Page 39 of Deep Waters

“The whole time we were together, there was only him. I didn’t even look at other guys. I get plenty of attention, you know. I don’t always look like this. When I go out, when I’m dressed up, I can turn a few heads. But I didn’t give any of the men who chased me a second look. I was Niko’s girlfriend, and that meant something—at least it did to me.”

Gemma was clearly in a lot of pain. Whatever hurt Niko had inflicted on her had not been resolved, and now his untimely death had added grief and anger to her burden.

“He cheated on you?”

There were no tears in her eyes. She was too cross for that. “Big time. While I was saving myself for him, he was giving it to any slag who looked at him. You should have seen some of the videos on his phone. It was…porn. That’s how I found out. He left his phone on the sofa while he went to collect a pizza. I’d heard rumours, but I didn’t believe them, so I had a look for myself.”

Christian had heard it all before. If someone was prepared to go snooping, they had to be prepared for what they found.

“What pissed me off the most was the way he brushed it off,” Gemma continued. “When I confronted him with what I’d found, he said it wasn’t what it looked like, that I didn’t understand. There was video evidence of him fucking other girls. What was there to understand?”

“Maybe the clips were old. Could they have been of former girlfriends?”

“I checked the date stamp. They were not old. Besides, Niko got a new tattoo while he was with me. I recognised it in more than one of the videos.”

Christian’s mind was already turning. If Niko had been a player, sleeping with lots of other girls, maybe his death was a crime of passion. He could have been attacked by a jealous boyfriend—or a woman who thought he’d taken advantage of her. Everyone had secrets. Sometimes those closest to a person didn’t know them as well as they thought.

Gemma was right. All he’d heard about Niko until now was what a great guy he had been. No one was ever perfect. Niko was as flawed as any other human.

“What about his murder?” he asked. “Do you know anyone who’d want to hurt him?”

Gemma looked him straight in the eyes. “Apart from me, you mean?”

“That’s not what I said. Did you recognise any of the girls on his phone? Could one of them have held a grudge against him? Or maybe they had boyfriends.”

“Fuck knows,” she said through gritted teeth. “I didn’t recognise them, no. They all had that cheap wannabe porn-star look. You know, massive hair, big tits, shaved minge. I thought he had better taste than that. Obviously not.”

“What about—?”

“No.” Gemma got to her feet. “This was a mistake. I thought talking would make me feel better. It hasn’t. It just…makes me sick.”

She covered her face to hide the tears as she rushed out of the coffee shop.

Chapter Fourteen

Christian remained where he was to finish his coffee after Gemma’s abrupt exit. That the girl was upset was evident. There was no point in rushing after her with more questions. He wasn’t investigating Niko Jasinski’s murder. The police were. He was here seeking inspiration for a novel, and he had certainly found it. Niko had been a complex young man, and Christian’s brain was already putting the pieces together to form a fascinating character.

He opened his notebook and jotted down his thoughts. It would be crass, not to mention heartless, to write a barely fictionalised account of the boy’s murder, but he could take elements of his life to form the spine of his story. Using Nyemouth as a backdrop, he would write about the troubles and danger experienced by a young guy in the town.

His main character could be an amalgam of all the men he knew here—Niko, Dominic, Arnie, even Harry. There were facets to all of them that intrigued him. He still didn’t know what the plot of the book would be, but that didn’t worry him. It would come later. Character was the most important element of any novel.

After half an hour, he was done. He checked the time…almost five. He had a date with Harry at seven. Christian gathered his stuff and shoved it into his brown leather satchel. He should head back to the hotel. He wanted to shower and change before they got together.

A deliciously warm sensation spread through his chest at the thought of Harry. They hadn’t seen each other at all the day before, and the absence made his anticipation for tonight even stronger.

The ceiling of the coffee shop was low, with thick wooden beams creating a gloomy atmosphere. It was a relief to step outside into daylight. It would be dark in an hour or so, but for now, the sky remained clear and blue. It was a beautiful indication of the evening ahead.

He was at the top of South Bank, the long, cobbled street that ran parallel to the harbour. Christian slung his bag over his shoulder and started the downward trek to the bridge and his hotel. He was lost in his head, and it took a moment to acknowledge some kind of commotion taking place ahead of him.

There were four people outside the Nyemouth and Northumberland Gallery, a small studio he’d been meaning to visit, which specialised in original artwork and photographs of the local area. Two men in their thirties stood in the doorway of the gallery, while outside a man and woman faced up to them.

“Fuck off back where you came from,” the man shouted. He was thickset with a heavy, potato-like head. His face was screwed into an ugly expression. His hair was shaved to a dark stubble, which only made him more unattractive.

“Polish cunts,” barked the woman. With greasy black hair scraped into a ponytail, she was as physically unpleasant as her companion. Unlike the man, her face shone with delight. She was enjoying the wretched spectacle they had created.

The two men in the gallery showed extraordinary restraint.

“Just leave before we call the police. You’ve been warned before. This is harassment,” one of the men said.

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