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

by Malcolm Richards

  Nodding, Dylan got to his feet. He hovered for a moment, unable to meet her gaze.

  “I’ll make something for dinner,” he said. “Melissa can help.”

  “I may not be back.”

  “Then we’ll save you some.”

  Carrie nodded again. She turned to leave.

  “Hey.” Before she could argue, Dylan had moved around the table and wrapped his arms around her waist. He pulled her to him. She resisted for a second, then lured by the warmth and smell of his body, she folded into him, pressing her cheek against his chest.

  Carrie looked up, meeting his gaze. He brought his lips to hers and they kissed.

  “Your son is alive,” he said. “What a head trip.”

  Her mind racing, Carrie slipped from his embrace and hurried upstairs. She went to the bathroom, turned on the shower, and while she waited for the water to heat up, she ducked into the bedroom to grab a change of clothes. She paused. She would have to buy Cal an entire new wardrobe. She had kept just a few of his clothes from when he was a child. Embracing them and smelling the trace of his scent had got her through her darkest days.

  At the hospital, Cal had not allowed her to get close enough to discover if he still smelled the same.

  Heading back to the bathroom, she stopped dead centre in the landing. She found herself gazing at Melissa’s bedroom. It had once been Cal’s. For a while, she had kept the room just as he had left it. The bed unmade. Dirty clothes on the floor. An assortment of dinosaurs and toy soldiers littered across the room like bodies on a battlefield.

  Then two years later, along came Dylan. It had been a fiery, intense introduction to a relationship. After three months, she’d discovered she was pregnant. At first, she was horrified. It was the guilt mostly. The idea that she was replacing her son with another child. Then the beauty of having another child began to take hold. The idea that the house might once again be filled with laughter and life became all consuming.

  Melissa was born. Then came the day when Cal’s room became hers. It had been a difficult, painful day, putting Cal’s things into boxes and into piles to donate to charity. Carrie had kept just a few of his belongings. His favourite toys. The clothes that reminded her the most of him. By then she had already begun to accept she would never see him again. That her son was dead.

  Opening the door to Melissa’s room, she peeked inside. It was hard to picture how it had once looked. Where would Cal sleep now? There was the cramped spare room that served as her office. There was perhaps just enough room to fit in a bed and a small chest of drawers.

  Returning to the bathroom, she stepped out of her clothes and into the shower. The water was hot against her skin.

  Perhaps they would move. The four of them. Into a new home. The trouble was, empty houses were hard to find in Porth an Jowl. Perhaps they would move elsewhere, then. There were plenty of other places they could live. Away from all the bad memories that had kept her here like a prisoner.

  She would broach the subject with Dylan in the morning. For now, the only thing she could think about was getting back to her son.

  7

  A LIGHT DRIZZLE FELL over the cove, darkening the pavements. It was Tuesday afternoon, a little after two.

  Scott Triggs had spent the morning staking out the hospital entrance. Yesterday’s police statement had revealed nothing he hadn’t already discovered himself. The boy on the beach was not Noah Pengelly. Every effort was being made to identify him. It was too soon to speculate about a connection between the boy and Noah. Patience and discretion were vital at this early stage of the investigation. More details would be released soon. Blah. Blah. Blah.

  While most of the press would report what information they’d been given before respectfully waiting until the next statement, Scott had other ideas.

  It was a feeling in his gut. An intuition that the police weren’t being truthful about the boy’s identity. A quick visit to Margaret Telford had confirmed his suspicions. Although she had refused to answer his questions, her expression had spoken volumes. She knew exactly who that boy was.

  Now, his car was parked a few houses down from the Pengelly house, which was located at the centre of the top tier of homes on the west side of Porth an Jowl. Behind the houses lay Briar Wood. Beyond that, miles of farmland. He stared through the rain-speckled windscreen and tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. This story was big. If he moved fast enough and from the right angle, this story could be his. An exclusive. Exactly what he needed to climb out of the cesspit that was local news and onto the national press.

