The Cove: a shocking thriller you won't be able to put down (The Devil's Cove Book 1)

by Malcolm Richards

  “As you may know, Callum was brought in early this morning,” she said in a voice that was serious but not uncaring. “He’s dehydrated and somewhat malnourished. We currently have him on fluids via intravenous. We’ve taken blood and urine samples, and we’ve run X-rays.” The doctor paused, shooting a glance at the detective, which did not go unnoticed by Carrie. “While there are no signs of recent bone injuries, there are signs of old ones. Possible fractures in both arms and a break in his left ankle. Did Callum sustain any of these injuries prior to his disappearance?”

  Carrie tried to think back. Her mind was full of fog, impenetrable. She shook her head. Her son was alive. He had not drowned.

  “I’m not sure.”

  Doctor Singh raised an eyebrow.

  “I mean, no. He’s never had an accident in his life. Nothing to bring him to hospital.” Carrie glanced at the doctor, then at the detective.

  Doctor Singh went on. “Callum’s chest was clear, his lungs empty of water, which suggests he had not been in the sea for long and more than likely lost consciousness on the beach.”

  “Where did he come from?” Carrie’s voice sounded far away, like an echo from a dream. None of this seemed real. How could she be talking about her son as if he were alive? She’d spent the last seven years burying him, over and over again. Convincing herself every morning that she would not walk into his room and find him asleep in his bed.

  “I can’t tell you that,” Doctor Singh said. “Callum hasn’t spoken a word since he arrived this morning.”

  “Surely he must have said something.”

  “We’ve booked him in for a CT scan in the morning to check for possible brain injury. If that’s clear, then it’s possible his silence is an indication of post-traumatic stress. So, we’ll need to do a psychiatric assessment.”

  “Psychiatric assessment?” Carrie’s gaze shifted between the doctor and the detective once more. She wanted nothing more than to be with her son. To close the seven-year gap that lay between them like an endless chasm. “What happened to him?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have the answer to that. But try not to worry. These tests are standard procedure.” The doctor stood. “Callum is stable for now. Once he’s awake, we’ll be able to find out more. I’ll come by later.”

  She nodded briefly and excused herself from the room, leaving Carrie alone with the detective.

  Carrie shook her head. She was asleep. That was it. Having one of those dreams in which Cal was alive. Any moment now she would be woken by a gut punch of grief.

  But she felt awake. Wide awake. Her son was alive.

  Detective Turner leaned forward. “Crime scene investigators are down at the beach right now. They may not find much, but—”

  “Crime scene?” The words caught in her throat, like she’d swallowed a dry pill without water. Of course, a crime scene, she thought. Did you really think he’s been floating around the sea for the last seven years?

  The detective was saying something. She watched his lips move up and down. It took her a second to tune into his voice.

  “. . .his health is a priority, of course. We don’t want to put him under any undue pressure. . .”

  “Someone took him,” she whispered.

  “. . .and the fact the X-rays revealed old fractures and you say he never sustained any injuries before he vanished. And of course, the fact he’s been gone for seven years. . .”

  “Someone took my boy.” An icy finger of dread woke her from her dream state.

  “We don’t know what happened yet. And until Callum can tell us, we have to keep an open mind.”

  Carrie caught her breath. She felt the muscles tighten in her shoulders. When she spoke next, her voice was a trembling whisper. “Was he. . . Did they. . .”

  Detective Turner shook his head and offered her a reassuring smile. “Callum has undergone a thorough examination at the SARC. There was no evidence of sexual assault. The hospital’s taken blood and urine samples. We’ll test for any substances in his body. Toxicology can take a while but we’ll have the results soon. Because Callum was in the water, any DNA evidence would have been washed off, but we’ve taken nail clippings and of course, when Callum is up to it, we’ll be able to take a statement.”

  Carrie sat back in her chair. Someone had taken her son. They had managed to keep him hidden all this time. It seemed impossible. A sliver of doubt inserted itself into her mind.

