Salt Lane

by William Shaw

  ‘What a hell of a life. All that on our shoulders, all three of us. Me, Freya, Daniel. I suppose she thought I was genuinely dead, too. I was, really.’

  ‘Want me to wash your back?’

  ‘I died a few times, for real. Heart stopped, everything. Overdosed. They brought me back with adrenalin. I didn’t care. I just went and did it all again. Wouldn’t bloody die.’

  Cupidi took a sponge and started rubbing Hilary’s shoulders. Hilary was only a little older than Cupidi, but her skin was an old woman’s, puckered and wrinkled.

  ‘She was using my name?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And clean? I can’t imagine her clean,’ said Hilary. ‘She was always on drugs. What was she living off?’

  ‘I’m not sure. It’s one thing I can’t work out. She had money, I know that, but I don’t know where she was getting it from. If I did, I might be able to figure out why she died. I was wondering. Did she ever work on farms, like you?’

  ‘Freya? No. She was too good for that. And she had no need. She made plenty of cash. Why? Do you think that’s what she was doing?’

  Cupidi didn’t answer. She thought of the simple caravan, hidden away behind Eason’s house.

  ‘In spite of everything she did, I would have liked to have seen her again. Just once.’

  ‘I didn’t get the impression that Daniel was so keen. If I read his reaction right, I think he was glad she was dead. He didn’t say as much, in as many words.’

  ‘Daniel was always a hypocrite,’ she said. ‘He loved her once. I think he still feels bad that it was him who set the ball rolling. If he hadn’t nicked the stuff, the boys would still be alive.’

  ‘I think it was you he really loved.’

  She laughed. ‘No. That’s not right at all.’

  ‘My impression was, he felt guilty about not looking after you when you needed it.’

  ‘We could barely look after ourselves, back then, any of us.’

  The white bubbles had faded; the water around her was dark already. Cupidi took down the shower head, turned the tap back on and tested the temperature.

  ‘Is he married, Daniel?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Is he well?’

  ‘He runs a kind of posh New Age health farm north of London. He’s quite well known in those circles. He looks very well.’

  ‘I heard he had been badly disfigured.’

  ‘Not really. You can see the burns, but they’re not bad.’

  ‘That’s good.’ She leaned forward and let Cupidi spray water through her filthy hair. The grease was so thick it would take three or four washes to get it clean.

  ‘Is he Julian’s father?’

  She took her time answering. ‘Yes,’ she said eventually.

  ‘Are you going to tell him?’

  ‘In time. Why are you laughing?’

  It was true: an inescapable giggle rising up. ‘You know what? I think his wife, Lulu, might find it easier to accept you as a mother-in-law if she knew her husband’s dad was a wealthy spa owner with his own mansion.’

  ‘He’s rich?’

  ‘Richer than you or me, that’s for sure. You should get in touch with him. I think he’d like to see you.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Give it time. Your sister never asked for child support from him?’

  ‘Because I never told her who the father was. She asked. I refused to say. As far as I knew, he was just another smack addict. I didn’t want Julian to know anything about it.’

  ‘Now you’re laughing too. What’s so funny?’

  Hilary was shaking, sending ripples through the water. Even with her head down, eyes closed to keep the soap out, Cupidi could see her face was all wrinkles now, showing grey teeth; the biggest smile Cupidi had seen her make so far. ‘He always liked money more than he pretended. As I said, he was always a hypocrite.’

  Cupidi rinsed her hair until the water ran clean.

  When Hilary leaned back and opened her eyes again, she said, ‘I shouldn’t be so hard on him. I have nothing else to lose. Nothing at all. He has a reputation. He would be afraid of losing it.’

  ‘You have your son back.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she said, and slid back underwater. ‘I don’t know yet.’

  Sorting through her wardrobe, Cupidi found some old clothes that might fit a thinner woman and left them outside the door. Downstairs Helen was cooking pasta, something she could be relied on not to cook too badly. ‘Is she OK?’

