The Restless Dead

by Simon Beckett

  ‘Yes, I think you had.’

  Neither of us spoke as we went downstairs. The flush had subsided to twin patches of colour in her cheeks as Rachel opened the front door. I hesitated.

  ‘I’m going back to London tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh.’ There was a flicker of something, then her face closed down. ‘Andrew’ll sort out the bill for the boathouse. You can post the key through the letterbox when you’ve locked up.’

  Feeling shell-shocked, I stepped out into the damp night air. Anything I said right then would only make things worse, but I hated to leave like this. The wind was still fitful, carrying the threat of more rain and a saline tang from the sea as I turned to her.

  ‘Bye,’ Rachel said.

  The door shut with finality.

  I kept replaying what had just happened as I trudged back through the copse, as though that would somehow change the outcome. Idiot, idiot, idiot. Christ, what had I been thinking, blurting it out like that? Well, at least Lundy didn’t need to worry about a conflict of interest any more. I doubted Rachel would even want to speak to me again.

  Lost in my thoughts, I almost walked into the man coming the other way through the trees. Trask stopped on the path, seeming as surprised to see me as I was him. He had a battered leather satchel slung over a shoulder and a tubular drawing holder tucked under his arm. The external light from the house made his face look more deeply etched than ever.

  ‘Here again?’ he said, sounding guarded.

  ‘I came to see Rachel.’

  ‘Ah.’ He eased the satchel strap on his shoulder. ‘Awful about Stacey Coker. Absolutely awful. I’d never have believed Edgar Holloway was capable of something like that. How’s her father?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him.’ I didn’t want to be brusque but the less I said to anyone now the better. ‘I just called round to say goodbye. I’m leaving tomorrow.’

  Trask’s look became suddenly keen. ‘Finished already?’

  ‘I need to get back to London,’ I said noncommittally. ‘Anyway, thanks again for the tow. And for letting me use the boathouse. I still need to settle my bill.’

  Trask irritably waved the offer away. ‘Christ, don’t worry about that. Not after what you did for Fay.’

  ‘Really, I—’

  ‘I insist. Are you likely to be back this way again?’

  I thought about how things had been left with Rachel. ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Well …’ There wasn’t much else to say. He gave a brisk nod. ‘Safe travels.’

  We shook hands awkwardly, then Trask carried on through the trees to the house. I went back to my car. Some people, like Lundy, you meet and feel you’ve known all your life. Others you brush by without either making or leaving an impression.

  But I was too busy worrying over my row with Rachel to dwell on Trask. I tried to tell myself that it was for the best. She’d been through a lot, and these past few days had been so emotionally charged that my own judgement was probably skewed. It wasn’t as though anything had actually happened between us anyway. We hardly even knew each other.

  Telling myself that made no difference. I might not trust what I felt for her, but whatever it was, it was strong enough to make me miserable as I drove away.

  Brooding about that, I didn’t notice the glow at first. A turn of the road brought it into view, an unsteady light in the darkness off to one side. It wasn’t far away, and even with my sketchy knowledge of the Backwaters I could tell it was the rough location of Edgar’s house. The police must still be searching the place, I thought.

  This wasn’t the pure white of floodlights, though. It was a sickly yellow light that flickered against the black skyline. I glanced at it again, feeling a growing unease. The police wouldn’t leave a crime scene untended. Not until it had been fully searched, and I couldn’t see how they could have explored those thickets of undergrowth in the gardens already. And then the glow suddenly leapt higher, and any doubt as to what it was vanished.

  Something was on fire.

  I wasn’t sure I could find my way to Edgar’s house in the dark. Rachel had driven us there the night before, and I’d been too preoccupied with the disturbed man in the back seat to pay attention to where we were going. But there weren’t many roads to take, and the blaze was an effective beacon anyway. The flames were clearly visible against the night sky, lighting up nearby trees with erratic shadows. Then I turned on to the bumpy dirt track leading to Edgar’s and the fire lay dead ahead.