  “What if we’re wrong?” she whispered. “What if it isn’t Cal lying in there?”

  She knew it was him. It had to be. But how could he have reappeared after all this time?

  “There’s something we can do to ease your mind,” Detective Turner said. From a briefcase, he produced a pair of latex gloves and a small plastic kit. “We have the DNA match from the database but I can take a sample from you, one that will prove the boy asleep in that hospital bed is your son.”

  Turner gave a polite smile. Slipping on the latex gloves, the detective produced something that looked like a cotton bud and asked Carrie to open her mouth. She watched the detective as she felt the swab roll against the inside of her cheek. Then it was gone, placed inside an evidence bag, which the detective now sealed.

  Once he had packed and labelled the swab, Detective Turner sat down again. “I’d like you to tell me about the day Callum disappeared.”

  Carrie frowned. She didn’t want to talk about that. She wanted to return to the ward, to be there when her son woke up.

  “It might help to talk about it, to jog your memory.”

  “My memory doesn’t need jogging,” Carrie said, her jaw tightening. “I’ve relived that afternoon, over and over. Every day. Ever since he disappeared.” She looked away, stared at her coffee. “Can’t you just take a look at the old file?”

  Detective Turner rubbed his stubbled jaw. He eyed Carrie’s coffee enviously. She slid it toward him and watched as his face flushed with embarrassment.

  “I’ll be going over it,” he said, taking the cup. “But I’d like to hear from you.”

  Carrie watched him through narrowed eyes. She had told the story many times. Relived it every night when she went to sleep and every morning when she woke.

  “Sometimes you can stare at the same photo, over and over,” Detective Turner said. “Then suddenly you see something you’ve never noticed before.”

  Carrie glanced at the door, wondering if Cal would wake soon, if he would remember her when he did.

  “It was a Saturday,” she said, avoiding the detective’s gaze. “The fifth of August. Two weeks into the school holidays. It was a scorching hot day; blue sky, calm seas. The town was overrun with tourists. Cal always loved it when they came. He was excited to see the town so alive. You’re not from around here, are you?”

  Detective Turner shook his head. “I grew up in London. Got transferred down this way a few years ago.”

  Carrie was surprised. She had already guessed he was no native, but she struggled to hear a London accent.

  “Well, I guess Porth an Jowl is no different from any other tourist town. For the locals, summer is hell, but it makes you a living and keeps you in food and clothes when winter comes. And winter is the real hell. Cold winds. Constant rain. Most of the town shuts down for six months. No wonder Cal loved the summertime.”

  For a second, she was lost in thought, memories of Callum as a child overwhelming her. It was hard to imagine him lying just a hundred metres away in a hospital bed, seven years lost. One minute, nine years old, the next, sixteen. What had he looked like in between? How had his face changed? His body grown? In a few years, he would not be a child at all but a young man. Those seven years were lost. She would never see him grow from a child into a teenager.

  But she could live with that. She had thought she would never see him alive again.

  “Cal’s father, Kye, we had already separated. We were both seventeen when I found out I was pregnant, eighteen when I had Cal. Neither of us were ready to be parents. We were
children having children. We finished things when Cal was two, but we remained friendly. Then Kye went off to work on the oil rigs. He’d send money for Cal every month without fail. And whenever he came back, he’d take him to his grandparents for the weekend. But it wasn’t the same; Cal missed his dad.”

  She hesitated for a second, smothered by memories.

  “Kye had sent some extra money so Cal could buy a body board. He’d been wanting to learn to surf. That afternoon, we went down to the beach. It was busy. Hundreds of people with their kids and dogs filling the sand. We found a spot further out near Devil’s Gate, that rocky outcrop on the left before the beach turns the corner. Cal wanted to get right out on the water. But the tide was on its way in and the currents can get a little tricky around there. I told him to wait. He wouldn’t have it. So, I said he could have five minutes. I’d watch him.” She paused again, aware that her voice was trembling. “I should have gone in with him.”

