The Drowners (11 page)

Dave narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. ‘Any signs of breathing fast?’ he asked. Alex nodded. ‘Attention span?’

Lauren laughed mockingly, ‘That lot got no attention span to start with,’ she said. Certainly true, Alex acknowledged silently, but come to think of it she had spent most of the morning trying to get them to focus on a routine clean-up of the local playground.

Dave hesitated before saying, ‘Could be “whiz” – amphetamines – used to be known as ‘uppers’ sometimes. There’s never been much of a problem until recently but we’ve been getting reports of groups running round, acting a bit crazy, yelling and just keeping on half the night. One of the local doctors reported a probable overdose last week too. Lad of sixteen. Took some pills his mates gave him. He had a heart attack.’

‘That’s awful,’ said Lauren.

‘It’s unusual,’ said Dave. ‘He had a heart problem no-one knew about and the damn things sent his heart rate up too high. Still, it’s dangerous stuff and a class B drug so this is a serious matter.’

‘Reckon that’s how you did that then?’ asked Lauren nodded towards Alex’s arm.

Alex shook her head. ‘That was me being stupid,’ she said. ‘They were larking around and I just stepped in between a couple of them. It was a daft thing to do and my own fault. I should know better by now.’

Dave gave her a hard look. ‘Maybe, but that’s still
technically
assault if not GBH and if they were under the influence that makes it worse.’

‘No, really, it was an accident,’ Alex insisted. ‘We’re
dealing
with it at probation. It’s fine.’

‘Do you have any evidence they were on something?’ he pressed.

‘Just a suspicion,’ said Alex firmly.

Reluctantly, Dave let the matter go and he and Lauren slipped out into the night where the clouds were gathering and a mean little wind was getting up. Alex gave a shiver as she closed the front door against the cold and checked the curtains at the front window for the third time, just in case they had moved in the draught. She knew it was bordering on obsessive behaviour but she didn’t care.

Back in the living room, Sue and Hector were eyeing one another warily. Alex flopped back into her chair and sighed heavily as she contemplated her older brother.

‘Well done Hector. Thanks for that. So, to what do we owe the pleasure of your company?’

Hector shifted on the couch, still dabbing at his
wine-stained
trousers as he avoided his sister’s eyes. ‘Oh, you know, down here on a bit of business and thought I’d drop in.’ It was a remarkably unconvincing performance.

‘Seriously Hector – why are you here?’

Her brother cleared his throat and stared into the fire for a moment. ‘A couple of things actually. We were wondering if you were coming home for Christmas. Really hoping you were – maybe you could talk some sense into Mater over this animal protest thing. Dad doesn’t know what to do and she won’t listen to me or Archie.’

Sue raised an eyebrow, her eyes twinkling as she struggled not to giggle. ‘Mater?’ she whispered. Alex frowned at her but Sue would not be silenced. ‘Hector
Hastings Norman
? Don’t you mean Hector Norman Hastings?’ she asked Hector sweetly.

‘No, no – family name,’ said Hector. ‘Dad was a classics scholar so we all ended up with Greek names but Mater insisted we have both surnames.’

‘So you are really Alex Hastings Norman?’ said Sue barely able to contain her amusement. ‘Wow that must have been great at school. What’s Alex short for – Alexandra? Is that Greek?’

‘Shut up, Hector,’ snapped Alex. ‘Don’t you dare say another bloody word!’ She reached for the bottle and poured herself another drink. ‘Oh, go and get yourself a glass from the kitchen. Through there,’ she waved in the direction of the off-shot. ‘I presume you don’t intend to drive back home tonight?’

Hector got to his feet and shambled towards the door. ‘I rather hoped I could crash here overnight,’ he said. There was the sound of cupboards opening and closing as he rummaged through the contents.

‘On the left, second shelf,’ Alex called without moving. There was a clinking sound and he re-emerged clutching a large tumbler.

‘Very sensible,’ said Sue, pouring him a generous measure. ‘You get lots more in one of those. No – I’m only joking, sit down.’

Hector returned to the sofa, sipping his wine and looking rather sheepish. Alex waited for a moment and then said, ‘So, why do you need my help with mother?’

‘You know about all this nonsense over the lorries out at Brightlingsea?’ Hector said. Alex nodded, refraining from adding she didn’t necessarily see it as nonsense. ‘Well, she was sent a fine. All she had to do was pay it in the time limit and that would have been that. She’d made her views known, stood up for her principles or whatever she thought she was doing – but she won’t pay it. So we decided we would.’

