~
The line went dead.
Minutes later, the door to the Sperry and Neeskens Portakabin opened and Ronnie appeared. He looked around, then walked across the yard, pulling his coat tight around him.
Although Nick had believed the drug importation was Ronnie's personal sideline, there had always been the possibility that the firm was involved. But now he saw that Ronnie was alone, nobody following, nobody to cover his tail.
There was a short dog-legged pier between the Green and Elizabeth Wharf, and a number of small boats were moored in its lee. The Sailing Club had a wooden clubhouse near to the start of the pier and Nick watched as Ronnie reached the building, then leaned against it, staring back into town.
Nick almost walked away and left him to a long, cold wait. He had proved that Ronnie was a drugs smuggler, and that he was at least prepared to meet someone in order to discuss a large-scale operation.
But he was beginning to get a nagging feeling of doubt. He wasn't trying to catch a drugs smuggler—he wanted to find out what had happened to Jerry. Were the two really linked, as he had supposed?
The only way to find out was to plunge in.
He approached the clubhouse and soon Ronnie spotted him. Soon after that Ronnie recognised who he was and started to march towards him, so that they met partway across the Green.
"What the fuck...?"
Nick stood easily, fists bunched inside his jacket pockets. "I want to know what you're up to, Ronnie. I want to know what happened."
"What I'm up to? So when are you going to tell me what the fu—"
"I want to know what's going on," said Nick softly.
Ronnie was rocking on the balls of his feet, ready to lash out. He had learnt some self-control since his school days, clearly. "I get some nutter on the 'phone," said Ronnie. "He makes threatening noises and asks to meet me. What the fuck am I supposed to do, eh? And then I find it's bloody you. You want to tell me your game?"
"You've been bringing drugs in from the Hook," said Nick.
Ronnie licked his lips. "I've been doing no such thing." He straightened up and then said, "I'm going back to work. And I never want to see your stinking face again, you hear?"
"You have," said Nick. "I saw you."
Ronnie had turned to go, but now he stopped. "I'm not arguing," he said. "I've nothing to hide."
"The Ferryman," said Nick. "Last night, about eight-thirty. A thin blond man and his mate in a denim jacket. I was there. I saw the deal. I heard what he told you."
Ronnie spread his hands, suddenly trying to be conciliatory and not doing a very good job. "So who's a naughty boy, eh, Nick? So I know a few people. I bring in a bit of grass from the Netherlands for myself and a few friends. What's the harm in that? They sell it in frigging restaurants over there, Nick. It's no big deal. Just a little sideline, that's all it is."
"Did Jerry find out about your 'little sideline', then? Threaten to tell the police, perhaps?"
Ronnie laughed—nothing put on or forced, it was a genuine laugh, a sudden release of nervous tension. When he had finished, he said, "So that's what you're getting at, is it? 'Did Jerry find out?'" He tried to mimic Nick's accent, badly. "You're really the dumb one now, aren't you, Nick? Jerry's known for frigging years. Where do you think she got her stuff—Marks and Spencers? So I got her some grass, a few pills. Who cares, Nick? Who fucking cares?"
Nick was too stubborn to give up now. "What about that car you drive?" he asked. "How do you pay for that?"
"The BMW? You want to see the size of my overdraft, do you? You want to see my last Visa bill? Me, I'm like a frigging Third World country, in debt up to my eyeballs. You think I wouldn't pay it all off if I got the chance?"
Suddenly, Nick believed him. Despite all his pretensions, despite all his front, he was the same old Ronnie. He'd buy a smart car he couldn't afford, just to impress people. He'd talk up his reputation. But at the base of it all, Ronnie Deller would only ever be a small-time crook. Anything else would be beyond him.
"You think I'd brain the stupid bitch just because of a bit of grass?" said Ronnie. "You really are the dumb one, Nick. You really are. Well you've got it all wrong this time." Ronnie was becoming hostile again. He took a step towards Nick. "You just keep your nose out, you hear? You keep your fucking trap shut. And keep clear of me. Okay?"
He knew that Nick had a hold over him, a secret shared. He knew he was vulnerable.
Nick met his gaze, accustomed to this kind of situation. He knew better than to show any sign of the memories stirring inside his head: the sudden understanding of just why those older boys would rarely meet the challenge of Ronnie, in a mood like this.
Ronnie's eyes suddenly narrowed. "You thought you could pin it on me, didn't you?" he said. "Come up with a motive, make me look bad. You were fucking well trying to set me up, weren't you?"
Nick realised that Ronnie still believed he was Jerry's killer. He shook his head. "I'm not in the business of setting anyone up," he said.
Ronnie still stared. "You really are the dumb one, aren't you? Where did all those brains go, eh?"
"Dumb?" said Nick. "I'm not the one standing in the middle of Bathside Green with my flies gaping open, am I?"
Ronnie glanced quickly down and, taking a calculated risk, Nick turned away and began to walk back towards the bay. Ronnie wouldn't come after him now. For a moment, Nick had thought they would end up in a fight, but now, he sensed, the time for violence had passed.
Behind him he heard a muttered curse, a scuffle of feet as if Ronnie had kicked the ground, then no more.
