by Jack Benton
‘Did you get a match?’
Kay sighed. ‘It’s not that easy. A DNA record only exists for convicted criminals, and even that’s in its infancy. My contact managed to break through the database security and run the sample, but we found no match.’
Slim clenched a fist in frustration. It ruled out Eloise, assuming she had a criminal record like she had claimed. But what if she had been lying? The girl’s entire existence had felt like something out of a bad dream.
‘If I can get you a sample, could your friend run a test to see if it matched that in the soil?’
‘I’m no expert, but I would suppose so,’ Kay said.
‘Give me a couple of days,’ Slim said.
Eloise was working at Greenway, so her DNA would be present somewhere. However, Slim had no way to be sure what exactly she had touched, and whether or not it had been contaminated by other people. He needed a surer sample.
A nearby bus timetable had one last bus heading for Paignton. Slim was exhausted already but unlikely to get a decent sleep in the abandoned house anyway. When the bus pulled in a few minutes later, he climbed aboard, trying to doze with his head leaning on his bunched jacket as it meandered towards its destination.
By the time he had walked the rest of the way to Eloise’s flat his legs were shaking and he found himself sitting down on a grass verge as he considered what to do. He could wait, watch for her, identify something she had touched and then wipe it with a rag. The sample might be enough.
Breaking and entering a private property was not something he had ever done lightly, but there were times it had been called for, and over the years Slim had developed a level of expertise. He pulled a small object from his pocket and turned it over in his fingers.
Eloise’s door opened with a Yale lock. It had a second lock lower down which would cause greater problems if Eloise had used it, but the small metal device he now held would deal with the Yale with ease. Military-issue, it had been a gift from an old friend.
Slim pulled his hood over his head, gloves over his hands, and stood up. For a few seconds, a wave of dizziness overcame him, and he clung to a wall for support. Despite the medicine his mysterious benefactor had provided, he was still some way short of full health.
As the dizziness cleared, he headed across the road and into the covered stairwell of Eloise’s building.
The angle of the moon told him it was nearly eleven p.m. No light came from under Eloise’s door and no sound came from inside. If home, she might be sleeping, so Slim eased his pick into the lock and twisted it until he heard a small click. The door gave immediately, indicating the lower lock was unused. This in turn suggested no one was home, so Slim quickly stepped inside and pulled the door closed.
A hall led to a door at the far end. A small kitchen led off through an arch to one side. A window above the sink gave enough light from the moonlit sky outside for Slim to see a tiny shower cubicle through an opposite door.
A small, soft-framed suitcase stood by the bathroom door. Slim nudged it open with his boot. Inside were several folded items of clothing, a couple of women’s magazines, and a toiletries bag. The handle of a hairbrush protruded from an unzipped side.
Slim stared. All he needed was a single strand of hair. He nudged the brush handle with his boot, the loose zip opening a little farther to reveal bristles. Slim reached down and pulled out a strand of hair tangled around a few bristles near the handle’s base. He slipped it into his jacket pocket and nudged the suitcase’s lid closed.
It was enough. He could leave, but his curiosity took hold as he looked up at the closed door.
Instinctively he reached up and tried the hall light, but wasn’t surprised to find it didn’t work. Already the lack of personal effects and the pile of takeaway boxes on the kitchen counter told him much about Eloise’s state of living.
The water might be running but no one had bothered to switch on the electricity. Even so, as Slim reached the door and gently eased it open, he was unprepared for what he might find in the room beyond.
Nothing.
A least, nothing to suggest any form of permanency. A suitcase stood against a wall, a rolled sleeping bag and deflated inflatable pillow lying on top. A few items of clothing, folded, poking out of a plastic bag emblazoned with the logo of a local launderette.
For someone working for the National Trust, Eloise had certainly made little effort to settle in.
As Slim stared at a folded uniform laid neatly over a cardboard box, he felt a sudden jolt of unease. She had been home and gone out again, meaning she could return at any moment. Remembering that he had what he had come for, he retreated to the door.