Alex jerked her head up and stared at him. ‘Are you mad? You can’t do that – she’ll go crazy.’

Hector looked as if he were going to cry. ‘Well, yes, she did actually. She was absolutely furious when she found out. You remember that set of picture plates she had on the wall?’ Alex nodded. ‘Well, she pulled them all down and threw them at us. I don’t know what’s got in to her. She was like a woman
possessed. And then she said she was cancelling Christmas because she was sick of cooking and clearing up after us all and wanted some time to herself.’

‘Wow! When you say “us”, who exactly do you mean?’ asked Alex.

‘Oh, me and Pater. Archie too, though he didn’t think it was such a good idea even before the plate thing.’

‘No, really?’ murmured Sue, captivated by this unfolding domestic drama.

‘Well, I couldn’t get home even if I wanted to,’ said Alex, raising her broken wrist in its sling. ‘Personally I think you are all a load of idiots but I’ll call her if you like and see what she says.’

She reached for the phone but Hector coughed again and shook his head. ‘Well, that’s the thing,’ he said. ‘We don’t know where she is. She stormed out last week and no-one seems to know where she has gone.’

Outside the little terraced house, he watched as the copper and his weird little girlfriend left. He smiled with satisfaction as the curtains twitched under Alex’s fussing, but it was too cold to hang about. Pulling a knitted hat low over his face, he turned up his coat collar. The wind was getting up again and he needed to get under shelter before the threatening snow began to fall. Damn the festive season, he thought, as he tramped along the footpath by the river. He’d sussed out a nice little bolt-hole just last week, up at the holiday camp near Brean Sands. It was warm, it was furnished and there was a big communal kitchen, largely unattended for much of the day. He had been able to help himself, eating when he wanted, sheltering safe in his own space for the first time in several months and then suddenly the whole place seemed to spring into life. He had been lucky, though – if he’d been asleep then he’d have been caught, as the cleaners had rolled by and started opening up the chalets and making them ready for the expected Christmas visitors. Fortunately, he’d been out on one of his scavenging missions and returned, his arms
full of biscuits, a big block of cheese tucked under his arm, to see the door wide open and complaints from the two women inside audible from across the road. He’d slunk away, glad he had his coat and hat with him. That was all he’d been able to salvage, though that evening, after waiting in the bushes on the perimeter all day, he’d broken into one of the unfinished chalets and helped himself to a few bits and pieces.

Now he was back by the canal, bunking down in one of the abandoned pill boxes left over from the war. It was shelter but little more. He stuffed the gun slits with the blankets he’d purloined and hunted along the bank until he found some old doors left over from an abandoned fisherman’s hut. The hut itself was rotten, little more than a rickety roof balanced on walls that were falling to pieces. After he’d hauled the few solid bits back to block the doorway to the pill box he kicked and smashed the rest into kindling and used it to set a fire on the scarred concrete floor. The damp wood gave off a solid bank of acrid smoke and so little heat he finally stamped it out in disgust.

The next morning he woke early from his broken, cold sleep and set off down the towpath, ever wary of other walkers or the hated river wardens. He was almost down to Standards Lock before he saw some small sheds on a patch of semi-legal allotments off to his left. He hopped over the small ditches cut into the boggy land and examined the buildings. Several had strong padlocks on their doors and although they were likely to contain more valuable items he was aware of the handful of farm buildings within earshot and decided to try the older, more dilapidated ones first.

The first building was obviously abandoned, offering a couple of rusty trowels, a rake handle and a litter of crisp packets and empty cider bottles, evidence of a cheap and dirty night out for some local youths. The other was much more rewarding. The door creaked as he pulled it open and the air was musty, smelling of damp earth and the sharp tang of rusty metal, but inside, layered in cobwebs and covered with a blanket of dust, was a collection of items he craved. As he
rummaged through the hut he realized he would need several trips to carry everything he wanted – not such a good idea as, despite the air of neglect around him, there was always the danger someone might choose this exact day to look in on the shed. There was also the possibility he had been seen and after a moment’s regret he decided coming back was too risky. Reluctantly, he passed over a battered folding chair, a large toolbox and most of the pots and mugs. He made a pile of the chosen items – a mug, bowl, spoon and kitchen knife, a medium sized saucepan, some fish hooks and line he thrust into one pocket and an old penknife into another. He wrapped the whole lot in a worn but serviceable blanket and lifted the main prize – a paraffin stove which appeared to have some fuel in it. One last look around and he was gone, out of the door and across the allotments, still deserted in the weak, early morning light.