He was on his own again.
He felt drained. Things weren't going well today. He had got it all wrong and he had made himself a confirmed enemy. And more than that, he had been reminded that, having been accused, he was always going to be tainted in the eyes of many. He was condemned forever, simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Chapter 11
He was back at the beginning again, faced with a blank page. He thought about reporting Ronnie Deller but the last thing he wanted, right now, was to speak to another policeman. They'd probably not believe him anyway; they might even manage to twist his words against him, somehow. Later, perhaps.
Now, he had to think, but he found himself struggling for ideas. He had discovered little that was of any importance, yet he had the persistent feeling that all he needed was a hint, something to trigger his mind. Everything seemed so disjointed at the moment. He couldn't bear all the clutter and confusion in his mind. He needed to make sense of it, make things fit. All he needed was a lucky break.
He decided to check out the other chalets, maybe there was something the police had missed.
He was in town already, so he called in to the Library. He would have to start with the telephone directory again.
He knew the Strand was managed by a leasing company, but he couldn't recall the name. There was a handful of names under 'Leasing Companies', but none rang any bells. He tried to picture the board at the end of Strand Lane, where the track opened out into the parking area behind the chalets.
The name wouldn't come to him.
He tried 'Landlords' but there was no entry. 'Land Agents' looked like the right kind of thing, but again, nothing looked familiar. See also: ESTATE AGENTS, the book suggested. And there he found the name he had seen on the board: All inquiries to Merrywell & Taylor, it had said.
Their address was Station Road and suddenly he could picture it, off to the right, on the way down to St Augustine's Station. He had passed it on his way to watching Ronnie Deller's flat.
He considered using the 'phone, but there would be little point. Station Road stretched, north to south, across the narrowest part of the Bathside peninsula, from the bulge in the estuary between Eastquay and Westquay to the gentle sweep of the Bay. The Library was near the south end of Station Road, and Merrywell and Taylor were just across the High Street, towards the northern end. It was quicker to walk.
The office was set back a little from the road, its small concrete forecourt invaded by bicycles from the shop next door. Nick stood at the broad window for a time, squinting at the displays within. Houses and flats for sale. Aging terraces in Westquay, which required some attention. Modern red brick shoe-boxes on the estates. A handful of more desirable residences, out in the Stohams, one at Crooked Elms, one from as far afield as Thorpe-le-Soken, for anybody with a quarter of a million to spare.
No mention of the Strand, or other similar leasings.
He went inside. The only other customers were a middle-aged couple seated at one of a scattering of desks, poring earnestly over a sheaf of house details.
He studied the displays he hadn't been able to see from outside.
"Can I help you?"
He turned and a short, thirtyish woman looked up at him with a professional smile. He shrugged and said, "Perhaps. I'm not sure."
"What were you looking for?" Her deep brown eyes never left his face, and as she spoke her head bobbed a little—dark, hennaed hair bundled up at the back and pinned roughly into place. She was wearing a grey pin-striped skirt suit, and was clutching a file to her chest.
Nick realised he was meant to say something. He turned away, waved a hand at the displays. "It said outside that this is a letting agency," he said. "But all this..."
"I'll show you some details," she said. She turned, and he followed her towards the rear of the office.
They sat on opposite sides of a broad desk. She leaned over to one side and flicked through the contents of the bottom drawer of a cabinet. "I'm afraid we don't have too much available at present. What sort of thing are you interested in?" She straightened, leaned forward and slid a business card off a pile and pushed it towards him. "Here," she said. "Take one of these. Just give me a call if you want to discuss anything later."
Nick took the card and glanced at it before slipping it into a pocket in his jacket. Her name was Karen Ferguson, and two telephone numbers were listed.
"They call me Fergie," she said. "Most unfair. What sort of properties are you considering?"
"Two, really," said Nick. "I used to live in Bathside, you see. When I was a boy. But I've been away for a long time. I'm in a bed and breakfast at the moment, but I'm thinking of looking for somewhere a little more permanent. A flat, maybe a bedsit. Somewhere to park. Not too expensive, I'm afraid."
She was leaning over the lower drawer of the filing cabinet again, pulling out the occasional photocopied sheet. "We haven't much," she said, over her shoulder. "But there's a steady turnover at this time of year. Seasonal workers moving away after the summer. If you come in again in a few days there'll probably be something more." She handed him three pages of details. "Take a look at these. The top one's in a particularly pleasant part of town ... as I'm sure you know, of course. I can arrange a viewing for you. Either immediately or if you call back later." she paused and smiled and Nick looked away. "You mentioned two properties?"
"I have a friend who's interested in a holiday home, maybe a weekend home. I heard you handled some properties along the estuary. Fishing, birdwatching, peace and quiet. That kind of thing. Copperas Bay, I think. Would that be right?"
"We manage a development on the Strand," she said, hesitantly. "What sort of lease was your friend considering?"
"What's on offer?"
"Most of the chalets are holiday lets—a week or two at most. Some are longer term."
"How many? He'd want to know how many people are likely to be there. Peace and quiet, you know."
