by BATEMAN, A P
“Black,” she said.
“Lucky. I haven’t got any milk. I’ll be down in a minute.” He ran up the stairs and tore his trousers off at the top, took off his socks. He took out his wallet and warrant card, his mobile phone and pulled the belt out from the loops. He could hear DS Hosking filling the kettle, the water made some noise in the pipes, but he had never known pressure like it. The tap in the kitchen jumped each time it was shut off. He walked into the bedroom, dropped his things on the bed and took another pair of trousers out of the wardrobe. Dress was a little more casual in Cornwall, so he settled on a pair of tan cargoes and changed his shirt for a light blue one. He rolled the sleeves and wore it open one button down.
He had been quick, but by the time he got back down stairs, DS Hosking had the coffee made. She had taken it into the lounge and was watching the opposite river bank.
“We should move quickly,” she said.
“We don’t have anything concrete.” He took the coffee off her and sipped a little, unsurprisingly, it was scalding.
“We have that teddy bear.”
“Exactly.”
“But with what you saw…”
“What did I see?” he paused. “Think as a lawyer. Would the teddy bear be enough for a warrant?”
She shook her head. “Okay, but we need to move. There could be a child, or an entire family…”
“Free because they paid to be brought over? It’s how it could look, and it’s not enough.”
“What then?”
“Back to the Elmaleh family.” O’Bryan perched on the back of the sofa and looked out across the water. The tide was still on the push. “I want to see them.”
“What?” she asked, incredulously.
O’Bryan sipped some more coffee and kept his eyes on the glistening water of the creek. “Or more specifically,” he paused. “I want to see their grave.”
15
It was only five minutes longer than the most direct route through Falmouth, but at DS Hosking’s suggestion, O’Bryan had taken the Castle Drive route and driven past Gyllyngvase Beach. With the stately-looking hotels to their right and a promenade overlooking the beautiful glistening sea to their left, it reminded O’Bryan of a short section of Torquay. He thought the sea view to be breath-taking, with sharp cliffs and smaller bays in the distance. Three large tankers were moored several miles out to sea. DS Hosking had told him that the promenade was an unusual feature in Cornwall, as she could only think of Penzance and Mount’s Bay as having a promenade to walk along. They passed a sandy beach at the far end, a café and public garden, then the road left the beach behind and climbed through a residential area and DS Hosking told him to pull in and park on the left.
There were far worse places to be eternally laid to rest than the plots at Swanvale. Edged in trees, the plots set among neatly mowed grass, with plants growing sporadically and glimpsing views of the Atlantic Ocean, the site benefited from Falmouth’s micro-climate of mild, bright weather all year round. DS Hosking informed O’Bryan that St. Ives and Falmouth had more hours of sun and were marginally warmer than anywhere else in Cornwall. She wasn’t wrong. The temperature was warmer than it had been back at Barlooe and the sun was high and the sky, cloud free.
O’Bryan got out of the car and looked at the main entrance. It was secured by black iron gates. There was a notice board and a list of contacts on the wall.
“Should have called,” DS Hosking said.
“Now why didn’t I think of that…” O’Bryan looked at the man approaching them. He was short and overweight, balding and wore the thickest glasses imaginable. Not the most fortunate fellow, but his smile was intoxicating and as warm as it was possible to be.
“Mister O’Bryan, sorry… Inspector?”
“That’ll do,” O’Bryan returned the man’s smile and opened his warrant card for him to see. It indicated his newly reinstated rank of Detective Chief Inspector, but he wasn’t going to go into ranks and protocols. “You must be Alan. Thank you for meeting with us, so late in the day.”
“No, no. Always a pleasure to help the police,” he said. “Actually, I’ve never really helped the police before, but it’s still a pleasure!”
O’Bryan started walking into the burial gardens, prompting the man to follow and then assume the lead. “Did you not deal with the police after the vandalism to the grave?”
“No,” he replied emphatically. “But I was given a log number.”
“But nobody followed up with a visit?”
“No.”
O’Bryan turned to DS Hosking as they walked in the shade of the tree canopies. “Was there talk about the incident?” he asked.
“I didn’t hear anything. No investigation as far as I know. The papers ran with the story for a while, but I didn’t hear of any police action.” She ducked a branch and swiped a lock of hair from her face. “There are around a hundred officers in CID throughout Cornwall. We work out of whichever station is geographically closest to the crime. With many stations closing in favour of non-emergency calls direct to Exeter, we don’t rub shoulders too regularly. There are officers I don’t see from one month to the next and some I’ll never see. We don’t get to hear much concerning other cases. Most contact is through email and our internal online bulletin board.”
They rounded the path and entered a garden edged in privet bush. Alan stopped, his head bowed. They stopped too, O’Bryan bowed his head in mutual respect, noticed DS Hosking looked towards the sea. “Here we are,” Alan said quietly.
The plot was covered in fresh earth and there were flowers on top in a sunken vase. They looked fresh, but O’Bryan didn’t know what they were. The headstone looked to be marble or polished granite. He suspected the latter given the amount of granite he had seen throughout the county.
“So you cleaned the headstone off?” O’Bryan asked.