He made his way back to his temporary home without being seen and stashed his loot in the far corner. Sitting in the dim, cold space he considered his options. Painfully limited though they were, he needed to keep himself out of sight, fed and warm enough to stay alive for the next few weeks. Once the long Christmas holiday was over, he reasoned, he could return to the relative comfort of the holiday park up on the coast, waiting out the rest of the winter in a chalet at the far end where few ventured in the closed season. Until then he had to hang on to his purloined possessions, which involved keeping nosy walkers and adventurous children away from his pill box. Couldn’t trust anyone these days, he thought. Thieving bastards was everywhere.

Hector left the next morning, heading back up the motorway for a cosy weekend with his family, but it was not until that evening that Sue was able to confront Alex about the family revelations.

‘So – Hastings Norman?’ she said sweetly over the dinner table. ‘Is that double barrelled then?’

Alex stared at her. ‘I should have known you wouldn’t let it go,’ she grumbled. ‘No, it’s just my mother wanting to keep her family name so we got it too. Of course, the pay-off was the bloody awful names Dad inflicted on us.’

Sue leaned forward eagerly. ‘So go on – what is “Alex” short for – tell please.’

Alex pushed her plate aside, the meal half finished. She was too proud to let Sue cut her food up for her or even butter her toast but despite her best efforts couldn’t manage on her own. Once again she was thwarted by her own stubbornness …

‘If you ever tell anyone, anyone at all, I will hunt you down and personally beat you to death – understand?’

‘What, even Lauren?’ Sue asked innocently.

‘
Especially
Lauren,’ said Alex. ‘Okay, this was going to come out anyway with bloody Ricky Peddlar turning up, so I might as well tell you.’

This was another surprise for Sue but she knew better than to interrupt now Alex was in a talking mood.

‘I’ve got two brothers,’ said Alex. ‘Archie who’s the oldest, then Hector, then there’s me and finally a little sister. Dad lumbered us all with names from the
Iliad
– Archie is actually Agamemnon. He decided really early he could put up with people thinking he was Achilles – it’s a bit more butch, I think. I’m Cassandra and if you think that’s bad can you imagine what my little sister suffered at school? She got Clytemnestra. I leave it to your imagination, the nicknames
she
had to put up with. Hector got off pretty lightly.’

Sue waited but that seemed to be all Alex was going to tell her. ‘So where does Ricky Peddlar fit in to all this?’ she asked.

Alex twirled her empty beaker and stared at the table, a scowl on her face. ‘He was at university with me,’ she said finally. ‘I don’t know how the hell he got in because he’s thick as pig-shit but he turned up a year after I began. I can’t believe Garry appointed him – he’s the laziest, most spineless, odious little weasel I’ve ever come across. And he’s a racist, sexist, homophobic pig’.

‘Maybe that’s why Garry appointed him,’ said Sue. ‘In his eyes that’s an impressive list of qualities.’

Despite herself, Alex smiled.

‘One thing from last night though,’ said Sue. ‘You both seemed more worried about Christmas than your mother disappearing.’

‘She does that,’ said Alex getting up from the table. ‘When we were younger we’d come downstairs in the morning and Dad would be trying to make breakfast and shoving any old rubbish into our lunch boxes and we knew mother was off again. Often only overnight but a couple of times she was gone for more than a week.’

‘Where did she go?’ asked Sue. Alex shook her head as she gathered up her half-finished plate and headed for the kitchen.

‘No-one knows. We never asked – in fact we never
mentioned
it, not even between ourselves. I think we all wondered but no-one dared say anything in case it made matters worse.’

‘Pity. You might have an idea where she is now,’ said Sue, clearing the rest of the dishes and following Alex into the narrow kitchen. ‘Leave that. You can’t wash up or you’ll get your cast wet and you’re not drying up either. We’re already dangerously close to a “nil wine glass” situation.’

Alex pulled out a stool from under the worktop and perched herself by the bench. ‘Did your family act like that?’ she asked. ‘Only, I wondered all the time if we were the only ones. I used to look at other mothers and couldn’t imagine them just disappearing like that. Though when she was back home, my mother didn’t look like she’d disappear either.’

Sue scrubbed at the dirty pans, piling the clean dishes on to the draining board. ‘I think there are strange goings-on in every family,’ she said. ‘You never know what people will do under pressure and there’s nothing like a family to generate all sorts of emotions.’

