know what you mean.’
‘Do you?’ he said. ‘Do you really?’ He came in and sat on my armchair. ‘Perhaps we can pal up. Go to things together. I’m reading Philosophy.’
‘So am I,’ I said.
So for the rest of the week Stu and I stuck together. It helped me because Fresher’s Week was an endurance, even though I guess that’s where it all began. It was a week packed with filling out forms, going to dusty rooms where professors lurked with warm sherry, and trying to avoid the jolly red-faced students trying to get us to sign up to their societies. But the old fear of being found out once again got in my way, so the only society I joined was the Philosophy Society. I felt that’s what you did at places like Cambridge.
Stu joined the Philosophy Society with me. He eschewed the same societies as I did. He talked to the same people as I did. He was good to have around, if a little dull, and I wondered if I’d still be friends with him at the end of our three years.
Then came the end of the week party at the college. I got ready carefully, putting on new jeans (unironed) and a tee shirt with some sort of logo on it, washed my hair and splashed out on aftershave that smelled vaguely spicy. The party took place in a dark hall – the Junior Common Room – with music from the Sex Pistols making the walls and floor vibrate. No food – that wasn’t the point – and the evening dissolved into a blur of cigarettes and alcohol and a joint or a spliff; I wasn’t even sure what to call it I was that naive, but I smoked as though I knew what I was doing.
Shamefully, I tried to shake off Stu, telling him I was going to get a drink, but I had no intention of finding him in the crowd again. I wanted some of that elusive excitement, and I thought Stu would cramp my style. Then I went back to someone’s room to carry on the party and started talking to a student who looked as though he had just stepped out of an Evelyn Waugh novel, complete with pullover, casually worn scarf (even at a party, and he told me later it was cashmere) and a cigarette in a holder. A mix of secrecy, amusement and decadence radiated off him. He told me his name was Willem. ‘Though I’d rather be Seb. After Sebastian Flyte,’ he explained, pinning me with his ice-blue eyes. ‘You can call me Seb, if you like.’
‘I don’t think so,’ I said, suddenly giddy with the idea of standing up to someone with his air of entitlement.
The time for my reinvention had arrived.

6 (#ulink_c7d0d016-7b37-509a-9409-73b03693cd89)
The Harper’s Holidays building was by the side of the River Ant next to Lowdham Bridge, some six miles from Wrexfield. Alex had driven past it many times, but had never had occasion to stop.
Now she navigated the car across a yard full of boats of all different shapes and sizes, some covered with tarpaulins, others dilapidated and listing to one side, all of them looking out of place on dry land. Any number of bodies could be hidden around here, thought Alex. On the river she could see three sleek cruisers moored – presumably ones for hire. No sign of Firefly Lady – that particular crime scene would be with the coppers for some time to come.
Alex parked next to a building by the water’s edge that appeared to be a large shed with a corrugated iron roof. She went through the door marked ‘Harper’s Holidays Reception’ thinking to find something akin to a tyre and exhaust workshop – a little grubby, a bit seedy, populated by men who were unused to office work. And with one of those coffee machines in the corner that dispensed execrable drinks. Instead she found a bright, clean office with three smart women working away at their computers. She should never think in stereotypes – she should have learned that by now.
One of the women looked up and smiled a red lipstick smile. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Is – Colin here?’ As Alex asked the question she realized she didn’t know what she would do if he wasn’t in his office. He might have gone home after the events of the morning. Or be in the pub she’d noticed over the road, nursing a pint or two.
‘Is he expecting you?’
‘Not really. Though he did say to drop by.’ Alex gave her what she hoped was her best smile.
‘Is it to do with a booking?’
‘In a manner of speaking.’
The woman’s smile slipped slightly.
‘If it is to do with a booking I’m sure I can help. Though we tend not to do hen parties. Or stag parties. Too much trouble. Was it a particular boat you wanted? Two or four? Or we do have boats that sleep up to ten. And when were you thinking? We are quite booked up from now until September, but we might be able to find—’
‘No, no, it’s not about a holiday.’ Alex wanted to stop her before the hard sell really began. At least she hadn’t said Colin wasn’t about.
The woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you press?’
‘Yes, but—’
The woman stood up, red lipstick glistening, her smile a gash in her face. ‘I think you should leave now, Miss—?’
‘Devlin. Alex Devlin.’
‘Well, Miss Devlin, we have been asked not to talk to the press about the – ah – incident. And, as you can imagine, it’s all been rather upsetting.’
Alex stood her ground. ‘Colin said to call in.’
‘I don’t think Mr Harper meant you to call in now. While all this is going on. He’s only just got back from the police station himself.’ Her mouth made a moue of distaste.
‘It’s all right, Kerry, I’ll take it from here.’ Colin appeared from a door at the back of the office and winked at Alex. ‘Nice to see you again. Come on through.’
Alex walked past the woman with the lipstick and followed Colin through a door into a back office.
This office was more what she had expected: a jumble of papers, magazines, dirty coffee cups and a calendar with a picture of a boat tacked on the wall. There were a couple of spanners and an oily rag on the desk too. The air smelled of cheap cigarettes. The front office was for show: this was where the real business took place.
Colin was still in his too-tight jeans and too-tight tee shirt. He gestured for Alex to sit. He took the chair on the other side of the desk and swept four mugs to one side with a clatter.
‘I’m sorry to come so soon after this morning—’
Colin grimaced. ‘No worries. Had to come back to the office. There might be a couple of stiffs on my boat but the wheels of commerce still turn. At least, I hope the wheels haven’t come off the wagon. A living’s got to be made. Now.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘I’m guessing you’re not here to book a holiday on one of my boats?’
Alex smiled. ‘You guess right.’ She looked around at the tottering piles of paper. ‘Looks like you’re really busy.’
Colin nodded. ‘Yep. Lots of people want a Harper’s Holiday. That’s me. Colin Harper. Rent the boat, have a holiday of a lifetime.’ He grinned. ‘Unless you’re Derek Daley and his mate.’ He shook his head. ‘Still don’t know how I’m going to clear up the mess on that boat.’ He grimaced.
‘You could get professional cleaners in. You know, ones who clear up after unusual deaths.’
He looked interested. ‘Didn’t know there was those sort of people.’
‘I’m sure the police would put you in touch with someone.’
He gave a short laugh. ‘Those damn coppers don’t know their arses from their elbows. Running round like headless chickens, told me they didn’t know when I could have me boat back. Impounded it, they said. Evidence, they said. I told them it was costing me every day it wasn’t cruising down the river with some knobhead from London on board. I mean, what are they doin’? They’ll have scraped the bodies off it by now. Surely they’ve taken all the photos that are needed as well?’ He shook his head. ‘They don’t seem to care about a man’s livelihood. Or reputation. No one will want to hire a bloody boat from me at this rate. My granddad started this business with one small boat. Now we’ve got a fleet.’ He tapped his pockets and brought out his battered cigarette packet, this time full of cigarettes, which he offered to Alex.
She shook her head with a smile.
He shrugged, took a squashed cigarette out and lit it, ignoring the ‘No Smoking’ sign stuck to the wall.
‘So. Didn’t expect to see you so soon.’ He grinned. ‘Or mebbe I did. You’re one of them journalists, aren’t you?’
‘Can’t deny it.’
‘Knew it. And you want to know who else was booked on Firefly Lady, don’t you?’
‘Yes. And confirm it was Derek Daley on that boat.’
‘See it with your own eyes, like?’
‘You’ve got it.’
He smiled at her. ‘Jim said you’d be likely to pay me for information.’
At least he didn’t beat about the bush. She nodded. ‘We can give you a bit of money. For your time, you know.’
‘Expenses like?’
‘Exactly.’
‘How much?’
Alex thought back to the conversation she’d had with Bud on the way to the boatyard when she told him what she was doing and how she hoped to confirm absolutely who had hired the boat. Give him what he wants, Devlin, he’d said. A pause. Within reason, of course. Of course, she’d replied, wondering what ‘within reason’ meant. How much Bud, usually tight-fisted with the cash, was willing to pay for information about a magazine editor who had been his rival in business.
She named a figure. Colin looked disappointed, made to get up out of his chair. She stifled a sigh. Named another figure. Colin grinned.
‘Cash, of course.’