“No, there was no damage to the headstone, detective,” Alan sighed. “The people from the Islamic centre at Carnon Downs came down and replaced the vase. They replenished the flowers and the Imam held a sort of blessing.”
“But the headstone wasn’t touched?”
“No.”
“What was the extent of the vandalism?” O’Bryan frowned. “Just the broken vase?”
Alan shook his head. “No, I didn’t really say it was vandalism,” he said, somewhat perplexed. “I said that whoever had done this had tried to dig the grave out properly.”
DS Hosking pulled a face. It wasn’t the prettiest she’d looked all day. “You mean…”
“Yes!” exclaimed Alan. “That’s what I said to the other detective. It was as though someone tried to get to the bodies.”
“But you said that you didn’t deal with the police. You never said you spoke to someone,” O’Bryan sighed. “Which is it?”
“I didn’t speak to anyone in person,” he said. “I called the police when we discovered the damage. I was given a log number.” He took out a fold of paper and handed it to O’Bryan. “Here,” he said. “It’s all on there, date, number and time.”
“Right…”
“The other warden who worked here spoke to the police when they came,” he said.
“And what did they say?”
“It was just one officer, a detective. He looked around, took some photographs and told John he’d better fill it back in. We called the Westbriton newspaper and they came out and took a picture of the Islamic charity replacing the flowers. We’d filled it in by then. Couldn’t have an open grave for all the world to see…”
“Well, how far did they dig down?”
“Four feet or so.”
“Four feet!” O’Bryan shook his head. “Well that wasn’t just petty vandalism. That would have been damned hard work, organised too.”
“I know, that’s what we said. John came in early, saw the gates had been broken open and a great van was parked outside. He heard noise inside and went in to take a look.”
O’Bryan shook his head. It wasn’t the mos
t sensible thing he’d heard. But it wasn’t the worse. “How early?” O’Bryan asked.
“About five. John was up with the lark. He would do a few chores here then go back to Flushing and go out in his boat, set his crab and lobster pots or bring in the ones he’d had soaking. Then he’d come back and work part of the day. We keep our hours quite flexible. He shouted at them and obviously disturbed them while they were digging. He said they’d had a scuffle, but I think he exaggerated a bit. He must have chased them off though.”
“So can you give me his number? I think it’s high time I got his version of events.”
Alan cast his head for a moment. He looked back at both of them and shrugged. “I’m sorry, John Turner had an accident. He got caught up with one of his pots and fell overboard,” he said sadly. “He was a typical fisherman, not a great swimmer, but he must have snared his leg in the line or something, because he was pulled overboard and under the surface.”
“When was this?” DS Hosking asked. She glanced at O’Bryan, then looked back at the small, round man.
“The day after.”
They were silent for a moment. Alan out of respect for his dead colleague, O’Bryan and DS Hosking because of what question was to be asked next.
“Was this reported to the police?” O’Bryan asked.
Alan shrugged. “No idea. A passing fishing boat brought him in. Another crabbing boat that berths in Flushing.”
“Thank you Alan,” O’Bryan said. “I’ve got your number; I’ll call if I need anything else.”
Alan took his cue and nodded. “Pleasure,” he said and walked back the way they had come.
“What are you thinking?” DS Hosking asked.
“What are you thinking, sergeant?”
“I thought I said call me Becky,” she said.
“Okay, Becky. What are you thinking?”
“I think it’s a possibility that John Turner recognised the people, or at least one of the people digging up the grave.”
O’Bryan nodded. “I think it’s more like one of them recognised him, and couldn’t take the chance that Turner hadn’t recognised them.”
“We definitely think Turner’s death is related though,” she said flatly.
“We do.”
“We need to look into his death then. I’d heard a man had drowned, a fisherman. But it was a snippet on the late night local news. No real story. It happens quite a lot down here.”
“It’s not the only thing though.”
“What else is there?”
O’Bryan looked down at the grave, the fresh earth, the new flowers and the undamaged headstone. “We don’t know for sure if the men digging were actually digging up a grave,” he paused. “Or whether they were filling an empty grave back in.”
16
“What do we do next?” DS Hosking asked as O’Bryan parked and switched off the engine.
The harbourmaster’s office was directly ahead of them. They did not have an appointment, but O’Bryan figured there would be someone around who could point them in the right direction. He tapped the steering wheel with his fingers, nibbled the inside of his cheek. It was anxiety, and it came on when he needed a drink.
Sixty-days…
The cruel irony was that he didn’t miss the taste of it. But needed it instead to quell a host of emotions and irregularities within him - from breathing, to thinking, even to his equilibrium. It was as if the alcohol diluted something, balanced him out. Like the fuel to air mixture of an engine’s carburettor. He knew when he felt like this, he would function better, in the short-term, with a drink. However, he also knew it merely greased a dangerous slope, that if stepped on, would not halt his descent until he reached rock bottom.
“Did you hear me, Ross?” she prompted.
“Sorry,” he said. “Just thinking.”
“What do we do next?”
“Let’s see what happens here first.”
