The Trawlerman Page 17

  Here he was now, inside, sitting at the kitchen table, eating a giant bowl of brown vegan bean stew that Zoë had made. The hand he held his spoon with was still covered in smudges of oil, black in the cracks of his skin.

  ‘Somebody don’t like you,’ he said, mouth full.

  ‘Just the one?’ said Zoë.

  Alex was not sure what she felt about Curly being in her house right now, but Zoë must have invited him in when he had arrived towing her dead car. ‘What do you mean?’

  Curly wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Someone gone and put a gallon of water into your petrol tank. That’s why you broke down.’

  ‘Deliberately?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know how else it would have got in there.’

  Alex frowned. ‘When? Could they have put it in a few days ago?’

  Curly pushed his spoon slowly around the bowl. ‘Nah. Water’s heavier than petrol. Goes straight to the fuel line. You’d have noticed it pretty quick.’

  ‘So someone would have done it in the car park where I left my car?’

  ‘Most likely.’

  ‘I’ve got a question for you . . . You told me that Frank was on The Hopeful when he fell off the back.’

  Curly scowled. ‘Not this again.’

  ‘Mum,’ wailed Zoë. ‘I thought you were done with all that.’

  ‘Listen to your daughter, Alex.’ Curly tipped the bowl and scooped up the last mouthful of stew. He took a glass of water and drained it, then stood up.

  ‘Could he have survived? You a hundred per cent sure he’s dead?’

  Curly just looked at her evenly and said, ‘You’ll want a new engine. Better still a new car. A total fresh start. That one is pretty much only good for scrap now. Want me to tow it?’

  ‘Jesus. We have no car?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘We don’t need a car, Mum.’

  Alex looked at her daughter like she was mad. ‘We live out here on the edge of the world. How am I supposed to get to work every day?’

  Zoë shrugged. ‘We’re all going to have to give up cars soon anyway.’

  ‘How much do I owe you?’

  Curly shook his head. ‘You’re OK, Alex. You’re a friend.’

  ‘Nope,’ she said. ‘Definitely not.’ Alex picked up her bag and started digging around trying to find her wallet. She pulled out ten-pound notes and started counting them out.

  ‘No need for that, Alex,’ said Curly. ‘Honest to God. We look after each other, round here.’

  ‘I’m still a police officer, Curly. In case you hadn’t noticed.’

  Curly looked a little hurt but didn’t stop her adding cash. When the pile reached £70 he said, ‘That’ll do it,’ folded the notes in two and put them into the back pocket of his oily jeans.

  When he’d gone, and Zoë had disappeared upstairs, she made herself a coffee, though the counsellor had suggested she avoid them – especially in the evenings.

  Zoë had left the cooker in a mess. The dirt had burned on. It was going to take an age to clean that.

  In the morning, she had felt superhuman. Now she took her coffee to the living room and sat down alone, drained and miserable. The room was stuffy and hot. She noticed dust on the picture frames. In her bag was a note from a man who had been dead for seven years. Bill South was still missing, and maybe he had gone for ever. Jill was working so hard, she barely saw her any more. A man had killed his wife in horrible circumstances, and then murdered himself, because he had been cheated. An awfully traumatised man had been arrested, charged with a murder he had not committed. Though he had now been released, there would only have been the usual apology and nothing more. He would be back out there on his own.

  After a minute, she stood again, closed the curtains. The bright sunshine outside was too much; there was something malevolent about its brightness. The light seemed to press on her chest, like a weight. She sat back down on the couch and closed her eyes.

  Now they were closed, she was suddenly sure that if she opened them, she would find blood all around her, soaking into the fibres of the carpet, though in her rational mind she knew there was nothing there at all. And now there was a smell of earth in the room.

  ‘Mum?’ Zoë’s voice was suddenly loud right next to her. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I don’t think I am,’ she said, eyes still shut. ‘I think I’m having what’s called a panic attack.’