Alex raised an eyebrow before delving into her bag and pulling out an envelope, thankful she’d had the foresight to stop off at a cashpoint on the way. She slid the envelope across the desk. Colin made to take it. She kept her hand on it. ‘One other thing.’
Colin cocked his head to one side. ‘Go on.’
‘Have you got a boat here that’s like Firefly Lady?’
‘You mean, the same inside and that?’
‘Exactly.’
He looked at her, then at the envelope. ‘I reckon that’s worth a bit more.’
‘All or nothing.’ She held his gaze.
Finally he nodded. ‘Okay.’ He put his hand over the envelope and pulled it towards him. ‘Feels fat enough.’
‘So?’ asked Alex.
‘We’ll show you round one of the boats.’ He slid the envelope into a drawer. ‘And I’ll tell you another thing. For free.’
‘Oh?’ Alex could see he was bursting to tell her something.
‘Barbecue.’ Colin Harper leaned back in his dilapidated office chair, hands folded behind his head.
‘Pardon?’
‘Barbecue. That’s what killed ’em. So Eddie said.’ Eddie, the loose-mouthed police officer. ‘They’d had a barbecue the night before and then brought it inside the boat. Strictly forbidden, of course. Stupid arses. If they’re going to have a barbecue they have to have it outside. There’s a perfectly good cooker inside. Eddie said they died of carbon monoxide poisoning. All the windows were tight shut. So was the door. Probably an accident, Eddie said.’
Alex was puzzled. ‘Why would they want to bring the barbecue inside, though? It wasn’t cold – far from it.’ She wasn’t buying the accident line.
‘You’d be surprised what some of them folk from London do. I’ve had all sorts to clear up on these boats. Not so bad since we banned hen and stag dos – dirty buggers they all were.’ He smirked. ‘Shisha pipes, blow-up dolls, party pills, all sorts of paraphernalia I wouldn’t want to talk about in front of a lady.’
Alex suppressed a smile. She got the distinct impression Colin would happily talk about anything in front of anybody, the more prurient the better.
‘Once I had to throw away several pairs of knickers. You know, underwear.’ He raised his eyebrows.
‘I think I do know, yes.’
‘See what I mean? You should never be surprised what folk do.’
‘Especially if they’re from London.’
He sat back in his chair, satisfied. ‘I knew you’d know what I was on about.’
Alex thought it would be best not to pursue the barbecue line at the moment. ‘Did your friend Eddie say whether the police think they knew each other?’
‘Looking into it, he said.’
‘Okay. Now, about the name of the other person who’d been booked on the boat?’
He shook his head. ‘Can’t give you that. Confidential. Data protection.’
‘What? But—’ Damn. That was the whole point of the bloody money. Her charm obviously wasn’t working.
He held up his finger. ‘But, say, if I was to go and get us a cup of coffee leaving my computer on, then—?’ He winked at her. ‘How do you take it?’
She winked back, relieved. ‘White, no sugar.’
‘Right you are.’
After he had left the room, Alex waited a few seconds, then went round to the other side of the desk. Although she knew this was what Colin meant for her to do, her palms were still sweaty and her heart pounding. Taking a deep breath she tapped the space bar on the keyboard, and the computer sprang to life.
And there it was. Details of the booking for a four-berth cruiser for a Mr Derek Daley and a Mr Roger Fleet. Booked – she peered at the date. Six weeks ago. Really? They’d been planning this for six weeks? Name of the person who booked it – Mr Derek Daley. She scrolled down, hoping to see addresses for Daley and Fleet. Sure enough, there they were. Derek Daley’s address was for a house in Hackney, Roger Fleet for one in Lapford in Suffolk. All she had to do was to give Daley’s address to the news desk and they could make sure it was that of the magazine editor and there it would be, confirmation. Enough for The Post, anyway. She frowned. So why did Derek Daley hire a boat for himself and Roger Fleet? A man from London and a man from Suffolk. What was the connection?
Suddenly she heard footsteps and the sound of someone whistling – Colin? Must be. She whipped out her phone and took a picture of the screen before going back to her seat.
‘All right, gel?’ Colin said, rubbing his hands together. ‘Didn’t bring you that coffee, thought you might want a look round that boat now?’
‘Please. It’ll give me a sense of where they were when—’
‘They weren’t on board long. Alive, that is. Bloody waste of money if you ask me. Took the boat out in the morning and were dead by the evening. That’s what the police reckoned anyway.’
‘The police being Eddie?’
He grinned in answer.
They went outside into the boatyard.
‘He’s a good lad is Eddie. His father was an eel catcher, you know. Dying out now. Eel catchers in the Fens. What a life, eh? The wildlife, the peace and quiet, the slow pace. No chasing to an office or anything like that. They used willow for the traps and set them in the evening and hopefully have a good catch by the next morning. Then it was local people what bought them. Or they went to market or whatever—’
‘Colin.’ Alex spoke firmly, hoping to stop him from reminiscing. ‘I’m sure it was a great job, but—’
‘Delicious.’
‘Delicious?’
‘Eels. To eat.’
‘I’m sure they are,’ said Alex, not convinced. She needed to get him back on track. ‘Do you need a deposit?’
‘From you?’ He looked surprised.
‘No. I mean, when you hire the boat, do you have to pay a deposit?’
‘You think I was born yesterday? Lady, just because I’m not some jumped-up fancy pants from London doesn’t mean to say I came down in last week’s shower. Of course we ask them for a deposit. They have to pay it to secure the boat, see? Like any good business.’ He shook his head. ‘As if I was born yesterday.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—’
‘It was booked by Daley, so it was Daley who paid. Simple.’
Alex felt stupid. She tried again. ‘Who showed Daley and Fleet to the boat? Gave them their lesson? I presume they had a lesson in how to steer and where things were and all that sort of thing?’
‘Well I’m not going to let them traverse the Broads of Norfolk and Suffolk without letting them know what’s what, am I now? That’s Mickey’s job. He’s around here somewhere – ah, talk of the Devil.’ He put two fingers between his lips and gave a piercing whistle. Alex had always wanted to be able to whistle like that but had never mastered the art and was always in awe of people who could. ‘Mickey, come on over here. I’ve got a young lady what wants to talk to you.’
Mickey strode over. He, too, had the look of someone who worked outdoors, with a tanned face and furrows of lines around his mouth and deep crow’s feet by his eyes. Black curly hair. A tattoo of a spider’s web on each elbow. Late forties, Alex guessed. He had a friendly smile.
‘Colin?’
‘Mickey, I would like you to show this young lady around a boat, please.’
‘Sure. Ms—?’
‘Alex,’ said Alex. ‘Alex Devlin.’
He nodded. ‘Nice to meet you, Alex.’
‘Mickey’s just started with us. Been here about – what?’ Colin pursed his lips.
‘Couple of months, actually.’ Mickey’s smile was easy. ‘Have I missed something? Which boat are you hiring today?’ He looked from one to the other.
‘No, you’re all right, Mickey, Alex wants to take a look around a boat because—’
‘I might want to hire one out with a couple of girlfriends sometime,’ she interrupted smoothly. She wanted Mickey to show her around not thinking of her as a journalist but as an ordinary punter.
‘Yeah. Course.’ Colin nodded vigorously. ‘That’s right. Can you do the honours, Mickey? And Mickey,’ he pointed at him, ‘tell the lady anything she wants to know, okay?’
‘Sure. Come on. This way.’
‘She wants to see Firefly Sister, I think, lad. Four berths, isn’t that right?’
‘Yes,’ said Alex, thrusting a business card into Colin’s hand before hurrying after Mickey. ‘Give us a call if you think of anything else,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘And thanks, Colin. For everything.’
‘Anytime. You know where I am.’ He gave the inevitable wink again.
Four white and gleaming boats were moored side by side along the river. They stopped by the second one along.
‘This one here is Firefly Sister. If you want to hop aboard?’
Alex didn’t think ‘hop’ was quite the right word. She’d never been one for boats, and despite living near the Broads for most of her life, had never sailed on one. She stepped gingerly onto the cruiser and peered through the open doors into the cabin.
‘This is the rear cabin, with one double and a single,’ said Mickey. ‘Go on through.’
Bending her head, Alex stepped inside the cabin.
