by Jane Holland
I turn to face the ocean, pulling myself up onto the slippery board.
The first really big wave takes me by surprise. It always does, even when I’ve been steeling myself for it. I make a complete mess of it, slide off the board and dip down under the salty water.
The next wave, I’m ready for it.
I manage a few exhilarating seconds of wobbling ride, feet planted maybe not quite far enough apart, knees slightly bent, arms spread wide, before the wave gets the better of me.
The board tips, and I overbalance with it, fail to regain an upright stance, and end up falling …
I survive the cold plunge, but the feeling is horribly familiar. Like being in deep over your head, and not being able to do a damn thing about it.
A hand grabs at my shoulder and helps me back to the surface.
‘Thanks,’ I splutter.
It’s Denzil, treading water next to me, his own board floating beside us. ‘No problem,’ he says, but his eyes are wary. He slicks wet hair back from his forehead. ‘How are you, Ellie?’
‘Still alive.’
He does not smile. ‘I heard about Dick Laney’s arrest. It’s bullshit.’
‘The police seem to think he did it.’
‘What do they know?’ The sun is bouncing off the choppy water all around us, making it hard to look him in the face. But I can feel the hostility coming off him in waves. ‘When you rang, you said you wanted to talk to me.’
‘Not in the ocean though.’
Reluctantly, Denzil glances back at the shore. We are both treading water now, just out of our depth. ‘So, what, you want to go up the beach? Dry off and grab a coffee?’
‘Later,’ I say. ‘Let’s surf first.’
He smiles then, looking relieved. Like he’s had a stay of execution. ‘Yeah, let’s surf.’
It’s roughly an hour later when I hear Hannah calling my name. The water is rocking me gently, and the sun still feels warm through my wetsuit, even though the time must be heading towards half past five. I look round, lying face-down on my surf board as I wait for a bigger wave, and see her standing in the shallows, chatting to her friend Alex.
She waves, and points significantly up the beach.
Turning my head lazily, I see two familiar figures heading down the beach from the car park.
Tris and Connor.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
I push up on my elbows, swearing under my breath. What the hell are they doing here?
Both men are wearing wetsuits – Connor’s flopping down from the waist – and carrying surfboards. I am shocked by the way my body responds to the sight of the two brothers. It’s a visceral reaction: all my muscles instinctively constrict, my nipples stiffening against the wet board, a disturbing cross between fear and intense desire. Both men look sexy in wetsuits, Tris dark and powerfully muscular, Connor tall and lithe. Dr Quick would have a field-day with this physical response, I think. Meanwhile my face is burning, and I have to get it under control.
The tide is out, and it’s a long walk over pebbles and wet sand from the car park to the water’s edge, so I have a few minutes before they arrive.
Denzil, surfing a little way from me, has seen them too. He meets my gaze but says nothing, then strikes further out to sea.
I catch the flash of his electric-blue board, then he disappears between surging wave crests.
I can’t blame him for swimming in the opposite direction. Last time he saw Tris, Denzil got knocked to the ground and taken away by the police. I only hope this won’t stop him from talking to me. Being on the beach has been wonderfully relaxing after the traumatic events of the past few weeks, but the real reason I came all the way out to Widemouth Bay is to speak to Denzil.
I turn slowly and paddle for shore, letting the waves carry me forward every few yards. By the time I get there, the two men have almost reached the water.
Hannah says goodbye to Alex, then splashes out of the shallows towards the brothers, dropping her board a few metres short of the incoming tide. Hair dripping down her neck where it’s escaped from her ponytail, she embraces Tris affectionately. ‘How are you? I suppose you know about Dick Laney? Such a surprise, but I’m pleased they don’t suspect you anymore.’ She turns and hugs Connor as well. ‘You must be relieved that it’s all over too.’
Connor does not reply to that. He studies me grimly as I wade out of the sea towards them, dragging my surf board after me. ‘Well, well, this is a surprise. I didn’t know you two would be here.’ He glances round at his brother. ‘Did you?’