  Across the table, Detective Turner stared at her with soft, brown eyes. He did not judge, merely listened.

  “I looked away, just for a minute.” She hung her head. Tears streamed down her face. “One minute, that’s all. He was there. Then he wasn’t. I panicked. I got up. Ran to the shore. I searched the water, the beach. There were so many people but he wasn’t among them. And then I saw his body board floating out on the water. . . After that, it’s just images. And screams. My screams.”

  Carrie gazed across the room, her face that of a condemned woman. “There was a search. The police, the coastguard, local people. They all blamed me. The bad mum not looking out for her child. That’s what everyone thought. So did Kye. My parents. . . But blame didn’t bring my boy back. Eventually, people stopped looking. Kye stopped calling. Mum and Dad left town. But I stayed. I couldn’t leave. How could I?”

  “Mrs. Killigrew—”

  “Carrie.”

  “Is there anything else you remember from that day? Before you went to the beach or during your time there. Anything that seemed strange. Anyone acting out of the ordinary?”

  Carrie thought about it for a long time. She shook her head.

  “Are you still in contact with Callum’s father?”

  “Not for years. I couldn’t even tell you where he is.”

  “What about your parents? Where are they now?”

  “Last time I heard from them, they were halfway across the world. They like to travel. I call it running away.”

  “Do you have a way of contacting them?”

  “A mobile number. I haven’t used it in a while.”

  “Perhaps now might be a good time.”

  “They can wait.” Carrie leaned forward, her eyes glowering. “Detective, someone took my son away from me. They let me think he was dead all this time. They let me blame myself. You need to find him. You need to find who did this to my boy.”

  Detective Turner nodded. “We’ll do everything in our power to find out what happened.”

  A thought struck Carrie, making her feel suddenly uneasy.

  “What about Noah Pengelly?” she said.

  The detective opened his mouth and closed it again. “I believe his mother has already visited the hospital. An officer will speak to the family and let them know it isn’t Noah who’s been found.”

  “They’ll tell her it’s Cal?”

  “Not yet. We won’t be telling anyone that for now.”

  “You think there could be a connection?”

  “Your son’s appearance will be treated as a separate case,” Detective Turner said. “But a team will be set up to compare cases and look for any connections.”

  Carrie nodded as she felt a sudden selfishness embrace her. She was sorry for Noah. For Tess. But her boy was alive. She didn’t yet know what he’d been through or how much he’d suffered, but she knew she wasn’t going to let anyone hurt him again.

  If they tried, she would kill them.

  “So, what’s next?” Carrie asked.

  Detective Turner stared at her. “We wait for Cal to wake up.”

  4

  DARKNESS HAD FALLEN over Porth an Jowl. The sky was clear, revealing a glittering blanket of stars and a waning moon. An unsettling hush crept through the streets and into people’s homes. The beach, however, was a hive of activity. The crime scene investigators in their white suits crawled over the beach like astronauts exploring a Martian landscape. Police tape cordoned off a large area and a handful of uniformed officers stood with their arms folded across their chests as they kept guard.

  Over on the far right, The Shack was dark and silent, closed for business while the CSI team worked.

  “They won’t find anything. The tide’s already been in and out.” Seventeen-year-old Jago Pengelly sat on the promenade railings, dressed in baggy jeans and a black hooded top, with his feet tucked under the lower bar, and a mop of black hair falling across his eyes.

  Beside him, three months his junior and with a skateboard balanced on her knees, Nat Tremaine rubbed the back of her freshly shaved head. “They always find something on those stupid TV shows.”

  She sucked on a hand rolled cigarette and blew the smoke through her nostrils in a steady stream. She passed the cigarette to Jago, who flicked off the ash and brought it to his lips.

  There were other people watching from the safety of the promenade; late night dog walkers, inquisitive neighbours who lived on the seafront and had come out of their houses for a better view. A news van was parked on the roadside and a gaggle of journalists milled up and down, interviewing residents and eyeing the beach.

