The Restless Dead

by Simon Beckett

Lundy didn’t know Rachel was here when her sister disappeared.

  I knew it didn’t necessarily mean anything, that the DI might simply have forgotten. Or got his wires crossed, because the police would have checked her out along with the rest of the family as a matter of course.

  Wouldn’t they?

  I flinched as the sudden trill of my phone jarred me from my thoughts. My stomach knotted when I saw Rachel’s number on the display. I pulled over to the side of the road, earning an irate blare of the horn from the car behind as it shot past. Rain blustered against the windscreen as I looked down at the phone, letting it ring again before I answered.

  ‘Can you talk?’ Rachel sounded anxious, and I immediately forgot everything else.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing … I don’t know. Look, can you come over?’ She lowered her voice, as though not wanting to be overheard. ‘I’ve found something.’

  24

  IT HAD STOPPED raining when I pulled up outside Creek House. The light had almost gone from a gunmetal sky, and the gale of the previous night had died to a fretful breeze that set the marsh grass whispering like static. Although it wasn’t yet high tide, the creek in front of the house looked ready to overflow, the seabirds on its choppy surface paddling furiously against the tidal drag. There was a restless quality to the landscape, a sense of pensiveness.

  Or perhaps it was just me.

  Rachel hadn’t wanted to say much more on the phone, leaving me no wiser as to what she might have found. My imagination had rushed to fill the void on the drive over, competing with a guilty conscience because I was flouting Lundy’s warning. In the end, it came down to a simple choice. Which was I going to put first, my continued role in the investigation, or Rachel’s plea for help?

  So here I was.

  As I walked through the dripping branches of the silver birches, I told myself that technically I wasn’t doing anything wrong. The body from the barbed wire still hadn’t been identified, and Mark Chapel could still be alive and well somewhere. Until it was proved otherwise, Trask wasn’t actually a suspect.

  But the rationalization rang hollow, adding to the sense of nagging disquiet that had formed after what Lundy had said about Rachel.

  I went up the steps and knocked on the front door. I could hear music playing inside, and then Jamie opened it. He regarded me dully, then dropped his gaze.

  ‘Dad’s not here. He’s with a client.’

  His eyes looked reddened. With everything that had happened, I’d not really thought how Stacey Coker’s death would have affected him.

  ‘That’s OK, I came to see Rachel,’ I said, relieved that Trask was out.

  Wordlessly, Jamie stood back to let me into the hallway. The music was coming from one of the ground-floor bedrooms: some sort of girl band by the sound of it. Jamie shut the front door and turned towards the room where the music was playing.

  ‘Fay, turn it down!’ When there was no response he went over and banged on the door. ‘Are you deaf? I said turn it down!’

  There was an indignant but inaudible reply from inside, then the volume was lowered.

  ‘Yeah, you too,’ Jamie said to the closed door, then turned to me. ‘Rachel’s upstairs. Go on up.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I hesitated. ‘I’m sorry about Stacey.’

  He looked startled, then almost resentful. Giving a grudging nod, he began to turn away and then stopped. ‘What’s going to happen to Edgar?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Will he go to prison?’

  I hesitated, but honesty was better than evasion. ‘I doubt it. He’ll probably be sent to a psychiatric hospital.’

  That was true regardless of whether he was guilty or not. It would be a long time before he saw the Backwaters again, whatever happened.

  Jamie’s hands were clenched into knots. He struggled for a moment, looking on the verge of tears.

  ‘Did he … was she, you know …’

  I started to say that I couldn’t tell him anything; that I wasn’t even part of that investigation. But I’d already crossed more lines than I cared to think about.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said quietly.

  His next words seemed to spill out.

  ‘It’s my fault. Everything, it’s all my fault.’

  ‘You can’t blame yourself,’ I said, knowing that was easier to say than do. No matter what anyone told him now, his abiding memory of Stacey would be watching her drive off after they’d argued.

