The Trawlerman, стр. 50
‘Seven years. No, eight. I lived in Folkestone for a while, but didn’t like the gentrification.’
‘Whereas here it’s much more ghetto.’
He laughed. ‘Here I can ignore every else. I needed to be away from all temptation. What are your plans? If you aren’t doing anything, I’d love to teach you golf.’
‘That is never going to happen,’ she said.
Still undressed, he pulled up Venetian blinds and the sunlight streamed into the window. It felt like anyone who was on the beach would be able to see this man she had just slept with.
‘You drunk, last night?’ she said.
‘I was. You were in shock.’
‘We probably shouldn’t have done that, then.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘We probably shouldn’t. I don’t regret it for a second, though. Do you?’
At that point her stomach rebelled. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, standing.
‘What’s wrong?’
She got up and went to the toilet and threw the coffee she had just drunk straight back up again.
When she returned to the bedroom he was wearing a blue towelling robe and a concerned expression on his face. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Sorry. Flashbacks.’ When she had been younger, sex had been a way of forgetting things. That no longer seemed to apply. The vision of Bob Glass’s faceless face had haunted her through the night, and continued to do so now. ‘It was pretty horrid, what I saw.’
He nodded. ‘I’m sorry. I feel like a shit now. As if I’d somehow taken advantage of you.’
She laughed. ‘How very fucking gallant of you.’ He looked stung. ‘You were the one who was drunk, Terry. I knew exactly what I was doing, and no, I don’t have any regrets.’
He looked relieved. Her mouth tasted vile. ‘Do you have a toothbrush I can borrow?’
‘Of course.’ He went to the bathroom and returned with a bamboo one, still in its box. She raised her eyebrows at him as he handed it over. ‘I know what you’re thinking. I am not a saint. You are not the first woman I’ve slept with here, but no, I don’t keep a special supply of toothbrushes just in case. I buy them for myself in packs of four.’
She showered, then returned to the bedroom and held the toothbrush out to him.
‘I’ll keep it in the drawer. For next time.’
‘Next time?’ she said.
‘It’s an aspiration, not an assumption.’
‘You could write my name on it, to make sure it doesn’t get mixed up with any of the other ones from the other ladies who visit.’
He took it. ‘I’ll be sure to do that. After all, there must be hundreds of brushes with names on it in a drawer in that bathroom now.’
She laughed. ‘Hundreds, I’m sure of it.’
‘I hope there is a next time, that’s all.’
She didn’t answer. ‘Do you believe in ghosts, Terry?’
‘No. Why do you ask?’
‘You lived in Folkestone. Did you ever go and buy fish at The Stade?’
‘All the time. I still do.’
‘Do you remember a story about a fisherman called Frank Hogben? He disappeared at sea.’
‘The trawler guy? The family had that chip shop?’
Alex nodded.
‘I remember Frank Hogben, yes. That was a story. They had a picture of him in the shop for ages, with flowers and everything. I remember. God, yes. I used to buy fish from him. And . . .’
‘And what?’
‘Oh, you know . . .’ His voice went quieter now. ‘Other things.’
‘Did you? What things?’ she asked, checking her phone for messages from Zoë.
‘You’re a police officer. The kind of things you shouldn’t talk to police officers about.’
She looked at him. There was an anxiety in his expression that she hadn’t noticed before. ‘Oh. I see.’ She put two and two together. ‘The drugs, you mean?’
He looked down, put his hands in his pockets.
‘He was your drug dealer?’
‘A drug dealer, not my drug dealer. I had a few. I am just trying to be honest with you.’
‘Frank Hogben was a drug dealer?’ She frowned. ‘Heroin?’
‘That’s right. Are you OK?’
She nodded slowly, still processing what she had heard.
‘What do you want to do today?’
She pulled on her trousers. ‘I’m sorry. I have to go somewhere.’
‘What if we met later? We could go to a nice restaurant somewhere? Zoë could come.’
‘I don’t have a good record with restaurants.’
‘No. Maybe not. Maybe just get together some other time?’
‘Maybe, Terry. Maybe. Is it OK if I leave my bike here?’ She was already dialling an Uber.
Thirty-seven
It was one of the two-storey terraced houses in Albion Road; an unprepossessing building with a green bin outside and a bay window that had sagged towards the pavement over the years. There were streets like this in every English town; the ones built right onto the pavement, without the fancy Victorian terracotta or brickwork, render streaked with rust from old satellite dishes.
Alex rang the bell, hearing a buzz somewhere inside the house.
Tina emerged dressed in a black top and skirt, smiled, then called back down the hall. ‘Zoë. It’s your mother.’ Then, ‘How are you? Zoë says you’ve been having hard times.’
‘Where’s Stella?’
‘Gone to her shop. Why?’
‘I wanted to ask you something, Tina. About your husband.’
Her eyes flickered down towards the pavement.
‘You were asking Stella about him, weren’t you?’ Her voice was paper-thin.
‘What if he didn’t die on the boat?’
She remained, staring at her own feet. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. He went missing.’
‘Tina. There’s something wrong here. I know there is.’
Tina raised her head and looked Alex uncertainly in the eye. ‘Why?’
‘What did you know about your husband selling drugs?’
She said nothing, shook her head gently.
‘You see, I think it was convenient for him to disappear.’
‘No comment,’ she whispered.
‘This isn’t a cross-examination, Tina. I’m not trying to get you into trouble. Exactly the opposite, I promise.’
‘What are you on about, Mum?’ Zoë emerged from down the hallway in the same shorts and baggy T-shirt she had been wearing the day before.
‘I was just asking if you’d been any trouble,’ said Alex smoothly.
‘Why would I be trouble?’
‘She’s welcome here any time,’ said Tina.
Zoë put her arms around Tina and hugged her, then stepped