  ‘She’s coming off heroin.’

  Her mother blew out air. She had given Julian a glass of wine and was drinking one herself.

  ‘I spoke to Lulu,’ he said. ‘She’s worried, of course.’

  ‘Your choice. You can stay, or I’ll drive you to the station.’

  ‘I’ll stay with her. Tonight, at least.’

  ‘Good. That cottage. It belongs to a man I know. He’s away. I’m going to put your mother up in it for a few days. I know he’d approve of it being used like this. There’s a second bedroom for you, if you like. And then you need to work out what you’re doing. She’ll be down in a minute.’ She peered out of the kitchen window. ‘No sign of Zoë yet?’

  ‘It’s pouring down,’ her mother said. ‘She’ll be soaked.’ The storm clouds were directly over them now; it was as if night had fallen. Rain was sweeping in waves across the wet stones.

  ‘My daughter,’ explained Cupidi.

  ‘What an amazing place for her to grow up,’ said Julian.

  That was when the landline rang.

  ‘Where were you? I’ve been calling your mobile and radioing the police car.’

  DI McAdam. Shit.

  ‘I should explain. Something really big came up. I was fetching a witness from London. The real Hilary Keen.’

  ‘You found her?’

  ‘Whitechapel Police did.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Right now, at my house. She’s in a bit of a mess. I’ll explain. I was just… interviewing her.’ She didn’t say: naked, in the bath.

  ‘Don’t worry about that now. It’s not relevant. This is more important. We’ve had reports of another body. In the water. By Jury’s Gut. Apparently about a quarter of a mile away from Salt Lane, where the last woman was found. And naked too. I’ve been trying to track you down for the last thirty bloody minutes.’

  ‘Right. Sorry.’

  ‘Get there now. Constable Ferriter is on the way out there now. I want you to get a good assessment of the site.’

  ‘Who’s the victim?’

  ‘Unidentified. All I know is it’s a young one. Female.’

  In that second the panic started. Chest-constricting, limb-chilling horror. Zoë had not come home yet.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ said her mother, wooden spoon at her lips.

  Cupidi looked at her mother, at Julian and, behind them, at Hilary Keen, standing in the doorway, transformed.

  ‘I have to go. Look after them, Mum.’

  ‘Alex? What’s wrong?’

  But she was sprinting out of the back door through the rain to the police car, fumbling for the keys.

  FORTY

  The rain was biblical. It sprayed down onto the dark tarmac. She drove with her headlights on, windscreen wipers on double speed, blue lights flashing above the dashboard of the unmarked car.

  ‘Is Moon there?’ she asked, calling control to try to find the exact location. Yes, he was. ‘Anybody know who the victim is?’

  ‘Naked again. No ID. They’re just waiting for the Marine Unit to take her out.’

  She tried not to think about her daughter.

  Slow down. Stay calm. As a cop, she had told relatives of victims this so often. At times like this, your judgement became clouded. It would be easy to have an accident. The road was treacherous, too. After so many dry days, the tarmac would be slippery.

  At Lydd a drain had backed up, flooding the tarmac. She drove cautiously through the water, speeding up again only when
she was clear of the village.

  Ahead, a slow tractor with a trailer full of sheep blocked the lane on the way to Fairfield. She leaned on the horn, but it was almost a quarter of a mile down the road before the farmer found somewhere he could pull over. She raced past it, water arcing out from under her tyres.

  Then she couldn’t find the turning.

  Jesus.

  She had to call control back a second time to check the location, and it turned out to be back the way she had come. The new lane was narrower again, twisting left and right. Then, in the distance, she saw flashes of blue light through the rain.

  The cordon had already been set up on the single-track road. She braked in front of the yellow tape. A punctuation mark in the landscape; it signified something awful beyond.

  On the other side, in the downpour, figures were moving around on the edge of what must have been a drain running somewhere between the lane and the field. It was difficult to see who any of them were or what they were doing.

