Betsy was waiting for him, at a table tucked away in a dark corner of the main bar. He was wearing brown cords and sweatshirt, his yellow ski-jacket thrown over a spare chair.
Nick fetched a Coke, then joined him. "Bit of a mess, isn't it?" he said. He felt awkward with his old friend. He didn't want it to be like this, but he didn't know how he could make it any different.
"Bloody terrible," Betsy agreed. He was drinking a whiskey with ice. Small sips, frequently. "How long did they detain you?" he asked.
"Until midday yesterday," said Nick. "A total waste of time."
"I'm sure," said Betsy. "Have you considered suing for wrongful arrest? I know some people. There's a very good solicitor we know socially. A bit of golf. Would you like me to contact him?"
Nick shook his head. "Not interested," he said.
"You should have called us," said Betsy. "As soon as you could. I told them they were wasting their time. I've spoken to Malcolm Langley twice, trying to sort it all out, but he's under pressure. Did you come across him? A Detective Inspector."
"We spoke, I think."
Betsy nodded. "I was only trying to help. Malcolm and you. Total waste of time for all concerned."
The pub was almost deserted. A couple of old boys in for a pint before tea, that was all. Nick glanced through the window at the car park. His own VW had been the only car there, when he had arrived. Now there were three others. There were shops nearby, clustered together just before the memorial to those lost in the Great War. People probably parked at the White Horse to shop, he thought.
After a long silence, Betsy asked, "Do you have anywhere to stay, Nick? We have a spare room. I'm certain Caroline would..."
Nick couldn't help smiling at the thought of Caroline's reaction if he accepted the offer. "Thanks," he said, "but I've got somewhere. It'd break my landlord's heart if I moved out so soon. And anyway, I've paid in advance."
"Well just you remember where we are." Betsy sipped at his whiskey again. "You have rotten timing, you know. Twelve years away and you come back now. Bloody mess, isn't it?" He seemed to be relaxing a little. Maybe it was the drink. "I feel really rotten, Nick. It's all catching up with me after this afternoon. I went to the Inquest, you see. I felt that it was the thing to do. Solidarity with Matthew and the parents, and all that. Did you see them on the box yesterday? Matthew and the father. Appealing for help. I don't know how they managed. They really were splendid. I keep thinking about Caroline: if it had been her. I'd be useless."
"I doubt it," said Nick. "You'd do whatever you could. That's how people are: when they're up against it they fight back."
"Perhaps," said Betsy. "Crimewatch, next, eh?"
Nick smiled. "What happened at the Inquest?" he asked.
"It was over in about five minutes," said Betsy. "Adjourned until the police have concluded their investigations. What happened, Nick? On Friday night. What the Hell happened?"
"Some nutter smashed Jerry's head in with a rock," said Nick. He regretted his choice of words instantly. "What were you all doing, when I went off with her?"
Betsy sat back in his seat. "It's hard to recall," he said. "Too much to drink at the end of a long week. Memories get jumbled, and then there's always the danger your mind will start to embellish the detail, filling in the gaps."
"Come on, Betsy. You remember what you were doing. Did you all sit around the fire singing 'Ging gang goolie'? Did you go skinny-dipping in the estuary?"
"Take it easy, Nick. I don't know about you, but this business has taken its toll on me. Mandy and Trev were in number eleven all the time until Mandy came looking for Jerry. Ronnie was out playing with his fire. And I saw him out on the jetty at one point—one of those boats is his."
Stranded on the mud had been seven or eight small boats, Nick remembered. He had wondered before if the killer could have arrived and then left again by boat, but the tide had been too far out—he would never have been able to cross the mud.
"He was at his car, too. Messing about, as he does. Then he came into number twelve and didn't leave until we went searching."
"You're sure of all this?" Most of it had the polished sound of a statement oft-repeated. "You haven't remembered anything more?"
"We were drunk, Nick. What do you expect?"
"What about you and Caroline? You were on the beach, last I saw. Did you hear any cars, perhaps?"
