Hell's Mouth

by BATEMAN, A P

  He didn’t finish the sentence. And nor did he see the punch coming. He was out cold and heading towards the sand. O’Bryan was already on him and grabbed him by his throat with his left hand and punched him twice more in the face with short, sharp jabs with his right fist. He pushed himself up and looked across at Hosking, who stared on, her mouth wide open. She looked at him, but said nothing. Trevithick was out cold and his mouth and nose were bleeding. O’Bryan turned and made his way back across the sand, and called without looking back, “Turn that piece of shit over before he becomes the second body on this shitty beach.”

  36

  O’Bryan had driven to Camborne police station and found DS Harris in the CID suite. The detective sergeant had called social services and located the family for him. They were Syrian and their family name was Nassir. They had travelled for eleven months and lost the maternal grandmother on the way to a harsh winter and chronic asthma. They had what was left of their savings stolen in France. They had been approached in Calais and offered safe passage to England in return for work. In return for this, they were to be obligated for three months, then given jobs and paid in accordance to British law. It seemed like a good deal. They had been promised agricultural work. Maybe they would have, and maybe their lives would have been better for it. But that wasn’t what happened to the Elmaleh family. Their story had been very different indeed, and O’Bryan knew that the Nassir’s would not have been treated any differently. Especially as the family identified the criminal record photograph that O’Bryan had showed them as Pete Mitchell, the man who had approached them in Calais, and one of the men who had transported them across the channel, down the south coast of England and all the way up the creek to the jetty opposite Barlooe. O’Bryan had printed off a photograph from John Pascoe’s social media account and the family had identified him as the second man on the boat.

  They had been lucky, and they showed their gratitude in a series of hugs and thanks, from broken English spoken by the parents, to the middle-eastern Disney of the daughters. O’Bryan had been quite overwhelmed at their sincerity and appreciation. He had bid them farewell, then driven on to Truro.

  He had wanted to deliver the news of Sarah’s death to her mother. He hadn’t wanted DS Hosking, with her judgemental views of the woman, nor DCI Trevithick to be the bearers. He had not known Sarah for very long, but he felt he had a connection. He had liked her, been attracted to her, and when he had discovered her story, her reasoning for what she had been forced to do, he had helped her all he could. But ultimately, he wanted to be the one to tell, because he had not been there for her at the end. He had asked her to wait outside of Ogilvy’s study and that had been the last time he had seen her alive. He needed a penance. He needed to make amends. The ninth step. His path through alcohol recovery had been unchallenged at this step, this essential part of the process. He was starting on the road again, surely the final time, and he needed to take every single step this time. The ninth was the hardest of all. Had he not turned to the bottle after last night at Malforth Manor, he may well have found Sarah. May have been able to save her.

  Emily Penhaligan had not taken the news well. She had yet to settle into the new residential home. Now there was grief and disbelief at the news, as well as the uncertainty of her new surroundings. He had spent an hour with her, hearing stories about Sarah’s childhood, passing tissues, comforting her and explaining that the end had been swift. He knew, of course, that it hadn’t been. It had been anything but. He could see for himself that her underwear had been removed and that it was likely Mitchell had raped her. It was more than likely she had been alive when the words had been cut into her, because drowning was Mitchell’s proven method of killing. He suspected that the same method had been used to drown her as the entire Elmaleh family. Mitchell would have chosen the beach after rounding St Anthony Head on the Roseland Peninsular, as he escaped in his fishing vessel. He could be anywhere now, berthed in a quiet cove or creek, or perhaps even in France. He would have a knowledge of the French coastline if he had successfully brought in illegal immigrants.

  O’Bryan had looked for a carer to sit with Emily and taken his leave. He felt awful. Awful enough for a drink? No doubt. But today was day one, and he was sure he would make it this time.

  He had packed his bag and dropped it in the doorway to the lounge. He would have to give the keys back to Anderson’s wife when he returned to London. There would be the funeral too. It suddenly struck him that in the whirlwind since finding out about Anderson’s battle with cancer and his death, and watching the boat moor on the jetty across the creek, he had not had a moment to grieve. Maybe Anderson would have wanted it like that. Perhaps that was why he had sent O’Bryan down under the guise of recovery, then sent him the file. O’Bryan certainly liked the thought of that.

  He picked up his jacket, then frowned at the weight. The pocket. He fished out the mobile phone. John Pascoe’s mobile phone. There was little battery left, but the screen indicated a number of missed calls and texts. O’Bryan thumbed through as he made his way to his bag and took his charger out of the side pocket. He wanted to get some charge into it before it switched off. It was an iPhone, and many were set up to require a thumbprint upon restarting. Pascoe hadn’t had a screen lock code installed, but even so, everyone set up their phone differently.

  Plugged in and charging, O’Bryan looked at the numbers, the names and the times and dates of the calls and texts. He looked at the screen thoughtfully, then started to compose a reply to the last text it had received.

  37

  O’Bryan watched the car turn a wide circle, its headlights cutting a swathe of light through the darkness like a lighthouse through a thick sea-mist. The driver parked up nose out. It was a professional thing to do. You could get out of trouble faster that way.

