That Summer He Died (31 page)

He suddenly felt a huge surge of affection for them and rested his arms around their shoulders. ‘What do I think?’ He laughed. ‘What a question! I think it’s about bloody time, that’s what I think.’

But when he turned and looked at Lucy, and saw her grinning back at him, he felt almost nothing at all.

*

James was sitting at the desk in the hotel room. He could hear Lucy singing in the bathroom, accompanied by the occasional swirl of water as she moved in the bath.

They’d been for lunch in a new restaurant on the high street, where they’d made plans for the next few days. Becky had been serious about getting some walking done and had David pegged for a hike that afternoon. James and Lucy, meanwhile, would get their work out of the way, so they could then all relax and enjoy the weekend. Once she had finished in the bath they’d head for the graveyard and the cliffs above South Beach, and she could click, click away.

James continued to stare at the screen. The article was just about finished. Before him, the cursor flashed at the end of the word ‘motive’, inviting him to write more. All his brain kept replying, though, was: there is no motive. But he knew that wasn’t true. There was always a motive, no matter how random and crazy events initially looked. Take Peter Headley. All those men he’d killed. Different towns, different ways of killing. But Headley had seen the connection between them. He’d chosen them. And it would have been the same for whoever was responsible for the killings here.

James typed out the names, times and places, just as Headley had done before he died:

Then he focused on the screen. Why the gap between the killings? That wasn’t how serial killers usually operated. It was an addiction. That’s what the LA cop who’d investigated Headley had explained. They needed their fix regularly. It wasn’t a whim. Not something they could take or leave. Not like this pattern suggested. James picked up the phone, dialled a number.

‘Toby Clifford, please. Tell him it’s James Sawday.’

‘James, mate,’ a voice came on the line a few seconds later. Heavy Borders accent; it was Toby’s. ‘How you doing?’

James had been mates with him at university. They’d worked on the student rag together, and had kept in touch after they’d both moved down to London following graduation. James was now CID – on the fast track, as bright and as sharp as a diamond. As well as being a close friend, he was an invaluable contact. They small-talked for a while, then James got to the point.

‘I need to pick your brains.’

‘Pick away,’ Toby said.

James began to outline the assignment he was working on, as well as his concerns over the gap between the killings. Toby, who knew the case already, cut him off, saying, ‘A colleague of mine here, Derek, took on the case a while back – landed it after Trader’s death. The guy who was originally dealing with it retired a couple of years back. Anyhow,’ he went on, ‘my colleague ran through the whole thing from start to finish, did checks on checks, if you know what I mean . . .’

‘And?’

‘And nothing. Blank sheet. There haven’t been any other unsolveds which might link up. You know, like has whoever’s responsible been up to this anywhere else – Britain, Europe, whatever? Nothing. Got Derek’s back up good and proper. I tell you, James: you’re right; it doesn’t make much sense. But Derek’s a thorough bastard, and if he says there’s nothing out there, then that’s how it is. This killer’s a one-off. Breaks all the rules. No discernible pattern. Which leaves us scuppered.’ There was a pause, then Toby added, ‘Derek has got a theory, though.’

‘What?’

‘That maybe the murders aren’t random. Maybe it’s not a psycho like the papers say. That maybe whoever did them did so for entirely rational reasons. Then the gap doesn’t matter.’

Which brought James back to motive.

He thanked Toby, arranged to meet up with him for a drink, and returned his attention to the screen. Dismiss Kenneth Trader. He knew all about the why and how of Trader’s demise. That left Dawes and Dan. Forster was right: there was nothing superficial to link them. But that didn’t mean there was no link at all. Just like Headley’s victims, they’d been chosen. So what was the choice based on? The answer to that was the key.

Something was nagging at James. He knew that feeling. He’d experienced it dozens of times before. There was something he’d heard, something he’d seen. . . There was something out there that might make sense out of all of this. But what?

Maybe Murphy. He’d been skipping in and out of James’s mind since Forster had mentioned his disappearance. Men like Cal Murphy didn’t just vanish. Not unless they had good reason to. Sure, he’d disappeared before Dan’s death. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t responsible.