"This is becoming ridiculous," said Betsy. "We went to number twelve and prepared for bed. Then you came back, looking as you did. Then Mandy."
"What about Jerry's husband, then? From what I've heard, he had plenty of reason to be jealous. Where was he?"
Betsy studied him carefully before replying. Nick could almost hear his mind ticking over, his thoughts. This isn't the Nick Redpath I knew at school. He's gone and changed. Well this wasn't the Betsy he remembered, either: all his spirit had drained away. Now he 'knew people socially' and called Detective Inspectors by their first names.
"Matthew, isn't it?" he prompted. "Maybe she pushed him too far?"
"If you knew Matthew, you'd realise how stupid you're making yourself sound, Nick. Anyway, he was in London on business, as I'm sure the police have confirmed."
Nick shrugged. At least he was provoking a response. At least he was keeping himself busy, fooling himself into thinking he was in some kind of control. Put like that, it all seemed rather pathetic.
"It was a psychopath," said Betsy. "Someone in the woods at the same time as Jerry—she was just unfortunate. The cruellest of chance meetings. A tramp, maybe. Or one of these New Age Traveller types. In a few months' time there'll be another person just as unlucky as Jerry, somewhere else, another unfortunate meeting, until eventually the police put it all together and catch the swine. All it was was Lady Luck in one of her stinking moods. That's all it was."
Nick sighed. "It looks that way, doesn't it? You've been thinking about it a lot."
Betsy stared at him, suddenly aggressive. "A natural bloody response, I'd say. Another?" He stood, and went to order fresh drinks.
When he returned, he had gathered himself. "You said Matthew would have reason to be jealous," he said. He was struggling to maintain a civil tone. It seemed that their old friendship had finally been put aside. "What made you say something like that?"
"I heard Jerry was sleeping around," said Nick. "I heard they had an open marriage, that they enjoyed the frisson of each other's affairs. Maybe she pushed him too far. You saw her with Trevor Carr—could they have been having an affair, do you think? She almost dragged me along with her into the woods... How many bitter men has she left scattered in her wake? How many jealous wives and girlfriends—or their brothers, perhaps?"
Betsy smiled and shook his head slowly. "You flatter yourself," he said. "She was a flirt, Nick. She played games to amuse herself. She and Matthew liked to give the Bohemian impression. Free love, the occasional, very public joint. It was how they presented themselves to the world: something slightly outrageous, to distract onlookers from what a terribly conventional, middle class existence they really led."
Nick considered how close this was to some of his own thoughts about Jerry's behaviour: she liked the risk of teasing. Maybe she had gone too far one time. "Did you ever sleep with her?" he asked.
"No." No hint of hesitation. "Although, to be honest, if I'd ever thought she might be serious, then... No. Probably not, even then. I'm too safe." He smiled. "Why did you leave her that night? Loss of nerve?"
Nick shook his head. "I think I wanted more than she was offering," he said. "And I realised what a stupid thing that was. I wanted Jerry to be more than it turned out she was. Does that make sense?"
"No, Nick. You're cracked." A touch of the old Betsy, for a moment.
"Was she sleeping with Ronnie Deller?"
Betsy smiled, and shook his head. "Did he tell you that? It would be like him. No. There was a bond between those two, but I don't really think it was physical. Jerry relied on him a lot. Someone she could t
alk to."
Again, Nick had trouble connecting this Ronnie with the one he had known at school.
Betsy continued. "And Ronnie liked having her around. Like an ornament, perhaps. You know Ronnie, don't you. Remember how he was at school? All front. He's like that now. All mouth and no trousers, as my brother used to say. He's insecure, Nick. He's terrified of the world. He boasts, he has a flash car that he can't really afford. Jerry and, to a lesser extent, Matthew, were always there for him: something solid in an untrustworthy world."
"Did he want to sleep with her, do you think?"
"No," said Betsy. "Because if he did then it would all change: she'd no longer be that pillar of reliability. She'd be a real woman, with feelings and ambiguities. He'd be too scared to sleep with her. Not that she'd be likely to give him the chance."
