Shadow Sands Page 3

  “Did you order?” asked Lyn when she slid into the booth opposite Kate.

  “No.”

  Lyn put the green folder down on the table, and then she took her mobile phone, a pack of Marlboro 100s, and a gold lighter from her jacket pocket. She then took off the coat, balled it up, and sat on it. Lyn was a tiny woman, and Kate wondered if she’d done that to match Kate’s height so she wasn’t having to look up at her.

  Roy Crawford, the elderly man who had owned Crawford’s since the 1970s, came over to their booth. He was a large man with long white hair tied back in a ponytail and a pink, clean-shaven face.

  “What can I do you for?” he said, smiling and popping on the pair of half-moon specs that dangled from his neck on a chain.

  They each ordered a cappuccino, and he scribbled down on a pad with a flourish.

  “I know it’s a simple order,” he said. “But I’d forget me own head if it wasn’t screwed on. I’m ever so sorry, but it’s no smoking. To think the Labour Party were the ones to ban smoking.” He rolled his eyes theatrically, then left them alone.

  Lyn nervously smoothed back the wisps of hair from her high forehead.

  “Tell me about Simon,” said Kate. Lyn seemed relieved to cut to the chase.

  “He was away with his mate Geraint, from university. They were camping at the site near the Shadow Sands reservoir,” she said.

  “Are you a local?”

  “I’m London born. My late husband was from round here, and I’ve lived here for twenty years. He died of a heart attack.” Kate went to say sorry, but Lyn put up her hand. “Don’t. He was a bullying arsehole.”

  “What does Geraint have to say about Simon?”

  “They’d been out at the beach for the day. They arrived at the campsite late, pitched the tent, went to sleep. He woke up the next morning, and Simon’s sleeping bag was empty. He thought he’d gone for a pee, but as the morning wore on, Geraint couldn’t find him.”

  “Had they been fighting?” Lyn shook her head. The coffee machine in the corner started to hiss, and there was a tinkle of spoons and china cups. “Was it just the two of them camping?”

  “Yeah. They were best mates; they never argued. There wasn’t a scratch on Geraint. All his clothes were dry.”

  “Had they been drinking?”

  Lyn put her hand up.

  “I’ve already thought of the obvious questions. When they did the postmortem, they ruled accidental drowning. Simon had no alcohol in his bloodstream . . .”

  Roy came bustling over with their coffee.

  “Here we are, ladies,” he said. “You enjoy, but I’m closing in half an hour.”

  “Thanks,” said Kate. Lyn waited impatiently until he’d put their coffees down and was out of earshot.

  “Accidental drowning,” repeated Kate. She thought back to the battered body floating in the water.

  “Simon was sober. He was a very strong swimmer. Even if he had gone swimming in the reservoir, he’d have had his wits about him. He wouldn’t have gone in wearing his clothes and shoes. The campsite is half a mile upriver from the power plant, and it’s another half a mile upriver to where you found him. He trained most days, a hundred lengths in an Olympic-size pool. That’s more than three miles. He also swam in the sea.”

  Kate put her cup down and sighed.

  “Did the coroner rule definitively that he drowned?”

  Lyn’s face crumpled. “Yes.”

  “And they think the injuries on his body were caused by a boat patrolling the reservoir?”

  “I just keep seeing that in my mind. His beautiful body, just in the water, being run over.”

  Kate wanted to reach out and take Lyn’s hand, but she could see Lyn was angry and proud.

  “When was Simon reported as a missing person?” asked Kate.

  “Geraint phoned me the afternoon of the twenty-eighth of August and told me he couldn’t find Simon. I then phoned the police, who told me Simon couldn’t be listed as officially missing for the first twenty-four hours, so he officially became a missing person on the morning of the twenty-ninth.”

  “I found Simon’s body on the afternoon of the thirtieth.”

