The Angler's Tale Read online

  Could the feather-light touch he remembered on his back have come from the girl? The attention she had shown him and her random appearances suggested she had been following him.

  It was hard to be sure if he had felt anything at all, and the immediate aftermath of crashing onto a dead woman lying in a rowing boat had stolen the best part of his recollection. It was possible.

  Which, of course, led to another question. Why? Sharp and threatening she had been, but Slim had done her no personal slight except perhaps misreading the signs for some skewed sexual advance. She had the look of a person who could develop a grudge from nowhere, but even so, Slim had no idea how he might have caused one.

  But, if he had … he needed to know. Don hadn’t found out much about her, but he had tracked down a workplace.

  The rain still poured, making the toes of his boots slick and shiny. Slim twisted around to look at the bus timetable.

  There, on the second chart down among a list, was a recently added direct bus to Exeter.

  The witching hour. So it was called, Slim had heard, as he wandered Dartmouth’s streets in the damp, chilly air after a local church bell tolled the twelve strokes of midnight. Except for a handful of stumbling tourists, he saw no one, and soon, as the last peals of drunken laughter died away behind the slammed doors of holiday lets, he found himself alone.

  Dartmouth after midnight looked exactly as he should have expected: like a quiet port town closed down for the night.

  Except it wasn’t really closed. Slim, standing by the riverside, heard the gentle hum of an engine as a small fishing boat arrived to unload its catch or perhaps collect supplies before heading back out.

  He walked along the quayside until he was level with the pier where the boat was coming in. Shadows were everywhere. As a fisherman jumped off the boat to secure it to a mooring post, Slim stepped off the pier, lowering himself into a space between a bobbing motorboat and the quayside. A rail on the outer side allowed him a handhold, and he clung to the boat’s hull like a barnacle, his shoes just above the water line, his elbows hooked over the rail, the shadows and his black clothes concealing him.

  He had trusted to luck that there would be more than one fisherman working the boat and he was right. There were three, two with strong Westcountry accents and a third who sounded like a London import. Feeling like he’d come right back to his second night in Dartmouth, he listened to them work as they unloaded lobster pots onto the quayside.

  After a couple of minutes, Slim learned their catch was due in an Exeter fish market in barely three hours’ time. As the Londoner headed off to ‘bring the van around’, however, one of the others paused to spark up a cigarette.

  ‘Davey, I thought you quit.’

  ‘Yeah, me too.’

  ‘Kelly giving you grief about another kid?’

  A nervous laugh. ‘Something like that. Hey, I thought you didn’t drink, Frank.’

  ‘We all have our poisons, Davey.’

  ‘That wasn’t her, was it?’

  ‘Nah. Light reflecting off the water.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Both men fell quiet. Slim imagined them partaking in their respective vices in a quiet moment of thought.

  ‘I’ve never noticed any windows in that place,’ Davey said at last. ‘Just the holes. And the reflection … I mean, what from? There’s nothing across the water.’

  ‘Could’ve been the moon.’

  ‘It’s not that bright. Someone was in there, I’d swear on my mother’s grave.’

  Frank gave a cold laugh. ‘Give you a fifty if you drive out there right now and check it out. Mick’ll be back with the van in a sec. We can drop you off. Make a vid on your phone to prove it.’

  ‘Not much chance of that.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you want to know if Old Bea’s come back? I mean, she got that guy, didn’t she?’

  ‘Don’t make me laugh. Guy probably did it himself. I heard he did it to make sure. He went head down, would have drowned in the sludge even if the fall didn’t kill him.’

  ‘You shouldn’t believe everything you hear in the pub.’

  Davey gave a wry chuckle. ‘Neither should you. Hey, here’s Mick.’

  So, we’re dropping you off, is it?’

  ‘Screw yourself.’