The double bed looked comfortable enough, with its flowery duvet cover, white pillows, and neatly folded towels on the end. A mirror was fixed to the wall of a cupboard. The single bed was shaped like a coffin, and the bottom half of it disappeared underneath a cupboard. She didn’t fancy sleeping in that bed. There was a small chest of drawers.
‘If you go through, you’ll find the galley and the toilet and shower as well.’
She saw the small bathroom on her right, then a compact kitchen, another single bed, and the steering wheel. The whole boat did feel light and airy. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I didn’t realize there would be an ordinary steering wheel. And inside, too.’
‘It’s called the helm.’ Mickey sounded bored.
‘Right. Helm.’
She stood for a minute, thinking about Derek Daley and Roger Fleet coming on board a boat just like this a few short days ago. Who had the double bed? Which of them was consigned to the coffin bed? Or, more likely, the single bed in the living area. Did they have a cup of tea or any food before they died? What were they thinking about on that short trip up the river to Dillingham Broad and then to Poppy Island?
‘Is this like the boat where they – you know?’
Mickey frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
She relaxed her shoulders, wanting to sound casual. She stooped, peering through the window onto the towpath. ‘I heard they found a couple of dead people on a boat today. Was it a boat like this?’
A short silence.
‘What do you want to know for?’
Alex jumped, his breath was in her ear, his body close to hers, the smell of oil and the outdoors swirling around her. She turned around slowly, and he took a step back.
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘I mean, it’s a funny thing to ask about, if you’re thinking of having a boating holiday yourself.’
‘I just heard about it and—’
Mickey stepped away from her and leaned against the worktop, crossing his arms. ‘Well, yes, it was a boat just like this. One on the double bed, the other on the single. I heard that Mr Harper is going to have to get new mattresses because they were soaked through with bodily fluids and slime and stuff. It was the warm weather and the flies. The stench was overpowering, I heard. A couple of the coppers threw up. Is that the sort of thing you wanted to know?’ He wasn’t smiling now.
‘Er—’ Alex didn’t know what to say.
‘So. Who are you? You’re not really wanting to hire a boat, are you? But you don’t strike me as a rubbernecker, either.’
So much for being an ordinary punter. She lifted her hands in surrender. ‘Busted,’ she said, lightly, wanting to get him back onside. ‘I’m a journalist.’
Mickey raised an eyebrow. ‘We’re not supposed to talk to any journalists.’
‘I appreciate that, Mickey, but Colin—’
‘Colin, is it? You want to watch him.’
‘I know what you mean.’ God, this was becoming more and more awkward. ‘But he’s been helpful. Seems to think you might be, too.’
‘Give him cash, did you?’
Alex looked at Mickey. She had no more readies to give him.
He shrugged, pushed himself away from the little kitchen worktop. ‘What the hell. What else do you want to know?’
‘These boats don’t have barbecues on board as a matter of course?’
‘No, though people do bring them. I mean, we have all the mod cons like you see – fridge, cooker, hob, but on balmy days people like to cook outside, don’t they? Can be dangerous if you take them inside before they’re fully burnt out. Or at all, really, because you can never tell.’
‘And I gather that’s what seems to have happened here.’
Mickey stared at her. ‘Fumes? From the barbecue?’
‘That’s one theory.’ She sat down on the bench running alongside the table. It was pretty comfortable. ‘What were they like?’
‘The two guys?’
‘Yes. I mean, did they seem like really good friends? Did they talk to each other when you were showing them the boat? Were they nervous?’
Mickey hesitated. ‘How much should I be telling you? Only, I don’t want to lose my job. Good money for doing eff all really, just showing people who should know better how to behave on one of these boats and how to respect the water.’
‘Where are you from?’ Alex was curious to know what a man like Mickey was doing in Suffolk. He had a distinctive accent.
‘London. Lost my job.’ He shrugged. ‘Gambling. House went, and my family. Drifted around, came up this way, you know, for a bit of sea air, and found Colin one day. He was looking for someone to help him over the summer; I used to do some sailing and engineering and stuff in a former life, so he hired me. There might be some winter work, too. In the office as well as showing people the boats. If I stay here that long.’
‘You might move on?’
‘Maybe. Depends what happens. You know.’
‘You won’t lose your job because of me. You heard Colin – you can talk to me.’
‘Trust me I’m a journalist?’
Alex couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Something like that, yes.’
‘I wouldn’t want it to get out that I’d been talking to you, though. I’ve started to get together a good life here. I’ve got some mates. I feel as though I’m starting to turn things around.’
‘There won’t be any comeback on you, I promise. I’m not like that. Really,’ she emphasized, seeing his look of scepticism. ‘I know you’ve got to live round here. I’m fairly local too, so it’s not going to help anyone if I get their backs up, is it?’
‘Maybe.’ He still seemed wary.
‘So? The two men on Firefly Lady? How friendly were they?’
‘Not that friendly, not gay friendly, you know. I could tell that. They didn’t talk much.’
‘What sort of things did they say?’
‘The usual.’
‘Which is?’ This was getting to be hard work.
‘You know – would they be able to steer it okay, would they crash into the bank, what should they do if they did. Standard stuff.’ He looked off into the distance. ‘One of them was talking about his animals and then he said to me he hated leaving them. I said something like “I hope you’ve got someone to look after them or the RSPCA will be after you, ha ha.” And he sort of smiled. I remember him smiling. The other bloke, he looked a bit pale and I remember thinking the fresh air would do him good. I was wrong about that, wasn’t I?’
‘Just a bit.’
They shared a rueful smile.
‘I hope you’re going to tell Colin how helpful I’ve been. Perhaps he’ll give me a bonus.’ He winked.
Alex stood. ‘I’ll let you get on.’ She stepped off the boat and onto dry land, with Mickey following, just a little too close.
‘Ah, coppers. I think I’ll make myself scarce.’ She felt Mickey step back onto the boat.
Turning, she saw a man and a woman in pain clothes walking purposefully along the towpath. In their shiny suits they looked out of place among the holidaymakers in shorts. The man was completely bald, tall, lanky even, sporting a stubbly beard flecked with grey; the woman petite, her hair scraped back in a ponytail.
‘We’re looking for Mickey Grainger,’ the man said, flashing a warrant card at her. ‘Detective Inspector Berry,’ he said. ‘And this is Detective Sergeant Logan.’
Alex tried not to smile. Logan and Berry? You had to be kidding.
‘Yes, yes,’ Berry said, testily. ‘I know. Loganberry. Don’t think we haven’t heard it. So. Have you seen Mr Grainger? Colin Harper said we would find him here.’
‘Well—’ said Alex, not sure what to say. Mickey hadn’t seemed keen to meet Berry and Logan and she didn’t want to drop him in it.
Berry narrowed his eyes. ‘And you are?’
There was no point in pretending, she thought. ‘Alex Devlin. Reporter from The Post.’
‘Ah, yes. PC Lockwood said you were nosing about.’ He glared at her.
‘Can you confirm the identities of the bodies?’ She might as well give it a try.
‘No.’
DS Logan stared straight ahead.
‘Are they Derek Daley from London and Roger Fleet from Suffolk?’
‘Wait for the press conference. Six o’clock. This Grainger’s boat?’ He began to step aboard Firefly Sister.
‘Not his boat exactly,’ said Alex.
DI Berry frowned. ‘How “not exactly”?’
‘It belongs to Harper’s Holidays. Mickey works for Colin.’
‘I see. Mickey works for Colin. I think I did realize that.’ Sarcasm dripped from his lips. He stepped on board the boat. ‘Mr Grainger,’ he called. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Berry and I would like to have a word with you please.’
There was silence for a few seconds, only the sound of distant voices and the phut phut of engines and then Mickey emerged from the other end of the boat, looking as though he wanted to be anywhere else but here, on this boat, with these police officers.
DI Berry smiled, but, to Alex, it wasn’t a particularly reassuring smile. DS Logan’s face hadn’t moved, and Alex wondered if she was frightened of her boss, or if she was naturally like that.
‘Mr Grainger. At last.’ DI Berry looked at Alex, his thin lips in a parody of a smile. ‘Thank you, Miss Devlin, for your help.’
She was dismissed.

7 (#ulink_06a6eb76-4d3f-5270-b67d-e6267011f452)
Alex shifted about on one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs that had been laid out in rows for the press. The room was stuffy and impersonal with high windows and almost bare walls. There were three tables in a row at one end of the room, with the logo of Norfolk Constabulary behind it. It also had a strange smell of school about it, that heady mix of sweat, feet and boiled mince.
