‘Australian Skybury. It was on offer.’
‘Worth the full price. You were drinking coffee the first time I saw you, and you asked about it in the French restaurant. Now this. You have an addiction.’
‘I prefer to think of it as an interest.’
She drank some more and looked out of the window. The sun was trying its best, and in the spring that is often enough; if he had been here on his own, he would have taken a walk through the woods and out onto the dunes.
She said, ‘I often think about that day. I’ve never seen snow like it, not in England.’
‘Funny. I was thinking about it myself on Friday.’
Another car drove by but he didn’t lean over to see who it was. She looked at him then, a new look that he didn’t recognize.
He said, ‘So, how are Mr and Mrs Richardson?’
‘I really liked them, lovely people. But, well, you know, don’t you? You’ve seen it yourself, what it does.’
‘Yes, afraid so.’
They both thought for a moment then, not needing or wishing to put into words the darkness behind the eyes which is more than an absence of light, and the sadness in a smile that can never be complete because it is weighed down by so much sorrow still, and because it always will be.
‘They asked to be remembered to you.’
He nodded – there was nothing else to say. She looked around again.
‘I can see a fishing rod in the corner.’
‘We used to go down to the harbour. Some years you can catch dabs and plaice big enough to eat. If not, you could have crab-catching competitions.’
Another odd expression, and then a glance away out of the window, frowning a little. When she looked back, it was as if she had made her mind up.
‘I’m going to say something which might offend you. But I’m probably just saying it as a writer, so…’
‘Fire away. I haven’t been insulted since last night.’
‘There is an awful lot of past tense in what you say.’
When he didn’t respond straight away, she looked up from the table and its empty coffee cups, her blue-green eyes fixed directly onto his own, not backing away from what she had said.
‘That’s probably because I have an awful lot of past, compared to someone like you.’
She liked that as an answer, he could see, but before she could reply there was a knocking on the open door and a new voice.
‘David? Are you in? Only I saw a strange car, and… Oh, hello. I do beg your pardon!’
Shirley Salmon’s generous figure filled the doorway, and she was looking at Jo Evison as she spoke the last words. Smith stood up, invited her in and introduced them, finishing, ‘The lady I was telling you about, who does all the bookings and makes everything work here except the weather.’
Shirley said, ‘Well, you can’t complain about this for March, David!’
‘And even there I think she has some influence.’
Jo Evison said, ‘It’s a lovely site, Mrs Salmon. I’m going to ask him to give me the details – I might make a booking myself soon.’
Shirley Salmon looked from her to him and said, ‘New business is always welcome, my dear.’
Jo said, ‘And before I leave, I’m hoping to get a look at the woods and dunes, just to see what all the fuss is about.’
Shirley’s eyes were still on him. She must have glimpsed something there – a wavering, an uncertainty that was not like him, and perhaps she understood why.
She said, ‘The harbour’s the best walk at the moment. They’ve got two of the fully-rigged sailing ships in, one of those adventure-for-youth groups, I expect. Beautiful they are, well worth a walk down there…’
‘Never let it be said that I don’t know how to treat a girl.’
They sat on the harbour wall, eating fish and chips from the shop across the road behind them. In front, beyond the creek that formed the town’s harbour, they could see the strip of shiny mud exposed by the fall of the tide, and further on the purple-tinged greens and greys of the saltmarsh stretching out to the horizon.
She held up a chip in front of her face and examined it closely.
‘Why do they always taste better in the open air and straight out of the paper?’
Then she put the chip into her mouth.
Smith said, ‘Well, technically the chip is the same chip wherever you eat it and the paper won’t affect the taste, so it must be-’
‘Thank you! It was an artistic question, not a scientific one – there will be no trial!’
He shrugged and continued eating – as it happened, these were the best fish and chips that he knew of, they always had been, and this was definitely the best place to eat them. It was chilly – they both wore outdoor coats – but bright, and the wind was in the west; if it had been off the sea, they might have needed a more sheltered spot. The three-masted sailing ships lay in the channel to their left, pennants fluttering, swinging a little on the moorings as the water ran by them and on into the widening estuary beyond. They had been down close to them, admired them and spoken briefly to two of the young crew – they were Dutch but had excellent English. Then she had told him that she had sailed when she was young, on an uncle’s boat out of Chatham.
‘We always went south or west for our seaside holidays,’ she said, ‘to Kent or Devon. Funny, we never came up here. So it’s all new to me. I had no idea how nice it is.’
‘Lots of little sailing boats and dinghies here,’ he said, pointing upstream to where they lay in the shallow water or were tilted on the mud, waiting for the next tide. ‘You could buy one of those small ones for a few hundred pounds and sail off into the sunset.’
She looked round, thought about it for a moment and then said, ‘You couldn’t, not really. The estuary runs north, so the only time you could sail into the sunset would be when you were coming back, not sailing off.’
Smith contemplated the last piece of battered cod – he was full but it looked inviting. He broke off a small piece and ate it.
Then he said, ‘Well, it was an artistic suggestion, not a scientific one.’
She smiled and ate another chip.
‘I was serious about having a break up here this summer.’
