It’s a question I’m pretty sure Milly won’t have the answer to. I look at my watch again—two minutes now. I can make it if I run.
3
THE MAN
DAY 1—PEOPLE ARRIVE
“This is Bravo Seven for Sierra Four-Three. Sierra Four-Three, proceed immediately to the car park at Holkham Beach. Report of suspicious behavior: IC-One, white, male, thirties-forties, approximately six foot, dark clothing, erratic behavior. Elderly caller has eyes on suspect, has been advised not to approach.”
Static.
“Received, Bravo Seven. Sierra Four-Three en route. Go ahead, over.”
Static.
“Non-urgent call. But proceed with caution, suspect may be under the influence or possible mental health issues. Appears to be in some distress. No visible weapons but potential suicide risk, over.”
Static.
“Received, Bravo Seven. Sierra Four-Three proceeding to location. On our way. Out.”
* * *
—
Fifteen minutes later, the patrol car is the only car in the beach car park. The long stretch of ochre shingle usually packed with vehicles during the holidays is now abandoned, deserted for the winter season. The officers—one female, one male—exit their car, the slam of doors the only sound as their breath clings in warm clouds in the early morning air. As they crunch their way out toward the beach path, the female officer slides up the zipper of her fluorescent high-vis coat, a sharp slice of color cutting through the forest.
The path opens, its gravel giving way to the boardwalk over the reed marshes that connect the forest and beach. Ahead, the vast expanse of Holkham Beach rolls out before them. An elderly man stands waiting on the blustery peak of a steep dune and they cross the soft sand to meet him. Their approach catches his eye and he turns, waving his umbrella to draw attention.
He shouts something down to them but his words are lost in the wind.
The female police officer throws a look to the male officer. He drops back almost imperceptibly as she takes the lead. As they reach the dune’s crest, the full extent of the beach rises into view, the long flat sweep toward the breaking waves and the North Sea. It’s choppy out there today.
The two officers can make out his words now, over the wind, mid-sentence—
“—don’t know what’s wrong. I asked, but I couldn’t seem to get through to him. He just kept going. He’s gone on down there now.” The old man throws an arm up toward the east and the officers’ eyes follow his motion down the beach. “Over there. Do you see?”
In the distance a receding figure, walking away, alone on the empty beach, in no particular hurry.
“I told them on the phone already,” the old man continues. “No way I could stop him, you see. Had to come up here just to get a mobile phone signal anyway. Terrible reception. I told him to wait, someone would be here soon, but he just kept going. Not sure if he even heard what I was saying. There’s something…wrong with him. I don’t know, he’s not in good shape at all. Soaking wet for a start. And on a day like this.”
The female police officer turns away from the figure on the beach, back to the old man. She takes him in: a smartly dressed early riser on his morning walk, paper under arm, umbrella, raincoat, hat, he’s prepared for the weather. His cheeks ruddy in the cold. “Did you make the call yourself, sir?” she asks.
“I did. I didn’t think anything of him until he got closer. Some mornings there are other walkers out this early, especially on the weekends, but when he got closer I saw something wasn’t quite right. And I thought I should say something,” he persists, “you know, just in case.”
“Just in case?” the female officer asks, her curiosity piqued.
“He needed help,” he clarifies.
The female officer looks down at the tracks in the sand below the dune. A line of bare footprints leading all the way back to the west cove, perhaps two miles, certainly as far as the eye can see. She looks east, out toward the walking figure in the distance. He has no shoes. Then, as if on cue, as if he can feel her eyes on his back, the figure stops.
He stands there motionless, letting the wind roar around him. His wet clothes slapping heavily against him.
And then he drops. Half collapsing, half sitting, onto the wet sand.
The male officer turns to the female officer, touches her sleeve. She gives him a nod, then turns to speak to the old man. “Sir, this is Officer Poole and he’s going to take a statement from you, about what’s happened. Are you okay with that?”
The old man nods.
The male officer retrieves a slim black notebook from his utility pocket, flips it open, and begins.
Officer Poole’s questions fade out of hearing in the wind as the female police officer moves off in the direction of the sitting man.
A series of thoughts flicker across her face as she walks out across the sands. She depresses the button on her radio.
“This is Sierra Four-Three. We are at the scene. I have eyes on the suspect, IC-One, approximately six foot, dark clothing. East Holkham Beach. Subject has no shoes. I am approaching with caution.” She continues to close the wide gulf between them, the sand twirling in tiny whirlwinds between him and her. There is something surreal about the scene. It makes her think of the past. There is something Gothic about it, she decides, something so expansive. And for some reason the start of Great Expectations springs into her mind. A convict washed up in the marshes.
Without a second thought she pulls her radio up again, depressing the button. “Bravo Seven, this is Sierra Four-Three. Can we run a check on HMP Bure? Anyone unaccounted for, let me know. Suspect may be missing person, over.” It’s just a feeling, nothing more, an instinct, but she knows sometimes instincts are right.
Her radio crackles to life loudly. “Acknowledged, Sierra Four-Three. Running prison check now. Stand by. Over.”
He doesn’t turn at the sound. She’s closer now, she can see his clothes, soaking wet, just as the old man said. His body shuddering, struggling to maintain core temperature and failing. The early stages of hypothermia, she thinks.
“Sir?” she shouts, trying to lift her voice over the howling wind, but the wind throws it back in her face.
Still, the figure does not turn. She is close now, close enough to see the rise and fall of the man’s shoulders, the shallow pant of his breath in the icy air. She pauses.
The radio on her chest bursts loud with static again. “Sierra Four-Three, be advised that is a negative, repeat negative on HMP Bure. All accounted for. Advise. Over.”
The figure before her still does not move, he does not appear to hear, as her fingers fumble to silence the radio.