That Summer He Died (23 page)

James thought for a second. ‘I’ll answer with a question,’ he said.

‘Shoot.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Twenty-nine.’

‘Well, that might explain why you recognise me. I spent some time down here when I was eighteen. Haven’t been back since.’

Forster nodded slowly, doing the maths. ‘The year the killer came. No wonder you know so much. How long were you down here?’

‘The whole summer. I was staying with my uncle.’ Forster waited for him to expand on this. ‘Alan L’Anson,’ James said.

For the first time, Forster looked surprised. ‘Jesus, you really were in the thick of it.’ His expression softened. ‘And I’m sorry, by the way. About your uncle. Not nice. I wrote his obituary. I can give you a copy, if you want.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I didn’t see you at the funeral.’

‘You went?’

‘Yes. The only bastard at the paper who bothered, though. His profile round here kind of faded once he stopped writing and coming into town.’

‘I take it the funeral was quiet, then.’

‘As the. . .’ Forster winced.

‘Grave,’ James said, filling in the blank.

‘Sorry.’

‘It’s OK. At least you went. I was abroad,’ he excused himself. ‘I didn’t hear till it was too late.’

‘I used to like him. And his books.’ Forster nodded, then frowned. ‘Hang on a minute, L’Anson’s nephew. . . You were there when they found Jack Dawes’s body, weren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Fuck me.’ Forster scratched at his jaw, shot James a look of pity. ‘You and Alex Howley and Dan Thompson.’ His expression saddened. ‘Poor Dan. Finds that body, and ten years on the killer finds him. Did you stay in touch with him?’

‘No. We kind of fell out.’

‘Yeah, well, don’t feel bad about it; you weren’t the only one. Junked out big time the last couple of years. Still, he didn’t deserve to die like that.’ Forster stared away across the room briefly. ‘I was at school with him. Couple of years above. Same year as his sister Suzie. You know her?’

‘Once. She used to be a friend.’

‘Lovely girl. Taken his death pretty bad.’ Forster’s eyes narrowed. ‘What about Howley? Do you still know him?’

‘No,’ James said, ‘I lost touch with him too. Not interested in reacquainting myself with him either, if you know what I mean.’

‘I don’t blame you. A right nasty piece of work. If anyone should have got it, it should have been Howley. I tell you, that’s one murder I wouldn’t mind writing up.’

‘What’s he doing now?’

Forster whistled, sat back in his chair and relaxed. ‘What isn’t he doing is probably a better question. Officially, right, he runs a club down on South Beach. Called Current. Used to be called Dixie’s, owned by the brother of our local cop Cal Murphy. Remember him? A right shit-hole it was. Alex bought him out a couple of years ago, did it up. And, officially, that’s where he gets his money from.’

‘And unofficially?’

‘That’s what I’d like to know. Or, rather, that’s what I’d like to prove. Fast car. Big house. Respectable clothes. Current’s popular, all right, because of the names Howley gets down here to play. But there’s no way the gate money can cover paying for those acts or the lifestyle he leads, so he must be getting funds from somewhere else. The place is a front. It’s obvious. Trouble is,’ Forster said, ‘nothing sticks to him. The proverbial “Teflon Man”. Murphy tried to nail his arse for years and got nowhere.’

‘Why the past tense? Has he given up?’

‘Jesus, you haven’t heard, have you?’ Forster said. ‘No reason why you should have, though, I suppose,’ he reflected. ‘Didn’t make the nationals or anything.’

James stared at him blankly.

‘Murphy disappeared,’ Forster said. ‘Vanished. Three years ago.’

‘What do you mean, disappeared?’

‘Just what I say. He left the station one night to walk home, and that was the last anyone saw of him. Everyone thought it was the killer again, to begin with. There were search parties and everything, but they never found him.’

James could barely believe what he was hearing. Murphy gone, just like that? That self-assured giant vanishing like one of Alex’s smoke rings in the wind, didn’t seem possible. He looked down at the table and noticed that his hand was shaking as it rested there.

‘What do you think happened?’ he finally managed to say.

‘Anything’s possible with a bastard like that.’ Forster considered with a nonchalant shrug. ‘Could have had a breakdown, done a bunk – anything. Down under Missing Persons now. And three years is a long time to stay missing. My guess is he’ll stay that way. Did you know him?’

‘Yes, we didn’t get on.’

