by Lee Weeks
‘Are you from here?’ asked Carter. He thought Jago’s aftershave was nice but there was too much on. Carter wasn’t quite sure whom Jago had come to impress. Marky was a surfer type, low-slung jeans, expensive polo shirt and beads around his neck. Marky was watching his father intently.
‘He doesn’t sound like it, does he?’ Raymonds laughed.
‘Oh, I can if I chooses,’ Jago said in a comical Cornish accent.
‘Jago’s just come back, isn’t that right, Jago?’
‘Yes, absolutely. Decided to see what Cornwall could offer me.’
‘Lots of people starting up small businesses in the West Country at the moment, I hear,’ said Carter.
‘Oh, we only want home-grown here, thanks,’ Raymonds said with a grin.
‘Doesn’t it get a bit inbred?’ Carter asked.
Marky’s laugh came out in a nervous giggle as Jago laughed longer than it was funny.
Raymonds waited for him to simmer down. ‘We allow a bit of new blood in the female form now and again, as long as she’s Cornish. That’s what we need to find for my Marky here – thirty-one years old and not even one wife under his belt.’ He slapped Marky on the back and his son smiled uneasily. ‘Too busy surfing. Oh well – you lads can scarper now you’ve said your hellos. You come by and see Mum tomorrow, Marky – she’s expecting you. If you go fishing, you make sure you bring back a few scallops.’ Marky nodded with a furtive glance towards Carter as he left.
Raymonds waited for Marky and Jago to find their place back at the pool table around the corner and then he looked into his drink. Apart from Raymonds and the two lads, no one had come in or left since Carter arrived; he felt as if he were on a stage, in a play.
Carter glanced at Raymonds’ profile as he sipped his beer. Behind Raymonds he saw the eyes flick up and look their way as if people were waiting and watching to see Raymonds’ judgement on the newcomer.
‘You staying here?’ Raymonds asked, as he perched on a barstool.
‘Yes, for tonight.’
Raymonds nodded, mock-impressed, as he took in the information. He picked up his pint, and Carter looked at Raymonds’ hands – delicate, feminine almost. The half-moon cuticles were white and clean, the nails perfectly filed. Carter could perceive the faintest whiff of what could have been aftershave; but it wasn’t pleasant. He hadn’t noticed the smell in Raymonds’ house when they’d gone there. Carter wondered whether Raymonds had a mistress. He looked around the bar and his eyes met those of Mawgan Stokes, clearing the tables at the far end. She looked away quickly.
Possible, thought Carter. She moved among the tables clearing away the remnants of dinner. Not one of the men at the tables acknowledged her as she leaned across them to clear their glasses.
‘This is your local?’ Carter leaned one elbow on the bar.
‘More or less. It’s the only place to come.’
‘What about over at Penhaligon?’
Raymonds lifted his chin and smiled in a dismissive gesture.
‘Full of kids. The other way gets posher as you go towards Rockyhead. Not to the taste of most locals. Too rich for simple folk.’ He smiled and Carter knew he was taking the piss.
‘I thought you might have been on the way to Penhaligon when you decided to take a detour this afternoon. You were seen by the helicopter up on the Garra headland. I was at Garra Cove myself this afternoon.’
‘Really?’ Raymonds eyeballed Carter. ‘That’s a dangerous place to visit this time of year, when the tides are so high. You can be washed right off the rocks. Gone in a few seconds.’
‘Does that happen often?’
‘Has been known. We get the young kids coming down, getting drunk and off their heads. Just takes a slip or a little push and that’s the last we see of them till their body’s washed up.’
‘So, this afternoon. What were you doing?’
‘I was going to call on Cam up at the cottage but I changed my mind. I spent some time up there just enjoying the view. I never tire of it. You city folks can’t comprehend it, I expect.’
‘Have you lived here all your life?’ asked Carter.
‘Yes, and I’m Cornish through and through.’
