by Rachael Blok
Through the door, Maarten notes the traditional holiday cottage dressing. Woven baskets, pale wood furniture. Pictures of the local area and seashells hang round the house, signs with quirky messages about the beach.
‘How much would something like this cost?’ Maarten asks.
‘To rent? About £3,000 a week in high season.’
‘And you say a family own it as a holiday home?’
‘Yes. We don’t see them much. The house runs itself. A profitable holiday rental. They’ve actually put it on the market quite recently. It’s been on for a few months. There hasn’t been much interest but it’s expensive.’
They do a quick tour, but there’s nothing to see. Maarten has no idea why, but he feels it’s important somehow. It’s like a square peg for a round hole. There are too many separate parts to this. If this report about Leo Fenton being alive is true, then that will shift everything. If Leo Fenton didn’t die, but managed to arrange for his brother to be charged with his murder, then it almost makes sense. There is real spite in this case. Tangible spite, wound round the whole thing. This is a case where he can smell the revenge.
Yes, that’s what it is. That’s what lies bitter on his tongue. It tastes like revenge.
‘Are there more grounds? Any more buildings?’ The blood trail had led over the cliff. There had been items found on the seabed. There had been no trail to follow up the hill and into the unoccupied house. But he has a feeling. An itch. He looks out to the sea again. The watch had been found on the seabed. Could the body have gone down, then maybe taken to land further up the beach? If it was as well organised as it seems, then it could be possible. And there were plastic fragments found with the soil and the body in Ayot. There was no reason the body couldn’t have gone into the sea first, then been brought here. And if it was wrapped in plastic, and there was no DNA trail…
The estate agent half rolls his eyes. He’s sweating now. ‘We’ve walked over most of it,’ he says.
‘Maybe we could do it one more time?’
*
There is a cluster of sheds right at the bottom by the trees.
‘Can we look in here?’ Maarten asks.
The agent looks at his keys. ‘I’ve only got keys to the main house.’
‘I bet they’re kept in the house,’ Carroll says. ‘I’ll run back.’
Without waiting for an answer, she jogs off. Maarten sees the agent follow her with his eyes.
Through the windows, there are bikes, a boat, a wheelbarrow… Nothing of any note.
The sun is fierce now. Moving to the shade of the trees, Maarten spies another shed. Darker wood. This one has tarpaulin covering it and he tugs the corner, revealing the whole. This one has no windows. The locks aren’t rusted.
There is a shiver, a tiny run of excitement. It tastes metal in his mouth.
‘Adrika, can you keep this area clear?’ He raises his voice. ‘Mr Jablowski?’ He doesn’t take his eyes off the shed, but he moves backwards, to prevent the agent coming closer, contaminating the scene. ‘Can I speak to the owners? Get their permission to thoroughly search the sheds? It might involve some disruption to the shed itself.’
‘Well… I could…’
‘Mr Jablowski?’ Maarten looks at him, down at him. He can feel his tone formal, authoritative. He steps towards the smaller man. ‘When you speak to them, can you mention it’s a murder investigation?’
*
The grounds are full of movement. Jablowski stands at the side of the fence, cowed by the sight of the police force in action. He keeps shaking his head.
‘Here?’ he says again. ‘You think there’s been a body here?’
Maarten and Adrika stand with him, drinking weak tea that someone has supplied. Jablowski had called the owners, asking for the whereabouts of the key. It was the only outbuilding for which there was no key provided. Maarten had known for sure then.
It’s late now. The sun is heading down and everyone is here working overtime. Taj has come straight up. The press have got wind of it and there are a few journalists parked out on the road.
The blue sky is darkening to a purple, knitted with pink and orange.
‘Oh, we rent that one out,’ the woman had said, on the other end of the phone. Maarten had asked Jablowski to make the call on speakerphone, so that he could chip in.
‘To whom?’ Maarten had asked.
