Half a Pound of Tuppenny Rice

by David Coubrough

  He scoured the room for the phantom face-stroker and the mystery nursery-rhyme singer but couldn’t identify any likely suspects. Was it one and the same person? He looked for the old woman who had been sitting in the corner, but she was no longer there. He was sure she had been staring at him. The hand he felt could well have been a woman’s, but why on earth would anyone stroke his face? The next time he looked at the space there was an old man sitting in the spot, who also stared at him.

  Grant hurriedly finished his meal and decided to retire early. His room being directly above the bar, he didn’t expect to get to sleep very easily. By good fortune the jukebox turned up a number of his favourite songs, and he found himself nodding off more easily than expected to the soothing music played at pleasingly low volume. His good fortune ran out when he woke with a start about five minutes later as the jukebox roared, ‘I am the god of hellfire and I bring you …’ Arthur Brown and his Crazy World were in full flow. Grant was convinced that someone had turned the volume up to maximum. Silence suddenly descended before the song had finished. He rather hoped that someone had complained. There were five rooms along his corridor, and he was sure that all must have been affected by the noise from the bar. He was just starting to feel drowsy again when the telephone rang, giving him a bit of a shock as he hadn’t even noticed there was a telephone in the room. He quickly located the handset and lifted the receiver, only for the line to go dead. Now he was beginning to feel distinctly uneasy. He momentarily thought of checking out and driving to St Ives to find alternative accommodation. At this point he heard a rustling noise as an envelope was pushed under his door. It was addressed to ‘Mr Grant Morrison’ in large childish letters. Just before he picked it up the phone rang again.

  ‘Hello!’ he bellowed.

  ‘Hello, darling. That’s a bit of a bark, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, it’s you.’ He had rarely been so pleased to hear Brigit’s voice. ‘Thank God it’s you. I’m in quite a state. How are you?’ They hadn’t spoken since he left Plymouth, and as he never seemed to get a signal on his mobile he had decided he would have to drive inland the following day to have a proper conversation.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’

  ‘To tell the truth, I haven’t a clue. I think I am being hunted and haunted.’

  ‘’Struth. Who the hell by?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I’ve had a church door slammed shut behind me by a shadowy figure that ran away, a tap on my door at some unearthly hour and a weird elderly couple staring at me in the bar downstairs, though not at the same time. Oh, and a strange hand stroked my face when the lights fused. To cap it all, I had a phantom telephone call just before you rang.’ He refrained from mentioning the nursery rhyme, fearing ridicule.

  ‘Would it be better to check in somewhere else? And what do you mean by a weird elderly couple staring at you but not at the same time?’

  ‘They took it in turns.’

  Brigit’s concern turned to amusement. ‘What? They had a rota, did they? I’m sorry, but this is pretty far-fetched, Grant – two old biddies taking turns to outstare you.’

  ‘I know.’ He relaxed a little and even permitted himself a small chuckle despite his anxiety. ‘It is absurd.’

  However, as his eyes fell again on the unopened envelope his anxiety returned, and he stiffened. He asked Brigit to wait on the line and hurriedly tore it open, only to discover it was his bill from the pub. It was clearly the management’s custom to place it under residents’ doors the night before departure.

  Brigit waited.

  ‘Well, at least it’s not an invitation from the Loch Ness Monster.’

  She was trying to suppress her giggles. ‘I think you will find …’ But Grant heard no more, as the line went dead. Further spooked by this, Grant thought of going back downstairs to inquire about the phone problem, as he found he couldn’t dial out. He also considered paying his bill in advance but resisted the notion as he could no longer hear any noise from the bar. No songs were playing on the jukebox, and he couldn’t hear any banter.

  He decided to double-lock the door, leaving the key in the lock, and to wedge furniture up against the door. He put classical music on low on the radio – there was no television – and he resolved to stiffen his sinews and tough out the night. Finally he drifted into a deep sleep. But what happened next was to terrify him far more than anything that had gone before.