  “The police decided Simon got up in the night, went swimming next to a hydroelectric dam, and drowned . . . He wouldn’t have done that!” said Lyn, slamming her fist on the tabletop. “He knows, knew, about currents. The conditions of water. The hydroelectric dam sucks in the water from the reservoir. It’s a no-swimming zone. There are signs up all around the campsite. He was due to go back into training after being off for months with an injury. He was sober! He wouldn’t have risked his future.”

  “I’m sorry to ask, but was he depressed?”

  “No. No. No. He was not depressed. He was on holiday with his best friend, for fuck’s sake! They got along like a house on fire. He’d been looking forward to it all summer . . .” Lyn was now very agitated and tearful. She pulled a tissue from her sleeve and blew her nose. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “No, don’t be sorry. You have every right to feel . . . To feel.”

  “You know that feeling where everyone is dismissing you and not listening?”

  “It’s been the story of my life,” said Kate ruefully.

  Lyn’s shoulders dropped, and she seemed to calm down.

  “That’s how I bloody feel. I understand that Simon was in the water and a boat could have run over him, but the police don’t seem to be interested as to why or how he ended up in the water in the first place.”

  “How did you find me?” asked Kate.

  “I googled you.” Lyn opened the folder and took out a printout of a National Geographic article. It was from two years ago, and there was a photo of Kate and her research assistant, Tristan Harper, standing in front of Ashdean’s gothic university building, which towered behind them like a miniature Hogwarts castle. They had been interviewed after they solved the Nine Elms copycat murder case. It had been an exciting time, and Kate had believed that she and Tristan might forge some kind of career as private investigators. “I tried to find you online, if you had an agency.”

  “No,” said Kate, hearing the disappointment in her own voice.

  “I just want to find out what happened to Simon. You have a son. You’ve had to protect him from all the crap slung at you over the years . . . There are loads of private detective agencies around, but you—I want you to help me. Will you?”

  Kate had seen too much bad in people. The best of friends could suddenly turn on each other, she thought. A detective had to always use logic. If Simon and Geraint had been alone, the first logical conclusion was that Geraint had done it.

  Lyn closed her eyes. “It’s bad enough my son has been taken from me. I want to know why he was in that water in the middle of the night. I’m not the kind of woman who begs, but please.” Her eyes filled up with tears. “Please. Will you help me?”

  Kate thought how she would feel, if their roles were reversed and Jake had been found in the water, his body covered in cuts and bruises.

  “Yes,” said Kate. “I’ll help you.”

  6

  Early the next morning, Tristan Harper ran up the steps from the beach and came to a stop on the promenade, leaning over to catch his breath. The dawn was just breaking over Ashdean, the sky was now light blue, and lights were coming on in the long row of terraced houses lining the seafront.

  A black Labrador loped past on the beach below and splashed into the calm sea to chase a stick. The tide was out, exposing craggy seaweed-covered rocks. The dog’s owner, a tall guy in skinny jeans wearing a yellow waterproof jacket, saw Tristan in his running gear, did a double take, and smiled. Tristan smiled back, then crossed the road and let himself into the small flat he shared with his sister, Sarah.

  He was handsome, with short brown hair, brown eyes, and a tall, athletic frame. He pulled off his T-shirt, revealing a washboard stomach and muscular pectorals. On his back was a beautiful eagle tattoo, the eagle shown from reverse with
its wings spreading across his shoulders. On his chest was the same eagle, but seen from the front, its head down and amber eyes glowing on his breastbone. Its wingspan stretched to each shoulder. His biceps and arms were adorned with more tattoos. He went to the mirror and checked a wrap of cling film at the top of his left tricep. The film was coming away from the skin. He debated for a moment, then gently peeled it back to reveal his newest tattoo, a plain black band that was healing nicely.

  “Cool,” he said, admiring himself for a moment. “Not too shabby.”

  He showered, dressed, and walked the short journey along the seafront to the university building. He didn’t get the chance to talk to Kate until the last lecture of the morning, History of Forensics. As the students were filing out of the lecture theatre and he was packing away the slide projector, she came over.

  “I’ve got something I want to run past you. Fancy a coffee?” she said.