Her mind wandered back to the visit she had just made to her mum and dad. They lived in a small village several miles outside Sole Bay – they couldn’t bear to stay in the town after the death of Sasha’s twins – in a neat house down a country lane. It was identical to the one they had left behind in Sole Bay. It had a fitted kitchen, a white bathroom suite, a three piece suite in the sitting room and a hardly used mahogany table and six chairs in the dining room. The garden was a well-tended lawn both at the back and the front, and flowers that were ranked in straight borders varying with the seasons. It was as if her parents wanted to underline their stability, the fact they lived very ordinary lives. Good lives. Despite Sasha.
‘Thank you for coming,’ said her mother as she’d ushered her in, making Alex feel guilty immediately. It was the beaten tone in her mum’s voice that did it.
Alex had handed over the pasta and the smoked sausages. ‘Here, Mum. I hope Dad enjoys them.’
Her mother had smiled gratefully.
‘Hello darling,’ her dad had said. ‘I’m just making a cup of tea for us.’
Darling. It had only been in recent weeks he had begun to call Alex ‘darling’. She rather liked it, even if it was a product of his dementia. And tea. He never made tea; he loved his coffee. He had looked around with a new vagueness, as if he wasn’t at all sure where he was or what he was supposed to be doing.
The tea never materialized. Her dad forgot he was making it and wandered off into the sitting room to watch goodness knows what on the television. So her mum had taken over and made it without a word.
‘Have you seen the specialist recently?’
Her mum had shaken her head. ‘No. Not for another six months. Then there’ll be more tests to see if he’s got any worse. I’m not sure I can bear it. To watch him struggling in that horrible hospital room while he tries to copy a picture or spell something backwards. I can’t do it, Alex, I can’t.’ She’d buried her face in her hands.
Alex had put her arms around her, noticing how thin and frail she had become over the last months. ‘I’ll do what I can, Mum. And I’ll come with you next time.’
Her mother had stood up straight. ‘I’m sorry. Sometimes—’
‘Look, I know it all gets a bit much for you. You must let me help more.’
‘We’ll be all right. Don’t worry. Most of the time I’m perfectly fine. Sometimes, though, I want to scream at the unfairness of it all.’
Alex could understand that. After all, her parents weren’t old – they were only in their early sixties. It wasn’t a time for her dad to start losing his mind and for her mum to have aged years in months. They’d had her and Sasha when they were young, and so should have had years of child-free time together. But what had happened with Sasha had aged them prematurely, Alex realized that. And on bad days, really bad days, she blamed her sister for making that happen. And now with her father’s illness, well, it really was taking its toll on them both.
‘Don’t let it be so long before you visit again, will you?’ Her eyes had swum with tears and she’d worked her mouth in an effort to stop them falling. With a flash of understanding Alex had realized her mother was frightened and that her dad had been the person her mum had leaned on for years. They had always been a self-contained couple, a private family, which was why all that business with Sasha had hit them so hard. Now her mother was having to cope on her own. Alex knew she had to do more.
Impulsively she’d hugged her mother. ‘I’ll be back soon. I promise.’
‘Please.’
‘Here.’ Her dad had appeared holding something in his hands. It was a long, yellow balloon. ‘This is for you. I blew it up, but I couldn’t think what to do next. But I did blow it up.’
The growing chatter in the police station conference room brought Alex back to the present. The bank of microphones looking like furry caterpillars on the table was growing. Alex scanned the room, looking for someone from The Post. She was bound to recognize them, wasn’t she?
No one.
She brought up the newspaper’s website on her phone – surely Bud would have run what she’d written by now? He wasn’t one for hanging around before he published. Normally, he took a chance. ‘Not wrong for long,’ he used to say.
But there was nothing there. No breaking news, no colour piece from her. Perhaps he was having to play it safe this time for one reason or another.
She refreshed her phone again. Nothing.
Someone slipped into the seat beside her. A lemony fragrance wafted over.
‘You’ve been keeping my seat warm, then?’
Alex shook her head. Bloody hell. Not him. ‘Hello, Heath,’ she said.
Heath Maitland grinned at her, all white teeth and Hollywood smile, floppy fringe half over his eyes. Designer jacket. Handmade shoes. Claimed to be late thirties but more likely early forties. Money; not courtesy of The Post, but of his family, so the rumour mill had it. His name courtesy of his mother who was an authority on the works of the Brontës. Heath – he had dropped the ‘cliffe’ bit pretty early on in life – had the reputation of being able to get any woman into bed. Not her, she wasn’t that stupid. But he never ceased trying.
‘When Bud said you were looking at the story, I couldn’t believe it. Long time no see and all that,’ he said. ‘Christ, these chairs are hard. Don’t they give you cushions or something?’
‘If he’d told me he was sending you, I wouldn’t have bothered,’ she replied, tartly. ‘And no. No cushions. This is a police station, remember?’
‘Come on, Alex, you know you’re pleased to see me really.’ He nudged her arm.
She felt her lips twitching. ‘No, I really am not.’ But, in truth, Heath Maitland was impossible not to like. Irritating. Pushy. Arrogant. Lazy. A dilettante. But fun to have around – mostly.
‘You win some you lose some.’ That megawatt smile again. He turned it onto a journalist a few rows away. To Alex’s annoyance, the woman returned it. ‘Last I heard,’ Heath continued, ‘you were hanging around with some dodgy character.’
Alex stiffened. ‘I don’t know who you mean.’
‘Yes, you do. Some bloke who fancied himself—’
She snorted. ‘And you don’t?’
‘You know me better than that.’ He glanced sideways at her. ‘Malone. Wasn’t that his name?’
It was. Malone who had run out on her twice now. Malone who she thought would stay the course this time despite the fact that his life was a mess. Malone who’d helped her son find his father, told her she was beautiful, wanted to make a go of things. And then he’d fucked off. That Malone.
‘Yep. But we’re not together any more.’ She hated articulating it out loud, but she couldn’t go on hoping he’d come back, or even get in contact with her. He’d been out of her life for seven months and three days now and she knew she had to move on. But that would not be with Heath Maitland.
‘Really?’ He raised an eyebrow.
‘Yes, really.’
‘Doesn’t know what he’s missing.’
Oh, that smile.
‘No. And nor do you,’ she replied tartly. ‘Now, do you want to know what’s going on here or not?’
He yawned and glanced at what looked to be a very expensive watch on his wrist. ‘Two stiffs on a boat, that’s what I know. Are they going to be long?’
‘How should I know?’ she snapped, and immediately regretted her petulance.
‘Chillax,’ he said.
That made her laugh. ‘“Chillax”? Who did you learn that one from?’
He looked indignant. ‘My godson, if you must know.’
‘Hah. He was pulling your leg.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Heath looked around. ‘Took me hours to get here. No decent roads.’
‘What do you mean? They’ve only recently dualled the A11.’
He laughed. ‘Maybe, but bloody hell, they still allow tractors on it.’
Alex laughed. ‘We don’t want people like you discovering Norfolk and Suffolk. We like to keep it to ourselves.’
‘Some of the countryside I drove through was lovely,’ he admitted.
Alex liked him for saying that. She was so used to the wide open skies that went on forever and the special soft light that shimmered and the air that was fresh and clean, she sometimes forgot how special a place it was. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate it – two years in London breathing in fumes and dust that was other people’s skin made sure of that – but she occasionally needed to step back and look at it anew. She thought about ripples on water, trees that were green and lush, ducks and geese on the commons, and the Broads that welcomed every new visitor, and the cerulean blue sky. She smelt the tang of brine when she was by the sea, and the scents of early summer flowers when she went walking. ‘I love it here,’ she said.
‘And did you leave London in such a hurry because you were dying to get back to sticksville or because of Malone?’
She glanced sideways at him. ‘I didn’t think anyone had noticed I’d left.’
He didn’t look at her. ‘Oh, they did. Well, I did.’
‘Don’t be daft. I was in a completely different department to you.’
‘Only the other side of the desk.’
‘Features versus news, hey? Soft bubbles versus proper journalism?’ Now she nudged him with her elbow. ‘Anyway, I wasn’t there often.’
‘Often enough.’ He looked at her with those blue, blue eyes. Flirting as ever.
