The Cold Shore

Chapter One

It was the last day of spring when Alan Wendle found the abandoned boat.

The sailboat looked as if it had washed up on the uneven shingle beach hugging the marshes and was trying to escape the clutches of the Thames Estuary, with its wooden hull canted to one side while it rocked in the swell of the rising tide on a shallow keel.

Despite the warmth of the previous weeks, summer was promising to start cold, and Alan was ruing the decision to leave his windproof jacket in the car. But that was parked two miles away in a council-run car park with weeds protruding from the concrete and positioned several spaces away from a beaten-up old van that bore the faded livery of an online shopping store along its dented and rusting white paintwork.

He shifted the ten-litre daypack across his shoulder and zipped up the neck of his thin fleece, then increased his pace, keen to investigate. The sailing club was further along the coast, around the other side of the peninsula on the River Medway, and most of the clientele there had boats with fibreglass hulls that were stark white against the mud-stained green and blue tidal waters.

The boat on the beach seemed about twenty feet in length and looked fit to sink. It was smaller than some of the sailing yachts that passed along the Estuary from time to time and resembled those used for weekend jaunts and the occasional fishing trip with friends. It was battered and bruised by weather and sea and even from here he noticed that there were only patches of its original pale paintwork remaining.

The narrow dirt path wound its way between reed beds and waterways, narrow streams called fleets that curled their way towards the sea. He paused for a moment, watching as a pair of oystercatchers sloshed through the water, their beaks stabbing here and there while a sparrow hawk rode the air currents above with grace, hunting for its next victim.

Then there was a surprised chirp, and a lapwing shot out from behind a grass tussock, cussing at him as it rose into the sky.

‘Stupid,’ he muttered under his breath, waiting while his heart rate slowed once more.

The doctor had told him the walks would aid his health but here he was, being terrified by the local wildlife instead.

He didn’t even know what all the birds he saw out here were, and there was no way he was going to buy one of those birdwatching books to look them up once he got home – the lads down the pub would never let him hear the end of it. It was bad enough that he had to quit drinking after the operation and follow a strict diet and exercise regime while his body healed, let alone having to confess to regular walks and swimming.

Mind you, he had to admit he was enjoying seeing the weight drop off. Another few kilos and he reckoned he would fit into some of the T-shirts that Mandy had shoved into a box at the back of the wardrobe two years ago, her attempts to coerce him into joining her tennis club quashed by his preference to hang out at the bar instead and watch while she and her friends ran around the courts.

He smiled at the thought of his wife, knowing she would laugh when he told her about his reaction to the bird. They had moved to Gravesend from Woolwich four years ago when he got a new job with one of the supermarket’s Kent-based distribution centres, and were thriving in their new environment. The air was fresher, people were friendlier, and the healthcare queues were shorter, thank goodness. Another six months and his heart would have given up completely, his doctor reckoned.

At that thought, Alan picked up his pace. When he had first started walking after the operation, he couldn’t manage more than a few paces. Now, he often enjoyed wandering out here for three or four miles at a time and his blood pressure was lower.

The track narrowed as it dropped down towards the pathetic beach that was no more than stones and pebbles and a narrow sliver of sand near the shoreline, and the long grass slapped at his legs. The wind was picking up now, and as he looked over his shoulder towards the way he had come, he felt the first splashes of rain pelt his face.

He was only four hundred metres from the boat though, and he was curious. Mandy wouldn’t finish work for another two hours, and he would only end up sitting in the car park round the corner from the hospital where she worked, bored while he waited and scrolled aimlessly through his social media.

Taking out his phone, he started to text her a message, then saw the lack of signal in the top right-hand corner of the screen and sighed. He’d call when he was back at the car to let her know she didn’t have to take the bus home tonight.

He put his phone away and turned his attention back to the boat.

It was bigger than he had first thought. The bow faced up the beach as if it had been driven there by the tide, and waves lapped at the keel, the seawater lifting the port side up and down, up and down. There were windows in the wooden hull that had curtains pulled across the panes, and there was a shallow covered area near the stern, which Alan presumed was to shelter whoever steered it. The remains of a ragged sail drooped from the main mast, its edges tattered and torn as if the wind had tried to rip it apart.

As he got closer, he could see that its hull was well worn and clad with barnacles along its exposed keel. Pacing its length along the starboard side, he reckoned it was about twenty-six feet long and when he rounded the stern he saw kelp and bladderwrack clinging to the rusting propeller.

‘Hello?’ he called, cupping his hand around his mouth as he looked up at the deck. ‘Anybody here?’

There was no answer, and after peering along the beach, he could see nobody else. The beach curled away and around a spit of land to the west, and there was no sign of life to the east, either.

Alan waited until the tide dragged itself away from the keel and then skirted around the stern to the port side. It had settled closer to the shingle here, leaving only a metre between the deck and the shore and, after testing the sturdiness of one of the stanchions, he grasped hold of it and hauled himself up.

