Water's Edge

Chapter VI

The Humber Isn't The Amazon

"Who's this then?" He shook my hand brusquely, and I struggled to shake it back as I retrieved a cig from my case. Number five, but who's counting?

"Says he's an investigator." Leo had my back, inexplicably.

"Oh yeah." He motioned me over to the bland building that made up the offices of Soames Construction, "It's late, the night shift is about to start, and I don't care for snoopers." He held the door open for me, "How do you like that then?" He'd have sneered if he knew how.

"I like that just fine." I said with a noncommittal shrug, briefly ignoring the site manager for the secretary behind the curved front desk. She had dark hair in a kind of beehive – 60s chic had come back for those in their 20s – and I envied how close her dress was to her skin.

"You need to talk in private?" Sykes said knowingly.

"Think that would be best, no?"

I had to give him some credit. It appeared he had picked the smallest ground floor office for himself. It nearly looked like mine. Papers were strewn everywhere, all the Soames Construction letterhead, probably typed by the secretary still stealing my attentions. I shook off the thought of her and kept my eyes on Sykes, who took a seat behind the grubby desk, "So..." He coughed, "Sorry I snapped." He paused awkwardly, and I let the apology hang in the air like a dead spider in it's web, "Been a long week."

"I bet."

"You 'ere about that Hector lad?"

"I am."

"Shame that."

"It is."

I paused and found a fold out chair of dirty metal in the corner, settling down. He had some books on the shelves, which I found intriguing, even quaint. When I looked back to him, all the bombasity he had performed in front of his staff had vanished, revealing a tired man in need of a long sleep, or a coma, "Are you helping keep things under wraps?" I asked, politely. I didn't judge him for doing as he was told.

"Yeah. Edith... Mrs. Wharton... we all know the poor lad got lost in the scrub near Cherry Cobb. They also know it's, like, no one's fault. One of those things." Even though he said it was no one's fault, I could tell he blamed himself. He folded his arms like battle armour; his face betrayed tears he would cry in private, later, after a pint or five, "Why are you here though? I've got lads scouring..."

"I imagine to be third-party confirmation."

"Am I not that?" He really wanted answers, any answers, to any questions. Anything to still the worry.

"Not sure. Probably not. You did call her Edith."

He took a deep breath and fiddled with a fountain pen on the desk, with the Soames name emblazoned on the side: company names infect their environments like moss on a standing stone, "We get along well. All our kids go to the same school—"

"Which school is that?"

"Thorn Academy. The new one."

"You help with that too?"

"Most of the new stuff is us, yes." He put down the pen, "It's why we know each other so well. I've led the charge on half of the town being constructed, even if those yobbos think otherwise."

"And which yobbos would these be?" I imagined these were the descendants of Extinction Rebellion protesters in front of The Town Hall. They were brave; environmentalists were on a terror watch list.

"You will have 'erd them. Destroying natural beauty. All that shite." He shook his head, permitted himself a laugh, "Not like the Humber is the fuckin' Amazon, now is it."

I thought, for a second, that the kittiwakes roosting in the abandoned Humber Bridge would be thinking otherwise; to them it was there Amazon, "I suppose not. I am supposed to be performing my own search. Am I permitted?"

"Leo brung ya, he can go with you. That OK?"

"Of course." We let the silence linger again, "And how well do you know Edith?"

Dobson Sykes went redder than strawberries. He was about to yell at me – I couldn't really blame him, but the people who hide this kind of thing often get the angriest; I had my answer – but the door came ajar and the beauty at the desk peeked around the corner, "Telephone call for you, Mr. Sykes." He bristled and stormed out without another word.

I began to take my notepad out of my jacket when I heard the politest cough. She was still there, watching me, "Can I help?"

"Are you really a private investigator?"

"I am."

"Is that as cool as it sounds?"

"No."