The Restless Dead

by Simon Beckett

  But the room still had a sense of abandonment. The damp salt air had curled the book covers, and a black rash of mildew spotted the rumpled duvet on the bed. The mattress had partly deflated, most of the air seeping out so it sagged limply over the pallets.

  ‘Home sweet home,’ Rachel said, in a small voice.

  Lundy was looking around, taking everything in. ‘Have you touched anything?’

  She shook her head, hands pushed deep in her pockets. ‘No. Take a look through the window.’

  The rain made a tinny sound on the metal walls, and I thought I could feel the tower sway in the wind as Lundy and I went to the window. The glass was much cleaner than the others I’d seen, but it was already hazed by a new accumulation of salt. Though not enough to obscure the view of Leo Villiers’ house, facing us across the open sea.

  ‘This is where Emma took the photographs,’ Rachel said.

  Without answering, Lundy went to where the deflated mattress drooped forlornly on the pallets. He scanned the mildewed duvet before sniffing at the crushed roll-ups discarded in a saucer on the makeshift bookshelf.

  ‘Did your sister smoke dope?’

  ‘No, she didn’t smoke anything. She hated cigarettes.’

  Lundy straightened. ‘Well, someone here liked a joint.’

  ‘That’d be Mark Chapel. Emma told me he used dope.’ Rachel shook her head angrily. ‘This whole place is just … him. Camping out somewhere like this, in an old pirate radio station. And that stupid sign! God, I can almost hear him saying it!’

  She gestured angrily at the printed slogan taped above the bed. But Lundy’s attention was on something else. His knees cracked as he bent to examine something on the floor.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘Looks like a lens cap,’ he said without touching it. ‘Says “Olympus”.’

  ‘That’s the same make as Emma’s camera,’ Rachel said. ‘Christ, I could bloody shake her! What was she thinking?’

  The DI had started to get up, but then seemed to notice something else. I followed his gaze and saw dried splashes on the floor. Against the rusty metal they weren’t immediately obvious, and at first glance could have been wine or coffee.

  But I could see from Lundy’s face that they weren’t.

  ‘Oh God, is that blood?’ Rachel asked.

  Lundy climbed stiffly to his feet as another gust of wind thrashed against the tower. ‘We’re done here. Let’s go before—’

  A sudden clang rang through the tower. It came from below us, somewhere on the lower level. We froze as it resonated through the steel structure and slowly died away.

  Lundy turned to me. ‘Did you wedge the door open?’

  He didn’t whisper but he kept his voice down. I nodded. I remembered the solid weight of the steel door, how stiff and reluctant the hinges had been as I’d forced it back against the wall.

  ‘Maybe it came loose …?’ Rachel spoke in hushed tones as well.

  Neither Lundy nor I answered. It was too heavy to swing shut by itself, and it would have taken a stronger wind than this to move it. The silence inside the fort seemed to gain weight. The DI drew in a breath, as though asserting something to himself.

  ‘Wait here.’

  He went to the door. I started after him. ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘No you won’t. Close the door and keep it bolted till I get back.’

  He stepped out before I could argue. Moving softly for such a big man, he pulled the door to behind him, easing it shut with a dull clunk.

  His footsteps died away outside. In the silence that followed, Rachel hugged herself. ‘It could still just be the wind. If the door’s open it might have blown something over inside.’

  She could be right. The wind was definitely growing stronger, its low moaning accompanying the boom of waves breaking against the tower’s hollow legs. Perhaps the door hadn’t been wedged as firmly as I’d thought. Suddenly it seemed ridiculous to be hiding in there while Lundy checked the empty corridors by himself.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Rachel asked as I went towards the door.

  ‘I’m going to see where Lundy is.’

  ‘He said to wait.’

  ‘I know, but—’

  An explosive BOOM shattered the quiet. It reverberated through the metal walls, far louder than the noise that had preceded it. There was no question of it being the wind this time, and no mistaking what it was.

  A shotgun blast.

