Hell's Mouth

by BATEMAN, A P

  “Two hundred.”

  “For what?”

  “GFE.”

  “What?” O’Bryan asked. He’d spent the last ten years on counter-terrorism. He would guess it showed.

  “Girlfriend experience,” the man said. “Like the sex you had with your girlfriend before she became your wife.”

  “What, cinema and fish and chips?” O’Bryan laughed. “Okay, I’m guessing that’s the works.”

  “It’s everything. But it’s mainly the kissing,” the man explained. “Prostitutes don’t normally kiss. It’s sometimes difficult to get turned on without that. GFE is the whole package.”

  “Right,” O’Bryan nodded. He was learning on the job. “So what website did you use?”

  The man shrugged. “Just a generic search. Escorts, massage, Cornwall, GFE…”

  “And she had a website?”

  “Not her own, no. I went through a site called Punter Street in the end. You can enter what you’re looking for, locations and description. She had photos on there. She looked nice.”

  O’Bryan nodded. She would have looked good. He stared at the man. For what it was worth, he felt jealous. “Look, I’m going to give you some advice. You have a family and a wife. I’ve seen your stickmen in the window. The Pokémon sunshades.” The man looked ashen, the colour draining from him. O’Bryan guessed he had never been thinking of his kids prior to one of these assignations. “You’re laying them down as chips in a game of roulette. Pretty soon, you’ll bet everything precious to you on black and it’s going to land on red. You get prosecuted for this sort of thing, well that’s your marriage gone. That’s your kids out of your life, because even if you have good access, do you think they’ll want to be around the guy who threw his family in for sex with a prostitute? I’m figuring not. And it will come out. All sorts of shit you think you can keep covered up come out in a divorce.” O’Bryan had walked the walk. His addiction to alcohol had been the entire focus in his divorce, rightly or wrongly, he hadn’t been painted in the best light. “That’s the personal stuff. Now your job. A criminal record will change your employee contract. Your job will likely go. Sex offences never look good on a CV either, so that’s the likelihood of another job gone too. A few months without salary and the rent or mortgage for the house you’re no longer living in will dry up. That’s without you missing the rent on whatever bolt-hole you’ve managed to rent. Now your credit has gone. You’ll get in debt and the spiral will continue. Are you getting the picture?”

  “Yes,” he nodded. He seemed to be taking it in. The man’s mobile phone rang. He had been holding it lamely in his hand. He glanced at the screen. “It’s her,” he said.

  “Answer it. Tell her you’ll be there in two minutes.” O’Bryan watched the man, noted the tone of his voice. He was guessing what fires of passion had burned within him as he parked the car had been doused by now.

  “So what do I do?” the man asked, putting the phone into his pocket. He looked shorter somehow. Defeated.

  “You take that two-hundred quid and you book a babysitter. You book a fancy restaurant, maybe even a hotel room. You stop being an idiot and spend some time with your wife. Do that once in a while, and hell, you won’t think about crap like this. And you won’t risk losing it all again. You might even find she’s been missing the best of you as well.”

  The man seemed to think on this. He nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Can I go?”

  O’Bryan nodded and stepped up onto the driveway. He heard the man thank him, but he didn’t look back. He followed the path round and stood by the solid oak door. He knocked twice, clear and loud.

  He heard a bolt draw back and the handle turned. The door gave an inch, O’Bryan saw there was no security chain and he barged the door open with his shoulder. Sarah gasped and stepped back. When she looked at him, her eyes blazed.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Your appointment had a change of heart.” He stepped inside and looked at her. She was wearing a figure-hugging red dress. Her hair was down, and O’Bryan noticed blonde tresses among the red.

  “What have you done?” she asked. “I need that client!”

  “Client? Punter, surely.”

  He didn’t see it coming, but she slapped him across the face and he recoiled. His face was still sore from the beating, now it felt raw.

  “You don’t understand!”

  “Then tell me!” He placed a hand on his cheek, but it made no difference to the pain.

