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  In some respects, the site was like a medieval city state. Its eighty acres of water, trees, rolling parkland and recreational facilities represented a haven from the harsher and busier worlds outside. The long pole of the barrier beside the office, firmly preventing the entry of others into that world, was a welcome protection for the fortunate few who had residences here and thus free access to its escapist world. The barrier symbolized for them this closed and privileged world of theirs.

  The Ramsbottoms came to Twin Lakes with their daughter Amy. Jason introduced her to sailing, which she enjoyed, and golf, which she alternated between enjoying and furiously rejecting, a variation which almost exactly mirrored her performance on the agreeable little course, as her father gently pointed out. Amy rejected bowls entirely after a single experimental twenty minutes on the green and a brisk command from the passing owner to keep her back foot on the mat as she released her woods. Fourteen-year-old girls do not take kindly to correction, nor is the image of crown-green bowling one to set their hearts dancing.

  Freda Potts had no children. She came here with her husband for a couple of weekends, when he was home from the oil rigs. Matthew liked the peace of the site and the mirror-like summer sheen of the lakes, which was such a welcome contrast to the turbulence of the North Sea around the rigs. He began to make himself into a golfer, and had his handicap cut accordingly by the diligent Walter Keane. He was amused that people here could take life on the site so seriously. For Matthew Potts, this place was a welcome and strictly temporary respite from the challenges of his work outside, which brought him rich pickings but also the sort of challenges which most of the people here could not even contemplate.

  Freda Potts was glad that Matthew was something of a loner, so that he did not get heavily involved with the people on the site. She watched anxiously his limited but perfectly polite conversation with some of her neighbours on the site. Freda had now been here twice with her supposed nephew, Wayne Briggs, but to her mind Wayne had not been convincing in the role. He had regarded it as a rich joke rather than a vital precaution. She felt guilt when she was here with Matthew, but an overwhelming excitement and danger that set her pulse racing when she drove in here with Wayne Briggs beside her.

  George Martindale, the Jamaican with the huge friendly smile and the ability to attract and amuse most people, came here with his family almost every weekend. People looked forward to seeing his two bright and lively children, who were so ‘well brought up’ and polite. George’s wife, Mary, was even more popular than he was, because she would do anything to help people, assistance which was welcome in a community where most people were older than she was. In the conservative and largely middle-class world of Twin Lakes, where racism, conscious or unconscious, still lurked beneath many skins, the Martindales were excellent ambassadors for more modern attitudes.

  At the edge of the site, Geoffrey Tiler and his partner Michael Norrington were more conscious than others of the opportunities of escapism offered by Twin Lakes. If there were still instances of casual and unthinking racism, which occasionally declared themselves in people’s speech, there was also still suspicion of gay people in this sort of community. Geoffrey and Michael approached the closed world of Twin Lakes with caution, but found to their delight that they were generally accepted here for what they were.

  Norrington had been open about his sexuality for years, but Geoffrey Tiler, although at Twin Lakes he made no secret of his feelings, had still not declared himself in his working environment. It was somehow more difficult when you were the managing director of a small company, he maintained, although even Geoffrey was not quite sure how far that was true and how far it was merely a convenient excuse for not boldly declaring his new lifestyle. He cherished the seclusion of this place – but that was merely an evasion. He liked Twin Lakes, because people respected your privacy here and weren’t too anxious to ascertain how your persona on the site related to your life outside.

  Geoffrey had never been much of a sportsman, but he took up bowls and enjoyed the quietness of the green on the long summer evenings. He often played alone, exploring the subtleties of the turf and the effects he could achieve with the bias on his woods. Michael Norrington was more outgoing and confident. He joined up with anyone to get a game on the golf course, and was delighted to win the mixed doubles championship with Debbie Keane, Wally having graciously invited him to partner his very short-hitting but very straight-hitting spouse. Debbie was highly pleased with their success. The indefatigable gossip contrived over several rounds of the competition to find out quite a bit about the backgrounds of Michael Norrington and Geoffrey Tiler.