  Rachel was staring at me, eyes wide with shock. Despite Lundy’s instructions we hadn’t bolted the door, and as the gunshot died away I reached for the handle.

  ‘No!’

  She pushed in front of me, ramming the top bolt shut before I could stop her.

  ‘You’re not going out there,’ she said, facing me with her back to the door.

  ‘I need to find Lundy—’

  ‘And do what?’ Her face was scared, but determined. ‘That was a gun, what do you think you’re going to do?’

  I didn’t have an answer. God knows, I was scared enough myself, but I couldn’t leave Lundy out there. I reached past her for the bolt. ‘Lock it behind me.’

  ‘No, don’t be—’

  The soft protest of unoiled metal came from the door. We stared as the handle turned down. The door shifted slightly, creaking as it pressed against the heavy bolt that Rachel had just slid into place. Out of reflex, I started to say Lundy’s name, but it died on my lips. If it had been the DI in the corridor he would have said something.

  Whoever this was, it wasn’t him.

  Rachel backed away, moving close to me. I felt her flinch as something thumped against the door. The top bolt rattled but held, and as the handle shook again Rachel darted forward and shot the lower bolt home as well.

  The door shuddered once more, then fell quiet. The silence was unbearable. Rachel turned her head towards me to speak, and as she did the shotgun roared again.

  The entire tower rang like a struck bell as the door bucked from the blast. Twisting away, I hunched over Rachel as the noise hammered at us like a physical blow. Certain the door must have given way, that the old bolts couldn’t have withstood the impact, I risked a look over my shoulder.

  The steel door was intact, its bolts securely in place.

  My ears rang painfully as the sulphur stink of gunpowder filtered into the room. Rachel’s face was white as we stared at the door. Nothing happened. My ears were still ringing but now the thudding of my heart drowned it out.

  ‘Have they gone?’ Rachel whispered.

  I didn’t answer. Whoever it was could still be waiting out there. But the silence seemed to have a different quality now, as though the corridor outside were empty. There was only one way to find out.

  Rachel tried to pull me back as I unfastened the top bolt. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I can’t leave Lundy.’

  I reached down for the lower bolt. The steel edge of the door was deformed halfway down: the blast had been aimed at where a single lock or bolt would be. I slid the last bolt partway back but left a half-inch of the metal rod still in place. I paused, listening for any sign that someone was still outside, hoping if they were they’d be fooled into giving themselves away.

  Nothing happened.

  I turned to Rachel. ‘Get ready to open it, then bolt it again as soon as I’m out.’

  She shook her head, vehemently. ‘No, we should—’

  ‘Count of three,’ I told her.

  She closed her eyes, then suddenly hugged me. ‘Be careful.’

  I silently mouthed the numbers, then gave a nod. As Rachel tugged the bolt back, I yanked the door open and rushed into the corridor.

  It was empty.

  A blue haze filled the air, and the reek of gunpowder was much stronger. I realized Rachel hadn’t closed the door. She had followed me out, her eyes wide as she stared down the corridor.

  She shook her head. ‘I’m coming with you.’

  There was no time to argue. I started
towards the steps, trying to walk as quietly as I could. Halfway along the dark corridor I paused, making sure the door to the roof was still closed and bolted. As I did I heard the distant sound of a receding engine outside.

  A boat was leaving.

  But any relief I felt was replaced by a growing dread. ‘Lundy?’ I yelled. ‘Lundy!’

  The shout echoed into silence. And then I heard something: a low, hoarse sound coming from the steps. I ran to the top and saw him.

  Lundy was lying halfway down. He was on his back, one leg crooked under him and both arms straight by his side. His entire front was covered in blood. In the dim light it looked as though he had something on his stomach and chest. Then what I was seeing resolved itself into exposed intestines and ribs.

  The steps were slippery with blood. It had already started to congeal, clotting into viscous piles where it had dripped down from one step to the next. I was vaguely aware of Rachel behind me as I knelt by the DI in the cramped staircase.

  ‘Lundy? Bob, Bob, can you hear me?’

