Dark Tide

  “The name of this club?”

  “It was the Barclay.”

  “How long did you work there?”

  “About seven months.”

  Jamie Newman was writing, the notepad on his lap so I couldn’t see it. He held the pen with his fist scrunched around it. “Were you friends with Candace?”

  I hesitated, just for a moment. “I guess so. Not really the kind of place you make friends, though. People come and go all the time.”

  “Some men attacked you on your boat,” Davies said, after a few moments.

  “Yes.” I wondered if Carling had told her everything, whether he’d relayed our conversation word for word, if he’d even been making notes or recording it. Did she know about him staying the night? Would he have managed to keep that part to himself, at least?

  “What do you think they wanted from you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You must have some idea.”

  “I thought they were looking for something, maybe. But I don’t know what.”

  “Why did you think that?”

  I took a deep breath in, trying to stay calm, trying to feel as though I was still in control.

  “Because they turned the boat upside down, that’s why. They came on board and threw everything around. So either they were looking for something and they didn’t find it, or they just felt like making a mess.”

  “Why didn’t you report it?” Davies asked.

  I had no answer. I knew now why the window was so high up. If it had been any lower, I would have been able to see out, to see trees and fresh air and people going about their normal business; but all I could see was a small patch of darkening sky. I wanted to be out there. If the window had been at normal height I might have considered throwing myself out of it. I guessed I wasn’t the first person to sit in here and contemplate something like that.

  “Why didn’t you report it, Genevieve? Could you answer the question?”

  “I don’t know. There didn’t seem to be any point. They were long gone, whoever they were.”

  “After you left London, did you keep in touch with Candace Smith?”

  “I spoke to her a couple of times. I asked her if she wanted to come to a party I was having. She said she’d think about it, but then she didn’t show up.”

  “When was this party?”

  “It was—the night I found the body next to the boat.”

  They looked at each other then, Newman and Davies. I wondered what they were thinking. My heart was beating fast. I wiped my palms down my jeans and then clasped my hands together to keep them still.

  “Right. Let’s just go back a bit. You invited Candace to your boat? When did you ask her?”

  “I don’t know. A few weeks ago, I think.”

  “And how did she seem, when you talked to her?”

  “All right. Normal, really.”

  “So she was planning to come?”

  “I told her when and where. She said she’d think about it. I don’t think I really expected her to show up.”

  “Why not?”

  “Like I said, we weren’t really friends. She was just someone I knew from the club.”

  “Did you invite anyone else from the club?”

  “No.”

  “So what made you invite Candace?”

  “It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. I was talking to her, and thinking about the party, and I asked if she wanted to come along.”

  “Did you phone her, or did she phone you?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  I must have answered her too quickly.

  “You said you weren’t in contact with her very often, so speaking to her would have been unusual, wouldn’t it? So think again. Did you phone her, or did she phone you?”

  “I guess I phoned her.”

  “What did you call her for?”

  “Just to see how she was.”

  There was another pause. Newman was still taking notes on his pad, to my right. I could hear the scratching of his pen on the notepad. He might have been doodling for all I knew.

  “You said that Candace didn’t show up.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Are you sure? I mean, if you were busy with the party—talking to your guests, drinking, that sort of thing—maybe she showed up and you didn’t realize?”

  I considered this for a moment.

  “It’s not a very big boat. Lots of people were up on the deck. Someone would have seen if she’d been there. Someone would have told me.”

  “We’ll need you to give us a list of everyone who was there that night, with their contact details.”

  “I already gave it to that guy—the one who interviewed me—I can’t remember his name.”

  “Even so, I’d like you to write another list.”

  She tore a sheet of paper off the top of a lined pad that was on the table behind her and pushed it and a ballpoint pen over the desk toward me. I stared at it for a few moments and made two headings: “Marina” and “Other.” As I wrote each name, I thought about how they’d all react to being questioned by the police. Lucy, Gavin, Ben.

  When I’d finished, she gave me a smile, the first time she’d softened. “What was Caddy like?”

  “She was nice. She helped me out a bit when I first started working there.”

  “She looked after you?”

  “Yes, you could say that.”

  “Took you under her wing?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Did you see much of her outside work?”

  “Not really.”

  “Did she have any other close friends?”

  “I don’t know. Nobody I knew.”

  “Boyfriends?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You never talked about it? About guys you liked?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  I hadn’t lied to them, not directly. Not yet.

  “What about Fitz?”

  “What about him?” My heart was thudding at the sound of his name, my cheeks coloring.

  “You knew him?”

  “Of course. He was the owner of the club.”

  “Did you get along with him?”

  “I didn’t see him very often. He was usually at his other clubs when I was there.”

  “What did Candace think of him?”

  “She told me that he was okay unless you pissed him off.”

  “What do you think she meant by that?”

  “Just that I shouldn’t piss him off. I don’t know. As I said, I didn’t see him very often.”

