The Red Shore, page 4
‘We don’t know exactly what happened,’ observed Eden quietly.
Mrs Sullivan smiled thinly. ‘Of course not. Not yet. The coastguard haven’t found her, I suppose?’
Bisi shook her head. ‘I’m thinking we may need you to have Finn for a few more days yet, Angela.’
Mrs Sullivan looked at Eden. ‘You said Mr Driscoll here was going to take him.’
‘I didn’t say it was definite. I said it was a possibility. It turns out the situation is a little more complicated than we imagined. Mr Driscoll plans on returning to work tonight in London.’
Mrs Sullivan looked at Eden, eyebrows raised, then turned back to Bisi. ‘I made it very clear that I could only look after him temporarily. My mother-in-law has an operation on Thursday, and she’s up in Lancashire.’
‘Of course. We’ll have to find an alternative of some kind. But if you could manage for a day or two more.’
‘It’s not ideal,’ complained Mrs Sullivan.
‘Is he eating much?’ asked Bisi.
She turned to Eden. ‘He says he’s a vegan.’
‘Yes,’ Eden said. ‘I suppose he is. We were raised vegetarian, my sister and me. My father had very strong views about food.’
Eden had a sudden memory of the stewed beans their mother had used to cook for them in old caravans and camper vans, or in the cramped galleys of boats.
In Spain, when Eden was maybe twelve, he had hung around a group of local men fishing on a quay in some small port they were camping near. The men were friendly, offering him bread and digging out sweets from their pockets, giving him their fishing rods to hold, cheering when he caught a fish. Eden took the one he caught home with him: a long, thin fish with big round eyes. When he arrived back at the van there was nobody around so he had placed it in the frying pan, poured in a little oil, and tried to cook it, in the same way his mother fried aubergines. The fish had disintegrated, spewing out black innards, flesh flaking from strange green bones. When their father had arrived back from the building site he’d been working on to earn a little money, he had taken one look at the mess in the pan and grabbed it, angrily flinging the whole lot, pan included, over a rocky cliff, into the blue sea below.
‘Has Finn talked about school at all?’ Bisi was asking. ‘Do you think he’s missing it?’
‘He doesn’t say much of anything,’ said Mrs Sullivan.
‘I think it might be good for him, going to school,’ said Bisi. ‘He should be with his friends.’
Mrs Sullivan shook her head. ‘They’ll only be asking him questions all the time because everyone’s seen it on the news.’
‘What do you think?’ Bisi turned towards Eden.
‘Me?’ said Eden. ‘I really don’t know.’
‘The most important person in his life has disappeared,’ said Bisi. ‘At least if he was with his friends he would have some of his life back.’
Mrs Sullivan sighed and said, ‘I mean, I can look after him here Monday and Tuesday, maybe even Wednesday, but after that it’s going to be difficult. If he goes to school, I’ll need a taxi to take him there and pick him up. We haven’t got a car, you know.’
Eden left his un-drunk tea on the coffee table and stood. ‘Where’s the bathroom?’
‘Top of the stairs.’
There was a small open window above the low cistern. From below came the mechanical thump thump thump of the boy kicking the ball. Looking down, Eden could see his dark hair flicking as he kicked the ball over and over. Even from there he could feel the boy’s misery radiating out of him.
Finn kicked the ball hard. It bounced back at him fast and he missed it this time. He whacked at the ball again, this time furiously.
‘Maybe I can try to take a few days off,’ said Eden, back in the living room. ‘Until we can sort out something more permanent.’
Six
Bisi drove Eden back to Apple’s small house.
‘Thank you for staying,’ she said. ‘I appreciate it.’
‘Just to be straight, it can only be for this week,’ he said. ‘To help you until you find someone suitable for him. Do you know of a hotel I can get a room in?’
She glanced towards the end of the cul-de-sac they had pulled up in. ‘Aren’t you going to stay here?’
The thought hadn’t occurred to him. He looked warily at his sister’s little house. ‘I suppose.’