  Richard Seagrave and Vanessa did not mix much with the other residents at Twin Lakes. They were perfectly polite, but cautious, even standoffish, in some people’s view. Yet as the summer advanced and the sun shone into most people’s lives, even Richard and Vanessa unbent a little and joined in with the rest. It was surely harmless to do so, Vanessa told her man, because the people here were harmless and incurious. Well, not entirely incurious – she had to concede that when Richard cited Debbie Keane and her cheerful investigation of everyone’s background – but surely harmless.

  Richard increased his popularity by purchasing a dinghy from one of the older residents who was no longer able to use it and paying a generous price for it. He then spent many hours on the lakes, increasing his sailing expertise and waiting patiently for bites from some of the seven varieties of fish which swam in the waters beneath him. This was the sort of life he had envisaged for himself as a boy, he thought, during his quiet hours upon the lakes. This was the real Richard Seagrave, not the man who operated so ruthlessly during the week in Birmingham.

  Debbie Keane was very anxious to know whether Vanessa was married to Richard, but the pair delighted in keeping her in suspense whilst they danced conversationally around the issue. Wally and Debbie Keane had to give a lot of attention to Vanessa’s golf handicap, because the Junoesque blonde proved to have quite an ability for the game. She hit the ball much further than any woman on the site and out-drove many of the men. Her handicap tumbled as she won a series of events, so that the Keanes had difficulty in keeping up with the rate of her improvement. She was never short of male partners when she went out for a friendly round, but Richard Seagrave did not seem to mind that.

  Seagrave put up a handsome silver cup for the young golfers to play for, and was on hand to present it graciously when Nicky Martindale became the first winner. The picture of the presentation, with the beaming black boy reaching up to shake the hand of the donor of the trophy, surrounded by other children and with proud parents applauding benevolently, delighted the site’s owners. They had it enlarged for display in the office and used it in all the literature they devised to advertise Twin Lakes and its attractions.

  On the morning of Saturday 20th July, Michael Norrington lay on his back in bed and listened to the dawn chorus. It was one of the splendours of the rural world of Twin Lakes, with birds large and small joining in to herald another day and stake their claims to their own patches and their own mates in the harsh world of tooth and claw.

  Having to make your way in a hostile world gave you some understanding of the need to be joyous over the very act of survival, thought Michael. He was fifty-three now, but he had known about his sexuality since he was fourteen. The world in those days had been generally contemptuous of homosexuality. It had been legal for some time in 1975, but there was still much hostility, and even those who declared themselves liberals had tended to regard the boy’s sexual preferences as suspicious. Well, unfortunate, anyway. Even Michael’s mother, who had always been sympathetic to his leanings, had regarded them as unfortunate. He smiled fondly at the memory of her. She’d been dead for six years now, but he still missed her. Missed her foibles, he thought, just as much as her unstinting love for him.

  The birds were finishing their concerted greeting of the new day now, but a single blackbird trilled on as a solo, flinging its sou
l from some tree towards the rising sun and the warmth which was taking over from the cool darkness of the short summer night. Michael lay and listened to it with the slight, unconscious smile which Geoffrey Tiler found so attractive. He knew that he was not going to get back to sleep again. Geoff was still dead to the world, snuffling occasionally into the half-snore which was the only thing that disturbed his quiet sleep. It would be better not to disturb him. From what Geoff had said last night, it seemed that he’d endured a testing week at his factory. He would need his rest to recover from it.

  Michael rose and dressed quietly and slid softly out into the glory of the morning. He stood for a moment and watched the young moorhens at the edge of the lake, marvelling that they could have grown so much in a single week. The sun was still low and there was a thin white mist over the lakes, but there was scarcely a cloud to set against the vivid blue of the sky. He’d been planning a moan about being unable to sleep on into the day, but it was surely good to be out and savouring a morning like this. Good to be alive; that old phrase was fair enough, when you felt nature awakening all around you.

