by Tom Bale
Ten minutes later he was on the seafront. A coast road ran parallel to a wide promenade, with a small harbour at roughly the midpoint. Joe crossed the road to get a better view of the buildings that faced out to sea.
The promenade was an attractive space, with ornamental granite benches positioned at regular intervals between clusters of palm trees in large stone planters. Illumination was provided by Victorian-style street lamps, throwing a weak light into the drizzle. Once again, there wasn’t a soul to be seen.
Turning to face the town, Joe made out half a dozen signs for guest houses and B&Bs. He crossed back and headed to the nearest one. Tregary House was a plain square building, three storeys high and painted pink. As he reached the driveway he saw the sign in the downstairs window: CLOSED FOR WINTER.
He carried on in the direction of the harbour, passing several large Edwardian properties that had been converted into flats. The next B&B was called Britannia Place. A Union Jack hung wetly from a flagpole jutting from above the ground-floor window. There were three cars parked on the drive.
No sign to indicate whether they had vacancies, but at least it appeared to be open for business. Joe walked up to the front door and tried the handle. It was locked. There was a doorbell set in a brass surround in the shape of a rosette, and below it a sticker that said: NO HAWKERS, NO JUNK MAIL, NO FREE NEWSPAPERS.
He rang the bell. After half a minute the door was wrenched open by a man of about sixty, with suspiciously dark hair Brylcreemed into a razor-sharp side parting. There were two boil plasters on his neck, just below his left ear.
‘Yes?’ Not outwardly aggressive, but not friendly, either.
‘I wonder if you can help me. I’m looking for Diana Bamber.’
The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who?’
‘Roy and Diana Bamber? They ran a B&B down here. Roy died a few years back.’
‘Nope. Can’t help you.’
‘All right. Supposing I wanted a room here, how much for one—?’
‘We’re full.’
‘At this time of year?’
The man seemed furious that Joe was doubting his word. ‘A couple of rooms are out of action. While we paint ’em.’
He was lying, and Joe held the man’s gaze for a moment, to communicate that he knew. ‘Can you tell me where I might find a place to stay?’
The man sucked air between his teeth. ‘Bit late now.’
‘It’s twenty past eight.’
‘Late,’ the man repeated, ‘and it’s late in the year. You want a room, you’d best get the bus out to Wadebridge.’
‘There aren’t any more buses.’
The man shrugged: not my problem. Without another word, he slammed the door.
Joe turned away, his neck tingling as his departure was tracked from one of the ground-floor windows. Despite his earlier efforts to smarten up, he wondered if he still looked too unsavoury. If so, he was unlikely to find anybody willing to give him accommodation tonight.
But the man hadn’t just lied about not having a room available. Joe felt sure he’d seen a glimmer of recognition at the mention of Roy and Diana. The hotelier did know who Diana was, but had chosen not to say so.
Eight
THE RAIN INTENSIFIED as Joe continued towards the town centre. Even with his collar pulled tight he could feel it trickling down his neck. The spectre of a night in a bus shelter loomed large.
Across the road from the harbour there was a junction with what turned out to be the High Street. A pub on the corner, the Harbour Lights, had opaque windows, so Joe couldn’t tell if it was doing a roaring trade or was completely empty. Probably the latter, judging by the lack of sound from within: no raised voices or muffled thump of music.
But there was a definite pounding noise coming from somewhere else. He realised it was beneath his feet.
He crossed the coast road and peered over the harbour wall. Water was churning and foaming as it gushed from a culvert that ran under the road. Several small boats moored close by rocked vigorously in the swirling current. This must be from a stream running down the hill. Parallel to the High Street, maybe.
He headed in that direction, climbing the steep slope, and again he was struck by the lack of activity. Where were the bored teenagers, clustered in doorways, or the older kids racing up and down on mopeds? Where was the nightlife, for Christ’s sake?
