When they’d finished and Jake was clearing away the dishes, Kate had a craving to smoke, so she found the pack of cigarettes she kept on a shelf on the back porch.
It was a balmy night, and the sounds of the wind and the waves were muffled by the dunes as she climbed down the cliff. At the bottom she found the two rusting deck chairs that she and Myra had sat in many times to talk and have a cigarette. One of the chairs lay on its side. Kate picked it up, and dusted off the sand, and placed it next to the first. She sat down, tipped her head back, and looked up at the stars, brilliant against the black sky. Tiredness and worry overwhelmed her, and she closed her eyes.
Kate heard a rasping cough and opened her eyes. Her friend Myra was slowly making her way down through the dunes, her shoulders rounded and hunched over. She wore a long dark coat, which was open, and underneath, an old gray tracksuit and bare feet. Her white hair was luminous, even in the darkness, and her skin glowed.
“Evening, Kate,” she said. “Good Lord. The dunes have shifted, haven’t they? It’s been a while since I’ve been here.”
She sat next to her. The deck chair creaked. The tide was far out, and the wet sand glistened in the moonlight. It was the strangest feeling. Kate knew that she was asleep and dreaming. How else would her dead friend be sitting here on the beach, talking to her?
“Hello,” said Kate.
Myra smiled and took a bottle of Jack Daniel’s out of her coat pocket and set it down on the sand between their feet. Kate stared at it as Myra rummaged in her other coat pocket and found a pack of cigarettes. She opened it, teased one out, and put it between her creased lips. The flickering glow of the lighter illuminated the old woman’s face, making the pupils contract rapidly in her large brown eyes.
“Do you fancy a drink?” asked Myra, indicating the bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the sand. “I’m dead, and this is a dream, so I think you can have a drink.”
It was tempting, but even in her dream, Kate knew the stakes. What would happen if she ever drank again. She shook her head.
“No.”
“Good girl,” said Myra, smiling and exhaling smoke through her teeth.
“I miss you,” said Kate, feeling a surge of sadness for her departed friend. “I put flowers on your grave every month.” She reached out, and Myra took her hand. It felt real—soft and warm. Myra chuckled.
“Nice ones they are too. None of that shit from the petrol station forecourt.”
“I’m making a mess of everything,” said Kate. “My first big case with the agency is going to slip through our fingers . . . Tristan’s given up a good job, and I don’t know how long I can keep paying him . . . I’m relying on Jake running the surf shop and caravan site . . . I don’t know what I’m going to do at the end of the summer.”
Myra took a last drag on her cigarette and flicked it away. The red ember sailed through the air, landed on the wet sand, and vanished.
“Well. I’d better be going,” she said, patting Kate on the hand and heaving herself up out of the deck chair.
“Is that it?” said Kate.
Myra pulled her coat around her. “Kate. Think of all you’ve been through in your life. Jake is finally living with you. You’re finally doing what you dreamed of with your own detective agency. The police have linked four unexplained murders. Those lads would have remained in unmarked graves if it wasn’t for you. You’re even refusing to drink this Jack Daniel’s in your dream. And here you are, wallowing and getting in a state about the small shit. Cash-flow problems. Work problems.” Myra leaned down and picked up the bottle of Jack Daniel’s. She tapped her hand on Kate’s shoulder and pointed with her finger. “You’re back from the wilderness, my girl. Don’t throw it away.” She started to walk slowly back up the cliff. Kate watched her turn and vanish through the sand dunes.
Kate woke up, sitting in the deck chair on the beach. The chair next to her was empty. A warm breeze was blowing, and her phone was ringing in her pocket. She took it out and answered just before it stopped ringing. It was Tristan.
“Sorry to call late. Everything okay?” he asked. “You sound groggy.”
“Yeah. I dozed off. What is it?”
“Noah Huntley. I’m sitting here working out what we should ask him, or should I say, how we should go about asking him tough questions, and I don’t know where to start. It’s not like he’s going to tell us if he’s been going around killing and raping young guys.”