  “What have you done?” she said again. She kicked off the high heels and walked off into a large lounge with an entire wall of glass looking over the bay. “Oh no, I don’t believe this…”

  O’Bryan followed her. “What’s going on? Why won’t you say who attacked me, who felt you up and dragged you out of the house?”

  “For God’s sake Ross! Let it go!” She flopped down on the leather sofa and cradled her head in her hands. “You’ve made some real trouble for me…”

  “It’s a couple of hundred quid,” he said. “I’ll square it.”

  “You’ll square it? What if he talks? What if…”

  “What?”

  “Forget it.”

  “Tell me, Sarah.”

  She looked up at him. “Why do you think I work nights on the bar at the pub?”

  “For extra cash,” he replied.

  “Extra cash, yes. Or more simply, for cash. If I wanted to do this work, actually worked the hours and could keep it, I could earn three or four-thousand a week.” She wiped tears from her eyes with her fingers and palms. “I earn minimum wage, for twenty-hours a week. I could make that with one half-hour appointment. But the money I earn at the bar is for me, and I’m damned if my money will ever come from this.”

  “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “Just go,” she said. “You’ve done enough, believe me.”

  “Who is making you do this?” O’Bryan asked.

  “What do you care?” She closed her eyes and tilted her head to the ceiling.

  “Come with me,” he said. He wasn’t even sure what he meant, but he knew he hated seeing her like this. “I can help. I can keep you safe, help you get out of this.”

  “You can’t fix me,” she said, looking at him through glossy eyes, her mascara smudged. “I’m not a project. I’m a person and if you are offering to help me, you need to see it through.”

  “I’m a police officer,” he said. “I can get you help and protection. If you are being forced into this, then you need to talk to me.”

  “I don’t trust the police. Not down here. The people I’m involved with get away with too much for me to trust the police.”

  “So who are you saying is bent?”

  She hesitated. “Do you mean it? You can help me?”

  O’Bryan nodded. “I’m getting a picture, but it’s not very clear. Hazy, to say the least. Perhaps you can help fill in the gaps?”

  “I can try,” she said. “But I need to know you won’t leave before it’s sorted out.”

  “I won’t let you down.”

  She looked down at her phone. It was vibrating on silent. She looked at the screen. “It’s him,” she said.

  “Answer it.”

  23

  O’Bryan cursed the strength of his phone signal. He seemed to have done it hourly since he had arrived.

  He had driven down into the village of Portreath, turned around when he found a turning wide enough and taken the steep hill back out. He craned his neck as he passed the house and saw that Sarah was getting into her Mini. He had promised to help, and she now seemed resolute. He was convinced she had turned her back on the sex trade.

  O’Bryan missed the left turning back towards Camborne, but he saw from the vehicle’s satnav map that the coast road joined the A30 and he felt the drive would go a way towards clearing his head. He kept glancing at the phone on the passenger seat, but there was still no service. He used the time to think. He wound the window down halfway and gunned the en
gine. The Alfa was a great car to drive through the twisting corners and he relished the exhaust note as he downshifted. He wasn’t exactly speeding, but he wasn’t setting a good example either. Before long, after a longish straight, where he caught a good view of the sea and St. Ives in the distance, he came to a series of bends. Some vehicles had parked up and people were crossing the road. He slowed to a crawl and peered over towards the edge of the cliff, but couldn’t see anything. As he reached a layby on his left, he parked up and went to see what the other people were looking at.

  The abyss before him was breath taking. A sheer, three-sided bowl that dropped to jagged rock and the surging sea below. He wasn’t sure whether the people had gathered to see the sight of the waves crashing and spumes of white water, or the group of seals bobbing in the troughs just outside the breakers. Either would have been quite a sight, but the drop had been dramatic enough for O’Bryan. He walked back to his car and as he drove away, he glanced at the map on the satnav screen. It simply read: Hell’s Mouth. He imagined the entire stretch of coastline had many Hell’s Mouths, but few would be so close to the road. He crested the hill and as he drove down through the narrow, twisting road and crossed a bridge, he looked to his right and saw a lighthouse set upon a jagged rock, the waves crashing and surging to the base of the structure, the spume spraying to the top. It wasn’t a sight he had ever seen before, and it made him think how static London was. Here, nature moved and changed and the sights were different every day. He imagined that in a day or two, the lighthouse would be a beacon in a millpond of glassy calm. Next week, a surging storm of grey and woeful inevitability could crash upon the shore, the sky as different as today as it was possible to be. He could smell the freshness here too. The clean saltiness of the ocean, the dampness of the woods and the pungent smell of seaweed and rotting vegetation of the creeks and rivers could all be experienced within a fifteen-minute drive from the north to south coasts of this varied and dramatic county.