As if in answer, a faint burst of laughter reached his ears. Coming from a pub, tucked away in a little plaza that also contained the library, an Italian restaurant and a barber shop. The restaurant was open but only one or two tables were occupied, whereas the pub was thriving. Through the patterned glass windows Joe could see a mass of silhouetted drinkers.
Somebody in there might know Diana, but an innate caution made him reluctant to venture inside. Did he really want to advertise his presence to the entire town?
While he hesitated, the pub’s double doors clattered open. Joe took cover in the doorway of a bank and watched as three men crossed the plaza.
The middle one was very tall, perhaps six foot four, wearing a long black overcoat and a top hat. Joe glimpsed a strong profile with a Roman nose, a face in late middle age but with skin that was unusually pink and smooth, as though it had been highly polished. There was no hair peeking from beneath the hat, and Joe guessed he was completely bald.
The men who flanked him were younger and shorter, but dressed in similar formal attire. They had the demeanour of lackeys, nodding heartily at everything the tall man said.
Once they were out of sight, Joe entered the plaza and found a woman hurrying towards him, head down as she struggled to unfurl an umbrella. It opened with a pop and she looked up, saw Joe and gave a cry of surprise.
He raised his hands: the universal gesture of placation. ‘Sorry. Can you help me? I’m trying to find someone.’
‘Oh yes?’ The woman’s tone was dry, but not necessarily hostile. She was wrapped in a thick wool coat. Thirtyish, he would have said, with dark hair and big, dark eyes lively with intelligence.
‘Do you know a Diana Bamber?’
Frowning, the woman took half a step back. She looked Joe up and down as if rethinking her first impression. ‘Diana Bamber?’
‘She ran a B&B with her husband Roy, but he—’
‘I know who you mean. Diana Walters, she is now. She reverted to her maiden name.’
‘Ah. Can you tell me where she lives?’
The woman motioned toward the seafront with her free hand. ‘Left at the bottom of the High Street, follow the coast road along to Potters Lane. The B&B’s called the Dolphin. It’s about halfway up, on the right.’
‘Thanks.’
‘My pleasure,’ she said, as though it was anything but.
Brooding on another charming encounter, Joe retraced his steps and turned along the seafront. There was a white van approaching, headlights splashing yellow light on the road. It slowed as it drew alongside, and Joe felt the driver’s gaze. A young man, in a uniform of some kind, giving him a good hard stare of the sort Joe had often employed during his own days in uniform: I’ve clocked you, sunshine.
There was a logo on the side of the van, too dark to see clearly. After it had turned into the High Street Joe glanced back a couple of times, half expecting the driver to reappear and check him out again.
Potters Lane turned out to be only seventy or eighty yards from Britannia Place. The junction was little wider than a domestic driveway, squeezed between two low slate walls constructed in a distinctive herringbone pattern.
The hill was even steeper than the High Street, and lined with attractive white stone villas, marred only by the presence of an electricity substation. In a concession to the gradient the gardens were mostly paved and set out in a series of terraces. The driveways contained BMWs and Mercedes and Audis. In one, a road-legal Yamaha quad bike worth at least five grand was parked, unsecured, just inside the open gates. Joe felt sure it would be stolen by morning if the owner didn’t come out to secure it.<
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Then the road curved sharply to the right, and finally the Dolphin came into view. It was an imposing Victorian property, possibly once a rectory or even a manor house, built of traditional Cornish stone and bay-fronted at each end, with a pair of hipped dormers in the roof. Joe guessed it must have at least six or seven bedrooms. Roy and Diana had done well for themselves, Joe thought.
The property was enclosed by a wall of matching Cornish stone. Mature trees and plants grew along the boundary, but much of the front garden had been paved over, with half a dozen parking bays marked out in white lines. Only one was occupied, by a newish Mazda MX-5. Not the sort of car he’d have pictured Diana driving.
Three wide steps led up to a recessed porch with a tiled floor. There were narrow frosted-glass windows either side of the front door. The door itself was made of dark oak, with iron fittings. Next to an old-fashioned bell pull there was a sign that read: The Dolphin Bed and Breakfast, open 1 May till 30 September. That explained the solitary car out front.