For a brief moment Alex was flattered. Then she remembered his reputation and thought she had better get on with the business in hand. She cleared her throat, leaned forward and whispered: ‘Right. Two men dead on the boat, one from London. I’m reliably informed it is Derek Daley. And—’
He stared at her for a moment. ‘That’s confirmed, is it?’
‘Well, I’ve confirmed it and I’ve sent a piece to Bud, but there’s nothing up on the website. Don’t you think that’s strange?’ She tried to sound offhand about it.
Heath shrugged. ‘Not necessarily. Perhaps he wanted to keep it for the paper. Exclusive. Not bother with the website – you know what a Luddite he is. I mean, if it really is Derek Daley—’
‘Sssh, not so loud.’ Alex glanced around to see if anyone had heard. It didn’t look like it. ‘And it is.’
‘Then it should make great headlines. And the other?’
‘A man from Suffolk. Roger Fleet. Don’t know any more than that at the moment.’
‘And how did you get this information?’
She smiled. ‘I’ve got an “in” with the owner of the boat hiring company.’
‘Really?’ A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
‘Not that sort of “in”.’
‘Right. Okay. So Derek, and Roger from Suffolk. I’ve never heard anything on the grapevine about Del Boy being gay.’
‘Perhaps they were just friends. You know, maybe they were hanging out together? I do believe it can happen.’
‘Hardly likely, is it? The smooth as silk Daley with a yokel?’
‘Watch it, you.’
‘Natural death? Murder? Suicide?’
Alex shook her head. ‘I’m not sure yet. It’s unlikely to be natural deaths though, don’t you think? Not two of them?’
‘Never assume, Alex, you know that. It makes an ass out of you and me, remember? Could be natural causes. Could be an accident, it has been known.’
‘Colin Harper seemed to think it was suicide. He said they had taken a disposable barbecue inside and the fumes got them.’
Heath twisted round to look at her. ‘Really? Anything else?’
Alex shook her head. ‘No, nothing. Tell me, Heath, why is Bud so interested in this story? I mean, it’s a tragedy and I can imagine him running a piece with some Press Association copy and pics, but first letting me loose on the story and then paying your expenses up here … It’s not like him, is it?’ She had been thinking about this. ‘But then he hasn’t published anything yet.’
‘By all accounts Daley and Bud go back a long way; though, as you know Bud never liked him: he always said there was something unsavoury about our Del. And maybe he’s right, we’ll have to see. Maybe he’s covering his arse. I mean, if there is something dodgy going on, he’d look stupid if The Post missed it, wouldn’t he?’
At that moment, two police officers paraded onto the stage. DI Berry and DS Logan. No family. So no ‘emotional’ appeal. Not yet, anyway. Or perhaps it wouldn’t be necessary.
‘Hang on, what do you mean, “something unsavoury”?’ asked Alex.
A look flashed across Heath’s face that she couldn’t identify. ‘I don’t know what he meant; but you never know, if he did top himself, then there must have been a reason.’
‘Could he have been depressed?’
Heath snorted. ‘What, with his lifestyle?’
‘Don’t knock it. You know damn well money isn’t everything.’
‘No, but it bloody well helps. Believe me, that I do know.’
Alex looked at him. There was more to Heath Maitland than a pretty face and a flirty manner, that was for sure, but she had yet to find out what.
Berry and Logan had sat down. Logan was making sure her papers were in order, neatening them with her hands. Nervous, Alex guessed. Berry gazed around the room. His stare alighted on Alex and she began to feel uncomfortable.
Heath leaned into her. ‘Whatever did you do to him?’ he whispered. ‘He’s giving you the evil eye and more.’
‘I met him earlier.’ Alex spoke from behind her hand. ‘We didn’t seem to hit it off.’ She made the effort and smiled and nodded at Berry. The police officer glared back.
‘Evidently.’ Heath began jiggling his knee. ‘When are they going to get on with it?’
‘Patience. You’re not in London now.’ She refreshed The Post’s website on her phone once more. Nothing.
DI Berry cleared his throat. DS Logan folded her hands in front of her. Berry leaned into the bank of microphones. ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,’ he began, ‘and thank you for coming this evening. Earlier today two bodies were found on the boat Firefly Lady moored off Poppy Island on Dillingham Broad. They have been identified as Derek Daley, aged sixty-two, a magazine proprietor from London, and Roger Fleet, also aged sixty-two and a farmer from Suffolk.’ He stopped and surveyed the room. There was a low murmur as the various journalists took in the information. Those who knew who Derek Daley was would realize immediately it was a pretty big story. Alex texted Bud.
Names confirmed by the cops.
‘Their deaths are being treated as unexplained. At the moment, we are not seeking anyone else in connection with the enquiry. That’s all I have for you at this time, but if anyone saw anything suspicious around the time the boat was hired three days ago, or motored past the boat in the last three days, please get in touch.’ Berry held up his hand. ‘I’m not taking questions, thank you.’
He marched off the stage, Logan in tow.
‘He likes talking to the press, doesn’t he?’ said Heath, standing up.
‘We need more. Especially if Bud is being cautious.’
‘Mmm. Berry didn’t even give out the fumes from the barbecue line. I wonder why not?’ He grinned. ‘I think you should ask your Detective Inspector Berry – get a bit more colour.’
‘More colour? Two bodies turning to liquid on a boat not enough for you? And he’s not my Detective Inspector Berry, thank you.’
‘He could be. We need a handle on how they died.’
‘You ask him.’
‘You’re prettier.’
‘You’re sexist.’
‘I know. Go on, I’ll buy you dinner.’
Alex laughed. ‘You mean The Post’s expenses will buy me dinner. Anyway, no thanks, I’m out tonight.’
He raised an eyebrow.
‘Nothing like that,’ she said. ‘A friend. A girlfriend.’ Why did she feel the need to explain?
‘Tomorrow then?’
‘Are you expecting to be here tomorrow?’
‘We still need to know how they died. And Bud will want a backgrounder.’
‘I could do some digging for you.’ The words were out of her mouth before she’d hardly thought them. Where did that come from? Was she really offering to do Heath’s work for him? But then, she had felt alive these last few hours, in a way that she hadn’t felt for a long time. And she was involved in the story; she wanted to find out more about Daley and Fleet and how a man from London and a man from Suffolk ended up on a boat together on the Broads.
Heath seized eagerly onto her words. ‘I wouldn’t mind that. I’ll get home quicker then. I’ll square it with Bud. I think more than two nights in The Travelling Inn would just about do me in.’
‘I know that place, it’s outside the town here, isn’t it?’
He shuddered. ‘Yes. I think I’m the only person staying there. Or everyone else has died and are lying undiscovered in their lumpy beds. Look. I mean it. About dinner. Perhaps you could do some asking around tomorrow and then we could reconvene at a restaurant of your choice.’ He frowned. ‘There are decent restaurants around here, aren’t there?’
‘Yes,’ Alex replied, affronted. ‘We even have chefs who can cook, you know. The Fox and Goose in Sole Bay is excellent. And is probably better than your Chiltern Firehouse or Soho Farmhouse or wherever you like to hang out.’
‘I’m sure the Fox and Goose will be fine.’ He grinned. ‘That’s a date then.’
‘No, it is not,’ she retorted crossly. ‘It’s a business meeting.’
‘Shame. Now, you talk to the friendliest policeman in town and let me know how it goes.’
Alex looked at him. Patronizing git. ‘As a matter of interest, Heath, what are you going to do tomorrow?’
‘Have a look around, get the lie of the land, that sort of thing.’
‘Don’t work too hard, will you?’
‘I’ll try not to.’
‘I was being sarcastic.’
‘I know.’ He grinned. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got a couple of people to talk to.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘I’ll let you know how it goes.’ And with that, he stuck his hands in his pockets and sauntered off. Whistling.
How irritating was he?
She would have to stay one step ahead.

8 (#ulink_f717dc3d-7a14-508d-8360-51c0f6ad010d)
‘So how are things going?’ Lin refilled Alex’s wine glass. ‘You seem tired.’
Alex leaned back in her chair, running the tip of her finger around the rim of the glass. ‘Not too bad. It’s been an interesting day.’ She yawned, trying not to think of Heath Maitland and how annoying he was. And trying not to think of DI Berry who had merely glared at her and walked off when she’d tried to ask him a question. What a rude man. Listen to her – what an old woman she was turning into. ‘That was a lovely meal, thanks, Lin.’
