Dark Waters: The addictive psychological thriller you won’t be able to put down

Alex winced. It had been unseasonably warm over the last few days. ‘Three days.’ She whistled. ‘Wow.’

‘Yup. That’s when I hired the boat out. They didn’t get very far, did they?’

‘And the other one?’ she asked.

‘Other one what?’

Alex damped down her impatience. ‘Body. The other body. You said one was from London. What about the other one? Was it a man or a woman?’

Colin turned slowly and looked at her. ‘Why you so interested then?’

Alex shrugged. ‘I’m from round here.’ Almost. ‘Like to know what’s going on in my back yard.’

‘Well the coppers said I wasn’t to talk to anybody until I’d given a proper statement.’ He puffed out his chest. ‘So I shouldn’t be talking to you.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Alex. She stared out over the water again.

The silence didn’t last long.

‘It were two men,’ said Colin. ‘Dead on my boat. The one from London was supposed to be someone well known. I didn’t recognize the name. Probably some reality show type. I dunno. The other from over the border. Suffolk,’ he added, as if Alex wouldn’t understand what he meant.

A well-known man found dead on a boat. That could be some story. ‘So,’ said Alex, knowing she had to tread carefully, ‘what was the name? Of the man from London?’

‘Who wants to know?’

‘Only wondering.’

More silence, though this time Colin obviously didn’t feel inclined to fill it.

‘Now you’ve got to clean the boat up,’ Alex added eventually, in a sympathetic tone.

‘Too right. Clean it up meself. I can’t ask the staff; there’d be a mass walk-out if I did.’ He gave a mock shudder. ‘Won’t be pleasant. Can you imagine the stink?’

No, she couldn’t. And she wouldn’t want to be the next holidaymaker to hire it. Colin would probably be best to change its name. Though there would be some ghoulish enough to want to holiday on the actual boat where people had died.

‘Which one of them hired the boat?’

Colin frowned. ‘Coppers want me to check that. I think it was done, you know, online. I don’t have a lot to do with that side of the business. I’m more hands-on.’ He sighed as he pulled a crumpled packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and peered into it. ‘Bugger.’ He screwed up the packet and shoved it back in his pocket.

‘Here.’ Alex pulled a packet out of her bag and offered him one.

‘Ta, love,’ he said, brushing her fingers as he took one, then lit it.

Alex put the packet back in her bag, glad she kept some cigarettes for times like these. ‘Can you remember a name or names? You know, who was booked on the boat?’

‘Nah, not offhand.’ He looked at her suspiciously. ‘You ask a lot of questions.’

Alex shrugged. ‘You’ve got to ask or you never find out.’

Colin grinned. ‘Too right, gel.’ He blew out a stream of smoke. Shook his head. ‘But I can’t rightly remember. I leave it up to the girls in the office to do the paperwork. Me, I like messing about with the boats when I can. Less trouble than people.’ He shrugged. ‘They’re back in the office anyhow. Names, I mean.’ He looked her up and down, a sly grin appearing on his face. ‘Come and have a look some time if you like.’

Alex smiled sweetly. ‘I might just do that. What about your “poor sod”?’

‘You mean the one who found the bodies? What about him?’

‘What was his name, do you know? He’s going to be famous soon. So are you. More people wanting to hire your boats.’ She knew she’d pushed the right buttons when she saw the gleam in his eye.

‘No reason why I shouldn’t tell you, is there? Gary. Gary Lodge. And his wife’s name is Ronnie.’

They both turned back to look at the boats across the water. Alex shivered as she tried not to think of the state of the cabin interior.

‘You reckon it could do me a bit of good?’ Colin didn’t look at her as he spoke.

‘I reckon.’

‘Daley. That was the name of the man who hired the boat. Least that’s what the girls in the office told me. Derek Daley. Is he a reality star?’

‘No.’ Alex’s heart began to beat furiously. ‘He’s not a reality star. Or anything like it. He owns a magazine.’

‘Is that all? Still, I suppose if it was someone really famous the publicity could follow me round like a bad smell.’ He laughed. ‘If you pardon the joke.’

Derek Daley. Magazine proprietor. Wealthy. Influential. Climbed the ladder not caring who he stepped on as he made his way up.

Interesting.

4

More locals were arriving by the minute, and the staithe on the edge of Dillingham Broad was becoming crowded.