  She knew she must get out of the car and walk towards it, but for some time she couldn’t move. She sat, shivering. The wipers moved frenetically, pushing water off the glass.

  She killed the switch. Engine off, the windscreen fogged.

  She had to move. The radio buzzed and crackled.

  Finally she forced open the car door. Water splashed on her leg.

  Getting out, she walked first to the back of the car, to the boot. Within seconds her linen summer suit was soaked. The only remotely waterproof item she had with her was a police high-viz jacket. By the time she put it on, she was already dripping. Tugging the forensic suit over the top was not easy.

  Looking back towards the crime scene, she saw the wind blowing curtains of water across the flatland, ripping leaves off the pollard willows that grew around the ditch ahead. She stepped over the stuttering yellow tape and set off on a run through puddles, towards the blue lights.

  Ferriter stood in a white suit, hood up, drawstring tight around her pretty face, facemask over her mouth. Raindrops trickled down her nose and chin as she added Cupidi’s name to the water-sodden log of people who were on site.

  ‘Who is it?’ Cupidi shouted.

  ‘We don’t know,’ Ferriter called back. ‘The body is stuck in the culvert that runs under the railway line. We can’t get a good look at it. Trouble is, the water’s rising and the stupid body is wedged in there.’

  Stupid body.

  ‘My daughter’s not back home,’ Cupidi said, simply.

  ‘Oh, Alex.’ Ferriter’s eyes widened.

  ‘I think she may have been out somewhere around here. She was worried about that girl she thought she saw out here the night before last. Remember?’

  Saying nothing, Jill Ferriter dropped her clipboard, stepped forward and threw her arms around Cupidi. Other coppers, not knowing what was happening, looked on, confused.

  Ferriter, petite and inches shorter than her, hugged Cupidi as she stood, unsure of how to react. The rain fell on them both.

  ‘Whatever you need,’ said Ferriter.

  ‘How long is it going to take the team to get here?’ she asked.

  ‘Any minute.’

  ‘How do they know she’s a girl? If she’s under there?’

  ‘The farmer was trying to clear the culvert before the rain came. There were weeds and debris clogging it. He saw her in there. But by the time we got here, the water had already risen. The level’s going up fast.’

  Cupidi remembered what they’d said at the Drainage Board: this time of year they keep the drains full. The water was running straight off the dry fields. ‘Did he describe her at all?’

  ‘Young, he said. That’s all. She was naked.’

  ‘Same as the last – Freya Brindley?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘Rules out Stanley Eason then.’

  Ferriter released her. ‘You shouldn’t be here. Go home.’

  Cupidi shook her head.

  They could insist she leave; it was their job to keep the area as secure and clean as it could be. Having the mother of the potential victim here was a complication.

  ‘You should sit in your car. Outside the cordon.’

  ‘Don’t make me do that, Jill. Please. Don’t make me.’ Cupidi turned to look at the dark, muddy water.

  Puddles were growing larger in the field; black shapes in the darkening green. In a flatland, there was nowhere for the rain to go. The marsh seemed to be returning to water in front of Cupidi’s eyes.

  ‘Of course, love,’ said Ferriter.

  She called home, sheltering her phone from the wet, trying not to sound anxious.

  ‘Why did you run off like that?’ her mother asked.

  ‘Police emergency,’ she said. ‘I’ll explain later. Has Zoë come home?’

  ‘Not yet. She’s probably in one of the hides on the reserve, waiting for the rain to stop.’ Her mother lowered her voice. ‘What do I do with these people?’

  ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can,’ she said. She ended the call, handing the phone back to Ferriter, who said nothing but looked at her with the kind of sympathetic face that would normally have set Cupidi’s teeth on edge. She was trying to be nice.

  Headlights lit the falling rain.

  ‘That should be them,’ Ferriter said.

  They lowered the tape to let the Land Rover through, blue light still flashing. Two men; Cupidi recognised them as the same ones that had recovered Freya Brindley’s body.

