The trust, p.7
The Trust, page 7
Astrid scanned the chamber. It was constructed of reddish bricks with a grey mortar. The position of the body was directly below the railings. That must be where he’d fallen from. Or been pushed? Someone had come down the ladder to check on him. That would explain the set of wet footprints leading back up the stairs and along the path.
She knelt down by the body. There wasn’t time to go back to the art storeroom for her work case. Luckily, she had a pair of plastic gloves in her pocket from earlier. She put them on and pressed two fingers under the jawline at the neck. Just to make sure. The skin was cold.
She took out her phone, turned on the torch feature and ran it over the length of the body. He was wearing tan brogues, maroon cords and a dark wool jacket. His hands were slim, with clean nails. On the inside of the cuffs of his jacket were cloudy white marks. She reached inside her handbag for something to take a sample.
She found an old receipt in her purse and began plucking at the fibres on the jacket cuff, dropping the larger grains of white material into the middle. Then she folded the receipt in a square and slipped it back into her purse. Inside the pocket of the man’s jacket she found a thin wallet. There was no money in it, just a few credit cards. The name on all of them said ‘G. DeVine.’
She listened for any noise back up the stairs. It was silent. Still – better be quick. Crouching over a dead body on your first day of work wasn’t the best look. She set up the flash option on the phone and took a few close-ups of the body. Then the same number of long shots to show the body’s position in the room. Done. She checked her watch again – 4.34. Five minutes. She was out of the icehouse and back onto the main path in another three. She reached for her phone to take photos of the footprints on the path. But they had gone. It took her a moment to realise that they must have evaporated in the warm sunshine. She cursed under her breath. That was a valuable clue, gone.
Astrid headed back to the house. It was probably a good idea to report the body to Cressida straight away – she could take it from there. There was nobody around so she took a shortcut across the lawn, despite a small sign advising her not to. Halfway across, something caught her eye. A figure was standing by a window on the top floor, watching her. It was hard to tell though. The sun was shining in her eyes. She stopped, brought her hand up to her forehead to shade her eyes. And now there was nothing. The person had melted back into the darkness. If that’s what it was.
*
Cressida paced behind her desk. She clapped her hands to the sides of her head and made an expression that reminded Astrid of Edvard Munch’s The Scream. ‘Noo…’ she moaned. ‘This is terrible.’
Astrid was sitting at the other side of the desk. ‘It’s not good.’
‘Not good? It’s a disaster.’ She slipped into her chair and stared at Astrid. ‘We’re just about to go into high season. That’s our peak footfall.’
‘I don’t think anyone is going to blame the Trust though.’
Cressida brightened. ‘Do you think so?’
‘Of course. It’s probably a tragic accident.’
‘But even an accident, that’s still not great.’ Cressida set off on a small circle of the room. By the time she came back to her chair, her good mood had disappeared again. ‘No, no. The Trust doesn’t do accidents. Accidents happen at those DIY places and out-of-town supermarkets.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ve seen the focus group data for words associated with the Trust. It’s things like “cosy” and “welcoming”. Not “tragic” and “death”.’
Astrid watched Cressida slump forward, the energy draining from her. Clearly, as far as Cressida was concerned, the reputation of Sherborne Hall, her precious job even, was on the line. ‘Listen, Cressida,’ she said, ‘I think it’s going to be okay. I mean, there is a warning sign in the icehouse.’
‘Is there?’
‘I’m pretty sure, yes. It says not to lean over the balcony. Which means—’
‘Which means,’ Cressida said, clapping her hands, ‘the Trust can’t be held responsible. If a visitor ignores the signage and starts clambering over railings, that’s not our fault.’ Cressida smiled. ‘Thanks, Astrid.’
‘No problem.’ Astrid glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘Well, it’s nearly five. If you don’t mind, I’ll head off.’
‘Yes, yes… and I’ll give the police your address, in case they need to speak to you.’
‘Of course.’ Astrid got up and pushed the chair back to the desk. ‘Oh, and can you tell them it’s a boat. It’s hard to find.’