  Over the past few weeks Tristan had noticed Kate had been withdrawn and a little distant, and it didn’t look like she was sleeping much. He was pleased to see today she looked happier and well rested.

  “Sure. I’ll meet you there after I stash this projector back in storage,” he said. “I’ll have a caramel macchiato.”

  “Yuck,” she said. “I bet you’re going to put sugar in it too.”

  “I know I’m sweet enough, but yeah,” he said with a smile.

  Tristan joined Kate at the Starbucks on the ground floor a few minutes later. She was sitting at one of the tables under the long window looking out to sea. She handed him a cup.

  “Thanks,” he said, taking the seat opposite her. He took off the lid, and Kate watched in amusement as he added four sugars. He took a sip, nodded his approval, and got the diary from his bag. This was where he put down the details of all Kate’s work commitments: when specialist lecturers came to visit, equipment hire, and when the students sat exams.

  “This isn’t officially work stuff,” said Kate.

  “Oh?”

  Tristan listened as Kate told him about her meeting the previous night with Lyn Kendal.

  “She gave me this folder. It’s not much to go on,” finished Kate. “She also left five thousand pounds in cash inside. She’ll pay us another five thousand pounds if we find out what happened to Simon.”

  “That’s a lot of money. Do you think it’s her savings?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “I don’t know. She seems well off.”

  Tristan opened the folder and took out the paperwork. It contained a cutout of the story from the local newspaper and photos of Simon Kendal. Mostly details of his swimming championships. Tristan read through the article.

  LOCAL TEENAGER DROWNS IN RESERVOIR

  Simon Kendal, 18, reportedly got into difficulties after trespassing into Shadow Sands reservoir, near Ashdean.

  Police were called to the moorland beauty spot on Thursday. An underwater search team examined the area and later recovered the man’s body.

  Police have said they do not believe his death was suspicious.

  Det Ch Insp Henry Ko said: “My sincerest condolences are with Simon’s family at hearing this heart-wrenching news.”

  Mike Althorpe, leisure safety manager at the Royal Society for the Prevention of Accidents, said: “We understand the temptation to want to go swimming, especially during the hot weather. But open water sites can be very dangerous with strong currents and underwater debris that you cannot see from the bank.”

  “Does it seem like the local paper really wants to push the idea that Simon drowned?” asked Tristan.

  “They’re taking the lead from the authorities,” said Kate. “But yes. They don’t mention he was a champion swimmer.”

  Tristan looked through the photos of Simon with his diving team. He felt excited at the prospect of working on another real-life investigation, and on a practical level, the money would be very helpful. His sister was about to get married and would be moving out of the flat they shared after her wedding in December. He would be taking sole responsibility for the rent and bills when she was gone.

  “We’ve got lots in the diary,” he said. “The History of Forensics class are turning in their dissertations in two weeks, as are the 1970s American Serial Killers students. We’ve got the field trip to London for the Criminal Icons course, also in two weeks . . .” He wanted to add that Sarah’s wedding was in six weeks, and that would create all kinds of drama, he was sure.

  “I have a feeling that we’re going to find it was an accident,” said Kate. “If Alan Hexham did the postmortem, which I suspect he did, then I don’t doubt the results.”

  “The friend, Geraint, could be interesting to talk to, though,” said Tristan.

  “Exactly,” said Kate. “I’ve left a message with him, asking if we can talk to him on Saturday. I’m hoping he’ll call me back. I’m going to see Alan Hexham at the morgue tomorrow morning. He’s going to let me see the file on Simon Kendal’s postmortem.”

  “What time?”

  “He can only see me early, before nine.”

  “I’ve got to do equipment hire tomorrow morning, and I’m not great at the morgue, especially so soon after breakfast.”

  Kate smiled and nodded.

  “Okay, I’ll do that one on my own,” she said.

  “Count me in for Saturday; hopefully this Geraint will want to talk.”

  “Yes. I’m going to try and get the police report from Alan. I’d love to know what Geraint told them. It would be a good opportunity to challenge his story and see if it stands up a few months later.”

