Out of the Night

by Dan Latus

  I watched her drive away and gave her a last wave. Then I went inside to work out what I was going to do next.

  The next morning I set out early to do some more searching. I hadn’t forgotten my mysterious visitor. Maybe she was long gone but my head was full of unanswered questions. About dead bodies, as well as the one still alive when last seen. I needed to refresh my ideas.

  I drove north to Skinningrove, where once there had been a steelworks with its own harbour for shipping coal in and pig iron and steel out. Now there was a museum and a few streets of old terraced houses. But the jetty was there still, and much prized by anglers for the cod, whiting and bass they could catch from it. There was nothing there for me, in all honesty, but Skinningrove was a geographical benchmark. Nowhere north of there, I judged, would be relevant to my searches.

  I left the Land Rover down by the jetty and walked up onto the nearby cliffs to look down on Hummersea Old Harbour, where once alum shale was quarried, burned in the alum works and shipped to the textile industries. At low tide you could see two trenches in the flat expanse of shale rocks, the Hummersea Scars, where in the olden days men had hacked out channels for their boats and ships to come close inshore. From the beach you could fish now for codling and whiting, and for dab and flounder. And for mackerel in the summer. Jimmy Mack had told me. He knew a thing or two about this coast, and its fish and currents.

  I travelled on to Boulby, where the four hundred foot cliffs are the highest England has to offer. Down below, just above the beach, there had once been an alum works there, too, and later iron-ore mining had taken place. All gone now, but the fish were there still, as they were to the south, in the deep, kelp-filled pools where a man brave enough to risk the tides could get a good catch of big winter cod. Jimmy had told me that, too.

  Just a little further south again you got to my backyard, and then you came to Port Holland. It wasn’t far. I reached it while the light was still good. The village was well-dug into the cliff, snug against the harsh wind and the threat of more sleet.

  I descended a rough path to the beach and poked around for a half hour. There were a few cobles pulled up onto the shingle by the fishermen’s huts. The ruined harbour, I could see, had been partially repaired in order to accommodate the magnificent pleasure craft that bobbed up and down against the repaired jetty. It was a big one. Jimmy had been right about all of this, too. Money had been spent here recently to accommodate a rich man’s plaything.

  I didn’t stay long. By the time I had climbed back up the cliff path, the light was fading fast and the weather was even more threatening. I drove home thoughtfully, making a point of going round by Meridion House, a mile or so out of Port Holland. The car I saw entering the ornate gateway reminded me of another car I had seen recently. The same colour, at least. Blue. I didn’t have a chance to read the licence plate before it accelerated up the curving drive and out of sight behind a screen of ancient Scots pine.

  Back at Risky Point I took stock. What did I have? Any new insights?

  Nothing concrete, but I did have a few more thoughts and questions.

  First, why would anyone wanting rid of three bodies dump them on the beach at Port Holland? There were so many better places within easy reach, places where they were unlikely to be discovered. Deep, kelp-filled pools would do the job nicely, especially when there were big, fat winter cod around.

  One possibility was that they were put on the beach deliberately – with considerable effort – to serve as a punishment or a warning to local people, or a local person. Perhaps even to one who owned a big, swanky boat?

  Another possibility was that they hadn’t been put there at all. They had simply ended up there.

  As for my nocturnal visitor, I still didn’t know for sure if she was connected to all of that. What I did have was the thought that one of the many fishermen’s huts dotted and clustered around old jetties and derelict harbours wouldn’t be a bad place to hide away if you were on the run. For that matter, there were plenty of cottages in Port Holland itself where she might have found refuge, perhaps with people sympathetic to her plight.

  Then again, Bill Peart might well be right. In fact, he probably was. If so, she had long since departed the area. Somehow she must have. That was the most likely option when you worked through the possibilities. I just didn’t believe it, not for one moment. Instinct, hunch, if you like, but if she was gone now, her presence in the first place would have been too much of a coincidence. I didn’t believe in coincidence.