‘You live on a boat?’
‘Yes… it’s a long story.’
10
Sunday, Day 5
Sunday at the apartment would generally be the same. A late breakfast with Simon – coffee, smoked salmon and bagels, Danish pastries from Borough Market. Then out to a gallery or museum. A walk in a park or along the river, back for a session in the gym then out for the evening. Sometimes they’d meet friends, usually his. Or it would be just the two of them – happy to have the chance to catch up. Talking about the week’s gossip in the department or the art they’d seen. However Simon dressed up this affair, he’d thrown away something amazing. And now she was facing a Sunday on her own. The first for years, and it made her feel hollow. Especially as this was the weekend of her surprise trip to Cyprus.
She wolfed down the last slice of pizza from the night before. She’d found it tucked away in the freezer cabinet of a nearby garage and heated it up under the grill. ‘Happy anniversary, Astrid,’ she said, wiping her hands on a tea towel.
At the apartment she’d probably spend a bit of time picking out an outfit. Doing her hair. Here in the boat, there didn’t seem any point. Cold pizza for breakfast, throw on some leisure gear – it didn’t seem to matter, somehow. Anyway, there was the icehouse mystery to investigate. In fact, it would be the perfect distraction from thinking about her failed marriage and her cheating scumbag of a husband.
Cressida clearly wanted to brush off the whole thing as an unfortunate accident. But after sleeping on it, Astrid now wasn’t sure. The metal rail was waist-high – tall enough to stop anyone toppling over. You’d have to lean right out. Or someone would have to give you a good shove from behind.
Astrid searched her work case and brought out a metal spoon and a small glass bottle of hydrochloric acid and the sample – that’s all she needed. She unfolded the receipt and carefully tipped the white dust into the bowl of the spoon. Next was the acid – five per cent should do it. A small bead of clear liquid dropped from the pipette in the stopper onto the sample and a second later the liquid fizzed and turned grey. It was chalk. Simple blackboard chalk.
Astrid swung open the cabin door and clambered up to the deck. The morning was as bright as a newly minted coin. The sun had burnt the mist off the water and the sky was azure blue. She spotted an old mountain bike tucked away behind some plant pots. Alright then, a long cycle ride it was. It would be a chance to think over a few things. She picked up the bike, lifted it over the rail and wheeled it along the boardwalk. Her mind tracked ahead. How had the chalk got onto DeVine’s jacket? Was it there before or after he fell? There didn’t seem to be anything chalky in the icehouse. The first thing to do then was find out who G. DeVine was.
As she reached the path, she remembered Kath saying she worked at a beach café at the weekend. Maybe she’d know? She seemed to know everyone round here. That night in the Angler’s Arms she was wearing a sweatshirt with ‘Shell Beach Café’ written on the front. It was sorted then, a leisurely cycle downhill to the coast in the morning. A bit more snooping around in the afternoon.
She straddled the bike and pushed off. It wobbled into the verge. Another try and she was soon lodged in the reeds on the other side. The last time she’d ridden a bike was when she was a kid. Apparently, the saying wasn’t true – it was something you could forget how to do.
She wheeled the bike past the boatyard, just in case Cobb was around, and tried again. The bikes at the gym were fixed to the floor and didn’t have gears to worry about. How did bike gears work again? She squeezed randomly at the controls. The pedals whirred round at high speed, the bike barely moving forward. Then they almost jammed, her legs straining to turn them over. Eventually she found a setting somewhere between the two and decided to not touch the gears again. That should cover most gradients, and she could get off and walk up any steep hills.
The path stuck with the river until if fanned out into the estuary. Then the trail veered off through a pine forest. Slowly it came back to her. The handlebars became steadier and she picked up speed. Dodging tree roots that ran like veins across the path. The tyres brudddering over fat pine cones. It was all a lot less relaxing than she’d imagined. On the gym bike you just watched the video screen. Here you had to keep checking the path in front of the wheels, and when you looked up the scenery was rushing towards you. Maybe she’d invest in a helmet.
