Even though the commission had to be shipped to the client by the end of the week and he still had several inches of mother-of-pearl blossom and branches to inlay and lacquer, Pete found himself locking up the workshop at two in the afternoon and wandering back to the barge. He was completely unable to concentrate after Meredith had rung him to tell him the results of the post-mortems, and that she’d come clean to the police about her and Ralph. He wondered how she was getting on at the station. They’d want to speak to him at some point too, he supposed. Would he be in trouble as well? He found that he didn’t really care, not as long as he and Meredith were safe. The police would protect them … wouldn’t they?
He stopped at the shop to buy a six-pack of beers from the local microbrewery, and the bottles chattered glassily in their cardboard compartments, banging against his leg as he walked home through the village, taking the shortcut through the back lanes to the marina. There had been heavy rainfall the night before and the lanes smelled of summer, of blooming roses and turned earth, dandelion and fresh spears of grass, a scent that usually made the sap of his spirits rise with joy – but today he took no pleasure from it. This feeling of being constantly close to tears was a new and unfamiliar one. He reached the steps and looked down at Andrea’s boat, still cordoned off with police tape. The sight made him want to howl.
He descended the steps and climbed heavily aboard Bruton Bee, which rocked to accommodate his weight. The river was swollen and angry after the rain, streaming under him, its watery scowl personifying his mood.
He put the beers down on the deck to fiddle with the new and very stiff padlock and hasp he’d attached to the door a few days ago. The previous rusty little hasp had been half hanging off and any intruder wishing to come aboard could have dispensed with it in one sharp twist. Since the post-mortem results, he didn’t want to be next. There were two shiny new bolts affixed to the inside, too.
He had more bolts still in their packaging, intended for Meredith’s front and back doors. He was far more worried about her than himself – although at least that cop was with her for a few days. That knowledge did help. It looked very much like someone was trying to get at Meredith – or maybe even frame her for the two murders. Who, and why now? His thoughts drifted back to the attack on her all those years ago. It was a subject he tried to avoid in the already-overcrowded chambers of his mind. There was no space for it; no benefit to imagining the horrors she had endured in that Luton van.
However, he had no choice. The guy had never been caught.
The stiff padlock refused to allow the key to turn, and Pete kicked at the door in frustration and rage. ‘Open, you bastard,’ he growled at it.
Still, at least its solid stiffness meant he’d be safe. If he couldn’t get in, nobody else could already be in there, lying in wait for him.
He wiggled the key until the lock clicked open, thinking again that he would insist Meredith came to stay for the foreseeable. That policewoman couldn’t be there for long, surely – didn’t she have a home of her own to go to? And besides, it was his job to protect his sister, not some teenage cop. He had no idea of Gemma’s age; late twenties, presumably, but with the braces she looked about thirteen. The pair of them would be no match for a determined assailant.
Assassin.
Pete decided to go back to ‘assailant’. It was a less terrifying word.
He took the bag of beers and the padlock inside, bolting the door shut behind him, and had uncapped the first bottle on the edge of the kitchen counter before he’d even kicked off his trainers and dropped his backpack to the floor.
It tasted like nectar, its cold hoppy fizz immediately calming his nerves. He chugged the first and immediately started on the second. Flopping onto the sofa and putting his socked feet on the coffee table, he pressed Meredith’s name in his phone’s favourite contacts list – which, he noticed, only contained her number and Andrea’s; he pushed down the stab of pain that this observation induced.
‘Hi, Mez, are you OK?’ he said as soon as she answered.
‘Hi, Pete. Yup. Back from the police station. They’re not pressing charges, thank God. I just got a telling-off. I decided to go into work for a few hours. Gemma’s still with me.’
‘Anybody … unusual in the shop?’
‘Nope. I was dreading paparazzi and shit, but nothing out of the ordinary. What about you? Are you at the workshop?’
He took another gulp of the beer. ‘Nah. Couldn’t concentrate. Locked up and came home. I’m going to drink a six-pack, watch shit TV and get an early night. How long is Gemma going to be with you?’
‘A day or two more, she thinks. Then her boss will make her go back.’
‘I think you should come and stay with me after that.’
He heard her sigh. ‘Pete, thanks, but I don’t want to. I’m safe in the cottage, I’m sure. I mean, I’ve got my own twenty-four/seven security; how many people have that in their house?’
Pete snorted. ‘What, that ancient tubby guy we met – the one who wheezes when he walks? I’m not sure that he counts as a crack security team. If someone came to your door, and he – what’s his name?’
‘There’s two main ones. That was Leonard, on nights. George is the daytime one.’