‘Good. There’s much more to see. Lots of bird reserves, coastal paths, some good art galleries and some great village pubs. There – I’ve said my bit to boost the local economy.’
Two small boys, brothers surely, in waterproof jackets, unseasonal shorts and sandals came by them and went down a set of steps until they were close to the water. The older one carried one of the cheap plastic nets on a cane that can be found in every seaside gift shop in England. He pushed the neon pink net into the water and moved it around; the other boy filled his matching bucket with water in anticipation.
Smith said, ‘Townies. Don’t know a thing about catching crabs.’
Jo Evison said, ‘Is this where you used catch the flatfish for your breakfast?’
‘No. You need to be a lot further on down the sea wall, halfway back to the caravan, and catch it on a rising tide. Once it’s moving, you can get them in two or three feet of water. But you have to be able to put a lugworm on the hook.’
She disregarded that.
‘I didn’t only go sailing in Chatham. I caught a five pound bass once.’
‘We humble dab-catchers salute you!’
‘So if I booked your caravan for a long weekend, could I borrow your fishing rod?’
The last of the cod had finally gone, thank goodness. He folded the few remaining chips into the paper, held out his hand for Jo’s empty tray and put the lot bundled together into a litter bin a few yards from where they were sitting.
Then he said, ‘You can just go through me – Shirley doesn’t mind the odd week or two for friends, not once she knows you won’t abuse it. If you can give me a bit of warning, you can have it, no charge.’
Her response was exactly what he would have expected – she could not take advantage l
ike that, she would rather keep it on the level, and Mrs Salmon was running a business after all. Not empty words – he did not feel that he was simply being invited to try harder and so he did not.
‘OK. Well, if you do, the fishing rod comes free and there’s a tin of the bits and pieces you might need in one of the cupboards. But I’ll warn you – if the locals see you catch a five pound bass, they’ll probably chuck you in off the harbour wall.’
The two boys were closely examining something in the plastic net – whatever it was was then carefully tipped into the bucket, the smaller boy then taking his turn. A small party of black and white birds with bright orange bills flew past and landed on the mud across the harbour, their shrill, piping calls adding a melancholy touch to the early spring afternoon.
She said, ‘We’ve done pretty well, considering. I haven’t talked about the book and you haven’t talked about your case in, what,’ looking at her watch, ‘two hours?’
She pushed her hands into her jacket pockets a little further, showing no more inclination than Smith felt himself to move on. Just a lazy Sunday afternoon…
He said, ‘If you do book the caravan, at least let me know when you’re down here,’ and she said, ‘OK, I will.’
Chapter Eighteen
At 08.40 the following morning, Smith and Waters sat in the Peugeot on the Low Barns estate, parked about forty yards from what they believed to be Philip Wood’s front gate. Waters had had the door open before the engine had died – Smith had pulled him back in.
‘Hold on! Let’s catch our breath!’
It was a street of run-down social housing – there was no kinder way of describing it. From what they could see of the scrap of garden in front of number 46, it was typical of the rest; a rusting iron gate on only one hinge was permanently open, a tarpaulin half-covered various bicycles, all of which would have flat tyres, and the low wall had gaps like missing teeth where bricks had been kicked out and never replaced. On the house itself, a solitary, shrivelled hanging basket from last summer swung occasionally in the wind, and Smith wondered about those three-masters – had they left the harbour? Were they out of sight of land? It was a fine morning for sailing a big ship, he thought.
He said, ‘This bit is just the same as what I’ve told you about searching a room. Always look first. Just look, and then you’ll start seeing.’
There were three windows, and all had their curtains closed. Smith wondered whether there were children – there would almost certainly be a partner. A quarter to nine, and no signs of life, no girls and boys making their reluctant way to school, no mum off to the shops. He looked along the rest of the row then and saw not a single soul. Back to the house – a satellite dish, obviously, and a landline. And a car outside, a red Vauxhall Astra SRi five door, which was a bit nicer and a bit younger than one might expect, considering the neighbourhood. Of course, he couldn’t be sure that the car belonged to the occupant of number 46.
He said to Waters, ‘These houses have a back way in and out, a nasty little alleyway that I have been up and down a few times over the years. What do you think? Pincer movement? Is he likely to scarper when he sees us at the front door?’
Waters had it zoomed in on Googlemaps in about twenty seconds.
‘I could go and stand there at the junction where it comes out – I’d still be able to see you at the door.’
‘Fair enough. We might do that. Seen anything?’
‘That plant needs watering.’
‘Very good – make a note of that. That could be what makes him crumble in the interview.’
‘Decent car, if that’s his.’
‘Yes. Now we can see that it is red; what make and model?’
‘Vauxhall Astra SRi.’
‘A definite improvement since the days we spent outside Mr Subic’s lovely old house. Jolly good. And why is the car slightly interesting to us?’
Waters thought a little.
‘If he’s still on benefits, and according to records he is, that’s a bit expensive.’
‘Perhaps he’s just got better at cheating the system. Experience is a great teacher. Or maybe he is creatively combining a job and benefits. Maybe he has set up a company that buys mobile phones on behalf of customers too busy or badly injured to get to the shop themselves. We’d better go and find out.’