Carter drank his beer. He watched Raymonds as he smirked into his glass. He was pleased with himself. Arrogant git, thought Carter. If it was Raymonds who had pushed him off the cliff he’d have had to run pretty fast to get to where Pascoe had seen him from the helicopter. It was a good mile over the cliffs, but he could have done it. Carter decided to change the subject. He wanted to keep Raymonds on the back foot if he could.
‘How do people feel about the lack of a police station here now? The nearest help is, what, twenty miles away?’
He shook his head. ‘Disgrace.’
‘Pisses you off?’
‘Yes, of course it does. You pay peanuts, you get monkeys. I want proper coppers here again, not specials. But . . . there’s no money, is there?’
‘Not like in the old days.’
‘Like in the days when people knew who the troublemakers were, policemen knew their locals; knew where to head at the first sign of mischief.’
‘Something you prided yourself on?’
‘You’re bloody right, I did, and why shouldn’t I? I took over as sergeant here and I knew everyone in this place. I knew the good, bad and the fucking ugly. All of them answered to me.’
‘Pretty impressive.’
‘Bloody right it was, and we never had any trouble here. Never had to call for help then. We sorted things out, kept it contained.’
‘Forgive me for saying, but Jeremy Forbes-Wright was a strange choice of friend for you as an outsider, a Londoner, coming down here and throwing his weight around.’
‘Ah well. He paid his dues – he knew how to respect the community.’
‘How do you mean?’
Mawgan had finished collecting glasses. Raymonds watched her as she walked back towards the kitchen door around the side of the bar by the steps up to the games area. Her eyes flicked up to meet his before she disappeared. ‘Yes, everyone had respect in those days. Now we’re lucky to see a real copper here at all. It’s all unpaid policemen – specials, or whatever you call them now. They’re about as useful as a eunuch in a brothel.’ He looked back at Carter, a glint in his eyes.
Carter glanced towards the kitchen door now shut and smiled back at Raymonds. ‘Looks as if it’s still your job, to look after things here?’
Raymonds took a drink and span the beer mat around his fingers as he studied Carter. ‘What did you hear about me?’
Carter grinned, shrugged. ‘Nothing but praise.’
‘Yeah – bullshit. Can smell it a mile off, lad.’
‘You must have known what I’d find out – you were a little too quick with your temper at times. You were a bit too physical. Old school.’
Raymonds bowed his head as he pushed back and straightened his arms. He tilted his head and lowered his voice as he forced Carter to lean a little and listen to what he had to say.
‘I got things done. I never asked for back-up, or had to be wet-nursed by some girly. People had respect for the police in those days. You won’t find one person who’s willing to say anything against me.’
There was a challenge in his voice. Carter smiled into his beer as Raymond finished his.
‘You know where I am if you need me, but don’t waste your time on the wrong people. You won’t find the boy here. You want to look closely at the dad; Jeremy Forbes-Wright always hinted that there was something strange about his son. They never got on. We caught him here once, messing about. I had a good mind to lock him up for a few days but his dad persuaded me he’d see the error of his ways. That’s what I mean about Jeremy – he respected the way we did things down here, he understood.’
‘What was the problem?’
‘He got nasty with a girl, a local girl.’
‘What do you mean, nasty?’
‘He raped her and gave her a beating while he w
as at it. She was a mess.’
Raymonds glared at Carter.
‘What happened? Didn’t she press charges?’
‘No, they were both young, she was only fourteen, he was a year older. She decided she didn’t want to give evidence. But Toby didn’t come down here again. Jeremy was very apologetic and he made amends.’
‘Did you investigate it? I mean, it’s quite something to accuse a fifteen-year-old boy of rape.’
‘Well, view it any way you want, but we had enough evidence. If the girl had wanted to, we could have made a strong case against him.’
‘Was there forensic evidence?’
‘There would have been, but we didn’t bother wasting money if she didn’t intend to press charges.’
Raymonds pushed himself away from the bar and picked up the car keys he had left on the bar top.
‘Take care, sonny.’
