The treasure-hunting fever had died down a little as the winter weather had tightened its grip and as people returned to work after Christmas and New Year, but Alice feared this was only an interlude. While there remained a possibility of discovering the lost cargo, people would continue to search for it. Fact, as her great-grandson might say. For some this would just be a bit of fun on a summer’s afternoon, a dig in the cave followed by an ice cream, but others wouldn’t be nearly as scrupulous. It was only a matter of time before somebody worked the puzzle out and excavations began in earnest. What then of the soul-soothing quiet and the way of life that had gone unchanged for generations? Who would care about that if wealth were at stake?
This was the age of vast lottery wins and of bankers with bonuses that bought entire houses. Everyone dreamed of being rich. Big Brother, The X Factor and the lottery show dominated the television schedules with their promises of fame and fortune, and they made Alice feel very tired and very old in a way her aching bones never did. She was so out of step with it all because, to her, none of this mattered. Perhaps it was because she’d lived through a world war. Losing a beloved husband and daughter-in-law had certainly put life into perspective too. As far as Alice Tremaine was concerned, she was looking at the true treasure of Polwenna Bay right now – and once that was plundered, it would be lost forever. Why could nobody else see this?
Well, she’d said her piece and made her views clear. When she’d talked to dear Jonny, he’d merely shrugged and promised her that the village would keep its own secrets. He didn’t seem at all worried. She would have to take his word for it, Alice decided, because there was nothing more she could do.
A chilly gust blew and Alice pulled her scarf tighter and huddled into her coat. Seagulls rode the wind, calling raucously, and the rooks in the woods shouted back. A boat’s engine chugged into life and on the quay Big Eddie was yelling something over the noise. This was the soundtrack to her life, Alice thought, and she felt comforted.
So she would take Jonny’s lead and try to put her fears for the village out of her mind. That left her free to turn her attention to Issie. Alice was so worried about her granddaughter’s wellbeing at the moment that her old concerns about the hard partying and the waste of Issie’s considerable intellect now felt like minor niggles. Issie, usually a whirlwind of energy and trouble, had been so quiet and withdrawn lately that Alice was alarmed. Her granddaughter had scarcely left the house for two days and she hadn’t eaten either, which was particularly disturbing given that Issie normally had a huge appetite.
Did Issie and Luke fall out because of the strange events at my engagement lunch? Alice wondered. That had certainly made sense of Issie’s hasty and hitherto unexplained exit from university. Alice might be old but she’d correctly read the situation within moments. She knew exactly what kind of man Dr Mark Tollen was. He might be smooth and good-looking, but it was in a groomed way that suggested he was only too aware of his own charms and spent a great deal of time and money on them. No doubt he was arrogant enough to believe he only had to snap his fingers for women to come running. Everything about him had made her hackles rise. Only the gentle yet firm pressure of Jonny’s hand on her arm had kept Alice from getting to her feet and sending the interloper packing.
“Careful, Ally,” he’d said quietly. “This is Issie’s business, not ours. She needs to deal with this in her way, not yours.”
He’d been right; of course he had been. One of the things Alice had always loved about Jonny (although it drove her mad, too) was that he was rarely wrong. In general he was not a man to impose his views on others, and so when he did say something it was well worth listening to. Knowing this, Alice had bitten her lip.
Alice could guess exactly what had happened between this Mark person and Issie – it was hardly an original scenario – and her fingers had itched to give his handsome, smug face a hard slap. Actually, Alice would have liked to have made that two slaps. The first would have been for abusing his position of trust as a tutor and ruining her granddaughter’s education, and the second would have been for betraying his wife, because Alice knew there would be a wife in the background. Men like him, with their ironed shirts and air of contentment, always had a wife somewhere whom they never chose to leave. His had probably just discovered another infidelity and thrown him out – and so he’d come running to Issie, because such men always needed a woman to bolster their weak egos.