"Are you a reporter?" she asked, with a hard stare. "Because if you are I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave."
Nick shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm not a reporter. I don't mean to waste your time." He pointed at the thin sheaf of particulars she had given him. "I really am looking for a place to stay."
"And the Strand?"
"I'm sorry," he repeated. "I was there. Last week, when it all happened. I just wanted to get things straight in my head."
"I'm sorry too," she said. She seemed prepared to take him at the value of his words, ready to judge him instantly. "But I'm afraid I can't give you any more information than would be available to a genuine client."
"Which would be?"
She handed him a concertina-folded leaflet, with line drawings of the chalets, designed for holidaymakers.
"How many of the chalets are leased at the moment?"
She shook her head. "I'm sorry."
"Who is leasing them?"
She shook her head.
"Will you have lunch with me?"
~
There was a restaurant just across the road from Merrywell and Taylor. He went across and waited. Eventually he saw her emerging from the office, glancing in each direction as she crossed the road, straightening her jacket before she entered.
They both chose the sea-food salad, but neither ate much.
"If you've just asked me over here to ask more questions," she said, "then I'm afraid you'll have no luck."
He shrugged and said, "I won't try then."
They talked about Bathside and how it had all changed since Nick had last been there. "You know a lot about the place," she told him.
"So do you."
"Ah, but I know it as street-names and house values and relationships to all the major amenities. I've only been here for a year. I know what I need to know for my work. You seem to know how the place breathes. It's a map to me, but it's almost like some kind of animal to you. I don't know how you managed to stay away from Bathside for as long as you did. A part of you must always have been here."
He thought about it, for a time. He didn't agree. He could leave Bathside again, any time he chose. He had worked it out of his system this time. He could just get into his car and go, if that was what he decided to do. And for a moment he almost believed himself.
He was about to speak when he spotted the slim gold band on the third finger of her left hand.
She saw him staring and self-consciously balled up her fists, then put them in her lap.
He thought of Jerry. He couldn't help it. Another married woman. Why did he have to get mixed up with another married woman?
A short time later, Karen made her excuses and left. "You'll come again, won't you? Look at those details I gave you, think about it. Call me, at least. The second number on the card is my home one."
What about your husband? he wanted to ask. But she was only trying to do business with him, that was all it was about. She kept that smile for all the male customers, all her flattering attention.
He'd been wasting his time.
~
Late afternoon, Friday. He found himself repeating his movements of a week before. Driving out along Ray Island Road to the new bypass, then west. Onto the old Ipswich Road and in a few minutes he was passing the gateway where DS Cooper had dumped him.
A short time later he crossed the railway, with Copperas Bay spread out before him. It was past six o'clock but the sun was still shining, the sky still a crisp blue, just shading to gold in the west.
A week had passed and the fluorescent tape had been removed from around Ronnie's chalet and the path into the woods.
He didn't know quite what he had expected to find—or to feel—when he returned to the Strand. But whatever he may have expected it was not the sense of remove he felt as he left his car and wandered across to Ronnie's chalet. It all seemed so long ago.
He remembered the sudden bursts of grief, while he had been in custody. Had that bled it all out of him?
He peered in through the windows and everything was as he had remembered.
Down on the foreshore he could still see the black scar where the fire had been and he recalled Ronnie's childish determination to keep it burning all night.
He saw the start of the path and he remembered Jerry's hand tugging at his own, leading him into the dark woods.
He went along the beach to the first cabin. Thin curtains were drawn acro
ss the windows. Through a gap he saw the kind of dusty anonymity which implied several weeks' neglect: a summer let, used by holidaymakers, he guessed. The next cabin was similar. Even the furniture was the same.
Number three was different, its curtains only partly drawn, and an array of faded prints on one wall—the kind of disproportionate natural history portraits painted before modern photographic accuracy. This one must be a long-term lease, Nick thought. Like Ronnie's.
The prints suggested something to him which he had not considered before. What sort of person do you expect to see in a place like this? The sort of figure you take so for granted that they merge with the background, easily missed. The sort of person who has every reason to skulk through the undergrowth, spying and concealing themselves.
A birdwatcher.
For a few minutes, Nick's mind raced with the possibilities, struggling to recall, running through his memories to see if there might have been such a person present a week ago, ignored by everyone.
Then he realised he was being foolish. How many birdwatchers are out after midnight? Looking for owls? He really was getting desperate if this was the best he could come up with.
He looked again, into the gloomy interior of number three. In the slanting evening light he could see the layer of dust across a nearby wooden surface. This cabin hadn't been used for weeks either.
One by one, he checked each of the cabins. There were twenty-two, in all. He already knew Ronnie's and its neighbour, number eleven, were on long-term leases. Of the remaining twenty, he found fourteen which had the same curtains and anonymous interiors as the first two. The other six showed individual variations in decoration and contents which marked them as long-term leases: weekend homes, used for the occasional holiday. Only number fifteen showed any sign that it had been used recently: muddy bootprints across the deck. But that would have to be very recent, or the heavy rains of earlier in the week would have washed them away. If anybody had been at number fifteen last Friday, someone would have noticed. Someone would have seen a car, or lights.
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