‘You have much to learn, Ben, about people, and about life, and I’m not just saying that like some old fossil of a father. People need … to feel wanted, needed, respected and involved. Sitting on a beach with a healthy bank balance might seem nice, but it doesn’t furnish you with a pride and a purpose, respect from the passing seagulls.

  ‘You’re now finishing university, when you could have just dropped out and got a doss job, or gone to Bali and lived as a life guard. But you studied hard, you’ve kept at it, and you should have a good career. Stop and ask yourself … why bother, and you might find the right answer, the answer to why losing my job upsets me, no matter how much money I have tucked away.’

  I left him to check his emails, something called a dongle used to connect to the internet – a complaint issued from him about my lack of free broadband Wi-Fi. Cheeky bugger. I had a shower, and sat scanning the catalogue for the garden centre. Hell, I could have bought most every item; they all seemed suited and needed.

  The next morning I woke early, Ben still asleep, and I crept downstairs. Outside the back door I took a pee into the bushes, save waking Ben by using the upstairs toilet, and I made myself a coffee. The cellar door was open, so I descended, finding dull paraffin light and Max tethered to a column, Robby smoothing down wet concrete where the hole used to be. He had also painted a section, the available light enhanced by reflection.

  ‘Handy paraffin lamp,’ I noted.

  ‘Had it years, the old lady did. Couple round yer someplace.’

  I sipped my coffee. ‘Ben can rig up some lights, he’s studying electronics.’

  ‘At be handy, aye.’

  With Ben awake and smelling his coffee, Marcus and his mate now helping themselves to tea and toast, I explained what I wanted to achieve today. I made our priority the cellar, and I had my reasons, asking Ben to run a cable down from the batteries. Robby and the lads would build walls, I would paint, and Ben would join in - if and when it suited him.

  We then realised that making walls in the cellar choked us, especially with the smell of paint. A clever solution was called for – since we had not thought this through. Robby made a base from bags of cement, and we stood a wind turbine upright, rope tethers attached around its pole and tied off to support columns.

  Using power from the turbine outside, Ben reversed the polarity and got the blades turning the opposite way to that intended, a hell of a breeze created up the cellar stairs. The kitchen door was left open, and we figured we’d not choke. At least we hoped we’d not choke.

  Robby used cloth to make face masks, and I made sure that the lads wore them, and that they worked for an hour at most before finding something to do outside. Sat having a break, Ben suggested breeze blocks to save time – given the conditions, and we sent Marcus off with Ben in the Land Rover, cash in hand. They returned almost an hour later, and we all pitched in carrying breeze blocks down to the cellar, Robby carrying three or four at a time.

  That first trip had secured only thirty breeze blocks, Marcus heading back for more. I returned to painting upstairs.

  By 4pm we were all filthy, and tired, Ben firing up Aunt Betty’s dated washing machine after figuring out the controls; he had brought his dirty laundry with him. Marcus reported that he had ordered breeze blocks, that they would be delivered the next day, and that he had haggled a good deal for us. More sand and cement would also be delivered. I had to wonder if he would make anything from the deal – a kickback from the supplier, but I was not that bothered; I was getting him at a good rate.

  Marcus headed off after a chat, and I found that I was – again - tired, a nap needed. Robby cooked with Ben, neither kindred spirit bothered by a bit of dirt – or the need to wash too often, and I found both of them painting in Ben’s room at 7pm.

  ‘All done?’ I asked.

  ‘Just the skirting board in places,’ Ben responded. ‘Back of the door.’

  Facing Ben, I asked, ‘Do you remember Robby?’

  Robby turned his head.

  ‘I do,’ Ben replied. ‘We spoke a couple of times, when I wandered up into the woods.’

  ‘Happen the lad had some hooks one year,’ Robby said, making it sound like he wanted them back.

  ‘I’m still waiting for a few tools back from him,’ I told Robby, a glint in my eye. ‘So don’t hold your breath.’

  Peering out of the window, it was a bright evening, plenty of moonlight. ‘OK, down tools, the tide is coming in. I have some new kit we can check.’