Joe checked the time: just after nine. Late for a surprise call, but not excessively so. He hoped she would understand.
He rang the bell. The door opened almost immediately. He hadn’t seen Diana for over seven years, and at first he was taken aback. Was this the right house, the right woman?
She was wearing a pink knee-length dress with a white pashmina shawl over it, the dress tight-fitting and rather low-cut. She had never been seriously overweight, but now she was positively slim and shapely. She wore some subtle make-up, and her hair was shorter and probably coloured: it had a reddish tint. She looked, bizarrely, younger than he remembered her from nearly a decade ago.
Diana had opened the door without a hint of caution, a friendly smile on her face. Now Joe watched the smile fade, along with the colour in her cheeks. Her knuckles tightened on the door, as though preparing to slam it shut, and it occurred to him that she’d hurried to answer the bell because she was expecting someone else.
He said, ‘Diana, it’s me. Joe Clayton. Roy’s old colleague.’
She gave a sombre nod. When she spoke, there was a hopelessness in her voice; she might have been deflating before his eyes.
‘I know who you are, Joe. But why did you have to come here?’
Nine
IT WASN’T THE reaction he’d been hoping for. Then again, he could hardly blame her.
‘I’m sorry. I need your help.’
A long hesitation, while the door trembled in her hand, betraying her deliberations: let him in, or shut him out. Finally she said, ‘This isn’t a good time for me.’
‘You’re not in any trouble?’ Joe asked.
‘No, it’s nothing like that …’ She tailed off again, clearly unwilling to explain.
‘All right. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.’ Joe couldn’t bring himself to beg or plead. He had no right to do so. He stepped off the porch into the fine pelting rain, heard a creak as the door moved behind him.
‘Wait.’
He turned back, conscious of the rain dribbling down his face and neck, and wondered, if it had been a dry evening, would she have relented at all?
‘Sorry,’ Diana said. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking. Come in.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. I was just … shocked, I suppose. It’s been so long.’
‘It has,’ he agreed. ‘And I’m largely to blame for that.’
* * *
Joe stepped into a wide hallway, took off his jacket and his trainers. As he went to hang his cap on a coat hook, Diana said, ‘That’s not a style I’d associate with you.’
‘Me, neither. That was the point.’
She looked at him quizzically. ‘A disguise?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘Where have you come from? Do you have a car?’
He shook his head. ‘Trains and buses, all the way from Bristol.’
‘Bristol?’ She leaned towards him, studying his face. ‘You’re exhausted. Have you eaten lately?’
‘Not really. I’d kill for some coffee.’
‘That’s easily solved. Follow me.’
Diana led him along the hall, through a formal dining room with half a dozen small tables, and on into a spacious kitchen, which had been extended to encompass a breakfast room. The table in here was larger, with a pile of glossy magazines on it. There was a local newspaper open at the property pages, a clean ashtray and a used teacup and saucer.
‘Take a seat,’ she said, filling a jug of water for the coffee maker. ‘I could rustle up some food if you’re hungry.’
‘No, that’s imposing on you.’
‘I’m not offering a three-course meal. How about hot buttered toast?’
Joe laughed. ‘My mouth’s watering now. I’d better accept.’
With Diana busy, he took a moment to examine his surroundings. The kitchen was warm and homely and slightly cluttered: exactly the sort of place he imagined she would inhabit.
‘You’re closed for the season, then?’
‘Yes. Things tailed off as soon as the kids went back to school. Some would say they barely got started, what with all the rain we’ve had. August was a total washout.’
‘I assume there’s quite a rivalry down here. The proprietor of Britannia Place said he’d never heard of you.’
‘Oh, that’s Vincent Hocking. He’s an awkward so-and-so. Takes a dislike to virtually everyone he meets.’
‘Trelennan’s own Basil Fawlty?’
‘Exactly. Every town should have one.’
She brought him a plate with four slices of thick toasted bread, together with butter and a pot of raspberry jam. He inhaled deeply. ‘Glorious. Just what I need.’