Colin Harper shook his head. ‘I’ve had enough of this. I’m off.’ He looked across at Alex. ‘Don’t you forget what I said. My door’s always open.’ He gave her a knowing wink.

Alex tried not to roll her eyes. ‘Thanks, Colin. Nice to have met you.’

She looked around. She couldn’t see any likely stringers for the nationals yet, and it was too soon for journos from London to come calling. Then she spotted a police officer and hurried over to him.

‘Alex Devlin from The Post,’ she said, with what she hoped was a winning smile, while holding out her NUJ card as identification.

The officer, whose paunch more than filled his hi-vis vest, didn’t crack a smile, merely lifted a tufty eyebrow.

She wasn’t going to be intimidated. ‘And you are—?’

‘Police Constable Lockwood.’

‘Well, Police Constable Lockwood, I understand the deaths are thought to be suicide?’ She carried on smiling, hoping she didn’t look too manic.

Nothing.

‘And one of the people found on board was a—’, she pretended to consult her notebook, ‘Derek Daley, from London? The other man was from Suffolk?’

‘My, you have been busy.’

‘Are you able to confirm those facts for me, please?’ Now her cheeks were aching.

‘No.’

‘Right. Any chance you can give me a bit of a steer? Would I be wrong in thinking one of the people on the boat is called Derek Daley?’

He narrowed his eyes. ‘I couldn’t say.’

‘Suicide or an accident?’

‘Strange accident, if you ask me. Now, if you would let me do my job—’ He moved away.

Yesss, thought Alex, wanting to punch the air. No denial. Still not confirmed, but almost there. She moved away from the crowd and onto the rough grass lining the Broad, taking out her phone. There was a fluttering in her chest, a gnawing in her stomach. They were feelings she hadn’t had for a long time. She was excited, invigorated, chasing the story.

‘Yes.’ A gruff voice answered. A voice that said I am very busy so this had better be important. A voice that had the capacity to make even the most hardened hack turn pale if they didn’t know him. Bud Evans, the news editor of The Post and her previous boss. But he had been more than a boss. He had picked her up more than once when her life was falling apart, had been her mentor, had given her work and who had introduced her to the features editor of The Post when she had announced she wanted to return to live in Sole Bay. She owed him.

‘Bud, it’s me, Alex Devlin.’

‘Ah, Alex.’ His voice was slightly friendlier, about as friendly as it would get. And, of course, no small talk.

‘I won’t waste time—’

‘Good.’ She heard him vape.

‘I’m at Dillingham Broad, in Norfolk—’

‘Back of beyond. Godforsaken.’

‘Maybe, but listen. Two bodies have been found on a boat.’

‘And?’ He sounded almost bored.

‘It may have been suicide or an accident, but the point is one of the people who died is Derek Daley.’ She almost felt him sit up and begin to listen to her.

‘Daley, dead.’ Interest in his voice. ‘Sod’s definitely got what he deserved.’

‘Bud.’

‘What? Don’t speak ill of the dead?’ He laughed. ‘Come on, he was a rival. And a nasty piece of work. Are you sure it’s him?’

Alex wasn’t surprised at the careless way Bud was taking the death of someone in the industry. It was well known within The Post that Bud had little or no time for Derek Daley. Although Bud was known and admired as news editor of the paper, he was more than that – he actually owned The Lewes Press Group, of which The Post was a part. But he didn’t flaunt his success like Daley. He didn’t go to media parties, didn’t have fluffy magazine articles written about him, and if someone tried to take a photo of him, he would turn the other way. He gave money to children’s homes, but that was as far as he went. No, Bud Evans was an old-fashioned newspaper man with a flair for business, and that’s where it stopped.

‘Not totally confirmed yet, but there’s enough to get a flash ready for the website and something for the morning. I could even do you a colour piece if you want.’ She held her breath, realizing she really wanted this.

‘No, don’t worry about that. I’ll get someone onto it ASAP. Send someone to confirm and pick up any other strands.’

‘Oh.’ Alex was deflated. ‘Bud—’

‘Yes?’

‘I’d really like to do this.’

‘Why?’

‘Why not? I can write a story, you know that. I’m here, on the spot. Surely it would be a good idea if I at least got it started?’

More vaping.

‘Get some colour. We’ll prepare the flash here. Has PA arrived?’

