34
It was the quietest Sunday Ellie had experienced at Buntin’s. After the shocking events of the day before, the place had emptied. Buntin’s had either refunded all the guests or given them transfer tickets to other sites around the country, where they could decamp and continue to have some fun without the distraction of forensics tents, police cordons and the occasional body bag being stretchered past.
She had been right about Martin’s death all along. It didn’t make her feel much better, but it was something. The Bluecoats had been offered counselling, and a week off. About half of them had taken up the week off but she, in common with the other half, had opted to stay and just have a bit of downtime before the fresh intake of families arrived next Saturday — those that hadn’t already seen the news and cancelled (and apparently there were surprisingly few drop-outs). By then, the whole village would be empty of police and the chalets deep-cleaned. The bookings team would not be offering up the murder scene accommodation for rent.
Gary was quiet and withdrawn whenever she saw him wandering around the site, with or without the investigating officers. She had never challenged him about the accusation against Martin and probably wouldn’t. The poor guy had enough to deal with. The new lifeguard had arrived, as well as a new security lady who looked like a world class wrestler and was most likely not a psychopath. Ellie shivered at the memory of her last conversation with Mike, in the security hub with all its screens. She’d heard he’d used his position to efficiently corner his victims, having tampered with the cameras so he could watch them inside without permission. She and Nettie had scoured the Bluecoat chalets for evidence of cameras, a lump of Blu Tack in their fists, ready to outwit spy technology with a blob across a lens. But there were no cameras inside the staff chalets.
Backflip Barney drove past, caravan in tow, as she sat on the steps of the pavilion with Nettie. Nettie had the grace to look ashamed. Barney’s heroic actions down at the landslip had got out. ‘He saved that guy who Mike was attacking… with a unicycle,’ muttered Nettie, shaking her head. ‘And I had Barney down as a psycho.’
She stood up and ran to the open window of Barney’s Land Rover as he slowed down.
‘What’s up?’ he asked, pausing with the engine on idle.
Nettie leaned in and Ellie, wandering across to join her, heard her say, ‘Look… I’m sorry, OK? It was me who told the police you were… suspicious. It was me who got them onto you.’
Barney sighed, resting a tanned forearm across his steering wheel. ‘You’re not the first to go in for a bit of traveller-bashing,’ he said. ‘Won’t be the last, either.’
‘I really am sorry,’ said Nettie. ‘You’re a bloody hero, apparently.’
‘Ah,’ he said, grinning. ‘But would I ever have been there to help if you hadn’t got the police to hunt me down?’
‘What..?’ Nettie wrinkled her brow. ‘You mean… me stitching you up actually saved lives?’
‘Don’t push it, Nettie,’ said Ellie, as Barney snorted and pulled away.
‘I’m going to be better,’ said Nettie, as they settled back on the steps, enjoying the sun on their skin. ‘I’m not going to be so prejudiced.’
‘Really? That’s good then,’ said Ellie.
‘I’m even going to be nice to the guy in our local Paki shop,’ said Nettie.
Ellie dropped her face into her palms.
35
Lady Grace Botwright brought Lucas breakfast in bed. A bed she had not climbed into the night before. When Lucas had arrived back late in the evening, bruised, scratched, and exhausted, she had immediately switched to maternal mode. 'You’re not driving home tonight!’ she’d told him. ‘Get to bed, now!’
He had shared sketchy details of the day’s events while she tucked him in and pressured him to finish the soup and roll she had brought him. Afterwards, she had commanded him to sleep and, observing that he was already working on that, left.
Now she was back with another tray. ‘How did you sleep?’ she asked, setting it down on the bedside table and checking his forehead for signs of fever.
‘OK,’ he said.
It hadn’t been. He had been wiped out, so he’d fallen asleep very fast, only to be tipped directly into the darkest pits of dreamland. He couldn’t get the image of Kate buried under the board and concrete and shingle out of his head, even during REM. And it kept morphing into the image of Zoe, all those years ago, her dead eyes staring up through the rocks she’d been entombed in.
He’d woken up at around three, sweating and fighting with the duvet. He’d had to walk around and drink some water to get his heart rate down to something approaching normal. He knew he had to cut himself some slack after his cliff-face fight with a psychotic killer, and the shock of seeing Kate buried alive and then shot at. Not to mention finding the dead black dude with frogs in his mouth… Who wouldn’t have a touch of PTSD after that?
Eventually he’d felt able to settle back into his pillows — and then the phone had buzzed beside the bed. Number withheld. His heart had leapt back up to full jackhammer as he’d answered it. He didn’t wait it out this time, he just said, ‘Speak! What’s the point if you don’t speak?!’
And then he’d heard a gasp at the other end, and once again thought of Kate. But it couldn’t be Kate. Kate had called through on a different number and anyway… why on earth would she be messing with his mind like this?
‘Lucas.’
Oh fuck. He was still dreaming.
‘Lucas…’ There was a long gap and then the line went dead.
It had been another hour before sleep finally reclaimed him.
