by R. L. Nolen
He braked as something tiny started across the road ahead. The little creature stopped midway across the road. Jon slowed to a stop. The young fox stood upright like a rabbit, stared at his car, then turned and bounded back up the steep incline to the hedge. Jon pressed on, thankful there was one less dead fox in the world.
The opportunity to travel south had come as a relief. His job in the fraud division of Complaints usually involved sifting paperwork and unbearable bureaucracy, so he’d grabbed the chance at this assignment. He shifted his legs in a cramped stretch. Wrapping up the investigation of a corrupt police officer shouldn’t take long. He figured to have the fellow in custody within a week—two, at the outside.
The West Country coast curved along dramatic cliffs that were wrapped in white streamers of surf. The sun grew bright with the promise that today might develop into a lovely day which meant that, if the stars were aligned correctly, it might not rain much.
Perrin’s Point boasted a legend that had proven lucrative to the spotty village. Four centuries before, Douglas Perrin, a bloodthirsty blackguard, walked into his castle fortress and vanished. Jon wondered how the pirate might have felt about the tourist industry that was captivated by his disappearance.
A distant foursquare church tower showed well against the verdant green hills. There was a gap in the hedgerow, and the sea view flashed past again, closer this time. Jon observed striations of deep amethyst in the pale gray water.
His mobile sang out its own beat, and he switched his satellite music over to the phone.
Superintendent Bakewell’s voice blasted, “Well, Jon, hope you’re getting on with that little trip to the south. How’s the weather?”
“I haven’t actually arrived. The sky is only partly cloudy this morning. Maybe it’ll clear before long. You’re up early, sir.”
“What is your scheme of action for today?”
“I’ll settle in and get the lay of the land. Then tomorrow when the shops and local savings and loan are open—”
“Hold on. You don’t have tomorrow, you have today.”
“Are you seriously telling me I have one day in Cornwall?”
“Your man should have all the particulars in order for you. You’re to be done and dusted by day’s end and back in London by tomorrow. See you then.”
“Super, the officer assigned to this nearly died.” Nothing’s as dangerous as a half-cooked micro-dish of fish.
No reply.
“Sir?”
Jon was listening to phone air, so he disconnected. “One day here? He’s daft as a brush.”
It was a distasteful mess when one got right down to it, having a DCI involved in scandal—with the officer’s savings account suddenly filled with riches (and with no explanation, according to the anonymous bank official’s complaint). Direct questions would create more problems, the Higher Powers decided. So for the general morale of the police force, the investigation would be kept low-key. And because broadcasting such an investigation would alert the DCI, and he would likely find a way to hide the money.
Jon had one day to play catch-up and come to a conclusion. But he intended to stay until the job was complete, so Bakewell and his “one day command” could jolly-well stuff it.
He reached to switch to the radio again. Being Sunday, not many people would be out and about. His assignment demanded he act as any other tourist, and that meant getting in and out without anyone taking much notice.
Just as his Mini swung into a blind curve, a dark blur of a car shot out straight at him.
In the second before Jon swerved and rammed his car up against the hedgerow, he heard the ear-splitting squeal of two vehicles make paint-scraping contact. The car sashayed as the tires slid across a muddy verge. It stopped short and sudden. Earth’s longest minute was over, and then silence. He took that first, deep breath, and another breath, remembering then that it was okay to unclench his fists from the steering wheel. He set the handbrake and switched off the motor.
And then he thought with regret, So much for a quiet entrance into the village.
8:00 a.m.
Shit!
Charles rammed his car forward to get away from the car he’d just sideswiped. It would take some time for the other car to shift round and come after him. The grumming hum of his car assured him that the car could carry him away. If it would only go faster.
Some miles later, he zigged left into a narrow lane and rolled to a stop in a dip of land behind some trees to wait. The adrenaline rush subsided, but the pain in his stomach remained. What next? This girl, this bold chit of a girl, had stood up to him, challenged him, like the others. His gut burned when he thought about the others. He’d naught to do but implement damage control. Unless—unless he could talk her into helping him.
