Google Maps onhis iPhone had helpfully stuck a bright red pin in the exact location of DanielDunk’s house, so Morton knew to slow to a snail’s crawl as the building drewcloser. The house was a ramshackle, wooden construction with a lopsidedgarage slumped to one side, having lost the will to live countless yearsago. The garden, comprising shingle and sporadic bursts of ugly, greensea kale, merged seamlessly with that of a neighbouring garden. Propertyboundaries didn’t seem an issue in Dungeness.
Mortonindicated to pull over, though he had no idea why, since there wasn’t a singlesoul around. Not even a seagull braved the harsh Dungeness rain. Morton leant over to the back seat and pulled out his Nikon D90 digitalSLR. He attached a telephoto lens, zoomed into the house and snapped thebungalow during the brief seconds of clarity provided by the intermittentwindscreen wiper. If it weren’t for the electoral register telling himthat the house was actually occupied he would never have believed that anyonecould have lived here. He zoomed in to rotten window frames with tightlydrawn, washed-out curtains and photographed the peeling paint on the bluedoor. What made anyone want to live here? The onlyexplanation he could come up with was isolation. William Dunk might aswell have been living on another planet. He considered the nefariousgoings-on which could take place in such acute remoteness. All sorts ofplotting and scheming.
Morton movedthe camera to the front of the house. ‘Christ!’ he exclaimed, as a blackBMW X6 filled the eyepiece. It was the same car that had followed him andJuliette out of Brighton and it was parked here, on Daniel Dunk’s drive. This time he was able to focus on the number plates. ‘RDA 220,’ he said,repeatedly snapping the vehicle. The luxurious, lavish vehicle was astark juxtaposition to the decaying, deprived surroundings.
From the cornerof his eye something moved. He swept the camera back over to the house asa thin wiry man slammed the front door shut and made his way to the BMW. The man kept his head down and, for the moment, hadn’t noticed the telephotolens focused on him. Morton caught a rain-blurred profile shot andgasped. The frozen frame in the viewfinder revealed that the man sporteda large scar running from his left eye down to the corner of his mouth. The Brighton Scar Face. Was he Daniel Dunk?
The BrightonScar Face started the BMW and Morton was suddenly faced with the possibility ofcoming face-to-face with him. He had no choice but to quickly swing theMini onto the adjoining property and make his way up the concrete drive towardsa white-washed, weather-boarded house, hoping desperately that the BrightonScar Face was unaware that Morton had upgraded his mode of transport sincetheir last drive-by meeting. Morton reached the house, killed the engineand slumped down in his seat, just in time before the BMW sped past.
Seconds laterand the BMW had disappeared into dense sheets of rain.
With a longbreath out, Morton sat back up and started to relax.
His heartskipped a beat, as a shadow passed by and thumped hard on his window. Heturned to see a hoary furrow-browed man wearing an oversized yellow ponchostaring angrily into the car. Morton got his breath back, opened hiswindow an inch and discreetly centrally locked the doors.
‘What do youwant?’ the rheumy-eyed man demanded, revealing a gummy, toothless mouth.
‘I’m lookingfor Daniel Dunk,’ Morton answered politely. The old man eyed himsuspiciously and Morton wondered if he was about to get an axe through hishead. Were there any normal, sane people here?
‘That’s hisplace there,’ the man said, pointing to Smuggler’s Keep. Morton could seerage rising in the old man’s eyes. ‘But you knew that already, ‘cause Isaw you pointing that thing at his house.’ The old man flicked anirate finger at the camera resting on the passenger’s seat. ‘What do youwant here, I asked you?’
Morton wasn’tabout to hang around and have this conversation. He turned the ignition,flung the car into reverse and raced off the driveway, sending a plethora ofsmall stones firing in all directions from under his tyres.
The old manhurried down the drive, brandishing his fist in the air and shoutingfuriously. Morton caught the gist of the rant; he was about to phone thepolice.
He reached theempty road and pushed the Mini to full pelt, quickly propelling Dungeness intothe rear view mirror.
Morton’s study resembled the MajorIncident Room of a police station, which pleased him immensely. Noprevious job had ever required him to pin photos of men suspected of murder,arson and stalking to his cork board, which he had gleefully stripped ofinconsequential rubbish as soon as he had returned from Dungeness. Gonewere the archive opening hours, interesting snippets from magazines and reviewsof books he might one day purchase. Now it was adorned with photos,certificates, photocopies, factoids and scraps paper connected by a veritablecat’s cradle of string and multi-coloured pins. At the centre of theboard was a freshly printed photo of Daniel Dunk. Adjacent to the photowas William Dunk’s death certificate. The two men had loitered in theperipheral shadows of the Coldrick family for the past two decades. Butwhy? Morton wondered.
His mobilerang: Juliette. He’d been trying to reach her the moment he had leftDungeness but her phone had been switched off.
‘Is everythingalright?’ she asked, a tinge of worry in her voice.
‘Yeah, I thinkso,’ Morton said vaguely.
‘I saw that Ihad twelve missed calls from you and I thought something must havehappened.’ Morton could hear the concern in her voice abating as he toldher about his morning. ‘Oh, I thought it was something serious. So,is that all you wanted?’
He wondered ifshe was annoyed because she wanted it to be something serious. Super Juliette to the rescue.
‘I need afavour.’
Shesighed. ‘What?’
‘I need you
