Читать книгу Dark Waters: The addictive psychological thriller you won’t be able to put down - Mary-Jane Riley - Страница 14

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.