  After another five miles or so, he joined the A30 at Hayle and headed north. The road was a typical dual-carriageway so nobody stuck to the limit until a speed camera sign appeared and more rubber was painted onto the road. O’Bryan went with local knowledge and slowed down until he had passed the cameras on both sides. He turned off for Camborne soon after.

  He parked in an empty bay, looked for the car he had seen DCI Trevithick in earlier, but it wasn’t there. That didn’t mean he wasn’t in the station, most detectives relied heavily on pool cars. He just hoped the man had gone to Bodmin, but he didn’t hold out much hope. Trevithick had been positively buoyed by the sight of seeing him in a compromising situation with Sarah Penhaligan. O’Bryan entered the code, but the door did not open. He tried again, but was met with the same locked and immobile door. He took out his mobile. The signal was good in Camborne, in most of the built up areas. He scrolled down to DS Hosking’s number and dialled. It was answered on the second ring.

  “Where are you?” she asked curtly. “I’ve been trying to call you all morning.”

  He frowned, he hadn’t seen the missed calls. “I’m outside.”

  “What, outside the station?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve got to go,” she said quickly. “The DCI has been doing some digging on you. He’s rather pleased with what he’s found, evidently.”

  O’Bryan’s heart skipped a beat. It was inevitable, but he’d hoped he had more time. “Where is he?”

  “Out looking for you.” There was a muffled pause and when she spoke again it was clearer, but he could tell she was walking quickly. “Get out of here now. Get in your car and wait for my text. I’m sending you the address, I’ll meet you there in forty-five minutes.”

  O’Bryan did not seem to have any problems receiving her text. He typed the postcode and house name into the satnav and drove out through Camborne and back onto the A30. He wasn’t on the carriageway for long and came off at North Country, taking the road towards Porthtowan. The road twisted and crested for a few miles, until it widened and dropped steeply down to a village that seemed to have been built in the seventies. There was the occasional typically Cornish stone cottage, but many of the buildings were bungalows and flats. The road threaded past a few shops, then the whole village parted on both sides to reveal the beach and ocean straight ahead. The waves were steaming towards the shore in lines of five or more and breaking across the entire bay. Again, O’Bryan saw surfers heading towards the beach and could see dots behind the breakers. He figured they were surfers this time, not seals.

  He looked at the satnav and realised he had to take the left-hand fork in the road. The road was narrow and climbed steeply up the cliff. To his surprise, Becky Hosking’s house stood alone and imposing on the cliff. He reversed into one of two spaces and got out of the car. The view was magnificent, but as he turned his back on it and looked at the house he couldn’t help but be impressed. The house was a two storey stone and glass-fronted property and from the many windows and sheer size, he figured it to have at least three bedrooms. The garden had been turned over to terraced beds and he noted that the grass around the other properties was largely thick with weeds, and he could see the sand through the storks. There was an element of reclaiming wild land, and nature was unrelenting and constant. He imagined storms roaring onshore in the depths of winter, salt spray and sand whipping up the entire valley.

  The BMW Z4 sports car threaded up the narrow access road and O’Bryan could see DS Hosking clearly behind the wheel. She waved and swung the car next to O’Bryan’s Alfa Romeo. The car was a convertible, and the folding metal hardtop unfolded from the boot, reached over her and eased closed, sealing silently shut. She opened the door and got out, walked up to him and smiled. “Let’s talk inside,” she said.

