Swimming with the Dead Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Peter Guttridge

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Peter Guttridge

  The Brighton Mystery Series

  CITY OF DREADFUL NIGHT *

  THE LAST KING OF BRIGHTON *

  THE THING ITSELF *

  THE DEVIL’S MOON *

  THOSE WHO FEEL NOTHING *

  SWIMMING WITH THE DEAD *

  The Nick Madrid Series

  NO LAUGHING MATTER

  A GHOST OF A CHANCE

  TWO TO TANGO

  THE ONCE AND FUTURE CON

  FOILED AGAIN

  CAST ADRIFT

  * available from Severn House

  SWIMMING WITH THE DEAD

  Peter Guttridge

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2019 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.

  This eBook edition first published in 2019 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2019 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  Copyright © 2019 by Peter Guttridge.

  The right of Peter Guttridge to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8933-1 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-603-6 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0220-8 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  ‘Oh, would I were a little fish,

  Upon the water skimming,

  Oh, let me be one, ’tis my wish,

  I am so fond of swimming’

  – From a popular Victorian song about J.B. Johnson, who failed to swim the English Channel in 1872 (but briefly pretended he had)

  ‘Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.’

  – Samuel Beckett, not best known for his swimming abilities

  ‘So we beat on, boats against the current,

  borne back ceaselessly into the past’

  – F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

  For Jessica, Channel Swimmer par excellence

  PROLOGUE

  The tug of the tides in her. Swept away on surges of emotion. Impetuous, foolhardy … feckless, fickle – these last words he chose for her as their relationship floundered and he cast her adrift.

  The tug of the tides here in the slow deep. The soft swell comforting her. Cradling her. Carrying her away.

  Soon she is far from anything she knows, or recognizes, or loves. Her senses awash, her treacherous limbs heedless of her brain’s dim commands. Ponderous. Sinking.

  She rises, snuffling for air but sucking in the sea. Slowly she sinks. Tiny bubbles swim around her head. She sinks deeper.

  She does not rise again.

  ONE

  Something stirred the blackness. Sarah Gilchrist, awake in an instant, lay still, on her side, her head pressed into her pillow, one fluttering eye trying to see through the darkness enveloping her.

  She took a breath and sat up, reaching for her watch. Five a.m. She heard someone on tiptoe move from her balcony to her flat’s front door. She held her breath until she heard the thin rattle of the chain, the squeak as the door opened, the dull click as it closed again.

  She switched on the bedside lamp and picked up her phone, glanced across at the crumpled second pillow where the man had slept. Five a.m. was acceptable. The time she would have left a stranger’s flat. She hoped he hadn’t left a note saying he would call or thanking her for a great night. She didn’t want him to call and it hadn’t been a great night.

  It had been another lost night. But unlike other recent one-night stands she had invited this one into her home. Her refuge. Why had she done that? Too much wine? Too much lust and her flat had been nearest?

  Her phone rang. She cleared her throat, took a sip from the water glass beside her bed. ‘Morning, Bellamy,’ she said, her voice only a little croaky. ‘Bad news, I hope.’

  ‘Morning, ma’am,’ Detective Sergeant Bellamy Heap said, his voice sombre. ‘The worst I’m afraid. Murder. Salthaven Lido.’

  ‘Good,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Come for me in ten.’

  ‘I’m here now, ma’am,’ Heap said. Which meant he would have seen Gilchrist’s midnight rambler leave. Well, okay. She ended the call and hauled herself out of bed, hoping the water in the shower would be hot.

  Heap passed Gilchrist a coffee and a small bottle of still water once she had her seat belt on. She could smell his hot chocolate and a hint of his aftershave. She seemed to be more conscious of male fragrances on him since he had started dating her friend, Kate Simpson. She assumed he’d come straight from her bed. They weren’t actually living together but he seemed to spend most of his time in her flat rather than in his own place in Lewes.

  ‘What do we know?’ Gilchrist said, sipping at the hot coffee.

  ‘Male, Caucasian, found outside the lido. Multiple stab wounds. No defensive injuries.’

  ‘Identification?’

  ‘Not carrying any identifying papers, ma’am. In fact, not carrying anything.’

  ‘The attack was frenzied?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘I understand not, ma’am.’ Heap glanced at her. ‘On the phone, when you said “good”, ma’am …’

  ‘It was in bad taste, Bellamy,’ Gilchrist said. ‘But have you actually enjoyed the last few weeks? Is it what you trained for?’

  ‘It’s important work, ma’am,’ Heap said. He saw her face. ‘But no, ma’am, I haven’t enjoyed it.’

  For the past month Gilchrist and Heap had been part of an inter-agency examination of teenage violence and vandalism. Gilchrist had been putting off participating in the task force for months but had finally run out of excuses.

  ‘So this is our ticket out.’