  I grabbed the rods, Robby heading off with a torch and a plastic bag to grab a few juicy worms before the tide covered them, and I led Ben to the sand. He had dragged the two deck chairs out, and now set them up as I placed a strap around my head, a small square torch turned on.

  ‘All mod cons,’ I said to the sounds of waves breaking close by. ‘Fishing by torchlight.’ I placed one on Ben’s head.

  ‘Now we both look silly.’

  Straight from its new box, I turned on a torch that resembled a giant mushroom, and we suddenly had localised ambient light, line soon threaded along the rods. With Robby’s arrival we threaded hooks as we stood about the damp sand, made loops and fixed the lead weights, threading the hooks with bits of worm.

  My monster rod was now ready. I double-checked the reel setting, stepped away, and cast over my head, figuring that the weight had impacted the water a good eighty yards or more out – and had duly scared off any fish within a hundred yards as a result.

  Taking the tension, I jammed my lengthy rod into the sand and did up my fleece against the chill evening breeze. Stood there, I wondered over the surreal scene laid on for me, the bright silver moonlight illustrating the features of the estuary as if daylight. But somehow the moonlight on the water got me to thinking about pirates as the waves laid on their rhythmical and soothing concerto.

  A few seconds of silent anticipation would result in a breaking wave, the crescendo soon reached, the sounds of the boiling water soon giving way to the churning of the sand, the gentle retreat of the water anticipated and enjoyed. And then it would start all over again. How was it possible to derive such pleasure from listening to water churn shingle?

  With a finger on my line, I watched Robby help Ben, who cast out … and hit himself in the knee with a yelp, making me wince. Second cast was better. Robby fixed his rod last, baited his hook, and stepped away so as not to tangle the lines. Having cast out, he edged back towards us.

  ‘Caught a giant Pollack here the other night,’ I told Ben as he eased down into a deck chair. ‘Right outside the front door.’

  ‘I remember the tide coming into the front garden,’ Ben responded through the dim grey light.

  Wrapped up, I was warm enough, the moonlit image of the estuary yet another picture that might fit a postcard. And, with Ben here as well, I was content. No, I was more than content, I was happy.

  ‘Happen some’un coming,’ Robby called a while later.

  I turned back towards the house, and noticed a man with a dog on a lead - and holding a lamp not unlike that now on the sand next to me. Facing Ben, I said, ‘It’s a public path, they have a right.’ Still, I was a little concerned.

  As the man neared he appeared to me to be short, and my age at least, and I was now less worried. ‘Evening,’ he offered, his facial features hard to make out in the moonlight. ‘Nice night for it.’

  ‘It certainly is,’ I guardedly replied. ‘You … live local?’

  ‘Not far, up the estuary, to where it’s just a stream.’

  His dog sniffed me at length, and I raised my hand instinctively lest the dog bite me. His was a full-grown Alsatian, not like our runt.

  ‘Pop back in daylight,’ I began, ‘and I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

  ‘Good of you. You the man who handed the silver in?’

  ‘Yes…?’ I replied, the dog now sniffing my ankle.

  ‘Smart move.’

  I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. ‘I sold it this week,’ I announced, checking my rod.

  ‘Not short of a bob or two then.’

  ‘No,’ I replied, my shake of the head accentuated by the small torch strapped to my forehead.

  ‘You looked for that gold?’

  I again checked my rod. ‘Police went over the place with metal detectors last week, top to bottom, and ground penetrating radar,’ I lied. ‘I would guess that gold would set off the metal detectors a mile away, and nothing.’

  ‘Might just be old wives tale, but silver was here.’

  ‘Yes, a mystery. Still, the police recovered a gold bar in London years ago, so I guess it’s up there.’

  ‘They recovered some?’

  I took in his dark image. ‘Yes, the right stamps and marks and everything. Have you … searched your property?’

  He didn’t answer the question. ‘You selling?’

  I controlled my reaction. ‘No. I’m staying.’

  ‘Oh. Would you mind if I fished here sometime?’

  ‘There’s a public footpath at the back of the beach, but technically the beach is private land. But no, I don’t mind if you fish here.’