  22

  PRESENT DAY

  He woke with a start. ‘Good Morning, Starshine’ was blasting out at high volume from the bar below. He saw his wall clock turn four a.m. He felt his face go cold, as if walking out into an early-morning winter frost. But it wasn’t the music that shocked him. That soon stopped. It was a voice.

  ‘Half a pound of tuppenny rice, half a pound of treacle…’

  Grant experienced a full-body shiver, for what really disturbed him was the impression that it was a child’s voice, echoing as if sung in a cathedral. As he reached for the door he stopped, abruptly aware that danger could lurk on the other side. He didn’t return to sleep. He was sure what had happened on his first night in the pub had infected his subconscious, leaving him in a vulnerable place. Had he really heard the nursery rhyme? Had a child really sung it?

  He tried to ignore the questions pounding in his head, but while the previous night had undoubtedly disturbed him what really bothered him now was the message he had discovered in the bottle at Porthcurno. Why had Hector added the sentence ‘Tonight I am not alone’? Grant suspected that Hector and another person had both written notes in blood as some sort of weird pact and that Hector had added his last bit in ink as a message to his aunt. The mystery made it all the more vital to meet Trevor Mullings, who he now thought might know rather more than he had revealed to the police in 1972.

  ‘Tonight I am not alone.’ He asked himself once more why Hector might have written this. Could it mean that he was going to the beach with a friend and wanted his aunt to know, possibly sensing that he was in some kind of danger? Or did it imply that he was going to be sleeping with someone that night. It was well known at the hotel that Hector’s Aunt Agatha wanted more than anything in the world for her nephew to find a partner. She knew her time on earth was limited and that she would leave behind a sad and lonely man. So if he was ‘on a promise’, who was the mystery girl or boy? Grant decided the first option was the more likely, given Hector’s normally lustful language where women were concerned.

  His desire to meet Trevor was granted more swiftly than he could have imagined. He returned to Porthcurno and saw an elderly man removing the bottle exhibition from the museum and carefully placing it in a large white van. Grant moved slowly towards him, unsure what his reception might be and wondering how to introduce himself.

  ‘Trevor Mullings?’ he inquired.

  The man turned to face him. He had receding hair, severely thinning and almost ghostly white, with a mouth rather short of teeth. He snarled, ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you, but I would very much appreciate a chat. You won’t remember me. We last met some forty years ago. Perhaps I can buy you a coffee in the museum café?’

  ‘I can give you five minutes but no more.’ Reluctantly Trevor moved to join Grant walking towards the café.

  ‘It’s about Hector Wallace,’ began Grant after they had sat down and been served their drinks.

  His guest spat out his tea. ‘Oh, piss off. I told the police all I knew back in 1972. What more can I say now?’

  ‘Do you remember a conversation you had with Justyn Silver and Robert Vernon the week after Hector drowned?’

  Trevor looked vague. ‘How the hell am I supposed to remember a pair of poncy Hooray Henrys from a night forty years ago?’

  ‘You told them that Hector had left with someone else,’ said Grant, ignoring the intended insult to his friends.

  ‘Maybe I did. The devil may take me, but I don’t remember who it was.’

  His manner, Grant thought,
now appeared rather less certain. ‘Do you recall anyone in the pub that night or any of the conversations?’

  ‘What, from forty bloody years ago? All I remember was that they went out with bottles and they put messages in them.’

  ‘And you have one of those bottles. It’s been on display here.’

  ‘Yes, so what? There’s no significance in that.’

  ‘But why have you kept it? Why is that bottle a special one?’

  Trevor didn’t reply. He just stared vacantly in front of him. Grant felt he was losing Trevor’s goodwill – which had been in pretty short supply in the first place. He tried another tack. ‘Do you know where I can find Ivan Youlen?’

  ‘You won’t find him round here. Someone said he lives around St Austell way, on the south coast.’ Trevor spat out the information in such a way as to imply it was of no consequence and seemed confident the distance would put Grant off. Trevor was keen to end the interrogation as quickly as possible, but he underestimated his companion. Just as the two men were going their separate ways Trevor called after Grant, ‘I remember you now. You were that boy with the funny eyes.’