‘I can’t remember. My husband dealt with him, all done over phone and email. There was someone who said they’d like to keep some cycle equipment in their own shed up here. Said they wouldn’t bother us at all as they could make their way up from the cliff path. I think Pete said he sounded quite posh. They paid up front for three years, just over two years ago. A shed arrived one day, was erected on the space he’d rented, and that was that. We’ve never seen him since. He’s kept very quiet. Paid very generously, too. We had to tell him that we were selling the house about four months ago, so my husband’s trying to arrange a rebate. He wasn’t too pleased, by all accounts.’
Maarten heard the part about selling the house as though it came through a megaphone. That would have sent someone into a spin, forced them to rethink their hand. Of course they could have just disposed of the body elsewhere, but sometimes acts of revenge don’t provide the expected sense of peace. Appetites for revenge were difficult to sate. If a change of plan was needed, then maybe Ayot became Plan B? For someone. But who?
Adrika had taken the number of the husband and called Sunny, who was heading into London to take a statement. Maarten has asked them to trace the email and the bank account.
‘We investigated the house,’ Carroll had said, shaking her head. ‘But there was nothing – no sign of anything. The path of blood led over the cliff. The dogs led us there too. We searched for the body in the sea and found traces of Leo’s effects. His watch, his clothes. We checked the house and driveway, but there was no sign of anything. I suggested a wider DNA search, but with the evidence the Super wouldn’t sign off any more spend. It seemed clear-cut. God, if only I’d pushed…’ Carroll is silent.
‘Sir?’ A uniformed officer approaches him. ‘The CSM is asking for you. Forensics have found something. The floor in the shed has been cut out in the centre. Looks like something’s been buried. The soil is freshly turned. There’s DNA all over in there. Signs of blood residue coming up under the scanner…’
Maarten nods. His head is aching now. If the body was kept here, then that makes a lot of sense. Three unanswered questions: Why Ayot for the burial? Who rented the shed? And are they the mysterious cyclist?
47
Thursday 21st June
ANA
The hardness of the mirror, its coolness, offers her no judgement. She looks to it desperately, painting, colouring in. The cracks of sleeplessness need crayon, the red eyes need drops – like watercolours.
This misty presentation of herself is real. It’s painted over, and yet it’s still real. It’s the face she can point at the world, like an Instagram filter for skin. It’s no less real than the ragged face she had peered into that morning. Lack of sleep, red from tears.
Ben hasn’t called since. She’d hoped that he would be able to call, but he hasn’t called.
Red lipstick. She had put some on earlier but the coffee had lifted it. Draw in the outline and shade in the middle. Not too dark. Only a shade or so stronger than your actual colour. Don’t do lips and eyes, one or the other.
It’s not just anger, it’s sadness. This grief that had stirred up within her, swirled around like a pit of smoke, has burst into flame. Because who is she to him? Who is she to be ignored? Of all people, by Ben?
Contouring. She’d thought it a load of crap when she’d first heard about it, but if you do it gently enough then you can pull it off. Bronzer under the brow bone, under the chin. The edges of the cheeks.
Why was he shutting her out? There must be a timeline for grief. You mourn and then you eventually move on. Yet she wasn’t mourning, she was just stuck in
this perpetual cycle of sadness. Of anger. Of rage. Of heartache. Then it all fizzles up. It wants to explode from the top. From her mouth. She had spent the last day and night thinking of what she’d say when he called again. What she wished she’d said at the start. It’s not like he can’t see her. He’s not locked in isolation. It’s less than an hour in the car.
Eyelashes, eyebrows. First colour, then sweep upwards. Expands the eye. Opens your look.
There. She stands upright. The heat of the train, the Tube, the packed underground had melted it all since leaving the house. She’d been called in for a meeting in the end.
She sometimes feels she’s glued together by artifice.
You can only paper over the cracks for so long.
She’s going to have to tell Maisie about Leo, about New York. Although after their evening in the graveyard, she suspects she has already guessed. At some point, she’s going to have to tell Ben too.
But part of her has always been scared that maybe Ben already knows. That Leo might have told him on that camping trip. She’s scared still.
