Page 53 of Deep Waters

“They are just doing their job.” Christian spoke softly, placing a light hand on Harry’s shoulder. “For Tom’s sake, you don’t want them to cut corners. I don’t think they suspect you at all, but they have to consider every option.” He opened several cupboards until he located a chopping board. “Is it okay if I raid the fridge? I went to that convenience store in the marina, but they didn’t have a lot left.”

Harry nodded. He pulled the cork out of the whisky bottle and splashed a good inch into each tumbler. “How do you take this?”

“With water. I’ll get it.”

Christian took another glass and filled it from the tap. He brought it to the table and splashed a little into his whisky, about a third as much as spirit. Harry did the same and sipped while Christian opened the fridge. The liquor was strong with a warm heat that soothed his throat as he swallowed, and it warmed his stomach.

Harry released a sad sigh. “I suppose they have every right to suspect us. Three young lads have been murdered inside of a week, and we were the last people to seetwoof them alive.”

Christian rinsed a handful of cherry tomatoes and put them on the chopping board. “The idea had occurred to me, too, and, from the point of view of the police, it makes sense for them to suspect us. But something worries me far more than being a person of interest in their investigation. What if you’re not so much a suspect as a target?”

“Really?”

“The thought has been going round my mind all day until I’ve convinced myself it was the only answer—that whoever came after Tom did so because of what happened on the boat on Monday. And if you had been there this morning, they might have attacked you, too.”

Harry took another sip, avoiding the concern in Christian’s eyes. “It’s a struggle to accept that,” he said at last. “Niko was half dead when we pulled him from the sea. He didn’t say a word. He couldn’t tell us what happened or who attacked him. We don’t know any more than the police do about his attacker.”

Christian peeled the skin off the chicken breasts and cut them into thick slices. “The killer doesn’t know that. They might be out there wondering whether you do know something and if you’re keeping the information to yourself for now.”

“Why would I? That’s insane.”

“I know, but so is the person behind all this. They have to be. Maybe they’ve been stewing on the idea all week, and by this morning had convinced themselves it must be true. They couldn’t take the risk of us talking, so decided to do something about it.” Christian knocked off his drink in one slug and brought the empty glass back to the table, eyeing the bottle for a refill. “That’s what I told the police today, anyway.”

Harry drained his own glass and topped them both up. “Did they think it was plausible?”

He screwed up his face. “I don’t think so. They told me that we should be careful—like you said before, not to take any unnecessary risks. But I don’t think they saw it as a logical theory—no more than the two of us being killers, anyway.”

He returned to the counter to finish making the sandwiches.

Harry swirled the liquor around his glass, gazing at the light amber colours. “It’s a pretty fucked-up motive. I don’t know whether Idon’tbelieve it or don’twantto believe it. It seems like such a stretch, that’s all. Unreal. But so does everything else right now.Fuck.”

“Do you want anything else on here? Beetroot? Mayo? Mustard?”

“A little mayo. Thanks.”

Christian finished the sandwiches, cut them in two, and brought the plates to the table. He sat beside Harry, and Harry looked at him gratefully. He picked one up and took a bite. His mouth was dry, and it was a struggle to chew at first, until he realised just how hungry he was.

“How is Tom’s family? He had one kid, right?”

Harry swallowed and nodded. He cleared his throat. “Joshua. He’s four. The poor lad doesn’t even know what has happened. Susan’s sister, Paula, has taken him. She lives down the coast in Newbiggin. It’s probably for the best to get him away from it all. Susan is devastated. Her parents are staying with her, but she didn’t know whether she was coming or going when I saw her. I don’t know if she’ll ever get over it.”

Christian nodded sympathetically.

A sudden gust rattled the back door, and they both started. Christian got up and went straight to the window, peering out into the dark. “Just the wind,” he muttered and sat back down. “I guess what the police said has got us both spooked.”

“The weather is supposed to turn nasty again tonight. Tomorrow looks as bad as Monday. I reckon you’re right. I must be spooked, because this kind of thing doesn’t usually bother me.”

They finished their sandwiches in silence before Christian reached across the table and took his hand. “This is probably a stupid question, but do you have any weapons in the house?”

“Of course not. I’m a fisherman, not a hunter.”

The corners of Christian’s mouth turned downwards. “I thought as much.” He got up and opened the drawers. Rummaging through, he pulled out a long butcher’s knife and a carving knife. He ran his fingers along the blade and frowned, before shuffling through the drawers again until he found a knife sharpener. “This will do,” he said, drawing the first blade back and forth across the sharpening rod.

Harry let out a weary laugh. “You do know that we’re not allowed to carry knives around in this country, not even for protection.”

“There are no laws against having them in your own home.” Christian put the first knife on the table in front of him. “Keep this with you wherever you are, even when you go to the bathroom.”

“Aren’t you overacting?”

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