  Towns like Porth an Jowl were all the same. All you needed to do was target the local gossips, butter them up, and bam—they would be lining up to spill every juicy detail.

  Tess Pengelly had almost tripped over herself when he’d asked for her story. She’d said she’d do anything to help find her son. With just a little coaxing, she had spilled the details of her dead husband’s alcoholic ways and her own troubled upbringing. She’d labelled the police investigation into her son’s disappearance as ‘hopeless’ and she’d criticised her fellow locals for not caring whether her son had lived or died. The fact that Tess had taken a cocktail of booze and tranquilisers before he’d asked for an interview had not served her well.

  Scott had lied to Jago. Every word of that story had been his own. Now, he wondered if Tess Pengelly would agree to share her thoughts about this new development. Maybe, if she was wasted enough. But if Jago was home, Scott could forget it.

  His thoughts turned to the eldest Pengelly boy for a second. That dropout had given up on his education and was likely to follow in his dead father’s drunken ways. That’s what happened if you stayed living in a hell hole like Devil’s Cove—you got drunk, turned into your parents, then you died.

  Scott smiled, still proud that he’d been the one to announce the town’s true name to the world. Picking up his phone, he checked the time. Another ten minutes had already passed. He couldn’t sit here, wasting time. He was an early bird with a worm to catch. The question was, how did he catch it?

  Margaret Telford wasn’t talking. Turning up at the Pengelly house would likely end in a brawl on the doorstep with Jago. Who else in Devil’s Cove could he turn to?

  Just as the question formed in his mind, the answer came into view. Two houses along from the Pengellys’, a door opened and a crooked old man stepped out. He leaned on a walking stick with one hand and held onto a dog leash with the other. At the end of the leash was a brown and charcoal Yorkshire Terrier. It was clear the man had once been tall and formidable in his youth, but time had warped him like a tree branch.

  A memory stirred in Scott’s mind. He had spoken to this man before, when Noah Pengelly had disappeared. Scott had been attempting to interview the Pengellys’ neighbours with little success, until he had bumped into the old man in the street. He’d seemed guarded at first, but a few compliments about his dog and a couple of leading questions had quickly revealed him to be the quintessential local busybody. The kind who knew everybody’s business. A misanthrope who couldn’t wait to spill his neighbours’ secrets but would be enraged if someone were to spill his own.

  Scott watched the old man guide the dog through his unkempt garden and onto the street. He closed the gate and began to head in Scott’s direction.

  Grady Spencer.

  Scott never forgot a gossip’s name.

  He moved fast for an old man with a stick, already clearing the space between his house and Scott’s car. In a second, he would pass by, taking the town’s secrets with him. Grabbing his mobile phone from the dashboard, Scott hopped out of the car. The drizzle hit his skin in a depressing mist.

  “Mr. Spencer?”

  The old man stopped in his tracks, looking over his shoulder with a suspicious eye. He turned, tapping his stick against the pavement, and looked Scott up and down.

  “Who wants to know?”

  His voice was sharp and rasping, unpleasant on the ears. At his feet, the l
ittle dog drew its upper lip into a snarl.

  Scott moved toward him with an extended hand. The dog broke into a high-pitched yap. “Scott Triggs. Cornish Chronicle. We talked before about Noah Pengelly.”

  A look passed over Grady Spencer’s face. His eyes narrowed. “Don’t remember.”

  Scott smiled. Lying sack of shit, he thought. He could tell the old man was going to need some buttering up. The dog worked last time. Giving the terrier his full attention, Scott crouched down and flashed another smile. “I remember this cute little fella. He had an unusual name. What was it?”

  Grady Spencer leaned over him. The dog continued to growl.

  “Caliban.” The old man pointed a knotted finger at Scott. “You want something from me.”

  “I do?”

  “You’re after something. A story.”

  Grady Spencer stared at him with something like triumph.

  Straightening back up, Scott raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. The old man was a regular Sherlock Holmes. “You may be right. In fact, I’ll let you in on a little secret. I’m onto a big story.”