Carter watched the locals as they all followed Raymonds out. Jago and Marky were the last to leave.
Jon Weston, the bar landlord and hotel owner, washed up silently as he waited for Carter to finish his drink.
‘Excuse me, mate . . .’ Carter walked along the bar until he was level with Weston. ‘Can I have a word?’
Weston put down his cloth. ‘Sir?’
Carter showed his badge for the first time, although he didn’t doubt that Weston knew exactly who he was. When he had booked the room he hadn’t mentioned it.
‘Problem with your room, sir?’
‘No. I wanted to ask you about your staff here.’
‘Sorry, I can’t give out confidential information about my staff.’ He turned his back on Carter and began cashing up the till.
‘Hello? Yes, you can.’ Carter showed his warrant card. ‘An official investigation is going on here.’
‘Into what?’
‘Staff names and addresses, please. If you wouldn’t mind? I’ll wait.’
Weston shrugged. He had his back to Carter again and Carter drew in a silent but deep breath. He wasn’t an angry person, far from it, but he also wasn’t someone who would suffer fools. Weston turned round.
‘Will the morning be okay?’
‘No. It won’t take you long, will it? After all, you have nightly lock-ins here in the bar and my presence seems to have been announced and to have cut short any thirst for late-night drinking; so you take as long as you like and I’ll wait here with my pint. If you’re too long, I will come and find you.’
Weston didn’t answer, just gave the till drawer a shove – it crashed noisily shut before he walked off towards the kitchen door.
Carter looked around the bar as he waited. The rain was spraying across the black windows. He checked his phone – Willis hadn’t been in touch yet. He texted her to ask her to call him.
After ten minutes Weston came back with the file. He put it on the bar in front of Carter.
‘I also wanted to ask you about the public phone here.’
‘In the hall on your way up the stairs.’
‘Is it used a lot?’
‘God, yes. Everyone uses it. The signal down here is crap.’
‘Is there any way I can check who’s used it and at what time?’
‘You’re the detective, what you asking me for?’
Carter smiled.
‘Is that everything?’ Weston asked.
Carter nodded. ‘Think so. I’ll take it with me if you don’t mind.’
Weston hesitated and then gave a resigned nod, but he didn’t make eye contact. Carter finished the last of his pint and picked up the file. He walked to the end of the bar and through the door, and headed right up past the hotel reception, which was a booth inside a recess. The light was on and he saw Weston enter and pretend to be busy. Carter took the stairs up towards his room on the second floor. The creak of the stairs and the tick of a large grandfather clock on the landing above was all that he could hear. Then from somewhere below he heard a fire door close with a whoosh and a compressed thud.
He reached his landing, treading quietly on the old carpet. The floorboards creaked and whined beneath his feet. Inside his room he checked his phone for signal and saw just one bar. No reply from Willis. He went towards the window and saw a shadow pass.
He dialled Robbo’s number.
‘Can you have a look for me for any mention of an attack by Toby on a young fourteen-year-old woman here in Penhal? This would have been when Toby was fifteen, so about 2000. She was raped. There must be some mention of it in police files even if the investigation got dropped.’
‘Christ, that’s a big accusation.’
‘Yes. And made by Raymonds, who is adamant it happened, just not convinced it was worth investigating.’
‘What reason does he give?’ Robbo asked.
‘They were both minors.’
‘Okay I’ll find out all I can.’
‘Thanks.’
Carter checked his phone and tried to ring Cabrina but it went straight to answer machine. He left her a voicemail then he picked up his keys and left.
Chapter 22
Carter walked across the cliff top to the sound of the roar of the crashing waves as they sucked up sand and spewed it back as shingle on the beach. The moonlight touched the line of foam as the wave breached. A few stars had found their way through the rain clouds that had kept the temperature above freezing. The walk across the cliff top was along a narrow path; Carter’s eyes got used to the dark. The jagged black outline of the gorse to his right kept at waist height as the path dipped and rose on its descent down towards the village. He turned his head to listen for the sound of someone else. He heard nothing until the wind dropped as he ascended the last twenty yards and the hedges rose around him.