Yes, all these thoughts had raced through Alice’s mind, but she’d kept her counsel and said nothing. Instead, she’d been proud of her granddaughter’s quiet dignity. Issie hadn’t crumpled or allowed herself to be persuaded by him, but had sent him packing – just as he deserved. Whatever his hold over her had been, it was clearly over.
Issie had never spoken about her reasons for quitting university, but Alice had long suspected that a broken relationship was the cause. Her granddaughter might be wild at times and headstrong, but she felt things deeply. Once she gave her heart, Issie gave it entirely; that was the Tremaine way. How painful it must have been for Issie, to have had those feelings betrayed. Alice understood now why her granddaughter had become so superficial and so foolhardy lately when it came to relationships, distracting herself by flirting with holidaymakers and the likes of Teddy St Milton. None of these were Issie’s equal though, and Alice had hated to see her wasting her time when she deserved so much more.
The mysterious American, however, was something very different. He was undeniably handsome, but Alice had also sensed in him a single-mindedness and a determination that were equally present in Issie. They had that rare potential to work together as a couple and as a team, but only if they were honest with one another. That Mark’s existence had been a shock to Luke was obvious, and probably explained why Luke had left so abruptly – but the American was keeping secrets too, of this Alice was certain. What they might be was between him and Issie, but what a waste! Maybe it was her age, Alice thought as she rose carefully from the bench, but she couldn’t bear people not grabbing life and all its opportunities with both hands. The years went too fast and what might seem desperately important when you were young was as nothing when you had sixty more years behind you. If Issie felt half as much for this young man as Alice suspected she did, then Alice hoped with all her heart that they could manage to sort their differences out. What she wouldn’t have given to see Issie behaving in her usually lively, daft way again.
It was fortunate that Alice was still holding onto the bench while she hauled herself up, because out of the blue there was an explosion so strong that it shook the ground beneath her feet. Glass splintered, the smell of smoke filled the air, and flocks of outraged seagulls rose screaming into the sky. Down in the village people ran into the streets, shouting and calling to one another, and the fishermen sprinted to the quay wall to discover what on earth had happened. Alice’s heart was crashing against her ribs and her legs were trembling so badly that she crumpled back onto the bench. The explosion had been so loud that it had made the previous holiday-cottage incident sound like a faint pop. Her ears were still ringing.
For a few terrifying seconds Alice struggled to breathe. If she didn’t know better she’d think somebody had detonated an old mortar shell. The fishermen sometimes dredged them up in their trawls, but they were all experienced enough to throw the things back in and hope for the best. Even Nick wasn’t daft enough to bring one home.
“Blooming emmets!” she heard Big Eddie Penhalligan holler from the quay. “They’ll be treasure-hunting for Black Jack’s bloody loot again!”
But Big Eddie was wrong. Treasure-hunting holidaymakers couldn’t be blamed this time. Today’s explosion had less to do with rogues from the eighteenth century and far more to do with rogue builders. Now that the shock was receding and her breathing was under control, Alice gazed out from her vantage point and saw exactly where the blast had come from – and she gasped. Where the beach café had stood for the past forty years there was nothing left but a pile
of matchsticks. Tongues of orange flames licked through them and within moments the place was ablaze.
Thank goodness it was Monday, the one day of the week when the café was closed. Alice felt quite faint when she thought about how busy Davey’s Locker would have been at any other time, especially in January. It was one of the few cafés that hadn’t remained shut for the winter. She watched, still stunned by the event, as a host of locals began a bucket chain to douse the flames. She prayed as hard as she could that nobody had been inside. Mickey Davey was a nasty piece of work and Alice didn’t trust him an inch, but even he didn’t deserve this. And what about his builders or anyone who worked for him? Could they have been inside?