  O’Bryan followed her up the steps. He noted the flush-fitting lights set into each one. The finish to the property was impeccable. He noticed things. It helped in his profession. Sometimes they mattered, sometimes they didn’t. He had glanced down the side of the property as he climbed the steps. DS Hosking hadn’t seen him look that way. Or maybe she had. She was a detective as well. Whether she had or not, he would know once they were inside.

  The solid oak door was fitted with two locks and DS Hosking opened them both with separate keys. She swung the door open and stepped inside. O’Bryan followed.

  “Coffee?” she asked.

  “Please.”

  The flooring was solid and made from hardwood. It echoed off the stone walls. He followed her into the kitchen and watched as she hit a keypad set into the wall next to a coffee machine. He recognised it as something Italian and similar to the one he had failed to operate successfully back the Hemingway House. She took two espresso cups out of a rack next to the machine and placed them under two spouts. The machine whizzed and spat and two dark streams of liquid ran out.

  “Cappuccino?” she asked.

  “No, espresso will be fine,” he replied.

  She handed him the cup, then tipped her own shot into a larger cup and sprayed in the frothy milk. “Well, you’ve certainly got the DCI in a flap,” she said casually. “He wants to catch up with you. Big time.”

  “Why,” he ventured. He already knew the answer.

  “Beats me,” she replied.

  “Really?” he said, genuinely surprised.

  “Yes. He’s not sharing. But he wants to find you.”

  “Officially?”

  “Not yet,” she said. “He hasn’t posted a search or anything.”

  O’Bryan nodded. He felt a little relived, but not much. “Well, he knows where I’m staying.”

  “So what did you find over at Malforth Manor?” she asked. “You got into trouble swimming back, by all accounts.”

  “I told you I got into trouble. It accounts from nobody else.” He sipped some of the thick, strong coffee. He had it down as a Java blend. “So who told DCI Trevithick?”

  “Not me,” she replied curtly. “Perhaps your girlfriend did.”


  “Sarah isn’t my girlfriend. To be honest, I don’t know what she is…”

  “I do,” she said cuttingly. “She’s a whore.”

  “Ex-whore,” he said. “As of an hour ago.”

  “Really? Well, we’ll see about that.” She took a mouthful of her cappuccino and left a little frothy milk on her top lip. She licked it off with the tip of her tongue and smiled. “So what are you… a fixer or something? You see a damsel in distress and play the knight in shining armour?”

  O’Bryan shrugged. “I am in a position to help. I don’t believe she’s dyed in the wool. In fact, I know she’s not. I think she will turn her back on that life forever, as long as she has some help getting out. Why wouldn’t I want to help?”

  “Well, we all make our beds.”

  “Speaking of which, you have more than enough beds here,” he said. “It’s a large house for one.”

  “I like a lot of room.”

  “You’ve got that,” he smiled. “Mind if I use your bathroom?”

  “No, go ahead. Top of the stairs, third door along.”

  O’Bryan put down the cup and made his way out into the hall and up the spiral staircase. He knew why she hadn’t said left of right. The entire facing wall was tinted glass and looked out on the ocean. He went straight to the first door and saw it was an empty and unmade-up spare room. An open, empty fitted wardrobe and a double bed with a new-looking mattress. The next door opened in on a completely empty room. A fifteen by fifteen with a window looking out on the cliff behind. No curtains or blinds even. He ignored door three and opened the fourth door. The bed was made. The covers were red and there were scented candles all around and a box of matches within handy reach. A digital wireless speaker for smartphones or iPods. There was a flat-screen TV with a built-in DVD player mounted on the wall and a selection of DVD’s on the dresser. He didn’t have to look too closely at the covers to see they were hard-core pornography. On the bedside table were wet-wipes, tissues and an onyx bowl filled with a variety of condoms. O’Bryan opened the drawer, closed it quickly. A selection of sex toys, but he knew he would find those already. He stepped out and closed the door behind him. He opened door three, the bathroom, and pushed the flush and ran the tap. It was important to keep up pretences.