She’s always been sure of Ben’s innocence, but in her darkest of moments, in the dead of night, she worries if he had found out about their night together and they had argued – what if it had got out of hand? This tiny fear has wormed through her for two years. If Leo is dead, or even if he decided to disappear, did she cause it? Did she lead to all of this?
Hurriedly she adds face powder. Covering the guilt.
48
Friday 22nd June
MAARTEN
‘It’s a match, sir,’ Sunny says, almost jogging into Maarten’s office. ‘Taj just called up. He put the soil through the tests first and it’s a match – there are traces of blood and some form of plastic in the soil from underneath the shed, which match those found in Ayot in the Palladian graveyard. He needs to do more testing, but he said his best guess at the moment is that the body has been wrapped in some form of plastic sheet, then buried under the shed. What it does is confirm for us that the body reburied in Ayot can feasibly be linked to the site under the shed in Norfolk. It also tells us the murder was planned. Plastic sheeting, there probably to keep the DNA from being found, to avoid leading a trail to the shed, where the killer didn’t want us to follow. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d been dressed in a plastic suit too, to minimise evidence. We found spare pairs of plastic gloves at the scene.’
‘So we now know where the body was kept, which implies that this sighting of Leo Fenton is fake. It’s smoke and mirrors. The initial briefing this morning said they’ve found at least two lots of DNA from the shed. One is Leo Fenton’s and the other is only in traces, and identity unknown. It will need some work. We still have a suspected murder weapon, the fishing knife discovered at Ana Seabrook’s.’
‘Have we got anywhere on the trace to the renter of the shed? Do we know who it is?’
‘Not yet.’ Sunny shakes his head. ‘The email account isn’t coming back with anything. It’s like it’s been shut down. And the initial emails were sent from an Internet café in London, the kind used by backpackers. The CCTV doesn’t go back far enough.’
‘If we draw a line from all of it, where do we get to?’ Maarten stands. He picks up a pen. The whiteboard on his wall is blackened slightly with smears. But his markings are clear.
‘Sir?’ Sunny asks.
‘Well, we draw a line from all of this. And where does it leave us? Really, if we find the body of a murder victim eighteen months after the murderer has been put in jail. What will you tell me?’
‘That he didn’t do it,’ Sunny says. ‘He could have got someone else to move the body, but arranging all that from prison would be hard. Unless it’s Ana Seabrook.’
‘Exactly.’
Maarten stares at the board. ‘The central figures in all of this are Ben Fenton and Ana Seabrook. Let’s assume Leo Fenton is dead. And then let’s assume his body was moved, but not by Ben Fenton. So what about Ana Seabrook? Let’s not forget that evidence connected with Leo’s murder was found in her garden, and the plastic wine glass from the graveyard we found had her fingerprints on it – strange to go back there. She could have moved the body, to make Ben look innocent. When the skeleton wasn’t immediately identified as Leo’s, she could have changed tactics and sent herself a text from Leo’s phone, to make it look like he was alive. It’s possible that, with a good lawyer, it would be enough to at least get Ben an appeal hearing.’
‘Really? You think they pulled it off together?’ Sunny crosses one leg over the other and leans forward. He pushes his hand through his hair.
‘Do you?’ Maarten asks.
‘I think… I think the planning would be immense,’ Sunny says. ‘And it’s a confused way to go about it. If Ana is involved, why would she bury a pack of pills in her compost if she knew her dog rooted around in there? And then there’s the photo and the text, supposedly sent from a man who we now know Ana had a fling with. Why would she do that? Why would she bring that secret to light?’
‘The planning is immense,’ Adrika says. ‘It’s the mad thing about all of this. The planning is huge. It’s the linking. It’s the linking that’s the problem. The thing is…’ She shakes her head.
‘Go on,’ Maarten says. He leans back against the window ledge. The window is hot against his back.
