The Trawlerman, стр. 39
‘I’ll wear suntan lotion, Mum, I promise. And a hat.’
‘I want you to do me a favour,’ Alex said casually.
‘What?’
‘I want you to tell Kenny Abel to meet me for a drink. Tomorrow at half past nine. At the pub.’ As she said it, she opened the lid of Bill South’s bin and peered in. It was completely empty.
‘What?’
So was the recycling box. But the refuse lorries had only come on Monday so maybe there was nothing out of the ordinary about that.
‘Mum? Are you still there?’
She would stop by again in the morning. There would be a simple explanation for his absence, she assured herself.
Twenty-eight
Each minute ticked past more slowly.
At her desk first thing on Wednesday, Alex left four messages for Bill South; there had been no sign of him when she left for work this morning, either. She called Jill three times and each time it went to voicemail. And the work was not enough to hold her attention. She spent the afternoon distractedly learning how to explore the granularity of the crime data they compiled, looking at it by date and location, trying to see what the men in the room next to hers were seeing in it. She was used to crime as unfolding narrative, not as plain numbers. She was logging off her computer when Jill finally called back, apologising.
‘Can you help me do something tonight?’
‘What?’
‘It’s about the Younis killings.’
She heard her friend sigh. ‘Whatever it is, no.’
‘Please. It’s important. I think I’ve got something major.’
‘Even if I didn’t have a Bumble date tonight with a very nice-looking man in the Ashford Fire Service, I can’t, Alex. McAdam has had a word with us. He knows you’re . . . kind of interested in the murders and he’s told us all to avoid talking to you about them.’
‘He what?’
‘I’m sorry, Alex. He says it’s for your own good. I mean . . . I can see that, too. Besides, it’s operational stuff. I can’t share it with you.’
She thought of how she had told off Colin Gilchrist for leaking details of the case; it came as a shock to realise how much on the outside of this she was now. Like Georgia Coaker, she was someone who didn’t have the right to know all the facts. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘I get it.’
She wished Jill luck on her date, because despite being young and beautiful and clever, she never seemed to have any, and ended the call.
‘Everything all right?’ asked one of the beards, popping his head around the door before he left for the day.
‘Peachy,’ she said.
At half past nine, Kenny Abel was there, standing outside the Romney Hotel looking apprehensive.
‘And you want me to look and see . . . you know. If I see souls again?’
Alex checked her watch. ‘I’ll buy you that drink.’
The bar was surprisingly empty. It was a hot night. Everyone was outside in the beer garden at the back. She ordered an alcohol-free lager because she needed a clear head; he asked for a pint of Bishop’s Finger. ‘Was that what you were drinking on the night?’
‘What is this? A crime scene re-creation?’
‘Just it’s pretty strong.’ She checked the pump clip. ‘Five-point-four per cent.’
‘I know exactly what I saw.’ When the drinks were poured, she led him out to the back of the pub. A summer weekend had started; the working week was over and the beer garden was packed. The air was thick with smoke and the scent of barbecues. Sleepy-looking children sat with Cokes and crisps while their parents chatted and joked. The multiple murder that had shocked everyone a fortnight ago seemed to have been forgotten. Other people reverted to normal so easily, she thought; unlike herself.
There was nowhere to sit, so they stood at the far end of the garden, looking north, towards the Younises’ house, obscured by a line of trees.
‘Mind if I smoke?’
‘That’s what you were doing a week ago . . . Go ahead.’
He put his drink down on a nearby table and pulled out a tobacco tin.
‘I doubt you know it, but your daughter knows more about the wildlife round here than most people twice her age.’
‘It’s nothing she gets from me.’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘You seem pretty obsessional too.’
A group of young men in brightly coloured rugby shirts, white collars all turned up, laughed abruptly at something. ‘Is that what I am?’
‘Don’t take offence. Nothing would happen in this world if it weren’t for people like you and her.’
‘Halfway through the dullest week of my life, I suppose that’s a nice thing to hear.’
‘You’ll miss her when she’s gone, I expect.’
Alex turned to him. ‘What do you mean, gone?’
A blush rose in his face. ‘Nothing,’ he mumbled.
‘She’s been talking to you about leaving home, hasn’t she?’
‘I’m just guessing,’ he said, but too hurriedly. ‘I mean. She’s eighteen in a while. She’ll probably want a place of her own.’
She turned her head away. ‘Of course,’ she said, though the thought of her daughter wanting to leave and live on her own had never entered her head before. ‘What has she been saying?’
He shook his head. ‘Bits, you know. Just chat.’ He pulled out an orange plastic lighter and lit the cigarette. Alex was stung. It was not just that her daughter had wanted to leave home; it was that she would discuss it with this man, rather than with her.
‘You’ve been ill then, I heard,’ he said.
Again she turned to him; she could feel his nervousness under her glare. ‘She talks about that, then, too? I suppose she said she’s worried about me and won’t leave until I’m better.’
He fell silent now.
‘I’m fine now, as a matter of fact. I’m feeling much better. I’m back at work.’
Kenny nodded. ‘Right.’
‘She’s a sweet girl,’ said Alex. ‘But sometimes she gets things out of proportion.’
Kenny raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. Alex