  “Did she ever say what happened if anyone did ‘piss him off’?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ever see anyone else cross him?”

  “No.”

  “Were you afraid of him?”

  “No. I didn’t know him. I just did my job and went home.”

  “Were the other dancers afraid of him?”

  “Not that I saw. If they were, they would have left, wouldn’t they?”

  “Why did you leave, Genevieve?”

  “I was only working there to save up enough money to buy a boat. I’d saved up enough, so I handed in my notice and left.”

  “When was this?”

  “It was the middle of April.”

  “And you never went back for a visit?”

  “No.” I still wasn’t lying. Not directly. I tried to keep my breathing steady, even though my cheeks were burning, my hands icy cold, as if I had a fever.

  “How long had you worked there?”

  “You already asked me that question.”

  “Even so, I’d like you to answer it.”

  “About seven months.”

  There was silence, except for Newman writing his notes. Davies was staring at me curiously, as though I were some kind of unusual animal in a zoo and she was expecting more from me, something more interesting, more entertaining.

  “These men who attacked you on your boat—did you recognize them???
?

  “No.” The first real lie. It felt as if I were shouting. Had I answered too quickly? Surely they must realize? I swallowed the lump in my throat, took a deep, steadying breath.

  “Aren’t you afraid they’ll come back?”

  “Of course I am. Look,” I said, “Malcolm—my neighbor—he’s been helping me service the engine. I was planning to take the boat upstream a bit. Just somewhere out of the way. I haven’t told anyone.”

  “I see.”

  “I was going to call DC Carling and let him know. In fact, it was his idea.”

  “It was his idea?”

  “He asked me if I’d ever taken the boat on a trip anywhere. I said I hadn’t. But that gave me the idea. I mean, it’s not like living in a house, is it? Why live on a boat and never move it?”

  After that they ended the interview and left the room. I didn’t ask how long it was going to be before I could go home, but I wasn’t under arrest. I could have walked out if I’d wanted to, but there was no point. I could stay and answer their questions until they were as bored of it as I was.

  But they came back after ten minutes and said I could go. The Metropolitan Police Serious Crime Directorate had asked me all they needed to, for now, anyway.

  I was packing up boxes in the flat I was renting and drinking a cup of cold coffee when there was a knock at the door.

  I’d been expecting Dylan for so many days that I’d almost given up. I was afraid he’d changed his mind about the package, about the fifty grand. I didn’t know what I was going to do if he didn’t come through with the money, but there was no going back: I’d left work, given notice on the flat, handed over a substantial deposit plus marina fees to Cameron. I had to go, whatever happened.

  “Can I come in?” he said.

  About bloody time, I wanted to say. I wanted to smack him and ask where the fuck he’d been, why he’d left me waiting without so much as a phone call. He was wearing his non-work disguise, jeans and a shirt, navy blue this time, with a ratty-looking jacket over the top of it. He wasn’t carrying a bag, which made my heart sink. He must have changed his mind.

  He followed me into my kitchen and I moved a box off the chair to let him sit. “You’re moving out already, huh?” he said.

  “I’m putting most of it in storage,” I said.

  “I came to see how you were.”

  “Oh. I’m all right, thanks. How’s Caddy?”

  He smiled at me. “Same as usual. Sometimes happy as a clam, sometimes a grumpy little fucker.”

  I wondered if I should offer him a drink. Did he ever have anything other than vodka? I had no idea where the kettle was, in any case.

  “So—you found yourself a boat, then?”

  I smiled happily. “Yes, I have. It’s called the Revenge of the Tide.”

  “No kidding? Weird name.”

  “It suits it. You should come and have a look.”

  “Is it one of the ones you were looking at? In Kent?”

  “Yes. In Rochester.”

  He nodded approvingly. Then, “I thought Fitz might have given you a hard time.”

  “Not really,” I said. “I think I overestimated my own importance.”

  “He never said you’d left. He never mentioned you after you burst into the office that night.”

  “I think he was pissed off because I complained to him about Arnold jumping me.”

  “Ah. That would do it, yeah. And probably coming into the office without an invite didn’t help.”

  There was a strange silence for a moment. He filled the room with his bulk, even sitting down.

  “So—you still want to do it?”

  “Yes.” There was no question about what it was I was still willing to do. Mentioning the package would have been a waste of breath.

  “Okay,” he said. “You got a car?”

  “No. I’m renting a van tomorrow, though. To take all my things down to the boat.”

  “All right, then,” he said, “You know Brands Hatch, the racetrack? There’s a hotel there, the Thistle. On the A20. Think you can find it?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll meet you in the bar of the hotel. Nine o’clock tomorrow night.”

  “All right. What if something happens? I mean, what if I get held up?”

  “I’ll wait till you get there.”

  He stood up to go and I had a sudden urge to ask him to stay for a while. But he didn’t hesitate or give me time to ask. He didn’t even look back.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  I was ten minutes late getting to Brands Hatch, mainly because I approached it from the wrong direction and had to exit the road to turn the van around.

