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‘Give him cash, did you?’
Alex looked at Mickey. She had no more readies to give him.
He shrugged, pushed himself away from the little kitchen worktop. ‘What the hell. What else do you want to know?’
‘These boats don’t have barbecues on board as a matter of course?’
‘No, though people do bring them. I mean, we have all the mod cons like you see – fridge, cooker, hob, but on balmy days people like to cook outside, don’t they? Can be dangerous if you take them inside before they’re fully burnt out. Or at all, really, because you can never tell.’
‘And I gather that’s what seems to have happened here.’
Mickey stared at her. ‘Fumes? From the barbecue?’
‘That’s one theory.’ She sat down on the bench running alongside the table. It was pretty comfortable. ‘What were they like?’
‘The two guys?’
‘Yes. I mean, did they seem like really good friends? Did they talk to each other when you were showing them the boat? Were they nervous?’
Mickey hesitated. ‘How much should I be telling you? Only, I don’t want to lose my job. Good money for doing eff all really, just showing people who should know better how to behave on one of these boats and how to respect the water.’
‘Where are you from?’ Alex was curious to know what a man like Mickey was doing in Suffolk. He had a distinctive accent.
‘London. Lost my job.’ He shrugged. ‘Gambling. House went, and my family. Drifted around, came up this way, you know, for a bit of sea air, and found Colin one day. He was looking for someone to help him over the summer; I used to do some sailing and engineering and stuff in a former life, so he hired me. There might be some winter work, too. In the office as well as showing people the boats. If I stay here that long.’
‘You might move on?’
‘Maybe. Depends what happens. You know.’
‘You won’t lose your job because of me. You heard Colin – you can talk to me.’
‘Trust me I’m a journalist?’
Alex couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Something like that, yes.’
‘I wouldn’t want it to get out that I’d been talking to you, though. I’ve started to get together a good life here. I’ve got some mates. I feel as though I’m starting to turn things around.’
‘There won’t be any comeback on you, I promise. I’m not like that. Really,’ she emphasized, seeing his look of scepticism. ‘I know you’ve got to live round here. I’m fairly local too, so it’s not going to help anyone if I get their backs up, is it?’
‘Maybe.’ He still seemed wary.
‘So? The two men on Firefly Lady? How friendly were they?’
‘Not that friendly, not gay friendly, you know. I could tell that. They didn’t talk much.’
‘What sort of things did they say?’
‘The usual.’
‘Which is?’ This was getting to be hard work.
‘You know – would they be able to steer it okay, would they crash into the bank, what should they do if they did. Standard stuff.’ He looked off into the distance. ‘One of them was talking about his animals and then he said to me he hated leaving them. I said something like “I hope you’ve got someone to look after them or the RSPCA will be after you, ha ha.” And he sort of smiled. I remember him smiling. The other bloke, he looked a bit pale and I remember thinking the fresh air would do him good. I was wrong about that, wasn’t I?’
‘Just a bit.’
They shared a rueful smile.
‘I hope you’re going to tell Colin how helpful I’ve been. Perhaps he’ll give me a bonus.’ He winked.
Alex stood. ‘I’ll let you get on.’ She stepped off the boat and onto dry land, with Mickey following, just a little too close.
‘Ah, coppers. I think I’ll make myself scarce.’ She felt Mickey step back onto the boat.
Turning, she saw a man and a woman in pain clothes walking purposefully along the towpath. In their shiny suits they looked out of place among the holidaymakers in shorts. The man was completely bald, tall, lanky even, sporting a stubbly beard flecked with grey; the woman petite, her hair scraped back in a ponytail.
‘We’re looking for Mickey Grainger,’ the man said, flashing a warrant card at her. ‘Detective Inspector Berry,’ he said. ‘And this is Detective Sergeant Logan.’
Alex tried not to smile. Logan and Berry? You had to be kidding.
‘Yes, yes,’ Berry said, testily. ‘I know. Loganberry. Don’t think we haven’t heard it. So. Have you seen Mr Grainger? Colin Harper said we would find him here.’
‘Well—’ said Alex, not sure what to say. Mickey hadn’t seemed keen to meet Berry and Logan and she didn’t want to drop him in it.
Berry narrowed his eyes. ‘And you are?’