Her hand flew to her mouth. What about Jimmy! He worked for Mickey, didn’t he? What if he’d been in the café? Alice had no idea quite what it was her son did – delivering pasties and helping haul Mickey’s crab pots, as far as she could tell – but could he have be inside doing repairs or painting? Feeling sick with terror, Alice knew she had to find out. No matter how peculiar she felt, there was no way she could sit here – she had to know whether her son was safe.
Still shaking, Alice began the steep descent. Nothing mattered apart from reaching the café. When she got there at last, she was frustrated to find the area already roped off. A crowd had gathered by now and speculation was rife as to what might have happened. Retained firefighters had arrived at the scene, and the Polwenna Bay Dragon, the ingenious pump that sucked seawater up to douse fires a conventional fire engine could never access, was hard at work.
“Jimmy!” cried Alice, elbowing her way to the front of the crowd. She was desperate to see her son. Oh, she’d never complain about him again if he were only safe and well. “Jimmy! Jimmy!”
“You can’t go through there, Mrs T! It isn’t safe.” Chris the Cod stepped forward, his burly form blocking Alice’s progress.
“But I need to find Jimmy,” she gasped. “He could be in there!”
“He’s not, Mrs T. The place was empty,” said Big Rog, mopping his sweating face with a hanky. “I promise. The boy and me were first on the scene and the place was locked.”
Alice spun round, frantically. “But he could be inside with the door locked!”
“Alice, don’t panic. Jimmy’s safe. I’ve just seen him – he’s helping to pass the water buckets along.” A comforting arm was around her shoulders, and as the gentle tones of the Reverend Jules seeped through Alice’s panic she caught sight of her son through the billowing smoke. His face was smeared with smuts and his eyebrows looked singed, but he was very much alive. Alice felt weak with relief. Jimmy was safe. Her feckless, silly, generous son was safe. Nothing else mattered.
“Do you know what happened here?” she asked Jules, still unable to believe what she was seeing.
The vicar shook her head. “I’ve no idea. It’s caused a huge amount of damage though. The cottages near the beach all have smashed windows.”
“There’s been a massive rockfall in the cave,” said Chris the Cod’s wife. “And the explosion really shook the chippy, didn’t it love?”
“Certainly did,” agreed Chris the Cod. “Ketchup bottles fell off the shelves. It looks like the set of Saw 3 in there!”
“But what’s happened?” Alice paused to catch her breath, still unable to comprehend quite what had taken place. Buildings didn’t just explode, surely?
“There must have been a gas leak in the café. Somebody said the cooker’s been moved; I bet a pipe fractured. The electrics must have ignited it somehow. You can’t be too careful in these old buildings,” said Big Rog Pollard, enjoying his newfound role as expert.
“But he’s had so much work done. There was always somebody in working on the place,” said Adam Harper.
“Was it done properly, though?” asked Little Rog Pollard, struggling to keep the glee from his voice. “These things happen when you don’t employ professionals. Don’t they, Pa?”
“That’s right, my boy, that’s right,” his father nodded, trying to look sorrowful and failing completely. “Mickey should have asked me if he wanted that old gas stove moved. I know my way around a gas cooker, I do.”
“That’s not what Ma says,” said Little Rog, earning himself a cuff on the head. He didn’t seem upset though. In fact he was giggling like an idiot and his father was laughing too. Even Alice’s own head felt a bit swimmy and odd, and for some reason she wanted to laugh out loud. She supposed this was probably a reaction to the shock. Maybe she should go home and have a cup of sweet tea. She was about to suggest this to Jules when Mickey Davey shoved his way past.
“My café!” he cried, his eyes wide with disbelief at the scene in front of him. “My bloody café! My floor! Out my way, you morons! Let me through!”
He started to push his way under the cordon, but Chris and Big Rog held him back.
“Let me through! Get off! That’s my bloody café,” Mickey snarled, trying to shake them off.
“It’s not safe, mate,” said Adam. “It’ll take a good few hours before that fire’s out. They’re doing their best, but it’s going to take time – and a fair bit of water.”
