Devils way, p.2
Devil's Way, page 2
‘Can you please tell me why you have been sitting outside my house since three o’clock this morning?’ the woman demanded. ‘Well?’ She spoke grandly and seemed to emphasise random words. Up close her face was covered in thick, pale foundation, and she’d overdrawn her lips in scarlet. The crown of tight jet-black curls on her head reminded Tristan of a glistening plate of winkles. He wondered if it was a wig or a terrible dye job. He glanced back at the yellow front door, which remained closed. Tristan had been parked on Walker Avenue since 11pm. He’d moved the car twice, coming to settle outside this lady’s house an hour before she’d noticed him, at 2am. A car drove past, and an elderly man came out of a front door further down on the opposite side of the road, followed by an equally elderly brown dog.
‘I’m waiting for someone,’ said Tristan, adding, ‘This is a public street.’
The woman’s eyebrows shot up.
‘For your information, this is a private residential street. Why are you parked outside my house?’
‘Because there was a parking space free,’ said Tristan, trying not to lose his rag with this rather insane-looking busybody.
She pursed her lips and came closer, dipping down to peer into his car. The seat next to Tristan was littered with empty sandwich packets and a long lens camera. There was a bottle of peach iced tea in the cupholder, but it no longer held iced tea after Tristan had been forced to pee in it at half past four in the morning.
‘You look fishy. Like you’re up to no good. Are you a journalist?’
Just then, Tristan saw the yellow front door open, and Terrance Trent emerged, walking at a pace with the young woman on his arm. He was dressed in a sharp blue pinstripe suit. The woman wore the same white mini dress, high heels, and fur coat she’d been wearing at eleven o’clock last night. ‘I know everything that goes on around here,’ the woman boomed. ‘I am chairlady of the local neighbourhood watch.’
Tristan’s heart plummeted in his chest. He wanted to pick up the camera and get the photo, but it was too risky. If this old bag twigged he was a private detective, she could tip off Terrance and tell him he was under surveillance, which would mean losing a hefty fee for the agency. Terrance and the young woman got into his car and then drove off in the opposite direction.
Tristan sighed and sank back into his seat.
‘Well? What do you have to say for yourself?’ said the woman.
‘I work for the council. I’m checking no one is leaving wheelie bins out after collection,’ he said.
‘Ah,’ said the woman, smiling and nodding approvingly. She tapped the side of her nose and seemed to accept this explanation. She leaned closer. ‘There are a group of students opposite, number four, who a very guilty of that and deserve a fixed penalty notice,’ she said.
‘Number four,’ said Tristan.
‘And of course, my wheelie bin goes out less than an hour before collection, and I whisk it back inside the moment it’s emptied.’
‘That’s good to hear.’
Terrance Trent worked all day, so he was unlikely to be home before the evening. Tristan looked up and down the street, smiled, and thanked the zealous informer. When he started the engine and pulled out onto the street. He could see the woman in the rear-view mirror, watching as he drove away.
2
When Kate opened her eyes, she was in a small hospital room. The bed she lay in seemed surrounded by white, and it was swaying. Her throat felt sore and her skin clammy. She moved her head, and pain exploded like the worst hangover. Did I drink? Please, no, she thought. She took some deep breaths, but it felt like an effort, and there was a wet rattling in her chest.
And then it came back to her. She hadn’t fallen off the wagon after thirteen years of sobriety. Her last memory had been the sheer panic that she would drown. Kate shifted in the bed and saw a drip in her arm and wires attached to her chest. A forest of coloured lines was moving silently across the screen of a heart monitor on the right-hand side of the bed. The relief that she hadn’t drunk was replaced by the memory of being dragged down into the water.
A row of glass windows looked out onto a corridor outside, and a doctor appeared in the open doorway and knocked on the frame. He looked young, in his late twenties, with thick dark hair and glasses. He smiled.
‘Hello, Kate,’ he said, coming into the room and standing at the end of her bed. The way he said her name made Kate think they knew each other.
‘Hello,’ she tried to say, but her voice came out in a croak. She swallowed, but her throat felt dry and filled with needles.
