by Jane Holland
My heart starts thumping violently, my palms damp with sweat as I realise he’s not kidding. ‘No, no.’
He pushes Jon towards the door. ‘Don’t argue, Meghan, don’t be stupid. You’ll only make me angry with you too.’
‘I’m not going to help you throw us all off a cliff.’
‘All?’ He shakes his head. ‘I’m no child-killer; I’m not a complete ogre. And you were never even meant to be here. Look, you want to survive this? You want Harry back alive?’ He looks at me hard. ‘Then do exactly as I say.’
I don’t believe he’s planning to let us go. But what choice do I have?
I take a deep breath. ‘Treve, stop and think about this. The police will never believe it was an accident. Or suicide. It’s right next to your house, for God’s sake.’
‘I don’t care what happens to me afterwards. Neither does my mother. We just want to see justice done,’ he says flatly. ‘Now get Camilla on her feet, rip that tape off her ankles, and let’s go.’
Chapter Forty
His mother is waiting by the back door as we head down the stairs. Harry is nowhere to be seen. ‘Well?’ she asks her son brusquely.
‘It’s time,’ he tells her.
Her eyes widen, then she nods. ‘I’ll get the baby,’ she says ominously, and disappears back into the downstairs room.
A moment later she emerges with Harry clutched to her chest. He’s still in his blue romper-suit, looking even drowsier than before, his eyes barely open. Perhaps he’s been given a bottle feed while we were upstairs. Or perhaps the woman has drugged him. I have to suppress an instinctive desire to snatch my child away from her. But Treve and his mother would overpower me in an instant if I did that, and might well hurt Harry in revenge. Or even kill him.
I have heard enough today to know that’s a very real possibility. I need to be careful. To take this one wary step at a time.
‘Let’s go,’ Treve tells us, authority in his voice. ‘And no stupid moves, Meghan. You can still walk away from this. You and Harry. But only if you do exactly what I tell you.’
I don’t believe that, not for a minute. He’s going to kill me. And probably Harry too. Tidying up loose ends, that’s how he will justify our deaths to himself. It’s probably true that he doesn’t care what happens to himself after he’s achieved this self-styled goal of retribution. But I doubt he would leave his mother to face a likely prison sentence. Which means the two of us will also need to be shuffled off, in case my version of events fails to tally with theirs. And whatever he says, I’m sure Treve has a cover story already concocted for when the first police car arrives at Tide House.
For now though, I have to play along. I don’t have much choice.
We follow the path through the overgrown grounds of Tide House, past a cluster of wizened old trees bent into eerie shapes by the prevailing winds, and make for the headland beyond. Jon is limping badly, so Treve walks behind him with a hand on his shoulder, pushing him constantly forward. Behind them comes his mother, carrying a limp Harry in her arms, no coat or blanket over him, despite the sea winds.
I bring up the rear, my gaze on the top of Harry’s head. I’m supporting a weeping Camilla on my arm, who keeps shaking her head and groaning through her gag, as though she thinks I can understand what she’s saying.
I try to ignore her. I don’t want Camilla to die. I don’t want anyone to die. But it’s hard to be one hundred per cent sympathetic towards the woman who’s been cheating with my husband behind my back.
Not that I care much about Jon right at this minute. Now that I know the whole story, I realise that my husband is the one who is to blame for all this. If he had not misjudged the strength of his neighbour’s emotions, and started this disastrous affair with Camilla, we would not be here now, limping across rough ground towards some horrific death.
I believe Treve when he says he did not want to take Harry. Despite all evidence to the contrary, I can only hope he’s not the kind of man who would ever harm a child, let alone a sick baby.
But I saw the look in his mother’s eyes when she went to fetch Harry, and it chilled me to the bone. She used to be a nurse, he said. But that was the look of someone who has made up her mind to do something utterly appalling, to perform an act of such atrocity that nothing can ever excuse it, where the only recourse is to harden the heart and stop off all emotion.
It was the look of a baby-killer.