It would give him a chance to look around, because he was beginning to realise that he needed to see if he could find anything that explained his sister’s disappearance.
‘This is a difficult question. I don’t suppose you’d know if your sister had a will, then?’ Bisi asked.
He turned back to her. ‘We don’t even know if she’s dead yet.’
‘Of course we don’t. I’m sorry.’ She looked contrite, but he was a police officer. He knew how unlikely it was anyone would find Apple alive and she had to put some kind of care framework around the boy. She would need to know what his sister had wanted.
‘Mrs Sullivan, the foster carer—’
‘Yes?’
‘She seems to think that my sister had deliberately left Finn alone on the boat. So did Mike Sweet. Is that what you think? That she left him? That she committed suicide?’
‘I’m afraid the police think that’s a possibility. You need to know this. Your sister struggled sometimes. This isn’t the first time we’ve met Finn.’
‘What happened?’
‘Your sister may still be alive, so – you know how it is – I can’t discuss the details. She had some trouble with the police and she ended up in custody. Because she was the mother of a young boy, we became involved. And during that time there was a psychological assessment of her. Can I ask, did she have any issues with her mental health as a child?’
That time seemed impossibly long ago. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘Honestly? In my family, she was genuinely the only sane one.’
‘OK. Well, that’s good.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Now. If she didn’t leave a will, you’ll need to apply for a grant of letters of administration,’ she said. ‘I can help you with that.’
He nodded.
‘And there is some other paperwork I need to go through with you. I’ll come by in the morning. Is that OK?’
Alone in his sister’s house, he took a little time to look around. Next to the candles on the little shelf in the living room there was a book called Herbal Antibiotics and another on stone circles alongside several dog-eared novels bought from charity shops, he guessed. There was no wi-fi router that he could find, no TV, no computer. Their father had despised televisions and computers. He had said they were for idiots.
A purple scarf lay draped around the bathroom mirror, and next to it a tiny cabinet was full of alternative remedies. Between the arnica tablets and evening primrose oil there was a packet of prescribed pills: a box of something called Lustral. He looked it up on his phone. It was a treatment for panic attacks and obsessive-compulsive disorder. That was a surprise. He knew so little about his sister.
Eden was exhausted again. The bed upstairs was made up. He should change the sheets, he supposed, but that felt a little like erasing his sister.
It was a warm spring afternoon. He opened the bedroom window to the noise of seagulls and children playing on the beach.
The tide was lower now. Boats that had been at anchor when he had arrived now lay on the river bed, cluttering the red sand and stones.
Apple’s bedroom was small. A pair of green cotton trousers had been left on the floor, knickers still inside them. He looked around for a laundry basket but couldn’t see one.
Apart from the bed the biggest piece of furniture in the room was a dark old wardrobe, so large that Eden wondered how anyone had managed to get it up the stairs. He opened the doors and below hangers crammed with clothes there was a yellow plastic trug full of dirty laundry, so he picked up the trousers and added them to the pile.
Apple’s clothes were bright and various, the kind people found by chance in second-hand shops. There were three big fake-fur coats – one yellow – taking up a lot of the hanging space.
He put his hand between the coats, vaguely remembering a story he had been told once as a child, about a wardrobe that had been a doorway into another world. The back of his sister’s wardrobe was solid wood. He withdrew the hand, feeling a little foolish.
Detective Sergeant Sweet had asked him to look out for a note, or for something that might explain his sister’s disappearance. He didn’t know where to begin.
Instead, he lay back on his sister’s bed, numb. He had always intended to reach out to her, to try to make amends.
He closed his eyes.
When he woke, groggy and disorientated, it was almost dark. The smell of fried food drifted in through the open window. He was starving. He realised he had not eaten yet today.
The Ship Inn was a few yards away, a pub built next to a stone quay. The woman behind the bar looked at her watch and said they could do food if he ordered right away, so Eden picked a roast-pork sandwich and took a large glass of wine out onto the riverbank.