  O’Bryan had driven up earlier, parked in a field after battling to open the gate. His car was next to the hedge, unseen from the track. He hadn’t responded to the text. He had bait on the hook and a nibble had been taken. He needed to tease until he got a real bite. In this case, doing nothing was everything.

  The driver switched off the engine and the lights went out after thirty-seconds. Courtesy lights to get you into your house. O’Bryan remained where he was. He watched, waited. The car was parked twenty-feet from the edge of the abyss. Nobody goes that close to the abyss without looking down at it. It was a morbid human fascination. Like the people who had parked and walked across the road at Hell’s Mouth. O’Bryan had done the same. Sure enough, after a minute or so, the door opened and the driver got out. The half-moon illuminated them. O’Bryan made his move. He climbed up the hedge, swung his leg over and slid down. He pushed himself out from the hedge and stepped up out of the ditch. He was twenty-metres away.

  “You should have moved the for rent sign,” he said.

  DS Becky Hosking spun around, squinted at him in the darkness, her eyes were not yet accustomed to the dark. “What do you mean? What are you doing here, Ross?”

  “Back at that executive new-build in Porthtowan,” he said. “The house had a for rent sign from Clive and Gowndry. The sign had been taken down and stored by the side of the house. The same estate agents as the house Sarah was working out of both in Point Geddon and Portreath. The same Clive Gowndry who was up to his neck in the illegal trafficking and imprisonment of people for the sex-slave trade.”

  “I just got the keys to that house to meet you somewhere safe and private,” she said defensively.

  “I went into more than just the bathroom,” he paused. “There was a room geared up for accepting clients. It was a working brothel. You said the house was part of an investigation, but nothing had been tagged or logged. No evidence had been removed.”

  “You’ll have to do better than that!” she scoffed. “What exactly are you accusing me of?”

  “I don’t buy that you had a call to get back to the station. I don’t think you wrote me a note and I’m sure your phone records will prove there
was never a call. So, what was meant to have happened? John Pascoe enters the house as you leave and attacks me? Binds my hands and drives me up here?”

  “What the hell has John Pascoe got to do with this?”

  “You tell me,” he said. “You’re up here tonight because of the text from his phone.”

  “So?”

  “He’s the third man in this endeavour. He’s a lawyer.”

  “And?”

  “You had a lawyer boyfriend. You clashed in court. You said you left him because he got a man off a rape charge,” O’Bryan said. “That man was Pete Mitchell. That lawyer was John Pascoe. I’ve checked. It isn’t difficult to do.”

  “It’s a small county. Coincidence is a daily occurrence.”

  “I asked around, spoke to some of your team. DS Harris in particular. He said you and John Pascoe were still very much an on and off item.”

  “Fuck buddy, so what?” she said flippantly. “I’m up here responding to his text. A woman has needs.”

  “Pascoe was up to his neck in all of this. He has been identified as one of the men who brought the Nassir’s into the country. His work schedule will confirm he was absent at the time. I bet that it will do the same around the time of the Elmaleh family’s deaths. I’m also willing to bet he was stupid enough to carry his mobile phone at the time. It’s as good as a tracking device.”

  “Like I said, coincidence.”

  “When we went back to Camborne’s CID suite for you to sort out the request for the exhumation, you were being really friendly with me.”

  “It was a friendly kind of day!” She smiled, cocked her head. “I seem to remember you asking for a date.”

  O’Bryan shrugged. “I do a lot that I later regret,” he paused. “DS Harris slipped his jacket on and left abruptly. I thought he was pissed off that you were helping the stranger in the camp, that he was loyal to DCI Trevithick. He just thought you were working another angle. He is in line for detective inspector, as are you. As usual, there’s two qualified officers, but only one post. He feels that you have an unfair advantage. It would appear that you are the golden girl. Not because of your abilities as a police officer. But because of your on and off, two-year affair with DCI Trevithick. Nobody’s meant to know, but like most offices, everybody does.”

  “It happens. You end up working a lot of hours, the same hours…”

  “I thought Trevithick was involved. I thought that he blocked Pengelly, Adams and Harris and called for no further action. You had the man’s ear. Not only did he want to continue massaging both his ego and other things with a younger, attractive woman, he was desperate for his wife not to find out about his affair. He has two young teens, doesn’t want his family pulled apart. You were his puppeteer, through nothing more than sex and a few calculated, but casual-sounding conversations on how it could pan out for him if he didn’t listen to you. You controlled him, and with that, the angle from within the police. Guided by Pascoe, or maybe you guided him…” He shook his head. “No, I know you guided him. Guided them all. You played me too, all the little flirtations, I was just a fool to believe you would be interested. And today, on the beach, Trevithick said that there would be no DNA after exposure to the seawater, but it was you who said that it could still be there internally. That was the whole reason for digging up the Elmaleh family. You felt that if it were looked into, which would only be a matter of time, then the DNA of whoever had sex with them… raped them, would create a trail. Sooner or later there would be a match and it would all come crashing down. You got lucky with the racial tension thing, the Islamic community insisting they were properly buried. It made an open and shut case shut far more quickly.”