Treve stops us a few feet from the edge of the cliff. He pushes Jon down to his knees, then stands looking out to sea.
His mother turns to me and Camilla. ‘On your knees,’ she tells her daughter-in-law. Her voice is devoid of emotion.
Camilla looks at me for help.
I don’t know what to do. I avoid her glance, concentrating hard, looking around for a weapon. But there is none.
There’s nothing out here on the headland but rough grass and rock outcrops dotted with gorse. Further away from the edge are brambles, and odd clumps of cow parsley, plus the occasional low-creeping plant, clinging to jagged crevices among the rocks. Not surprising, I suppose. The wind blows in hard from the Atlantic below, leaving no chance for anything taller than a small shrub to get established. Anything higher would simply be uprooted in the winter storms they must get here, and be blown away.
So no trees. Which means no sticks lying about. And the rock is all rising out of the cliff itself, not lying about loose as shale or pebbles.
The best I could do is tear up some grass and throw it in Treve’s face.
Hardly promising as a weapon.
Besides, his mother is perilously close to the edge of the cliff, which means Harry is too, still clutched in her arms, crying weakly now.
‘He’s cold,’ I tell her.
She looks round at me sharply. ‘Mind your own business, bitch.’
‘He’s my son. How can it not be my business?’
‘Shut your ugly face.’
Her aggression is worrying. Not for me, of course. I have ceased to care what happens to me. But she’s holding Harry. One misstep and she could fall. Or toss him over the cliff edge if she gets angry enough. If I make her angry.
I say nothing, carefully lowering my gaze to the ground.
‘That’s right,’ she says, nodding with satisfaction. ‘And you keep it shut. My son will deal with you soon enough. First, the others have to die. Your husband and his whore.’
‘Mum,’ Treve says quietly, and she falls silent.
I don’t want to look at Camilla, who is on her knees now, still crying and trembling. The sun is beginning to set to the west of us, and it’s bloody chilly in the direct path of the sea winds. Camilla is dressed for a nightclub, not a cliff edge, and her arms and legs are bare, covered with goose pimples. She’s shaking with cold now as well as fear.
There’s nothing I can do for Camilla at the moment. And if I try to console her, I may incite that woman’s anger.
I shift my gaze to Jon instead.
My husband is pallid with terror, the cuts and bruises standing out against the paper-white of his face, purplish-black and vivid red. He’s a mess. I try to remember the man I married, the man I thought that I loved up until a week or so ago. But all I see is the man who betrayed our marriage, and brought us to this moment, to this cliff edge on the Cornish coast. I’m horrified by my own calmness, contemplating his imminent death.
Then I realise that it’s shock. I’m not callous. I’m merely in shock. My hands are shaking, and my eyes are blurred with tears. My body knows what’s happening, even if my emotions are having a tough time catching up.
Treve seems to be praying. At least, his head is bent and he’s muttering something under his breath.
The reality of what’s happening suddenly hits me.
This is an execution, and I have no way of stopping it.
I consider running for my life. I doubt Treve would bother coming after me. But they still have Harry. It would almost certainly mean his death if I run.
&
nbsp; ‘I’m freezing,’ his mother says sourly.
Treve nods, still staring out to sea for a moment. He seems to come to a decision. Maybe his prayers are finished. Or maybe he’s getting cold too. ‘Bring me Camilla,’ he says at last, to no one in particular.
His mother looks at his wife, then gestures to me. Like I’m their lackey.
I shake my head.
Treve looks round at us both. ‘Bring me Camilla,’ he repeats.
‘Treve, please,’ I say, ‘think what you’re doing. There’s no going back from this.’
‘I made my mind up weeks ago. This is how it has to end, Meghan. This brings justice for you and me. My cheating wife dies. The lawyer dies. This is what needs to happen.’
‘Treve, you can still change your mind.’
‘Bring me my wife,’ he enunciates clearly. ‘It’s her or the baby. Can I make myself any clearer?’
God damn him.