  7

  Kate arrived at the Exeter morgue just before eight the next morning. She signed in at the small office and was shown into the examining room. Jemma, one of Alan Hexham’s assistants, was working on the body of a young girl lying on one of the stainless steel mortuary tables.

  “Morning, Kate,” said Jemma, looking up from her work. Kate had known Alan Hexham ever since he’d come to be a guest lecturer for one of her criminology modules. He was now a regular lecturer, and he often provided cold case files for Kate’s students to study.

  Jemma was a junior mortician, a few years older than Tristan. She was a tall and well-built young woman—strength was essential in a mortician—and she was an expert in reconstruction. Kate stopped to look at the body of the young girl. Her face was crisscrossed in neat stitches, and Jemma was rolling up two small balls of cotton wool on the edge of the steel table. She lifted the dead girl’s right eyelid, placed the cotton wool ball in the empty eye socket, then did the same with the left eye.

  “She was in a head-on collision on the M6; they didn’t recover her eyeballs, and most of her brain was . . . missing,” said Jemma, standing back to inspect her work. “We’ve been working all night to put her back together. The family want to view her.”

  “You’ve done an amazing job,” said Kate, peering at the young girl. She thought back to her time spent as a police officer in road traffic and all the accidents she’d seen. Motorway head-on collisions were the most horrific, and they usually meant a closed casket for the victims.

  “I’ve packed her head with cotton wool, glued the skull back together as best I could. The rest is stitching. And she’s going to look even better when our mortuary cosmetologist arrives.”

  “Can you give me her number?” joked Kate, seeing her tired face reflected at the end of the stainless steel table.

  “I nearly asked her to do my makeup for my brother’s wedding, but I was worried she’d use her work brushes on me,” laughed Jemma. “Alan’s in his office, at the back.”

  “Thanks,” said Kate. She moved past a long line of refrigerator doors to Alan’s small office at the end. The door was ajar, and he was sitting at his desk, surrounded by piles of paperwork and scribbling on a pad with his phone under his chin. He was a huge bear of a man with a kind face and long graying hair tied back in a ponytail.

  “Great, thanks, Larry,” he said, ending the call. He looked up and saw Ka
te. “Come in. I’ve only got a minute, I’m afraid. I’ve got to dash off.”

  “No problem, thanks for seeing me,” said Kate.

  Alan threw his phone onto the desk and stuffed the last piece of a McDonald’s Egg McMuffin in his mouth and tossed the balled-up wrapper into his wastepaper basket. He took a file from a pile on his desk and opened it. Kate could see the postmortem photos of Simon Kendal on top.

  “Simon Kendal,” said Alan, chewing and swallowing. “He was on a camping trip with his friend by Shadow Sands reservoir. I wasn’t on duty the day this lad was brought in, but another coroner was called in to do the postmortem.”

  “Is that normal?” asked Kate.

  “It can happen. This mortuary can be commandeered for use by other police forces, for various reasons . . . Was Simon Kendal anyone special?”

  “Special?”

  “Child of a politician? VIP?”

  “No. Just an ordinary kid. A student. It doesn’t say why another coroner was brought in?”

  “No. As I said, there could have been all sorts of reasons why someone else did the postmortem . . .” Alan slid his glasses up on the top of his head and peered closer as he flicked through the file. “Simon Kendal didn’t have any alcohol in his bloodstream. He was healthy. No disease. Very little body fat. Incredible lung capacity.”

  “He was a swimmer, training for the Olympics,” said Kate.

  Alan’s brow furrowed.

  “And yet he drowned.” He flicked back through the file and started to examine the postmortem photos. He stopped on a photo and peered at it very closely.

  “What is it?” asked Kate.

  “His right lung was punctured. See, here,” he said, holding out the file and indicating a close-up photo of a puckered circular wound on Simon’s rib cage.

  “I was told his body was run over by a boat with an outboard motor propeller,” said Kate.

  “Who told you that?”

  “Lyn Kendal. Simon’s mother. And the police told her.”