  Thirty-four

  There was a large bouquet of flowers lying on the kitchen work surface. Zoë must have been at home when they had been delivered, but she had not thought to put them in water because she didn’t really approve of cut flowers.

  There was a note: Sorry to hear you’re not well. Get well soon. It was signed, 2 Men with beards, one without.

  Zoë had called a doctor, and had also called Jill; Jill had called DI McAdam. On Tuesday McAdam had signed her off light duties for another week. If she wasn’t mad already, she would be soon.

  The week dragged. Instead of going to the Visitor Centre to do volunteer work, Zoë hung around the house, offering cups of herb tea at regular intervals.

  ‘You don’t have to watch me,’ said Alex. ‘I’m not going to do anything stupid.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘I hate being looked after,’ she said.

  ‘Obviously I have figured that out, too.’

  On the Wednesday, after she’d divided the bouquet into two bunches, Alex put one on the living-room mantelpiece, and wrapped the second in polythene.

  ‘Where are you going with them?’ Zoë asked, when she was halfway out of the door.

  Alex knocked on the door of Bill’s house, and when no one answered, she let herself in with the spare key. The house was tidy, as it always was. He was a neat man. The bed was made and unslept in. She checked the fridge for anything that might have gone off, but it was empty. Arranging the flowers in a glass jug, she put them on the table by the back window and sat on one of the chairs for a while, looking out at the view, where she knew he often sat.

  ‘We could go for a bike ride together or something?’ Zoë suggested.

  That afternoon they rode together out through the marshes and had hummus sandwiches in a field on the banks of Puddledock Sewer, by St Thomas à Becket Church. Alex pointed to a red car that had pulled up on the narrow road, a couple of hundred metres away. ‘Do you recognise that car?’

  ‘Why? Should I?’

  ‘I thought I’d seen it before somewhere.’

  The driver seemed to be looking out of the window towards them, but when Alex stood, the driver moved on, driving slowly at first, but then, passing the farmhouse where the church key was kept, it roared loudly up the road.

  ‘What, Mum?’

  Alex sat down again.

  The August days seemed too long and shapeless. Jill called every day, but Alex could tell she was distracted, weighed down by work that was too involved and complex to explain to someone who wasn’t part of it any more. The local free newspaper had a headline on page 5: Concerns Over Mentally Ill Ex-Soldier. Residents in Littlestone had complained about the homeless man who had been spotted living rough in the area. Before the arrest he had been anonymous. People knew who Bob Glass was now. He was an ex-murder suspect.

  On Thursday Alex began trawling the internet, looking for another car to replace her Yaris. ‘I’m feeling much better, honestly, love,’ she told her daughter.

  ‘Is it OK if I go out? I’ll only be a couple of hours?’

  ‘Of course.’ Alex kissed her. ‘Where you going?’

  Zoë hesitated a second before she said, ‘Nowhere special.’ Alex watched her cycling away, tatty backpack on her shoulders. As she watched, the red Post Office van approached in the opposite direction. It parked at the end of the row of houses. Alex emerged from her front door in time to see a woman
in a pale-blue top and shorts walking towards her carrying a single large brown envelope. ‘Saves me trying to push it through your letter box,’ the postwoman said.

  Inside, she opened it. A bundle of photocopied pages with a single handwritten one on top: Our secret. PS hope you’re feeling better. It was signed, Colin.

  On the Friday Zoë said, ‘What if I was to go to the Wildlife Centre on Saturday? I’d be there all day.’

  ‘Great,’ said Alex. ‘You’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you?’ It had been excruciating watching her hanging around the house all week to keep an eye on her. Her daughter was like a caged bird.

  Zoë was already gone when Alex woke on Saturday morning. There was a note on the fridge: Call me if you need ANYTHING!!! Z x.

  Terry Neill texted at around midday after she’d showered, when she was out strolling along the high tide line:

  What about dinner tonight?

  She sat down on the beach and called him back. ‘I’m sorry, Terry,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I’m really up for any of this.’