‘Of course not,’ Tris says, and half turns away, shielding his eyes as he looks out to sea.
He’s lying, and we both know it. I sent Tris a text after work, telling him we were going to Widemouth to catch the afternoon sun. But I’m not going to admit that any more than he is.
‘Denzil is here too,’ Hannah comments innocently, then squints before pointing out his distant figure on the rolling waves. ‘See?’
Tris stiffens, and Connor turns to stare out to sea, his feet rooted in the sand, legs far apart, the surf board leaning against his hip. I can practically smell the testosterone in the air, like hot tar. Both men are tense, giving little away.
Hannah asks eagerly, ‘So, are you two coming in? I was just about to head out again. We could go together. It’s not bad today. The waves could be a little higher, but I’m not complaining. This is the first time I’ve had a chance to surf in ages.’ She smiles at me. ‘It was Ellie’s idea, of course.’
I tense, worried she is about to tell them how I arranged to meet Denzil here for a chat. But my friend is smarter than that, of course.
‘I’m celebrating the end of my night shifts,’ Hannah tells them blithely, ‘and Ellie’s celebrating the end of this horrible business with the killings. And then we bumped into Denzil. Now you’re both here. If anyone happened to bring a barbecue and some sausages, we could stay after sunset and make a beach party of it.’ She grins at them both. ‘A beach barbecue. Now I know summer’s finally here.’
‘We won’t be staying long,’ Connor says flatly.
‘Oh.’
I pull Tris aside while Hannah is trying valiantly to engage Connor in conversation. He’s looking withdrawn, though that’s hardly a surprise. ‘I’m sorry the police questioned you. Again.’
He shrugs. ‘They treated me quite well, actually. They were just being thorough. If it was you who was missing, I’d want to see everyone in the village questioned like that.’
‘But they still haven’t found Jenny,’ I tell him.
‘Not yet.’
Something in his voice makes me think he knows more than he’s telling. ‘You have an idea where she might be?’
‘Christ, no,’ He looks shocked.
‘Sorry.’ I hesitate. ‘Perhaps they’ll be able to get something out of Dick Laney. I hope so. He must be keeping her somewhere, don’t you think? In some building they haven’t thought to search yet.’
At the same time, I can’t believe that Dick Laney, however annoying he’s been at times, is a serial killer. The police might as well have arrested my own dad.
For the first time, I wonder if my dad was ever on their list of suspects. But of course he was. Ben Blackwood must have been at the top of their list. Most women who are murdered are killed by someone who knows them intimately, usually their husband or partner. And this whole business started with my mother’s murder.
Could my father have killed his own wife?
I don’t want to consider that question, though of course I must. If only to be able to dismiss it as a possibility. Perhaps my parents had fallen out of love. Perhaps she had started seeing someone else, and he wanted revenge. I remember how hard he hit me that day in the caravan, his sudden anger taking me by surprise. Yet he has always had a temper.
Tris is staring out to sea. I get the feeling he’s avoiding my gaze too. But I can feel the heat from his body. We are as bad as each other.
‘I expect you’
re right. I hope the police are out there now, looking for her. They need to find her soon. Unless …’ He tails off into silence.
‘Unless she’s already dead.’
‘Exactly.’ His tone is clipped, terse. ‘Do you think Dick Laney’s the right man? The killer?’
‘No.’
‘Neither do I.’
‘Who is, then?’
His dark eyes come back to mine, his brows drawn sharply together, and again I feel that sense of unease. ‘I don’t know,’ he says automatically, but his voice is empty and I don’t believe him. ‘That’s up to the police to find out.’
I nod, then say quietly, ‘Why did you tell Connor that I broke into the farm? That I found the photograph and asked you about it?’
He stares at me.
Hannah has grabbed Connor by the hand and is dragging him into the sea with her usual exuberance. ‘Come on, we’re missing the big waves.’
