Palmer-Jones 05 - Sea Fever by Ann Cleeves Read Free Book Online Page B

first. The foot apparently was caught in the rope. The rest of the body sank at times under the water, then arched out of it as the Jessie Ellen moved over a wave. This was what had made Rose scream.
    Louis shouted tersely to the boy to cut the engine and began to pull on the rope which attached the rubby dubby bag to the stern rail. He had to pull gently. Any jerking might disentangle the shoe and send the body back into the water. When it was almost to the level of the deck, he paused to take a breath but would not let the others help him. He motioned them away. It was only when Greg was within reach that he called to them. Then they tried to haul him aboard by hand. The skin was wet and slippery, and they were worried that the clothes might tear or come off. At last they got him onto the deck. Louis turned him over and pumped his back. Water trickled from his mouth. Then Louis tried mouth to mouth resuscitation.
    Molly, helpless and incompetent, saw the attempt to revive the boy as a tasteless performance. Louis must have known from the beginning that it would fail. Perhaps he thought the others would be even more disturbed by the young man’s death if he did not try.
    George was horrified that he was reminded once again of the day at Holywell Pond. The seawater had smoothed the black hair around Greg’s face, so he looked again like an animal, a stoat, and on his face there was the same smile of defiant victory.

Chapter Four
    Inspector Claire Bingham lived in a smart new housing estate on the hill outside Heanor. When the National Trust sold the land to meet local housing need, they had not envisaged the split-level bungalows with balconies overlooking the harbour which were finally built there, and the estate caused the Trust considerable embarrassment. The Binghams settled easily into their home. They gave dinner parties for the other professional couples who lived on the hill. They had two cars and changed the largest every year. When work allowed, Claire changed into a pink-striped leotard and jogged and stretched with her neighbours at the aerobics class in the primary school hall. Afterwards she drank coffee with them and discussed mortgage rates and house prices and the problems of being a working mother.
    On the weekend of the Jessie Ellen trip Claire Bingham was not officially on duty. She spent Saturday morning shopping, pushing Thomas in his buggy strung with carrier bags around a Heanor clogged with holidaymakers. She had expected, when she was pregnant, that Richard would do more of that sort of thing. It seemed so obvious that they had never discussed it. They were both working full-time, weren’t they? She earned as much as he did, probably more, especially as his colleagues seemed to pass on all the legal aid work to him these days. He knew she was ambitious, the first detective inspector to return to work after maternity leave in the Devon and Cornwall force. She had expected more of him. But he was as busy as she was and always seemed to bring work home. Then he pleaded domestic ignorance and incompetence.
    “You do all that household stuff better than me,” he always said. “If you’re tired, don’t bother cooking. I’ll fetch a takeaway.”
    It infuriated her that two intelligent people found it impossible to organise their lives more efficiently.
    When she received the telephone call on Saturday night asking her to wait on the quay for the Jessie Ellen , she knew that she was second choice. She always was. The other duty inspector in her division had thought nothing would come of the emergency call and had suggested that the police station should try her.
    “It’ll only be an accident,” he said. “Some drunken holidaymaker losing his footing and slipping into the water. Claire Bingham’s keen. Let her see to it. If she’s so bloody efficient about paperwork, let her fill in the forms.”
    She knew her male colleague would have been contacted first when the coastguard informed the