As he let himself out of the flat, he released a slow breath. Back in control, he headed downstairs. On a corner a street away he found a newsagent still open. He bought an envelope and stamps and mailed the hair sample to Kay. Then, with little else to do now that he was stuck in Paignton overnight, he found a kebab shop with a small seating area and bought a coffee. Sitting in the window with a view of the street, he realised that if Eloise had headed into the town centre she would surely return this way.
However, multiple coffees and a free burger later, ‘because you’re cleaner than most of them,’ the manager announced he was closing up and ushered Slim out into the night.
Nearly three a.m. No sign of Eloise, but Slim was tired of this part of town. Caffeine-loaded to the point that his vision was blurring, he headed for the bus station and the dreamy hope for decent sleep. He dozed on a corner bench while a group of drunks argued at the other end, then climbed aboard the first available bus out of town.
The inlet was quiet, the house still as he climbed the stairs to the second floor. To his frustration, he found his mysterious benefactor had been again, leaving him with some packets of biscuits and sandwiches, as well as, luckily, considering the chills that were racking his aching body, a blanket. His benefactor shopped in Tesco, he discovered, meaning it could be practically anyone.
Aware he could be destroying ways to identify them but not caring, he ripped open a packet and stuffed a tuna sandwich into his mouth, then pulled the blanket over his knees.
As he lifted it, a note fell out on to his lap. He opened the folded piece of generic A4 paper and read a single line:
Don’t give up.
‘I won’t,’ he muttered, feeling the dryness at the back of his throat threatening to develop into a burst of coughing. ‘But let me get a decent sleep first.’
As he lay down, his thoughts refused to settle. Eloise’s face flashed in his mind, a sadistic grin almost mocking him.
Why can’t you find me, Slim? I’m right in front of you, haunting you.
42
He woke in late morning with a feeling like he’d been run over by a truck. His cough had returned, and for a few minutes it assaulted him, drawing his back into spasms and his stomach into a tightness he thought would make something snap. When it let him go, he looked around, quickly eating the rest of the food left for him and swallowing a couple more of the pills.
After getting himself into a semblance of order, he hiked up through the woods then did a circuit of Greenway via the most outlying paths. Open for business and with clear skies overhead, the gardens were packed with tourists. Feeling a rare boldness, Slim shed his battered jacket and slipped onto the site, mingling with other tourists as he headed for the house. He wanted a look at Eloise, but aware she would recognise him, he needed to establish her location first.
He approached an elderly staff member standing near the main doors. The man, neatly dressed in a dapper grey suit, gave Slim a brief visual appraisal but to his credit showed no sign of distaste in his expression as he turned to Slim and smiled.
‘Can you help me?’ Slim asked. ‘I’m looking for a Miss Trebuchet. I bumped into her in Dartmouth and she told me she worked here. I just wanted to say hello?’
The man frowned. ‘Trebuchet? Oh, you must mean Lauren. She works in the café but I don’t
think she’s in today. Called in sick.’
‘Really? Nothing the matter, I hope.’
The man shrugged. ‘Sickly little thing. She’s always off, so I’ve heard old Leslie in the café grumbling. Weak constitution.’
Slim forced a chuckle. ‘Young people these days.’
‘Right.’
‘Shall I tell her you stopped by?’
‘Ah, sure.’
‘Your name?’
Slim hesitated. ‘John,’ he said at last. ‘Tell her John from Dartmouth.’
‘John from Dartmouth.’ Suspicion had returned to the old man’s eyes. ‘Well, you have a nice day.’
‘Thanks.’
Slim moved off, barely making it to a nearby secluded part of the garden before a fit of coughing overcame him again.
Why hadn’t Eloise shown up for work? It could be something as mundane as a hangover, but would a girl living out of a suitcase be out hitting the bars? There had been no sign of anything untoward in the flat—no smell of booze, no drug paraphernalia, nothing except the indication that it was being used solely as a base, somewhere to leave her things while she undertook certain activities elsewhere.