James remembered what Alex had told him about that dealer who’d disappeared way back – Paddy somebody – the one who’d crossed the policeman. Of all the people who’d lived here, Murphy had been the one James had most feared. Just because he’d disappeared didn’t mean that he couldn’t come back. To get rid of someone, someone like Dan, someone who might have had something on him, maybe known the real reason he’d disappeared. . . Was that the suspicion that was nagging at James? But even if he were right about Murphy having something to do with Dan’s disappearance, how could he link the policeman to Dawes? What possible reason could Murphy have had to have got rid of him?

James shook his head. With Dawes dead and Murphy gone, there was no answer to that. Maybe just the way the policeman had wanted it. He pressed the delete key, wiped out the names and dates. Back to the blank screen. Back to what Forster and the police and Dan’s parents and Suzie were faced with every day.

‘James,’ Lucy called, breaking into his concentration.

The sound of her voice made him ache. He’d forgotten she was even here. ‘What?’ he called back.

‘Come here a minute.’

He walked through to the bathroom. She was still in the bath, smiling up at him. He felt a fraud, standing there, looking down at her naked body beneath the water. She drew her knees up to her chin, ran her hands down her smooth shins. He stared at her face, refused to let his eyes wander over her. It felt wrong. It felt – he could hardly believe what he was thinking – unfaithful. Lucy’s lips blew out a kiss, but all he felt was the touch of Suzie’s on his own. He leant back against the wall and looked down at the white tiles between his feet.

‘D’you fancy getting in?’ she asked.

Tell her. Tell her now. There’s just the two of you. Spit it out.

‘Well?’ she asked.

‘I don’t think. . .’ His voice faded away.

‘What?’ Concern clouded her expression. ‘James?’ she said again. ‘Are you OK?’

I’m fine, he wanted to tell her. But we’re not. We’re not OK. We’re over. Can you hear me? WE’RE OVER.

But she couldn’t hear him, because he couldn’t speak. Doubt flowed through him like an anaesthetic, weakening his resolve further by the second. What if he was wrong about Suzie? What if that had just been a kiss and nothing more? Just harmless flirtation. Something only he had attached any significance to. What then? Lucy and he got on. Who knew where it might lead? Maybe nowhere, sure, but maybe it would end in love. Same as with David and Becky. Out of the blue. Just like in the songs. So should he really throw this all away on an impulse? For a memory? For someone who might have simply smiled ruefully and forgotten him in the time it had taken him to walk down the steps from Surfers’ Turf and reach the sand?

He wanted to sleep. He wanted to crawl next door and lie alone and wake up to certainty.

‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Just a bit tired.’

‘You sure you don’t want to get in? It’ll do you good, help you relax.’

‘No.’ He was suffocating. The steam from the bath clogged his lungs. He straightened up and swayed uneasily. ‘I’m going to get some fresh air,’ he said. ‘Clear my head. Been staring at that screen too long.’

‘OK, babe,’ she said, disappointed. ‘How long you going to be?’

‘I don’t know. An hour. No more. I’ll go down by the sea.’ He managed a smile. ‘You finish off in here and then we’ll go and get your photos sorted out.’

*

The wind struck James like a hammer blow once he was outside. He didn’t want to be here. He stood on the steps of the hotel and looked out to sea. Somewhere else. That would be good. Anywhere but here. But even as he thought this, he knew it wasn’t the case. This place could be beautiful. It was to David and Becky. He’d seen it in their eyes as they’d headed up the stairs to their bedroom. Just like he’d seen it in Lucy’s, as she’d lain there, submerged, wanting him to undress and join her. He swallowed hard, walked on. No point in just standing here. Forget Lucy for now. Suzie, too. Think about something else.

He carried on walking quickly along the beachfront, pausing finally to check that he was out of sight of the hotel. It was only then he really relaxed, felt safe, hidden, like a kid concealed in its den. He sucked the cold air deeper into his lungs. There was freedom here, away from the others. He walked on. Up ahead was Current, Alex’s place. His palace of cool in this quiet backwater of England.

James meant to walk straight on past, but curiosity got the better of him. The unfinished article crept back into his mind. He’d been slack about it, coming down here and sitting on his arse before sweating it out, waiting like he used to do at school for the days to pass.

