The Salt Marsh (36 page)

‘There.' She flicked her hand towards the old hearth.

‘You didn't mention finding them,' Sonny said.

‘I thought they were some kind of shepherd's charm to stop the witches flying down the chimney.'

‘Really?'

‘Yes, really. Is that any less plausible than thinking they belong to a security guard who has had his finger hacked off because he's been unfortunate enough to catch somebody in the act of stealing radioactive caesium from a research lab?'

‘You don't have to shout.'

Steam was rising from the saucepan on the camping stove. She pushed herself on to her hands and knees, crawled over to the stove, made herself a cup of coffee, stared into the steaming liquid, scryed for answers. There were none. Alastair's story about the informer hacked to pieces plagued her; the ghost searching the marsh for his dismembered limbs. The safehouse she had thought offered her protection now seemed like a trap, a charnel house, not only used by her and Luke but by the people who were threatening them – the drug and caesium smugglers.

She said, ‘So they hacked off Miguel's finger as a warning shot. A punishment for blabbing. Sent him back to Colombia.'

Sonny said, ‘They seem to be going beyond warning shots now.'

She pictured Patrick's feet, one trainer on, one trainer off.

Sonny continued, ‘What I don't get is that your mate Dave doesn't sound like somebody who might hang out with a bunch of mad caesium smugglers. He sounds like a sensible bloke who is scared because he's no idea what's going on.'

Sam didn't reply, mulling over Dave's message in her head. Sonny was right, Dave sounded scared; the voice of somebody who sensed they were in danger, but had no clear grasp of its source. Poor bloody Dave. She stared at the ground, pictured the bone and the hair as Dave had left them, under the urn in his back garden with a note – 55 pluto. What had Dave been trying to tell her? She had assumed the 55 was a confession, an indication he had been drawn into the caesium smuggling. She'd got it wrong. Now it looked like he was simply trying to let her know what he had discovered when he ran a Geiger counter over the clump of black hair. Caesium. Or caesium 137 to be precise, a radioactive isotope. Gamma emitter.

‘OK, I'm going out for a breather,' Sonny said. ‘I'm going to look for some wood to burn before it gets too dark.'

*

She waited until she was sure Sonny was out of earshot, grabbed the Dictaphone, removed Patrick's cassette, placed it in her bag, rummaged in her pocket, dug out the micro-cassette that she had taken from her own answering machine, inserted it in the Dictaphone. Pressed play. Listened to the first message, the one from Luke she had carefully preserved. The last time she heard his voice.

‘Sam. Are you there? Will you pick up? It's me. Luke.' Pause. ‘Oh god, I hope you haven't set off already. Oh shit. Look, Sam. I'm so sorry about this mess. I have to go. Something has come up. I can't hang around here. Listen, there's something else... Dave...'

She pressed pause. She had assumed Luke was implying that he knew Dave was up to something dodgy, but now she had realized Dave was not involved in the smuggling, she had to think again.
Listen there's something else...
What was Luke hinting at? Perhaps the
something else
was the fact that it was Dave who had alerted Luke to the suspicions about the security guards at the lab in the first place. Perhaps Luke was about to tell her that Dave had given him Patrick's name, and Patrick was the contact he had met in Dungeness that morning. And then Luke had decided it was better not to give too much information away on the phone.

She pressed play again, listened to the end of the message. ‘Don't worry, OK. Everything will be fine. Really. I'll call.' On the Dictaphone, the recording was clearer, Luke's voice sharper, every crackle more obvious. Higher-quality tape heads. She rewound. ‘Everything will be fine. Really. I'll call.' She wasn't listening to the words this time, the background noises had caught her attention. The sudden interjection of wave and winds, the voice in the background. Not just a voice, but a word.
Come.
Then Luke replaced the receiver. ‘Come.' Somebody talking to Luke. Had somebody opened the door and said
come on
? Was it a woman's voice? Rewind. Play. ‘Come.' She bit her lip. Her stomach flipped, her eyes watered. Get a grip. Think. Work it out. She fondled the penknife in her pocket.
Sam – love you. Luke.
She attempted to reconstruct the events of that Saturday morning in Dungeness. Luke had spoken to Patrick. Patrick had given him the details about Vince the security guard, the caesium smuggling. Patrick had also told Luke about the woman with dark hair that Miguel had seen – and Luke had followed the lead to Regan. Perhaps Regan was hanging around in Dungeness that Saturday morning and Luke had chatted to her, tried to squeeze some information out of her, had more success than Sam had done in engaging her, but then he'd bumped into an Audi, seen her enforcers, realized the full extent of what was going on, the danger he was in, and gone into hiding.