  He was still alive. His chest still rose and fell slowly, as though with great effort. The noise I’d heard was his breathing; asthmatic and laboured. His expression was surprised, and every now and then the cornflower-blue eyes behind the blood-flecked glasses would blink as he gazed up into the shadows.

  ‘Oh, God,’ Rachel breathed. ‘Oh, God, look at him!’

  I tore off my coat, wadding it up to hold against the terrible wound. ‘Go outside,’ I told her, pressing down on the coat with both hands. ‘Find a signal and phone for help.’

  ‘Shouldn’t I—’

  ‘Just do it. Now.’

  Still keeping up the compression, I moved to one side so she could squeeze past. She tried to avoid the blood on the steps, but there was too much of it. As she eased by I noticed a footprint already in the congealed mess lower down.

  But I didn’t spare any thought for that. Shifting my position to ease my arms, I continued to press down on the wound. My balled-up coat was already soaked, and my hands were sticky with blood. It was pumping out more slowly, but I knew that wasn’t my doing.

  ‘OK, Bob,’ I told him, trying to keep my voice calm and reassuring. ‘Rachel’s gone for help, so all you need to do now is sit tight till it gets here. I just want you to stay awake and focus on my voice, OK? Can you do that, Bob?’

  Lundy didn’t respond. His eyes remained fixed above him as his chest slowly rose and fell. I carried on talking. I talked about his wife, his daughter and granddaughter, about the little girl’s birthday party and anything else I could think of. I didn’t know if he could hear me but I talked anyway, because it felt like I should and there was nothing else I could do for him. I kept talking when Rachel came back and stood silently at the foot of the stairs, and I still carried on when the big chest stopped moving and the laboured breathing fell quiet, even though by then I knew I was talking to myself.

  27

  THE RAIN DRIPPED off the edge of the sea fort’s tower in swaying silver curtains. Every now and then a squall of wind would blow a sheet of it into its shadowy underside, a cold spray that ran down necks and sleeves, chilling to the bone.

  The sandbank that had built up around the tower had been exposed by the low tide, revealing a smooth brown island by one of the legs. Dappled with seaweed and the rusted carcasses of tin cans, it had been colonized by dozens of small, pale crabs. They’d emerged cautiously into daylight, pincers raised as they made scuttling runs that left stippled patterns in the wet sand.

  I watched them from the edge of the docking platform under the tower. The tide had begun to return, and now the crabs were disappearing as the sea reclaimed the sandbank. I’d be sorry to see them go. Watching them had been a welcome distraction from the activity going on above my head. A blanket was draped around my shoulders, replacing the ruined coat I’d left inside the tower. The marine unit’s RHIB was moored to the platform next to the smaller boat I’d come out in with Rachel and Lundy, bobbing on the waves. A larger launch was anchored in deeper water further out, wallowing on the heavier swell.

  As we’d waited outside the tower for the emergency services to arrive, Rachel had wiped tears from her face.

  ‘It’s my fault. He didn’t even want to come out here.’

  I told her it was no good blaming herself, that there was no way to have foreseen any of this. I doubted it made any difference. The shock of what had happened was numbing. I felt useless myself, unable to even hold her. Lundy’s blood was still caked on my arms, cold and sticky, but I couldn’t wash it off before the police got there. They would need to test our hands for gunpowder residue to rule us out as suspects. And so I stood while it dried on me, a clotted coat smelling of iron and offal that cracked when I moved.

  A fast coastguard launch arrived first, bringing paramedics who’d clambered up the ladders to Lundy. The urgency was in contrast to the way they’d re-emerged a short while later, empty-handed and defeated. They’d offered blankets and hot coffee while we waited for the police. The marine unit had arrived next, vaguely familiar faces I recognized from the estuary recovery. They’d been followed by a bigger police vessel, discharging the first of what seemed like an endless stream of CSIs and crime scene personnel. Or perhaps it was the same ones coming and going.

  I didn’t keep check.