  ‘No? How do you know?’ He dashed a hand across his eyes. ‘Fuck! I just wish I could go back …’

  There was nothing I could say to that, and empty platitudes wouldn’t help. I watched Jamie go into his room, and then went upstairs to find Rachel.

  I paused at the top. The open-plan kitchen and living area was empty. The huge floor-to-ceiling window cast a dark reflection, but the only person in it was me.

  ‘Rachel?’

  ‘Over here.’

  Her voice came from behind the freestanding bookshelves at the far end of the large room. Behind them, partitioned off from the rest of the living area, was a small work studio. Rachel was sitting at a glass-topped desk, studying a laptop. The glow from its screen reflected back warmly from the huge window it shared with the dining and living area. Her smile seemed hesitant as I went over.

  ‘I didn’t hear you arrive,’ she said.

  ‘Jamie let me in.’

  A shadow crossed her face. ‘He’s taking what happened to Stacey hard.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Oh, I’m all right. You know.’ She gave a small shrug. She was wearing faded jeans and a baggy cable knit sweater with the sleeves rolled. The black hair was pulled back from her face with an Alice band. She looked natural and unselfconscious, and I felt a dull ache under my breastbone. ‘It still hasn’t sunk in, to be honest. Going to Edgar’s house and … and everything, it all seems a bit unreal. I still can’t believe he’d do something like that.’

  He didn’t. But I couldn’t tell her that. ‘I called you earlier,’ I said.

  ‘I know, I was going to phone back before, but …’ She trailed off. ‘Look, can I get you something to drink? I just made coffee, but there’s beer or wine?’

  ‘Just coffee, thanks.’

  Her unease added to my own. I followed her into the kitchen, standing silently while she poured steaming black coffee into a mug from a cafetière. ‘Milk, no sugar, right?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  She added milk and handed me the mug. I sipped the hot liquid, my curiosity growing as she crossed to the top of the stairs and looked down. Music still played from the lower floor, but no one was in sight. Satisfied, she led me back behind the bookshelves. They made an effective partition, hiding us from anyone coming up the stairs, but with enough gaps between the rows of architectural text books and journals for us to see anyone who came up.

  ‘Grab a chair,’ Rachel said, sitting down at the desk. I pulled over a lacquered wood dining chair. ‘Sorry for all the mystery, but I wanted to talk to you in private. I’d have come to the boathouse, but Andrew’s visiting a client in Exeter. And after what’s happened I didn’t think it was fair to leave Jamie to babysit Fay.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, waiting.

  She took a deep breath, her eyes going to the open laptop. From where I sat I could only glimpse its screen. The blue glow gave the enclosed space the private, meditative feel of a library.

  ‘I told the police about the motorbike photograph,’ she said. ‘You know, that it might belong to Emma’s ex, and that it was taken around here.’

  I said nothing, but my guilt went up a notch.

  ‘They’re looking into it, but I got to wondering if Emma had any other photos of Mark kicking around. Ones she hadn’t framed. You remember I told you we’d had our computers stolen in the burglary? Most of Emma’s pictures were stored on them, and we can’t access any cloud back-ups because Andrew doesn’t have her password. But she had a fe
w boxes of hard-copy prints, so this morning I started going through them. I found these.’

  She slid a plain cardboard folder across the desk. I opened it and took out the thin sheaf of glossy photographs. The top one was of a tall man in tight black jeans and T-shirt. He was in his mid-thirties, good-looking and well built, with tousled brown hair and a heavy stubble. There was a cockiness about him even in the photograph, and more than a hint of narcissism in the not-so-casual pose, arms folded to accentuate his biceps as he grinned at the camera.

  ‘That’s Mark Chapel,’ Rachel said. ‘It’s an old photo but she obviously hung on to it.’

  I would have known who it was. Although it was hard to gauge from a photograph, he looked tall, probably a couple of inches over six feet. But it was the stubbled chin that clinched it for me. Mark Chapel had a strong, heavily pronounced jawline, slightly flared at the angle of the base and with a deep, photogenic dimple in its centre.