  The house was engulfed. Sparks spewed up from it, and plumes of dirty smoke rose into the night sky. One of the nearby trees had caught fire as well, and the crackle of flames spreading through its branches sounded like snapping bone. A length of police crime scene tape, still secured at one end, flapped madly in the updraught. A police caravan was parked at the end of the track, and just behind it was a pick-up truck. In the feverish light from the fire I could make out the words Coker’s Marine and Auto on its side.

  Beyond that, silhouetted against the flames, were struggling figures.

  The heat beat against me as I jumped out of the car and ran towards them. I squeezed past the truck, able to make out the bulky figure of Coker wrestling with a police offer. It was a female PC, struggling to hold the thrashing salvage yard owner in an arm lock. A male officer was on his hands and knees nearby, hat lying on the floor as he shook his head groggily. As I ran up Coker threw off the policewoman, his face shiny from snot and tears in the firelight. As he raised an arm to hit her I grabbed hold of him.

  ‘OK, enough!’

  He wrenched free and swung a fist at my head. He was off balance but it still caught me a glancing blow on the cheekbone. I clutched at his arm, trying to pull him away from the policewoman, and something barged into me from behind.

  I landed in the dirt, convinced Coker had hit me again, but it was the male PC. He drove his shoulder into Coker’s middle, wrapping his arms around him in a rugby tackle. By now the woman had recovered. As Coker clubbed at her partner she caught hold of an arm again, twisting it behind him.

  ‘Fucking get off!’ he roared as the two of them wrestled him to the ground. He landed with a heavy thump, but still struggled. I clambered to my feet but before I could go to help the female officer shot me a warning look.

  ‘Stay where you are!’ she yelled, struggling for something at her belt. She gave Coker’s arm another wrench as the policeman wrapped his arms around the flailing legs. ‘Stay down! Lie still or I’ll spray you!’

  Coker swore and fought them, almost kicking free. Grim-faced, the woman sprayed a short burst from a gas cylinder into his face. There was an agonized bellow and the big man thrashed around even more.

  And then, abruptly, all the fight went out of him. He sagged back, putting up no more resistance as the two officers dragged his arms behind his back and handcuffed him. He was keening now, and with a shock I realized he was crying.

  ‘He killed her. He killed my Stacey!’

  The broad shoulders were shaking with the force of his sobs. The police officers stepped away, panting. Off to one side I noticed a large plastic petrol container, lying on its side with its lid trailing in the mud.

  ‘You OK, Trevor?’ the woman asked her partner.

  ‘Yeah. Caught me a good one, though.’

  He looked barely out of his teens. I could see now they were police community support officers, not PCs. All the way out here, with the house already searched, it must have seemed there wasn’t much risk of anyone trying to disturb it.

  The firelight gleamed on the blood covering the young PCSO’s lower face. I took a tissue from my pocket and held it out to him.

  ‘It’s OK, it’s clean,’ I said. It earned a suspicious glare.

  ‘Who are you?’

  They visibly relaxed as I explained. By the time I’d finished Coker’s sobs had subsided but he was still crying. He seemed spent, barely aware of us any more.

  ‘Poor bastard,’ the male PCSO said, when I told them about his daug
hter.

  ‘Yeah, poor him,’ the woman said, massaging her shoulder as she gave the prone man an unfriendly look.

  A loud rushing noise made all three of us jump round as the roof of Edgar’s house collapsed. Gouts of flame shot into the air, streaming sparks as a blast of hot air swept over us. I hoped all the animals had been taken away before Coker set the blaze.

  ‘Shit,’ the policewoman said. ‘They’re going to have a fit.’

  While she went back to the caravan to call in, I walked back down the track to my car. I’d left the lights on and the door open when I’d jumped out. As I passed Coker’s pick-up truck I glanced in the back. In the light from the flames I could see a small portable generator surrounded by coils of greasy rope and lengths of chain. Various power tools were half covered by an oily tarpaulin.

  One of them was a heavy-duty angle grinder.

  25

  LUNDY PRODDED WITH his foot at a piece of charred timber that lay in the sodden grass. The remains of Edgar’s house were blackened and roofless against a grey sky. Except for the walls not much of the structure remained. Most of the top floor had gone, leaving only a windowless brick shell.