  Grant decided to leave it at that, giving Trevor £5 to buy himself a beer. He handed over his business card, pointing out his mobile number. They parted cordially, but Grant lingered out of view just long enough to see Trevor make a call on his mobile.

  There were now too many unanswered questions for Grant to depart from Cornwall, even though he was unhappy about not getting a signal on his phone and was still concerned about who had been spooking him in Zennor. One thing was for sure. He was not going back to the pub where he had suffered his worst-ever nightmare.

  He drove inland, towards St Austell, in search of Ivan Youlen. He got a signal on his mobile, but his joy was short-lived as his battery had run down. Driving on the B3273 from St Austell towards Mevagissey, he noticed an imposing hotel, a white Edwardian-style building set back some two hundred yards from the road. As if by reflex, he turned right through its imposing gates and navigated the long drive. Out of the blue he experienced a strange sensation of curiosity as the converted manor house came more clearly into view, flanked by huge pine trees. He saw a cultivated and resplendent hotel with assorted woodland homes in the grounds. His mood improved considerably on being told there was one room left, down a corridor in a tasteful purpose-built block behind the main building. He checked in, placed his phone on charge and went to sit on the private balcony outside his room.

  Having mastered the tea-maker there, he relaxed with an afternoon cup, taking in the calming view of the valley below and the glorious hills on the other side. This new-found tranquillity engendered in him a huge sense of relief and enabled him to think clearly for the first time in days. He knew his card had been marked in Zennor, but it disturbed him that he had no idea by whom. Who had slammed the church door? Who had tapped on his bedroom door? What was the significance of the elderly couple? Who had stroked his face, and who had serenaded him in low child-like tones? And was it really a child the second time round and at such an unearthly hour?

  He relaxed for an hour or so and then resolved to make four phone calls: to Brigit, Danny Galvin, Nick Charnley and Justyn Silver.

  Brigit’s mobile was switched off, and he tried the office.

  ‘You are through to the offices of Morrison Recruitment. All our lines are busy right now, so if you wouldn’t mind leaving your …’ Grant smiled to himself. His wife’s ruse always amused him. There were just three of them in the company, but she always managed to make it sound like an international conglomerate. Furthermore, he knew it meant the entire staff at HQ had finished for the day and were travelling home or were gathered in a local watering hole, but it was better that the punters thought they were still at their desks.

  His next call to Danny Galvin was no more fruitful, but this time he was sure that Danny briefly answered before seeing who the caller was and hanging up, which disconcerted him. He felt more detached from Danny than ever. He called Nick Charnley and received another answer phone message, so he moved on to Justyn Silver.

  ‘Hi, M‘Lord. What goes?’ replied Justyn. Grant felt elated to talk to a friendly, familiar voice. He related his experiences of the past forty-eight hours and asked him what the hell he thought was going on.

  Justyn fell silent as he digested all this before suggesting, ‘Someone doesn’t want you pursuing this. That much is obvious. Have you spoken to Suzie?’

  ‘No, not yet. She’s in Cape Town, and I thought I would leave her till last. Why do you ask?’

  ‘She and Danny had quite a serious relationship in their twenties. I heard she broke off their engagement after some problems with the Galvins in general and Paul in particular.’

  ‘Why?’ Grant was genuinely surprised, having never heard any of this before.

  ‘Paul’s influence over Danny and Sharon became very dominant, and there was all the fuss and upset when he was sent down.’

  ‘What?’ Grant was incredulous.

  ‘Yes. White-collar crime. VAT fraud, so I heard. I believe he may have had two custodial sentences, but Suzie would know.’

  ‘That would explain Caroline’s cryptic remark that Suzie might know something.’

  ‘I think you have a long-haul flight to Cape Town to consider if you want to make progress, Grantie my old mucker.’

  Justyn was on good form, and Grant was grateful to receive his banter after a traumatic twenty-four hours. In no mood to end the call, he described the beautiful setting of the hotel he had discovered with its breathtaking views.