  I’d seen one just like it earlier, on the mandible belonging to the body pulled from the creek.

  I went to the next photograph. At first I thought it was a smaller version of the motorbike print from the boathouse. It showed the same gleaming machine standing on the sand dune, the same criss-crossing of contrails in the deep sky. Then I looked closer and realized it wasn’t quite the same: the vapour trails were more diffuse than I remembered, and the angle of the shot was subtly different.

  I leafed through the next few photographs. Each of them was a slight variant of the same shot.

  ‘Emma used to call them her outtakes,’ Rachel said. ‘That’s why she preferred digital to film. She could shoot as many as she liked, and then print the ones that came out best. If you look at the last two you can see the sea forts much more clearly.’

  She was right: in the final two bike photographs the three surviving towers of the sea fort were plainly visible in the background, rising from the waves like a scene from War of the Worlds.

  ‘And you’re sure it’s the fort here?’

  ‘I’m certain. Here, take a look.’

  She spun the laptop round so I could see. On the screen was a website about the Maunsell sea forts. It showed a photograph of the same arrangement of three towers I remembered from going out to the Barrows with Lundy, but in much better detail. The fort was a remarkable structure. Each of its derelict towers was an angular, box-like structure supported on four spindly legs that sloped inwards like a pyramid. Only one of them was still intact, the other two having partially collapsed over the years. A caption under the image read, Remaining towers of the Maunsell army fort off the mouth of the Saltmere estuary.

  ‘It’s the same fort you can see behind the motorbike,’ Rachel said. ‘And I found this as well.’

  She shuffled through the photographs from the folder and selected one.

  ‘See? You can make out the bike’s number plate on this. I thought the police could use it to confirm if it’s Mark’s. Even if he doesn’t know anything the police will probably want to talk to him.’

  I was sure they would, if his remains hadn’t been found decomposing on the barbed wire. But Rachel didn’t know anything about that. As far as she was concerned, the body from the creek bore no connection to her missing sister, and Mark Chapel was still alive.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ she asked.

  ‘No, I was … just thinking that Lundy will want to see these.’

  Not looking at her, I put the motorbike prints to one side and turned to the remaining photographs. There were around a dozen, all of them taken out at sea and looking back towards the shore at a large Victorian house surrounded on three sides by trees. The viewpoint threw me for a moment, but then I recognized the distinctive bay windows of Leo Villiers’ estuary home. The photographs varied from long shots of the entire house to zoomed-in close-ups. Some of these showed the terrace, but most were of individual windows through which the rooms could be seen.

  Rachel was leaning against my arm to see the photographs as well. ‘Do you recognize it? It’s Leo Villiers’ house.’

  She looked at me expectantly. Making an effort to concentrate, I leafed through the photographs again. There were no people in any of the shots, and they had the rushed look of snaps rather than the poster-art feel of Emma Trask’s other photographs.

  ‘Sorry, I don’t get it. Am I missing something?’

  ‘Doesn’t anything strike you as odd about them?’

  I went through the photographs once more, seeing no more than last time. They just looked like reference shots, probably from when Emma Derby had been hired to redecorate Villiers’ house.

  ‘No, should it?’

  Rachel looked disappointed. ‘Where do you think they were taken from?’

  I looked again. The photographs were all looking back towards shore, obviously taken from out at sea. ‘From a boat, I expect.’

  ‘That’s what I thought at first. But look at the angle. It’s too high up.’ Rachel sounded excited. ‘You couldn’t get that sort of vantage point from a boat. And the sea around the estuary mouth is too clogged up with sandbanks for anything bigger to get close enough to take these.’

  She was right. I thought back to when I’d been to the house when the dog’s grave had been found, trying to visualize the view out to sea. It didn’t take long.

  ‘You think she took them from the sea fort?’ I said.

  ‘She must have. There’s nothing else out there but water.’

  Rachel’s face was flushed. She looked pleased with herself. I turned back to the laptop, looking at the photograph on the fort website. Even the sole tower that hadn’t collapsed looked in poor condition, a rusted hulk stained with salt marks.