Ten minutes later she emerged on open heath land. The track had changed. It was mostly rutted peat or white sand dotted with chunks of flint. She got off the bike and let it fall in the heather, which hummed with bees. The landscape slid away below her to the sea. It was criss-crossed with paths that knitted together copses of trees, grassy bogs and clouds of yellow gorse. Out beyond the heath was a vast bay broken up by wooded islands and swirling channels. In the distance a ferry set out across the neck of the bay. Another ferry, three times its size, ploughed through its wake on its way out to sea. At the other side of the channel a white building clung to the rocks. The perfect position for a hotel, if that’s what it was.
She inhaled deeply. The air was scented with pine sap and the sweet coconut smell of the gorse. So far she hadn’t managed to do much thinking about the case, as she’d now decided to call it. She’d been concentrating far too hard on not falling off. But the trip had been worth it for this.
She climbed back on the bike and followed a ridge to a crossroads. There was a wooden post with half a dozen signs pointing in different directions. Agglestone Rock, East Creech, Worth Matravers… the sort of place names you might find in Middle Earth. At the bottom was a sign for Shell Beach that aimed down the hill. She freewheeled onwards, and eventually ended in a gloomy gulley that led down to the sea. Either side were high banks of ferns, some with glistening olive tongues. Others were just bursting to life – their green knuckles unfurling from mounds of dead leaves.
The Shell Beach Café was at the bottom of the path, on the edge of the sand. It wasn’t much more than a wooden shack made of weathered wooden boards with a sailcloth awning. It leant slightly out to sea. As if it had been washed up on a storm tide and was yearning to set out over the waves again. At the front was a metal board with pictures of ice creams and lollies. There were tubs full of plastic spades, little colourful windmills that fluttered in the breeze, and fishing nets on bamboo canes. Kath was there, elbows on the counter, engrossed in a magazine.
‘Hi there.’
Kath looked up. ‘Hey – it’s you!’
‘I thought I’d find you here.’ She propped the bike by the side of the café.
Kathy dipped down below the counter and came up holding a can of orange Fanta and a red and blue chocolate bar with the word Chomp along the side. ‘There you go. On the house.’
‘That’s kind, thanks.’ She took them both as Kath raked down a tin shutter over the serving hatch.
Behind Astrid came a low ‘awww…’
A doughy boy was standing there. He was only wearing a pair of swimming shorts that were covered in wet sand. ‘It’s shut,’ he said.
‘You want this?’ Astrid held out the Chomp.
He curled his lower lip. ‘You got a Twirl?’
‘Do I look like Willy Wonka?’
The kid looked her up and down. ‘A little bit.’ He took the Chomp and padded off towards the beach.
Kathy appeared from the side door of the café. ‘Come on. Let’s get out of here.’
They walked together past a row of pastel-coloured beach huts and along the top of the dunes. It didn’t take long before the crowds thinned out. Most people, it seemed, had hit the sand and decided not to bother going any further. A hundred yards from the café and there were only a handful of people on the beach. They sat down in a hollow in the dunes and Astrid opened her can of Fanta, which said ‘not for sale individually’ on the side. It tasted tangy and sweet, and after the long cycle ride was just what she wanted. ‘Were you busy this morning, Kath?’
‘Could be busier. There’s another café round the corner. It’s English Trust. Everyone goes there.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Yeah, and it’s way more expensive. I don’t get it. People will pay five quid for a bag of fudge because it’s got a flippin’ oak leaf on it.’
‘Very odd.’
‘They’re squeezing the life out of the little guy if you ask me. It’s not right.’ She flipped off her sandals. ‘You should have a word with them when you’re down there.’
‘I’ll see what I can do, Kath.’ Astrid took off her shoes and worked her feet into the sand. It trickled between her toes like warm water. How had she forgotten how good that felt? Or this beach? She must have visited it with her uncle. Maybe it would come to her.
‘Oh, Kath…’ She might as well get it out of the way. ‘Do you know anyone called G. DeVine?’
‘Let me see. Err… yeah – that must be Gerald DeVine. He runs an antique shop in town. Don’t really know him though. Why do you want to know?’