There was no point in pretending, she thought. ‘Alex Devlin. Reporter from The Post.’
‘Ah, yes. PC Lockwood said you were nosing about.’ He glared at her.
‘Can you confirm the identities of the bodies?’ She might as well give it a try.
‘No.’
DS Logan stared straight ahead.
‘Are they Derek Daley from London and Roger Fleet from Suffolk?’
‘Wait for the press conference. Six o’clock. This Grainger’s boat?’ He began to step aboard Firefly Sister.
‘Not his boat exactly,’ said Alex.
DI Berry frowned. ‘How “not exactly”?’
‘It belongs to Harper’s Holidays. Mickey works for Colin.’
‘I see. Mickey works for Colin. I think I did realize that.’ Sarcasm dripped from his lips. He stepped on board the boat. ‘Mr Grainger,’ he called. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Berry and I would like to have a word with you please.’
There was silence for a few seconds, only the sound of distant voices and the phut phut of engines and then Mickey emerged from the other end of the boat, looking as though he wanted to be anywhere else but here, on this boat, with these police officers.
DI Berry smiled, but, to Alex, it wasn’t a particularly reassuring smile. DS Logan’s face hadn’t moved, and Alex wondered if she was frightened of her boss, or if she was naturally like that.
‘Mr Grainger. At last.’ DI Berry looked at Alex, his thin lips in a parody of a smile. ‘Thank you, Miss Devlin, for your help.’
She was dismissed.
7 (#ulink_06a6eb76-4d3f-5270-b67d-e6267011f452)
Alex shifted about on one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs that had been laid out in rows for the press. The room was stuffy and impersonal with high windows and almost bare walls. There were three tables in a row at one end of the room, with the logo of Norfolk Constabulary behind it. It also had a strange smell of school about it, that heady mix of sweat, feet and boiled mince.
Her mind wandered back to the visit she had just made to her mum and dad. They lived in a small village several miles outside Sole Bay – they couldn’t bear to stay in the town after the death of Sasha’s twins – in a neat house down a country lane. It was identical to the one they had left behind in Sole Bay. It had a fitted kitchen, a white bathroom suite, a three piece suite in the sitting room and a hardly used mahogany table and six chairs in the dining room. The garden was a well-tended lawn both at the back and the front, and flowers that were ranked in straight borders varying with the seasons. It was as if her parents wanted to underline their stability, the fact they lived very ordinary lives. Good lives. Despite Sasha.
‘Thank you for coming,’ said her mother as she’d ushered her in, making Alex feel guilty immediately. It was the beaten tone in her mum’s voice that did it.
Alex had handed over the pasta and the smoked sausages. ‘Here, Mum. I hope Dad enjoys them.’
Her mother had smiled gratefully.
‘Hello darling,’ her dad had said. ‘I’m just making a cup of tea for us.’
Darling. It had only been in recent weeks he had begun to call Alex ‘darling’. She rather liked it, even if it was a product of his dementia. And tea. He never made tea; he loved his coffee. He had looked around with a new vagueness, as if he wasn’t at all sure where he was or what he was supposed to be doing.
The tea never materialized. Her dad forgot he was making it and wandered off into the sitting room to watch goodness knows what on the television. So her mum had taken over and made it without a word.
‘Have you seen the specialist recently?’
Her mum had shaken her head. ‘No. Not for another six months. Then there’ll be more tests to see if he’s got any worse. I’m not sure I can bear it. To watch him struggling in that horrible hospital room while he tries to copy a picture or spell something backwards. I can’t do it, Alex, I can’t.’ She’d buried her face in her hands.
Alex had put her arms around her, noticing how thin and frail she had become over the last months. ‘I’ll do what I can, Mum. And I’ll come with you next time.’
Her mother had stood up straight. ‘I’m sorry. Sometimes—’
‘Look, I know it all gets a bit much for you. You must let me help more.’
‘We’ll be all right. Don’t worry. Most of the time I’m perfectly fine. Sometimes, though, I want to scream at the unfairness of it all.’