This time it was Smith’s hand that was interrupted on the door handle.
Waters said, ‘Talking of jobs, I was at my dad’s over the weekend. He said to tell you that you can stop trying to think of reasons to turn down his offer – he’s taken someone on. He also said to go over for a game of snooker some time.’
Well, it had been more than a couple of months, and the world of business moves more quickly and purposefully than the world of public service. So there really had been a job – or a self-employed position - at Argus; Dougie had not made him the offer just as an old friend. And now it had gone, three days before Smith had to run up and down the gym to prove that he was fit enough to arrest people like Philip Wood. Perhaps there is a destiny that shapes our ends, rough hew them how we will… He pushed down on the door catch.
Waters said, ‘DC, the front door – that’s him.’
Smith pulled the car door to, quietly. It was Philip Wood, locking the door now, so presumably there was no-one else at home. Then he turned, walked past the rusty gate and pressed a key fob that caused the lights on the Astra to blink as it was unlocked.
Waters said, ‘Now?’
Smith was watching and thinking. Wood was stocky, more heavily built than his file picture suggested – perhaps we should visit them all annually and update their photos. Dark hair, longer than the cut that was fashionable but Wood didn’t look as if that was uppermost in his thoughts, ever. A broad face, and not a happy-looking bunny but then that’s true of most Brits on a Monday morning.
He said, ‘Yes, we no doubt could now. But you know what? If we go over there and ask him where he’s going, I don’t think he’ll tell us. Fortunately,’ turning the key in the ignition, ‘we have an alternative.’
Smith had expected something of a chase, the Astra being rather livelier than the Peugeot felt like being most of the time, but Wood drove sedately, slowing well in advance of traffic lights and keeping his distance from the cars in front. This went on for some minutes as they headed first north and then north-west through the outskirts of Kings Lake.
He said, ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say Philip is trying not to draw attention to himself this morning. Where do you think we’re heading?’
Waters was following their progress on his phone, the little blue beacon pinging away as it mapped their changing position.
‘The Riverside Industrial estate or the docks. He must have a job.’
‘Or is about to do one. Sorry, but I’m deeply cynical about anything with spots.’
They passed on the left the main entrance into the Riverside estate, so it was the docks. The river mouth was visible now, glimpsed through the spaces between the low buildings on the right-hand side – shabby, unpainted buildings with small windows, squat sheds with asbestos roofs, surrounded by high wire fences, some guarded by an Alsation or a Doberman on a chain. Behind and between each set of buildings, areas overgrown with briars, nettles and beds of rosebay willowherb, dry and dead from the winter but here and there a touch of green, as if hope might gain a foothold, even here. More CCTV than there used to be, thought Smith, but still the alarms on walls, the threats of high security on every gateway because, like docks everywhere, these were the open pores of a city and a country. Here infection could enter and leave undetected, and so here money could be made. Several investigations over the years had brought Smith into this half-world in which the ordinary rules of business begin to blur, and the jurisdiction of the law seems to be diluted as one approaches the water’s edge.
The Astra was indicating and Smith pulled into the side but kept the engine running. They watched as the car drew into a large car-park that ser
ved several buildings on the bank of the river, which was getting wider and deeper here. Boats of various sizes were moored up, and a huge, newer-looking building covered what must be some sort of dock that ran in underneath it. Wood locked the Astra and disappeared through a double door in the building closest to his car.
Waters was flicking through his phone again, looking for something; Smith no longer assumed that it must be unrelated to work – occasionally it had even been useful.
‘DC – that list you asked me to produce, of companies that service the platforms?’
‘That list you haven’t actually given to me yet?’
‘Yes. Well – there’s probably no need now.’
The sign on the building read “SOS”, and then, underneath that, “Scanlon Offshore Services Ltd”. Smith studied the front of the building; going by the windows, some offices to the right of the door where Wood had gone, and a workshop or some such to the left, closest to the river where the boats were.
Smith said, ‘Just to be clear – this company sends supplies out to platform Elizabeth?’
‘This is the company that sends out bulk stuff on Wednesdays.’
‘And brings back the empties.’
‘Must do, I suppose.’
‘Right, come on. We’ll have a quick look round before we go in.’
The single-bar, drop-down security gate was in the up position. Smith drove underneath it, past the empty security cubicle – where presumably, a guard sat for a day or two when the national security threat was severe – and parked in the space nearest to the gate, some distance from Wood’s vehicle. Then they walked along the line of cars until they reached the red Astra; Smith bent down and peered into it but found nothing of interest. It was quite tidy though, as if Wood hadn’t owned it for long.
Waters said, ‘If he’s watching, we’ve given the game away, haven’t we?’
Smith shrugged it off.
‘If he comes out here and asks what we’re up to, it’ll save us the bother of finding him. Let’s have a glance at the river.’
They walked down to the ancient concrete jetty that ran all the way along the land that belonged to SOS. Heavy bollards poked up every few yards, and great rusting iron rings set into the wall suggested that once upon a time larger ships moored here than any that were present now. Smith looked up and down the grey, wind-ruffled river and took a deep breath.
Luck and Judgement: A DC Smith Investigation Page 23