‘I suppose the thing is that I just don’t think she did it. I can’t see her digging a grave. I believe her when she sits there frightened. She seems so spooked by the whole thing. I believe that she’s distraught about her dog. I just believe her.’
Maarten nods. ‘Yes, I believe her too. But there must be something we’re missing. Did anything turn up on the graveyard? Is there anything about that graveyard that is telling us it’s a site of interest?’
Adrika shakes her head. ‘Not so far.’
‘Well, let’s go one further. Can you run a search on the people already buried? See if anything turns up.’
Adrika makes a note.
Maarten stretches, the sun competing with the air con. ‘Whatever it is we’re missing, we can’t deny that all the lines, each one, lead back to Ana Seabrook. They lead back to her,’ he repeats. ‘And it’s our job to follow it up. So, let’s do our job.’
49
Friday 22nd June
ANA
‘Hey there!’ Jack calls, walking down the corridor. His trainers make no sound on the floor, whereas her heels clip-clip in response. ‘Not in my white coat today.’
‘How’s it going, 812? Get to spend much time in head office?’ She smiles, falling into step beside him. She’s joining him to observe the progress report meeting on the drug’s development. The head office has as clean a feel as the research facility.
‘Well, ya know.’ He smiles, affecting an American accent, and raises both hands, mimicking a shooting action. ‘Hear you nearly got blown away on your way back last time?’
Ana smiles, despite flinching at the thought.
‘You normally take the piss out of near-death experiences, do you?’ She raises her eyebrows.
‘Nah, I’m just crap at empathy. I use humour to demonstrate concern. Seriously, you OK?’
She nods. She is wearing a pale red pleated silk skirt, falling just below the knee, a pale yellow silk T-shirt, tucked into the skirt, and heels that lift it from casual to office wear. It’s cool, it’s chic, it’s a uniform that screams how together she is feeling. She had chosen it carefully. Her hair is tied up, in a loose topknot. It had taken many hair pins to achieve, precisely, the desired loose effect.
‘You’re reporting on the follow-up today?’
‘Yes, the drug should start to show effects over six weeks ideally, so now we’re in Week One of the follow-up. We take blood pressure, blood samples et cetera. My report is positive. The drug looks like it’s going well. They’re keen to sell, I’ve heard – you should have an easy deal, I guess.’
*
‘How right was I?’
The update had g
one well.
She laughs as he catches her up after the meeting.
‘Fancy a coffee before you head off? They’ve got some cakes in today.’
Ana nods. She collapses on a sofa in the corner of the room. The yellow of the sofa is as cool as the puffing air. Five minutes before hitting the heat of the sun and the Tube, then the heat of Ayot.
‘So, has Fran mentioned me much this week?’ He grins.
‘I see! The real reason you’re offering me coffee.’ She smiles. ‘A bit. A little bit. And you know I’m going to tell her you asked.’
‘Here, carrot cake,’ he says, pushing out a plate containing slices of cake thick with icing. ‘Consider yourself sweetened up when you speak of me. Then if you wait five minutes, how about I take the Tube back with you? I told Fran I’d meet her for a drink after work and I’ve got the rest of the afternoon off. She said she might be able to get out early – I’ll try to get her to come out and play.’
*
The station platform feels ten degrees hotter than the air outside. The sweat on her neck soaks the top of her shirt, and she’s dizzy. She takes a drink from the water bottle she carries. Jack is pushed up against her as the crush from the Friday footfall intensifies due to Tube delay.
‘They wouldn’t transport animals like this,’ he mutters, his mouth pushed up against the top of the back of her head.
Someone stands on her toe, and she winces. The rush of hot air through the tunnel signals the arrival of the train, and from somewhere there is a shout. Turning instinctively, she feels Jack fall onto her and he swears.
They tumble, crashing to the platform, beyond the yellow line, and Ana tips forward. Slow motion kicking in, until she dangles head first over the edge of the platform; she is half on and half off. Her bag falls on the track and she looks left to see the Tube train screaming towards her.
A woman cries; there is a surge of panic.