  For a second, the old man stared up at the sky, squinting as rain splashed on his skin. He had no umbrella, no rain coat, just an old jacket that had seen better days and hung over his bent frame like a sheet on a dryer.

  “The boy they found on the beach,” he said, returning his gaze to Scott. His eyes were ice blue, the whites shot through with thin red veins. “That story was yesterday’s news.”

  “Not entirely true,” Scott said. “They still haven’t identified him, have they? Or at least, that’s what they’re saying.”

  Grady Spencer narrowed his eyes.

  That got his attention.

  “I think the police know exactly who that boy is. I think they’re keeping his identity a secret.”

  “And why would you think that? Got a hunch, have you?”

  “Something like that. Think about it. They still haven’t found Noah Pengelly. It’s been two months now. Then there’s the kid that disappeared last year down in Zennor. He’s never been found either. Now an unidentified boy appears on the beach. I did my homework—a couple of children were reported missing in the surrounding area in the last couple of months, but both were found unharmed. They’d just wandered off, got lost or something. So, who is this mystery boy? Where has he come from? Maybe the police think the unsolved disappearances are connected. Maybe this boy has confirmed that.”

  Scott paused for a moment, thoughts turning in his mind. Grady Spencer watched him, his thin lips pressed together. By his feet, Caliban stopped growling.

  “What are people in town saying, Mr. Spencer? Has Margaret Telford spoken to anyone?”

  The old man’s lips curled into a sneer. “I don’t give two shits about what that old witch has to say. She tried to report me. Said I let Caliban foul up the streets. Meddling cow. A dog has got to do its business. It’s natural.”

  “I see. I paid her a visit earlier. She was very rude to me as well.”

  “Always been a stuck-up cow, that one.”

  “You’d think she didn’t want the people of this town to know who’d been found. And I’m sure the people of this town would feel better about letting their children out to play if they knew it was safe, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t give two shits about the people in this town, either,” Grady said. “You ask me, they should keep their kids shut up in their houses. Keep ‘em out from under my nose.”

  Scott turned away for a second. This old man was a real charmer. A loner with no friends. No family. Or if he did, they probably visited once a year, and for them that was probably once a year too much.

  For the first time since he’d stepped out of the car, Scott felt the rain seeping through his clothes. Time to wrap this up.

  “Who do you think they found on the beach, Mr. Spencer?” he asked. “Obviously, it’s no one local. But I had a feeling this morning that Margaret Telford knew the boy’s identity. In fact, I’d bet my life on it.”

  The old man was quiet for a second, staring down at his dog. When he looked up again, his face had taken on a mischievous expression.

  “People around here, they stick together,” he said. “They don’t like outsiders. Especially ones that come sticking their beaks into things that aren’t their business.”

  Scott felt his body deflate. Had he misjudged the old man? Was he really going to join the rest of the cove’s inhabitants in respecting the police force’s request for discretion?

  Grady Spencer cracked a smile, exposing crooked brown teeth.

  “But I don’t give two shits about them, do I?” he said. “And I know exactly who the police came calling on after they found that boy. Heard it from Mabel Stevens, I did.”

  Bingo. “And who did Mabel Stevens say it was?”

  Grady Spencer sniggered then pressed his lips together. He tugged on Caliban’s leash, pulling the dog to his feet.

  “Not my business, is it?” he said, walking away. “But Cove Crafts has been closed since Sunday.”

  The old man picked up his pace, heading away from Scott and into the rain.

  Scott watched him go. His heart raced with excitement. He had to move fast. Before more journalists came snooping around. This was his story. His exclusive.

  No one was going to take it from him.

  Returning to the dryness of his car, he pulled his phone from his pocket. There was just one bar of signal. Just enough to get him online so he could find out exactly who owned Cove Crafts.

  8

  THE RAIN CONTINUED into the afternoon, growing heavier as it spread across the county. Carrie pulled up in the hospital car park and sat for a moment, looking up at the large complex of square buildings. Her gaze shifted to the canvas bag sitting in the passenger seat.

