‘Thanks,’ Silas says. ‘You know, for saving him.’
‘I don’t think he was that committed, to be honest,’ Jake says. ‘We chatted about it afterwards. I’m no expert, but I’m guessing it was a cry for help.’
And Jake answered it. Silas was planning to head back to Gablecross to talk with Strover about the missing super recognisers she’s discovered, but he’s decided to stay in the village. He waited around while Jake saw Kate off on her train and the two of them then headed out here.
‘What else did you talk about?’ Silas says as they cross the water meadow towards the railway. Jake suggested earlier that there was something Silas needed to know.
‘It’s not my business, but Conor, he… He didn’t look too well.’
‘He’s had some issues,’ Silas says. ‘Drug-related.’
It started with skunk at university, which led to psychosis, dropping out, homelessness and heroin.
‘As I say, this really isn’t my business, but I think he might be dealing in drugs too,’ Jake continues. ‘Might have got himself involved in county lines.’
The sun is warm on their backs as they reach the railway line, but Jake’s words chill Silas to the bone. The suggestion is sickeningly plausible. ‘What makes you think that?’ he asks.
‘I took a punt, asked him about the Bluebell, which you’d told me was a drugs pub.’
‘Did he know it?’ Silas asks.
‘He said he didn’t, but I think he was lying.’
‘How come?’ Silas asks, but he isn’t surprised. Lying has become second nature to Conor.
‘Because I also asked him if he’d “gone cunch”. He didn’t deny it, just told me he had no choice and that he operated out of Swindon. I’m guessing the Bluebell is part of the same set-up. It would make sense.’
They have reached the kissing gate where Conor contemplated killing himself twenty-four hours earlier. Silas rests his hands on the curved metal bar and closes his eyes. This is about as bad as it could be. If Conor has got involved in a county lines network, he’ll soon be arrested, and Silas’s own shame will be complete. His career could be over too.
‘Why here?’ Silas asks, looking across the water meadow back towards the village. ‘In this village?’
‘That’s the other thing I wanted to talk to you about.’
Silas turns to face Jake. He doesn’t want to look at the track any more, imagine what could have happened here. He’s seen the results before.
‘I can’t be certain,’ Jake says, hesitating, ‘but I think he might have been the one who torched my boat.’
The two men stare at each other. Silas doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He senses at once that it’s true. Jake asks some awkward questions at the Bluebell and that night his boat is set on fire. The county lines ringleaders would use someone else to do their dirty work, someone expendable like Conor.
‘Oh Christ,’ Silas says. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Not your fault,’ Jake says, trying to make light of it.
But Silas knows he is to blame, in more ways than Jake will ever understand. He was close to his son when Conor was a young boy, a toddler on the beach, playing in the park. It was all so easy back then. Build a sandcastle. Fly a kite. Kick a ball. Look at that new man, what a great dad he is. So in touch! The teenage years were the problem: as Silas’s working day got longer, Conor became more withdrawn. They seemed to lose touch with each other, drift apart. No common ground or shared interests.
‘It’s just a hunch,’ Jake says. ‘And maybe I’m wrong. But I’ve never seen him around here before. And then he’s hanging about the next day, lighting his cigarette with a match. Most people have lighters now, and, well, I heard a match being struck just before the boat caught fire.’
‘The investigation’s ongoing,’ Silas says. ‘If Conor’s involved, he’ll be brought in, of course.’
He doesn’t know why he’s saying all this. It’s for his own benefit as much as Jake’s. The reality is that the investigation is going nowhere. No fingerprints on the abandoned jerrycan. No witnesses. More serious crimes to deal with. And Jake’s hunch is hardly compelling evidence. As flimsy as matchwood.
Silas is about to turn and walk back towards the canal when his phone rings. The mobile number is not familiar. For a moment he considers letting it go to voicemail, but something makes him answer it.
‘DI Hart,’ he says.
Silence, but Silas knows someone’s there, with something to tell him. He’s had calls like this before, can hear the breathing. Informants, witnesses, whistleblowers. You just have to wait until they’re ready. He gestures at Jake, who has stopped up ahead.
‘Can I help?’ Silas asks, turning away.
More breathing, this time familiar. Silas’s stomach tightens. He looks up at the hills beyond the canal. And then he hears his voice.
‘Dad?’
58
Kate
Rob isn’t there when Kate arrives at Paddington. He rang, full of apologies, shortly after her train left the village. More meetings, not enough time. If she’d been on the earlier train, he could have met her, but now that she’s more than an hour late, it’s knocked things back and… She told him not to worry. She didn’t say how relieved she was.
He’s sent a car with a driver though and wants her to make herself at home in his flat in Shoreditch until he gets back. She’s intrigued finally to see the place for herself. They’ve often talked about her coming to stay in London, but she’s never felt strong enough for city life. Not until today.
She heads across the concourse at Paddington and finds the car waiting for her on Praed Street. London seems full of people with not enough time, the press of urban life etched on sunless faces. The stress in the air is almost palpable, like a taste at the back of the mouth. Or perhaps it’s just the pollution. She also feels alive here, the heady mix of cultures far removed from her safe little routine in Cornwall. At least it used to be safe, until someone tried to kill her and a dead body washed up on the beach below their house. That all seems so surreal now, a different world.
Her driver – stocky, faint eastern European accent, gimlet eyes – instantly makes her think of the Russian president, Vladimir Putin. Except that Putin doesn’t have a scar on the side of his shaven head. He takes her bag and opens the car’s rear door. She doesn’t feel comfortable being looked after like this, but his eyes glint as she moves to get in. And then she remembers the orange dress. She looks around and spots a bin across the street.
‘One sec,’ she says to Putin.
She walks over to the bin with the bag. She knows she should ditch the dress, but she can’t bring herself to do it. Damn Jake. Damn his sentimentality. Her brief stop in the village has affected her more than she expected. It was good to be back. Good to see Jake. For months after the accident, every memory of the place – of the narrowboat, of Jake – was tainted by the image of him kissing another woman on the CCTV. But today has changed things. They talked without sniping at each other. Maybe they can be friends after all.