Alex could understand that. After all, her parents weren’t old – they were only in their early sixties. It wasn’t a time for her dad to start losing his mind and for her mum to have aged years in months. They’d had her and Sasha when they were young, and so should have had years of child-free time together. But what had happened with Sasha had aged them prematurely, Alex realized that. And on bad days, really bad days, she blamed her sister for making that happen. And now with her father’s illness, well, it really was taking its toll on them both.
‘Don’t let it be so long before you visit again, will you?’ Her eyes had swum with tears and she’d worked her mouth in an effort to stop them falling. With a flash of understanding Alex had realized her mother was frightened and that her dad had been the person her mum had leaned on for years. They had always been a self-contained couple, a private family, which was why all that business with Sasha had hit them so hard. Now her mother was having to cope on her own. Alex knew she had to do more.
Impulsively she’d hugged her mother. ‘I’ll be back soon. I promise.’
‘Please.’
‘Here.’ Her dad had appeared holding something in his hands. It was a long, yellow balloon. ‘This is for you. I blew it up, but I couldn’t think what to do next. But I did blow it up.’
The growing chatter in the police station conference room brought Alex back to the present. The bank of microphones looking like furry caterpillars on the table was growing. Alex scanned the room, looking for someone from The Post. She was bound to recognize them, wasn’t she?
No one.
She brought up the newspaper’s website on her phone – surely Bud would have run what she’d written by now? He wasn’t one for hanging around before he published. Normally, he took a chance. ‘Not wrong for long,’ he used to say.
But there was nothing there. No breaking news, no colour piece from her. Perhaps he was having to play it safe this time for one reason or another.
She refreshed her phone again. Nothing.
Someone slipped into the seat beside her. A lemony fragrance wafted over.
‘You’ve been keeping my seat warm, then?’
Alex shook her head. Bloody hell. Not him. ‘Hello, Heath,’ she said.
Heath Maitland grinned at her, all white teeth and Hollywood smile, floppy fringe half over his eyes. Designer jacket. Handmade shoes. Claimed to be late thirties but more likely early forties. Money; not courtesy of The Post, but of his family, so the rumour mill had it. His name courtesy of his mother who was an authority on the works of the Brontës. Heath – he had dropped the ‘cliffe’ bit pretty early on in life – had the reputation of being able to get any woman into bed. Not her, she wasn’t that stupid. But he never ceased trying.
‘When Bud said you were looking at the story, I couldn’t believe it. Long time no see and all that,’ he said. ‘Christ, these chairs are hard. Don’t they give you cushions or something?’
‘If he’d told me he was sending you, I wouldn’t have bothered,’ she replied, tartly. ‘And no. No cushions. This is a police station, remember?’
‘Come on, Alex, you know you’re pleased to see me really.’ He nudged her arm.
She felt her lips twitching. ‘No, I really am not.’ But, in truth, Heath Maitland was impossible not to like. Irritating. Pushy. Arrogant. Lazy. A dilettante. But fun to have around – mostly.
‘You win some you lose some.’ That megawatt smile again. He turned it onto a journalist a few rows away. To Alex’s annoyance, the woman returned it. ‘Last I heard,’ Heath continued, ‘you were hanging around with some dodgy character.’
Alex stiffened. ‘I don’t know who you mean.’
‘Yes, you do. Some bloke who fancied himself—’
She snorted. ‘And you don’t?’
‘You know me better than that.’ He glanced sideways at her. ‘Malone. Wasn’t that his name?’
It was. Malone who had run out on her twice now. Malone who she thought would stay the course this time despite the fact that his life was a mess. Malone who’d helped her son find his father, told her she was beautiful, wanted to make a go of things. And then he’d fucked off. That Malone.
‘Yep. But we’re not together any more.’ She hated articulating it out loud, but she couldn’t go on hoping he’d come back, or even get in contact with her. He’d been out of her life for seven months and three days now and she knew she had to move on. But that would not be with Heath Maitland.
‘Really?’ He raised an eyebrow.
‘Yes, really.’
‘Doesn’t know what he’s missing.’
Oh, that smile.
‘No. And nor do you,’ she replied tartly. ‘Now, do you want to know what’s going on here or not?’
He yawned and glanced at what looked to be a very expensive watch on his wrist. ‘Two stiffs on a boat, that’s what I know. Are they going to be long?’
‘How should I know?’ she snapped, and immediately regretted her petulance.