Betsy was making signs that he was about to leave. With a hand on his coat, he leaned towards Nick. "You're wasting your time," he said. "I know these people. There's a period of history you've missed entirely. Twelve years."
"I expect you're right," said Nick. "But I've got to keep moving. Keep my brain ticking over, or otherwise I'll just store it all up and explode."
Betsy appeared to accept this. Okay, humour him, his expression seemed to say.
"Just one thing, okay?" Nick produced a scrap of paper and a pen. "Will you give me some addresses and 'phone numbers? I seem to spend all my time searching through directories."
Betsy did so. Afterwards, he stood, and said, "Remember where we are if you need anything. Even if it's just a beer and someone to shout at when it all gets too much, okay?" Then he repeated, "You're wasting your time, Nick. You've got too much ground to make up. You're almost a stranger. You're an outsider."
Nick smiled. "Maybe that's my advantage," he said, then watched as Betsy went out into the early, overcast twilight.
Chapter 9
His morning run took him along Coastguards' Parade and then up Bagshaw Terrace, a row of grand Victorian houses which, along with Cliff Park and Cliff Gardens, were the only remnant of the eponymous developer's plans for a New Town to overlook the bay. Bankruptcy of Bagshaw's merchants' business in the East Indies had caused the project to be abandoned, uncompleted in the Bathside way.
He ran along the Main Road, towards the old port of Eastquay. For once, his route was planned beforehand. This morning he had wanted to run past the police station, now free to run, to conquer his memories of confinement.
The building reared up on his left. Solid proportions, stone pillars framing the main entrance, lights shining out from the windows into the lifting dawn.
And on he ran, conquering memory, freeing his thoughts. He left the police station behind him. On past the High Lighthouse, then around seawards to the Green. Back along the Prom, his body flooded with an exhilaration fed by the crisp Autumnal air. He ran out along Stone Point, as he liked to do. Past the early fishermen. One of them knew him now, enough to glare at him for the disturbance of his solitary pleasure. Nick liked to think it was an amiable glare, if there could be such a thing, a recognition of what bound them, as well as that which divided them. He always smiled and nodded in return.
He showered and dressed in an old pair of jeans and a collarless cotton shirt. Still early, he ate breakfast alone, and then returned to his room with a Guardian he had picked up on his return. In the newsagents' he'd glanced at the tabloids but they were still picking over Jerry's murder. He had seen pictures of her family, and of her husband; pictures of Jerry, looking younger and happier. The reporting had made great play of her lifestyle, as if she had been asking for it, really. He had been unable to read past the first few lines and so he had bought his Guardian and left. He couldn't bear those photographs, he couldn't bear the way her murder had been instantly translated into soap opera terms.
Later, he went out again. After the bright start it had turned into another grey September day. For the second time today, he had decided where he was going before setting out.
This morning he was going to visit Jerry's family.
He didn't know why, or what he might hope to achieve. Perhaps it was simply to soothe his own conscience. To express condolences. To say, "I was there and I wish I'd done more," so that maybe they would tell him there was nothing he could reasonably have been expected to do.
He wanted them to tell him not to blame himself.
He walked along Bay Road, heading away from the sea. He went at half his normal pace, trying to persuade himself to turn back. He reached Caulders Road and turned left, and soon he came to the house, with its gravelled front garden, its clusters of dwarf conifers. Two cars sat nose to tail in the drive, a battered Escort estate and a well-polished Austin Maestro.
He rejected his last chance to turn away and strode up the path to the front door. He rang and there was nothing.
He rang again and the door was opened by Jerry's father.
He had forgotten the eyes. Jerry's eyes. They stared at him around a crooked nose, from an old man's face, but they were still Jerry's eyes.
They narrowed, slowly.
"Mr Gayle," said Nick, gradually realising the extent of his mistake. "I'm sorry. I came to say ... I'm sorry. I was there. I wondered if I could help."
He saw how tightly Jerry's father was gripping the edge of the door. He swallowed. He saw the tears in the old man's eyes.
