Apportionment of Blame (34 page)

“There's a left turn soon,” my passenger said.

“Yes. I know, although I haven't been along here for years.”

Sure enough, as the road rose in front of us, there was the turning, and I left the main road and drove along into the middle of St. Osyth. At the crossroads I manoeuvred carefully to the left, the old buildings on the corner blocking my vision. The darkness now confirmed that I had a clear road ahead and I drove more carefully along a narrow, twisting lane.

There were no buildings and the road was flat, an area of reclaimed marshland used for arable farming and, along the coast itself, caravans and chalets. The American phrase ‘trailer park' came to mind, but these were not permanent homes for the less well off, they were hired out, a week or fortnight at a time, for summer holidays.

At this time of the year they were largely deserted. There are few places in Britain more depressing than a holiday resort in winter. Everywhere is closed and boarded up. Nowhere to buy a drink, in fact little reason to be there at all, especially with a cold wind blowing off the North Sea.

The fields gave way on one side to a long fence, picked out in the headlights. On the opposite side I could see the effect of the wind in the trees, a dark swaying mass with branches swinging out over the road and then lurching back again.

“You'll have to tell me where to go. This is all strange to me.”

“OK. Keep going, bear left where the road divides and watch for a parking area on your left.”

I turned as instructed and we passed some sort of amusement area, the force of the wind hitting us head on as we approached the sea.

“There,” he shouted, pointing ahead to an area of asphalt at the side of the road, “Now slow down, and when I say, you can park on the verge by these caravans.”

A vast area of mobile homes had materialised to our left. They were so closely packed together, I wondered at the lack of privacy for people who chose to come here for their holidays. Not the sort of place for peace and quiet, I thought. It must be hell in high summer with every caravan taken and children rushing about.

“Here,” he shouted again, and I pulled over and turned off the engine.

Getting out of the car was not easy as the wind was pushing against the door, but I managed to retrieve my torch from under the driving seat and followed my companion who was already making his way into the holiday park.

The clouds had thickened by now, completely obliterating the moon and making it impossible to see without the torch. Please let the battery last, I remember thinking. The spare ones are in the car.

I was able to follow Mr Hughes by the beam of his torch, although it sometimes disappeared behind a caravan. I tried to run to catch up, but I couldn't see far enough ahead to run safely.

The wind was whipping at my clothes and I could smell the salt and a faint whiff of fish on the air as it rushed past.

“Wait,” I shouted, but the wind carried my voice away and I knew he hadn't heard me.

Right and left we went, twisting and turning through the vehicles until I was suddenly aware that he had stopped at a door.

“It's locked,” he said as I came up behind him. “She can't be here.”

“Why don't you open the door to see if there's any sign that she has been here?”

He fumbled for his keys and almost dropped his torch. I shone mine onto the lock on the door and eventually he managed to get it open and switched on the light.

Inside smelled a little musty. Not surprising, I thought, if no one has been here for months.

We were in a small living area with a kitchenette to our right and a short passage leading, I imagined, to the bedrooms. I could see nothing unusual as I looked round. There was not much to see.

He moved away along the passageway and I was just about to follow when I heard him say, “What's this?”

I caught up with him in a cramped bedroom. He had a piece of paper in his hand.

Throwing his torch down onto the bed he opened up the paper and began to read.

Not another note, I thought. I had hoped we had done with those. But this was not a threat. It was a message and Gemma had been there ahead of us.

“Look at this,” he said, handing me the paper.

I read it out loud.

“I've had enough. I can't cope anymore. What happened was not my fault. I can't help the way I am.”

“What the hell does that mean? I can't help the way I am?”

Gemma's father looked bemused. So she hadn't told her parents, although I had the impression her mother had guessed. No wonder she couldn't cope anymore.

“We have to find her,” I said. “She sounds desperate to me.”

“But where do we look? She could be anywhere.”

“I think I know. Come with me.”

I went back outside and immediately the wind hit me again, almost throwing the torch out of my hand. At least it still worked.

“Which way to the beach?” I shouted to be heard.

“Oh my God!” he shouted back, realising the implication. “This way.”

I hurried along with him through the caravans and back to the road.

“Come on,” I said, pushing my way into the wind.

The road was straight, which was a help, but I had to lean into the wind really hard to make any progress. Mr Hughes hurried alongside me, our two torches piercing the utter darkness.

After a while I could feel the ground begin to rise beneath my feet and I stopped, shining my torch to right and left ahead of us.

“It's the sea wall,” he said, and I could make out a concrete barrier about four feet high, all there was to prevent the sea flooding the whole area.

We could hear the sea now. The North Sea, normally placid along the east coast, was being whipped up by the onshore wind into storm waves. Suddenly we saw one, crashing as it broke over the sea wall, its water running down onto a parking area below.

I hoped Gemma had not gone down to the beach. She would have no chance if she had.

We looked at each other and inched our way forward and upwards towards the wall. Another wave broke, and we jumped back as the spray hit us hard in the face.

“She can't be down here,” he said.

“I don't know where else she would be. She sounded desperate in the note.”

I shone my torch to right and left, but all I could see was sea wall and the footpath behind it, now soaked by successive waves.

“I'm going along here,” I said, and I forced my way up to the footpath and began walking along to the left.

