‘It’s a very hard thing to accept,’ said Lucas.
‘You think I’m stupid,’ she stated.
‘I really don’t.’ Lucas tucked Sid away. ‘Remind me where he worked… a holiday camp, was it?’
‘Buntin’s down in Lakefield,’ she said. ‘It’s just over the border into Suffolk.’
‘OK,’ he said, getting up.
‘OK, what?’ She raised her palms.
‘OK… I get why you’re suspicious. I understand. I would be, too.’
‘Oh. Well… thanks,’ she said.
‘I’ll see you around. Try to do something nice for yourself, eh?’ he said. ‘Treat yourself like you’re your best friend. Kindly.’
‘OK,’ she said, in a small voice, with a face like a schoolgirl. He felt his heart wrench for her; she was way too young to be dealing with a grief like this. But then, as he’d learned many years ago, being young didn’t stop death taking a swipe at your happiness.
He went back in for his helmet and leathers, and was on the bike and heading out into the last blush of sunset five minutes later, Sid giving him the occasional punch, like a satnav, taking him south east. He’d glanced at the maps app on his phone and seen that Lakefield was only twenty minutes away, a short ride down the coast from Lowestoft. What he would do when he got there he wasn’t sure. In fact, he had no idea why he was doing this at all. What was he thinking? Hadn’t he got involved with enough death and misery over the past year?
Yet, Sid seemed to think he should get out to this Buntin’s place. He could ignore the vibrations from his little glass partner, but he had learned that doing so rarely went well. One way or another, the patterns would find him and pull him into their eddies and whirls until he paid attention and went where he was commanded.
This was why he had sworn off all this stuff and shoved Sid in a balled-up sock. If it wasn’t for Mariam and his severe lack of funds, he’d have been snug in his bungalow in Wiltshire, working on his next art collection. Probably. If he was honest, it hadn’t been going well anyway. He seemed to have lost his mojo in recent weeks; too distracted by recent events and the awareness of one Kate Sparrow being somewhere in the city he called home, but never where he was. Never in touch.
The dreams weren’t helping, either. Dreams of the Quarry Girls. Of Zoe who had been murdered… of Mabel, vanished and presumed murdered. Sixteen years ago Lucas had found Zoe’s body, but he’d never led anyone to Mabel. He’d found something else though — the start of a nightmare that had yet to end. He wondered if anyone accused of murder ever got over it; the suspicion, the gossip. He and his mum — who had provided a somewhat shaky alibi for him — were both hounded out of their home as the case drew national attention and his involvement in it came to the surface.
After all this time it should be firmly in his past, but his past had a way of popping up like an unwanted Facebook memory. Hey — we thought you might like to look back on that time when you were staring into the cold dead eyes of your friend, buried under a pile of stones! Here’s a video we made for you…
Only the video took the form of endless, haunting dreams. He’d even had one here, while staying at Stokeley Lodge. Lucas turned left onto the A-road towards the coast and shook his head, banishing an image of Mabel’s face, soft in the late summer sun, her fair hair hanging around her chin; her mouth in that teasing pout she liked to try out on him. Stop it. Focus.
It was probably good that he was getting out for a ride — distracting himself. Even if he wasn’t entirely sure where he was going or why. What did he hope to achieve by visiting the site of a suicide? Because if the police had looked into it and concluded that Jessie’s boyfriend had taken his own life, it was highly likely that Jessie’s boyfriend had taken his own life. Police usually knew what they were looking at. Maybe he would pick something up, though, that might put the girl’s mind at rest; give her some closure.
He would take a look, as far as he could, and then turn around, ride back to the lodge and get to bed, carefully avoiding Grace and her Lady Penelope charms.
The holiday village was a flat few acres of chalets with central, low-level buildings housing restaurants, cafes, bars, adventure playgrounds and the pool complex where Martin had ended his life. It was like many such places he’d seen before: unpretentious, low-rent versions of Butlin’s. Plenty for the kids to do, nightclub entertainment on hand for the parents, a beach within walking distance.
He was stopped at the entrance by an earnest young man in a Buntin’s blazer, carrying a clipboard and a two-way radio. ‘Are you a guest here, sir?’ he was asked.
‘Ah — no,’ said Lucas. ‘I was just hoping to stop in for a quick drink… maybe catch one of the acts.’
‘Well, you need to sign in and buy a day visit ticket,’ said Earnest Boy. ‘You can go straight into reception and buy it there. Get your ticket and a visitor badge for your bike, and then park it in the main area beside the pool complex.’
‘OK, I’ll do that,’ said Lucas. ‘Thanks.’
‘Have fun at Buntin’s,’ said the young man, with a weak smile, perhaps realising belatedly that Lucas wasn’t nine.
He paid a tenner for a day visit ticket, which wasn’t great value given that it was now nine-fifteen and it expired at midnight. He parked the bike where he’d been advised, close enough to the pool complex to see the soft after-hours lighting through its steamed-up windows. There was a CLOSED UNTIL 7AM sign on the door.
He climbed the few steps