That all made sense. But what didn't make sense now was
your guy down on the coast –
the man Regan mentioned in Heaven. Sam had supposed Regan was talking about Dave, and now she knew it couldn't be him. So who was it? Alastair with his asthma attacks didn't fit the bill. He had seen something, but he wasn't part of it. She cast her eye around the Lookers' Hut, searching for anything that gave her a lead. Her eyes alighted on Sonny's packet of Marlboro and his Zippo. Sonny – what was he really up to? She conjured up an image of Sonny's forearm, the crosses marking his hits. Two new pen and ink crosses – the most recent for Spyder, she was certain.

*

And the one before that? The cross she had first seen when they sat in the Portuguese café? Flint, the bent ex-cop. Sonny had killed Flint, the candy man; the man she'd seen at the fair, the man Jim had met in 1984, two weeks before his death, according to his diary. She'd half known it as soon as Harry had told her about the hitman with the halo, sussed it in her stomach. The distraction, the magician's trick; look above my head, don't remember my face: the haloed hitman was Sonny blowing his smoke rings. What had Harry said about Flint? He'd had to leave the Force because he'd been caught doing deals with the gang who stole a load of gold bullion and were trying to convert it into drugs. Flint obviously knew all about the southern drug smuggling networks. Perhaps he had also found out about the caesium, and Stavros had despatched a hitman to sort him out. She remembered the phone call she'd overheard; Sonny talking to some unseen person while she stood outside her house on the pavement.
You've got to hold off. I need more time.
Was Sonny working for Stavros; was he one of Regan's enforcers, targeting anybody who got too close to the truth about the lab in Dungeness? Did that include her? Was she on Sonny's hit list?

The rustling of nettles made her jump. Sonny returned with a bundle of willow stems, stacked them wigwam style.

‘I thought we could make a small fire now to cheer ourselves up.'

He ignited the kindling, poked, sent sparks flying. The magic of the fire, shared here with Luke so many times. The flames engulfed the wood, Sonny's face glowed red and gold.

‘Do you think,' Sonny said, ‘your boyfriend would go for a woman like Regan?'

She was startled by his question, the provocative tone.

‘I don't understand what you are going on about.'

He stared at her and she could see the unnerving psychotic edge to his brown eyes, the potential for explosion. He cried a lot, especially after he had killed. He said, ‘I mean, do you think she is Luke's type?'

She couldn't believe he was asking her that, what kind of a question was it? Why was he winding her up? She mustn't rise to the bait. Make light of it.

‘You mean would Linda Goodman think they were astrologically compatible?'

Sonny didn't smile. ‘No. I meant do
you
think she is his type.' He really was needling her. Sam's hand touched the feminist clenched fist badge she had pinned to her coat. The badge bothered her, prevented her from dismissing Regan as a total junkie loser.

‘I would have thought Regan was more your type.'

‘What do you know about me and my type?'

‘I bet you go for reckless women. Women who remind you of your mother.'

Jesus, that was designed to hurt. Just about the most stupid thing she could have said, if she wanted to stay alive. She had to keep her fears to herself, hold on to her paranoia, her resurfacing doubts about Sonny.

He shouted, ‘You know what I think? I think that hippy Alastair was right about you, you do have malicious powers. I think you are a bloody witch.'

She'd overstepped, pushed him too far. Now she had stirred him up, she had to calm him down. ‘Sorry. That was a stupid thing to say.'

He wasn't about to be soothed. ‘And what about your type? What's your type?'

‘I go for men I can share ideas and interests with.' Stay cool, sound reasonable.

‘What about Dave? Didn't you have a lot in common with him?'

Payback for making a dig about his mother. ‘Dave was different.'