  ‘But a man has died, ma�
��am.’

  Gilchrist leaned across and squeezed Heap’s arm. ‘I’m sorry, Bellamy. I do care about this poor man.’

  ‘Ma’am.’

  Gilchrist was too tall to lean back into her seat, although that’s what she wanted to do. Instead she leaned forward. ‘Sometimes I get brittle.’

  ‘Ma’am.’

  ‘I do care about this man.’

  Heap put the car into gear. He looked across at Gilchrist. He gave her a small smile. ‘Ma’am.’

  Gilchrist had been expecting the man to be sprawled on the pavement, limbs akimbo. But he was curled up tightly against the wall of Salthaven Lido. His arms were wrapped round his drawn-up knees, his forehead resting on top of them.

  ‘He hung on to life,’ she murmured.

  ‘Tried to,’ Heap agreed.

  Gilchrist looked around, scanning for pubs that were nearby. ‘Bad night in the pub?’ she said.

  ‘We’ll know that when the blood levels have been taken,’ Heap said.

  ‘You don’t have to be drunk to have a bad night, Bellamy,’ Gilchrist said.

  Heap nodded. Gilchrist stepped around the crime scene gingerly. ‘It’s just a post-pub argument gone wrong,’ she continued. ‘It’s Saturday night in Brighton.’

  ‘It’s Monday,’ Heap said quietly.

  Gilchrist snorted. ‘I know that, smartarse. The principle is the same.’

  ‘There’s a Save Salthaven Lido campaign going on at the moment, ma’am.’

  Gilchrist stopped pacing and looked from Heap to the body. ‘You think this is linked to that?’

  ‘This man is quite well dressed, ma’am. Linen. Nice haircut. He’s not the kind to get involved in a pub brawl, I wouldn’t have thought.’

  Gilchrist nodded slowly. ‘My brain hasn’t fired up yet, Bellamy. Good points all. Thank you.’ She looked up at the Art Deco frontage of the pool. ‘The council are closing this down, aren’t they? I don’t see how closing down a lido would lead to murder. I don’t think it’s going to hire hit men, ludicrous as its hiring policy often seems.’

  Heap looked around them.

  ‘With respect, ma’am, the lido is being pretty much pulled down not closed down. And by the businesswoman who bought the freehold off the council for some token amount – one pound or something. She intends to redevelop it with flats, offices and restaurants. That means money and money usually does mean motive. In light of that, the lido would seem the most likely link to this death.’

  Gilchrist looked up at the sky and sucked in air. ‘Then you work on that assumption, Bellamy.’ She looked around. ‘Now where the fuck is Frank Bilson?’

  The pathologist was not long in arriving. He parked a little way down the street then walked over to them in long strides, his battered leather forensics bag slung over one shoulder, dragging his suit jacket askew.

  ‘Sarah – the delight I have in seeing you almost makes the unfortunate circumstances in which we meet worthwhile.’

  ‘Almost,’ Gilchrist said.

  He nodded to Heap. ‘Bellamy.’

  ‘Mr Bilson.’

  Bilson tilted his head and looked down at the dead man. ‘So, Roland Gulliver stabbed to death in front of the wonderfully exuberant Salthaven Lido.’

  ‘You know this man?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘Of course. We swim together. Well, not together but in the same pool up on campus.’ He gestured at the Art Deco frontage of the lido. ‘He’s part of the Save the Lido gang.’

  Gilchrist glanced at Heap. In his place she would have been preening but he was po-faced.

  ‘So you think this is somehow linked to that campaign?’ Gilchrist said.

  If Frank Bilson had had glasses he would have been looking over them.

  ‘Not my area of cognisance,’ he said. ‘I’m just here to tell you how he died.’

  Gilchrist looked across at DS Heap.

  ‘Bellamy?’

  ‘I’d like to work with the evidence, ma’am, before hypothesizing any further.’

  Yeah, well fuck you too, Gilchrist thought but didn’t say. She shook her head. Boy, was she in a bad mood. Swimmers. She hated men who did a splashy front crawl barging through other swimmers in public pools. She was willing to bring back the death penalty for anyone doing the butterfly.

  ‘So tell me how he died, Frank,’ Gilchrist said.

  Bilson leaned in. ‘Sarah, I love it when you’re bossy with me.’

  Gilchrist raised her eyes. Heap was working his iPad.

  ‘He lives in Salthaven,’ Heap said. ‘Perhaps we should leave Mr Bilson to his work and go round to Mr Gulliver’s house.’

  ‘Is there a family waiting to be given terrible news?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘Divorced,’ Frank Bilson called from where he was squatting by the corpse. ‘No kids. Might be a boyfriend though.’

  She nodded at Heap. ‘Come on then, let’s visit his abode.’

  There seemed to be nobody home at Gulliver’s modern semi-detached house.

