Blood Falls

by Tom Bale

  ‘If you keep on the move, how did Danny Morton manage to trace you?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I’m certain he couldn’t have tracked me here. You don’t need to worry on that score.’

  Diana smiled, but it was the sort of brave smile you feel obliged to give when you’re humouring a friend. Refusing the offer of more coffee and toast, Joe said he’d get out from under her feet.

  ‘You’re welcome to borrow my car if you need it.’

  ‘Not at the moment, but thanks for the offer.’ At the kitchen door he paused. ‘Anything I should know about Trelennan before I go out and explore?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘But it’s a nice place to live? You like it here?’

  Diana nodded. But she seemed uncertain, as though he might have been teasing her.

  Or maybe, Joe realised later, it was because he’d asked two distinct questions, and each one had a different answer.

  Thirteen

  JOE DIDN’T GO looking for trouble, but sometimes trouble found him. Something in his character seemed to attract it.

  He’d exchanged mobile numbers with Diana, although she warned him that the coverage was patchy at best. From a display of tourist brochures in the hall, she selected a leaflet that included a street map. She also gave him a spare door key, which led him to comment on the lack of a burglar alarm.

  She chuckled. ‘This isn’t London, Joe. It’s very safe down here.’

  Sure enough, when he descended the hill the quad bike he’d noticed last night was sitting undisturbed just inside the open gates. Even more noteworthy was that only a handful of properties appeared to have alarm systems. Those that did had identical diamond-shaped boxes, navy blue, bearing the letters LRS.

  The logo seemed vaguely familiar. After puzzling over it for a minute, Joe realised it might have been on the van that had scoped him out.

  It was a little after nine o’clock when he reached the seafront. Beneath the veil of grey cloud the town looked muted, still half-asleep. The air was cool, with a blustery wind that made him grateful for his unfashionable beige jacket. Apart from the occasional passing vehicle, it was very quiet: none of the bustle and activity of Bristol.

  He unfolded the map and compared it with the sight before him. On the western side of the harbour, where he was standing, the promenade ran for about half a mile and terminated at the point where the land rose sharply away from the shore. To the east, beyond the harbour, lay a wide expanse of untamed sandy beach: no breakwaters, no promenade or sea wall.

  Looming above the beach was an almost sheer granite cliff, and above that a steep hillside which put Joe in mind of the German alps, the slopes thickly wooded with patches of dark rock gleaming wetly through gaps in the trees. Here and there he glimpsed imposing-looking homes or hotels, some of traditional Cornish stone and slate; others were in a Victorian Gothic style, with towers and spires and high narrow gables.

  He decided to head west, away from the harbour, and see if he could circumnavigate the town in the space of a few hours. The sea air tasted exhilarating, and his muscles yearned for a chance to burn off that magnificent breakfast.

  At the spot where the promenade ended with a pay-and-display car park there were signs advertising a coastal path around the headland and into the neighbouring bay. Walkers were cautioned that sections of the path were treacherous at high tide. An exploration for another day, Joe decided.

  He turned inland, into Crabtree Lane. The road commenced on a gentle incline, with a series of modest bungalows on his left and agricultural land to his right. The fields were enclosed by low-slung electric fences; water troughs and feeders indicated that some sort of livestock was kept here.

  The road began to twist and turn as the gradient steepened abruptly. Joe judged that he had climbed for nearly a mile before it began to level off. The farmland gave way to a golf course, laid out over the hilltop and dotted with dark, mysterious copses, the trees deformed by the westerly winds.

  Nearer to the summit, the houses became increasingly more imposing, new-builds intended to look like traditional Cornish dwellings, albeit three or four times the size. Some advertised holiday lets; many had shutters on the windows. Almost every one had a security system: the blue diamond boxes of LRS.

  A successful local firm, he guessed. And then he turned the corner and found trouble waiting.

  Joe took in the scene in an instant. A Daimler hearse was parked on the road outside the gates of a large modern home. The engine was running, white smoke pumping from the exhaust and being sucked away by the wind.

  There was a man in the driver’s seat, his head turned towards the pavement where two figures grappled in an uneven conflict. One was the very tall, pink-skinned man that Joe had seen emerging from the pub with his acolytes. Now the formal attire made sense: he was a funeral director.

  Battering ineffectually at him was a young woman, not much more than five feet tall, with a body that was compact rather than slim. She wore black jeans and a denim jacket. Her shoulder-length hair was straight and dark with reddish highlights. Her face might have been pretty, had it not been contorted with painful emotions.

  ‘You lie to me,’ she cried. ‘You have seen her, I know it.’ Her accent was Eastern European. Joe had heard plenty during his stint in the Manchester hotel; he thought she might be from one of the Baltic states.

  Instinct almost propelled him forward to break up the fight, before a sense of self-preservation took over. Stepping into a recess at the entrance to the neighbouring property, he concealed himself from view at the precise moment when the funeral director’s patience ran out.