He tugged on the rearview mirror. Blood dripped where he had bitten his lip through. What else? He imagined his wide eyes were those of a stranger caught in headlights before the car’s wheels thumped over him. He must calm down.
He exited the car and opened the boot, reaching in for the girl, holding his breath so he wouldn’t have to smell her. Still as death, yet a pulse. Why did this have to keep happening?
“It is your eternal punishment before your eternal punishment.”
No! It must be that the girl was his salvation. But could she save him—save him from … from being overwhelmed with the terrible tortures that pressed against his life at every turn, the burning hell that seared with every breath? Could she bring back his life with Cecil?
He didn’t want to kill the girl. He wasn’t like that, not really. He only wanted the peace he’d had when he was young. Before his mother ruined his life.
The girl’s mother would surely come to save her. She would come and he would make her tell him what she was supposed to tell him. She would say it.
He didn’t want to kill the girl. Death was messy and he hated messy. Her living blood would take the place of the blood he couldn’t have any more. But the child’s mother—he would have to kill the woman after she said what needed to be said.
He used an old cord to bind the girl’s hands and feet so there would be no mistakes. After securing her, he climbed back into the car.
“What’s wrong with you, Chubby? Why didn’t you do that earlier?”
Charles jerked. He muttered, “Whatever I do, it’s useless!” With barely restrained anger, he answered, “I didn’t carry string with me to the beach, Mummy.”
Propping his head on the steering wheel, he moaned, “Crying peace. When there is no peace.” He lifted his eyes, seeing nothing.
The girl had recognized his proclivity, fascinated as he had become with her mother. His world had begun unraveling when he spotted the woman at the fete and knew her for what she really was. His mother had come back. This time he would be more thorough, wringing the confession from her before he killed her a second time.
He ducked, holding his hands up like a shield. “Shhhh. Mother, don’t say it. I know I should have gotten it right the first time. I never did anything right, is what you always say. But I have changed, you’ll see.”
The asthmatic wheezing in his head quieted. He could feel her still there, watching. Oh God! Perspiration soaked his shirt. He struggled out of his coat and glanced at his watch. Forty-three minutes since he’d first spotted the girl. The white motorcar hadn’t come after him. It was a reprieve.
After a few moments, he reversed the old car and drove back up onto the blacktop.
The dark car gone and away, Jon Graham sat, dazed. Why hadn’t the other motorist stopped? Must have been drinking and driving—on a Sunday morning and all. Pushing his car door open, he set his feet squarely into a trough of liquid black mud. He leaned back and rubbed away the tiredness from five hours of driving. He could easily have gone over the side of the cliff, never to be seen again. There likely wasn’t anyone about to hear the gut-wrenching scrape of his sweet little car tear through the gorse and fly into space to be squashed on the rocks below.
He was thankful.
He picked his way out of the mud and shook what he could off his shoes so he wouldn’t feel weighted down. He detailed what injury his car had sustained. A smear of purplish paint from the crash-derby car was etched into a dent along one fender. A razor line of silver sliced through to bare metal. It could be easily remedied. He walked around to the hedgerow side. There was a dent the size of an orange and quite a few scratches from bracken. Fortunately the impact was not great enough to cause his air bags to deploy. That would have required immediate assistance.
He’d pinched, scraped and sacrificed to purchase this, his first car, a year ago. Though not a new car, it had been so well kept as to be beautiful. Here he’d been driving in London, with its racecar taxi-drivers, without a scratch. And then the first day in peaceful Cornwall and BOOM!
He looked around for CCTV possibilities and saw none, so the accident wouldn’t have been recorded. The sun was under a misconception of cloud but still made for dazzling morning light. The breeze from the sea was brisk. He checked the condition of his books, which he had packed loosely. He started up, pulled the car to the road and once more drove toward the village.
His baby was bruised. Everything would be fine. Hindsight being what it is, Jon honked his horn before he came to the next turn in the lane.
