The Trawlerman

And . . .
— It did?
— Yes.
— And do you still feel like that? Do you think something bad is about to happen now?

Five
It was not hard to find the murder house, cycling home. It was just north of the village; a police car was parked across the driveway, blocking the entrance. The house was surrounded by high, well-trimmed hedges at the front and to the north, as much for privacy, she guessed, as to keep out the constant winds that winter brought to this flat land. To the south there was a small copse of scrubby willows and ash trees. She slowed on the single-track road and stopped just behind the car.
Dropping the bike onto the grass, she walked up towards the driveway, the pedal cleats on her shoes clicking on the tarmac. A small, tarnished copper sign on the open gate announced the house was named ‘The Nest’. Looking down the drive, she could see that the space to the left of the house was crammed with vehicles. The forensic teams would be inside the house, carefully picking over everything.
‘Can I help you?’ The young constable sitting inside the car had seen her peering past.
‘Pretty grim in there, I expect?’
‘Are you a friend or a neighbour?’ he asked.
‘No . . . just passing,’ she said.
‘Right,’ said the man, looking at her with the contempt coppers feel for rubberneckers. ‘On your bike, love.’
‘On my bike?’ she said. ‘Seriously?’
Instead of staying to argue, she turned away because a gangly young man had emerged behind the large cypress hedge, phone against one ear. It was Colin Gilchrist. Not wanting to be recognised lurking at a murder scene, she picked up the bike and pushed it on up the road.
She had walked about thirty metres the far side of the gate when a Qashqai coming from the other direction pulled up alongside her on the lane.
‘Flat tyre?’ A red-faced man leaned out of the window. ‘Want me to help?’
Woman on her own, dressed in Lycra. ‘No. I’m fine,’ she said.
‘Take off the front tyre. We can bung it in the boot. I’ll give you a ride if you like.’
‘You don’t know where I’m headed.’
‘Nor you me,’ he said.
‘You pick up a lot of women this way?’
He looked offended. ‘I was trying to help. It’s not safe around here. Haven’t you heard?’ He put his hands back on the steering wheel, ready to drive away.
‘Heard what?’
‘About the killings? Didn’t you see the police back there? He was a member of my golf club,’ he said.
‘Who was?’
‘Ayman. The man who was slaughtered with his wife. In that house just there.’ He pointed back towards the high hedges. ‘Sweetest people. Some bloody lunatic.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Friend in the police.’
‘Golf club?’
The man frowned. ‘Yes, actually. So like I said. It’s not safe for you around here, OK?’ Offended, he drove away. Alex stood for a minute, then pushed the bike off and swung her other leg over onto the pedal.
When she reached Five Vents Lane, she couldn’t help feeling that the darkness in that house was chasing after her; that this would not be the end of it.
At Burmarsh church, she stopped and drank from her water bottle. Inside the cool of the Norman arch, a pointy-toothed imp scowled down at her. The noticeboard said the church was four metres below sea level. She could imagine the weight of water this land was holding back. A certainty of bad things about to get worse.
Suddenly weary, she lay down on the grass and sorrel. Had she slept badly last night? She tried to remember the night, but it was a blur.
‘Hey.’
She was almost home when she heard the voice and braked.
Jill was sat at one of the wooden tables outside the Snack Shack, a converted freight container that became a pop-up restaurant during summer months.
‘What are you doing here, Jill?’
Tourists in swimming trunks lounged in deckchairs, eating fish perched on their bellies. ‘Came to see you, obviously. Hadn’t eaten all day, and now I’ve just scarfed a plate of chips. Colin Gilchrist says he saw you. At the house.’
Alex nodded. ‘Did he? I was passing.’
‘Hell you were, Alex.’
‘I was curious. That’s all.’
‘You’re supposed to be protecting yourself from all this shit so you can get better, and here you are noseying around like you’re still on duty.’
Alex propped her bike against the table and sat down. ‘I was going to my counsellor, that’s all. It was on the way back.’
‘I was worried you weren’t going to go. How was it?’
‘Yeah. Well. Early days.’
‘Course, that house is only on the way if you take a detour.’
‘I’m still a police officer. I’m interested, that’s all.’
Jill grunted. ‘Want to finish my chips? I can’t eat them all. I’m stuffed.’
‘Poor lamb,’ said Alex, leaning over to take one. ‘Let me help.’
Jill stood to buy another bottle of water. A dad, eating a fisherman’s roll with his kids, looked up as she passed, followed each step of her walk across the shingle, oblivious to his wife next to him.
‘How’s Zoë?’ Jill asked when she was back.
‘I barely see her. She’s clearing grass to let the orchids grow, apparently.’
‘She’s got a job?’
‘Of course not. She’s just volunteering.’
Curly appeared, trudging up across the beach towards them in a pair of wellingtons that had been worn so thin in places you could see the canvas that held them together. From his right arm a large fish dangled; he had one finger slipped through the gill for purchase.
‘Good day?’
‘Bass,’ he grinned. ‘Big bugger. Caught three. This one’s for Tina and her . . . you know, wife.’ As if he found the phrase slightly awkward to say. ‘See if they want it for their supper.’
‘Thought you were only allowed to take one.’
‘Yeah. Obviously.’ He grinned shyly. ‘I wouldn’t go telling a copper if I kept the others for myself. I chucked them back.’
‘Believe that, you’ll believe anything,’ muttered Jill.
‘Hope you bloody did, Curly.’
‘Is Tina OK – after what happened?’ Jill asked.
‘Bit shaken up. She’s mentally ill, that Hogben