  A quarter to six. He’d planned to walk around the lakes and watch the summer mist dissipate in the gathering warmth of the sun, but now he changed his plan. He’d stroll round the site and inspect the gardening labours of the residents. He was interested in their efforts, but too shy to inspect them when the owners were there to meet him and quiz him about his own tastes and his own movements. He looked first at the begonias and pelargoniums which Geoffrey had planted around their place a couple of months ago. They were doing well now; there had been helpful and quite copious rain in the weeks after he had planted them, and now they were burgeoning under the long days of sun. He bent and removed a single weed and a couple of spent flowers from the geraniums – he’d always called them that, despite Geoff’s insistence upon the correct botanical name.

  You could deduce which people came here most frequently by the plants around their homes, he thought. Some had plants in large pots which must need regular attention. Many had small beds like the one Geoff had made – strictly speaking, the terms of your occupancy didn’t allow you to do that, but the site owners didn’t seem to mind, so long as you didn’t go overboard and so long as you kept your handiwork tidy and well weeded. The annuals people had planted in their small oval or rectangular beds were now coming to their best. There were splendid bursts of colour from antirrhinums, busy lizzies, lobelia and alyssum, as well as begonias and geraniums, some of which were almost as good as the ones Geoff had planted and cherished – Michael was studiously loyal to his still-sleeping partner.

  This was definitely the best time to see them, when they were opening fresh petals to the bright light of the new July day and there was scarcely a breath of air to disturb their effects. Some people said many of these annuals were brash, with their sustained displays of vibrant colours, but Michael Norrington didn’t subscribe to that view. To his mind, these sudden and brilliant displays amongst the green that dominated the site put man securely amidst nature. They were highly acceptable assertions of the presence of men and women amidst the water and trees which were the raison d’etre of Twin Lakes. And at this time of day, you could observe them at your leisure, without having to exchange polite and meaningless conversation with the people who had planted them here for their own and others’ delight.

  As if to counterpoint this thought, a woman appeared suddenly at the edge of his vision. A woman whose normally neat grey hair now flew uncombed and whose normally neat clothing was now dishevelled and unheeded. So much so that it took Michael a moment to realize that this was Debbie Keane, the woman whom he normally took pains to avoid as he moved around the site. There was no avoiding her now. She was seeking him out.

  ‘Thank goodness there’s someone!’ shouted Debbie. There was no need to shout in this quiet place, and for a moment Michael wanted to counsel silence, so that she would not waken the residents who were still enjoying their rest on this perfect morning. But her speech, as well as her demeanour and dress, was so much the opposite of her usual mode that Michael felt an immediate surge of sympathy for this normally rather tiresome woman.

  He smiled reassuringly at her. ‘What can I do for you, Mrs Keane? Or Debbie, I should say, shouldn’t I? We agreed on Debbie last week, didn’t we?’

  Normally she herself employed roundabout methods of address and cheerful questions like this. They were the methods she found most effective for her own inquisitive nature. This morning she brushed them aside. ‘It’s Wally. I can’t find Wally.’

  ‘I expect the sunlight woke him early. He’s probably gone for a walk around the site on this glorious morning, like me. I’m really enjoying myself. I expect Wally is too. I haven’t seen him, but I haven’t moved very far yet. I was appreciating people’s horticultural efforts. Yours included, Debbie. I think you’ve got a really good display going beside your unit.’

  ‘I don’t think his bed’s been slept in.’

  Michael Norrington didn’t want to know about the bedroom arrangements of the Keanes and he wasn’t going to enquire into them now. He said lamely, ‘Are you sure of that?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure, yes.’ For a moment, his enquiry brought a slim hope to her. Then she said, ‘No, I’m sure. I don’t think he’s been here since last night.’