‘Hardly surprising if you were hanging out with Howley. . .’

‘No.’

‘So there you go,’ Forster said. ‘Murphy vanished and Howley’s had it easy since.’ Forster growled then, actually growled. ‘I tell you, nothing would give me greater pleasure than getting that little prick locked up! Ever since he started running those cliff parties and that kid OD’d. . . He doesn’t give a shit about anyone but himself. But you were probably round here for that too, weren’t you? It must have been around the same time.’

‘I remember hearing about it,’ James said quickly, ‘but I wasn’t there.’

‘So which months was it you were here? Because––’

James cut him off from doing the maths this time. ‘So what’s to stop you from digging up some dirt on him yourself?’ he said, and swigged from his pint. The roof of his mouth had gone dry.

Forster smiled. ‘Because it’s a lot easier said than done,’ he said. ‘The people who work for him are loyal. Totally. Like fucking dogs. If I started snooping around, they’d be more likely to give me a smack in the mouth than some information. If you don’t believe me, try it yourself.’

‘Or not.’

‘Very wise. Anyway,’ Forster said, ‘all of this means that, unless someone gives me a lead, I’m pretty stuck on where to start.’ He gazed down at his glass, shook his head, then looked back at James. ‘I’ve got to admit, I wasn’t planning on giving you much help, because. . . well, we’ve got a bit of a pact running down here, me and the powers that be. I write up the news for the
Gazette
, but I don’t sensationalise it. And I don’t give anything to hacks down from London. Nothing they don’t know already, anyhow. Screws with business otherwise, you see? Not something we can afford. Not good for any of us.’ He finished his drink. ‘But this is different, I suppose. You’re not going to go demonising the town, are you?’

‘No,’ James said, meaning it.

‘In that case, I’ll have another drink.’ Forster’s smile had returned. ‘And think yourself lucky: you’re probably the first journalist I’ve spoken to who might actually get to hear something for his money.’

James went to get the beers in.

‘Suspects,’ he prompted when he settled back in his seat. ‘Tell me about the suspects.’

Forster grimaced. ‘Well, James, the thing is, there aren’t any.’

‘There must be someone?’

‘I’m serious. The police have come up with. . .’ Forster made an ‘O’ with his finger and thumb ‘. . . zilch. They’ve had people in for questioning, of course. Like Will Tawnside back in the day. And there’ve been some others since, but they’ve drawn a blank.’

‘That’s insane,’ James said. ‘There’ve been three murders now: Jack Dawes and Kenneth Trader way back then, and now Dan. The police must have some idea.’ James stared into Forster’s eyes. ‘
You
must have an idea. I know what this place is like for rumours. People must be whispering someone’s name.’

Again that smile. ‘People are always going to whisper names, James. Especially now that everyone down here’s so bloody afraid.’

‘It’s that bad?’

‘Most of the parents here won’t let their kids out after dark. Most of them won’t go out themselves. They’ve all got names they whisper, faces they point the finger at. But it’s not the same as knowing. And knowing’s all you can publish. You know that as well as I do.’

‘Do you think it’s a local who’s doing it?’

Forster pulled a face, exasperated. ‘I can’t even be sure of that. I mean, look at the facts. Three murders. Dawes and Dan were locals, but Trader wasn’t. Dan and Alex got grilled by Murphy after Trader was murdered, because apparently they all knew each other, but they claimed not to have known he was in town that night. And there was no connection between Trader and Jack Dawes at all. Then there’s the time gap to consider,’ Forster went on. ‘Two killings close together back then. And now Dan winds up the same way, the poor bastard, nearly a decade later. All of which means the killer could be someone passing through. Or someone who’s been in prison in the years in between, or been abroad, or whatever. Could be some freak who’s set off by the position of the stars, for all I know.’ He traced a finger thoughtfully round the rim of his glass. ‘The only certainty, if you ask me, is that whoever’s responsible is a Grade A wacko. There’s no apparent motive connecting the murders. Not sex. Not money. Nothing.’ He drank from his glass and wiped his lips. ‘And the one certainty about wackos is they don’t stop till they’re caught.’ He eyes met James’s. ‘Or killed.’

After they’d finished their drinks, James walked back with him to the
Gazette
’s offices on the High Street and Forster photocopied the editions that had covered Trader’s and Dan’s deaths. He also gave James a copy of the edition with Alan’s obituary in it.