"Who is it, Dad?" A man's voice, from somewhere in the depths of the house.
"Nobody," said Mr Gayle. His voice was still firm, despite every other sign that he was a ruined man. "He's going." He stared at Nick, and finally he said, "Satisfied, now?"
Nick didn't know what he could do. The look in Mr Gayle's eyes made him feel cheap, filthy, confused. You've got it all wrong, he wanted to say, but that would only make things worse.
He backed down the path, locked into Mr Gayle's stare. "I wanted to help," he said. "I'm sorry."
He turned and walked quickly up the steep hill. He wanted to hit somebody. He wanted to cry. He remembered Ronnie and Betsy telling him he should keep his nose clean, wait for it all to go away. But that wasn't in his nature: he had to dig, he had to keep moving.
He had to make things worse.
~
DS Cooper picked him up on Bay Road, only a few minutes later.
Nick had slowed the pace of his walk, but inside he still felt ready to burst. Mr Gayle must have known that Nick had been held for questioning and then released. Somehow Nick had not expected him to be so well informed. He was innocent, for God's sake, yet people knew he had been held, and they had drawn their own conclusions.
Bay Road curved slightly as it approached its junction with Coastguards' Parade. Nick passed Third Avenue, and then he could see where the row of houses on his right ended, to make way for the small green space with the Minesweepers' Memorial.
Bathside was his home. He acknowledged that now. Still reluctant, he admitted to himself that he had really come back, that he might even stay. Maybe it was his age: a realisation of the passing of time, the need to put down roots.
He had to keep going. His one rule: he had to survive.
A low brown car pulled up a short distance ahead of him. A Ford Sierra. One man in front, another in the back.
As Nick approached, the passenger leaned across and swung the back door open into his path. "A word in your ear," said a voice Nick recognised. "Get in."
He climbed in and the car started up. Immediately it turned down the hill at the top of Coastguards' Parade and cruised along next to the Prom. They weren't taking him to the station, then.
"We had a call," said Cooper. He was twisted in his seat, so that he could face Nick. In the dim interior of the car his dark hair and thick moustache looked artificial, like some comic-book disguise. He was still wearing his cheap blue suit, with its shiny knees and elbows.
"Mr Gayle was very upset," said Cooper. "He didn't think it appropriate that you should pay the family a visit after what you did."
"I did nothing,
" said Nick. "What is this? Are you arresting me?
Cooper shook his head. "You volunteered to enter my car," he said. "You're at your liberty to leave whenever you choose to do so." He gestured past Nick. "Just open the door and jump."
They were heading up Hill Lane now, past Bathside Comprehensive. Their speed would be close to thirty, Nick estimated. He looked at Cooper. "What do you want?" he asked.
"I want the bastard who planted two pounds of sandstone in Geraldine Wyse's skull," said Cooper. "Is that you, Redpath? Are you going to tell me you did it?"
"I keep telling you people what happened," said Nick. "You're wasting your time."
Cooper looked away, and suddenly Nick understood what they were doing. They were on the Main Road, now, heading out of town. They were going to take him somewhere quiet and then they were going to try to beat him.
He looked at Cooper and then at the driver. Both were well-built men, but neither would be a match for Nick alone. Together? He still thought he could stop them. But they were policemen. If he fought back would they be able to charge him with something? They'd have to lie about the circumstances, but if they were prepared to assault him then a few untruths would be nothing to them.
He sat quietly, trying to stay calm, trying to clamp down on the workings of his mind.
They took him about three miles out of town and then they pulled off the road into a gateway. Cooper climbed out and went round to open Nick's door. "Get out," he said.
"What now?" asked Nick, mentally preparing himself.
"An explanation of your role," said Cooper. "Your only reason for existence from now on is to be ready to be taken in when we want to ask you more questions. You stay in Bathside where we can reach you easily. You keep your interfering fingers out of other people's business. And you don't go around upsetting decent members of the community. Understand?"
One More Unfortunate Page 8