  Rachel had been taken back to shore to be interviewed and make a formal statement. Although I’d not asked to stay, no one suggested I leave. I could guess why, and so I’d waited on the platform out of everyone’s way, watching the busy crabs. It was a relief when my hands had been swabbed by a member of the forensic team and I could finally clean Lundy’s blood from my hands. I’d crouched down on the platform and plunged my arms in the sea, rubbing the caked mess from my skin and letting the cold saltwater carry it away.

  It was mid-afternoon when the coastguard launch returned with more passengers. It bumped alongside the platform, and I turned and waited as DCI Clarke and Frears climbed out. Both wore coveralls, and the DCI’s face was bleak. She looked over at me as she accepted help out of the boat from a police officer, but went straight to the ladder without a word. Behind her, the pathologist appeared uncharacteristically solemn as he clambered on to the platform. He saw me and paused, as though in two minds.

  ‘Dr Hunter. Glad you’re all right.’ He looked up at the tower, shaking his head. ‘Bloody bad business.’

  I nodded. It was.

  A bloody bad business.

  I went back to watching the crabs on the diminishing sandbank. Only a small patch remained above the surface when the first seagull found them. Within a few minutes several more had joined it, their cries echoing under the tower. I was still watching nature run its course when I heard someone coming back down the ladder. I waited until footsteps approached behind me, and then turned to face Clarke.

  The DCI’s pale eyes were red-rimmed, and the wispy ginger hair was even more dishevelled than usual. Her voice held a quaver, but I thought that was barely contained fury.

  ‘What the hell happened?’

  I went through it one more time, even though I knew she would have already been briefed. She didn’t interrupt, but her mouth compressed into an ever tighter line.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ she said when I’d finished. ‘Jesus fucking Christ! Whose idea was it?’

  ‘Mine.’

  I could tell she didn’t believe me. Or perhaps she already knew: Rachel wouldn’t have spared herself in her statement. But I wasn’t about to point any fingers. No one had forced Lundy to come out here. Or me either, come to that.

  Clarke gave me a hard look, then stared off at the waves through the curtain of rain. A wisp of escaped ginger hair flapped unnoticed in the wind.

  ‘And you didn’t see who it was? Nothing at all?’

  ‘The engine sounded like a small boat’s, but that’s as much as I can tell you.’

  She sighed, impatiently pushing the loose strand of untidy hair out of her face. ‘Christ, what a
mess.’

  ‘What about forensics?’ I asked. ‘Can you tell anything from the footprint?’

  ‘Not much. It’s only a partial, and there’s no sole pattern or any identifying marks. Doesn’t look like it’s been worn down, so probably a smooth-soled shoe. Most of the surfaces are too rusty for fingerprints, but we’ve found two distinct sets in the room and five on the aluminium ladder. We’re assuming that three of those will be from you, Rachel Derby and … and DI Lundy. We don’t know about the other two yet, but they aren’t recent. If we’re right about the set-up here I think we’ll find they belong to Emma Derby and Mark Chapel.’

  I thought so too. The natural oils in older fingerprints would have been dried out by weathering and the salty air. I’d have to have my fingerprints taken at some point to exclude those I’d left, and so would Rachel and even Lundy. But if the five sets the police had found could all be accounted for, that meant whoever had climbed up to the tower to shoot Lundy had been wearing gloves.

  The same as Stacey Coker’s killer.

  ‘He knew we were here,’ I said.

  ‘He? I thought you didn’t see who it was?’

  I bit back an angry retort. But she was right, and I should know better than to make assumptions. ‘OK then, whoever it was knew we were here.’

  ‘We don’t know that.’

  ‘Why else would they have come out? By the look of it no one had been inside the tower for months, and it can’t be an accident they turned up at the same time as us. Not with a shotgun.’

  ‘So what are you saying? Someone tipped them off?’

  The only person who’d told anyone we were going out to the sea fort was Lundy. He’d called in to let his team know, but I couldn’t believe one of his colleagues would set him up to be murdered.