Another wave approached. I could hear it roaring up the beach and I steeled myself, bending down for as much shelter as the sea wall could provide.

It broke right over me. I could smell the salt, and my clothes were immediately soaked, but I stood up again and tried to continue walking, the power of the wind from my right making it increasingly difficult.

I sensed Mr Hughes coming up behind me.

“This is bloody stupid,” he shouted.

“She has to be somewhere,” I shouted back.

Pushing on, I heard another wave approaching, and I dipped down just in time to avoid being washed down the bank to my left. I shivered involuntarily and shook the moisture out of my trousers. It was bad enough the night I went to Ilse's, but that was nothing compared to this.

On I went, avoiding the crashing waves as best I could, the light from Mr Hughes' torch telling me he was still there behind me.

I didn't so much find Gemma as almost fall over her. She was sitting behind the sea wall, facing inland, hugging her knees. Her hair was plastered to her head and her clothes looked saturated.

She looked up.

“You,” she said, and then she looked behind me. “Dad?” It sounded like complete disbelief, but mixed with gratitude.

“What are you doing here?” Not the most helpful of questions, but I guessed that by now, her father didn't know what to ask or to think.

Chapter 19

“
C
ome
here,” he said, and bent down to pick her up as if she was five years old.
    It was not easy getting back along that footpath. We still had to avoid the waves as best we could, but eventually we made it back to the road and on towards the caravans.

“Dad, I think I can walk now.” Gemma spoke in a pathetic voice as if pleading for a return of lost dignity.

“Are you sure?”

“Mmm.”

He put her down gingerly and she looked a bedraggled sight, rather like an unwanted kitten that had somehow escaped drowning.

“What's he doing here? How did you find me?”

“If it wasn't for Greg, we perhaps wouldn't have found you,” he told her. “What were you doing here anyway?”

“Didn't you see my note?”

“Yes and I don't understand. But let's get back to the warmth of the caravan before we all die of exposure.”

It is strange how it's just as hard to walk with a gale blowing behind you as it is when walking into its teeth. The wind was pulling at our wet clothes, adding a severe chill to the soaking we had all experienced.

Back at the caravan, Mr Hughes turned on the heating and then went in search of towels. Gemma perched on the edge of one of the banquette sofas and I stood there like a lemon, not knowing where to look, what to do or what to say.

What was going to happen next was something I didn't need to be part of. It was a father and daughter thing and really had nothing to do with me or Helen. I didn't want to leave in the state I was in, but I had little choice.

The towels arrived and Gemma took herself into her bedroom to get out of her wet clothes. I rubbed my hair with my towel, wiped my face and then dabbed uselessly at my wet clothes. The sooner I got home the better.

“Look,” I said to Gemma's father, “you have Gemma's car to get home in. I need to get out of these wet clothes, but I can't do it here. So why don't I just leave you two to sort things out between you. I can speak to you again tomorrow, perhaps?”

He looked confused. Something was happening which he clearly had no idea how to cope with or to understand. His expression when he looked at me suggested helplessness and despair, but I couldn't help with what he had to do. This was all way beyond my experience or capacity to solve.

It seemed clear that I had to make the decision for him.

“I'll push off home then and be in touch. Will you be OK?”

“I don't know,” he said, more honestly than I expected.

I dropped the towel on the kitchenette sink and went back out into the storm. It had begun to rain, but I could hardly get any wetter. I was starting to get quite used to it.

My only clue as to how to find the car was the direction of the wind, and it seemed to take ages before I reached the road. Without my torch it would have been impossible. I opened the car door with a struggle against the onslaught, threw my torch onto the passenger seat, started the car and switched the demister fan as far up as it would go.

Even with the wipers going at full speed it was impossible to get the windscreen clear enough to see, so I just sat for a while, watching the inside of the screen mist up. Then, as the air temperature rose the misting began to clear slowly, and it was only the rain blurring my vision.

I had two choices, stay there and wait for the rain to ease, or set off straight away and hope I could see well enough. The second choice seemed the most positive so I did a careful three point turn and set off slowly for home.

It was the slowest journey I can remember. Even with the headlights on full and fog lamps to help, visibility was poor and I had to crawl along, stopping from time to time as unexpected bends suddenly appeared.

Fortunately I was the only person stupid enough to be out driving, and there were no oncoming vehicle lights to dazzle me.

I was grateful to reach St Osyth village and the main road just beyond it. This provided a driving space considerably wider and the extra benefit of white lines for me to follow. I have no idea how long it took me to reach home, but as soon as I was in the house I threw off my clothes and went to stand in a very hot shower.

Sleep came eventually, after a hot drink. Getting under the quilt was like crawling into a warm hole of safety after the earlier experience with the storm and the sea, but it was hard to relax. Thoughts were chasing each other round my head, and it was hard to persuade myself that the case was solved after the two weeks of puzzle and confusion.

By her actions Gemma had confirmed my theory of what happened by the railway line. It only remained for me to hear her say it. Then I could decide, with her parents' help, how to proceed with the police.

I woke the next morning feeling a mixture of relief and exhaustion. The last few days had taken their toll, and as often happened, I had managed to keep going with little sleep until I allowed myself to stop and relax. Now my body was telling me enough was enough. It was time to take it easy.