  For a moment, the bizarre prospect of the staid and elusive Wally Keane conducting an affair on the site and sleeping in someone else’s bed reared itself in Norrington’s undisciplined imagination. The notion was so evidently ridiculous that he switched immediately back to the banal. ‘I’m sure we shall find that there’s a simple explanation for this.’

  ‘He doesn’t do this. I’m worried about him.’ It was direct, brusque and to the point; exactly the opposite of her roundabout, insinuating style when she was searching for gossip.

  Michael had his first moment of real fear. He’d been about to offer to accompany her on a stroll around the site to look for her husband, but suddenly he did not want her with him. Suddenly he was afraid of what they might find. He said as cheerfully as he could, ‘I’m sure there’ll be a simple explanation. I’m sure it will turn out that he couldn’t sleep and went out for an early walk, like me.’ He saw that she was about to point out again that his bed hadn’t been slept in and went on hastily, ‘I’ll tell him he should have more consideration for you, when I find him.’

  ‘Can I be of any help?’ The deep voice startled both of them. They turned to find George Martindale standing behind them at the corner of the Keane home. His weight was a little on one leg and he had the awkward, diffident manner which descends upon big men when they are not quite sure whether they are intruding. Everyone on the site, including even those whose visits were least frequent, knew Debbie Keane, who made it her business to introduce herself to every newcomer. But Martindale paused, looked at the man beside her, and said, as if wishing to fill the awkward silence, ‘It’s Mr Norrington, isn’t it?’

  ‘Michael, please. And you’re George, aren’t you? I’ve seen those delightful boys often enough – they get everywhere at that age, don’t they?’

  Martindale smiled his pride in his children. ‘It’s those boys who’ve got me out here at this time of day. I’ve told them to keep quiet and let their mum sleep, but that won’t last for long.’

  ‘Mrs Keane – sorry, Debbie – has lost her husband.’ Norrington watched the previously cheerful black face cloud with sudden concern. ‘Temporarily, I mean. I was just volunteering to go and find him. I think Debbie should stay here, in case he returns whilst we’re searching for him.’

  ‘Yes. You should certainly do that, Debbie. Michael and I will find Wally for you. And tear a strip off him for worrying you, if you like.’ George Martindale was back in smiling mode.

  Debbie was grateful. She flicked her errant grey hair back from her forehead, and managed a bleak smile. ‘This isn’t like him at all.’

  The very thin white man and the burly Jamaican turned
naturally towards the woods on the far side of the lake from the residences. Unless he was in one of the many homes and buildings, it was the obvious place for a man to conceal himself. Or simply to get away for a while from a garrulous wife, thought Michael hopefully. They walked in silence for a few minutes. They had never held a conversation or been alone with each other before, and you could hardly have had two more different men. Eventually, Martindale said, ‘Do you know much about Wally Keane?’

  ‘No. He seems to be a bit of a loner. But perhaps you get that impression because his wife’s so talkative.’

  ‘Nosey, you mean.’

  Norrington grinned and felt the tension between them slackening. ‘I suppose I do, yes. She’s quite a busybody, Debbie, isn’t she? But harmless, I think. Perhaps her life with Wally is a little sterile, without a bit of gossip to liven it up.’

  George didn’t comment on that. He didn’t tolerate people who pried into his affairs, but you had to make an exception for a small, grey-haired woman of sixty-one who seemed to have no motive beyond curiosity. ‘He’s a bit of a loner, Wally. He knows everything that goes on here, but he doesn’t broadcast it.’ George glanced sideways at Norrington to see if he would comment, but there was no reaction.

  They were in the woods now, on the far side of the lake from the residences. It was still only quarter past six; although the sun was rising rapidly, there was no visible sign of life in the homes. The boys would be dressed by now, George thought, creeping about the place and communicating in those stage whispers and giggles which would certainly waken Mary.

  They were almost at the end of the woods when they saw it. The path wound in and out between the major forest trees here, so that the thing had its back to the light and presented itself initially only as a black silhouette against the low rays of the sun in the east.