is.’ Benny dumped another sack on the walkway.
‘What, he’s invisible?’
A shrug.
I squinted out at the shining water. ‘Maybe he saw the patrol car and ran for it?’
‘Swam for it, du means.’ Another sack. ‘We only hae da one boat.’
The diesel generator spluttered into silence. Royce appeared at my shoulder carrying two mugs. He held one out. ‘No biscuits. But if you’re hungry there’s plenty of fish food?’
‘Arnold Burges going to be long?’
‘Depends.’ I took a sip: it was coffee, but only just.
Something broke the surface of the water – over by the furthest of the three cages. It was a bald head, the shiny pink crown surrounded by a fringe of soggy black hair. Big diving goggles, breathing apparatus for an aqualung. And then it was gone again.
I leaned against the handrail, following the trail of bubbles. ‘When Burges gets here, make yourself scarce. You and the little orang-utan.’
‘How?’ Royce pursed his lips and looked around. ‘Not exactly a lot of places to—’
‘Get in the boat, go fishing, I don’t care.’
‘Hmmm …’ A sip of coffee. ‘You’re kinda … pushy for a detective constable.’
Cheeky bastard. ‘I’m only asking for ten minutes. Fifteen tops.’
‘Yeah, well, you remember I’m the one who’s got to keep the peace here after you’ve buggered off back to the real world … Here we go.’
The bald head resurfaced a good twenty feet closer, making for the barge. Something bobbed along behind it: looked like a fluorescent orange buoy. Two minutes later, a huge man hauled himself out of the water and up onto the platform.
He’d been squeezed into a tatty old drysuit. The arms, legs and neck looked as if they’d been black once, the chest and stomach ancient yellow. Water dribbled from a bushy brown beard.
Arnold Burges.
He pulled off the diving goggles and narrowed his eyes at Royce. ‘The old bastard’s lying. I was here all night with Benny. After that frigging seal.’ He turned his back, squatted at the edge of the walkway, and reached into the water.
Royce sighed. ‘Benny’s already told us he was round his sister’s all night. How many times do we have to go over this? You’ve got to stay away from Dr Forrester.’
The big man flexed his shoulders and hauled on a length of blue plastic rope – the buoy cut through the water until it was close enough for him to grab. ‘Another seven hundred fish last night. Seven hundred.’ He looped the rope around a metal contraption, then cranked the handle.
‘I mean it, Arnold: leave him alone.’
A foot of black net rose from the loch, the rest of it still submerged. Silver shapes glistened inside. Burges pulled one of them out. It was a salmon, nearly as long as his arm, scales glistening pink, silver and grey, its distinctive jutting jaw hanging open. A single, ragged-edged chunk was missing from its belly. ‘See that?’
‘Arnold—’
‘One bite. Sticks his nose through the net, tears out the liver and leaves them to die. Seven hundred frigging fish in one night.’ Burges curled his top lip, then tossed the salmon into a plastic barrel, sending water splashing up the side of the shed. ‘Been picking dead fish out the cages all week.’
‘Arnold, this is Detective Constable Henderson, he wants a word.’
Burges went back to the winch, lifting more net out of the water. ‘Benny? You get that feed?’
Benny nodded towards the pile in the barge. ‘Twenty bags.’
‘That’s no bloody good, how’s twenty bags going to last us—’
‘Don’t draa doon dy broos at me, Arnie Burges. A’m hed me some passengers, didn’t I?’
Draa doon dy …? What the hell was that supposed to mean? It was as if he was making up words.
Benny hopped back in the boat. ‘Wis just aff to get the balance.’
I stared at Royce, jerked my head towards the shore.
A pause, then the constable nodded. Not as daft as he looked. ‘Yes, right, well, why don’t I give you a hand, Benny? Less of a job for two. This pair can stay here and … have that word.’
The boat’s engine faded to a grumble, then a whisper, then nothing.
I leaned back against the rusty metal handrail. ‘Stay the hell away from Henry Forrester.’
Burges hurled another dead fish into the barrel. ‘Fertilizer. That’s all these are good for now.’
‘It’s not his fault.’
‘Waste of good fish.’
‘Look, Mr Burges, I know you’ve been through a lot, but—’
‘You know what I’ve been through?’ THUMP. The next salmon didn’t go in the barrel, it battered into the wooden platform at my feet. ‘You fucking know?’
Yes, I fucking did.
‘It isn’t—’
‘My Lauren’s dead, Constable Henderson. Oh yeah, I know who you are. I remember you from the frigging press conferences. Calling yourself the “Party Crashers”: like this was some sort of game. Tell you what, how about we all throw a party, because some twisted bastard killed my Lauren?’
‘Henry Forrester did his best to—’
‘We’ll all have jelly and ice cream, because someone pulled out her teeth, cut her, tore out her fingernails, hacked off her head, and gutted her like a fish? Yeah, let’s have a frigging party!’ The big man’s face was getting darker, red spreading across his round cheeks. The veins in his neck throbbed where the skin met the drysuit’s rubber collar.
I stared out across the water. Took a deep, slow breath. At least he knew; he wasn’t waiting for the next card to turn up to find out what the bastard had done. Lauren was dead, the Birthday Boy couldn’t hurt her any more. But Rebecca …
There was something in my throat. ‘You’re not the only one who lost a daughter.’
‘She wasn’t even thirteen!’ Spittle flew from his lips, sparkling in the sunshine.
‘Then take it out on the Birthday Boy, not the poor old bastard who—’
‘If you useless wankers had done your jobs and caught him, Lauren would still be here!’ He squared his shoulders, bearded chin jutting out. ‘Two years. TWO FUCKING YEARS you had before he took her!’ Burges took a step forwards.