  They walked off together, carrying lobster pots, along the pier in the direction of an idling van, its rear lights glowing in the darkness. Slim waited until they had loaded the van and climbed in, before pulling himself up over the quayside’s wall and massaging warmth back into his aching muscles. He walked up the pier as the van pulled away, turning out onto the main road.

  Lights in the tumbledown house. Old Bea. He had heard that expression before, but whereas previously it had slipped past, now it glowed like the lights of a fishing boat in the night.

  23

  The journey to Exeter, at barely an hour and a half, wasn’t long enough to either warm Slim’s body after a night outside, nor provide enough sleep to make up for what he had missed. He stumbled off the bus, found a café and dozed in a window booth until a staff member came over and asked him to leave.

  It didn’t take long to figure out that the address of Eloise’s workplace given on the internet was out of date. When Slim arrived, he found an empty office building, windows painted over, doors secured by a chain. He visited the neighbouring premises in a hunt for information, but those who didn’t eye his appearance with disdain claimed to know nothing.

  He was feeling at a dead end when he noticed a dank pub around the corner and decided to canvass it for information.

  The pub wasn’t yet open, but when Slim leaned through a door left ajar and enquired about a coffee, the landlord beckoned him inside and gestured to the stools lined along an unlit bar. Seemingly happy for some company, the landlord made small talk with Slim while he finished arranging furniture and wiping tables. When he went to pour away the dregs of yesterday’s coffee pot in order to make a fresh one, Slim told him it would do fine.

  ‘If it was two days old, even better,’ he said.

  ‘Not seen you round here,’ the landlord said, introducing himself as Jack Hodges. Grey hair around his ears and a couple of liver spots on his forehead put him in his mid-fifties, although he was slimmer than was usual for a man who worked a bar, suggesting a late career change or a healthy lifestyle outside his occupation. ‘And not a lot of tourists stray this far from the cathedral.’

  ‘I’m looking for Comtel Solutions,’ Slim said. ‘I’m on the trail of an old friend I believe worked there. According to the address I have, it should have been in that building right across the street.’

  Jack nodded. ‘Yeah, there was an office of sorts there for a while. Were a few in there at one point but the council did the landlord for faulty wiring and the place got cleaned out. Gutted my lunchtime trade, although not many used to stick around of an evening.’

  ‘You often encountered the staff?’

  Jack gave half a shrug. ‘They were office suits, and there’s nowhere else in walking distance.’

  ‘Do you know what happened to the company?’

  Jack shook his head. ‘No idea, sorry.’

  ‘And when did it close?’

  ‘Oh, a year or so ago. It was early summer I think. Last year. You said you were looking for a friend?’

  Slim nodded. ‘More of an acquaintance. A girl. Early twenties. Long hair, slight curl at the bottom, thin, eyes a bit too wide to make you comfortable. Her name was Eloise.’

  Jack had been in the process of splitting open a bag of crisps to pour into a bowl between them, but now he paused. Slim noticed a slight tremble in his hands, one that could have mirrored many of his own.

  ‘You know her, don’t you?’

  Jack stared at the floor. His mouth creased and he gave a little sigh.

  ‘Are you police?’

  Slim laughed. ‘God, no. I’m just trying to track her down. You do know her, don’t you?’

  ‘I did,’ he sai
d. ‘Briefly.’

  ‘Can you tell me about it?’

  Jack turned suddenly, crossing his arms, adopting a defensive posture. ‘Look. Who the hell are you, and why do you want to know about this girl?’

  Slim reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. It was crinkled from being sat on and had a little rip on one corner. He laid it on the bar with the name turned towards Jack.

  ‘I’m a private investigator,’ he said. ‘John Hardy. People call me Slim.’

  Jack picked up the card and turned it over in his hand. ‘Not a successful one if this is anything to go by.’

  Slim shrugged. ‘I have my moments. My secretary made this for me. She said I ought to have one. Make me look more professional than I really am.’