  It had been a hectic day, and I was tired out with moving more stuff into storage, supervising some moving men who had taken a load down to the boat—mainly furniture. Now it was just me and a van packed to the roof with boxes.

  Dylan was in the bar, strategically positioned to the side where he could watch the entrance without making it obvious that he was waiting for someone. I bought a bottle of beer and slid into the armchair opposite his seat.

  He gave me one of his best Dylan smiles. He looked so different when he smiled. “Thought you weren’t coming,” he said.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I took a slight detour on the highway.”

  He nodded slowly. On the sofa next to him was a big plastic shopping bag. He placed a hand on it. I wondered what it was. Cocaine? Heroin? It was best not to think about it too hard, so I thought about the money instead.

  “It’s all in there,” he said. “With a cell phone.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “The phone has one number saved in it, under the name Garland. When I’m going to come and pick up the package, I’ll call you on that number. Only answer the phone if you see that the caller ID says Garland.”

  “Why Garland?”

  “It’s just a word.”

  “Is it your name?” He’d never told me. I only ever knew him as Dylan.

  “No.”

  “Can I use the phone to call you?”

  “No.”

  “What if there’s an emergency?”

  “There won’t be an emergency. Nothing is going to happen. You just need to put the package somewhere safe, keep the phone charged, and within a couple of months I’ll call you on that number and arrange to come and pick it up. Yeah?”

  “All right.”

  The feeling crept up on me before I realized what it was. I wasn’t going to see him anymore. It was going to be that one call, that one meeting to hand over the package, and that would be it. Somehow I’d just assumed that we would still be friends. The thought of not seeing him was making me feel uncomfortable—no, more than that. Desolate.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  I had no reason not to tell him the truth. “I’m going to miss you,” I said.

  Dylan laughed at that, and it hurt me. Maybe I was just tired, maybe it had just been a traumatic couple of weeks, but the tears were falling down my cheeks before I realized, and I rubbed them away crossly with my sleeve.

  “It’s not funny,” I said quietly.

  “You won’t miss me, Genevieve. I’ll be lucky if you remember where you’ve left the phone after a couple of hours.”

  “That’s not fair. You’re always thinking the worst of me, Dylan.”

  He sighed as though I were just some troublesome female he was going to have to deal with, then picked up the shopping bag and put it on the floor by his feet, making space on the sofa next to him. “Come and sit here,” he said, and his voice was softer, almost gentle.

  When I got to my feet and sank onto the cushions next to him he put his arm around my back, awkwardly patting my shoulder. I moved closer to him, against him, feeling his bulk, instantly comforted. It reminded me of the moment he’d held me after he’d gotten rid of Leon Arnold. Whatever had been wrong had disappeared and everything was all right again.

  We stayed like that for a long time
and I relaxed into him. His hand, his huge hand that had been patting me on the shoulder like an inexperienced father trying to burp a new baby, had changed pace and was stroking my upper arm, slowly. And then it was just the tips of his fingers, running from my shoulder to my elbow, and back again.

  At last he said, “We should go.”

  I pushed myself up off the sofa and away from him and he brought the bag and walked with me out of the main entrance and across the parking lot to my van. I unlocked it and opened the door for him to put the bag inside, on the passenger seat, but he didn’t move. I turned to face him, about to say, What are you waiting for? but the words died in my throat because of the way he was looking at me. He placed the shopping bag carefully at his feet, and without taking his eyes off me pushed the door of the van shut, not with force but with a kind of purpose. He moved forward and with no other warning kissed me, one hand around my back, pulling me against him, the other cradling my neck, his thumb on my jawline.

  Oh, it felt so good, that kiss. It was as though I’d been waiting for it, waiting for the longest time without realizing, and now that it was finally happening my legs were giving way under me and he pushed me gently back against the side of the van to steady me.

  When he finally moved away, I couldn’t see his face in the darkness but I heard his voice, the emotion in it. He said, “You want to stay?”

  I nodded. I wasn’t even sure what he meant then, but I did want to stay if the alternative was going to the boat on my own, or going anywhere that wasn’t with him.

  We walked back to the hotel and I waited by the elevators while Dylan went to the front desk to see if he could get a room for us. All I could think was that I needed a shower: I’d been lugging boxes and furniture around all day and I felt filthy. But not tired anymore—I was energized by that kiss, breathing from the very top of my lungs, fizzing with anticipation.

  We went upstairs and along a hall that went on and on, me following Dylan, who was carrying that stupid bag, which looked heavier by the minute and was probably full of cocaine.

  He was walking fast and I struggled to keep up with him, until he stopped abruptly and I almost ran into his back. He opened the door to a room and we went inside; he dropped the bag on the floor, pushed it with the toe of his boot into the bottom of the open closet, and closed the door with the other hand, putting on the security chain.