Core of Evil by Nigel McCrery Page A

building, she realised what must have happened. The building had once actually been the ticket office, but it had been closed up and converted into flats. Presumably it was worth more that way. Now the way into the station was through an anonymous building built from a kit, and the people who lived in the old ticket office now had no idea about the history they were walking amongst.
    The short walk from the station brought her out on the esplanade. Directly ahead of her was the pier: a long wooden road leading out into the sea, supported on an elaborate trusswork of poles and struts. To her left was a row of hotels and guest houses, receding into the distance. To her right was what looked at first glance like a whole pile of children’s building blocks in bright colours, piled higgledy-piggledy, one on top of the other. It took Daisy a few moments before she realised that they were beach huts: simple wooden sheds painted in reds and greens and yellows, set into a sloping hillside and separated from one another by concrete walkways.
    But it was the sea that kept pulling at her attention. The restless sea, a thousand shades of blue and grey, all blurring together as the waves crashed onto the sand and ebbed back again, only to gather their strength for another assault. She could feel thesea-spray in the air, pricking at her skin. So chaotic, so relentless and so endlessly fascinating. She could watch it for hours.
    But she still had to find somewhere to stay. The drive from the London suburbs to Colchester followed by the train journey had taken it out of her, and she craved nothing more than a long, hot bath and a long, dreamless sleep.
    The best thing she could do, she decided, was to find a nice hotel for a few nights. That would allow her to take her time looking for something more permanent – a flat, perhaps, on the ground floor of an old house somewhere within walking distance of the beach. As long as she had a kitchen where she could cook and a bed where she could sleep, she would be happy. A lair, from which she could emerge to hunt. First, as the old proverb had it, catch your hare.
    A garden would be nice, but not essential. After all, the trunk of her car, still back in Colchester, was filled with various twigs, leaves, flowers and roots that she had picked from her
real
garden, her
proper
garden. That should be enough to keep her going.
    Slowly, and with increasing tiredness, Daisy turned and wandered along the line of hotels and guest houses. The first few looked as if they were designed to catch the first people off the train: bland, plastic affairs with no character and nothing to recommend them apart from their proximity to the station andthe beach. The next one was a large public house with rooms above the bar: too noisy, she decided. And then, a little way on, she discovered a small Edwardian frontage, four storeys high, which advertised itself as
The Leyston Arms Hotel
. She stood for a few moments, looking it over. The windows were clean, and the front steps were spotless.
    Someone in there knew about soda crystals, she thought.
    Decision made, she walked purposefully up the steps and into the foyer. The carpet had been freshly vacuumed, and she could smell furniture polish in the air. These were all good signs. The man behind the front desk was impeccably dressed in dark trousers, white shirt and maroon tie. The twin folds down the front of his shirt indicated that either this was the first time he had worn it or he had his cleaning and ironing done professionally, but she could forgive him that by the way he smiled at her.
    ‘Good afternoon, madam. Can I help you?’
    ‘Do you, by any chance, have a room?’ she said, smiling back.
    ‘We do,’ he said. ‘How many nights will you be staying?’
    She thought for a moment. ‘It might be up to a week. Would that be all right?’
    ‘Let me check.’ He looked down and consulted what Daisy suspected was a computer screen hidden below the level of the