With a moment of clarity Slim realised that her situation mirrored his own. Could it be they were searching for each other? If she had pushed him off the pier, she would surely know by now that he had survived. Perhaps she was looking for another opportunity.
He headed back down through the woods until he emerged on a riverside path with views of the Dart to both north and south. He felt like a man in a glass cage in the middle of a busy train station, screaming for air while people pushed past all around, oblivious to his situation.
He stared out at the water, hoping for some kind of revelation, a sense that he wasn’t running in circles on the tail of a series of murderous ghosts, but all he found was yet more mockery, in the form of an old man, sitting in a boat halfway across the river.
Alan McDonald was facing away from him, a new or well-repaired easel set up in the middle of the boat, his brush hand flicking the canvas with gentle strokes.
How can you do it? Slim wondered, gritting his teeth to stop himself screaming out loud. How can you sit there painting without a care in the world?
43
Feeling a little stronger after the food had settled, Slim walked along the railway line into Kingswear. Seeing Alan painting with such carefree abandon so soon after Slim had tried to accost him had left Slim with an itching sense of frustration. If the old painter wouldn’t talk, Slim would paint his own picture of the man he was trying to meet.
Kingswear’s narrow streets were cluttered with trinket shops, cafés, and restaurants, interspersed with other shops selling traditional crafts and local goods. Slim wandered into an art gallery and began looking around. Before long he noticed the shop assistant giving him an undue amount of attention, so to absolve the obvious suspicion his appearance aroused, he waved the man over.
‘I’m looking for anything you might have by Alan McDonald,’ he said. ‘I believe he’s local? I’m something of a collector.’
The man, his suspicions tempered by Slim’s directness, shrugged.
‘There’s a couple of prints over there on display,’ he said, pointing to the wall. Slim wandered over and examined two generic riverscapes, then shook his head.
‘I’m looking specifically for any he might have containing characters,’ he said. ‘In particular, Old Bea.’
The man, a decade younger than Slim at least, looked confused. ‘Old what?’
‘A woman.’ Remembering how the staff of the gallery in Totnes had tried to hide the painting of Old Bea in the aftermath of Max Carson’s death, and realising the man might be just a subordinate, Slim added, ‘Do you have anything out in the back?’
‘I can take a look for you.’
The man headed for a door behind the counter. Slim followed close behind, not allowing the man enough time to conceal anything. Seemingly unperturbed, however, the man went straight to a bundle in the corner and carried it over.
‘These came in yesterday,’ he said. ‘As you can see, it’s not even opened yet.’
‘These are from Alan McDonald?’
The man nodded as he reached for a pair of scissors to cut the twine tied around the bundle. Cardboard wedges fell away to reveal a stack of canvas prints over wooden boards.
‘These are only prints,’ the man said, taking a couple and turning them over, removing the cardboard sheets put over the fronts to protect them. ‘If you want originals, you’ll have to go to one of the bigger galleries in Dartmouth or Totnes.’ He grinned. ‘We’re in the selling-junk-to-tourists trade.’
‘Let me just take a look,’ Slim said, feigning interest in a picture he had already seen of a woman standing on a wooden jetty as he picked a piece of the binding twine off the floor. It was identical to what he had seen in Alan McDonald’s boat.
‘This comes from the seller?’
The man looked up. ‘Huh? What? Oh, that? It’s just baler twine. The artist gets these prints done himself and sends them in. Just a bit of string really. Standard stuff you can buy anywhere.’
Slim forced a laugh. ‘I grew up on a farm,’ he said. ‘Takes me back.’
‘It’s the small things that do it, eh.’
‘Right.’
An awkward moment passed between them before Slim thanked the man and said he’d be on his way. He slipped a thread of the twine he had picked off the tabletop into his pocket on his way out, wondering if it was something significant, or nothing at all.
