‘Any bloke who went out with you would be a lucky man. I hope whatever his name is—’
‘Matt.’
‘Yeah, I’m sure Matt knows that. Or else why did he ask you to go for sushi?’
Brittney turns into the car park adjacent to the beach. Two squad cars and an ambulance are parked up. A few curious holidaymakers are milling around.
‘We swapped numbers. But I don’t expect I’ll hear from him.’
They pull up next to the ambulance.
‘Be optimistic,’ says Megan, as she gets out of the car.
Megan shows her ID to the uniformed officer and he leads her to the back of the ambulance, where a young woman, not much different in age to Brittney, is wrapped in a space blanket. She’s clutching a child to her, a girl of about four, and rocking gently. Her dark eyes fix on Megan; they’re full of fear. She whispers something in a foreign tongue. Leaving your homeland, putting yourself in the hands of criminals and crossing the sea to an unknown destination, that puts optimism into a whole new dimension, thinks Megan. Or is it desperation? The line between the two can be thin.
She gets into the back of the ambulance and sits down so she and the woman are on the same eye level. Pointing to herself, she says, ‘I’m Megan.’ She takes out her warrant card and holds it up. ‘I’m a police officer.’
The woman starts to cry. Tears course silently down her cheeks.
Brittney has been talking to the paramedics. She joins them.
‘They found her kneeling on the beach and staring out to sea. Took them ages to even get her to move.’
‘Look at her hijab,’ says Megan. ‘That’s pure silk. She’s not poor. And if she was brought here by smugglers, she wouldn’t have been on her own. But if there were others, they’ve gone. Why did she stay?’
Megan reaches out slowly and touches the woman’s knee. She flinches. Megan pats her gently. ‘It’s okay,’ she says softly. ‘I think you’ve lost someone, haven’t you?’ She turns to Brittney. ‘Ask one of the PCs to get some coffee from the cafe.’
Brittney heads off. Megan calls after her. ‘And put sugar in it. She’s in shock.’
Megan holds out her hand, palm upwards. ‘Come with me, let’s go back onto the beach and see if we can figure out what’s happened.’ She nods and smiles. ‘It’s okay. Come on.’
The woman hesitates then nervously takes Megan’s hand. They get up and Megan helps her down the step and out of the ambulance. Still holding hands, Megan leads her and the child back to the beach.
The nature of the terrain makes it slow going. Shingle soon gives way to pebbles and larger flat stones. The woman’s shoes are black ballerina pumps. They’re muddy and wet but the silver embroidered toe caps suggest they were once fancy. She clutches her little girl’s hand. The child is numb and bewildered.
The beach is largely empty. A few tourists are eating breakfast on the cafe terrace. They watch the little cavalcade pass them. Someone films it on a mobile phone. Further down the beach a couple in swimwear are lying on towels. They’ve erected a windbreak. Megan can feel the hostility of their gaze.
Close to the shoreline, Megan stops. She points to the woman and then out to sea and back. ‘You came in a boat? Yes?’
The woman nods, her lip trembles and she starts to cry. ‘Hassan,’ she whispers.
‘Hassan?’ says Megan. ‘Your husband? Your son?’ She points to the little girl, holds out her hand to measure a child’s height.
The woman nods. ‘Hassan.’ She brushes away her tears and suddenly a torrent of explanation pours from her. The words are fast and furious. She waves her arms about, points to the sea, pleads with Megan, points to the sea again.
Megan looks out to sea too and points. ‘Hassan fell in the sea?’ She mimes swimming.
The woman shakes her head and holds out her hand to indicate the height of a small child.
‘Hassan is your son. He can’t swim, he’s too young?’
The woman gets down on her knees and grabs Megan’s arm. She’s begging. ‘Hassan.’ She keeps repeating her child’s name.
Megan pulls the woman to her feet. ‘It’s okay. We’ll look for him.’ She nods vigorously. ‘I understand. It’s okay.’
Brittney comes across the beach towards them. She’s carrying a takeaway coffee and a carton of juice. Megan takes the coffee and hands it to the woman. Brittney gives the juice to the little girl. They stare at it in a bemused fashion.