She didn't want to catch his eye, watched the embers mingle with the stars, the shadow of the barn owl circling. She had to block him, disengage, avoid a shootout she was bound to lose. She focused on the barn owl's shadow, let her mind travel upwards, and now everything was clear below; the receding flames of the campfire, Sonny's head, the sleeping bags, the rectangle of the safehouse walls, the oval of the shrub-covered mound. A movement caught her eye; she homed in on a tiny vole twitching, head twisted, fearful of her shadow. It pleased her, seeing the vole cower like that, scared, made her feel stronger, powerful. She could dive down and snatch it in her talons. She sat up, caught sight of the petrified vole as it scampered away, its tail disappearing through a crack in the red bricks. She rubbed her forehead; her brain felt fuzzy.

‘Sam are you OK?'

‘Yes I'm fine. So tomorrow night,' she said. ‘We go to the research lab, talk to Vince the security guard. Find out what he knows about Luke.'

He sighed, as if he thought she was a trying child.

‘You know, I really think it's better to wait for your mate Harry to sort something out, let him deal with Crawford and find out what's been going on with this file. Stay below the radar. Look what these guys did to Patrick. Dave. They are obviously psychos.'

‘I thought you were a hunter,' she said. Testing him.

He poked the fire with a stick. ‘I am.'

‘Well, shouldn't we turn the hunt around? Go after them?'

‘You're not even certain who “them” is.'

She didn't like the way he said that; the implication he knew something she didn't, but he wasn't going to tell her what it was. It drove her mad, frightened her.

‘I'm going for a walk.'

‘Where?'

None of his bloody business.

‘Around the meadow.'

‘Be careful, you don't want anybody to see you. If you hear a car or a bike, stay still, don't move until they've gone. Blend in. Make your body look like part of the landscape.'

She raised her hands above her head, palms together, balanced on one leg; the yoga pose. ‘I'm a tree.'

‘It's not a joke. You always joke at the wrong moments.'

‘You'd better extinguish the fire,' she said. ‘If anybody saw the smoke, it would be a giveaway.'

She made her way through the nettles; it was a relief to be on her own, in the fresh air. The grass squelched beneath her feet. The thunderclouds hanging over the Weald were edging closer, cut by blue flashes that strobe-lit the field. She walked north to the willow-lined ditch, the road beyond. The grey heron was night-fishing in the drain, waiting for a toad to make a false move. She walked along the edge of the channel until she came to a dip in the bank, slithered down the mud, and stood at the water's edge. Bulrushes towered above her head. Marsh frogs croaked. A lightning flash revealed the water boatmen paddling the pondweed. She dipped her index finger, swirled and licked the brackish water. A fat drop of rain hit the stream, dimpled the surface.

She scrambled back up the bank, heard a rumble; the rush of storm air barrelling down the ridge of the Weald. She could see it advancing – tugging at willows and brambles, blasting across the marshes. The gust hit the northern boundary of the meadow. The blackthorns and willows flapped, a mini tornado scudded across her path, a swirl of white elderflower and pink dog rose petals whisked around in the gusts, filling the air with an ominous sweetness. Behind the wind came the rain. Time to run. She started to trot, found herself caught in the headlights of a car crawling along the lane, beams illuminating the weeping willows, long shadows arcing. She squinted. Was the car black? Blue? Something inside danced, could it be Luke, searching for her? She changed direction, ran back to the field's border, hid herself behind a trunk, drooping withies brushing her face. The car decelerated, crept past her hiding place. Without thinking, she darted across the gap between her trunk and the next in line so she could get a better view. The vehicle braked, as if the driver had seen her movement in his rearview mirror. The possibility brought her to her senses. What was she doing? Of course it wasn't Luke – the car was a posh saloon not a hatchback. A Rover. At least it wasn't an Audi. The driver pulled on to the verge. For a moment she stood, paralysed, and then she dropped, slid from squatting to lying flat on the saturated ground, hardly daring to breathe, the rain pounding her back. She heard Sonny's voice in her head – blend in with the landscape. She pressed her body into the grass; she was a log, a willow, a bitter withy, hollow, dead. She heard the car door open, a pause, a cough, the faint patter of a man pissing at the side of the road, almost drowned out by the rain. Another door opened, then a voice. She recognized it instantly.