Willis was expecting him. As she met him at the front door she whispered that Lauren had fallen asleep on the sofa, and he took a few steps backwards as she pulled her coat on and closed the door.
‘Let’s walk,’ he said.
‘Is she all right?’ Carter asked as he waited for Willis to tuck the house keys in her jacket pocket and zip it up. ‘What’s the inside of that place like?’
‘Interesting, like Pascoe said. Not your average holiday let – all heavy curtains and dark walls. Lauren’s okay. Before she fell asleep I told her I’d have to go out for a while. She has my number if she wants me.’
‘I’ve learned some things about Toby this evening – Raymonds says there was an allegation of rape against him which was never investigated.’
‘Against Toby?’
‘Yes, I know that doesn’t sound likely but apparently, according to Raymonds, it led to the rift in the father-son relationship,’ Carter whispered. He opened the gate for him and Willis to slip through. ‘I had a very odd conversation with him this evening.’
‘Did it sound like bullshit?’
‘Surprisingly not. Maybe because he was calm when he told me. He looked like he’d been hoping not to have to say it.’
‘How true do you think that is? Is it possible?’
‘I’ve no idea. Toby’s the son of a messed-up man who as far as we know did his best to mess his son up. Anything’s possible. Robbo’s looking into it.’
They walked down towards the sea. The cloud had cleared and the stars began to assert their presence. Down at the beach there was a light coming from the accommodation above the farm shop; it was barely a glow as the blackout curtains did their job, but a security light was still on above the front door. Someone had either just arrived or left. The light went on in the dress shop a few doors down.
They crossed the road to the Surfshack and walked round on the sand to its beach side. From there they watched the farm shop. A smartly dressed woman in heels came out. Carter recognized her as the owner of the boutique, Mary-Jane Trebethin. She opened the door with a key.
They waited for thirty-five minutes. She didn’t come out.
‘Let’s go,’ Carter said. They headed back up the hill to the house. They were within sight when they saw the glow of
the security light shining brightly out from between the branches of the pines. ‘There’s someone coming out of the gate,’ said Carter.
In a second Willis was sprinting up the steep hill and keeping her eyes focused on the person now running not too far ahead. Carter kept pace with Willis as best he could as she gave chase up the hill. He slowed as he struggled for breath. Willis ran on, climbing over a farm gate to her right. She pushed hard up and over the field’s rough frozen terrain. She couldn’t see her own feet as she lost her footing. She heard someone else to her left, running close to the hedge. Willis looked up and across at the big shadowy body of a horse that was standing still now and taking an interest.
‘Stop,’ she shouted across. She could hear someone else’s hard breathing but no slowing pace. ‘Police officer! Stop!’ The horse snorted. The top of the field loomed ahead of her. Five caravans stood at the far side of the field. Beyond them and to the right of the field Willis saw a figure run in front of one of the white-sided vans. The light from a torch came bouncing over the hedge. As the horse started to trot over to her, Willis stayed where she was and signalled to Carter, who had caught her up.
‘I’m not good with horses . . . someone ran in over there.’ Their breaths ballooned, white in the icy night. ‘I think they’ve gone into one of the vans.’
The horse snorted as it came to a standstill in front of them. Its face was white, with large eyes. It had a rug on its back.
Carter reached out to touch its face.
‘All right there, lad.’
The horse nuzzled into Carter’s hand. It followed them up the field as they walked together towards the first of the vans, which were gleaming in the moonlight. The vans, side-on to them, were spaced unevenly. They walked around and took a van each as they tried to see in, but all the curtains were closed; most of them looked locked up for the winter. On the last van Willis called Carter over. Inside she could see the faint red glow from a fridge light. He nodded. Willis knocked on the door and waited. She knocked again louder. They heard a shuffling noise. Someone shouted from the other side.