Reluctantly, I look round at Camilla, meeting her eyes.
She looks terrified. She’s trying to say what sounds like Treve’s name behind the gag. Only it’s reduced to an incomprehensible grunt that she repeats again and again, more and more frantically.
Treve suddenly grows tired of waiting.
‘Get the bitch up on her feet,’ he shouts, his face contorted with rage. ‘Bring her to me. She has to die first.’
Camilla’s eyes bulge at this pronouncement. She makes a terrible choking noise behind her gag, and then throws herself face-down on to the grass like she’s having a fit of some sort. I step hurriedly backwards as she rolls violently back and forth near the edge of the cliff, shaking and kicking her legs. She seems to have gone mad. There’s grass caught in the tangled blonde mess of her hair. The noise resonating out of her is primitive, a kind of deep guttural yowl that’s somehow rising from her chest and stomach rather than coming past the gag over her mouth.
It’s the sort of noise a feral cat might make, caught in a trap.
Treve tries to approach her from behind, ducking down to grab at her leg, but she kicks out and catches him with her stiletto heel, still making that appalling noise.
‘Fuck!’ he exclaims, clearly hurt. ‘Right, you fucking bitch. Let’s see how you enjoy watching your lover die first. Then I’m coming back for you.’
He marches towards Jon, who is staring wide-eyed at Camilla, and drags him to his feet.
‘No, please, don’t!’ I shout at him.
But it’s too late.
Treve pushes Jon to the very edge of the cliff, holding on to his shirt, then rips the tape away from around his wrists.
Jon struggles, but Treve is too strong. He overbalances, his arms flailing.
I gasp, ‘Jon, no.’
There’s an eerie second where Treve reaches out, as though to grab him back, and I suddenly think he must have changed his mind. That it’s all been a trick, a way of frightening Jon as a punishment for his adultery.
But he is only reaching for the tie in Jon’s mouth, ripping it away. Maybe he wants to hear Jon beg for his life. Or scream as he’s falling.
Who knows what goes through the mind of a psychopath?
Jon mouths a desperate, ‘No,’ through gaping, swollen lips. But gravity is against him. He is already toppling backwards as he reaches out, missing Treve’s arm. His bare scrabbling toes lose contact with the loose stones and grass at the edge. Then there’s nothing but air at his back, no chance of recovery.
For a split second, Jon stares back at us blankly, as though he cannot quite believe what is happening.
He stares at Treve’s hand, just out of reach now, the creased blue tie trailing between his fingers, flapping in the wind.
At Harry, who stares back at him with idle curiosity.
At me.
Then he drops backwards out of sight, his long cry silenced with a thud as his body hits the rocks below.
The silence afterwards is appalling.
Treve stands there without moving, staring at the place where Jon had been a few seconds before. His hand drops to his side, still holding the blue tie.
Even Camilla stops shrieking and rolling about, and sobs into the grass instead.
I look at Harry, horrified.
His mouth twitches and trembles. The corners turn down, and his eyes screw up. Then he begins to cry, a terrible plaintive wail, as though he knows what he has lost, that life will never be the same again.
I take three long paces past Harry. Past the woman holding him, who is not looking at me but is smiling down at Camilla, as though enjoying her reaction to her lover’s death. Past the place where my husband was kneeling only a moment before, the coarse grasses still flattened in two semi-circular patches where his knees rested.
I shove Treve from behind.
One good hard push, both hands planted firmly in the middle of his back.
He is not expecting it. He never even gets a chance to turn round. His arms flail upwards in surprise, his trunk plunges forwards like a heavy statue being pushed from its plinth, and he falls without a word, the tie still in his hand.
I stagger back, then turn to face his mother’s wrath.
She screams.
Then drops Harry. Just drops him to the ground and rushes past me to the edge of the cliff.
‘No!’ she shrieks, staring wildly over the edge. There is no sound from below but the rhythmic crashing of waves on to rocks. ‘Treve? Treve, are you there? My boy, my precious boy. Oh God, oh God . . .’