‘You’ve been unconscious for some time. We had you in intensive care,’ said the doctor. He took the clipboard with her chart off the end of the bed, flipping over the pages. Kate rubbed at her throat and swallowed, wincing. The bed seemed to rock and shift underneath her. ‘You had seawater in your lungs. We had to intubate,’ he added. She coughed, which seemed to activate a dull thudding pain to add to the symphony in her head.
‘How long is some time?’
‘Almost twenty-four hours,’ he said. The closed curtain on Kate’s right billowed out, and she heard murmured voices from the other side. It opened a crack, and a nurse put her head through.
‘Sorry, Doctor Harris, do you have a minute? Mrs Julings is, out of sorts,’ she said. He put down the clipboard on the bed, nodded and followed her through the gap. The nurse gave her a nod and closed the curtain behind them. Kate leant forward to reach for the clipboard, but the exertion made her dizzy. She lay back, sweating and breathless. The doctor and nurse spoke softly from the other side of the curtain, and an older woman’s shrill voice cut through.
‘Doctor, please, give me something stronger. They bloody hurt. You can look at them for as long as you want, but it’s not stopping the pain!’
Kate’s nose seemed to reboot, and she caught a nasty smell of pus, and then the other hospital aromas seemed to flood her senses; disinfectant, floor polish and another clinical funk that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. She jumped when the woman screamed.
‘Christ! Warn me next time!’
‘Please, Jean. Calm down. The doctor will be all done in a moment,’ said the nurse in a sing-song voice.
‘Don’t you tell me to calm down!’
‘Okay. Jean, we’re all done,’ said Dr Harris.
‘Please. Cover me up. Even the air on them hurts,’ moaned the woman in a desperate voice. There was some more shuffling, and then Dr Harris slid back through the curtain, followed by the nurse carrying a cardboard bowl filled with soiled dressings. Kate caught a glimpse through the gap of a tiny woman with a fuzz of treacle-coloured hair barely clinging to her head, sitting back in the bed with a sheen of sweat over her face.
‘Where were we?’ he said, coming back around the bed. The nurse left the room, and the smell of pus and infection wafted over them with an eye-watering intensity. Kate swallowed with difficulty as he pulled a tiny pen torch out of his pocket and shone the light in her eyes. It seemed to blaze against the back of her head. Dr Harris seemed satisfied and pocketed the torch.
‘You have the beginnings of a lung infection, pneumonia, which would be expected after the water in your lungs. We have you on a very strong course of intravenous antibiotics, and we need to keep monitoring you for a few days,’ he said, indicating the screen Kate was hooked up to. She could still see the blaze of gold from the torch.
‘How did I get here?’ she asked, suddenly putting together the memory of the riptide, being pulled out to sea. ‘And where is here?’
‘Ah, I think you were pulled out by a couple of surfers?’ he said, consulting the chart again. ‘I believe they called the emergency services.’
‘Which emergency services?’
‘The lifeboat.’
Kate felt mortified, hearing this. ‘Who were the surfers?’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t know. But you were very fortunate.’
Kate saw her mobile phone sitting on the top of the cabinet next to a box of tissues and some water bottles. Dr Harris followed her gaze.
‘Your son has been here whilst you were unconscious.’
‘Jake is here? He’s flown home?’
Dr Harris hesitated.
‘I don’t know. There was a chap called Tristan here, is he not your son?’
‘That’s my business partner,’ said Kate. ‘Does my son know I’m okay?’
‘I’m sure the nursing staff will have been in contact with your next of kin.’ Dr Harris looked at her chart again. ‘I see that your occupation is private detective. That’s a first. I’ve never treated a private detective before,’ he said, looking down at her with a smile. ‘I’ll check on you again in a few hours. You’re doing well, but you can’t mess about with pneumonia. It can quickly turn nasty.’
Kate felt emotion overwhelm her. Hot tears coursed down her face, and then, without warning, a massive slick of snot ran down her chin. Dr Harris offered the box of tissues from the tall cabinet, and Kate took one, pressing it to her face. He nodded awkwardly and left the room. Kate reached for another tissue, but she was hit by dizziness and nausea. She lay back, panting and sweating, and stared up at the ceiling. Sea swimming was something she did every day. What happened? How could she have been so stupid as to get caught by a riptide?
