What would he have done next? Strolled up on to the beach, probably, to check the coast was clear. Returning to the car, he would then have shouldered the body and hurried as best he could towards the breach in the dune. No. This would leave him vulnerable for—what?—thirty or forty seconds, prey to the headlights of an approaching vehicle. Far better to cut through the undergrowth on the right. It offered perfect cover. If he happened to be surprised he could easily drop out of sight and hide there, undetected, until the danger had passed.
Conrad pushed his way through the hawthorn and dogwood, the thin, poor soil underfoot giving way to sand as he neared the back of the dune. He swept the rise with the beam of the flashlight, but the dense carpet of beach grass concealed any tracks there might have been leading up the incline.
The crest of the dune, however, was bald of any vegetation, and he found what he was looking for almost immediately; so quickly, in fact, that at first he doubted what he was seeing.
There was a shallow but distinct patch of flattened sand where the killer had laid her on the ground after the climb—carefully, no doubt, so as not to mark the body. Indistinct footprints disturbed the area around.
If this had been the movies he would have discovered a cigarette butt nearby—some rare Turkish brand that would identify the culprit. But all Conrad could see were two tracks in the crusty, wind-packed sand leading down the face of the dune on to the beach.
The scene presented itself to him: the killer hooking his arms beneath hers and hauling her backwards down the dune, her heels furrowing the sand in neat, straight lines.
The tracks led out across the beach a short distance before dissolving in the swathe of disturbed sand where others had strolled in the intervening days.
He carried on past to the water’s edge.
The waves were breaking low and clean to the east, their curling crests catching the light of the moon—strips of silver traveling gently along the shore.
So this was it, the place. He must have drenched himself in the process, dragging her out there beyond the break.
He had thought in terms of just one killer up until now, finding it easier to focus his confusion, his hatred, on an individual rather than a cast of conspirators. It was now clear he’d been right to do so. The lone set of footprints flanking the furrows confirmed it.
He wandered back to the dune, settled himself down and rolled a cigarette. His Zippo wouldn’t light, out of gas, and he slipped the smoke into his shirt pocket.
He laid his hand on the sand, feeling the contours of the indentations left by her heels.
It caught him like a rogue wave, a big sea surging up from the depths, unexpected, overwhelming. He choked, trying to keep it down, but it swept him before it, engulfing him, deep sobs racking his body, tears coursing down his cheeks.
Twelve
‘Abel, for Chrissakes.’
Hollis moved to block his friend’s path. Abel shimmied left, right, left again, brandishing his camera.
‘No photos.’
‘Tell that to my editor.’ Moonlighting for the
‘I meant to,’ said Hollis. ‘I forgot.’
‘I can’t be held responsible for your failings as a police officer.’
‘Is there a problem?’ They both turned at the voice.
A squat, bull-necked man approached, his dark suit straining at the seams.
‘No problem, thanks,’ said Abel chirpily.
The man drew on his cigarette and exhaled, his porcine eyes shrinking to pinpricks as they fixed themselves on Abel.
‘It’s okay,’ said Hollis.
The man turned away grudgingly and sauntered back to the huddle of chauffeurs smoking near the verge. Beyond them, the run of parked cars stretched off into the distance down Main Street.
‘Who’s the gorilla?’
‘The guy who’s been hired to break the back of anyone taking photos in front of the church.’
‘Nice work if you can get it.’
Abel glanced over at the church, then up at the sun, judging the exposure. ‘Must be almost done in there.’
‘For me, Abel, as a friend.’
‘Oh, come on, Tom, don’t pull that one. You don’t call, you don’t write…’
‘I’ve been busy.’
‘So I hear.’ The knowing look was accompanied by a faint smile. ‘You and Mary Calder, eh?’
He shouldn’t have been surprised—it was a small town, tongues wagged freely and readily, he knew that.
‘All I did was give her a ride.’
‘There’s a joke there, but I won’t demean your love for her.’