Brittney grins. ‘Drink,’ she says, miming the action.
‘It’s her little boy,’ says Megan. ‘Fell in the sea, maybe as they were landing. I’m not sure. We going to need the coastguard to start looking, although my guess is we’re looking for a body.’
‘Okay,’ says Brittney. ‘The natives are getting restless. The bloke sitting on the beach back there asked when we’re going. Apparently we’re spoiling his holiday.’
‘Really,’ says Megan. ‘Can’t he see how upset she is, stupid plonker?’
Brittney shrugs. ‘You know what some people are like. I’ll get onto the coastguard.’ She hurries off.
Megan starts to escort her charges back up the beach. She gives the sunbathing couple a wide berth.
But the bloke calls out. ‘You wanna put them on a plane and send them straight back where they come from!’
Megan knows she should just keep walking and ignore him. But something in his spiteful tone stops her in her tracks.
She walks over towards the couple and says, ‘I’m afraid you need to leave, sir. The beach is now a crime scene and will need to be cordoned off.’
‘Oh, sod off!’ he replies. ‘I just paid six quid for the car park. Means we get to stay all day. I’m not shifting because of her. You just need to shove her in a van and get her out of here.’
‘We’re looking for the dead body of a child. If you see it floating in the water, what are you going to do? Just swim round it?’
She turns and walks away. She shouldn’t have said that. It was unprofessional. She should’ve just left it to the uniforms to clear the beach.
Nine
Thursday, 10.20 a.m.
Megan sits in the car waiting for Ingram and Garcia to turn up. She’s brooding. Annoyed with herself for her outburst. It demonstrates that her temper is more volatile than she thought. A salutary reminder that she lacks self-control. Officers on response get to deal with this kind of crap from members of the public every day. And she used to be able to do it too. But she’s out of practice. And the last thing she needs is a complaint that could lead to disciplinary action. She suspects that Slater is a stickler for proper procedure when it comes to complaints which could lead to bad publicity. Or is she just being neurotic? Maybe she is. The spectre of Zac Yilmaz has thrown her off kilter.
As she returned to the car park from the beach with the woman and her little girl, the cafe manager appeared and invited the refugees inside for some food. This helped Megan tell herself that not everyone is a self-obsessed idiot. Brittney went with them to the cafe. The response officers have been clearing and cordoning the beach. It’s given Megan some time to calm down.
Ingram arrives driving a brand new Range Rover Evoque. He’s abandoned the baseball cap but is still wearing the shades. Garcia is wearing a skintight top and black jeans. Her hair is cropped short with bleached tips. She looks Megan up and down and smiles as she gets out of the car. It’s hard to tell if the look is judgemental or friendly. But it leaves Megan feeling self-conscious and old. A middle-aged cop in a boring trouser suit.
‘Morning,’ says Ingram. ‘Thanks for the heads-up. We appreciate you bringing us in on this.’
Yes, thinks Megan. Now it’s your turn to do some grovelling.
But she says, ‘Well, I think this woman could be a valuable source of intelligence. But we’re going to need a translator.’
‘We brought one,’ says Garcia, patting her stylish faux leather bag.
‘Okay, let’s do this,’ says Megan.
They find Brittney
and her two charges at a corner table in the cafe. The mother stares blankly into space but the little girl is slowly eating some soup.
Garcia walks straight over to them, smiles at the woman and says, ‘Marhabaan.’
The woman’s eyes flick with surprise, she inclines her head and mumbles a reply.
Ingram turns to Megan. ‘I believe that’s Arabic for hello. We thought it might be a good place to start.’
‘You mean Sasha speaks Arabic?’ says Megan.
‘Just a smattering. It’s not one of her main languages.’
‘How many languages does she speak?’ This woman gets more annoying by the minute.
‘Five, I think. Her mum’s Russian, so she speaks that fluently. One of the reasons the NCA hired her. We’ve got too many Russian gangsters treating London as a laundromat for their ill-gotten gains.’
Garcia opens her bag and takes out her laptop. Ingram stands back, arms folded and lets her perform. Megan and Brittney watch.