  I got up to make myself a sandwich to tide me over until I cooked something later on, after I’d been to see Jimmy. But that didn’t work out. I couldn’t find the bread. A new loaf, as well. At least, I thought I’d got one out of the freezer. I must be getting delusional, I decided. Probably from living so close to Jimmy.

  I shook my head, got another loaf out of the freezer and stuffed it in the microwave. What would we do without modern gadgetry? Starve, probably. Or live like Jimmy Mack. Although he seemed to manage pretty well.

  While I waited for the bread to defrost, my mind went back to the car I’d seen turning into the gateway at Meridion House. The memory nagged at me. Could it have been the same one, the car that had been here a couple of days ago? Surely not? Not going into an art centre.

  The make and colour were right, but there must be millions of dark blue VW saloons running around. Passat. That was the model. Hard as I tried, I couldn’t think of any distinguishing feature on the tough guys’ car.

  Meridion House, though? I hadn’t noticed a sign to say it was an art centre but Ellen wouldn’t be wrong about that. She worked there, after all. They probably just hadn’t got round to putting a sign up yet.

  All I could recall about the place was that it had been built as the summer home for a Middlesbrough ironmaster, a place where he could let the wind blow the dust and fumes out of his lungs. In that sense, it was similar to Port Holland itself, which had been built by a Tyneside industrialist. Perhaps the two men had been buddies, as well as competitors? Ironmasters against the world!

  The microwave pinged. I took the bread out and cut a couple of hefty slices. I buttered them. Then I couldn’t find the cheese, the big chunk of yellow cheddar I liked so much. Instead, I had to open a tin of pork luncheon meat. Real gourmet stuff! I made a mug of tea to go with it and sat down to eat.

  So Meridion House was an art centre now? Well, it made sense. Runswick Bay, not far away, was a popular spot with painters. So was Whitby, a little further south. In fact, almost anywhere on this stretch of coast was worth painting.

  But an art centre? I wondered what they did there. Exhibitions? Holidays for painters? I would have to go and have a look round sometime. I’d never been.

  That brought Jac Picknett to mind, and the fact that I had promised to check out her gallery. Events of the last couple of days had rather driven her out of mind. I wondered if she had heard anything about Meridion House. I’d have to ask her.

  Right now, though, I needed to get over to see Jimmy Mack. Visiting him in hospital was the least I could do for him.

  12

  Jimmy was in James Cook University Hospital, in Middlesbrough. I felt wretchedly guilty about what had happened to him, but the sight of him relieved some of that. He was enjoying himself, and he grinned when he saw me.

  ‘It’s all right, here,’ he told me straight away.

  ‘Considering?’

  ‘Aye, considering.’ He held up the arm that was in plaster for my inspection. ‘But they’ve been looking after me.’

  ‘That’s good. I’m really sorry, Jimmy. This shouldn’t have come down on you.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I’ll see that you pay for it.’

  ‘Endless cups of coffee?’

  ‘At least.’ He peered at me suspiciously. ‘Where’s my grapes? And my flowers? Don’t tell me you haven’t brought any?’

  ‘Sorry, Jim,’ I said helplessly.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. It’s no m
ore than I expected. Some neighbour!’

  A nurse bustled up to us. ‘Five minutes,’ she said to me. ‘Don’t you go tiring him.’

  Jimmy winked at me after she had left. ‘See how they look after me?’

  I grinned. ‘I’d better get on with it, then.’

  ‘That policeman friend of yours has been to see me.’

  ‘Bill Peart? Has he now?’

  I was surprised, and pleased.

  ‘What did he have to say?’

  ‘Nothing, really. He was mostly interested in asking questions, but there wasn’t much I could tell him.’

  ‘He knows what happened, by the way. After this,’ I said with a shrug, ‘I had to tell him.’

  ‘About the girl, as well?’

  I nodded. ‘But he doesn’t think she’s connected to the bodies on the beach.’

  ‘Maybe she isn’t.’