  It was curious how disappointed he sounded. ‘No, no. I understand.’

  They stayed on the phone talking for a while. He asked if anything had set her back. She told him about her car, and the panic attack on Monday. ‘I thought I was better than I was. It’s kind of dawning on me . . .’

  ‘The cracks run deep sometimes,’ he said. ‘But you’re doing the right thing. You have to stick with it.’

  ‘And how are you doing?’ she asked, when she realised uncomfortably they had spent minutes just talking about her.

  She could hear a sigh in his voice when he said, ‘Now they’re saying they think that Ayman killed Mary. Is that right?’

  ‘That must be hard to hear.’

  ‘It is true, then?’

  ‘I don’t think we’ll ever know for sure . . . but it’s likely. He seems to have planned it all.’

  ‘He was a very methodical man. I don’t know how to feel about that. I thought he was a good person. I can’t imagine what was going through his head. I feel it’s my fault. I feel I let him down very badly.’

  She turned towards the land. When you were close to the waterline, the chalets and shacks were all hidden behind the rise of ochre stones. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I let people down too.’

  ‘Look. I’m not your therapist, but I think we’re both pretty low. You shouldn’t be home, brooding on things. This isn’t just a way of trying to persuade you to come out for a meal, but you should find something outside yourself. The offer still stands, though I totally understand if you just want to stay home and watch box sets.’

  So, walking back up the beach, along the path of one of the old crooked rail tracks that fishermen had once used to haul their boats on, rusted now, turning the stones a darker brown, she called Zoë to say she would be out tonight. The call went to voicemail. She left a couple of messages, but by the time she’d reached the road, Zoë hadn’t answered, so she tried the Wildlife Trust centre instead. A woman was in the office, pecking at the keyboard of a computer. ‘No, there are no volunteers in today.’

  ‘Sorry? Are you sure? You must be wrong. She definitely said she was coming over there.’

  ‘I know Zoë,’ the woman said. ‘The very serious one? No, she’s definitely not here today.’

  Anxious now, she texted Zoë again:

  Where are you, love? Called the WT. You’re not there. Are you OK?

  From where she stood now on the curve of the beach, only the masts of boats were visible, triangles of sail moving parallel to the shore. She lay down on the shingle by the Snack Shack, concentrating on slow breaths as her counsellor had told her to; in through the nose, out through the mouth.

  Sat at a table, having lunch with her family, a four-year-old said loudly, ‘Is that lady sleeping?’

  When her phone finally rang, she sat up and grabbed it. ‘Sorry. I got the day wrong,’ Zoë was saying, ‘I’m not at the Wildlife Trust.’

  ‘So where are you?’

  ‘I got the bus into Folkestone instead. I’m fine, Mum. Sorry. Were you worried?’

  Alex exhaled. ‘You went all the way to the Visitor Centre, discovered it wasn’t a volunteer day, then went on to Folkestone?’

  ‘Yeah, Mum. I know. You’re not the only crazy one in the house. Sorry. Bad joke.’

  When Alex told her about the meal, Zoë said incredulously, ‘Is that like a date?’

  ‘No. He’s just a friend.’

  ‘It sounds like a date.’

  ‘He’s just a nice man and he’s feeling a bit low too.’

  ‘You should go. You should definitely go, Mum.’

  ‘But I’ll be out. Will you be OK?’

  ‘Course I bloody will, Mum. I’ll stay over with Stella and Tina. They’ll be fine about it.’

  ‘Will they?’

  Alex stood and went to the hut that sold fish and looked at the rows of lobsters lined up on the table. She texted Terry:

  I’ll bring fish.

  ‘Two plaice,’ she said to the rosy-cheeked boy behind the counter in the little hut. Then she had an afterthought. ‘And a mackerel. Can you wrap it separately?’

  Thirty-five

  Instead of cycling straight to Greatstone, Alex took the long way round, via the Younises’ house. The windows looked dusty. The grass had grown unruly since she was last here; the petals on the rose bushes had browned and the beds were full of weeds. She locked the bike to the gate, then fought her way into the copse.