The waves came rolling back in just then, and he raised his arms to balance himself while the boat rocked upright, then reached out and wrapped his fingers around a stanchion before the water subsided. Gulls cried overhead, and the surf crashed against the shingle but he could hear no movement from within the boat’s hull.

The mainsail had been lowered, and the sail cloth had been rolled and lashed along the boom, leaving the halyards to clink against the mast in the breeze. There was a closed hatch cover set into the deck nearer the bow, but even from here he could see the brass padlock on the latch, so instead he shielded his eyes and peered through the dirty glass window of the small cabin.

Then he tried the door, and emitted a surprised “huh” when it opened under his touch.

He recoiled at the overpowering stench of vomit that wafted up to meet him and peered down the three shallow steps that led down into the hull.

‘Hello?’ he ventured.

There was no answer, but the fear that somebody might be down there, hurt and dazed from the boat being tossed against the rocks and shingles, drove him onwards.

When he reached the bottom of the steps, he noticed a door to the left with a simple sign nailed to it that read “WC”. Beyond that, a small kitchen with a gas hob faced a fold-out wooden table strewn with charts and empty crisp packets.

On his right were various instruments with dials and switches fixed to the wall. Someone had smashed through the glass and plastic coverings, and wires protruded from the timber walls.

‘Hello?’ Alan repeated. ‘Anyone around?’

Still nothing.

He shuffled further, resting his hand on the table to steady himself, and noticed another door at the far end that, from memories of seeing boats on the television, he reckoned was the main bedroom – berth, he reminded himself.

Maybe the skipper was in there, too sick or injured to move or cry for help.

The next wave rushed to shore and Alan tightened his grip as the boat shifted on the shingle. It seemed to twist with the tide, as if trying to escape the land’s clutches, and it was then that he realised that maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to be here.

He had no idea how to skipper a boat, and if something had happened to the engine such that it had been driven onto the shore to keep it out of the way of the busy Estuary shipping lanes, he would have no way to control it if it were swept out to sea with him on board.

Peering over his shoulder, he heard the next wave rushing towards the beach and resolved to climb back down as soon as it had passed.

Alan reached out for the door handle to the berth so he could steady himself as the tide lifted the keel, then let out a cry of surprise when it swung open, flinging him to the right.

Shocked, he grabbed onto the edge of the stainless-steel galley sink, his heart racing.

‘Jesus,’ he managed, and then the tide sucked the water back the way it had come, and the keel rocked to the left.

The door started to swing shut, and Alan planted his boots to offset the slide, then heard a thud from within.

Something tumbled against the door, preventing it from closing, and when he looked down his first thought was that some heavy waterproof clothing had fallen from a locker, but when he shuffled closer and peered around the door, he saw the blood.

What was left of the man’s face stared back up at him, his sightless eyes wide open in shock and fear.

Alan swallowed back bile, his gaze falling upon the gaping wound in the man’s chest, at the blood soaking his thick navy sweater, then felt his bowels shift.

‘Jesus Christ,’ he managed, then flung himself through the cabin, up the steps and across the deck and over the side, tumbling into the water as the tide rushed in.

Coughing, gasping for air, Alan struggled to his feet and waded to where the shingle met the marsh grasses, stumbling along the stones until his boots found the dirt track.

And then he ran.

Chapter Two

Detective Constable Gavin Piper peered through the windscreen of the Kent Police four-wheel drive and grimaced as a steady rain shower pelted the glass.

The landscape was desolate. It was flat, unbroken by trees, and the scrub-like marsh grasses lent a sickly pale colour to a yellowing stormy sky on the horizon. Here and there, he could see streams threading dark earthy water through the marshland, thick mud lining the banks that could be treacherous in the winter months and stank of rotten vegetation in the summer.

Not that there was any sign of that today.

He caught sight of his reflection in the door mirror, and realised the last investigation he had worked on had taken a greater toll than he thought. His usually spiky blond hair was a little on the long side, and there were traces of dark circles under his eyes.

Looking away, he saw tankers out beyond where the Thames Estuary narrowed as it passed between Gravesend here on the north Kent coast and Tilbury on the other side while white crests rode the churning waves. Three of the enormous ships were laden with containers that were blue, brown or white whereas two other ships were devoid of visible cargo, and he wondered whether they were delivering sand to the docks they had passed on their way here, or sugar to the warehouses closer to London.

Hard to tell from here.

Gavin shifted in his seat and turned his attention to the narrow track that led from the last strands of asphalt to the fringes of the marshland, then down at the borrowed pair of waterproof boots in the footwell, before looking across at the stocky detective constable who was driving, the man cursing under his breath as the vehicle tumbled through a pothole that shook the entire chassis.

‘Sharp will never forgive me if I lose these in the mud.’

‘So don’t get stuck,’ said DC Paul Solomon, then looked over and grinned. ‘Unlike the last person I brought out here.’