As they walked to the door, he told James to give him a call if he needed to run anything else past him, or any introductions. The two of them stood in the doorway, Forster holding the door open, James clutching the papers in his hand.

‘Thanks, Neville,’ he said. ‘Thanks for everything.’ He took out a business card from his wallet and handed it to the editor, commenting, ‘Next time you’re up in the Smoke, give me a call and we’ll go for another beer. My mobile’s on there, in case you think of anything else I might find useful.’

‘Must be weird for you,’ Forster said, ‘being back here again, having to sift through your own past.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘Bet your editor loves it, though – having a man on the inside.’

‘He doesn’t know I used to live here.’

A touch of surprise glinted in Forster’s eyes. ‘How come?’

‘I don’t know. When he gave me the job, I kind of freaked. Too many bad memories down here. And I knew what he’d want then: all the gory stuff. Me finding Dawes’s corpse. Sensational, you know. Personalised. Big bannerline over the article:
MY DEALINGS WITH DEATH
. Some crap like that.’

‘But it’s not going to be like that, right?’ Forster checked.

‘No, I just want the truth.’

‘That’s what we all want, James.’ Forster smiled. ‘It’s just getting to it that’s the problem. But then, I guess that’s what we’re paid for.’

*

Back at his hotel, James stared at the stubble left in the basin after the water had run out. He ripped some toilet paper off the roll, dabbed at a cut on his jaw, and stared into the mirror. He looked better. No doubt about that.

He turned at the sound of his mobile, went through to the bedroom and dug it out of his jacket.

‘James speaking.’

‘Hi, babe.’

‘Lucy! Jesus, it’s good to hear your voice.’ He meant it.

‘Hey, come on,’ she said with a laugh. ‘It’s only been two days.’

‘Yeah, but this place, I tell you, it feels like the end of the earth.’

‘Well, it’s not. And, anyway, we’re down tomorrow. David and Becky have got it all cleared with work, so we’re driving down together. Should reach you around lunch.’

James pulled back the curtain, gazed across the grey sea.

‘Make sure you bring loads of jumpers. It’s freezing.’

‘I’m so excited! You done any groundwork for me yet?’

‘What?’

‘Locations. For the article photos. The way I see it, the sooner we can get that out of the way, the sooner we can have some fun. How’s the piece going? You finished it yet?’

James looked across at his laptop on the desk. He’d put a few hours in since getting back from meeting Forster. ‘No. About halfway, though.’

‘Well, hurry up. . . there’s so much I want to do. Cliffside walks. Fishing. Everything. I want to do Grancombe.’

He laughed, her enthusiasm hooking him. ‘Well, don’t get too excited. It’s only a small town.’

‘And the hotel? What’s it like?’

‘Nothing special,’ he said. ‘Quiet. I think I’m the only guest here. I’ve booked rooms for David and Becky.’

‘What about us?’ she asked. ‘You got a double bed?’

‘Sure.’

‘Well, keep one half free for me.’

‘Hah. I will.’

She blew him a kiss, then asked, ‘What are you doing tonight?’

‘I’ll take your advice, see if I can finish the article off.’

‘Right answer.’ He heard someone calling her name in the background. ‘Gotta dash. Jane’s just called round. Cinema. You take care, all right? And keep your hands off the local girls,’ she joked. ‘You’re mine and don’t you forget it.’

‘I won’t.’ he said.

He cut her off and sat down at the small desk and switched on his laptop.

He typed:

Despite the fact that at this juncture there was no firm evidence of foul play, many of the townspeople joined in the search party for Jack Dawes. ‘He was a popular man,’ a local landlord said. ‘And an artist as well. A tourist attraction in his own right. We were worried, felt we should do our bit to help find out what had happened to him. We just wanted to know he was OK.’

The search party, under the guidance of the town’s police, convened at a cafe on South Beach near dawn and set out shortly afterwards to search the surrounding countryside.

Three local teenagers, Alex Howley, Tim Sunday and Daniel Thompson, set out to scour the woods lying between Dawes’s property and the cliffs above South Beach. It was only a matter of hours before they found what they were looking for.

Dawes’s mutilated body had been dumped in the middle of the woods, some seven hundred yards back from the cliff. Its hands were missing, nothing of them left but bloody stumps. One of the teenagers, Daniel Thompson, was severely traumatised by the incident. He was treated for shock at the local hospital, but refused to speak to journalists at the time or later.