Dark Waters: The addictive psychological thriller you won’t be able to put down. Mary-Jane Riley

thrust the phone back in her bag.

      She lay back on the sand, a knot of irritation tying itself up inside her stomach. And so it starts, she thought, all over again. Of course journos would want the story, want to rake over the events surrounding the killings for which her sister had been responsible.

      And now Sasha was returning to society and Alex was to look after her. It was a chance to do more for her sister.

      She was dreading it. And trying not to think about an email she’d received that morning about Sasha. It had to be a mistake, though, surely? Push it out of your mind, she told herself. Don’t worry about it now. Deal with it later.

      ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ again. She snatched up the phone, any pleasure leaching out of the day. ‘Go away, I don’t want to speak to you.’

      ‘Is that you, Alex?’ Uncertainty clouded her mother’s voice.

      Alex suppressed a sigh and forced a smile onto her face. ‘Mum. Sorry. I thought it was a … never mind.’ Any mention of journalists or newspapers would send her mother into a right state. ‘I’ll be leaving soon,’ she said.

      ‘I was wondering if you could you go via Great Yarmouth and go to that Greek shop? I thought your dad might like some of the Greek tagliatelle he loves. And a pound of those special smoked sausages.’

      Alex’s heart twisted. Her mother was trying so hard, but her father wouldn’t be in the least bit bothered what pasta or sausage he ate, not these days. And Great Yarmouth was hardly on the way to her parents – more like a bloody great detour. Still, her mum didn’t ask for much.

      ‘Of course I will,’ she said.

       3

      The road out of Great Yarmouth was slow, and Alex tuned her radio to the local station in time for the news on the top of the hour as she drove.

      ‘Two bodies have been found on a boat on Dillingham Broad in Norfolk, police have said,’ intoned the newsreader. ‘We’ll bring you more news as we get it.’

      Her ears pricked up. Two bodies on a boat. Who? Why? ‘Come on, give us some more,’ she muttered, her journalistic instincts cutting in. She turned up the volume, as if that would entice the newsreader to give her some more interesting facts. Instead all she got was a story about a leisure centre being built on the edge of a Norfolk village and how Anglo-Saxon finds had been made at a wind farm site in Suffolk.

      Only the bare facts then. Not even ‘Police are treating the deaths as unexplained’. Hmm. But then Norfolk Police were known for being cautious – only a few years before a couple had been found battered to death in their home but local coppers refused to say it was murder until all the ‘i’s had been dotted and all the ‘t’s crossed. Caution was probably a good thing, but it could go too far.

      She glanced at her watch. Her mother wasn’t expecting her at any particular time, and a little detour to Dillingham wouldn’t take her that long. The story might be something and nothing. Or it could be interesting.

      There was only one way to find out.

      The countryside became ever more flat as she neared the Broads. The rivers and lakes of the Norfolk and Suffolk Broads had been formed by the flooding of medieval peat excavations that had provided fuel to Norwich and Great Yarmouth. She’d learned that somewhere. School, maybe? Or perhaps she had read it in a Sunday supplement. Today the watery landscape was home to a myriad of boats and yachts and old wherries and was a magnet for tourists wanting a relaxing holiday. The two on the boat, whoever they were, had certainly found relaxation – permanently.

      She turned down the road that led to Dillingham Broad. It was lined with trees and very comfortable-looking houses with gardens that no doubt went down to the water. What sort of price they would go for she couldn’t imagine. Nothing she could afford, that was for sure. A few minutes later she reached the end of the road and pulled up on the staithe.

      A small knot of people was gathered on the concrete apron looking into the distance. She recognized a couple of bored-looking journalists from the local papers and gave them a nod. A lone fisherman sat on his collapsible chair under a large green umbrella at the edge of the water, a rucksack on the ground next to him. He appeared unperturbed about the goings on around him. Alex shooed away the ducks and geese that came waddling towards her in the hope of food and, shielding her eyes with her hand, peered across the water to a line of trees that were almost in full leaf, and to the two boats moored up against the bank on Poppy Island. Figures in white suits and masks were looking busy around the boats. Forensic officers, she thought. Probably the pathologist was there too. She wondered how long the bodies had been on board and what state they were in now.

      ‘The poor sod that found ’em won’t forget his holiday in a hurry.’

      Alex turned towards the voice with its distinctive Norfolk lilt. ‘Oh?’

      The man had the tanned and weathered face of someone who’d worked on the water all his life and was probably younger than his leathery skin implied. He wore jeans that were slightly too tight for his stomach and a tee shirt designed to show off his biceps. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth.

      He shook his head. ‘One of my boats, wasn’t it? Firefly Lady. And one of my customers who stopped to see what was what. Found the bodies. Or what was left of them. Then he came to tell me. I asked him why he hadn’t called the police and all he could do was look at me, couldn’t say anything. Shaking he were.’ He pinched the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger and drew the smoke deep into his lungs. ‘So I called ’em. Gave the poor sod some brandy.’ He nodded towards the police boat. ‘Now they’re all over there, aren’t they? Coastguard, fire, police. Overkill, if you ask me.’

      ‘Where is the “poor sod” now?’ asked Alex.

      ‘Jim here said he’s being given hot tea. So’s his wife. Bloody tea. I ask you, what use is that? And he’s being kept away from everybody.’

      ‘Aye.’ This from Jim. ‘A bad business.’

      A satellite truck rolled up, and a reporter looking like an eager young puppy jumped out.

      ‘Vultures,’ said the boat man.

      ‘Aye,’ said Jim, nodding before he spat a blob of green phlegm onto the ground. The ducks and geese waddled over again, looking eager.

      ‘Not nice for you being involved in all this,’ said Alex, trying not to look at the green slime near her feet. ‘My name’s Alex, by the way.’

      ‘Colin,’ said the boat man. ‘Colin Harper. Of Harper’s Holidays.’ He gestured towards Jim. ‘And that’s Jim. And it’s a bad business and bad for business.’ He shook his head before drawing on his cigarette.

      ‘I gather there were two people on board. That’s what the radio said. A man and his wife, wasn’t it?’ asked Alex nonchalantly fishing for information, still looking over the water.

      Colin shook his head and threw the stub of his cigarette onto the ground, grinding it under his heel. ‘They might be a couple but it ain’t a man and his wife.’ He chuckled. ‘One of them was someone from London, young Eddie told me.’

      ‘Eddie?’

      ‘Copper. I’ve known him since he was knee-high to a grasshopper. Little sod. Said the stink was like nothing he’d ever smelt. Them bodies had been there for at least three days. Humming, it must have been.’

      Alex winced. It had been unseasonably warm over the last few days. ‘Three days.’ She whistled. ‘Wow.’

      ‘Yup. That’s when I hired the boat out. They didn’t get very far, did they?’

      ‘And the other one?’ she asked.

      ‘Other one what?’

      Alex