  His self-deprecation lowered Jack’s guard. The landlord sighed, then pulled a glass from under the counter and poured himself a measure of vodka from a bottle hung over the bar. At the smell, Slim felt a sudden lurch in his stomach. He gripped the edge of the bar, hoping Jack wouldn’t notice.

  ‘What do you want Eloise for?’ Jack asked, lifting the vodka and downing it in one swallow. As he put the glass on a counter behind him, out of Slim’s reach, Slim let his fingers relax.

  ‘A couple of weeks ago, I think she tried to kill me,’ he said.

  24

  Exeter County Council resided in a bland modern rectangle out of keeping with some of the more historical buildings nearby. Slim, still stunned by Jack’s confession, headed inside and found his way to the commerce and trading department.

  ‘Comtel Solutions,’ he told the clerk at the front desk. ‘I’m trying to get a high court writ on uncollected debt,’ he added, working on the lie he had brainstormed on the way over. ‘All I need to know is if they went bankrupt or simply changed premises.’

  ‘Sure,’ the clerk said. ‘Let me check the paperwork we have on them.’

  Slim took a seat in a waiting area as the clerk disappeared through a door into an inner office. He stared, his eyes glazed, at a TV in a corner with its sound down low, remembering Jack’s words and wondering if he was on the trail of a psychotic killer.

  ‘They had some kind of after-work party in here one night, six of them,’ Jack said, pouring himself another measure. He looked about to offer one to Slim, then appeared to notice how Slim clutched the edge of the bar as he stared at the glass. He swallowed it as he had done before then put the glass out of range.

  ‘It was clear right away that she wasn’t popular, that perhaps they didn’t want her there. After a couple of hours they did a runner on her while she was in the bathroom. It didn’t go down well and she stormed out after them. A couple of minutes later she was back, wanting another drink. We talked awhile. There was no one in that night so around ten I decided to close early and offered her a lift home.’

  ‘And one thing led to another?’

  ‘Believe it or not, I had no plans for it. She unnerved me to be honest, but at some point something was said and she ended up back at mine.’ Jack gave a sheepish grin. ‘I mean, why wouldn’t I? My wife’s been dead ten years and I’ve been alone ever since. The girl was half my age at least and attractive enough if you could get past that glare.’

  Slim was in no position to take a moral high ground. He smiled in agreement then nodded at the near-empty coffee pot. ‘I’ll take whatever’s left of that,’ he said. ‘What happened?’

  Jack chuckled, but the sheen in his eyes betrayed a horror being recalled.

  ‘I live a ways across town. She named a place nearby but halfway there told me her parents had kicked her out and she had nowhere to stay. I offered her my sofa, but you know, let’s not play this like a film. I wasn’t about to pressure her, but I wouldn’t have turned her down if an offer came. I sleep alone enough as it is.’

  ‘And one did?’

  Jack sighed again. ‘I don’t remember what words were said, but yeah, we ended up in bed. I’ll hold her modesty there, if you don’t mind. That part went … well, good. It was afterwards that things changed.’

  ‘There’s more?’

  ‘Sorry.’ Jack poured himself a third drink. As Slim watched the clear liquid slide down the man’s throat, he could barely control himself.

  ‘Want one?’ Jack asked.

  Slim, his throat dry, said, ‘Actually, it’s the last thing I want.’

  Jack gave a knowing nod. ‘Say no more. Well, the long and short of it is I woke sometime in the middle of the night with a knife pressed against my throat.’

  ‘She attacked you?’

  ‘Not in a certain sense. I remember my neck having this numbing coldness as though she’d been sitting there with the knife pressed against it for some time. I tried to flinch away but she’d wrapped the duvet around me in a way that prevented me from moving. I couldn’t do anything. I’ve never been so scared in all my life.’

  Jack shook his head. Slim waited, knowing there was more. Finally Jack said, ‘I couldn’t say a word. I look back on it now and a million better ways to react come into my mind, but at the time I was helpless.’

  ‘Did she say anything?’