  ‘Good to know, it’s a good stretch of sand, no ropes in the water. Goodnight then.’ And he turned, dragging his dog away.

  When he was beyond the house, Robby stepped up. ‘You know him?’ I asked Robby.

  ‘I seen him ‘round with his dog.’

  ‘Know any more about him?’

  ‘Nope.’

  We returned to our nocturnal fishing, and I brought in a small Bass ten minutes later, a small fish for my giant rod and my expensive reel. Ben landed a small flatfish without realising there was anything on the line, Robby not getting a bite.

  When the tide turned we headed back, tea made, the puppy played with. And, with Robby carrying the puppy out, I again methodically checked all the doors and windows, a little spooked by our visitor. And I was spooked because I knew the headland was impassable, so where was our friend wandering to? Had he come just to chat, and if we had not been fishing – would he have knocked the door?

  Convincing myself that he was a harmless local, I headed up to bed. And with Ben in the house I felt better. Not more secure, just better in general to have my son home, decorating and fishing with his old man; it had been a while for both activities to be shared between father and son.

  When my phone went I was annoyed for a moment, but I also considered that it may be important. ‘Hello?’ I asked, still in bed and in the dark.

  ‘Were you asleep?’ Allison asked.

  ‘Just this minute got into bed. What’s happened?’

  ‘Not good news, I’m afraid.’

  My heart sank. ‘What is it?’

  ‘They did the post mortem on O’Donnell. He was shot in the back, and with that wound there was no way he could have walked or swam anywhere, his lungs were both punctured, so he would have been down in seconds.’

  ‘There was a third man involved?’

  ‘Must have been.’

  ‘Is Robby back in the frame?’

  ‘He was checked for blood spatter, his shoes, his cottage, his gun; nothing. You shoot two people at close range and drag a body then you have blood on you, gunpowder residue.’

  ‘And me?’

  ‘Not even the local cops think you could shoot someone.’

  ‘Oddly enough, that does not dent my pride in my own manliness.’

  He laughed. ‘So there was a third man, possibly a thug who argued with Mason, killed Mason, and shot O’Donnell as he ran off. Don’t know why he moved O’Donnell’s body and left Mason’s body, or why he just didn’t put the body in the car, drive off and dump the car – or set fire to it. Makes no sense to dump O’Donnell in the water, unless O’Donnell managed to run that way first, got most of the way before collapsing, and the killer saw the water close by.’

  ‘Yes, makes sense. Should I be concerned? I have my son here.’

  ‘No, whoever it was is long gone and shitting himself, probably across to the continent by now. He would have been a thug, the hired help, and without anyone paying him to bother you he wouldn’t lift a finger.’

  ‘Is Detective Callum coming back now?’

  ‘They may do, a few more questions, a look around, but with zero forensics they know not to waste their time. Beside, I don’t think they’d get any volunteers to search Robby’s cottage a second time.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I toyed.

  ‘Goodnight, Roger. Enjoy the fishing.’

  I lay my head back, the blue light from my phone dying, soon just dull grey light penetrating a crack in the curtains.

  Was I concerned, I asked myself. With Ben here, I was, but the logic of the murder spoke for itself, as had the forensics. Whatever small doubts I had about Robby, I was certain that he didn’t watch CSI:Miami of a quiet evening, a distance learning degree in forensics – and how to fool the police.

  No, Robby was not someone for expertly washing down a crime scene in the dark, he was someone who still had last year’s dirty Christmas plates on the side of the sink, stains in his jumper from when he was in school.

  Saturday morning came with a gentle tapping of rain at my window, which made me need the toilet all the more. It was 8am, so I risked waking Ben and flushed the dated toilet, its noisy cistern taking an age to refill.

  I found the puppy curled up on his blanket, a sniff my way as I entered the kitchen, and again I registered sounds wafting up from the cellar. Grabbing a torch, I stepped carefully down, Marcus and his man already here with Robby and working on the breeze block wall.

  ‘Had breakfast?’ I asked Marcus as I approached through the gloom, the cellar lit by three paraffin lamps.