As she went to fetch their drinks, he added: ‘Luckily I asked someone else, who told me you’d reverted to your maiden name.’
For a second, Diana froze. Then she nodded. ‘Yes, I’m Diana Walters again now. I never really liked “Diana Bamber”. It’s got an odd rhythm, hasn’t it?’
She turned, as if interested in his reaction, but at the same time he sensed that further discussion would be unwelcome. He shrugged, said nothing.
Taking the seat opposite, she held her coffee mug in both hands and let the steam warm her face. There was a moment when Joe might have reached out and touched her arm, but he couldn’t be certain that he was reading her correctly.
‘Are you sure there isn’t something wrong?’ he said.
‘Quite sure. Why?’ She took a sip, but she slurped it nervously, spilling a few drops on her chin.
To spare her embarrassment, Joe said, ‘Don’t you hate it when that happens? I’m always pouring beer down my front.’
‘In my case it’s senility, I think.’ She tutted, but these admissions of fallibility seemed to steady them both, and it was in the tone of the old, familiar Diana Bamber that she declared: ‘Now, Joe Clayton, rolling up on my doorstep after all these years. You’d better tell me where you’ve been and what it is you want.’
‘The second part’s straightforward. I need somewhere to stay for a few days.’
Diana nodded, but it seemed more an acknowledgement of his request than the granting of it.
‘Don’t you have a suitcase, or a bag?’
‘Just what I’m wearing. It’ll be a while before I can retrieve my stuff.’
Tight-lipped, she gave him a glance. ‘Oh?’
‘Look,’ Joe said, ‘this isn’t easy to explain. First of all I have to ask you something. Have you seen Helen, or heard from her at all?’
It was a moment or two before Diana answered. ‘Not for a long time. Why?’
‘Anything in the past four or five years?’
‘I don’t think so. We used to exchange Christmas cards, but that seemed to tail off after we moved down here.’ There was a hint of reproach in her voice.
‘I’m sorry. I felt terrible that I couldn’t get in touch when Roy died.’
Diana looked up at the ceiling as she searched her memory. ‘Helen phon
ed me to explain. Actually, that might have been the last time I spoke to her. The funeral was in December 2005, the week before Christmas.’ A flash of pain in her eyes. ‘She said you were involved in a very sensitive case. I assume that meant undercover work?’
‘Yes. Lasting nearly a year. But I hated missing the funeral. Roy was a great friend and mentor to me.’
Diana frowned. ‘Wait a second. Why are you asking about Helen? You make it sound like you’re not together any more.’
‘We’re not,’ Joe said. ‘I haven’t seen her for four years.’
‘But if you’re only in Bristol …’
He shook his head. ‘It’s a lot more complicated than that.’
He’d told the full story only once before, more than a year ago, to a woman for whom he’d worked as a bodyguard – and only then because he was poised to depart from that job and knew he would never see her again. In that sense, his secrets had been safe with her: Cassie had had no idea who he really was, or where he was going next. Nothing he told her could feasibly harm either of them.
This time it was very different. Diana was a friend from his old life. From the days when he had been only Joe Clayton, and no one else. What he told her now would be carried into her future, and into his, and might have grave implications for them both.
And yet he saw little choice but to level with her. There was too much that couldn’t be explained away without resorting to some fairly outrageous lies, and she’d been a policeman’s wife for too long to be taken for a fool.
‘The undercover work destroyed our marriage,’ he said. ‘Specifically, the same case that prevented me from attending Roy’s funeral.’
‘I’m not surprised, if it lasted a year. Helen must have been going out of her mind.’
‘She was, even though she didn’t know the full details at the time.’
Joe paused. Astutely, Diana said, ‘I quite understand if there are parts you can’t tell me.’
‘Okay. I had to infiltrate a gang who were planning a massive gold-bullion raid. The trouble was, by the time I was admitted into the inner sanctum they were getting seriously paranoid. I had to break off virtually all contact with my bosses and the backup team.’