44
Kay was still waiting to hear from his contact, but Don had some more information.
‘I got in touch with a local historian,’ he said. ‘I’ve found nothing so far on Old Bea, but I heard another rumour about Eliza Turkin. It was claimed that once old enough to work around the house she gradually elevated her position to head housekeeper. She was never popular among the other servants, however, after attracting the eye of the young master of the house. She allegedly fell pregnant, but to hide the father’s identity, rumours were spread that she worked as a prostitute, selling herself to passing sailors from the jetty below her cottage.’
‘Fanciful,’ Slim said. ‘No reason why she would with a regular income.’
‘That was what I thought. More likely she had a lover she met in secret.’
‘And that was all?’
‘No. It was claimed she was seen swimming out to the passing boats, “far faster than could be possible of a pregnant serving woman.” That’s a direct quote from an old diary my contact owned.’
‘The origin of the sea witch rumour?’
‘I believe so, but there’s more. It was claimed that several children born around Dartmouth suffered similar deformities which were blamed on their parents coming into contact with Eliza. Deformities which could connect them with magic supposedly born from the sea.’ Don laughed. ‘I mean, this is all fairy tale stuff, Slim. I don’t know how much of it’ll be of use to you.’
Slim was quiet for a moment. ‘Probably not much of it, to be honest, but you never know. What kind of deformity?’
‘I could find nothing specific.’
‘Any names of these supposed victims?’
‘Nothing, but I’ll keep looking.’
Slim thanked him and hung up. Frustrated, he resumed his trawl of Kingswear’s art galleries, hunting for some kind of clue. Several had no Alan McDonald prints at all, but in the last place he tried—a bric-a-brac store near the harbour—the elderly owner seemed only too pleased to dig out a dusty painting from a back shelf. A price ticket of £100 was so faded Slim could barely read it, and until the man blew the dust off the front to reveal a vivid river view, he had thought the painting equally faded.
‘Been sitting there for years,’ the old man said. ‘Used to try and palm it off on people but never could. Didn’t like the look of it.’
Painted from a viewpoint looking upriver towards the jutting hill of
Greenway, the river curved left then back right. Eliza Turkin’s house was visible in the right-middle, and Slim felt a tingle of unease trickle down his spine.
‘Pretty, ain’t it?’
‘Very. I’m surprised you couldn’t find a buyer.’
‘Too spooky,’ the man said. ‘First, it’s of an evening, and it’s got those two down there in the water.’
Slim frowned. The dust had made the darkened sky difficult to notice, but now he did, he saw how the lines of sky were emphasised against the background hills. And the “two” the old man mentioned were little more than a pair of spots of black against the water’s blends of whites, greys, and blues.
‘Gotta look from afar,’ the old man said. ‘Up close ye won’t see much.’
He held the painting back a couple of feet. As the brush strokes blurred, they took on the appearance of two figures bobbing in the water.
‘They’re a bit far out from the bank,’ Slim said. ‘And there are no boats nearby.’
‘That’s what puts people off,’ the old man said. ‘Looks like they’s drowning, don’t it?’
‘It does,’ Slim agreed. He chuckled. ‘But they’re not, are they? That’s Eliza Turkin … and her mother.’
‘Beatrice Winter,’ the old man said, nodding. ‘Figured you was a local lad.’
Slim hid his surprise at the man’s revelation. ‘Grew up outside Totnes,’ he said, hoping his slight northern accent wasn’t prominent enough to give him away. ‘Always preferred things farther south. Prettier, more history.’
‘You a collector?’
‘More of a researcher. Thinking of a book. Life and times of the common people. The sailors, brewers, farmers, that kind of thing.’
‘And the downtrodden?’
Slim chuckled again. ‘Couldn’t leave them out. Not when there were so many.’
‘Travesty what happened to her,’ the old man said. ‘I heard the story, passed down. Watered down, most like, too.’