3
It was a busy Friday night, and Ashdean seafront was crawling with noisy teenagers on their way out. Tristan sat in his car on the promenade outside his flat, feeling exhausted. He’d been awake for more than two days and couldn’t summon the energy to get out and cross the pavement to his front door. For a moment, he watched the Ferris wheel on the pier. It had a large video screen in the centre, with psychedelic patterns whirling as it spun, criss-crossing like a crazy cartoon eye. It went in and out of focus as his eyes drooped.
He’d arrived at Kate’s house just as she was being carried off the beach on a stretcher, and he watched for a long, terrifying two minutes as the paramedics fought to restart her heart.
Tristan and Kate had grown close over seven years working together, first when she had taken him on as her research assistant at the university when she lectured in criminology, and then as her partner in their burgeoning detective agency. He’d spent the day at the hospital, and relayed the good news to Kate’s mother, Glenda, that Kate was out of intensive care and stable, and now the adrenalin that had kept him going all day after no sleep had drained away.
There was a bang on the car window, and Tristan jumped, opening his eyes. A group of teenagers were walking past, dressed up for a night trawling the bars in Ashdean, and one of the young guys grinned and then gave him the middle finger. His mates all laughed, carrying on along the promenade towards the pier. Tristan picked up his phone and dragged himself out of the car.
When he opened the front door to his flat, he was met by his sister, Sarah, putting her finger to her lips.
‘I just put Leo down,’ she said in an exaggerated stage whisper. Tristan followed her into the living room, where baby clothes and nappies were piled everywhere. Sarah’s husband, Gary, was redecorating their new house, so Sarah and nine-month-old Leo had come to stay for a few days. He saw that Sarah had a cup of herbal tea and her Kindle on the coffee table. ‘I’m keeping the telly off because the walls here are paper-thin. I’d forgotten how you can hear every noise. Doesn’t it drive you mad?’
‘I don’t really notice it,’ said Tristan in a low voice. He went to the dark kitchen, opened the fridge and took out a beer. When he turned around, Sarah was standing in the doorway. The light illuminated the room, and he saw that everything had been cleaned and reorganised, just like when Sarah had lived with him before she met Gary.
‘Have you eaten, Tris?’ she said, continuing with the stage whisper. He glanced back into the fridge. The top shelf was now filled with jars of baby food.
‘Not yet.’
‘I thought you might have grabbed something. That’s why I closed up the kitchen,’ said Sarah, pulling an awkward face. The clock was ticking loudly. Tristan was about to say something when they heard the next-door neighbour slamming their door. It wasn’t loud, but a moment later, there was a wail from upstairs as Leo woke up.
‘For fuck’s sake!’ hissed Sarah. ‘I just got him down!’ Fuming, she went stomping off up the stairs. Tristan sighed, opened the freezer, and dug out a pack of potato waffles. He put four into the toaster and went into the living room with his beer.
A couple of minutes later, Sarah came downstairs carrying Leo, whose face was bright red as he cried. Putting down the beer, he held out his arms, and Sarah handed him over.
Tristan sat down on the sofa and jiggled the little boy on his lap.
‘What’s wrong with our little Leo?’ he said, peering at him and pulling a funny face. Leo abruptly stopped crying and regarded him thoughtfully, and then his little red face broke into a gummy grin. He gave a final blast of crying, hiccupped and began playing with his T-shirt material. Leo traced his tiny fingers across the tattoos on Tristan’s forearms, and the black band tattoo on his left tricep.
‘He’s always so calm around you, Tris,’ said Sarah. The toaster popped up in the kitchen.
‘They pick up on your emotions – in general, I mean,’ Tristan added quickly.
‘I’m just scared of doing it wrong,’ said Sarah. She held out her finger, and Leo grabbed it. Tristan looked at her tired face. She’d been pregnant twice before Leo, losing the babies at three months and then four. Her third pregnancy with Leo had been stressful and complicated and, now, nine months on, she was still a nervous wreck, thinking she might do something wrong.
