Water's Edge

Chapter XXXIX

Evidence

Susie Rand, Rintoul's personal assistant it turned out, moonlighting on the front desk during a less than busy day – whatever that meant for The Spectator – took me into the vaults where they had kept Berg's findings. They had purchased it all as it came. Berg probably didn't even realise he was being swindled from his own findings, to be written by someone else more prominent. Poor lad. Ended before it had begun.

"We stored it away as it didn't amount to anything newsworthy." She said, struggling with a large cardboard box I helped get onto the table, "You have ten minutes." I went to ask her a question, but she left in a flash. Seemed to be her thing: teleporting.

I flipped through the pages and found transcriptions of a tape recording that didn't seem present. I took notes, scribbling them. My phone pinged; Becky said she would be trying on Thursday to get some information, having booked herself in the system to get in there, an alibi if Dobson spotted her. Wonderful. And with this new information:

It seemed Winthrop was highly opposed to the dam. Illegally sourced materials. Weak planning. Soames Construction, and their benefactor, were cutting as many corners as they could to offer themselves bonuses. Winthrop took this not to be very British, not utilising the materials of our own country and using poor equivalents from overseas. Whatever racist undertone the old mayor wanted to say, one thing was clear. Winthrop knew they were using the wrong materials for construction. The Dam would last a few years and then flood the entirety of Beverly & Holderness.

I took a breath. Hector had just slipped and fallen. Someone had found out about Berg and Suggitt and got rid of them. The environmentalists had been sniffing around for too long. Someone did not want people knowing this dam was being built in the worst possible fashion.

It would all point to Barnaby, but he had a tight alibi; his very opponent had been with him. Perhaps the Saxons were skinning more than cats by the banks of the estuary, this spiel about it being for their god Wada a cover. Surely a god of the sea longed for everyone drowned. And the drawings on the bodies; maybe the pen was more than just addresses on the backs of hands—

But even if I could pin this on someone – and I was certain I knew who it was – I couldn't arrest them. As P.I. I had to pass my conclusions onto the police. I'd need hard evidence for Elle Thompson to buy that I had a connection between Soames, Dobson, Wharton. They had made the town safe, helped it blossom. And being good friends with the establishment I wouldn't get far unless I could directly pin the murders on Sykes and his crew. Someone had thrown those bodies to the waves, for a god or not; I just had to prove it now.

As I stormed out, Addyes perked up out of nowhere and began to follow me to the exit, "Find what you need, old cracker?"

I stopped, spun to face him; he flinched, "Did you just not publish it because it wasn't newsworthy, or did your Tory pals buy you off."

"Oh, nothing like that." He said, curling his lip as if around a bad smell, "I hate taking bribes. It's uncouth."

"So no one wanted to keep Suggitt's name clean?"

"Tories being bad guys isn't exactly something I make a business of hiding any more. People kind of like them being a bit naughty, makes them see more human." Addyes showed me to the door, politely even, "I can assure you, Detective Fields, I simply did not publish it because who wants to hear from an old mayor from the fucking Humber."

And with that he cackled and closed the door, winking and wiggling his fingers in adieu.

I hated that boy, but he had proven useful. I'd have to remember that, even if it did mean more terrible cocktails.

The Zodiac roared into life, and I didn't even care it was too late to drive back to Thorngumbald. Someone didn't care what side they were on; they were protecting that dam even if it wasn't protecting anyone else.

And poor Hector, caught amongst it all, left in a pile of the dead simply because he needed some time to himself. What a strange world that turns, ey.