  She had returned to the hospital on Sunday afternoon to find Cal asleep again. She had sat in a chair in the corner, anxiously watching him, studying every line and contour of his face. It was her son. She was sure of it. But when he had woken two hours later, he had reacted as if she were a stranger. Feeling doubt creeping in again, she had kept her distance from the bed. Cal had returned the favour by not throwing himself into a corner like an animal.

  The CT scan had revealed no injuries to his brain, further cementing Doctor Singh’s theory that Cal’s behaviour was borne from trauma. Carrie had felt a confusing mix of relief and horror. Someone had done terrible things to her son. They’d hurt him. Broken his bones. Scarred him. How long had he endured such tortures?

  If only Cal would speak. If only he would allow her to come close so she might hold him in her arms and take away the horror. A psychiatric evaluation had been carried out yesterday morning. Carrie had sat in the cafeteria, clutching a plastic cup of coffee. Although she had been told much of the initial evaluation would be observational, it hadn’t stopped her from feeling shut out.

  When she’d been allowed back in the room, Cal had continued to ignore her. Each time she had tried to speak, he had turned away to stare at the silent images of the television on the wall.

  She could not get close to him, yet he would allow nurses to give him his medication and prop up his pillows.

  Late last night, Carrie had returned home feeling defeated and bereft. She had missed Melissa’s bedtime for the second night in a row. Dylan had wanted to talk. Carrie had shut herself in the bathroom, turned on the shower, and wept.

  Now, she stared at the bag on the passenger seat, forcing a smile to her lips. She reminded herself that it was early days. Her son had been dead for seven years. Now he was alive. Even if Cal never spoke to her again, she had to be grateful.

  Leaving the car, she skirted around the main entrance, where a gaggle of journalists was still gathered, desperate to know the identity of the boy found at Devil’s Cove, and headed for a side entrance she’d been instructed to use.

  She walked the corridors until she came to Trembath Ward. The duty nurse smiled as she passed by the recept
ion desk. Carrie nodded stiffly then looked down at the trail of wet shoeprints she’d left in her wake.

  A uniformed police officer sat outside Cal’s room. He smiled politely as Carrie approached.

  “Anything?” she asked him.

  “He seems more interested in TV than talking,” the young officer said.

  Carrie paused in the doorway. Cal was sitting up in bed, his eyes trained on a cartoon show and his brow pulled down with concentration. He had a little more colour, she thought, and the shadows around his eyes seemed lighter.

  Drawing in a breath, she let it out and knocked softly on the door. Every muscle in Cal’s shoulders grew taut.

  Carrie hovered in the threshold, as if an invisible force was keeping her out. It took her another ten seconds to push through it. She stepped into the room, the bag swinging slightly in her hand.

  “How are you doing?” she said at last.

  On the bed, Cal’s hands curled into fists and wrapped themselves around his body. He shot her a glance before returning his attention to the TV screen.

  Carrie inched forward.

  “Cal?”

  Nothing. Not even the flicker of an eyelid.

  She came to a halt at the foot of the bed.

  “I brought you something.”

  Cal’s eyes turned to meet hers. They were dark and round, just like his father’s. But they were not the eyes of a child. They were the eyes of someone who had seen terrible things. He looked at her for a second more then dropped his gaze to the bag.

  Carrie cleared her throat. “I found a few of your things from when you were a child.”

  Slowly, she set the bag down at the bottom of the bed. She opened it up and peered inside. A plastic dinosaur lay on top. It was a Tyrannosaurus Rex, about fifteen centimetres tall, painted green and yellow, with its mouth stretched open in a terrifying roar. She held it out as if offering her hand to a wild animal.

  “Do you remember, Cal? You used to carry him around everywhere. He used to sleep under your pillow at night. What did you call him?” She stared at her son, her eyes fixed on his mouth, waiting for him to speak. Cal stared at the dinosaur. His right hand unclenched and moved down to his side. “It was Rex, wasn’t it? We used to joke that it was a dinosaur not a dog.”