‘What’s she doing?’ Brittney whispers.
‘I dunno,’ says Megan. ‘She speaks some Arabic and I guess she’s got some kind of translation app on her computer. Have you found any witnesses?’
‘Just the manager who called it in.’
They head for the kitchen where the manager is talking to the chef. The place is small and steamy and busy serving breakfasts. Megan wonders if, when CSI arrive, they’re going to want them to shut for the day. It seems unfair at this juncture; they don’t even know if it is a crime scene.
The manager comes straight over to them. He’s young with a goatee beard, and wears a white apron over his jeans, as he doubles as the waiter.
‘This is Evan,’ says Brittney.
He smiles sadly and says, ‘It’s a cruel world. Makes your heart break if you think about it too much.’
Megan nods. ‘When did you first see her, Evan?’
‘Well, I get in about seven, for the deliveries. Usually there’s not many people about. I noticed her right down on the beach, just sitting there facing the sea. I thought maybe she was meditating or just chilling out, y’know.’
‘What time was that?’
‘Seven fifteen, maybe. Bit later this dog walker comes in. We weren’t open but he says he thinks she’s some kind of illegal immigrant person, I dunno.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I wasn’t sure what to do. I didn’t want to jump to any conclusions.’
‘You thought he might be being racist because she was wearing a hijab?’
‘Exactly. So I left it for a bit. Then I thought, well she’s been there a long time, perhaps she is in trouble. And I went to take a look.’
‘What did you find?’
‘Her and the little girl looked quite bedraggled. There were lifejackets on the beach next to them. I asked her if she was all right. But she didn’t understand me. She looked in a bad way. Really upset. I tried to get her to come back to the cafe. She just sat there rocking back and forwards. So I came back and called the emergency services.’
‘Call was logged at 8.06,’ says Brittney.
‘Now I feel really bad,’ he says. ‘I should’ve done something much sooner. When the dog walker told me.’
‘Don’t feel bad,’ says Megan. ‘The dog walker could’ve called us. Do you know who he is?’
‘No. Bloke about fifty with a big German shepherd. Dogs aren’t allowed on this beach after the first of May. But a few people still come down early. Maybe he didn’t call because he didn’t want anyone to know he was breaking the rules.’
Megan nods. ‘That’s possible. Thanks for your help.’
She and Brittney turn to go.
Then Evan calls after them, ‘Y’know, I’ve been wondering about something else. I don’t know if it’s connected.’
‘Okay,’ says Megan.
‘I live with my mum and dad, just up the road there, overlooking the bay. I sleep like a log, but the last couple of nights my mum says she woke up because she could hear jet skis.’
‘Jet skis?’
‘Yeah, jet skis. In the middle of the night. Down here in the bay. She says there were several of them, making a hell of a racket.’
‘Did your mum say what time?’
‘Oh, like two or three in the morning.’
Like the pin tumbler in a lock, when the last one slots into place, it opens. You never know when it’s going to happen, thinks Megan. But it’s one of the pleasures of being a detective.
‘Right,’ she says briskly. ‘We may need to talk to your mum about that. Can you give DC Saric your address?’
Brittney gets out her notebook.
Megan hurries back into the main part of the cafe, goes over to Ingram and says, ‘Can Sasha ask her if her little boy fell off the back of a jet ski while they were being brought ashore?’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘A jet ski?’
‘Yes. I think your people smugglers are coming into the bay in a boat, then ferrying people ashore on the back of jet skis. Does that make sense?’
Ingram stares at her for a moment, then grins. ‘Yeah, that makes sense.’
Ten
Thursday, 11.46 a.m.
Yvonne Porter stares out of the kitchen window. She reflects on her excellent decision to erect a pergola in direct line of sight of the window. It’s absolutely covered in Arabella, her favourite purple clematis. The flowers are beginning to open. She focuses on the vibrant colour, lets it sink into her. She’s always loved flowers, ever since she was a child. She’s supposed to be going to the Chelsea Flower Show with her sister next month. It’s the sort of outing Greg approves of.
‘Can I make you a cup of tea, Mrs Porter?’ The voice jars; she hates the accent.