  In the evening light, the footpath Georgia Coaker had talked about was visible; young plants had been trampled. It had been recently used.

  The summer heat hung heavily. Small black bugs filled the air. The shaded earth seemed to give off a thicker smell. Someone had tugged down the barbed wire of the fence at the north side of the wooden brake to make crossing easier. She stepped over it and into a hay field.

  The tent was still there, as Georgia had described it, lurking under the low trees about a hundred metres away.

  There were sheep. Instead of scattering at her approach, they just stood staring at her. Maybe they had become used to humans, or maybe they were just too hot to run.

  The smell of an old fire gave him away as she approached. She was right. He was still living here; he must have returned here last week. ‘Mr Glass? Is that you?’

  The site was tidy, as she’d expect from a military man, whatever his mental state. There was a small wooden cross driven into the ground by the front end of the tent. She could tell that the tent’s flap was open, but it was pitched with the entrance up towards the hedge, so she couldn’t see inside.

  She lowered her voice; she spoke as softly as she could. ‘Hello? I don’t want to disturb you. Please don’t be afraid. My name is Alexandra Cupidi. I want to apologise to you.’

  There was no reaction from inside the khaki canvas.

  ‘Mr Glass. Are you in there?’

  She was sure he was. It was a small tent. When she stepped closer, seeing the far side of the canvas for the first time, there was a tell-tale bulge in the cloth.

  He was lying still, hoping she would go away. He was not used to people. He didn’t like or trust them. But she heard a small rustling from inside – as if he were searching for a stick or a knife, she thought.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ She kept her voice low; almost a whisper. There was just canvas and air between them. ‘I mean you no harm, I promise. I just want to say that I’m sorry. I feel bad that you were arrested for the murder of Ayman Younis. I think that was my fault. If I hadn’t come across you that night and given a description, you would never have been a suspect. I knew it wasn’t you, though, all along. I tried to tell them.’

  She waited and listened. Inside the tent she heard him turn. Sure that she had his attention now, she said, ‘You don’t have to say anything.’

/>   The hum of summer reasserted itself in the air around them.

  ‘It’s just that I think I understand a tiny amount of what you’ve been through,’ she said. ‘I’ve been diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder myself. Some stuff I’ve been through. Obviously nothing like . . .’

  The evening bird song was loud. She never had the patience to learn which bird was which. Zoë had told her which the one that sounded like a squeaky bicycle pump was, the one that said ‘A-little-bit-of-bread-and-no-cheese’, but never paid enough attention at the right time.

  ‘You were in Iraq and Afghanistan. I saw your records. I know I haven’t been through the half of it compared to you, but sometimes I think I’ve been going mad with it – making bad decisions, pushing the people away from me.’

  She thought she could hear Bob Glass breathing now as he listened; a low, nervous scraping sound. So she continued: ‘I’m lucky. It must be very hard if you’re alone. This sense of the past always being alive in the present – that’s what it’s like, isn’t it? You carry it all with you. And feeling that something just as terrible is always about to happen again.’

  He had not moved or shouted back at her.

  ‘Sorry. I know you don’t want to talk. I know you just want to be on your own. I just wanted to say this: if you ever need any help, I’d like to try and make it up to you.’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘One thing, though. I would like to ask you a question. You don’t have to say anything at all, but if it wasn’t you who argued with Ayman Younis a few nights before he killed himself, I wondered . . . do you know who it was?’

  No answer.

  ‘I figure that camping here, you’re not far from the house. You would have heard it.’

  Again, nothing at all from inside the tent.

  ‘OK. I’m leaving a card. It has a phone number on it. And I brought you some fresh fish. I don’t know if you like it, but it was caught this morning.’

  Still nothing.

  ‘I’m just coming closer so I can leave it in the cool, OK? Then I’ll leave you alone.’