  ‘Only one thing. She said, “You don’t know who I am.” That’s it. Then she moved the knife away from my neck and laid it across the duvet. I still didn’t move. She stood up, walked to the door and went out. I could have grabbed the knife at any time, but I felt paralysed. Even after I heard the front door open and close, and her footsteps on the path outside, I didn’t move. Believe it or not, I actually fell asleep again. When I woke up it was morning. I’d twisted out of the duvet in the night and was clutching the knife in my hand. I never saw her again after that. She was never with the other staff from that company who occasionally came in for a drink, and I couldn’t bring myself to ask. Until you walked in asking about her, I’d managed to convince myself that I’d just had a really vivid dream.’

  ‘You didn’t go to the police?’

  Jack sighed and shook his head. ‘No. No, I didn’t.’

  The clerk was calling Slim over. He shook off the fugue of memory and made his way over to the desk.

  ‘Comtel Systems went into liquidation six months ago,’ the clerk said, passing him a piece of paper. ‘This is all the information on record.’

  Slim nodded and thanked the clerk, then took the piece of paper and slid it into his pocket. Outside, he found a park bench and read over it.

  A freedom of information document, with the details of the company and its ownership. He had another name now: Leon Davids, CEO. He found a local library nearby where he could use a computer. There, he looked up Davids online, but as he opened a page and scrolled down, he shook his head in disbelief.

  Leon Davids was dead.

  The cause of death: suicide.

  25

  Slim waited until he was back at his hotel before he called Don. He had found nowhere online which gave a location or a rationale for Leon Davids’ death, but Don had lines of investigation few others had. His old army friend promised to get back to him in a day or two with whatever he could find out about the circumstances.

  Too wired to sleep, Slim went downstairs, found a computer in the hotel lobby and spent some time looking for any updates about the case of the suicides. Of Carson, however, there were only the initial reports he had already seen, and there was nothing at all related to Irene, as though her death had been swept under the constabulary carpet.

  He was facing a dead end. Without a decent lead he would soon be forced to give up and admit he had finally come upon a case he couldn’t break open.

  He wanted to scream, or at least bash in the computer screen. Neither was a good option if he wanted to keep his hotel room.

  Sadly, there was a third option. Through a door a short way past the alcove of computer terminals was the hotel bar.

  The old cravings had been strong since his meeting with Jack. Slim stood up, switched off the computer, and went to get a drink.

  ‘Excuse me? Sir? Excuse me?’

&n
bsp; Slim opened his eyes and a wave of pain and regret came flooding in. Something hard pressed into his stomach; after a moment he realised it was the desktop of the lobby computer terminal where he must have chosen to crash for the night.

  ‘You can’t sleep there, sir. I’m afraid I have to ask you to return to your room or I will have to call the manager.’

  ‘The manager?’ Slim groaned, trying to sit up. The blazing lights of the hotel lobby cut a path through his drunkenness like a spotlight through the dark. The clerk was too close, his voice too loud, the whites of his eyes too large. When the man blinked, his eyelids snapped shut with a clapperboard clack.

  ‘Sir? Could you look at me please, sir?’

  Slim lurched upright. As he nudged a computer mouse the screensaver cleared, revealing an open messenger email box. Slim stared at the TO: name over the top and let out a relieved sigh that the box was empty. Then he noticed the SENT box at the bottom. His heart sank at the sight of the first two lines of a badly spelled and punctuated message.

  ‘Sir? Please, sir—’

  ‘All right.’ Slim hastily closed down the open window. He tried to get up off the chair, but stumbled and somehow managed to sprawl across the floor at the clerk’s feet.

  ‘Sir? I can call someone to assist you—’

  ‘I can manage!’ Slim snapped, pushing himself up, aware how ungainly he must appear, but pleased that it was late at night with no other customers around. His bag lay nearby so he grabbed it and stumbled away from the computer cubicles, past the entrance to the now-closed bar.