‘Leonard, then. He could be miles away in the house if something happened in your cottage! I’ve bought you a couple more bolts, I’ll come and put them on tomorrow.’
‘Oh Pete. Thanks. But please stop worrying; there’s really no point. When Gemma goes, I’ll come and stay for a few days if it makes you feel better, but I can’t live on your boat. It’s far too small, and we’d drive each other crazy. Anyway listen, I have to go, a coach party’s just come in.’
Pete heard an increased humming in the background, the chatter of voices in an unfamiliar language. ‘OK, sis. Love you. I’ll call you later.’
‘OK. Love you too.’
By 9.00 p.m. there were six empty beer bottles lined neatly up on the rug next to the coffee table. Pete couldn’t be bothered to move them into the recycling box, but even in his inebriated state, didn’t like the sight of them scattered haphazardly. He’d only got up to pee and make himself a toasted sandwich. He was now lying back on the sofa, contemplating the bottle of Glenfiddich on a shelf in the galley.
When he closed his eyes he saw the empty spaces where the shiny mother-of-pearl trees were meant to go on the unfinished chest. They were nagging at him – but not enough to make him want to sober up and get back to work. The trees could wait. Drinking and doing nothing couldn’t.
Darkness seemed to have fallen fast on the river, unless he’d nodded off for a while. He must have done, because his heart was hammering, and he recalled a dream in which he’d seen Meredith darting between creamy-white branches, vanishing into the velvety blackness, leaving just a pearlescent glimmer behind her.
But next time he opened his eyes, all his possessions could only be seen in silhouette, crowding him silently. He pulled out his phone and checked the time – just after 10.00 p.m. He thought about calling Meredith again, but then felt overcome with sleepiness and texted her instead:
Going to bed now. Knackered and full of beer. Talk in the morning. Love ya.
Leaving the bottles where they were, he did at least get up and check that both bolts were firmly shot across before filling a pint glass with water and staggering into bed, via a final visit to the loo to clean his teeth and have a last pee. He was asleep within minutes of tearing off his clothes and flopping down on the mattress.
A knocking sound awoke him some hours later; like knuckles on glass, persistent and loud. It was still pitch-dark, but something felt wrong; something more than just his dry mouth and slight biliousness. Who the hell was rapping on his window? The boat was rocking, far more than the gentle bobbing it made when moored. He sat up, ignoring the dizziness, and pulled back the curtain covering the porthole in his berth. Usually, his view would have been of the marina’s stone walls, faintly orange-tinted from the light thrown by the street lamp in the car park above.
But there was no light visible. Shapes of trees loomed in monochrome, and as Pete’s hearing sharpened into wakefulness, he heard the slap of water against Bruton Bee’s sides. The moon came out from behind a cloud and suddenly light refracted off the water; not the enclosed sides of the marina, but open water.
He was drifting, mid-river. Shit!
At first he couldn’t think how this could be. There was a strong offshore wind blowing an ebb tide that night, but that couldn’t have disturbed the lines, unless they’d been tampered with. The lines had been secure when he’d boarded that afternoon – he always checked them, bow and stern, ever since some teenagers had untied him a couple of years ago. Fortunately he’d spotted them then, snickering and riding away on their bikes, another dare completed, and he’d started the engine, swearing loudly as he steered Bruton Bee back to her mooring.
The bedside clock’s red digital letters showed it was 3.30 a.m. Unlikely to be kids, then. But what had that knocking sound been?
Pete pulled on the shorts and T-shirt he’d only discarded a few hours before and stuck his feet into flip-flops, before racing the length of the boat back towards the engine room, to see if he could tell how far he’d drifted and if the ropes had been cut or untied. He was so familiar with the riverbank scenery that if it was anywhere less than a few miles, he’d probably be able to tell where he was from the shapes of the trees and the curve of the moonlit path. He shot back the two bolts on the door to the deck, focussing only on grabbing the tiller and getting his bearings.
A blast of cool night river-weed-scented air blew into his face as he pushed open the door, the moonlight showing him the unwelcome sight that he really was drifting mid-river, carried fast on the ebb tide, apparently several miles from the marina.
Swearing volubly, he was just clambering out when a hand clamped something over his nose and mouth, something that smelled weirdly like a vodka cocktail, only synthetic and super sickly, as if shovelfuls of sweetener had been added to the alcohol.
Out of the blue, into the black.
He didn’t see it coming at all, nor whose hand it was. His knees buckled and he stumbled backwards, down the two steps into the saloon. The smash of his skull as it bounced off the barge’s worn parquet floor was the last thing he remembered.