“Mrs. Butler …”
She was still at the beach. The policeman kept talking, but Ruth was trying to hold onto her daughter’s words as she walked out of the house that morning. “I’m going with Dot, Mum! See you.” The flute-clear remembrance called to her like a prayer. She had been in the kitchen stirring oatmeal. She hadn’t even bothered to look up.
People from the village surrounded her—bundled-up people, ready-for-anything people. Come fire or flood, they were ready, these people. Faces floated in. Faces floated out. Mouths opened and closed like fish. Words came and went like waves, coming close, closer, blending into sentences.
Ruth heard, “… a description of your daughter.” Unclenching her jaw, her teeth clattered as she said, “Maybe she’s back by now. Let me go home.”
“But just in case we need it …”
“Hair, umm, lighter than mine, blue eyes, dark lashes.”
Reed-thin Constable Stark scribbled notes.
“Did I tell you she’s ten?” This panic is silly, an overreaction. “I’m sure she’s home. I hate being a bother.”
“No bother.”
Hands reached at her—pulled her up (When had she sat down?)—wiped damp hair from her face.
“But write down she’s tall for her age, though slight of build.” It was Sally’s voice. “And quite independent. Ruth, what was she wearing?” Ruth became aware of warmth across her shoulders. Sally’s blanket. Sally, her neighbor and friend, whispered in her ear, “Yer frozen, m’dear!”
Ruth crushed the prickly wool to her face. The scent of cigarette smoke was strangely comforting.
“What was Annie wearing?” Police Constable Stark asked, for what must have been the second time. He was being patient, wasn’t he?
“I know the answer.” She stared down at her own cold, wet feet, to think, to be certain. “Blue jeans, a yellow shirt … a pink jacket, I think you call them windcheaters … shoes.”
Sally’s flannel-coated arm felt warm. Ruth turned her head. She studied Sally’s eyes. She could still breathe. Another question? Ruth faced the constable. He was waiting for her response. She couldn’t remember what he’d asked. “I’m sorry?”
“You were saying—shoes.” The constable turned from her then. Ruth looked back into Sally’s eyes. “Black ones, Sally. Her new black shoes. I just remembered I told her not to wear them until tomorrow.” Her face burned. She couldn’t breathe.
Sally looked distraught. “Steady, luv.”
Ruth coughed. “Sally, tell me she’s home now. That’s why you’re here. You came to tell me she’s home. I’m so silly. All these folks getting worried over nothing.” Ruth clung to her bundled-up friend and studied her face. Sally’s sad face meant that she had not come to tell her that Annie was home.
God! This can’t be happening. Don’t let this happen. Make him give her back.
A seagull’s cack, cack sounded like a baby. Ruth swung around at the cry. Constable Stark stood bent over Dot. She heard the child blurt, “No, I ran down the beach for more shells.” The child’s young voice broke. Ruth looked down. She’s only been gone a little over half an hour, surely. How far could they have gotten in a half hour?
Stark stood up straighter. “So did you see anyone else here?”
“Yes!” Tears cleared trails through sand dust on Dot’s cheeks. “A few people up at the wall and a big black dog on the beach.”
Stark’s voice came softer. “You’re certain you were separated from your friend for only a few minutes?”
She nodded, her face screwed up tight.
“That’s all right, Dot. You’re good at telling. You should be proud. Now then, what happened next? You turned back to join Annie and rounded this boulder.” The constable used his pen to jab the air over his shoulder. “What did you see?”
Pointing toward the base of the steps, Dot sobbed, “The sack, the shells were dumped out, the ones we found. She said she wouldn’t drop them. And she’s stomped on them, looks like.”
Ruth followed the direction Dot had pointed. At the base of the cement steps lay a sad heap of shells—limpets, cowries, and a few scallops in crushed pieces—along with the crumpled cloth sack that Annie kept her socks in normally. Her gaze followed the steps to the top. She knew the latched wooden gate opened into a dark alley leading directly out of the village. It had been too easy. And she could not say a thing.