‘Hang on.’ Connor glances back at us, his expression unreadable, then stops to draw his wetsuit up over his shoulders.
Expertly, Hannah fixes the zip for him, then the two stride out together, carrying their surf boards under their arms, soon reaching the point where the beach shelf becomes pebbly and steep, then dips abruptly, the water suddenly so deep you are forced to swim or drown.
‘Well?’ I ask Tris, still waiting for an answer.
‘I didn’t want to tell him,’ he says, watching his brother with Hannah. ‘But he made me distrust you.’
‘How?’
‘Connor said you were sick in the head. That you had told the police to arrest me because I was the one who killed both those women.’
‘And you believed him?’
He struggles for a moment. ‘Yes.’
‘I see,’ I say. ‘And if the police don’t manage to work out who the real killer is?’
‘Then I guess Jenny’s body is going to be the next one they find.’ His voice is so low, I almost miss the last few words.
Tris turns away and splashes out into the water.
Shocked, I stumble after him through the warm shallows, forgetting to watch my footing on the stones hidden under the creamy, churning water, and nearly fall several times.
I try not to let it affect me, but I’m both horrified and deeply hurt by what I just heard. I know Connor thinks I’m losing my mind. But how the hell could Tris believe I would ever do such a thing to him, ever behave in such a way?
Perhaps he thinks I’m mad too.
Or is Tris lying to put me off the scent? There was something in his face. Something he’s not telling me. He made that conversation with Connor sound so plausible, and yet …
What does he know?
‘Hey, hurry up, you lazy lot,’ Hannah is shouting, beckoning us to join them. It’s hard to hear her over the incoming rush and spray of the tide. She’s pointing out to sea. ‘Look.’
The wind is up, stronger than before, and gigantic rollers are starting to rise majestically out of the distant grey-blue haze.
Tris stops, waist-high in the water, buffeted by the waves. He turns, unsmiling, and holds out his hand. ‘Coming?’
We ride the waves as a group for the next half hour, our line staggered, surfing a few metres away from each other for safety. Smashing into another surfer on the way in is not only embarrassing, it’s also dangerous. People are injured or die every year because of accidents like that. We rise up on the surge, then hang onto each roller for as long as we can, riding in on the white crests and paddling into the shallows afterwards, or falling under the wave to resurface as soon as the swell has passed.
I keep an eye on Denzil, surfing alone to my left, his resentment almost palpable, and swim over to him as soon as I get the chance.
‘Denzil?’
He turns to stare at me, clinging onto his board. ‘You didn’t tell me you were bringing the Taylors.’
‘I’m sorry about that. I didn’t know they would show up.’ Or not both of them, anyway. ‘Can we talk?’
Denzil does not look very friendly now, the welcome gone out of his face. But he does not tell me to get lost either. ‘What about?’
‘Jenny Crofter, for starters.’
‘I don’t know anything about the woman. Except that she’s missing.’
‘When I spoke to her about you, she remembered you from school.’ I hate how easily I’ve slipped into referring to Jenny in the past tense. Like her death is a fait accompli, a done deal.
He shrugs. ‘So what?’
I tread water, using my board to keep afloat, looking at him steadily. Dangerous though it is, I want to test a theory.
‘I haven’t forgotten how you came at me after the memorial service,’ I say softly. ‘You wanted to do me some damage that day, I could see it in your eyes. Is that how you felt about being arrested? Murderous?’
‘No,’ he says angrily.
‘Though of course the police were always there, keeping tabs on me. So you couldn’t get anywhere near me. But Jenny wasn’t being watched. She was an easier target, wasn’t she?’
We bob up and down on the water for a moment as he digests that.
‘All right,’ he begins reluctantly, ‘I’ll give you that. I was out of order at the church. I was high, I wasn’t thinking straight. But don’t try and twist that shit into making me out to be some kind of sick psycho. I’ve never hurt a woman in my life and I wouldn’t have started with you.’