  ‘Hang on a minute. Did you say it’s near St Austell and the main building was a converted manor house?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I know exactly where you are. Dad took Mum there some six or seven years ago, shortly before he died. He was very keen to show her where he first discovered Clive. The building was derelict for a long time before it was converted into a hotel. Actually we all became very fond of Clive. In fact, I’m meeting him for a drink in around half an hour. We legally adopted him after a search revealed he didn’t have a birth certificate. As you know, he had run away from his terrible home after his parents split up, but there was all sorts of other stuff that came out.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, it turned out that Ken Holford, the wife-beater, was not his biological father. Mary, who had taken his name, was never legally married to him. She was rescued one day by her sister and now lives happily in Australia, they say. Obviously she couldn’t wait to get as far away from Ken as possible.’

  ‘Does Clive still live in fear of him?’

  ‘He’s moved on and is much stronger these days, both mentally and physically.’

  ‘That’s good to hear. Does Clive have any contact with either of them?’

  ‘He corresponds with his biological mother occasionally. They have an OK relationship, and she has no problem with the Silver family’s adoption of her son. They Skyped one another a few weeks back, but they both found it rather too emotional. Clive has done well as an artist and makes a decent living from a Marylebone studio he shares with two others. His mother is very proud of him, and he’s going to visit her in Brisbane soon. He’s settled in a happy marriage, and Duncan, his son, is going to university this autumn. So it’s all worked out well,’ Justyn concluded with a tone of some satisfaction.

  ‘And the father?’

  ‘Well, Clive and Dad once hired a private detective to try to get him brought to book for his sins, but the file they handed to the police didn’t particularly interest them, as it was really just a character assassination – with some circumstantial evidence of what a prize turd he was. There was no hard evidence of criminality.’

  ‘Is there any chance I could have a copy of that file?’

  ‘Sure. I’ll dig it out, get it scanned and email it to you.’

  ‘Many thanks. I think I’ll chill out here for a day or two and book a flight to Cape Town once I have established that Suzie
can see me. I also need to connect with Messrs Youlen and Holford.’

  ‘Good luck. I am with you all the way on all this, Grantie. There are just too many unanswered questions.’

  They hung up, leaving Grant excited and impatient for the arrival of the private investigator’s report, which he hoped would provide some strong leads.

  23

  PRESENT DAY

  Grant knew he couldn’t leave Cornwall without finding Ivan Youlen and Ken Holford. He thought he had left the horrors of Zennor behind until parked below his balcony he spotted a car, an old Austin, that he was sure he had seen on the previous two nights. He made a note of its number plate, and a swift internet search revealed the car was registered in Essex. This confounded him. However, if the car belonged to the elderly couple who had been staring at him unnervingly there might just be someone he knew behind all this – his former friend Danny who he was sure had tried to put him off pursuing the matter further. But why would he want to frighten him? What could he be hiding? He resolved to locate Ivan Youlen, but he couldn’t get back online at the hotel. He asked reception for a copy of the Yellow Pages. On receipt of this he was delighted to discover an Ivan Youlen living near by at Mevagissey.

  He hurriedly dialled the number and heard the message, ‘Neither Ivan or Julie are here at present, so please leave a message.’

  He left a short, succinct one. ‘Hi, Ivan. You won’t remember me, but my name is Grant Morrison, and I used to stay at the hotel where your Uncle Tom worked. Can you please call me on …’ He didn’t have high hopes of a returned call. He reasoned that Ivan must be well over sixty years of age, as it was over forty-four years since he and another coastguard had rescued Joanna Jessops from drowning off Constantine Bay Beach. He now turned his attention to tracking down Ken Holford, who he guessed must be in his mid to late seventies if he was still alive. He looked at his iPad for Justyn’s emailed report, but it hadn’t arrived.

  That evening Grant drove to a nearby pub on the road to Mevagissey to seek out some local gossip. He sat at the bar, making out that he had lived in Cornwall most of his life and was now looking to settle in this particular area, even bluffing that he had friends near by called Ivan Youlen and Ken Holford. No one identified either as being acquaintances, but one of the locals, a hairy, thickly tattooed man with forearms that could have belonged to a professional wrestler, raised his eyes heavenwards at the mention of Ken Holford.