3
Jon Graham rubbed his brow. He’d left London around two in the morning, fueled with plenty of coffee made strong enough to kill any notion of nodding into sleep. He didn’t want anything now but a shower. He could smell his own perspiration, instantaneous and copious immediately after the accident, but now cold and sticky beneath his jacket.
At the top of a distant hill, he saw the remains of a mine engine. He’d done his research. The husk of darkened brick marked a tin mine, now a crumbly reminder of the past. The mines were closed. Economic hard times had hit the region hard, but the Cornish had pluck, and thankfully, a tourist industry. The land had taken a strange upward turn in value after the flood of ’04 and people were still clamoring for it.
At the southern tip of England, Cornwall was a rugged triangle of man-tunneled rock, like a hardened wedge of Swiss cheese. In bygone days, pirates and smugglers found myriad hiding places in coves and abandoned mines. Lawlessness permeated Cornwall’s history like brandy in a Christmas pudding.
As Jon crested another ridge, he slowed the car. Perrin’s Point was perched below a steep hill on three sides and had a harbor leading to the Celtic Sea.
Perhaps it was for the best the other car had disappeared, Jon thought. His presence would remain unremarkable. He lowered his window and breathed deeply of the briny air. Lovely. He could hear a commotion down towards the beach, people yelling. Early Sunday sunrise service on the beach? There must be a celebration, or something like.
The car descended, twisting into the lane’s tight curves. The village lay cradled behind jutting arms of rocky shoreline, the stretch of bay reaching into the village. The tide being out at the time, boats of all sizes and colors lay lopsided all over the sand, moored by long ropes anchored at the shoreline.
He slowed to look for High Street and then looked down at his map for the address of the local police sergeant who had agreed to house him on the q.t. Jon was supposed to be a cousin visiting from London on surfing holiday. I wish. It sounded plausible, as the sergeant had indicated he owned a surfboard or two that he could lend.
He made a right turn onto a picturesque lane with quaint, painted cottages fronted by slate porches. It was unbelievable that three slabs of stone, two standing upright and the third as a “roof,” could withstand t
ime and storms without toppling over. The lane narrowed even more. Now he was looking at the rear of buildings, dodging dust bins. The backs of homes or shops pressed forward along both sides of the road.
He slowed the car to a crawl and one-handedly poured a cup of hot coffee from his thermos. Good thing his cup had been empty during his accident earlier. The road curved and dipped. A wall sprang at him. Both feet slammed on brakes. The car ground to a burring halt.
He mopped at spilled coffee before reversing and maneuvering the car back round the way he had just come. It was then he saw the signs warning drivers to take another route. Ta, very much.
He studied the map again and turned it around. Ah, here was his mistake. He was to turn left at the top of the hill, then drive to the cliff lane and turn right. His cheap, internet-purchased satnav had done him even worse in past escapades, so he hadn’t even taken the blasted thing out of the console.
He poured a bit more coffee and took a sip. The taste reminded him of his office, which would be brimming with activity just now. He’d been in the police for ten years and worked out of the Regional Crime Squad’s London base at present. A specially selected detective sergeant from the Bristol RCS completed Jon’s team. Detective Sergeant Thomas Browne was a good man. It was too bad about the food poisoning—he was still in hospital.
According to the bank official, Detective Chief Inspector Peter Trewe’s deposit account had jumped from £2,000 to £982,000. A special trace on the money dead-ended at a corporation with one member of record: Peter Trewe. Something didn’t add up.
Their mandate was to find the source of the money and make sure nothing embarrassing oozed from the bottom of any mess to make its way into the public forum. Keeping things quiet wasn’t easy, with increasing public scrutiny and information handed round like bowls of spaghetti.
Jon’s sergeant had been careful to keep the surveillance secret. This was not an easy thing to do in a small village. Once, an old lady with a stick, chasing a cat from her rear garden, surprised DS Browne while he was keeping an eye on Trewe. They were watching to see if he had a secret means of acquiring more money, such as with stolen or smuggled goods. He told the old lady he was bird-watching and produced a birder’s manual. She took a stick to him and chased him down the street anyway.