  Ferriter stepped forward and intercepted them before they reached the other officers who were waiting for them to do their work. She would be telling them about the position of the body, taking their details, but she was obviously saying more than that, too, Cupidi realised.

  Simultaneously both men shot a glance towards her. Ferriter must have told them that it was possible that the victim was her daughter.

  To be in the police is to be part of something different. Your job, as a copper, is to deal with the worst in life: the worst events and the worst people. You are apart from the rest of the world and because of that, an injury to one is an injury to all. They looked nervously towards her, anxious now. This was not just another job.

  Last time, they had the usual banter about wearing rubber, about not being able to swim. About getting a discount. There were always jokes when there was a dead body. It’s what got you through days like this. Today they wouldn’t even crack a smile.

  Cupidi didn’t want any sympathy. It only made things worse. She just wanted them to get on with their work. To find out that the body was someone else’s, not her daughter’s.

  The trouble with calling in a specialist unit is that everything takes so long. If she had stripped off her own clothes and dived into the water, it would have only taken her a few minutes to locate the body.

  But that moment had passed.

  Instead she had to stand and wait as the two of them opened the back door of the Land Rover and started to don their gear.

  They seemed to be taking longer than they had last time. Maybe it was because the rain didn’t help. Putting on a neoprene suit is hard enough at the best of times. When it’s wet, the rubber sticks to skin.

  The two men tugged and pulled at each other’s dive suits. She sensed a reluctance to get into the water; they did not want to be the bearers of bad news.

  She thought of Julian Keen; he had got his mother back. Was this some kind of nightmarish exchange? The dead for the living?

  Finally they were ready. They switched on waterproof head torches and moved towards the bank. The figures standing around the steep slope parted to let them past.

  The two men, clad in black, slipped into the dark water. When they were submerged up to their chests, they looked around, illuminating the darkness under the railway line.

  ‘You OK? No. Shit. Of course you’re not. I can’t imagine…’ Ferriter was going to put her arm around her again, thought Cupidi. She wasn’t sure she could cope if she did.

  It seemed t
o be taking so long. What was the problem?

  ‘Cupidi?’ said a voice. ‘Got here as soon as I could.’ Sergeant Moon was dressed in a pink waterproof, too small for him. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Alex’s daughter is missing,’ said Ferriter.

  Shut up. Shut your beautiful face up, thought Cupidi.

  ‘Fuck,’ said Moon with a look of horror. ‘Is it…?’

  Ferriter was shaking her head.

  ‘God. Shit.’

  ‘She’s probably sitting under a tree somewhere, sheltering from this rain.’

  ‘Right. Yes. I’m sure she is.’

  Who was she to judge Hilary when she had made such a hash of being a parent herself?

  ‘Got her,’ called one of the recovery team.

  Lights focused on the black water, dotted by rain.

  Oh Christ.

  She was crying now. She couldn’t help it.

  But even this took time; the cautious disentangling of a woman’s body from the concrete culvert. They would want to be careful; a cadaver is a recording. Its contusions and abrasions tell the story of how that person died. These men were professionals. They would want to do as much as they could to preserve that record. Time was not important; she was already dead.

  ‘Young female. Confirmed.’

  ‘What colour’s her hair?’ called Ferriter. She turned. ‘Your daughter’s got blonde hair, right?’

  ‘Can’t see,’ came a voice.

  She panicked. She could not be here. ‘I’ll be in the car,’ Cupidi blurted to Moon.

  ‘I thought…’

  ‘I can’t see this. I can’t cope with this.’

  In the car, she switched off the police radio. She could not bear to listen to that, either.

  She sat, soaking wet inside the vehicle waiting, shivering uncontrollably.

  FORTY-ONE

  As they lifted the pale shape from the water, she switched on the engine; the windscreen wipers lurched into double-speed.

  The scene was revealed. Police crowded at the top of the slippery bank; a civilian from coroner’s office stood, miserably trying to keep dry under an umbrella that kept blowing itself inside out. Everyone in white; like ghosts.