Fault Line - Retail by Robert Goddard Page B

she heartily approved of.
    In reality, of course, I was going nowhere near the Lido.
    I entered the pit the way Vivien and I had the previous day. There was no way of walking round from the entrance track to where we’d found Oliver. The slopes above the lake were simply too sheer to allow it. So, it took another scramble down through the trees and undergrowth from the bank near Scredda to reach the shore.
    There was nothing to indicate what had occurred there just twenty-four hours previously. The police had amassed what evidence they wanted, which I suspected was very little, and gone on their way, leaving Relurgis Pit in peace. The lake shimmered opaquely in golden sunshine. A buzzard circled on a thermal high above. And nothing more than a gentle breeze stirred the greenery.
    I tried to be meticulous and systematic, descending slowly and by a winding route in case Oliver had discarded the knapsack on the way down. Once at the gravelly patch of shore where Vivien and I had crouched beside his body, I extended the search as far round the perimeter of the lake on either side as I could reach, narrowly avoiding falling in on several occasions.
    There was no sign of the knapsack. Oliver could have hidden it, of course. There were plenty of loose rocks available to conceal it. Or he could have loaded some of those rocks into the knapsack, thrown it into the lake and watched it sink. But even by Oliver’s standards such behaviour, after going to all the bother of having me take pictures of him at Goss Moor, seemed senseless. So, where was it?
    I decided to check the jetty area before giving up, although how Oliver might have found his way over there I couldn’t imagine. I heaved my way back up to the lane and walked along to the turn-off.
    To my surprise, a taxi was parked at the start of the track. The driver was smoking a cigarette and studying racing form in his newspaper so intently that he jumped when I greeted him.
    ‘Mornin’,’ he said gruffly, but then smiled genially. ‘Headin’ for the lake?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Watch your step. Some young feller drowned there yesterday.’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘’Fraid so. Could be why I’m here. Got the meter running on an old gent from the Carlyon Bay. You’ll find him down by the jetty. Well, I hope you will. Lessen he’s in with fishes an’ all.’
    Francis Wren, hatted and lightly overcoated as if for a fickle early spring rather than high summer, was leaning on the rail by the jetty, puffing at a pungent cigar and gazing out thoughtfully across the lake. He gave no sign of hearing me approach.
    ‘Mr Wren?’
    He turned round slowly and looked at me. ‘Why, it’s young Jonathan.’
    ‘Yes, sir. Good morning.’
    ‘Good morning.’ At his instigation, we shook hands. ‘Well, well, this is an unexpected meeting. Even though … we both have cause to be here.’
    ‘I’m terribly sorry about what happened to Oliver, Mr Wren.’
    ‘Of course. Understood. Damnably upsetting for you as well as the family. I’ve been knocked sideways by the news, I don’t mind admitting. Like father, like son. Dreadful. Just dreadful.’
    ‘It wasn’t necessarily suicide.’
    ‘Kind of you to say so, but from what Harriet’s told me – I’ve had to rely entirely on my sister for information, of course – there’s not much room for doubt, now is there?’
    ‘No. Not really.’
    ‘You wouldn’t be out here looking for Oliver’s knapsack, would you?’
    ‘Ah. You know about that.’
    ‘Harriet’s a thorough informant. The parallels with his father’s missing briefcase are … eerie, I must say. Perhaps deliberately so. The workings of that boy’s mind are hard to fathom.’
    ‘Yes. They are. And, yes, I have been looking for the knapsack.’
    ‘But I see you’re empty-handed. I can’t say I’m surprised. I don’t think it’s here to be found, Jonathan.’ Francis cast a glance back across the lake. ‘Oliver’s sent us a message. But we don’t seem to be able to