  She shrugged. “So now what? Are you recording this?”

  He shook his head. “No. Not this time.”

  “So what do you want? Money?” she asked. “Everyone want’s money.”

  “Not everyone.”

  “Then they’re stupid. There’s more than enough money to change your life forever. I can get you a quarter of a million tonight. Just to keep quiet and walk away. Think about it; that’s a hell of an amount of money. If you want in, you could take on a role from London. There’s dirty immigrants on every street up there. They’re all over the place. You could send them down our way. You could earn that much again in another three months. A million a year, no problem. I have, and I’ve stashed it away.” She looked at him curiously. “How did you get John’s phone?”

  “You followed him when he drove me up here, didn’t you,” he said accusingly. “You took him back for his car.”

  “I knew he’d pussy out,” she said. “I should have stayed and helped him. You cut him a deal, didn’t you? Spineless piece of shit. They’re all the same, lawyers. So what, will he turn Queen’s evidence? Cut a deal for immunity?”

  “There was no deal.”

  “So where did he get to?”

  O’Bryan stepped closer to her and she stepped back a pace. She was no more than four-feet from the edge. “He was going to get me into my car and send it over the edge. You planned it with him. You helped him by driving him back for his car. So what? You didn’t want to get your own hands dirty?”

  “That bastard,” she said coldly. “So he confessed and gave you the phone. Then what?”

  O’Bryan tossed her Pascoe’s phone and she caught it. It was reactionary and she looked at the screen. He shook his head. “No. He took my place,” he said. “After I killed him, kicked the life out of him, I strapped him into his Porsche and gave it a little bump over the edge with my car.”

  “You killed him?” she looked at him disbelievingly. “Bullshit! You wouldn’t do that…”

  “You don’t know me at all.”

  “Oh, I think I do,” she sneered. “You’re a fucking boy scout! You’re all about what’s right and wrong!”

  “I’m all about sticking up for people who can’t. I’m all about justice, yes.”

  “So you did drown that terrorist…”

  He nodded. “One less to worry about.”

  She cocked her head and stared incredulously. “Seriously, you killed John Pascoe?”

  “He’s right below you.”

  She looked like she did not know whether to laugh or cry. “You murdered him! Well, that ties you in now, we’re both the wrong side of the law,” she said, then smiled. “Well perhaps now, we cancel each other out…”

  O’Bryan took a quick step forwards and shoved her hard in her chest. She staggered backwards, her face not comprehending what he had done, but as her feet found no purchase and she reached the edge, her eyes went wide and she started to scream. The scream lasted an agonising four seconds before silence followed. Ominous and final.

  38

  Five days later

  London

  O’Bryan wasn’t a lover of religion, but he would have to admit that he found churches to be a calm, contemplative place to spend time. There was a serenity that he found difficult to describe. The same went with graveyards. Perhaps there was an acceptance that eventually, even if you lived your life without religion, you ended up somewhere like this. The proximity to death made one contemplate life, and while doing so, with the knowledge that we are here for such a short time, serenity is easily reached. It wasn’t something you could fight against and win. Ultimately, there really was only one conclusion for all.

  The graveyard was neatly kept, the grass cut short and the bushes and shrubs trimmed and shaped to keep the path free for people to walk two-abreast, as was common practice when walking to burial plots, behind a coffin carried by six.

  He had missed the funeral. He had at least wanted to hear Anderson’s eulogy, but he had been assured by those he knew in attendance that it was both fitting and bullshit. A parody that so many knew so little about the man, and so few knew little more. There were anecdotes told that his colleagues knew nothing of, and untold anecdotes his colleagues dare not divulge to his family. A life of almost thirty-years in the police, with twe
nty of those years spent in the fight against terrorism had left its mark. Anderson was both a larger than life character and a shadow, depending on who you asked.

  The investigation into DS Hosking’s involvement with John Pascoe was ongoing. Quite how or why events had led them both to the precipice was unclear. Their bodies had been recovered. Hosking’s at nearby Porthtowan, further up the tidal current and Pascoe’s car had been spotted by an ornithologist at low tide. Just enough shadow for the man, familiar to the location to know there was an anomaly. A search and rescue team had recovered his body, but as yet any recovery of the vehicle looked unlikely. Phone records had shown multiple texts and calls between Hosking and Pascoe. Officers had been drafted down from Exeter to lead and DCI Trevithick had been suspended pending an internal enquiry. Pete Mitchell was still at large and subject to an active UK manhunt as well as on Interpol’s watch list.

  O’Bryan hadn’t brought flowers with him. He imagined there would have been enough already, and besides, Anderson would have ribbed him terribly about giving another man flowers. He had found the grave easily enough. Freshly dug and filled with loose earth piled in a slight mound, the headstone newly polished and seated perfectly upright. The headstone was, however, non-descript. There were black marble affairs, with white or gold inlaid writing, that seemed to be a popular choice, but either Anderson had left instructions, or his wife had chosen an austere stone that looked like slate to O’Bryan. The engraving was deep and in a relatively plain font. Nothing flamboyant, nothing to indicate that a good man rested here, a man who had gone over and above for the security of his country.