It was a grubby, crowded spot, with ashtrays and crisp packets stuffed into empty glasses on the picnic tables. A sign screwed to the table read: ‘Only food and drink purchased at The Ship is to be consumed here.’
When the sandwich arrived, he had barely taken a bite from it when a voice said, ‘Scuse me. Mind if we…?’ A couple – both very young. She had a single dyed-blonde braid in her dark hair and was drinking a bottle of fruit cider. The boy had a pint of lager and his eyebrow was pierced.
Eden moved his glass to make room for them and wondered if she was old enough for that drink.
The couple were in mid-conversation as they shuffled onto the bench, side by side, the girl opposite Eden. ‘I don’t see what the big deal is,’ the boy said. ‘Your dad’s working and your mum is out getting pissed somewhere.’
‘Don’t,’ said the girl.
‘True though.’
‘I got college work to do anyway. I can’t.’
Eden looked at his sandwich and thought of his sister in the cold Channel water. He picked it up and put it down again, unbitten.
‘So?’ the boy was saying, leaning across the table. ‘She won’t know. It’ll be a shindig. Just this once. You and me. And the boys.’
The girl laughed nervously and tugged on her braid of hair.
‘Seriously. Even if your mum gets home, she’ll be too bladdered to notice you’re not there.’ The boy leaned forward.
‘Don’t say that about my mum,’ the girl protested.
‘Oh, mate. You know your mum is an absolute pisser when she’s had a couple.’
The girl’s eyes caught Eden’s and he saw shame there.
‘Get a few beers and smokes,’ the boy was saying. ‘Lovely job.’
‘My dad would murder me,’ the girl said.
‘Your dad won’t find out. Mate’s got the sound system and he’s going to take us round to Labrador, says he’s got a genny. Gang of us going on the boat. A bit of puff. Tunes. Here comes the summer. Let’s jump off the deep end for once.’
The smile left the girl’s face. ‘Don’t say deep end.’
‘Why not?’
‘Not after what happened to that woman.’
Eden focused his eyes on his sandwich.
‘You are so superstitious.’ The boy leaned into her.
She shouldered him away. ‘There’s something really, I don’t know… horrible about it.’
‘Some people are just funny in the head like that,’ said the boy.
‘You shouldn’t talk about it like that. It’s disrespectful.’
Eden lived in a big city. This was a small town. Here everyone knew each other’s business.
‘Buddy?’
Eden looked up.
‘Mind if we… ?’ The boy was waving a packet of tobacco at him.
‘Man’s still eating, Davey,’ the girl scolded.
‘Only asking.’
‘It’s rude when people are eating.’
‘I don’t mind it,’ protested the boy.
‘Well, maybe he does.’ The girl looked at Eden apologetically.
‘Thank you,’ said Eden quietly. ‘I would rather you didn’t.’
‘No problem, bud,’ said the boy loudly, but he set about rolling a cigarette on the wooden table in front of him all the same.
‘I’ve got to be up early anyway,’ the girl said. She was picking at a scab on her knuckle.
‘Seriously?’ The boy licked the paper and placed the rolled cigarette down in front of him. ‘You need to have a little more fun.’
‘And you think you’re fun?’
The boy laughed and took a large gulp from his glass. ‘Going to have a ciggie over there on the wall with Stubbsy. Coming?’
She didn’t look enthusiastic. ‘I’ll keep our seats.’
‘Suit yourself. Let me out, will you?’
When she sat back down again, the girl turned away, looking up the estuary.
‘Did you know her?’ Eden asked.
The girl turned towards Eden, startled. ‘What?’
‘The woman who was lost overboard two nights ago.’
The girl shook her head, curious. ‘Why?’
‘You were talking about her.’
‘Just on the news. It was messed up. She was from right here, you know,’ she said, pointing down at the row of cottages.
‘Yes. I do.’
She frowned. ‘You a journalist or something?’
He shook his head. ‘No. I saw it on the news too, like everyone else.’