They were sitting in Lin’s kitchen, the folding glass doors open, the air soft and still. There was a faint smell of the sea and the odd sounds from the road were of people talking, footsteps, a dog barking, rather than actual traffic. The scent of honeysuckle drifted in. Alex was full and sleepy. Must be relaxed, she thought. Even the kitchen, which was peaceful with its off-white and duck-egg blue décor and a couple of Lin’s oil paintings on the wall, was neat and ordered as though no cooking had gone on there, despite the ravioli in pesto sauce topped with mozzarella cheese and accompanied by a side salad Lin had made.
Lin put down her glass and seemed to steady herself. ‘Look. I didn’t tell you the whole truth about where I’d been for the last few days.’ She chewed her bottom lip.
‘What do you mean?’ She had never seen Lin look so vulnerable.
‘I did go on a course like I said, but I also went to visit my brother. My younger brother. In Craighill. It’s a unit for people with mental health problems. He has schizophrenia and hasn’t been taking his medication properly so …’ The words came out all in a rush. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears.
Alex sat up, her tiredness gone. ‘Lin—’
Lin held up her hand. ‘I don’t want your pity.’
‘I’m not—’
‘It’s difficult to tell people, you see. I don’t normally do it. People don’t understand. It’s not like having a broken arm or something that you can see and that you know will be mended in a few short weeks. But I thought we were becoming good friends and it’s a relief to say it. I can’t keep it bottled up any longer, not from you.’ She gave a little hiccup. ‘I used to tell people and they would drop me as their friend, as if it was contagious or something like chickenpox or herpes.’ She looked at Alex. They both giggled. ‘You know what I mean.’
Alex reached for her hand and squeezed it. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Name?’
‘Your brother.’
‘Bobby.’ She sniffed. ‘There. Now you feel sorry for me. I can’t have that.’ Her smile was wobbly.
‘I don’t feel sorry for you.’
‘Yes, you do.’
Alex looked at Lin. If her friend had heard any gossip about her then she was keeping a pretty good poker face about it. Normally Alex didn’t like talking about what Sasha had done to her family – her whole family – and, deliberately, she didn’t easily invite confidences, but Lin was watching her with pain in her eyes and Alex wanted to reach out to her. Could she do it, though? Could she really expose herself and her life to a relative stranger? But Lin was her friend, and you should trust friends, right? She took a deep breath. ‘I don’t feel sorry for you because I know what it’s like to have someone close to you who has mental health problems.’
‘A bit batty, you mean?’
Alex smiled. ‘Something like that. My sister, Sasha, has been very ill over the past few years.’
‘How so?’
‘She suffers – suffered – from severe post-natal depression. These days it would be called post-partum psychosis because she … um …’ Alex’s throat filled up with tears. She swallowed hard. ‘She killed her children. They were twins. Four years old. And she’s been getting treatment in a mental health unit. The judge was very kind to her. During the trial.’ She waited for the gasp of shock and horror from Lin, but none came.
‘That must be so hard for you.’ The hand she had reached out to Lin was now being squeezed, and Lin’s careful tone pulled Alex back from the brink. She was able to tell Lin the story of how Sasha had drowned her twins in the North Sea more than fifteen years earlier, how two people were jailed in connection with their murder. How neither of those two people lived to see Sasha tell the truth. The truth that had only come out two years ago.
‘Was there ever a part of you that over the years thought Sasha had killed her babies?’
Alex didn’t know how to answer that. It was something she had asked herself over and over again. Had she turned a blind eye to what Sasha could be capable of? Had she been lying to herself for years? Alex couldn’t fully answer those questions, which was why the guilt still haunted her however much she told herself she had dealt with it.
‘Look, it was unfair of me to ask you that,’ said Lin.
‘No, it’s perfectly fair but I don’t know the answer. And I feel guilty about that. That and the fact the children were taken from my garden while I was in bed with a man.’
Lin gave a low whistle. ‘Right.’
‘A man who was arrested for their murder but died in prison.’
‘God, woman, it sounds like something off Jeremy Kyle.’ Her friend was obviously trying to lift the atmosphere and Alex liked her for that. Lin stood up. ‘I know what you need.’
‘My bed?’ said Alex, hopefully. All this confessional stuff was exhausting. Yet liberating too. She felt as though some of what she called her cloak of doom had been peeled away from her shoulders.
‘A bit of fresh air. Come on, let’s go to the beach.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. I want to know all about what you were doing today and also what else is on your mind.’
‘What else?’
‘Yep. What else. And my guess is that it’s something to do with that troublesome sister of yours. Either that or a man.’
Alex laughed. ‘What are you? A mind reader?’
‘So it’s a man?’
‘No.’ But talking about Sasha had brought her to the forefront of her mind. A problem she had to solve. She didn’t want to think about it now.
‘Come on.’ Lin grabbed the wine bottle and two clean glasses from the cupboard. ‘Let’s go and blast the cobwebs away.’
‘Hardly blasting,’ grumbled Alex, standing. ‘There’s no wind and it’s quite warm.’
‘All the better, then,’ said Lin. ‘Come on.’
The walk to the prom and down onto the beach took them less than ten minutes. There were still plenty of people around enjoying the unseasonably warm evening. Lin settled down with her back up against the wood of a groyne and pushed the glasses and bottle into the sand. Gulls still wheeled and screamed above them, and the sea whispered on the shingle at the shoreline.
Alex sat. ‘I love the sea. Because it’s always there, coming in, going out. It’s dependable.’
‘Dependable?’
‘You know what I mean. The tide going in and out has been happening for millions of years, and it’ll go on happening. Long after human beings have become extinct. Puts things in perspective somehow.’ She picked up the wine Lin had just poured and took a sip. She looked around in the fading light. It wasn’t far from here that Sasha had waded into the sea with her two babies and just let them – drown. She shivered.
‘Cold?’
‘I’m fine,’ said Alex, putting the memory back in its box.
‘So?’ Lin raised her eyebrows.
Alex picked up a handful of sand and let it trickle through her fingers. ‘So?’
‘Tell me about today first of all. You said it had been interesting?’
‘There’s not much to tell. As I said when I saw you, my old news editor, Bud, asked me to keep an eye on what was happening with the boat where the bodies were found.’
‘Oh yes, keeping the seat warm for some hotshot to come and take all the credit for your hard work.’
Alex laughed. ‘Hardly, Lin. But—’
‘But you quite enjoyed the thrill of the chase and now you want to stay on it?’
‘Something like that.’ Alex paused, trying to marshal her thoughts. ‘I came alive again today. Felt I was doing something, not just writing about, I don’t know, the Aldeburgh Festival or the price of beach huts in Sole Bay. Or even extreme couponing.’
‘Extreme what?’
Alex waved her hand. ‘Never mind. It’s too dull to go into.’
‘Okay. But I thought you liked doing those features?’
‘I do. Though—’ She frowned.
‘Today was more exciting.’
‘I think that’s what it is, yes.’
‘So don’t let Heath Maitland take all the glory. Get in there.’
‘Maybe.’ She thought about the tingle of excitement she’d had when she’d spoken to Colin Harper. How she had felt she belonged when she sat at the presser.
‘No “maybe” about it. It’s your story.’
That’s what she liked about Lin – that she was so loyal, so behind her. She looked at her friend and grinned. ‘You seem awfully keen to keep me on this story. You’ll have to talk to Bud.’ A thought suddenly struck her. ‘Heath Maitland. How did you know it was him who came up from London?’
Lin poured them both some more wine. ‘You told me.’
‘Did I?’
Lin nudged her gently. ‘Yes, you did. Over dinner.’ She looked at Alex over the rim of her glass. ‘So tell me how far you’ve got. With your investigating. Sounds so grown-up.’
‘Ha! Not really. And I haven’t got very far at all. I managed to get the addresses of Derek Daley and Roger Fleet. Mind you, I expect Bud knows Daley’s address anyway – and I had a tour around a boat similar to the one Daley and Fleet hired.’
‘Is that it?’
‘Yep. Why, did you think I should have unmasked the killer by now?’
‘Of course,’ Lin laughed. ‘I have every faith in your abilities.’
