‘There were two of you?’
‘I was only there to help move the body. I didn’t do it. He did. I swear to God, it’s the truth.’
‘He drowned her in the swimming pool?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you both put her in the ocean?’
‘Yes.’
How the hell did he know so much?
‘Where?’ asked the fisherman.
‘Wiborg’s Beach. It’s—’
‘I know where it is.’
The fisherman tossed his cigarette aside, then used the workbench to help himself to his feet, his left knee stiff and straightened out.
‘Where’s your car, the black sedan?’
‘Why?’
‘Where’s the car?’
‘Down the highway. There’s a track.’
‘Where are you staying?’
‘The Sea Spray Inn.’
‘Room number?’
‘It’s a cottage—number four. Why?’
‘Is this the key?’
He recognized the signs; the fisherman was making plans for his disappearance.
‘Look, I’ve been straight with you, I can help you, I can finger the guy who did it.’
‘Is this the key?’
‘Yes, it’s the key.’
The fisherman took a couple of steps towards him. ‘I was at Wiborg’s Beach,’ he said. ‘You carried her through the bushes on the right and up the dune. You stopped for a rest then you dragged her backwards down on to the beach.’
How in the hell did he know so much? Flattery suddenly seemed like a good idea.
‘I’m impressed.’
‘I’m not,’ said the fisherman. ‘There was only one set of footprints in the sand.’
It took the man a moment to realize that he’d been led by the hand to his own doom, that there was never going to be any other outcome.
‘Fuck you and fuck your half-wit friend,’ he said.
The fisherman stepped on the end of the pole. The dull pain in the man’s side exploded into life and he screamed.
‘Go on, do it,’ he spat. ‘You’re no better than me, you just don’t know it.’
‘You’re wrong,’ said the fisherman as the gun came up. ‘I do know it.’
Thirty-Five
Gayle Wallace rose late. She pulled on her swimsuit and a pair of sandals, slipped a loose cotton gown around her shoulders and headed downstairs.
She could hear voices in the study, her father discussing the business of the past week with Manfred and Richard, bringing them up to speed. He was excited about a new idea, something to do with water; she hadn’t been paying too much attention during the drive up the previous evening.
Rosa had cleared the breakfast things away, but had left the coffee percolator primed beside the stove.
Gayle made her way across the lawn to the pool. Cup of coffee, cigarettes, lighter and a towel—the same trappings, the same routine every Saturday of the summer.
She was thinking about Justin, and about what dress to wear to dinner at the Maidstone Club that evening, when she reached the poolside.
She didn’t scream. But she did drop the cup. And she did run.
Manfred had to concede it; it was a damned good idea of his father’s. Two years of low rainfall had placed the city’s water supply under enormous strain. An obvious way to combat the shortage was by introducing water meters, which meant only one thing—someone had to manufacture them.
They were discussing the relative merits of taking a stake in the Buffalo Meter Company or the Pittsburgh Equitable Meter Company when Gayle burst in on them, dressed for a swim.
‘There’s a man in the pool,’ she gasped.
