Page 190 of Slack Tide Kill

Sally watched the doctor wave her hand back and forth. It was trance-like, almost nauseating to watch, but her vision wasn't blurred or doubled.

"It's OK."

"You're recovering well. That's good. Especially considering you clearly had skull trauma before."

"It was a bullet."

"We know." The doctor smiled, kind and gentle. "We know who you are, Ms. Rogers. Thank you for saving the marsh."

Sally looked over at Liam.

"Enjoy it," he mouthed.

"It was a team effort," Sally said. "I wish we'd done it sooner."

"By 30 years?" She smiled. "You wouldn't even have been born. Now, we'll be keeping you for at least three days. That's mostly for the concussion. For the rest, you're all plastered up and the bones will knit. I'd recommend you lie easy for today, try to sleep. Tomorrow we'll have you up shuffling around. The day after, mobility should be easier. Watch out for your coordination, though. Skull injuries can have lasting effects."

She closed the flipchart.

"You're exhausted, too," Sally said. "Thank you."

"We all pull together around here. Now take it easy, OK? Both of you."

She looked at Liam, then turned and left the ward.

"I guess that's my debrief," Liam said. "A nod."

Sally laughed. "You didn't get punched in the head by the sea, did you?"

"Only two car crashes in two days," he grumbled.

The day passed in a haze after that. Sally was in and out of consciousness. The TV was on for a time, but Sally struggled to really follow it. News about the attack, the murders, the victims, the emergency state of the marsh. Lots of footage of the storm, and water blasting through the cratered sea wall at Dymchurch, and fields coated in mist and swallowed by black floods.

At one point, Tania Brown appeared as a talking head, sharing her 'unique perspective' on the case from the ground. Very little had been stated, publicly, it seemed. Nobody knew for sure how much danger they'd been in, and judging from the taciturn delivery DI Gemmell gave at a press conference, maybe nobody ever would.

Deputy Director McMaster appeared briefly. Sally gasped a laugh when she saw his big body wedged into the frame of the camera. He said even less than Gemmell, just that the investigation was ongoing, but they had the suspect in custody.

That was good. Final.

Sally slept.

78 WHAT THE TIDE LEAVES

The custody suite at Maidstone was warmer than he was used to, rocking on the Rother in his houseboat, Ephesian Tears. Already he missed the small rhythms of life on the water; even the sound of Arthur Bledd at the next mooring point, working on his experiments with mud.

All of life was a river, though. The water was always there.

They'd given him a meal in the evening, a breakfast, another meal. He'd touched none of them. The last still sat on the shelf of the hatch with the film in place, going cold, a shape under plastic.

He'd scarcely moved since they put him here, scarcely slept, just sat on the edge of the bed with his back straight and his bandaged hand resting on his knee, looking at the wall.

They had tried to make him talk, all that first evening and already three sessions today. A specialist down from London who spoke to him as if they were colleagues. A younger one after that who did not. A solicitor he had declined. A woman from the psychiatric team who sat for 40 minutes and got the same as the rest of them.

He would not speak. Maybe not ever again.

It seemed to surprise them. Maybe they'd expected a talker. 30 years of quiet and then a body arranged on a strand line with a citation cut into the shells: that was a man who wanted an audience, they thought. And audiences were what they had come to offer him.

But there was nothing left to say. He'd never give them Bledd and Mensah, and they'd never find them on their own. He was certain of it. Their bodies were consigned to the water.