  ‘Something I was going to ask you, Jim. If you dumped something in one of them deep, kelp pools up around Boulby, somewhere like Boulby Gully, would it stay there, do you think?’

  ‘Something like a body?’ he said craftily.

  I nodded.

  He considered the question and said, ‘Maybe not. There’s strong currents all the way along the foot of the cliffs. They would probably wash it out.’

  ‘So where would it end up?’

  ‘Hard to say.’ He frowned thoughtfully. ‘On a beach, eventually, I suppose. Further south, somewhere.’

  ‘Port Holland, maybe?’

  He looked at me and nodded. ‘I can’t think of anywhere more likely.’

  ‘So maybe they weren’t dumped there, those three bodies. Maybe they just ended up there?’

  Jimmy nodded. ‘That’s been my feeling all along. I mean, why would you just dump them there, where folk could see them?’

  ‘I’ve been wondering that myself.’

  I nodded and thought about it some more, and could find nothing wrong with the way we were both thinking.

  To change the subject and make him laugh, I said, ‘I nearly got caught out by the tide the other day.’

  He just looked at me, his grizzled face ready to break out into laughter.

  ‘I mean it!’

  I told him what had happened. He started taking me seriously then.

  ‘You could have got up the cliff.’

  ‘I recalled you saying there was a way off that beach, but I couldn’t see it.’

  He frowned and said, ‘Well, it might not be there now, I suppose. But there used to be a way.’

  I thought he was probably right. Erosion would have removed whatever route he’d had in mind.

  ‘Towards yon end,’ he said slowly, ‘did you notice where the sandstone comes down to the bottom?’

  I shook my head. Local geology had been the last thing on my mind.

  ‘Most of the way along it’s just the shale, and that’s no good. But you could get up where the sandstone is. There used to be a few iron handholds hammered into the rock. You used them in the tricky places.’

  ‘How long ago was this, Jimmy?’ I said gently.

  ‘How long?’ He frowned in thought for a moment. ‘The last time I went up there, I’d have been about eleven.’ His face creased with smiles and he added, ‘I got merry heck off Father!’

  I smiled, too. The very idea of Jimmy ever being eleven was enough to bring it out of me.

  We talked for a few minutes about Jimmy’s father, who seemed to have been a tough old character indeed. He’d had to be. Fishing was never an easy way to make a living.

  Jimmy yawned. He was getting tired.

  ‘Let me ask you something else, Jimmy, before I go and let you get some rest. There’s a big house just outside Port Holland called Meridion House. Do you know it?’

  He nodded. ‘It changed hands a year or two ago. That fellow with the fancy boat bought it.’

  ‘It’s supposed to be an art centre.’

  Jimmy shook his head at that. The very idea!

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘there’s some funny people around. That might explain it, I suppose.’

  ‘Funny?’

  ‘Foreign,’ he said with satisfaction, as if that really did clinch it.

  ‘Not fishermen, you mean?’

  He grinned. ‘Now you’re having me on!’

  I laughed. ‘Just a bit. Real foreign, you mean?’

  ‘Real foreign.’

  I supposed the presence of an art centre might explain that, depending on what was done at the centre.

  ‘You don’t know anything else about the place?’

  He shook his head. ‘Why?’

  I shrugged. ‘Nothing, really. It’s just that when I was driving past this afternoon I saw a car the same type and colour those two thugs had. Probably just a coincidence.’

  After a moment, Jimmy said, ‘Did it have a rear mudflap missing, on the driver’s side?’

  ‘No idea. It was too dark. Did theirs have one missing?’

  ‘That’s just about all I do remember about it. I saw it was missing when I was lying on the ground,’ he added grimly.

  I hurried to change the subject.

  ‘So how are you feeling, generally?’

  ‘Never better.’

  I was sure that was a lie, but it was a good one. I didn’t mind him trying to spare my feelings.

  ‘Well, the good news is that after two days of hard work, both our houses are just about back to normal.’