The girl nodded. ‘She had a child and everything. Isn’t that the most horrible part?’ she said. ‘I can’t stop thinking about them.’ And she turned away, looking upriver.
Eden pushed his plate away. He wasn’t as hungry as he’d thought he was. He pulled out his phone and messaged Sammy Kadakia.
Sorry to message on a Sunday, boss. Going to need to stay here a couple more days. More complicated than I thought. Can I take some leave?
Sammy would understand. He was good like that. As if to prove the point, the DI texted back immediately. Take as long as you need, pal. Thinking of you.
Back next week, I promise, answered Eden. Will need to do some work on the Ronan Pan case.
He looked up from the screen. The girl was looking over towards the boy, smoking with his mates by the low wall above the beach. ‘Don’t let him put pressure on you to do anything you don’t want to do,’ said Eden.
‘What?’ Her nose wrinkled.
‘That boy. If you don’t want to go out drinking and whatever with him – that’s fine.’
She flushed. ‘Fuck off and mind your own beeswax,’ she said and stood, picking up her half-drunk bottle of cider to join the boy, putting her arm around his shoulders.
The tide was coming in again now, floating the boats it had stranded. The sky behind was a deep, dark purple.
When Eden checked his phone again, his boss had messaged.
We will handle the Pan paperwork. Don’t come back until ur ready.
He was ready now, he thought.
Seven
Eden lay awake that night in the unfamiliar bed, on sheets his sister had slept in. As the sky lightened, the birds feeding in the low-tide mud outside called to each other – strange, haunting noises. He must have fallen asleep at some point, because when he was woken by the louder yelling of herring gulls, the sun was bright, glaring through the blind.
He went to the window and was shocked to see the familiar white hull of a sailing boat, moored on a pontoon just off the beach.
He blinked. It was Calliope. She had not been there yesterday.
He grabbed his trousers.
Calliope had been their parents’ yacht – their father’s really. Apple and Eden had lived in that 32-foot boat for almost two years. Eden had hated it, and, looking at it, he realised he still did.
Clearly Apple had not felt the same way about it. Seeing it on the news bulletins, rolling in the waves, loose boom crossing from side to side across the cockpit as it drifted, had been one thing. Seeing it here, right outside the window, was another.
Calliope was old now. Rust streaks ran down the hull from the deck stanchions. The aluminium mast was grey with age.
He ran downstairs, out of the back door, onto the empty beach, shirt unbuttoned.
‘Apple!’ he shouted.
The boat was silent. The tide was coming in again. He raced towards the water’s edge, trying to spot any sign of life on the boat. A sudden wave splashed water over his sockless feet, pouring into his unlaced leather shoes. ‘Shit,’ he said, laughing. His sister would find it funny, too, remembering the way she’d used to laugh at him when they were kids.
He needed to get a better view. Shoes squelching, he ran back up the beach and along to his right, onto an ancient stone quay that looked down onto the moored boat.
‘Apple,’ he shouted again. The docks were quiet. It must only be six or seven in the morning.
A man opening up a lock-up on the quayside looked at him quizzically, but said nothing.
With a start, Eden realised Apple could not be on board. The boat was obviously empty. He was being stupid. Someone else must have salvaged Calliope, waiting for the early high tide to bring her back, mooring her here while he slept.
Sitting on the granite dock, legs over the side, he checked his phone. It took a little while to find the news item on a local BBC news site, saying that the coastguard had called off the search for the woman missing in the Channel.
‘You all right, bud?’ called the man.
When Eden emerged from the shower back at the house, there was a new message on his phone from Bisi. What about coffee? 9.30 a.m.? We have a lot to discuss.
He was about to reply when the phone buzzed in his hand. This time it was DS Sweet.
‘Don’t tell me. You called to inform me they have called off the search,’ Eden said before Sweet had had a chance to speak.
Pause. ‘Oh. You already heard.’
‘Yes,’ Eden said. ‘Because it’s on the news.’