  Jago watched them with contempt.

  “Vultures,” he growled, his face lost in a fog of smoke.

  Nat followed his gaze toward the journalists. “I’m surprised they haven’t made it to your house yet.”

  “Yeah, well good luck getting my mum to talk. She’s been out of it ever since the police came by.”

  “Valium?”

  “And the rest.” He spat the words out as if they were poison. His mother was barely present these days, instead sleeping her life away in a drug-induced haze. He knew why. She was starting to give up. She was starting to believe that Noah was dead.

  Jago passed the cigarette back to Nat. She took one last drag, pinched it between thumb and forefinger, and flicked it off into the distance.

  On the beach, the CSI team was finishing up and gathering equipment. Jago and Nat watched as they crossed the police line and headed back toward the promenade.

  “Maybe you should go talk to them,” Nat said. She took out her pouch of tobacco and a cigarette paper and began rolling another cigarette. “They might be able to tell you something.”

  Jago watched as a couple of journalists and a cameraman broke free from the gaggle and raced toward the CSI team, who were now climbing into their van.

  He shook his head in disgust.

  “No one’s going to tell me shit.”

  “But you’re Noah’s brother. His family. So, it’s not him up at the hospital, but whoever it is, maybe they’ve been with him. Maybe they’ll know where to find him.”

  Jago returned his gaze to the police officers still guarding the crime scene perimeter. “Probably just a coincidence.”

  “Come on, you don’t believe that. Noah disappears and two months later some other kid washes up on the beach and no one knows who he is. . .” The cigarette rolled and sealed, Nat passed it to Jago. She stared off into the distance for a second before her eyes lit up with an idea. “Hey, remember that kid who went missing down in Zennor last year? Maybe this is him.”

  Jago fumbled in his pocket for a lighter. “That kid probably fell off a cliff. Stupid parents too busy taking holiday snaps to notice him gone.”

  They were both quiet, watching as the CSI van growled to life, pulled onto the road, and drove away.

  “Show’s over,” Jago said.

  The inhabitants of Porth an Jowl began returning to their homes, the frustration on their faces illuminated by the streetlights
.

  Most of the journalists were also turning around and returning to their vehicles.

  “Who do you think it is?” Nat said.

  “How would I know?” Jago took another drag on the cigarette then passed it to Nat. “I bet Margaret Telford knows. She was the one who found him. I should go around there. Talk to her.”

  “She won’t be allowed to tell you anything.”

  They were quiet again. Jago closed his eyes. His head filled with images of his little brother. One minute, Noah had been playing in the garden. The next, he was gone. As if a tear had opened in the fabric of the universe and he had stepped through it, never to be seen again. The police had found no evidence of abduction. They believed he’d wandered off into the wood behind the house while his mother had run his evening bath upstairs. There were several abandoned mine shafts in the area. If he had wandered westward through the trees he would have come to the lighthouse at Desperation Point, and a sharp drop into the ocean.

  There were many hazards for a little boy wandering alone in the wilderness. Jago refused to believe his little brother had succumbed to any of them.

  Nat was staring at him. He caught her gaze and held it.

  “What?”

  “You should come back to college,” she said. “It’s not the same without you. Everyone’s so dull, it’s dragging me down.”

  Jumping from the railings, Jago stretched out his spine, then began crossing Cove Road. He wasn’t in the mood for college talk. What was the point? The only thing he was in the mood for right now was getting drunk.

  Behind him, Nat dropped her skateboard to the ground, hopped on with her right foot, and pushed off the ground with her left. Scooting ahead of Jago, she turned ninety degrees and brought the skateboard to a halt.

  “Come on, dickhead. Are you really going to leave me riding the bus to Truro and back every day with those troglodytes? What about university? What about getting out of this shit hole of a town?”

  “What about leaving me alone?” Jago said, the words firing from his mouth. Guilt pinched his lungs as he saw Nat flinch.