Astrid had hoped Kath wouldn’t ask. She still hadn’t been honest about Simon and it didn’t seem right to add another lie to the pile. She knew how much being lied to hurt. But there again, she did need to buy some time to investigate before it got around the village. ‘Oh, I found his wallet at Sherborne Hall. I need to get it back to him.’
‘Got it. He owns DeVine’s Antiques. Near the church. You might catch him this afternoon if you’re quick.’
‘Thanks, I might head over later then.’ She gazed out at the sea. The wind was chasing ripples into the shallows. ‘So, Kath, this brother who owns the café. Are you close to him?’
‘Yeah – he’s good. I’ve got four brothers. Tons of uncles and aunts. Big, big family.’
‘That must be nice?’
‘It’s alright. Except everyone knows your screw-ups and won’t let you forget them. Oh, Kathy…’ She put on an accent that was even broader than her own. ‘Remember that time you set fire to the bins at school. Or, that time with the cow and the cider. Yeah, yeah…’ She chuckled to herself, the memory clearly coming back. ‘Anyways – what about you?’
‘I have a small family. It’s all a bit frosty to be honest.’
‘Go on.’
‘My father used to be an art dealer. I really like him, but he retired to Spain so I don’t see him these days. He sits around drinking wine and watching regimental marching bands on black and white VHS tapes. He fell out with my uncle ages ago. Don’t know why. That’s why he wasn’t in the will.’ She would never share this much personal information with a stranger. But Kath didn’t seem like she would judge anyone. ‘My mother lives in Northumberland in a big house in the country. Only talks to dogs – thinks they know what she’s saying. And some “little people” who come in to look after the house.’
‘Little people? Like Munchkins?’
‘No, local handymen who come in and fix the house. Plumbers, gardeners… that’s what she calls them – “her little people”. Anyway, I have a sister but we’re not really in touch. She sided with Dad when he left my mother… although we all know it was the “ghastly Jennifer’s” fault. That’s his second wife. She ran off a while ago.’
‘Right, well there you go.’ Kath smiled. ‘At least you’ve got your husband.’
Astrid pushed her heels out in the sand. A tiny landslide of sand slipped down the dune. It dragged a part of her with it. ‘Yes. At least I’ve got my husband.’
They talked a bit longer. More than Astrid had with anyone for a while. Then Kath got up and brushed the sand off her jeans. ‘Better get back. In case my brother shows up.’
*
Kath led the way through the dunes. Astrid hung back, dodging the sharp grass that poked through the sandy path. When they got to the café, Astrid knocked the sand out of her shoes and put them back on. Kath went in the side door and a moment later the shutter raked up. Down on the beach a few people heard the sound and wandered their way. The doughy boy rolled off an inflatable alligator and dodged ahead of them.
‘Thanks, Kath. See you later.’
‘You too.’
*
It took twice as long to get back. It was mostly uphill and the sun was beating down. Plus, she had to stop now and then to check the signposts. Even in broad daylight the rolling heath was disorientating. She arrived at the boat just before five, nipped in for a glass of water, then carried on into town on foot.
DeVine’s Antiques was down an alley near a car park in front of the church. The door was shut. The lights were off. She peered into the bay window that took up much of the width of the shop. Inside was a clutter of dark brown furniture and grandfather clocks. There were a few paintings on easels, mostly farming scenes. Nothing that looked too valuable – like everything else in the shop. On a table was a collection of bric-a-brac – copper candle snuffers, porcelain dogs, stone ginger beer bottles – the sort of stuff you might pick up in the closing-down sale of a faded seaside hotel. On the window ledge was a row of dusty crystal sherry glasses. A price tag tied to one of the stems said £3, which felt optimistic.
Astrid noticed a fly on the corner of the window that was tethered by a wisp of cobweb. It fizzed and spun, drawing the strand tighter. The light in the shop came on. There were footsteps from the other side of the door, a key shifting in the lock. She stepped back into the alley. One thing for sure, it wasn’t going to be Gerald DeVine.