I return to Harry and fall to my knees beside him. He is lying on his back in the thick grasses, as though in a cradle. I think at first he must have cracked his head. I expect to see blood, maybe to find him unconscious.
Miraculously, he seems unhurt. He stares up at me, his blue eyes wide and shocked.
‘Harry,’ I murmur, and gather him up, clutching him compulsively to my chest. He cries a little then, perhaps crushed by my embrace.
I am laughing and crying at the same time. My husband is dead but my son is alive. I want to kiss his puckered-up little face, hug him to me, burst into tears. But there’s no time for any of that. We are still both in danger, and we have to get out of there.
I need to get Harry to safety.
I struggle to my feet and begin to lope away, blood dried on my face from where Treve hit me, but otherwise unhurt.
Then I hear that strange muffled noise again from behind me.
The feral noise.
I turn, startled, just in time to see Camilla charging towards Treve’s mother. Blonde head down, like a maddened bull charging at a red cloth. Her wrists are still tied together with silver tape, her mouth gagged.
The woman half-turns, sees Camilla coming towards her at a run and cries out, ‘No!’ She throws up an arm to defend herself, crooked at the elbow. An instinctive defence, but on a crumbling cliff edge, it only serves to knock her off-balance.
Treve’s mother lurches sideways, and disappears, falling at exactly the same spot as her son.
I watch in horror, sure that Camilla can’t stop in time, that she too must fall to her death. Yet somehow, with a massive physical effort, she manages to throw herself on to her knees right at the edge of the cliff. The momentum jerks her sideways, but she does not fall, lying along her side, mere inches from open space.
Raising her head, she stares down towards the rocks and sea below. Then she lowers her forehead to the ground, and begins to beat it against the rock. She is keening and choking behind her gag now, her whole body trembling.
At first I think she’s mourning her husband. The man who would have murdered her. Then I realise this is for Jon.
I hesitate, then take a few steps back towards her.
‘Camilla?’
She starts violently at the sound of her name, and jerks round, turning a tear-stained face up towards me. I get the feeling she had almost forgotten about me. There’s fear as well as defiance in her eyes now. Perhaps she thinks I’ve come back to kill her, to exact revenge for her secret affair wit
h my husband.
But I’m too tired to think about revenge.
All I want to do is call the police and get Harry to a hospital. His body is so much lighter than it was the day he was abducted, and I can feel how chilled his skin is in this wind. He may have been medicated, but I suspect he has been severely underfed. He is still crying, but feebly, more of a whimper, as though he has very little strength left for anything but surviving.
I know how he feels.
‘Come away from the edge, Camilla,’ I tell her, and somehow manage a thin smile. ‘You don’t want to fall too, do you?’
She stares at me warily, then nods and shuffles a few feet away from the cliff edge, hands still bound together. My dead husband’s lover. I wonder for the first time if she truly loved Jon. When I realised they had been having an affair, I assumed it was all about the kicks for her, the peculiar twist of adulterous sex. I didn’t think she was capable of caring much about anyone. But then I remember the keening noise she made when she stared down at the rocks below, and the way she beat her head against the rock as she wept.
The human heart is a strange place.
I crouch beside her, Harry still whimpering in my arms, and struggle to tear the silver tape off her wrists.
Camilla holds them out to help me. She keeps her gaze fixed on me the whole time, as though afraid I may be trying to trick her in some way. Treve had wound the tape round her wrists several times, so tight it had cut off the circulation, her hands cold and bloodless, the skin deathly pale.
It is not an easy task to remove the tape one-handed, and takes me several minutes of concentrated effort.
Afterwards, I straighten up, exhausted. She can remove the gag on her own.
I wonder where the nearest phone is, since there’s no power at Tide House. Perhaps someone in those whitewashed fishermen’s cottages on the steep road back to St Ives will have a landline, or a mobile at least. Any phone will do to call the police.
DS Dryer needs to know that I’ve found Harry.
I am not looking forward to the other explanations though.