That bloody woman! Why can’t she just go away?
She turned up yesterday afternoon, said she was the Family Liaison Officer and her name was Christine. Yvonne hates having people she doesn’t know in the house. Christine is one of these middle-aged, mumsy types. Her hair’s a mess, she smells of cigarettes and she never looks quite clean. She’s supposedly there to provide support. But when she unpacked the dishwasher, she just dumped the cutlery in the drawer. The forks were all out of alignment. Some of the teaspoons the wrong way round. How is that supportive?
The children are all home from school, which is stupid. What the hell is she supposed to do now? She has no idea.
Aidan is skulking round the house. Several times she’s caught him watching her. She hates being watched. And he’s always got his phone in his hand.
She caught him videoing her earlier. She was in her bathroom, nose inches from the mirror, struggling to get her contacts in. It caused a small explosion.
‘Oh for fuck’s sake, Aidan,’ she said. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘Just checking you’re all right,’ he replied.
All right? What does that even mean?
The doorbell rings.
‘I’ll get it,’ says Christine brightly. She disappears into the hall.
Yvonne sighs. The most annoying thing about Christine is that whilst she’s around it’s impossible for Yvonne to have a drink. There are two bottles of Chablis in the fridge. When it gets to lunchtime she’ll have a glass. It’s a perfectly civilised thing to do. No one can criticise her for that. The police may have sent this awful woman to spy on her but they can’t arrest her for drinking a glass of wine.
She can hear whispered voices in the hall and then suddenly her sister Penny appears.
Penny throws open her arms and rushes towards her. ‘Oh my God, darling! I got the first train I could this morning. I wanted to come last night but—’
Yvonne collapses into her arms.
‘I’ll give you two some privacy,’ says Christine.
Yvonne clings to her sister, the dam breaks and she sobs. Penny strokes her hair. They remain like this for some time.
‘Sssh,’ says Penny. ‘It’s all right, darling. I’m here now.’
‘I don’t unde
rstand any of it. What am I going to do?’
‘It’ll be okay. We’ll get through this together.’
Finally they let go of each other. Yvonne wipes her face with her hand. ‘Oh God, I must look a fright.’
‘That doesn’t matter. You look fine.’
‘Let me make you a cup of coffee. I’ve managed to keep that stupid woman away from the coffee machine. I don’t want her grubby finger marks all over it.’
Penny puts a gentle hand on her shoulder. ‘Now let’s not start with that nonsense, Yvonne. She looks perfectly clean to me.’
‘It’s not nonsense,’ wails Yvonne. ‘You should see the cutlery drawer. It’s a complete mess.’
‘Remember what Dr Davenport said. It’s a compulsion. It happens when you get very stressed. Now obviously you’re stressed. Who wouldn’t be? But you mustn’t fixate on these things.’
‘Do you think the police have got this right? A suspicious death? How do they know it’s suspicious?’
‘Darling, once they’ve done the post mortem, they’ll know how he died.’
Yvonne stares at her sister. She’s always so sensible. The relief of having her there is enormous.
‘Do you think we can have a glass of wine instead of coffee?’ says Yvonne.
‘Of course we can. Have you got some in the fridge?’
Yvonne nods.
Penny goes to the fridge and takes out a bottle. ‘Petit Chablis, how lovely.’
‘It’s just the ordinary stuff from M&S. Greg reduced my housekeeping budget because he says I spend too much on booze.’
Penny chuckles cynically. ‘Well, you’re not going to have that problem any more, are you?’
Yvonne smiles. ‘No, I suppose not.’
Penny places the wine on the marble counter and takes two glasses from the cupboard. Then she opens her palms and grins. ‘Darling, this all belongs to you now. None of your fifty-fifty split and a long drawn out argument with his bloody accountants trying to hide his assets. You get the lot.’ She unscrews the top of the wine and pours it into the two glasses. ‘All I’m saying is, I know how wretched you feel. But there is light at the end of the tunnel.’
Close to the Bone: An addictive crime thriller with edge-of-your-seat suspense (Detective Megan Thomas) Page 4