Page 100 of Slack Tide Kill

Sally kept moving. Off center, uncertain, but she didn't have time. Liam was what mattered now. She entered Los Gringos on a corner, Tex Mex and cocktails. Down an alley she tried The Grapevine Jazz Bar, the lights tinged red with a saxophonist starting a staccato set. The High Street curved north after that, where the shops peeled away to reveal a stunning view across the River Rother and the darkening Romney Marsh.

On and on. Vast, timeless, uncaring.

She circled back, working more pubs, handing out her number and trudging numbly on. Narrow cobbled alleys lined with wattle and daub buildings. Brick stately residences blending into hip cafes with anthracite-gray wooden shutters. Steeples rising and disappearing alongside TV antennae. She found herself in a tight alleyway that spilled into a graveyard.

Many small, listing headstones sprouted intermittently beneath great twisted oaks, carved with words she could scarcely make out. Heraclitus' river was everywhere, the tide flowing in then out.

She stopped in the shadow of Rye Castle. A medieval tower with four round corner turrets that overlooked the marsh. There was a 'gun garden' of ancient black cannons all pointing outward, and she watched the stars in the dark sky.

It was beautiful. Strangely silent. She sat on a bench and felt the night passing her by. Nearby a pair of teenagers huddled close, arms wrapped, sipping from bright-colored cans and stealing muffled kisses. The smell of their drinks carried on the air, a chemically sweet alcohol, some fruity cider.

Sally let out a breath and watched occasional lights glimmer on the distant water.

"Here you are," came a familiar voice.

Sally turned. John Logan stood a few yards away, like he was keeping his distance. Like she was a bomb about to explode. She almost laughed.

"You've been following me."

He approached then sat on the other end of the bench. "Not exactly. I'm looking for Liam, too."

She said nothing.

"I've been all over town," he said. "No sign of him. Everyone's taking about you, though."

Sally looked over.

"Various accounts. On the north side, they're calling you 'this terrifying lady cop'. On the south, you come across more like a lost soul. Around here, the castle? One person thought you might actually be a vengeful ghost, looking for a lost lover."

Sally let out a numb chuckle.

"Ghosts don't laugh, though, do they? Not that I've heard. And I've read all the Ingoldsby Legends."

"So you're stalking Liam and me."

"Guilty, I guess."

They sat in silence for a moment. "Ingoldsby," she said. "That was the name of Arthur Bledd's houseboat."

"I'm not surprised. Everyone knows Arthur Bledd, by reputation if nothing else." He leaned back. "There was a time, maybe a decade ago, when he was putting up all these flyers across the marsh towns? Rye. Lydd. Greatstone. New Romney. Some kind of campaign."

"Campaign for what?"

He looked up, like he was searching his memory. "If I remember correctly, it was for an endangered species on the marsh. The medicinal leech, I think."

"Seriously?"

"Oh yes. That or the Marsh Mallow moth."

"A marshmallow?"

"A moth." Logan smiled. "He's a man with passion, no doubt."

Sally let out a slow breath. Bledd. Liam. Marshmallows. What was all of this, really? Transient moments, passing her by.

"He's not out there."

"Liam? I don't think so. But if I had to wager? If he's anything like I was as a drunk, he's bought a bottle of vodka and he's curled around it somewhere in the dark, just drinking away his sorrows."