They went back into the living room and settled in front of the fire. Sue never talked about her family either, Alex thought, sneaking a glance at her friend.

‘What about you,’ she said casually. Will you be going home for Christmas?’ Sue shook her head but said nothing.

‘Well, if we’re both going to be here I suppose we ought to brighten the place up a bit.’

Dr Higgins rarely worked on a weekend. It was one of the advantages of a rural appointment and one he appreciated greatly, especially in the summer when he was able to indulge his passion for rambling. The job was changing though. New tests were being developed, everything from more accurate chemicals for gunshot residue to this new idea that everyone’s unique genetic makeup could be read and used to identify them. That was a bit away still, much to his relief, but the whole business of forensics was becoming increasingly
complex and specialized. He was a brilliant man, highly trained and always willing to add to his knowledge through reading but he could feel the whole field pulling away from him. It wouldn’t be long, he thought, before there were eager graduates with shiny new degrees in crime scene work
pushing
through the doors and making him feel like an old, tired amateur. He sighed and rubbed his eyes before replacing his glasses and returning to the latest puzzle.

The second body from the Levels, unlike poor old Micky Franks, had not died by drowning. The man had been identified the day before, by a distraught wife in her late thirties, clutching the hands of two teenage children as she struggled for composure. Identifications were always grim without the added ravages of water damage. The second victim had been a River Warden, one of the small band of intrepid men who walked the Levels, guarding the fragile waterlands from poachers, illegal peat cutters, egg collectors and stupid little hooligans who thought it funny to set fires in the dry, golden grasses of summer. Robert Donnoley, he said to himself as he turned on the lamp and settled to the backlog of reports and requests. He was called Robert Donnoley. He had a wife and a son and a daughter and someone hit him over the head and left him to die, alone on the marsh. And then someone else came along and tried to make it look as if he had drowned. Now why would they have done that?

Christmas in Highpoint was a jovial affair on the surface. The pubs did a roaring trade despite the dire financial situation that was affecting so many people. The days before Christmas Eve saw huge crowds flocking to the supermarket, panic buying as the shops were to be closed for three days, and the shelves of the butcher’s shop were empty by early
afternoon
every day. Alex and Sue spent a chaotic half hour in the Woolworths by the quayside rummaging through crates of decorations and boxes of tinsel before emerging, somewhat battered but triumphant, with arms full of decorations and a ridiculous amount of ‘pick & mix’ sweets.

‘Just need some decent wine and we’re all set,’ huffed Sue as she shouldered the heavy shopping bag.

‘What about dinner?’ asked Alex. ‘We have to have something decent for Christmas dinner.’

Sue shrugged as she set off down the High Street. ‘We’ve got wine, we’ve got sweets – what more do you want?’

Alex trotted after her and tugged at her sleeve, pulling her towards the Cornhill building where the market was held. Every Wednesday and Saturday there was an auction of local produce in the covered square at the rear and Alex had spent many happy hours wandering around the tables and watching the auctioneer, an elderly woman with her hair in a stern grey bun and the rest of her swathed in even sterner tweeds, dispose of fish, fowl, game and vegetables. The square was full, this Saturday before Christmas, and
proceedings
were going with a swing. The auctioneer strode between the tables, selecting the next lot at random and inviting bids whilst waving a rambler’s cleft stick at anyone foolish enough to pass comment out of turn.

‘Now, what am I bid for this fine brace of coneys?’ she said, lifting a pair of rabbits, still in their skins. ‘Come on now, a lovely plump pair here. Do I hear a pound?’ There was a shuffling of feet from the crowd. ‘All right, seeing as it’s Christmas hows about seventeen and six then?’

Sue stared at the auctioneer in amazement. ‘Seventeen and six?’ she hissed to Alex. ‘What’s she on about?’

‘Shush!’ said Alex as she held her hand up to bid, ‘Fifteen shillings!’

‘Now I hear fifteen shillings – fifteen – is there sixteen anywhere? Thank you sir, sixteen shillings – lovely brace, meaty little critters these, surely worth more than that,’ she said, glancing at Alex, who nodded. Sue watched, open mouthed as Alex swiftly sealed the deal and handed over the money to the auctioneer’s clerk, a dusty, faded looking woman sitting at a table in the corner. Alex took her sales slip, stuffed it into her pocket and grasped Sue firmly by the elbow as she hustled her out of the market.