  ‘Not really,’ Marcus replied, getting a look from Robby.

  ‘Come on then, down tools for ten minutes and we’ll get the kettle on.’

  They had again brought a newspaper, The Sun, but from yesterday, and I flicked pages as we ate breakfast together, the puppy still sleepy, Ben joining us – whilst seeming to offer as much energy as the puppy, if not less.

  ‘Late night?’ I asked him.

  ‘Was on Skype to a few friends.’

  ‘And … what’s that in English?’ I pressed.

  ‘My computer talks to their computer; I see and hear them, they see and hear me.’

  ‘Ah. Clever,’ I admitted. I turned my head a notch to Marcus. ‘You have computers at the commune?’

  ‘Some have a laptop.’ He shrugged. ‘No Wi-Fi there, poor signal for a mobile phone.’

  A knock at the door surprised me, thoughts of Detective Callum surfacing. I noisily stepped along the hall tiles, a few in need of repair, and opened the door to an officious looking man.

  ‘I’m looking for the bill payer.’

  ‘What are you selling?’ I quipped.

  ‘Selling you getting cut-off next week,’ he sarcastically stated.

  ‘Ah, electric board.’

  ‘You Betty Hobson?’ he asked.

  ‘Do I look like a Betty?’

  ‘You never know.’

  ‘How much is due?’

  ‘Three hundred and sixty eight, a quarter, and it’s already at sixty days.’

  ‘My aunt died, I just got here. Hang on.’

  I left him at the door and climbed the stairs, careful not to touch the banister. I grabbed the cash, four hundred pounds, but then stopped. I grabbed another four hundred. Back at the front door, I said, ‘Do I get a receipt?’

  ‘Of course. How much as you paying?’

  ‘Eight hundred?’

  ‘Eight?’

  ‘Yes, the outstanding amount, and the next quarter, since not even the postman could find this place.’

  ‘If only all my calls were like this.’

  Five minutes later I reclaimed my seat in the kitchen, with my receipt, the electricity bill now paid.

  Robby said, ‘Happen I paid electric man one time. Old lady sometime forgot.’

  ‘Well we’re paid up.’ I stopped. ‘No, hang on, that bill was sixty days old, so … we’re a month in lieu before the lights go out.’

  ‘I’ll get that water turbine working,’ Ben offered, sat nursing a coffee and looking a bit useless. I might have told him to comb his hair, but he had last done that when twelve years old, and I had long since give up telling him. He added, ‘Those three wind turbines will run the lights here, but the cooker and washing machine will drink the juice quick enough.’

  ‘We’ll have to experiment,’ I suggested. ‘I’d like to be off-grid before that idiot returns with a red bill.’

  With Robby leading the gang down to the cellar for another hour, I scanned the newspaper, Ben in the shower; it was good job we had not been cut off. Spain had nationalised a bank, a second likely, and protests on the streets were growing. The European bourses had died and flat-lined, the largest ever drop as a percentage, billions wiped off pensions.

  Those pension losses would be felt by people like me for the most part, people holding private pensions. State pensions would be unaffected, since the government did not – as widely believed – take our taxes and national insurance and tuck it away for when we retired. No, in the UK as elsewhere, the taxes on young working people paid for the state pension; that element had never been invested on behalf of the people due to retire.

  But with an ageing population, and most people living longer, the difference in net tax collected to pensions paid was growing – and becoming an issue. And with the stock markets falling, companies could not raise as much money by selling their shares, so working capital was suffering, and businesses were starting to hit the wall. It was all doom and gloom, and I shook my head with worry as I read the various articles.

  Returning to my own little world, I decided to send Marcus shopping. The newspaper had worried me - again. Ben wanted to buy a few things – I suggested a comb – and off they set with cash.

  With the rain easing off I took the puppy for a walk, and he did his business in the damp sand and buried it. As a dog owner, I enjoyed the largest litter tray imaginable. We examined flotsam together, large logs having deposited themselves on the beach overnight, like giant whales beaching themselves. An idea popped into my head.