“That’s the pub on the seafront?”

  “It’s definitely one of them. And the food there’s not bad at all.”

  “Well, now you’re playing our song,” said Nevada.

  “Speaking of songs…” said a new voice. We all turned around to see that we’d been joined by none other than Max Shearwater. Indeed, the entire Shearwater clan. His daughter Maxine was standing behind him, still dressed in her leopard-print bikini and now looking bored as only a beautiful and posh young woman can. Meanwhile a considerably older woman, Max’s age, stood at his side. In her face I could see echoes of Maxine’s bone structure.

  “You must be Ottoline,” I said, taking the plunge. She gave me a somewhat snaggle-toothed grin. The imperfection was somehow charming, and I found myself thinking she must have been a stunner when she was young. She was a bit on the plus size now, and wearing the sort of loose flowing dress that provided ample camouflage. This particular one was white with a pattern of jagged black lines, which looked African. As did the very large and very angular ebony earrings she wore. She managed to carry this ensemble off, though. She had a considerable volume of silver hair, which seemed unacquainted with a comb in recent years, but again this looked good on her. As did the large spectacles with purple frames through which she peered at me.

  “Guilty as charged,” she said, grabbing my hand in both of hers and giving it the sort of firm and energetic shake you apply to a can of spray paint before desecrating a monument.

  “And this is our daughter, Maxie,” said Max. He extended his right hand in a patriarchal gesture in the general direction of his serpent-tattooed offspring. In his other hand he was clutching a CD, the silver disc catching and flashing reflections from the distant beach fire.

  “Yes, we’ve bumped into each other before,” I said, nodding at the daughter.

  Maxine Shearwater showed the first flicker of interest—or, at least, awareness of our existence. She narrowed her eyes a little and studied me as though estimating my exact position for calling in an airstrike. “Really?”

  “Yes, at the Green Ceremony.”

  “Oh? Really? I don’t recall.”

  “Sadly,” said Nevada, “we had to be content with just admiring you from afar.”

  Oh, well, I thought. The gloves are off now.

  Tom Pyewell suddenly draped his arms over Nevada’s shoulders and mine. “These are the good folk this party is in aid of,” he said.

  “Really?” said Maxine doubtfully. “I thought it was in aid of a car.”

  “It’s their car,” said Tom. “It was destroyed when they got caught out by the tides.”

  “Oh, you poor things. How utterly gutting,” said Maxine, smiling at us. “You really should pay attention to the tide tables, though. You might have got yourselves hurt.”

  I could see Nevada formulating a response to this, and apparently so could the Shearwater Daughter, because at this point she simply turned and walked away.

  Ottoline was frowning with concern. “Good god. You really must be more careful. Those tides are lethal. There are warning signs with the safe times to travel. And there’s a website. Please check before you drive next time.”

  Luckily Tom Pyewell changed the subject at this point. “What was that you were saying, Max?” He indicated the CD that Max Shearwater was still clutching. “About a song?”

  Max looked at the CD in his hand with surprise and a little alarm, as if he’d just discovered a sinister growth. “Oh, what? Ah, yes.” He turned and gave me a toothy grin. His dentition was more regular than that of his missus, but even in this uncertain light, a tad yellow-looking. But then they both hailed from an earlier age when you didn’t need good teeth to be rich or famous. Or even beautiful. “This is a little gift for you.”

  He handed me the disc, and I realised it was a CD-R actually, home recorded, with a title handwritten in Sharpie across the non-playing surface: Reveries in Rhythm, followed by a long string of numbers. “I would have brought you a copy on vinyl, but it hasn’t been pressed on vinyl yet. When it is I shall make sure you get a copy. Hot off the press. Or rather the stamper.”

  At least he knew his vinyl terminology. But then he’d worked in the music business back in the days when vinyl had been the only game in town. “Do let me know what you think of the music. I put my number on it.” His number? Of course, the string of digits scribbled on the CD were a phone number. He gave me a shy smile and I suddenly realised that he was nervous about how I might react to his music. It was strangely touching.