‘I’ll go back and collect them this afternoon,’ she said. ‘Now, let’s look in at the butchers and see if there’s a chicken left.’

‘
How
long have we had decimal currency?’ Sue asked as she was dragged somewhat reluctantly out into the frosty air.

‘Oh, almost sixteen years,’ said Alex, keeping a firm hold on her friend’s arm.

‘So why is she …?’

‘It’s just the way she does things, okay? Everyone knows about it and everyone can work out the price so it really doesn’t matter. Just don’t – ever – say anything when she’s around. She’s a bit touchy about that sort of criticism.’

‘A bit touchy? She’s barmy!’ said Sue. ‘And why did you buy those rabbits? They’ve still got their skins on.’

‘I thought we could both make nice Davy Crockett hats over the holidays,’ said Alex as she hurried down the road. ‘And if you don’t shut up, all you’re getting is a lucky rabbit’s foot for Christmas.’

Amidst the meetings and greetings, the buying of presents and treating of children there was another trade in Highpoint that festive season. In the corners and alleyways of the town’s dark heart, small groups of youths gathered to mutter a request, exchange money and receive their goods secreted in a furtive handshake. The routes across the Levels carrying goods from Bristol and beyond were running well and the trickle of new cargoes was becoming a steady stream. Some buyers were curious, some egged on to false bravado by their peers and a few, overwhelmed by a sense of futility and
despair
, by the endless poverty and lack of any other prospects, were willing to try anything to gain a few hours of oblivion. Inexperienced, sometimes experimenting in isolation, this was the last Christmas for several of them. The big, bad world had arrived in Highpoint and by the time anyone noticed it was already too late.

The Gang of Six celebrated their business success with a noisy and boisterous party to celebrate the New Year in the Royal
Arms. Profits were up in all areas, due in part to the high taxes on alcoholic drinks and tobacco as well as the
much-hated
VAT levied on all legitimate sales. Importing from the continent and selling through their own network avoided both these costs and demand for their ‘special offers’ was running at an all-time high. In addition, Max Long’s new goods were finding favour with a widening circle of young people, something he was quick to point out in the early, business part of their meeting.

‘They loves it,’ he gloated. ‘Them kids in town, they can’t get enough of the whiz and the wings is doing good too. Told you – easy money all round, this is.’

Around the table there were shrugs and a few grunts but no-one wanted to say much. Tom, seated at the end as usual, eyed his band of followers and was both disturbed and relieved by their reaction. He had serious doubts about expanding into the new goods and he was pleased to see most of the group seemed to share his concerns. It was dangerous, dabbling in drugs. Penalties were very high for anyone caught distributing and he knew his network of contacts in useful places were less likely to turn a blind eye to this sort of thing. Besides, this stuff could be dangerous. He was not a
sentimental
man and years of law-breaking had hardened him to most things but he didn’t agree with selling to children and in his eyes most of Max’s ‘customers’ were still just kids.

He was beginning to suspect they had made a grave error getting involved with Max in the first place but he was damned if he could see how it could have been avoided. Through any number of sleepless nights he’d lain awake wrestling with the problem. Max was well connected, with powerful friends and allies up Bristol way and he was determined to move into the West Country, bringing his drug culture with him. Better, surely, to bring him in to the group where he had some chance of controlling his activities – even if he was putting himself and his companions in danger. If only there were some way of getting rid of him, he thought, watching Max preen and crow at his success.

‘Well now, I reckon we’s all had a very good Christmas,’ he said, cutting across Max’s flood of self-congratulation. ‘Will be midnight soon and I thought we deserves something special so there’s champagne coming and food. Let’s drink to a prosperous New Year.’

The gathering cheered up at once and the men pushed the tables to one side, relaxing and talking about their plans for the next few months. Only Jimmy Earl seemed that friendly with Max, he noted. Of course Jimmy needed to keep on his good side if he wanted to be included in the deal. Max didn’t need Jimmy and his fleet of lorries. He could easily cut the young man out and arrange his own transport. Geoff Bund kept a good distance between himself and Max, chatting to Mark about hiding places in Cheddar. Tom listened to that conversation with half an ear whilst considering the group dynamics. Geoff didn’t want to be drawn in to any of this. His workers were too vulnerable to detection, what with the sudden checks with dogs and such. The last thing Geoff and the dock workers needed was a load of really heavy stuff arriving for ‘special handling’. No, Geoff wouldn’t have anything to do with it, whatever any of them said.