  ‘Shall we check round the back?’ Gilchrist said.

  There was a big terracotta pot beside the kitchen door. Gilchrist tilted it and Heap picked up a key.

  ‘People never cease to disappoint,’ Gilchrist said.

  The kitchen was small but tidy. The living room had an almost empty bottle of wine and two glasses on a table in front of an old sofa.

  Heap leaned down to sniff the wine in the bottle. Gilchrist was looking at a certificate in a frame on the wall.

  ‘Mr Gulliver has swum the English Channel.’ She snorted. ‘Doing bloody butterfly. Fourteen hours and a bit.’ She turned to Heap. ‘How is that even possible? Butterfly is the daftest stroke around but to do it for fourteen hours non-stop? Or do they stop, Bellamy?’

  ‘For liquid food intake and for the odd float I think but, no, they have to keep going.’

  ‘Well, that’s bloody unbelievable.’

  Heap had put on a latex glove and was riffling through a pile of post on the fireplace. He pulled out one envelope. It had been opened. He took out the sheet of paper inside.

  ‘Mobile phone bill.’

  ‘See if we can locate his phone,’ Gilchrist said.

  Heap dialled and listened for a moment.

  ‘Voice mail. I’ll get his recent calls from the phone company.’

  Gilchrist nodded, glancing once more round the room. ‘Let’s leave this to SOCO.’

  ‘Kate’s training for it, ma’am,’ Heap said.

  Gilchrist frowned. ‘SOCO?’

  ‘No. The Channel.’

  ‘Swimming the Channel? Really? I know she’s in the diving club but I didn’t imagine her as a long-distance swimmer.’

  Heap shrugged.

  ‘She’s swimming the length of Lake Coniston this weekend and in a couple of weeks there’s a big open-air swimming event in Brighton when she’s going to try for her six-hour qualifier. She needs to put on a couple of stone in weight so she’s eating like a pig.’

  ‘A woman trying to put on weight?’

  ‘Swimmers need blubber to deal with the cold.’

  ‘Eating like a pig? So there are some perks attached to doing it then?’

  There was a buzz at the door. Heap glanced out of the window. ‘SOCO,’ he said.

  ‘Let’s leave them to it. Better get onto the Save Salthaven Lido folk. I’m going to talk to Frank Bilson again.’

  Bilson was looking out to sea, smoke from his cigarette wreathing his head. A tall, lean man in his forties, he had that air of arrogance that comes with knowing a job inside out.

  ‘Contemplating your next Channel swim?’ Gilchrist called as she came up to him.

  He turned, at the same time pinching the end of his cigarette between finger and thumb to extinguish it.

  ‘That must hurt,’ she said.

  He smiled. ‘Certainly, it hurts. The trick, Sarah Gilchrist, is not minding that it hurts.’

  ‘Lawrence of Arabia.’

  He tilted his head.

  ‘You know
the film? I wouldn’t have thought it was your kind of thing.’

  ‘No – I know a science fiction film called Prometheus where Michael Fassbender does an impersonation of Peter O’Toole. He’s a robot.’

  ‘Peter O’Toole?’

  ‘Michael Fassbender. In the film.’

  Bilson frowned. ‘I’ll take your word.’

  ‘You don’t see contemporary films, Frank?’

  ‘Art house stuff at the Duke of Yorks.’ He put on a familiar leer. ‘But if you’re asking me out, Sarah, I’ll happily try some other fare. We’d be sitting on the back row I presume?’

  She laughed. ‘You presume too much. Tell me about Mr Gulliver.’

  ‘We both attend the swimming pool at the David Lloyd up on the university campus. We both hog the fast lane, although he stays in much longer than I. Stayed in longer.’

  ‘He swam the Channel.’

  Bilson glanced over to the horizon. A couple of tankers from Shoreham were making their slow way to France.

  ‘Ah – now I understand your comment. I didn’t know that about him. And it is certainly not my intention to emulate him.’

  ‘He did it butterfly.’

  Bilson frowned again. ‘Indeed. That’s curious. I never saw him do the butterfly in the pool. Always crawl.’

  ‘What else do you know about him?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘Only a little. Our conversation was desultory, in the changing rooms or, occasionally, the sauna. That’s where I heard his name – in the sauna. He didn’t introduce himself to me but to someone else.’

  ‘Anything I should know about his death?’

  ‘As always, I’ll know better after I’ve got him on the slab. At first sight, however, he has indeed been stabbed to death.’

  ‘Drink or drugs involved?’

  ‘I’ll know that after the toxicity tests.’

  ‘Time?’

  ‘Somewhere between midnight and three in the morning.’

  ‘You said you thought he might have a boyfriend?’

  ‘Terrible, isn’t it, eavesdropping at my age? But in a sauna it’s difficult not to.’

  ‘This emerged in that same conversation with the man he introduced himself to?’