  ‘Mended, you mean?’

  I nodded. ‘Mended – and cleaned. I got Ellen, that woman who does holiday cottages, to give me a hand. She’s brilliant.’

  ‘Aye. She is.’

  He was quiet for a little while. Remembering what the nurse had said, I wondered if I was over-taxing him.

  Then he turned to me and said, ‘Thank you, Frank. I can’t wait to get back home.’

  I could swear there was a tear in his eye. I touched his good arm gently and left.

  On the way out, the same nurse I had seen before bustled up to me.

  ‘How did you find Mr Mack?’

  I smiled. ‘He seems pretty good to me. You’ve done really well for him.’

  She smiled. ‘Another couple of days and he’ll be ready to go home.’

  ‘I don’t think he’ll want to.’

  She laughed. ‘Oh, he will! I’m sure of that.’

  ‘No lasting damage?’

  ‘No. He’ll be fine.’

  ‘That’s a relief. Thank you again.’

  As I walked over to the Land Rover, I was thinking that Jimmy might be fine, but I knew two miserable creatures who would not be when I caught up with them. Cretins! And I would do that – I would find them. Payback time couldn’t come soon enough.

  13

  The phone rang soon after I got back in the house. It was Bill Peart.

  ‘You’re lucky,’ I told him. ‘I’ve just got in. Did you try my mobile?’

  ‘It costs money to ring mobiles.’

  ‘There is that,’ I said, raising my eyebrows. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about the bodies at Port Holland.’

  Day and night, it seemed. Not too surprising, really. He would feel he had responsibility for them.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well….’ He was struggling. ‘Can you think of any reason for them being naked?’

  ‘A couple, actually,’ I said with a smile.

  He made a disgusted noise and said, ‘Seriously.’

  ‘Yes, even seriously.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It reduces the possibility of identification even further.’

  ‘Yeah. Got that. Anything else?’

  I’d been thinking of this during my long walk along the cliffs. Now I wondered if Bill had got to the same place as me.

  ‘It would be easier to get victims to take their own clothes off than to do it for them when they’re dead.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ he said with a big sigh. After a moment’s silence
he added, ‘You know what this means for the girl that came to your house, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. She was meant to be a victim, as well.’

  ‘Exactly. So she was involved.’

  What he didn’t say, but I knew as well as he did, was that she was lucky she’d got away – and how had she managed that?

  ‘I wonder what happened to her?’ Bill said reflectively.

  ‘That’s been tormenting me, as well,’ I told him before I hung up.

  I was hungry by then, but I couldn’t lay my hands on anything I wanted. I was too distracted. What the hell did Bill think – I was his private, unpaid consultant?

  The situation was getting to me. It was all right for him but I had a living to make, and I was struggling. I was neglecting simple things, and forgetting others. Imagining things, as well. No defrosted bread again! And where the hell was the packet of sausages I bought yesterday? I couldn’t find my favourite coffee mug either. Shit!

  At least I had plenty of wine and beer. There was nutrition in that, wasn’t there, I thought wearily, as I settled in a chair with a bottle of Caledonian 80 and an opener.

  Enough, anyway. Enough nutrition to last me until I got into Middlesbrough tomorrow. That was when I was due to visit Jac Picknett and check out her gallery before I advised her on security arrangements. Getting back to my day job. And doing some shopping while I was at it.

  I yawned as I chomped my way through a bag of crisps, not having found anything else that took my fancy and was as easy to prepare. It had been a long day, and an unsatisfactory one. Nothing resolved. But at least Jimmy was on the mend. We were getting back to normal. I should concentrate on a positive like that, and put aside the stuff I couldn’t do anything about.

  Then the phone rang again. I picked it up.

  ‘Doy? Frank Doy?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘How did you like your house when we were finished with it?’

  That was followed by a mad laugh. Before I could reply, the voice said, ‘Keep out of things that are nothing to do with you. Next time you won’t have a house to go back to – or a neighbour either.’