Alex looked around to see if she could see Jon Welch from the Press Association, but there was no sign of him. He was probably in court somewhere. ‘No, I can’t see him yet.’

‘Right. Do me a one par story that can go when you get final confirmation, and then write me a colour piece. Email ASAP. I don’t want to see it on the wires. I want it in The Post first. And let me know when the press conference happens. If we hear about it first, I’ll let you know.’

Alex sat down on the grass, first making sure she wasn’t about to get duck droppings over her skirt. It was a bit damp, but what the hell. She was fizzing. She opened up a new email on her phone and began to type.

The one paragraph stating the bare facts was easy, and she had it written and sent over in a matter of minutes. The colour piece was more challenging. How to convey what was going on around her without sounding over the top and sensationalist.

‘Dillingham Broad,’ she wrote, ‘is at once peaceful and beautiful.’

Rubbish.

‘The peace of a beautiful part of Norfolk has been shattered by—’

Hmm. Not great, but she could build on it.

Ten minutes and one throbbing finger later and she had two hundred and fifty words that she hoped captured the essence of what was happening across the water. She checked the signal and pressed send.

As she stood and stretched her legs she saw a familiar face with a cloud of auburn hair standing by a Mini at the edge of the parking area. It was her friend, Lin Meadows.

‘Lin!’ she called, hurrying over to her. ‘How great to see you.’

Lin looked up, the frown on her face dissolving when she saw Alex. ‘What are you doing here?’

Alex grinned. ‘Doing a bit of old-fashioned reporting for my old-fashioned news editor.’

Lin looked at her, obviously puzzled.

‘A couple of men have been found dead on a boat out there, on the other side of the water. Look. You can see forensics walking around.’

‘Ah, that’s what’s going on.’ She pulled a face. ‘Gross. So what’s with the reporting?’

‘I heard about the bodies on the radio, and I was nearby, so I thought I’d come and see what was going on. Then I rang Bud – I worked for him when I lived in London and he gave me my first job – and he wanted me to look into it—’ She stopped. Lin was laughing at her. ‘What is it?’

Lin gave her a hug. ‘For a start, Bud? Sounds like someone from an American B movie. And for another thing, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this energized.’

Alex drew back. ‘Really?’

‘No, you look as though you’re enjoying yourself.’

‘I suppose I am,’ said Alex, realizing she meant it. ‘But I’m only doing it until the reporter from London turns up.’

‘What?’ Lin looked indignant on Alex’s behalf. ‘You don’t mind being someone else’s bitch?’

She shrugged. ‘No.’ That’s the way it worked sometimes.

Lin wrinkled her nose. ‘Right.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m not sure I understand, but, hey, what do I know? Lovely to see you, though.’

‘And you. It seems ages.’

Alex really was delighted. She had met Lin shortly after she’d moved back to Sole Bay. Lin was renting a house next door to her and had stopped to chat to Alex on her way to buy some food for her evening meal just after she’d moved in. Alex was weeding the little patch of earth that passed for a front garden, and Lin had stopped to admire the one good thing in that garden – a beautiful palm tree – saying she had a similar one in her garden in London. Her smile had been wide and her body language so open and friendly that Alex had to ask her what she was doing renting a house in Sole Bay. Hoping to find inspiration, had been Lin’s answer. She was an artist and wanted to live by the sea for a year and see where that took her in her work, she’d said. Sole Bay was such a beautiful place. Inspirational. She also wanted to find a local gallery to display and sell her paintings and collages. Perhaps, she had asked hesitantly, Alex knew which galleries might be receptive to her? Alex had invited her in, of course, and over coffee and cake gave her the names of some of the more friendly gallery owners. Then they fell into chatting about this and that and found they had a lot in common – both loved to be by the sea, both had hated school and both were single and in no hurry to go down the relationship route again.

‘Who was the man in your life, then?’ Lin had asked, after Alex had told her how someone she thought was “the one” who was going to share her life had buggered off without so much as a goodbye. ‘Gus’s father, or?’

‘The “or”,’ Alex had said with a wry smile. ‘Done and dusted and best forgotten.’

Lin had nodded, and Alex had appreciated the fact she didn’t pry any further. And so began what was, for Alex, an easy friendship. Usually wary about becoming close to people, Alex made an exception for Lin who was relaxed and undemanding as a friend. And if Lin had heard from one of the many gossips around town about Sasha, she didn’t bring it up. Another reason, Alex felt, to like Lin.