‘And what were you doing there this morning?’
‘Where?’
‘Down at the staithe?’
‘I told you, heard there was something going on and I wanted to find out what it was. Plus I needed some pictures for my artwork. You know, of all those ducks and geese. And the fisherman for that matter.’
‘And the bird shit?’
‘That too.’
Alex smiled. They looked out over the grey sea.
‘So. What’s on your mind, Alex? I know there’s something.’
Alex sighed deeply and shut her eyes. She knew she was going to have to face this sooner or later. Sooner was probably better. ‘You’re right. It is about Sasha.’
‘Okay. And now you’ve told me all about her, you can tell me what the latest is.’ She leaned across and kissed Alex softly on the cheek. ‘That’s what friends are for.’
Alex opened her eyes. ‘She’s been released from the mental health unit.’
‘Right.’
‘I had an email this morning asking me how she was getting on now she’d been with me for two days. I didn’t know how to reply; well, I haven’t replied, because she’s not with me. She left the unit and could be anywhere.’
Lin sat back. ‘Not with you? You must be frantic. Where could she be?’
‘That’s just it, I know I should be worried, chasing around and I am, but …’ She hugged her knees.
‘You have made some calls?’
‘Yes. But she hasn’t got many friends.’
‘Police?’
Alex shook her head. ‘I haven’t gone down that road yet.’
‘But she’s a vulnerable person—’
‘I know.’ Alex managed to stop herself shouting. She took a deep breath, steadied herself. ‘I’ve tried her phone, left a message.’
‘You need to do more than that.’
Alex felt the tears prick at the back of her eyes. ‘I will. I will. I keep thinking she’ll phone me. Or that she’s gone to stay with someone she met in the unit. That she wanted to have a bit of time to herself. That if I don’t hear anything I will go to the police tomorrow.’
‘Right.’ Lin sounded doubtful.
Alex sighed. She had to go on, tell Lin the truth. She took a deep breath. ‘The thing is, I’ve been dreading having her with me.’
And that dread was why she had pushed the problem of Sasha to the back of her mind. And that in itself was unusual for her. All her life she had been the one caring about her sister, trying to do right by her, shielding her as much as she could. Not that it had done any good in the end. But now she had had several months with Sasha not being her responsibility, and, though she hated to admit it to herself, had enjoyed the freedom that had brought.
‘Okay,’ said Lin, slowly. ‘But you want to have your sister back home with you, don’t you? So you can look after her?’
‘Yes. But—’
‘But what? She’s your sister, Alex. And you need to know where she is.’
Alex blinked at the harshness in Lin’s voice.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ said Lin, shaking her head. ‘What am I like? I should know better, what with my brother and his problems.’
‘No, you’re right. But – I don’t know if I’ll be able to cope,’ she whispered. It wasn’t just that. Alex thought she might let Sasha down again. Not be able to look after her properly. Or was it something else entirely – something Alex couldn’t bring herself to think about: that she didn’t want her troubled sister with her?
‘Of course you’ll cope,’ Lin said. ‘She’s your family. If you think you can’t manage, what about your parents?’
Alex shook her head. ‘No. Mum’s got enough to do with Dad and everything, and anyway, Sash says she’s caused them enough grief.’ She laughed, but it was hollow. ‘As if she hasn’t caused me any over the years, sabotaging my life, my relationships.’
‘Your relationships?’
Alex wished she hadn’t said anything. ‘You know.’
‘No?’
‘Well, she married my boyfriend, Jez.’
‘What? She nicked him off you? More fodder for Jeremy Kyle.’
Alex couldn’t help but smile. ‘Not exactly. We had finished with each other. And they did fall in love. Married young. Had the twins shortly after. And that’s when the depression and the self-harming got worse. After the two children died, Sasha needed even more looking after, until it came out she had killed the children herself.’
‘Shitstorm.’
‘You could say that.’ Alex leaned back. ‘You know, you really are easy to talk to. I hardly ever, well, never really, tell people about Sasha. Not all about her. You’re the first person in a long while.’ Only Malone knew this much about her. Only Malone knew the depth of her guilt. But he wasn’t here now.
‘Should be a counsellor, me. Well,’ Lin went on, ‘she’s your sister. Family. You’ve got no other ties, have you? Apart from Gus, I mean.’
Alex briefly thought again of Malone, wondered where he was, what he was doing, then shook her head. ‘No. No other ties.’
Gus. She groaned.
‘Now what?’
‘I haven’t done the shopping. Gus is due home sometime soon and I haven’t got anything in for him. Or Sasha for that matter if she does deign to come to my house.’ She smacked the palm of her hand against her forehead. ‘Oh, I’m such a bad person.’
‘No, you’re not. You can do the supermarket run tomorrow. And you can shop for Sasha while you’re at it. Spoil her a bit.’
Alex nodded. ‘I suppose I could.’
‘And you must find out where she is and get her home. To your home.’
‘Yes. I know.’
They sat in silence, sipping their wine, watching the sky turn gold and then red as the sun began to set.
‘Have you ever been married?’ asked Lin, suddenly.
‘Me?’
‘Yes you,’ she laughed, sweeping her arm around. ‘There’s no one else in hearing distance, is there?’
‘No. Never married.’
‘I never liked to ask you before. You seem so – contained.’
‘Do I?’ Alex was surprised. She’d never thought of herself as ‘contained’. Perhaps that’s what happened when you lived on your own. Or when you lost someone you thought would be around forever. Someone she’d fallen in love with. Who had taken a phone call and walked out of her life again. One phone call, that’s all it had taken. ‘I’ve had boyfriends – is that what you call them? I feel a bit old saying that, though. Most of them mistakes.’
‘Even Gus’s father?’
‘Especially Gus’s father. One-night stand in Ibiza. Too much drink, a bit of E and there I was, pregnant. But it’s all worked out. Gus finally met his father and is working with him at the moment.’
‘Whereabouts is that?’
‘Ibiza. It’s good for him,’ she said firmly. ‘To get to know his dad. I denied him that for too many years.’ Alex looked at her. ‘What about you? Relationships, I mean?’
‘Who me?’ She shook her head. ‘No. Me and relationships are a no-no. Toxic.’
‘Come on, Lin.’
‘Truly. Anyway, I don’t want to talk about me—’
‘And I don’t want to talk about me any more.’ Alex jumped up. ‘I’m too boring for words.’ She yawned widely. ‘And I must get back and get some sleep.’
Lin pouted. ‘Spoilsport. Just when I thought you were going to tell me about the men in your life.’
‘Nothing to tell.’ Alex brushed sand and small pebbles off the back of her jeans. ‘Come on, race you to the prom.’
Lin struggled up, clutching the empty wine bottle. ‘Cheater.’
Alex laughed.

9 (#ulink_ea941d7c-a204-54d5-a6a0-f44d72fa42e2)
The early morning air was crisp and fresh and the hedgerows were covered in frilly cow parsley as Alex drove to Lapford. She reached the home of the late Roger Fleet in little under an hour. She wanted to see where he had lived, to get a feel for the man from the depths of Suffolk who had chosen to end his life with a magazine owner from London. She hoped if she got there early enough she would beat Heath Maitland to it – he’d never made an early start in all the years she had known him – and also, with any luck, there wouldn’t be anyone around to question her as to why she was there.
The satnav took her through the actual village of Lapford itself, past a high school, a crinkle-crackle wall, and along a high street that could have come out of the Middle Ages, all beamed houses and cottage gardens. Some had notices outside advertising free-range eggs or garden vegetables. One enterprising householder sold jam and pickles at his gate. Alex wondered how long it would take the health and safety police to get to that one. There was even a little duck pond in the centre of a green, complete with duck house in the middle and a wooden bench on the edge. And actual ducks too. The only people she saw were an old boy on a bike in his wellingtons, probably going to work at a local farm, and two dog walkers.
She turned left opposite the primary school with three distinctive arches at its entrance and a couple of cars parked on the bit of grass next to it, past a newsagent, a butcher’s shop, a deli and an imposing church with a tall tower, and on to the road out of town.
After a few more twists and turns Alex drew up outside a five-bar metal gate. A wooden board at the side of the gate proclaimed it to be Hillside Farm. Excellent, she thought, as she parked up on the grass verge.
The soothing sound of a harp made her look at her phone. It was a text message from Gus, at last.