  Ottoline took his arm and they turned away and set off determinedly, marching across the sand into the darkness. Just before they were out of sight, Max turned and shouted, “Great party.” Then they were gone.

  “Here’s my number, too.” Tom Pyewell handed me a business card. “My private number. The direct line.”

  That would have been helpful to have a few weeks ago, I thought. But I forced down my irritation and thanked him.

  “So we’re having dinner tomorrow?” he said.

  “You do realise there’s four of us?” said Nevada.

  “No worries. Absolutely no worries.”

  “Hang on,” I said. Something had suddenly occurred to me. I saw Alicia ‘Foxy’ Foxcroft standing over by the nearest bonfire, pointing her microphone towards the flames, presumably to record their crackling for posterity. Standing in attendance, and watching her dotingly, was Tinkler. “Jesus, there might even be five of us.” Stranger things had happened.

  “No worries. The more the merrier.”

  19. TEAM MEETING

  Clean Head was in her running gear when she joined us the next morning.

  She’d just done her post-breakfast route along the seafront and, as she sat down, she checked her wristband, which monitored the number of steps she’d run, or her heart rate, or some damned thing. Tinkler endeared himself to everyone present by not staring at her abbreviated outfit—grey shorts with pink stripes, grey top hardly more than a sports bra—as she perched on the end of the bench, gradually catching her breath. Out on the water, the early sun was burning off the haze. I tried to resist the notion that it looked like something Turner might have painted, but in the end I just gave in. The air smelled so strongly of brine it almost stung my nostrils. I breathed in deeply anyway. Up above us gulls screeched generalised criticism.

  “So, team meeting,” said Clean Head, clasping her hands together and placing her elbows on her knees.

  “Correct,” said Nevada.

  “Why didn’t we just get together and sit down and talk at the B&B?” asked Tinkler.

  “Why do you think?” Nevada turned and gave him an expectant look.

  “Well, that’s what I’m asking.”

  “But why do you think?”

  Tinkler sighed. He was now clasping his hands together in imitation, though probably unconscious, of Clean Head. “Because we don’t trust Miss Bebbington, or because the place might be bugged, or because we’re clinically paranoid, or because the Great Lord Satan might be listening in the next room with a stethoscope pressed to the wall…”

  “Or all of the above,” said Nevada. “Though it’s not that we don’t trust Miss Bebbington, it’s just that we can’t. Or rather, we can’t afford to. We can’t afford to trust anyone.”

  “See my earlier remark about clinically paranoid.”

  “I preferred your earlier remark about Satan with the stethoscope,” said Clean Head. “Does it have to be especially adapted to fit over his horns?”

  “Or into his pointy ears,” said Tinkler, starting to chortle.

  “The reason we are here,” said Nevada firmly, treading on any possibility of levity or laughter, “is that someone tried to kill us.”

  That shut everyone up.

  “Does anyone disagree with that assessment?” said Nevada. “Does anyone think luring us out onto that road when the tide was coming in was just a harmless jape?”

  Silence.

  “Right,” said Nevada. “That party last night was a lot of fun. But seeing poor old Kind of Blue brought the whole incident back to me. Not that it needed much bringing back. And what we have to realise is that instead of holding a Viking funeral for a car, someone might have been holding a non-Viking funeral for all of us.” She looked around to see if anyone disagreed with the logic of this. No one did.

  “So, we need to work out who did that to us. Who tried to kill us. Right?”

  “Right,” said all of us.

  “So let’s look at what we know about the person, or persons responsible. As far as I can see, we can discern two things about them. They knew how to hack the website where we checked the tide tables. And they were able to switch the sign.” We all turned and looked down the road to where it dipped and joined the causeway, where our merry undersea adventure had begun on that memorable day.