  The air was thick with the stink of wet soot and burnt wood. A tall sycamore close to the house was charred and scorched, half its branches reduced to charcoal. Heat still radiated from the house, and the ground in front of it was littered with scorched debris. Lundy looked at it and sighed.

  ‘I hate fires. Between the fire brigade and the blaze there’s bugger all left afterwards.’

  At least no one had been inside this one. ‘Was there much left to search?’

  ‘Not in the house. We’d pretty much done with that, so we were waiting for more equipment to start clearing the garden. But it’d be nice to have it left in one piece.’

  Coker had made a thorough job of destroying Edgar’s home. The petrol had ensured there was little left for the fire teams to save once they arrived. They’d tried anyway, two engines blocking the lane at the end of the track while their hoses poured water on to the flames. Then they’d set about raking the smouldering remnants of furniture and cages outside so the fire couldn’t start up again.

  Lundy hadn’t been out to Edgar’s the night before. I’d decided against calling him. Even if there’d been a phone signal anywhere near the burning house, there was no point disturbing him at home when he’d learn about the fire soon enough anyway. He’d want to hear about the photograph of Mark Chapel, but that wasn’t so urgent it couldn’t wait till morning. And that would give Rachel an opportunity to tell him about the sea fort. It would be better coming from her than me.

  After giving the police my statement, I’d left the firefighters still bringing the blaze under control and driven back to the boathouse. I’d slept badly, but by the time I got up one thing at least was clear in my mind.

  I knew I couldn’t go back to London without talking to Rachel again.

  I’d rehearsed what I was going to say, and felt my frustration mount when her phone went straight to voicemail. I’d started to leave the usual bland message and then stopped.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry about last night. I can’t explain now, but … I was wrong, OK? Call me.’

  Ending the call, I’d screwed up my face. Bloody fool, is that the best you could do? But it was done now. I’d been about to call Lundy next, but he beat me to it. He was on his way to Edgar’s house to view the damage, he told me. Could I meet him there?

  ‘You can tell me all about it then,’ he’d said.

  I’d got to the house first, and been kept behind a new cordon of police tape by a PC until Lundy arrived. He’d seemed subdued, and still did now as he regarded the burnt-out house.

  ‘Were there any animals still inside?’ I asked.

  ‘No, the RSPCA and RSPB came out yesterday morning and took them away. And the ones he’d kept in the garden. They said it was like he’d triaged them, keeping the sickest inside and the ones that weren’t so bad out here.’

  That didn’t sound like the behaviour of someone who’d rescue a girl and then turn into a crazed killer once he got her home. ‘What about Coker? Will he be charged?’

  Lundy sighed, regarding the house again. ‘No way round it after what he did.’

  ‘There were mitigating circumstances. I saw him; he wasn’t in his right mind.’

  ‘Doesn’t change what he did.’ He shrugged, as though realizing he sounded uncharacteristically harsh. ‘I’m sure it’ll be taken into account. But we can’t ignore something like this, regardless of what state of mind he was in.’

  ‘And the angle grinder I saw in his truck?’

  ‘The lab hasn’t found any blood or bone tissue on it, and it’d be a bugger to clean off if he used it on someone’s face. There’d still be traces. And Coker having power tools is neither here nor there. So do I, come to that. We’ll search his yard, but I doubt we’ll find much.’

  ‘Has he said anything?’

  ‘Only that he’s sorry Holloway wasn’t in the house. As a father I can’t say I blame him. The problem is he’s taken it out on the wrong man.’

  I looked at him. ‘Is that official?’

  ‘We’re not telling anyone yet. But there’s not much doubt that whoever strangled Stacey Coker had smaller hands than Holloway, and they were savvy enough not to leave so much as a hair or fingerprint behind. The psychologists doubt he’d be capable of anything like that, and probably not of murdering her either. At least not as he is now,’ he added. ‘There’s still a question mark over what happened to his daughter, but I don’t think we’ll ever know the story there.’