  ‘They look derelict. Aren’t they sealed up?’ I asked, doubtfully.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Rachel said. ‘They’re supposed to be, but I’ve never been out there. I don’t think anyone has, not since it was a pirate radio station back in the sixties.’

  ‘So why would Emma have gone out to an old fort?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe she went with Mark Chapel. He was in the music business, he’d have loved that whole pirate radio thing. The point is she obviously did go. You’ve seen the photographs: where else could they be taken from?’

  I couldn’t fault her logic, I just couldn’t see that it mattered. ‘OK, so she took photographs of Leo Villiers’ house from one of the towers. What does that prove?’

  Rachel shook her head, forehead creased in frustration. ‘Maybe nothing, but ever since I found these photos I can’t stop thinking about it. Emma was always impulsive, and taking herself and her camera off somewhere like that without telling anyone would be just like her. What if she had an accident, or managed to get inside and then got locked in? I know it sounds stupid, but the police never found any trace of her. What if this is why?’

  It didn’t sound stupid, but Rachel didn’t have the whole picture. As far as she was concerned, Leo Villiers’ body had been found in the estuary. She didn’t know he’d apparently faked his own death, and might even have murdered Stacey Coker. Or that it looked as though her sister’s ex-boyfriend Mark Chapel was also dead, his face ground off and his body dumped in the creek less than a mile from this house.

  So much for assuring Lundy there wouldn’t be a conflict of interest.

  I looked up, and felt a shock when I saw a face staring back at me through the window. It was my own, I realized a second later, my reflection caught alongside Rachel’s in the blackened glass.

  ‘Have you mentioned any of this to anyone else?’ I asked.

  ‘Not yet. Andrew’s been out all day, and there’s no point worrying him if it turns out to be nothing. I almost phoned Bob Lundy, but I wanted to make sure I wasn’t grasping at straws. Do you think I am?’

  No, I didn’t. I didn’t know how a derelict sea fort figured in any of this, but it was another potential lead. And I hated that Rachel had taken me into her confidence when I couldn’t be as honest with her.

  ‘I think you
should tell Lundy,’ I said.

  ‘You think he’ll take it seriously?’ she asked doubtfully, picking up the photographs again.

  ‘I think he needs to know.’

  I looked down at the photographs without seeing them. The pressure that had been building up in me ever since the conversation with Lundy made it hard to think about anything else.

  Rachel was watching me. ‘What is it? Is something wrong?’

  Just ask her. ‘When your sister went missing … You told me you were over here. In the UK.’

  She looked puzzled. ‘That’s right, for a friend’s wedding. It was in Poole.’

  ‘Lundy seemed to think you were still in Australia.’

  I watched her expression change, puzzlement deepening to something else as a flush rose up her neck. ‘Well, I wasn’t. I went through all this with the police at the time.’

  ‘OK.’ It was hard to meet her stare now. ‘I just wondered why he didn’t know.’

  ‘Maybe because it wasn’t him I told, it was some PC. I don’t expect Lundy can remember every little detail. Or maybe he didn’t think it was important. I mean, he’s only a DI, what does he know?’

  I should never have said anything, I realized, not without thinking it through. ‘I didn’t mean to—’

  ‘If you like I can dig out hotel receipts. Would you like to check my plane ticket as well?’ She didn’t give me a chance to answer. ‘Jesus Christ, are you serious? You think I did something to Emma? Or Leo Villiers? Or both of them, perhaps!’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Then why did you ask?’

  Her face had darkened. She seemed close to tears, but more from anger than anything else. I shrugged helplessly. ‘Because …’ Because I had to. Because I’ve been fooled before. ‘It was a mistake.’

  ‘A mistake?’

  There was a sound from the stairs. Jamie had come up, probably drawn by the noise. He gave me a flat look before speaking to Rachel.

  ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Everything’s fine.’

  He gave me another look before turning and going back downstairs. My face was burning as I rose to my feet. ‘I’d better go.’