---

Before even leaving the carvery, Sam takes his phone out and opens a new text.

‘You about?’

He sends it to Martin. The reply takes only minutes to come.

‘Pint? See you at the White Lion?’

Sam taps his reply.

‘Maybe later. Fancy doing some night filming up at the lake first. See you there? Could pick your brains a bit more about Conley?’

The reply bounces straight back.

‘OK! On my way.’

---

Sam is surprised that, when he gets to the lake, Martin is already there, skimming stones across the water. He seems to have a knack for making them bounce.

‘Alright, mate?’ Martin says. He’s still dressed in work clothes, his tie loosened at the collar, like someone cutting loose at the office party. He goes over to meet Sam and offers a hand with the camera, although Sam doesn’t really need it. Automatically, they start to walk around the lake together.

‘Thought you’d come up and get some more night filming, did you?’ Martin asks. ‘Few moody shots, eh?’

‘Yeah. Should be heading off for a bit in the next few days. Got some stuff to do back at home,’ Sam says. ‘Can’t live at the Travellers’ Rest forever, can I? Much as I’d love to, of course.’

Sam is joking but Martin looks annoyed. ‘You’re heading off already?’

‘Soon, like I said.’

‘Bit soon to give up, isn’t it?’

‘I’m not giving up. I just need to take a break for a bit, take stock. Without paying for a crap hotel on top of my rent.’

Martin kicks at a stone on the ground. ‘I don’t see how you can be working on the documentary if you’re not here.’

‘Why are you so interested in this case, Martin?’

Martin looks up. ‘I’ve told you. I lived here when it happened. It had an effect on the whole town.’

Martin runs on ahead to get in front, forcing Sam to stop, and turns to face him. He curls his lip and moulds his hair into a short-lived quiff that soon collapses.

‘”Truth is like the sun. You can shut it out for a time, but it ain’t going away,”’ he says in a weak, lopsided Elvis impersonation.

Sam can’t help but laugh, more at how surreal the moment is than Martin’s impression being particularly amusing. More downright weird.

‘What the hell was that?’

‘Elvis said it, didn’t he?’ Martin says, returned to himself again now. He’s walking backwards alongside Sam. ‘You can’t give up yet, is all I’m saying. Someone must know something and you just need to find them. I don’t mean to have a go at you, sorry. I was just really excited about the work you’re doing. To have someone finally care about this case, about this town.’

‘I’m not giving up.’ Sam tries but fails to drain the petty defensiveness out of his voice.

They stop at the picnic table again like when they first met. It’s a good vantage point to get the whole of the lake in one shot.

‘Have you been up here much? At night?’ Sam asks, trying to sound casual.

Martin’s head turns slowly. ‘Me? Not really, no. Why would I?’

‘Just asking,’ Sam says. Martin’s eyebrows crinkle up and Sam tries to weigh up whether it’s exasperation or panic.

‘Thought we could do a bit of filming with you, if that’s alright? I mean, you know so much about the place; I think you’d actually be a good interviewee to have.’ Sam pivots the camera towards Martin. Under the moonlight, he looks washed out, white skin, grey under the eyes.

‘Well, I don’t think I’ve really got much to add. I’m no connection to Victoria,’ Martin says, trying to sidestep the camera’s gaze, but Sam glides it along with him. ‘I mean, I just offered to show you around when I saw you up here. I just don’t…’

‘It isn’t only about Victoria though, is it? It’s the era and the place and everything else, like you said, and you’re perfect for that.’

Martin considers it. Before he can protest any more, Sam snaps the vice shut. ‘What were you doing around the time of the murder?’ He turns on the light clipped onto the camera.

Martin squints at the glare and puts his hand up to block it.

‘Well, I… I wasn’t doing anything.’ He keeps moving and so does the camera, as if it is attached to him by string. ‘I was just working and… you know, as you do. You’re putting me on the spot now. It all sounds rather dull, doesn’t it?’

Even in this light, Sam can detect a tightness around Martin’s temples and eyes, a ripple in his voice.

‘You don’t remember any details? It’s just most people seem to have quite specific memories. You know, like the thing where everybody knows where they were when Kennedy got shot? It’s the same about that night round here, isn’t it? So, where were you that night?’

‘I wasn’t alive when Kennedy got shot.’

‘You know that isn’t what I mean.’ Now Sam is sure that Martin is flustered – his hand has drifted up to his hair twice before he remembers and puts it by his side again. ‘I mean the night Victoria died and you know it.’

‘I would have been asleep with my wife or maybe watching TV,’ Martin says, a strange pitch to his voice. He speaks again then, more measured. ‘Or it’s possible I was working late. In fact, I think I probably was. Needed the money then. Yes, that was it.’ Martin gives Sam a calm smile. ‘I told you it wouldn’t make very good TV. My life just isn’t very exciting, I’m afraid.’

Sam won’t let go now, smelling blood in the water. ‘Were you ever questioned about it? I know lots of men around here were.’

Martin tries to step sideways again and stumbles over his own feet. One knee goes down on the grass. He pulls himself up again, mud up his trousers.

‘Were you questioned?’ Sam says again.

When Martin looks up at the camera, his hair is dishevelled, neck creased at a strange angle. ‘No, I wasn’t. What the hell has got into you? You’re getting well off track here.’ He tries to straighten his hair. ‘I don’t think I like where you’re going with this.’

‘I’m just wondering why it is you’re so keen to help me out with this case,’ Sam says, still filming. ‘Were you out in the rain that night, Martin? Somewhere with a lot of mud?’

‘I’ve got to go, sorry.’ Martin slips again on the grass as he leaves, then speedwalks towards his car, breaking in and out of a run, looking back every few steps. Sam carries on filming him as he goes.

Sam hadn’t been sure about what Tina said at the pub. She could have had her own motives. After his time working at the paper, it would be hard to surprise him about the things people would say to get one over on each other.

Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to be wrong, either. He didn’t know Martin well, at all. But his gut feeling about him was good, and Sam prided himself on that. It led to all the best stories and sources. And no alarms about Martin had been going off at all.

But Martin’s reaction to his questions – it wasn’t one of someone who had nothing to hide.

As Martin’s car drives away, Sam realises his body is pulsing, his breath quick, as if he has just been running.