‘You would never have got the chance,’ I tell him.
Denzil looks suddenly uneasy. Frowning, he gazes past me to where the others are catching a late wave. ‘I don’t know anything about Jenny Crofter. Perhaps you’re asking the wrong man.’
‘Meaning?’
He says nothing for a moment, a muscle working in his jaw. Then he shakes his head and turns his back on me, beginning a measured front crawl out to sea.
‘Forget it, Ellie,’ he says over his shoulder. ‘And don’t ever fucking call me again. We’re done.’
I swim slowly back over to the others. By the time I reach them, they have returned from the shallows and are waiting for another big roller. Hannah is shouting something, waving her arm, but over the noise of the water I can’t hear what she’s saying. She’s on the far left of our line, near the body boarders’ section, just where the flagged area ends. Tris is closest to me, his wet hair slicked back, staring out to sea. Connor is close too, a few yards further on, lying flat and well-balanced on his board, head turned in my direction as though to shield his eyes from the sun glare.
The waves grow higher as we paddle slowly forward, waiting for the next promising big roller. The water is choppy out here near the protective edge of the bay, but we stay in formation. Then a vicious side wind hits our line, and I watch as their bobbing heads disappear, then reappear, then disappear again, the sunlight dazzling.
These sets of smaller waves are surprisingly powerful. I have to turtle roll several times to avoid being swept back to shore, holding tight to the board under the rush of white water, then rolling back on top as soon as the wave has passed.
Coming up out of one of these slow rolls, I find an immense roller bearing down on me. It’s a giant Daddy of a wave, rising high above us with a pale white lip just beginning to curl on the underside.
‘Looks like it’s going to be a big one,’ I shout, turning my board to catch it, but nobody answers.
I stare west, directly into the sun, but can no longer see the others. But then I’m down in a dip here, and the water is so choppy, white waves are churning and surging all about me.
I paddle as slowly and deliberately as I can, long arm-strokes to keep me centred on the board, waiting for the huge wave to catch up with me.
Where is Tris? He was nearest to me before, now I can’t see even the top of his head above the water. And Connor was on my other side last time I looked, yet he’s also out of sight. Possibly he’s behind me now. I dare not look back over my shoulder, or I’ll risk losing my balance. Here in the surge zone, I can
see nothing but bobbing water on either side and the distant matchstick figures of people on the beach.
Are we really that far out?
For a few seconds I feel totally alone on a massive ocean, light bouncing off the waves, a late sun beating down on my head. Which is ridiculous, given that I know the others must be out there too, on their boards either beside or behind me, hidden momentarily by the swell.
Yet I can’t seem to shake this feeling of isolation.
Perhaps you’re asking the wrong man.
The wave’s almost upon me. No time to see if the others are going too. With a long-practised move, I move my hands flat onto the wet board. Suddenly the water begins to swell and rise around me. In the deafening roar from the unseen wave, I jackknife my feet out of the water and onto the central line in one smooth movement, straightening to a standing position.
Only my surf board doesn’t respond as it should. Something is dragging it down at the back. Down and sideways.
What the hell?
The wave hits as I flail sideways, taken unawares, slipping off the board like a novice.
I try to right myself, scrabbling wildly for the board before it can be jerked away from me by the next wave. But before my fingers even touch it, I’m struck from behind by an immense and irresistible wall of water. The sky abruptly tilts, then disappears as I tumble under the sheer white fall of the wave.
The huge wave drags me with it, my body rolling over and over in the dizzying surge of bubbles under its surface. My board is still attached to my ankle by a thin black leash; I can feel it tugging at me from beneath. It should be a buoyancy aid, helping me to spring back to the surface. But it’s no help at the moment. If anything, it seems to be dragging me further down, as though anchored to something on the bottom of the ocean.
I struggle to rise, lashing out for the surface. Or where I imagine the surface should be.