‘Who was that?’

‘Sharp.’

Gavin laughed, despite the seriousness of their visit to the northern coast of the Hoo Peninsula.

The Isle of Grain, as it was also referred to, had a rich history thanks to the number of invasions it had weathered over the years. First the Romans and Vikings, followed many centuries later by the French under William the Conqueror, and then during the Second World War the Germans had bombed the hell out of the place on their way to the dockyards at Chatham. But the landscape endured even as industries shrank and castles disappeared, leaving only ruined stone walls as evidence of their existence, and the wildlife thrived.

‘It’s a quiet place,’ Gavin said.

‘And a pain in the arse to get to. Ever been to Egypt Bay?’

‘No.’

‘You’re not missing much. Even the twitchers give it a miss,’ Paul said. ‘And now we’re going to get wet walking to the beach as well.’

Gavin pointed at the windscreen. ‘How much further is it once this track runs out?’

‘A mile or so.’

‘Great. How come there was nobody else to deal with this one?’

‘There’s a training course running today for senior ranks. And everybody else’s caseloads are full.’ Paul shot him a grin. ‘And somebody suggested you help out, given that you were over here meeting Jude Martin anyway.’

‘I was only meant to be getting her feedback on some witness interviews before we hand over the case to the CPS, given her expertise with that sort of thing,’ said Gavin. ‘My DI was concerned one or two of them would give our suspect’s defence team a loophole.’

‘I doubt it,’ Paul replied. ‘Knowing how Kay Hunter runs her investigations, I’m sure you lot have it wrapped up tighter than a…’

‘Yeah, well, better to check and redo them now than assume anything.’ Gavin’s gaze found the bleak scenery once more. ‘And now I’m probably going to miss the after-work drinks to celebrate charging our suspects as well.’

The police station at Maidstone was at least an hour’s drive away on a good day, let alone when he would have to fight through rush hour traffic to negotiate the busy A2 following the old Watling Street route laid down by the Romans. Unfortunately, while the rest of the area had been regenerated through a series of innovative projects, the north Kent road network had not, and he would be lucky to reach the county town before darkness fell.

‘We’re here.’

Paul’s voice tore him from his melancholy, and he looked through the windscreen to see that the narrow track ended a few metres away.

A liveried Kent Police patrol car was at the far end of an improvised car park, next to which were two pale grey panel vans and a silver sedan he recognised as belonging to the Home Office pathologist, Lucas Anderson. A green estate car was parked beside that with a bike rack fixed to the back of it and the windows foggy with condensation. The shadow of a man sat in the driver’s seat, head bowed.

Gavin paused to switch his black Oxford brogues for DCI Sharp’s well-worn walking boots, then picked up his coat from the back seat and followed Paul over to the far end of the makeshift car park.

There was a twenty-something uniformed constable manning the path leading to the beach. He was huddled within a standard-issue waterproof coat, peering at them from under an already sodden hood that was doing little to stop rivulets of water running down his cheeks. He handed them a clipboard with a plastic cover over the sign-in page.

‘I saw your car after signing in the last lot,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘Figured I might as well wait for you.’

‘Thanks,’ said Gavin.

‘I take it you two have been sent over from Northfleet, then?’

Gavin took the clipboard from him and scrawled his signature before handing it to Paul. ‘Yes, you?’

‘Same. PC Jack Hutton. I’ve not had many of these though. Homicides, I mean.’

‘Been out here long?’

‘My partner and I were on patrol and driving through Allhallows, so we were first on scene. Got the call an hour and a half ago.’ The man jerked his chin towards the uneven path leading through the tall clumps of grasses where several fresh bootprints had flattened the mud. ‘The pathologist got here within thirty minutes of us though, and there’s a forensics team down there as well now – they got here just before you. They’d better hurry up though.’

‘Why?’ Paul asked. ‘Are you fed up with getting soaked?’

‘Yes, but it’s not that,’ said the man. ‘The tide’s coming in.’

Gavin cursed under his breath. ‘We’d better get a move on then.’

‘Watch out for the left-hand side of the path,’ said the uniformed constable, taking back the clipboard from Paul and turning towards his patrol car. ‘It’s boggy there, and slippery as well.’

‘Got it, thanks,’ said Gavin, and hurried after his colleague. ‘At least he’s got the car heater to warm him up. I wonder how his partner ended up getting the short straw?’

Paul pulled up the zip of his coat before hurrying ahead, pausing to check where he was treading while Gavin followed in his wake. ‘Probably lost a bet or something. Come on.’

It was another mile before Gavin spotted a number of white protective suit-clad figures walking on the grass a few hundred paces ahead of him, their heads bowed while they searched and prodded amongst the undergrowth. The rain had eased to a steady drizzle now, the mist obscuring the Essex coastline.

When he looked over his shoulder, the vehicles were shrouded from view, and a shiver crossed his shoulders.

It was a lonely place to die.