“But the grave,” she said. “What if you’re right? What if they got to the bodies and were in fact filling the grave back in?”
“That’s not the immediate question.”
“What?”
“There’s a bigger question.”
She frowned. “What could be a bigger question than: are the bodies still in the grave?” “We know that there’s probably a fifty-fifty chance they’re not.”
“Really?” She leaned back in her seat, the sun bright across her face. “I’d say there’s a bigger chance they are still in the grave. It’s a lot of work to dig out five bodies, take them elsewhere, presumably to a vehicle, then refill.”
“But they didn’t finish refilling, if they started at all.”
“So what’s the bigger question?”
He looked at her intently. “Why?” he said. “Why would they dig, or attempt to dig them up?”
“Anti-Islamic fuck-wits. Maybe they don’t need a reason.”
“Oh, they need a reason. And I think the reason is because they were buried. The majority of people are cremated these days. But Muslims request burial, and they need it within twenty-four hours. Now, the Elmaleh family didn’t make this, unfortunately. But the Islamic community stepped in and paid for the plot and sought to get the ceremony performed and had them buried soon after. Now, they were found drowned, and the cause of death confirmed this. I have seen the post-mortem, and I have to say for a family washed up on the beach with the wreckage of their boat and the whole sorry immigrant crisis story around them, as well as pressure from the Islamic community to get them in the ground ASAP, possibly with a little departmental influence to avoid an ethnic or racial situation, then I suppose the coroner’s report is about right,” he paused. “But there was no indication of foul play. So the bodies were released to the Islamic charity that paid for the family plot, and that should have been an end to it.”
“So, why do you think someone wanted them…” She searched for the words, but shrugged lamely. “…dug up?”
“I think my boss made a few enquiries and spooked someone. Someone who is in the know, on the inside. He wasn’t happy with something, and other than staying for a period of illness and recovery in his family holiday home at Barlooe, I don’t know what else would have prompted him to look into it.”
“He’s ill?”
O’Bryan thought of Anderson, the man’s death still raw. Thirty-six hours. O’Bryan cursed inwardly at his date with Sarah Penhaligan and missing the first time and date in the calendar. He had wasted precious time. The thought of the teddy bear DS Hosking had found made him want to retch. Had he started to investigate sooner, could he have stopped what he assumed to be a movement of people? “Kind of,” he said. “Not anymore though,” he paused thoughtfully and added, “I think the Elmaleh family were murdered. And I think whoever did it was convinced that their deaths would look to all the world like misadventure and they would be cremated. The line of evidence would be severed totally. Now, the commander of Special Branch has an inkling and starts a private inquiry. It causes a panic, because somebody in the know hears of it. That prompts them to get the bodies before there is a chance of official exhumation and a thorough, detailed autopsy from the inside out.”
“And poor John Turner recognised them?”
“No. I think they recognised John Turner and weren’t sure if he had recognised them, so they killed him before he could talk. Or at least work it out.”
“You think they drowned him?” she asked. “Made it look like an accident?”
“Fits the MO of the Elmaleh family.”
“Jesus…” she shook her head.
O’Bryan opened his door. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s see if the harbourmaster can shed any light on it.”
It was actually the Falmouth Harbour Commissioners Office. And the man in charge was Martin Gwennap. Judging from his movements, his physique and eyes, O’Bryan put him in his forties but his face was as weathered and tanned as a crocodile’s back. He sported a neatly trimmed greying beard and was wearing an inflat
able life-vest, though uninflated, and wore a two-way radio on a strap across his vest. He also wore a fisherman’s knife and a multi-tool in a pouch on his belt.
“I dealt with it personally,” he said in reply to O’Bryan’s question regarding John Turner’s death.
“You discovered the body?”
Gwenapp shook his head. “Not like that,” he said, his Cornish as broad as his shoulders. “I answered the distress call, met the boat on its way back in.”
“The boat that found him?”
“Yes. I set aside an area on the quay, called the ambulance, but they weren’t needed by the time they brought him in.”
“He was alive when they found him?”
“Don’t think so, but you always call an ambulance as a matter of course.”
O’Bryan nodded. “So the body went to...?”
“Treliske Hospital,” he said. “There wasn’t an inquest. Turner was seventy-years old and fell overboard pulling in his crab pots. It’s dangerous work. The man had got himself caught up with the rope. I imagine he gulped a breath in panic and that’s all it takes to start drowning.”
“That’s it? No coroner, no post-mortem?”
Gwenapp shrugged. “He was a fisherman. Even in summer, once you’re a mile or so off shore the water is freezing cold. He’s wearing jeans and wellington boots, a jacket and no life vest. He was seventy and like most fishermen, he wasn’t much of a swimmer. You take’s your chances.”
“Is he buried around here? Swanvale perhaps?” O’Bryan cursed not asking Alan while he was up there.
“No. Cremation at Penmount,” he said. “Up the other side of Truro. Small service. I attended, I didn’t really know him, but you know…” he shrugged.
O’Bryan did know. He had attended more than a few services for people he did not know, but had been a part of the investigation into their death. He had gone to a few to watch the crowd as well. Killers loved to go to their victim’s funeral.