‘You’ve already done the hard work, making him. And what a perfect little boy. They broke the mould with you, Leo, didn’t they?’ said Tristan.
‘He won’t stop crying. He cries all the time. The doctor says he’s fine, but…’
‘Sarah. Babies cry, dogs poop, water is wet, and the world keeps turning.’
She was silent and then nodded.
‘Yes. I know.’
‘You know what else people do?’
‘What?’
‘Eat. My potato waffles just popped up.’ He grinned, tilting his head towards the kitchen door. Sarah smiled and rolled her eyes.
‘Do you want brown sauce?’
‘That would be divine.’
Tristan ate with Leo sleeping on his shoulder, and he told her about his day and what had happened to Kate. Sarah listened gravely.
‘She’s lucky there was someone there in the water. I’m glad she’s okay,’ she said.
‘Are you?’ he said, raising an eyebrow. Sarah had never liked Kate and took every opportunity to comment on her. She pulled an indignant face.
‘I might not be her greatest fan, but I draw the line at wanting her to drown.’
‘That’s nice of you,’ said Tristan.
‘Although, haven’t I always said it’s dangerous to swim around there? Does she take a proper float with her? Like the one Pamela Anderson had in Baywatch.’
‘I was never really into Pamela Anderson,’ said Tristan, keeping hold of the sleeping Leo as he leant forward to put his empty plate on the coffee table.
‘I’m sure if Kate had had one of those red floats, then she wouldn’t have got into trouble,’ said Sarah.
‘Kate’s a strong swimmer.’
‘Yes, but how old is she? Fifty?’
‘She’s forty-seven.’
‘Is she? She looks a lot older… I suppose you’ll have to pick up the slack at the agency now that she’s out of action? And what about the caravan site? This is your busiest time, with the summer holidays coming up. Is Jake coming back from university to help out?’
Thankfully, Kate also owned the caravan park opposite her house, and the income from it was used to prop up the agency in lean times.
‘No. We’ve got the manager now for the caravan site. As far as I know Jake’s staying in California for the summer.’
Sarah raised an eyebrow.
‘What do you mean, as far as you know? Did you tell him about Kate?’
‘I don’t have his number. I spoke to Kate’s mum, and she said she’d keep him updated.’
Sarah looked back at Leo.
‘That’s another of my fears, that Leo will grow up to hate me,’ she said.
‘I don’t think Jake hates Kate.’
‘But they have an awkward relationship. His father is a convicted serial killer. Kate lost custody of him when he was small, because of her drink problems.’
‘Kate’s mum looked after him.’
‘Yes, but she still lost custody.’
‘No, Kate and Jake are okay, now,’ said Tristan.
‘Are they? Why did he choose to go to university in America?’
‘I don’t know, Sarah. Lots of people study abroad.’
Sarah nodded. Tristan could tell she was in the mood to pick at Kate.
‘How many cases have you got on the go?’ she asked.
‘We’re busy,’ lied Tristan. The number of cases they had on the go was always a worry. There never seemed to be enough. He thought about returning tonight to try again to get a photo of Terrance Trent, but he knew he had to sleep.
Leo shifted, and the warmth of the little body on his shoulder and the soft baby smell reminded Tristan of how exhausted he was.
‘Have you managed to sort things out with your friend, Ade?’ asked Sarah.
‘No.’
‘That’s a shame. I like him. I suppose it’s awkward when your friend gets drunk and then makes a pass at you.’
Tristan nodded. ‘He’s got issues with the booze and post-traumatic stress from his work in the police. I just feel sad about it all, really.’
‘He’s a lot older than you. And you are so out of his league.’
‘Sarah, that’s not nice.’
‘You’re a catch. You should see how many heads you turn when we go out. I just want you to find someone, like I found Gary.’
‘I’m not really looking, right now.’
‘Oh. Can I ask you something?’
‘What do you mean? You’ve been firing questions at me since I got home. I feel like a contestant on a gameshow. You don’t want to set me up on a date again, do you?’ said Tristan, his heart sinking at the thought.