Anywhere else, any other article, and he would have been out there, asking questions, unravelling leads, getting his angle. And, face it, there was no reason not to do that now. Everything was already messed up. Check out his emotions, twisting through his gut like a typhoon, out of his control. And as for his plan of keeping himself to himself. . .

He checked out the car park at the side of Current. Alex’s car wasn’t there. So screw it. Do his job. Get in there and ask some questions. Find out what the hell Dan was up to before he was killed.

There were no windows in the building, just a black door set in the centre of the black-painted front wall. Glass displays either side advertised the line-up for tonight and tomorrow night. James thought back to that long-ago party up at Eagle’s Point. Alex had been right then: give people what they wanted and they’d pay. It had happened then, and there was no reason why the same theory shouldn’t apply now.

In the centre of the door, at head-height, was a smoked-glass view hole. To its left was a buzzer. James glanced round, suddenly fearful of Alex creeping up on him, then got a grip, pressed the buzzer and waited for a response.

The door was opened by a girl, pretty in an unhealthy sort of way, round about twenty years old, James guessed, with short hair gelled back over her scalp. Her slim waist showed between her tight grey top and even tighter jeans. Her skin was sallow, like she hadn’t slept in weeks, her eyes dull.

‘We don’t open till seven,’ she said flatly. Her accent was sharp, urban, probably London.

James nodded. ‘I know.’

She looked him up and down and leant against the doorframe, folding her arms. ‘So how come you’re here?’

‘I’m a friend of Alex’s.’

Derision filled her face. ‘No, you’re not.’

James was taken aback. It must have shown because she laughed, pulled a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and lit one.

‘Yeah? You sound fairly sure of yourself,’ he said.

‘I’ve never seen you before.’

‘So?’

‘So, I’m Alex’s girlfriend and, if you were a friend of his, I’d know.’

‘I’m an old friend,’ James said. ‘I’ve been away for a while.’

‘How long?’

‘Nearly ten years.’

She tried to blow smoke out of her nostrils into his face, but the wind just sucked it up like an extractor fan. She settled for a verbal brush off instead: ‘Sounds like a pretty shit friendship to me.’ She rubbed her fingers against her bare forearm where goose-pimples stood out like braille. Their message: get inside, it’s freezing out here. She glanced behind her, then said, ‘He expecting you?’

‘No, I’m just passing through. Thought I’d look him up.’

‘Who told you where to find him?’

‘I asked in the pub,’ James lied. ‘The Moonraker.’

‘What did they say?’

‘That he owned this place, might be here.’

‘They don’t like him much in there,’ she commented, dropping her half-smoked cigarette and staring down. ‘D’you mind?’

He followed her gaze. The cigarette was on the doorstep, next to her bare feet, threatening to roll inside.

‘No problem.’ James ground it out with the toe of his boot.

She stepped back inside. ‘He’s not around at the moment. Back in about an hour. You wanna wait?’

James checked his watch. He’d be long gone by the time Alex returned.

‘Thanks. That would be good.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m Jimmy, by the way.’

She glanced at his hand, uninterested, already turning away. ‘T,’ she said, ‘as in Katie.’

The air inside hung heavy, stale, with the stink of spilt beer. James followed her past the cloakroom and ticket point, down the black-walled corridor and through to the dance floor. It felt illicit, being here. No bouncers. No dealers. No wired kids. Nothing to betray what this place would become in a matter of hours. She reached the main bar and walked round behind it.

‘What’s your poison?’ she said.

‘Whatever’s easy.’

She exhaled weightily, staring through the dim lighting across the rows of optics. ‘Everything’s easy.’

‘Vodka.’

She pulled a bottle and two shot glasses from beneath the counter. ‘I’m beginning to like you,’ she said, filling the glasses and handing him one. She knocked her shot back, reloaded the glass. ‘You can tell a lot by what a person drinks.’

‘Yeah?’ James said, sipping at his. ‘And what can you tell about me?’

‘That you’re nervous. That you don’t want to look like a wimp. That if I told you to match me shot for shot, you’d do just that. Because you want to stay here. Because there’s stuff you want to know.’