THE HOUSE AT SEA’S END

stuff.
    ‘Judy? What’s the next beach beyond Broughton?’
    ‘Going north or south?’ At least Judy never asks unnecessary questions.
    ‘North.’
    ‘Rockham. Beyond that, it’s Cromer.’
    ‘Can you get down to the beach from there?’
    ‘Yes. There are some steps.’
    ‘Can you meet me there as soon as possible? Bring Cloughie too.’
    ‘Okay, boss.’
    As Nelson clicks off his phone, a wave breaks over his feet. Soon Broughton will be cut off by the sea and Ruth is still on the beach somewhere. There’s not a moment to lose.
    ‘What are you playing at?’ asks Ruth angrily.
    ‘Get in the cabin, Ruth.’ Craig is smiling, that gentle smile that she has always rather liked. He was her favourite of the field team, she remembers, because he never argued with her.
    ‘You must be joking. Put that gun down.’
    ‘If you don’t, I’ll kill you. Just like I killed Eckhart and the others.’
    ‘
You
killed them?’
    ‘Yes,’ says Craig, still in that sweet, reasonable tone. ‘I had to. I had to protect my grandfather’s memory.’
    ‘Your grandfather?’
    ‘Donald Drummond. My mother’s father. He was one of the Home Guard.’
    Donald. The gardener, who presumably had the key to the summer house. The one who had wanted to kill the Germans outright.
    ‘He was a fine man,’ says Craig. ‘He brought me up, you know. My father scarpered when I was a kid, Mum couldn’t really cope. But my grandparents, they were always there for me. Constant, steady. It was a different generation. A better generation.’
    Ruth remembers Craig telling her that he was brought up by his grandparents. Thanks to them he can make oxtail soup. Is it thanks to them that he is also a murderer?
    ‘Granddad told me all about the war,’ Craig says. ‘And when I was old enough he told me about killing the Germans. It was them or us, he said. I understood. He was only doing his duty, fighting for his country.’
    ‘They killed them in cold blood!’
    Craig turns on her furiously. ‘What do you know about it? Where would you be, you and all the bleeding heart liberals, if they hadn’t protected you? They stood on this coast line and they defended it. They defended it with their lives.’
    ‘Did you kill Archie and Hugh?’
    ‘I felt bad about Archie,’ says Craig. ‘He was a good man, but he was going to tell someone the secret. I did the gardening at the home and I saw how friendly he was getting with that carer, Maria. Then, when Nelson visited him, I knew it was time to act. I just popped up to his room after I’d finished in the grounds and sent him to sleep. It only took a few minutes. A merciful release, really. Archie hated getting old. Hated being in the home.’
    ‘What about Hugh? That wasn’t a merciful release.’
    ‘Hugh was a filthy communist. Granddad hated him. Anselm should have been a conchie and had done with it, but no, he had to go whingeing on about his conscience. You can’t afford a conscience in wartime. But Hugh always thought he was better than the rest of them. He had to go bleating to that German journalist. Telling our wartime secrets to a German! No, Hugh deserved everything he got.’
    ‘You stopped his stairlift?’
    ‘It was easy. I did the gardens there too. Got hold of the master key from that dipso warden and let myself in. Flicked the switch and there you go. I knew Hugh had a weak heart. I knew he’d kill himself trying to get free. Serves him right, in my opinion. Writing all those letters to the papers saying we ought to be friends with the Germans. Friends! He made me sick.’
    Craig looks down, smiling complacently. While his attention is momentarily diverted, Ruth presses the mobile phone in her pocket, touching random keys, hoping that she’ll get through to someone, anyone. ‘Help me,’ she says aloud. ‘I’m on the beach at Broughton. Craig’s trying to kill me.’
    ‘What are you doing?’ Craig snaps to attention again, narrowing his eyes.
    ‘Nothing.’
    ‘Give me your phone.’
    ‘I haven’t got it.’
    Craig comes closer and, pressing the gun against her head, pulls her hand from her pocket. He prises her fingers from the phone and throws it into the sea. Ruth hears it splash and, despite everything, can’t resist an involuntary moan. Her phone! Her life is contained in her phone. Now it’s at the bottom of the sea with the barnacles and rusting tin cans.
    ‘Don’t try anything else, Ruth. I’m a crack shot. My grandfather taught me.’
    ‘Like