“They can’t flood it with water!” Mickey was practically screaming now. “Of all the stupid idiots! No water! Turn that bloody hose off! I said no water!”
For a man whose livelihood was burning down before his eyes, Mickey was behaving rather strangely, thought Alice. It was almost as though he didn’t want the fire put out.
“Not the floor,” he wailed, clutching his head. “Not the floor!”
There was something very odd happening. The smoke was thick and yellow, and the strangest smell hung heavy in the air. Alice’s nose wrinkled with the pungent scent. Thick and bitter, yet sweet too; it was oddly familiar and reminded her of a fragrance Jimmy sometimes wore. Goodness it must be strong! Her head was spinning!
“Ally! Thank God, there you are. I was worried!” Jonny, his face taut with concern, had joined them. Pulling Alice close, he kissed the top of her head before sneezing violently.
“Good Lord, it smells like the sixties down here! Whatever was the café made from?”
“Wood?” said Jules.
Jonny laughed. “Obviously I’m not speaking from experience here, Rev, but I’d have said cannabis, not wood. The whole village smells like a hippy commune!”
“Cannabis?” echoed Alice. “As in drugs?”
It was as though she’d uttered a magic word with the power to unfreeze Mickey Davey. He was spinning on his heel, about to make a speedy exit, when two young men left the bucket chain, ducked under the rope and marched up to him. Alice recognised them as the two holidaymakers who’d been trying desperately to liberate their car from Mickey’s space. They’d been in the village shop, sounding most upset, and had even asked Jules to intervene. Mickey had certainly done his best to make their fishing holiday an utter misery and Alice understood they were angry, but did they really need to yank Mickey’s arms behind his back like that? And goodness, were those handcuffs? What on earth was happening?
“Michael Davey, you do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence against you.”
“Get off me!” Mickey yelled, trying to wrench his shoulders away from them. “You can’t nick me because I’ve blocked your car in, you tossers!”
“No, sir, but we can arrest you for possession of illegal drugs with intent to supply, and for storing them in a secret bunker under your café,” said the taller of the two men, politely.
Mickey’s eyes were bulging. “You fucking what? You can’t arrest me. You’re emmets!”
“We might be emmets but we’re also police officers,” said the taller man, snapping on the handcuffs, “who just happen to be on a surveillance job with a bit of fishing thrown in as a nice bonus.”
“We’re actually CID, if you want to get technical,” added the other one.
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Mickey stared at them in disbelief. “You’re having a laugh!”
But the two CID officers were too professional to laugh, although Alice could imagine they might feel like it.
“I’m afraid not. You’ve been on the radar for some time,” said the first detective to his stunned prisoner. “Although, you’ve made our job so much easier by blocking in our car and not going anywhere in a hurry. Surveillance has never been so easy. We even got some fishing in too.”
Mickey’s jaw was swinging open and all his bluster had vanished. As he was marched away the gathered villagers watched in shock, dazed by the events of the past few minutes as well as the potent aroma of cannabis. It just didn’t seem possible! Explosions? Dope hidden underneath the beach café? Sleepy Polwenna Bay, a hotbed of international drug smuggling?
The only person who didn’t seem surprised by any of this was Jonny St Milton.
“See,” he said to Alice, kissing her hand as his grey eyes twinkled at her, “didn’t I tell you that the tales of smugglers in this village were true?”
“In the eighteenth century! Not today!”
He winked. “The date’s just a technicality. The point is, I was telling you the truth. So doesn’t it stand to reason that I’ve always told you the truth about everything else too?”
Alice nodded. She couldn’t argue with that.
“So trust me,” he said, gently, “when I tell you that everything is going to be just fine.”
Jonny was right. Polwenna Bay would keep or reveal its secrets when the time was right. That was the way it always had been and always would be, and Alice knew that she could trust him completely. She was willing to believe that all was not yet lost for the village.
Treasure of the Heart Page 25