‘Where have you been?’ Alex said now. ‘Why haven’t you been round?’

‘I’ve been in London on an art course. I told you about it – remember?’

Alex frowned, then shook her head. ‘I’m sure you did but my brain is like a sieve. So what are you doing here?’

‘I was taking some pictures’, she pointed to the digital camera hanging from around her neck, ‘for my next project, you know? Boats and ducks and so on, and came across this commotion.’ She shivered dramatically. ‘How did they die?’

‘I don’t know yet, that’s what I’m hoping to find out.’

‘What have you got so far?’ Lin looked at her, wide-eyed.

‘Not a great a deal – I’ve sent off a colour piece and a one par breaking news story that’ll go on the website when I can confirm it: that’s it so far.’

Lin nudged her. ‘Get you. Colour piece. Breaking news. Hope you get a whatsit, a byline. And get paid.’

‘Ha! Haven’t broached the idea of money yet. Depends how much more I do.’

‘Anyway.’ Lin looked at her watch. ‘I must go.’ She jumped in the Mini and put the window down. ‘Come round for supper later, let me know how you’ve got on.’ And with that she drove away.

Alex shook her head, smiling. That was a hasty departure.

Lin was right about the money, though. She’d been so eager to get something more worthwhile than celebrity news or how to collect coupons into The Post that she hadn’t mentioned money to Bud. How naive. And how – she struggled to find the word – how parochial. She’d never had any ambitions to be a foreign correspondent or an anchor on a TV show. She wanted to make a living doing something she enjoyed. So how had she ended up in Sole Bay writing features for The Post?

Her choice.

She had given it a go in London; Bud had given her work, but it was mainly fillers for the paper, hardly ground-breaking stories. Sole Bay was where her heart was, so she’d compromised and come home, and generally she was content. But on days like these, when something half decent came along, she had the adrenaline rush, the tightness in her belly, the fizz in her head.

‘Excuse me.’

Alex turned towards the voice. It was PC Lockwood.

‘I thought you’d like to know’, he said without any preamble, ‘that there’s going to be a press conference at six. About the deaths on the boat.’

‘Thank you,’ said Alex, surprised. ‘It was good of you to—’

‘It’s my job to tell you. It’ll be at the station in the town. Nobody’s saying anything until then.’ He nodded behind her. ‘Your mates have caught up with the story.’

Alex turned. Sure enough, a couple of likely-looking reporters were scribbling in notebooks. She recognized one of them, from the local TV, setting up his own camera before turning and facing it and doing a piece to camera.

She sent a text to Bud.

Press conference at six.

She got an immediate reply.

Go. Reporter will meet you there and liaise.

‘And thank you for all your hard work, Alex,’ she muttered. ‘You’ve done really well, Alex. Liked the colour piece, Alex.’

What else had she expected?

Suddenly the crowd on the staithe fell silent.

The police boat was pulling the cruiser across the water towards land.

5

Cambridge 1975

The silence was terrifying as my dad and I heaved the battered school trunk we’d found in a junk shop through a small doorway at the side of the old stone building and up Staircase C. As it bumped up each tread, worn smooth by the shoes of generations of students, my heart sank lower and lower. What was I doing here? An ordinary boy from an ordinary town who did as he was told, stayed on an extra six months at the local grammar, passed exams, a three-day interview and was now at Cambridge.

When Dad left, exhorting me to enjoy myself and meet people (subtext: a nice girl from a nice family – and thank Christ Mum hadn’t come: she would have been unbearably fussy), I sat on my narrow single bed staring at the beige carpet and nursing a glass of the Blue Nun I’d brought with me (‘to share with other students’, my mum had said hopefully), trying to ignore the slight smell of drains and praying nobody would knock on my door. Soon I would Blu-Tack posters of Bowie and college events to the wall and unpack my record player and books, but for now I was looking at bare magnolia walls, empty bookshelves, and a basin in the corner with an annoying dripping tap. And I kept glancing over to my desk nervously, looking at the array of invitations I had picked up from my pigeonhole in the porter’s lodge on my way through. I wasn’t sure I would have the courage to accept any of them. I had the sense that at any point I could be found out, that I didn’t deserve to be here, not really.