  “They didn’t just hack the website,” said Tinkler. “They also did something to your phone,” he turned to me. “Remember how you exchanged texts with Alan at Jazz House Records? Well, like I said at the time, spoofing his number on an incoming text would have been straightforward enough. But intercepting your text back to him would have been rather more tricky. I’ve been thinking about how they might have done it. And I’ve concluded the most likely way was simply to take over your phone.”

  “Take it over?” said Nevada. I could see that she was mortified on my behalf.

  Tinkler nodded. “And not just his. Probably all our phones, just to be on the safe side.”

  We all looked at each other. “Wouldn’t they need physical access to the phones to do that?” said Clean Head.

  “Nope. They just need to introduce malware or a virus.”

  “Don’t we have to be naïve and click on a link?” said Nevada.

  “Not necessarily. There are myriad ways of doing it.”

  “Myriad,” repeated Clean Head. “Nice.”

  “It literally means ten thousand,” said Tinkler proudly. “Anyway.” He began counting on his fingers. “They can be airborne, via Bluetooth. They can insert malware into legitimate online ads. They can repackage and infect apps. The phone’s operating system can have inherent vulnerabilities. The Wi-Fi network can be insecure.” Tinkler had now run out of fingers. He was well short of ten thousand, but it was still a worryingly long list. He looked at me. “Or they might even have been able to install the malware with that initial spoofed text, the one that appeared to be from Alan.”

  “In other words,” said Nevada, “we’re talking about someone who is computer savvy.”

  “Or has a credit card,” said Tinkler.

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “He means anybody can buy this stuff,” said Clean Head. “All you need is a method of payment and access to the dark web.”

  “Actually bitcoin would be better,” said Tinkler. “Let’s say, rather than a credit card, anybody who has bitcoin.”

  “And who has access to bitcoin?”

  “Anybody with a credit card.”

  Nevada sighed. “Am I alone in finding the whole notion of the dark web dispiriting? I don’t suppose it’s full of cat videos?”

  “Only very dark cat videos,” said Tinkler.

  “Okay,” said Nevada. “So that’s what happened to our old phones. Let’s assume that whatever sinister software was introduced to them died with them.” She unzipped her shoulder bag and took out a white padded envelope the size of a hardback book. “There should be no such problems with these.” Inside the envelope were four identical Nokia phones. “Thanks to Tinkler for paying for them.”

  “Always a pleasure,” said Tinkler.

  “They’re basic models, but they’ll do until the insurance coughs up and we get proper replacements. They’ll more than do.” She handed the phones out. “I’ve programmed each of them with the other three numbers, so at least we are now back in contact with each other. I’ve also added Miss Bebbington’s number at the B&B.”

  We all pocketed the phones, except Clean Head, who didn’t have any pockets.

  “So much for the attack on our phones,” I said. “That leaves us with the sign.” I pointed down the road towards the causeway. “Somebody physically went down there and switched it just in time for us to drive past it.”

  “How would they know when to do that?” said Clean Head, then she snapped her fingers and answered her own question. “When they sent the text that was allegedly from Alan. And you replied to it. All their timing was based on that.”

  Nevada looked at Tinkler. “How long would it take them to hack the tide table website? Could they do it as soon as they sent the text?”

  “They wouldn’t have to,” said Tinkler. “They would pre-hack it. Have it all set up and ready to go, so that as soon as they sent a signal the real web pages were replaced with their fake ones. They could just prepare it beforehand and, at the required moment, put it into action.”

  Clean Head was staring along the beach now, towards the road to the mainland. “Could anyone have witnessed them replacing the sign that day?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t see how. Nevada and I took a walk along there and had a careful look. There’s no CCTV cameras anywhere in the area, and the sign is placed in a dip well below what is street level up here, so it’s effectively concealed from the sight of any casual passers-by.”

  “What about when they were coming and going?” said Clean Head. “Wouldn’t they have had to walk along the road up here when they were on their way there?”

  “With a great big fucking fake sign under their arm,” said Tinkler. “Possibly wrapped in brown paper so as not to look suspicious.”

