Page 145 of Making a Killing

There’s a pause; they’re waiting to take their cue from me.

‘OK. Can someone call DS Asante, please. Let’s get a dive team in at Hescombe Mere.’

***

The weather forecast had warned of heavy rain, and by the time Bradley and Asante get to the car park at the woods the clouds overhead are so dark it feels like twilight. Bradley hauls her mac out of the boot and they head down through the trees as the first fat drops start to fall. Barbie Markey is already by the water, zipped to the chin, watching the Dive Team unload their kit. It’s raining hard now, but as one of the divers says, it makes no odds to them.

‘Do you think you’ll find anything?’ asks Asante.

The dive leader shrugs. ‘Maybe. But this is a deep one. There’s a lot of sediment too, so we’ve brought radar as well as the sonar.’

‘But wouldn’t a body have surfaced by now?’ says Bradley. ‘I thought there came a point when corpses resurface, shall we say, of their own accord?’

‘The old bloat and float, you mean?’ he says with a grin. ‘You’re right. Anything still down there must have been weighed down. Or got stuck somehow. Though the scavengers will have got well tucked in by now, so even if the body is caught on something, bits will have started coming off.’ He grins again. ‘We’ll be keeping a special eye out for floating feet.’

Bradley makes a face. ‘I’m hoping that’s another of your little jokes.’

‘No, seriously – there’s so much rubber in modern trainers they always bob back up sooner or later – remember that Australian con artist who went missing? All that turned up of her was a running shoe.’

‘With the foot still in it, as I recall,’ says Markey drily.

‘Right. And there’s a place in Canada where something like thirty different feet have washed up still in their shoes. Some poor sod in the Mounties is probably still trying to pair them up.’

Bradley is looking a little greenish now. ‘Well thanks, guys, that’s an image I’ll never be able to unsee.’

***

Adam Fawley

5 August 2024

12.53

There was still no news from the Mere by five, and I could tell from Asante’s voice that the dive team weren’t holding out much hope there was going to be any. I sent the team home and told them to take Sunday off, pending anything new and urgent, then updated Harrison, who was in a slightly better mood by the time I’d finished, though I’m not sure how long it’ll last. The last thing I did before I left was send Bryan Gow a copy of the shadow journal, and an hour or so later he emailedme to invite himself to lunch on Monday at the Ivy. Which was fine by me; I just need to remember not to mention it to Alex, who loves the place and has been dropping increasingly thudding hints about how long it’s been since we last went.

We opt for a booth at the back, skip the wine list, navigate the menus (always plural here), and we’re all set.

‘She’s quite something,’ he says. ‘Your Daisy Mason –’

‘Hardly mine, Bryan. Thank God.’

He gives a grim smile. ‘Indeed. I don’t think I’ve ever seen material quite like that from a subject before. The degree of self-knowledge she demonstrates, and at such a young age, is quite astonishing. Not to say, brutal.’

‘I assume you’ve come across the Shadow Journalling thing, though? I confess I hadn’t –’

‘Oh yes, I’ve come across it.’

‘And you don’t approve?’

He gives a half-smile. ‘It’s always concerning when people embark on any sort of self-help “psychotherapy” without proper support. Blithely encouraging individuals to relive “unresolved childhood traumas” based on some vague notion that this will “heal” them can risk intensifying those issues, not relieving them. Especially for those with pre-existent mental health problems. This stuff is like sword swallowing – the results can look impressive, but you do really need to know what you’re doing.’

The food arrives, and as usual the table is a bit too small for all the plates so it takes a while to shunt everything round. Gow picks up his fork and spears a spike of asparagus.

‘But Daisy had a therapist, didn’t she? She had professional support.’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘I had a look at that so-called therapist’s website – she’s not a qualified psychologist or any sort of medical professional, as far as I can see. And in any case, I didn’t see any evidence that Daisy shared the journal with the therapist – or discussed the more, shall we say, “controversial” events she recounts in it.’

‘Are you saying that the journal thing could have done actual harm?’

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