Then, unexpectedly, I felt a surge of happiness. I was here. I’d made it. Cambridge. Bright, glittering. I could be whoever I wanted to be. I could reinvent myself. I could be exciting, intriguing, interesting. No longer dull. There would be people to fascinate me. I might fall in love. I would no longer be ordinary.

I didn’t know then that I would soon be craving an ordinary life.

The first person I met was Stu.

He knocked on my door that night while I was nursing my Blue Nun.

‘Hi,’ he said, hopping from one foot to another, pushing his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. ‘I’m Stu.’ He held out his hand. I took it and he gave me a firm handshake. His hair was receding, and he wore jeans that had been ironed. His accent was pure Birmingham. Coming from the Midlands I recognized it instantly.

‘I saw your dad helping you earlier. I thought—’ His glasses had slipped again; he pushed them back. ‘I heard your dad, and I thought you were probably from somewhere near Birmingham—’

‘Somewhere near,’ I said.

‘I’m not sure whether I should be here—’ He trailed off, looking around nervously.

‘Where? On this staircase?’

‘No. Here. In Cambridge.’ His smile was hesitant.

I smiled back, warming to him. ‘I know what you mean.’

‘Do you?’ he said. ‘Do you really?’ He came in and sat on my armchair. ‘Perhaps we can pal up. Go to things together. I’m reading Philosophy.’

‘So am I,’ I said.

So for the rest of the week Stu and I stuck together. It helped me because Fresher’s Week was an endurance, even though I guess that’s where it all began. It was a week packed with filling out forms, going to dusty rooms where professors lurked with warm sherry, and trying to avoid the jolly red-faced students trying to get us to sign up to their societies. But the old fear of being found out once again got in my way, so the only society I joined was the Philosophy Society. I felt that’s what you did at places like Cambridge.

Stu joined the Philosophy Society with me. He eschewed the same societies as I did. He talked to the same people as I did. He was good to have around, if a little dull, and I wondered if I’d still be friends with him at the end of our three years.

Then came the end of the week party at the college. I got ready carefully, putting on new jeans (unironed) and a tee shirt with some sort of logo on it, washed my hair and splashed out on aftershave that smelled vaguely spicy. The party took place in a dark hall – the Junior Common Room – with music from the Sex Pistols making the walls and floor vibrate. No food – that wasn’t the point – and the evening dissolved into a blur of cigarettes and alcohol and a joint or a spliff; I wasn’t even sure what to call it I was that naive, but I smoked as though I knew what I was doing.

Shamefully, I tried to shake off Stu, telling him I was going to get a drink, but I had no intention of finding him in the crowd again. I wanted some of that elusive excitement, and I thought Stu would cramp my style. Then I went back to someone’s room to carry on the party and started talking to a student who looked as though he had just stepped out of an Evelyn Waugh novel, complete with pullover, casually worn scarf (even at a party, and he told me later it was cashmere) and a cigarette in a holder. A mix of secrecy, amusement and decadence radiated off him. He told me his name was Willem. ‘Though I’d rather be Seb. After Sebastian Flyte,’ he explained, pinning me with his ice-blue eyes. ‘You can call me Seb, if you like.’

‘I don’t think so,’ I said, suddenly giddy with the idea of standing up to someone with his air of entitlement.

The time for my reinvention had arrived.

6

The Harper’s Holidays building was by the side of the River Ant next to Lowdham Bridge, some six miles from Wrexfield. Alex had driven past it many times, but had never had occasion to stop.

Now she navigated the car across a yard full of boats of all different shapes and sizes, some covered with tarpaulins, others dilapidated and listing to one side, all of them looking out of place on dry land. Any number of bodies could be hidden around here, thought Alex. On the river she could see three sleek cruisers moored – presumably ones for hire. No sign of Firefly Lady – that particular crime scene would be with the coppers for some time to come.

Alex parked next to a building by the water’s edge that appeared to be a large shed with a corrugated iron roof. She went through the door marked ‘Harper’s Holidays Reception’ thinking to find something akin to a tyre and exhaust workshop – a little grubby, a bit seedy, populated by men who were unused to office work. And with one of those coffee machines in the corner that dispensed execrable drinks. Instead she found a bright, clean office with three smart women working away at their computers. She should never think in stereotypes – she should have learned that by now.