Hi Ma, it said, planning to get a flight from Ibiza to Stansted in the next day or so. Will try and let you know tomorrow what time and when. I’ll make my own way to Sole Bay, just get the food in, I’m Hank Marvin!
Alex smiled. She was looking forward to seeing her son again – it was many months since he’d gone to Ibiza to meet his father for the first time. Gus had slotted into his father’s family of Argentinian wife and three children as if he’d known them all his life. Which was a good thing. A really good thing. And it was good that he got on with his dad. It was the right thing to happen.
So why did she always feel that twist of jealousy when she spoke to him over FaceTime and he waxed lyrical about what fabulous people they all were and how he was enjoying working for his father and how he couldn’t believe he’d waited so long to find him? Alex nodded and made encouraging noises, all the while feeling the envy and the slight resentment (slight? really?) that he should have this much enthusiasm for a man she’d had a one-night stand with and who hadn’t wanted to know her the next morning.
Stop it, she told herself. Just stop it. Gus was happy and that was all that mattered.
Great, she typed. So looking forward to seeing you.
Texts, she thought, were lifesavers. She could stop worrying about Gus, and she’d had one from Sasha earlier that morning telling her not to worry, that she was with a friend. Right then, she wouldn’t worry. Much.
She jumped out of the car and pushed open the gate, shutting it behind her. Then she took a picture of the pebble-dashed bungalow in the distance with her phone, and a close-up of the veg garden.
Walking up the drive she marvelled at the rows of young vegetables growing either side of the gravel. If she was a proper gardener she would have known what was there; as it was, she could only identify some curly lettuces, the beginning of frondy carrot tops and wigwams made out of canes ready for runner bean plants to curl around. As she got closer to the house she sniffed the air. The sweet, earthy smell told her there were pigs in the vicinity, and she heard the triumphant crowing of at least one hen that had just laid an egg.
Police tape had been fixed across the front door of the bungalow. They must have come yesterday, maybe looked for clues to – what? – to see why he killed himself? She frowned. So, the house was still the subject of a forensic investigation.
She walked around the back and found a number of fenced-off areas with chickens, pigs, and sheep. There was also a goat tethered in one corner underneath an apple tree. When she got closer she saw large plastic buckets of feed and water. So the animals were being cared for.
‘What do you want?’
Alex turned and saw a woman whose age could have been anything from thirty-five to sixty with a sharp, ferrety face. She was carrying a bucket and a shovel and was wearing wellington boots together with a muddy-coloured skirt (or perhaps it was muddy) and a faded pink tee shirt, partly covered by a flowery cardigan. So much for nobody else being about this early. She hadn’t thought about someone coming along to feed the animals.
The woman put the bucket and shovel down. ‘I said, what do you want?’ There was no friendliness in her voice.
‘I was worried,’ said Alex, thinking quickly, ‘about the animals.’
‘Why would you be worried?’
‘Because—’ Alex floundered.
‘RSPCA, are you?’
‘No.’
‘DEFRA?’
‘No.’ Did she look like someone from a government department then? She would have to take more careful note of what she wore.
‘So what business is it of yours?’
‘None really, but—’
‘Well, bugger off then. Go on. Roger doesn’t like visitors. Never has. Never will.’
With a sinking feeling Alex realized the woman probably didn’t know about the death of Roger Fleet on the boat.
‘I’m sorry, but—’
‘Did you not hear me?’ She raised her voice. ‘I’ll call the police if you don’t leave. Now.’
Alex had to try again. ‘Are you Mr Fleet’s wife?’ Unlikely, she knew, as a wife would have been told by now of Fleet’s death, but she thought talking to this woman could be useful.
The woman laughed. ‘Wife? That’s a fine one. Best I’ve heard yet. No, Roger hasn’t got a wife. Never had, never will, I shouldn’t think. Likes his own company. Anyway, what’s it to you? And why should you be worried about the animals? He loves them and always asks me to look after them when he goes away. He’ll be back later today or tomorrow at the latest. Not that it’s any of your business.’
‘You haven’t seen police here?’
She shook her head. ‘Why should they come out here?’
So she hadn’t seen the police tape at the front door. ‘Mrs—?’
‘Archer.’
There was nothing else for it. She stepped forward. ‘Mrs Archer, perhaps we could go somewhere and sit down.’ She took her elbow.
‘“Sit down”?’ Mrs Archer shook off Alex’s hand. ‘What do I want to do that for? I’ve got animals to feed.’
Alex took a deep breath. ‘Look, I’m really sorry to be the one to tell you this, but I’m afraid I’ve got some very bad news. Roger Fleet has passed away.’ She flinched inwardly as she used that phrase – she had always thought it mealy-mouthed – and she wanted to go and put her arms around the woman, but she didn’t think it would be welcomed. Instead, she watched as the colour drained from Mrs Archer’s face and her whole body sagged.
‘“Passed away”? Died, you mean? Oh my.’ Mrs Archer put her hand to her throat. ‘What was it? Heart attack? He never looked after himself properly, all the years I’ve known him.’
‘I don’t know how he died, I’m afraid.’ That much was true.
‘Where did it happen? In Penstone?’
‘Penstone?’
‘The Priory.’
‘The Priory?’ Alex frowned. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realize Mr Fleet had problems?’
‘Problems?’ Mrs Archer sighed. ‘He certainly had problems. No love, not that fancy place that’s always on the news with some celebrity or other falling through its doors. This priory is the Catholic place in Penstone. He was on a retreat.’
‘A retreat?’
‘Bugger me, girl, do you always repeat everything? He was praying and that. Searching his soul. That’s what he told me. He went ten days ago. Load of old nonsense, if you ask me. I was surprised, though, because I know he didn’t have a lot to do with religion.’
‘Did he say why he was going at this particular time?’
‘Said he needed to make his peace with God.’ She frowned. ‘And now he’s dead. Poor sod. What’s going to happen to his animals? I can’t look after them all the time. What’s going to happen, tell me that?’
‘I don’t know, Mrs Archer. Perhaps the RSPCA could help. Did he have any family?’
‘A sister. In London.’ She frowned as she thought. ‘Uptight piece she is. Treated me like I was the home help when I met her. I don’t think they got on. Not much love lost, if you know what I mean.’
‘Do you know his sister’s name?’
‘Margaret. Margaret Winwood. Lives in Twickenham. I remember that because of the rugby. You know, the stadium. I want to go to a match one day. Love watching it. All those well-built men in shorts running around barging into one another. Do you like rugby?’
Alex tried to keep a straight face – she was having a hard time reconciling Mrs Archer with a love of rugby players. ‘I quite enjoy watching it sometimes.’
‘Anyway, why do you want to know about his sister?’
‘I—’
‘Because I can’t stand here chatting all day otherwise the poor buggers’ll die of hunger and thirst.’ Mrs Archer picked up the bucket and shovel. Her lip wobbled slightly. ‘Roger wouldn’t want his animals to go without.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s a bad business. He was quite a troubled soul, I think.’
‘Oh?’ Alex wanted to keep her talking.
‘Something had gone on in his life that had made him sad. He never would tell me, well, I wouldn’t have expected him to, but he was a kind man. He would invite me in for a cuppa of a morning and we would sit and put the world to rights, though he would never say anything bad about anybody. Such a gentle soul. Educated too. “Mrs Archer”, he’d say, “things might not have always gone right, but I do have my animals and my land”. That’s what he’d say. And he loved his dogs, Bramble and Cotton. Two brown labs they are.’ She put her free hand over her mouth. ‘What’s going to happen to them? They’re with me for the moment, but I can’t keep them. Pigs and sheep and hens are one thing, but those lovely dogs. Oh my word.’
‘I’m sure arrangements will be made.’ Alex felt helpless.
‘“Arrangements”. Poor bugger. I suppose they’ll let me know when the funeral is.’
‘I’m sure they will.’ Though Alex did wonder who ‘they’ were.
‘Anyway,’ went on Mrs Archer, who seemed to have found that once she started speaking she couldn’t stop, ‘you haven’t told me how it happened. Roger dying, I mean.’
‘It was on a boat. On the Broads.’
‘On a boat?’ Mrs Archer looked disbelieving. ‘Roger wouldn’t go on a boat, not for all the tea in China. He hated boats. And he was on a retreat.’

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