  ‘So what’s going to happen to him?’

  Lundy took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘I expect he’ll be sectioned. We can’t just release him, he’s not fit to fend for himself. He might not have murdered Stacey Coker, but she wouldn’t have crashed if he hadn’t been wandering in the road. So there’s that, as well. However you look at it, he won’t be coming back here.’

  I looked at the burnt-out shell that had been Edgar’s home for decades. ‘Then what’ll happen to this place?’

  ‘That’s where it gets interesting. You remember I wondered what the connection could be between Holloway and Leo Villiers? I couldn’t understand why Villiers would even know this place existed, let alone feel confident enough to keep a shotgun here. Well, we looked into it and guess what? Turns out the house is owned by the Villiers estate.’

  ‘Edgar’s their tenant?’

  Lundy smiled, more like his usual self. ‘The estate owns land and properties all over this area, but I didn’t twig that this was one of them. And it gets better. Sir Stephen handed the local tenancy side of the business to Leo a few years back. Nice independent income, and he probably hoped it’d get his son more involved with the running of things. Didn’t work out, but it means Leo Villiers is Holloway’s landlord.’

  I looked at the blackened house, remembering its squalor and dilapidation. ‘He was charging him rent for this?’

  ‘That’s the thing. He wasn’t. Holloway wasn’t claiming benefits and didn’t have any income we’re aware of. He can’t have been paying rent for Christ knows how long. We found a gull nesting on a pile of old bank statements, and according to them he used to get publishing royalties from the text books he wrote. But that wouldn’t have been enough to live on, and it must have dried up long since. I dare say the family lawyers will try to tell us it was a charity case, but I can’t see Villiers letting anyone live rent free from the kindness of his heart.’

  Neither could I. Whether he’d intended all along to take advantage of his vulnerable tenant or not, it wasn’t a kindness to let Edgar live alone out here anyway. Villiers might not have harmed him directly, but he’d allowed him to exist in barely animal conditions, slowly starving as his mental health disintegrated along with his home. That was a form of cruelty in itself.

  ‘When are you going to let people know it wasn’t Villiers in the estuary?’ I asked.
<
br />   ‘That’s down to the chief. There’s an argument in favour of keeping quiet so we don’t tip Villiers off, but that’s running out of steam fast. After everything that’s happened word’s bound to be getting out, and after Stacey Coker I don’t know how much longer we should keep a lid on it anyway. The priority now is finding the bugger before anyone else gets hurt. Anyway,’ Lundy said, glancing at his watch, ‘you said you’d got something on Mark Chapel?’

  I’d forgotten about that for the few moments we’d been discussing Edgar, but now the heaviness settled on me again as I remembered the previous night. ‘Rachel found a photograph her sister took of him. He has a cleft chin, the same as the mandible we found with the remains from the barbed wire.’

  ‘I noticed that myself,’ he said. ‘You could have parked a bike in it.’

  ‘You’ve managed to trace him?’ I asked, surprised.

  ‘Not exactly. He went missing seven months ago, around the same time as Emma Derby.’

  Even though I’d been expecting it, the confirmation was unwelcome. I didn’t like the way any of this was beginning to look. ‘That can’t be a coincidence.’

  ‘No,’ Lundy agreed. ‘Unfortunately, because he lived in London no one made the connection. And the dates don’t quite tally. Last time anyone saw Chapel was the Friday before Emma Derby vanished on the following Monday. He got fired from the music video producers the year before so he was working at a place that makes videos for corporate websites. Pretty low-end stuff. Said he was going away for the weekend but didn’t say where, and then never showed up for work the next week. No one thought much of it because he’d been having a lot of time off anyway. Dental problems, he claimed. We can probably take that with a pinch of salt, but it meant it was another week before he was reported missing. His boss only bothered then because Chapel had taken video equipment with him. He’d been threatened with the sack already, so when he didn’t appear everyone assumed he’d nicked it.’

  ‘What sort of dental problems?’ I asked, thinking back to the skull I’d examined.

  ‘No idea. Is it important?’