  “On their way there, or their way back,” said Clean Head.

  “With the sign again,” said Tinkler. “Having removed it after it had done its sinister job. I’m really warming to this brown-paper theory.”

  “Anyway,” said Clean Head, “it might be worth asking in the shops along the seafront.”

  I nodded. “We thought of that.”

  “We also thought,” said Nevada, “that if someone wanted to do it undetected the best way would be to get off the road some distance away and approach along the beach. There’d be no problem doing that, at low tide, and they’d be out of sight all the way, coming and going.”

  It was Clean Head’s turn to sigh. “You reckon they thought of that?”

  “I reckon they thought of everything,” said Nevada. We were all silent for a moment. The more I considered it, the more chilling her statement seemed.

  “What about traffic along the causeway itself?” said Clean Head. “I mean people driving to and from the mainland. Someone messing with that sign would have been highly visible to anyone on the causeway.”

  “Unfortunately,” I said, “there wouldn’t have been anyone.”

  Clean Head looked at me, then nodded. “Of course. They did this just when the tide was coming in. So there wouldn’t be any traffic out there.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “Everyone was too smart to be on that road at that time of day. Except for us.”

  “The bastards thought of everything,” said Clean Head.

  “Let’s look at this from another angle,” I said. “Who could have done it? Got a new sign made like that. And, more importantly, who would have wanted to do it?”

  “Occam’s razor,” said Tinkler. “Let’s go at this from first principles.”

  “Somebody wants to get rid of us,” said Nevada. “Why? My guess is because we somehow represent a danger to them.”

  “Me?” said Tinkler. “I don’t represent a danger to anyone.” He paused for a moment. “Except possibly myself.”

  “Clearly we all represent a danger,” said Nevada. “Even Tinkler. But why?”

  “My money is on the money,” I said.

  “The money they burned?” said Clean Head. “The million pounds?”

  “Million dollars,” said Tinkler.

  “Whatever, it’s still a lot of money.”

  “Enough to kill for,” said Nevada.

  Tinkler leaned forward from where he was sitting on the bench so he could look at me. “What are you thinking? That they didn’t really burn the money at all?”

  I nodded. “And that’s the sort of information that someone might be willing to kill over. To stop it becoming public knowledge.”

  “Well, who’s the likely candidate?” said Clean Head.

  “Hmm.” Tinkler was doing his thoughtful look. “Well, supposedly burning the money was the entire band’s idea. A collective Black Dog decision. But after it was burned…”

  “Or apparently burned,” said Nevada.

  “After it was apparently burned, and they started getting a lot of grief from people—the sort of people who didn’t have a million dollars to burn, which come to think of it is almost everyone—some of the band members started to distance themselves from the decision. Suddenly it wasn’t their idea.”

  “So, whose idea was it?” said Clean Head.

  “The two leaders of the band,” I said. “Who were, and I suppose still are, Tom Pyewell and Max Shearwater. They’re certainly the two dominant personalities.”

  “And both of them claimed to be the one who originally came up with the idea,” said Tinkler. “Which is their relationship in a nutshell. They were always fighting over taking the credit, over who was the one. The big dog in Black Dog. The difference is, after the money was burned—or not burned—and the shit hit the fan, and the band started coming in for a lot of criticism, Tom Pyewell also began to distance himself from the decision.”

  “But not Max Shearwater?” said Clean Head.

  “No,” said Tinkler. “He’s shown no remorse. He still thinks it was a great idea. Meanwhile, the others—well, except for Pyewell, who’s tried to rise above it—the others have all got more and more pissed off because everybody in the world thinks they’re dicks for burning a million dollars and because… well, they’re also pissed off because they burned a million dollars.”

  “Which they could have had to spend,” said Clean Head.

  “Yes, on drugs and clothes and cars and other essentials of the folk-rock lifestyle,” said Tinkler. “Like guitar picks. Imagine their regret. Imagine the number of guitar picks that could have purchased.”

 

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