  One huge hand grabbed the woman by the throat, and he rammed her back against the Daimler. She tried to speak, but could make only a harsh gurgling sound.

  ‘I’ve told you, I don’t know anything.’ He leaned closer, snarling a threat in a voice too low for Joe to hear.

  He must have loosened his grip slightly, for the woman was able to gasp. ‘Mr Cadwell, please. I beg you …’

  ‘I’m sick of hearing it. I have no interest in the silly bitch—’

  ‘Kamila. Her name is Kamila. Please …’

  Joe took a step forward, then paused. He didn’t need to get involved. He was no more than thirty feet away: close enough to act if he felt the woman was in serious danger.

  The conversation was halted by the sound of a vehicle approaching. A van whipped past Joe and screeched to a halt beside the Daimler. It was a Ford Transit, bearing a familiar logo: the letters LRS in white on the background of a blue diamond.

  The funeral director, Cadwell, released the woman and she twisted away from him, clutching the roof of the hearse for support as she coughed and retched. Cadwell took a step back and smoothed down his suit. A thin, complacent smile formed as he prepared to greet the new arrivals.

  Two men climbed out of the Transit. One was about thirty, stocky, with close-cropped greying hair, the other younger and thinner, with dark curly hair. They wore generic security uniforms: navy blouson jackets and grey trousers with heavy utility belts. Both nodded greetings to Cadwell, who reserved his attention for the stocky guard.

  ‘Morning, Reece. Good to see you.’

  ‘What’s she done this time?’ Reece asked. Unlike Cadwell, he had a thick local accent.

  ‘More ridiculous accusations,’ the funeral director said. Then he murmured something else, which elicited a disgusted response.

  By now the girl had sunk to her knees, one hand over her face as she sobbed quietly. The curly-haired guard knelt down and took the girl’s arm. Joe assumed he was concerned for her welfare, but he tightened his grip and wrenched her to her feet. She screamed.

  Joe couldn’t watch any more. His body made the decision for him, launching him onto the pavement before his mind had caught up.

  ‘Leave her alone!’

  Cadwell and both guards turned to stare at him. The woman also looked round, seeming more confused than grateful.

 
; ‘This man just assaulted her,’ Joe said, pointing at the funeral director.

  Reece’s chin came out. ‘You what?’

  ‘I witnessed an assault. He had her by the throat.’

  Reece nodded in a way that suggested this was of no interest to him whatsoever. He turned to Cadwell, who said, ‘She was lying in wait for me when I left the house. Going on and on about that damn girl—’

  ‘She’s my sister!’ the woman cried. Her face was puffy, with inky smudges of mascara on her cheeks.

  ‘I have a right to walk the streets unmolested,’ Cadwell declared. In daylight his skin looked even more unnaturally smooth and pink. His eyes were large and pale, almost colourless.

  Reece exchanged a glance with his colleague, then propelled the woman away from them.

  ‘Get lost,’ he told her. ‘Don’t let us catch you round here again.’

  Head down, the woman seemed to size up the situation before sniffing loudly, as if instead of some choice parting insult, and marching away.

  ‘You can piss off, too,’ Reece said to Joe.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Before I change my mind.’

  ‘You have powers of arrest, do you?’

  ‘Yeah. Citizen’s arrest.’ He took a step towards Joe. ‘Want us to prove it?’

  Joe shrugged. The voice of common sense told him to be contrite, to extricate himself from this situation as tactfully as possible, while he was still anonymous. No real harm done.

  Good advice, but he heard himself say: ‘Go ahead and try.’

  Reece looked at his colleague, who wore an eager smirk, and then at Cadwell. The funeral director shook his head, but Reece appeared not to notice.

  ‘Who the hell are you, then?’

  ‘My name’s Joe. Who are you?’

  ‘You don’t live in Trelennan.’

  ‘Well done, Einstein. I’m a visitor.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, you might want to end your visit pretty soon. ’Cause if I run into you again, you’re going to regret it, and that’s a fact.’

  A moment’s stand-off. Then Cadwell gave a growl of impatience and said, ‘I have work to do. Let’s put this little incident behind us, shall we?’

  Reece unclipped his phone. ‘You want me to report back?’

  Cadwell said, ‘If you wish. I’ll be speaking to him later.’

  ‘Right you are.’ With a final malevolent glance at Joe, Reece returned to the van. The hearse pulled away first, and the Transit followed, the driver watching Joe in his mirrors until the curve of the road obscured him from view.

  Joe turned to look down the hill, but the woman was already out of sight. He considered going after her, then decided that would be taking his involvement further than was wise.

  Fourteen

  THE REPORTS CAME in quick succession, disrupting Leon’s state of mind on what should have been a morning of unblemished delight. Glenn’s was first: a brief, one-sided phone call. Leon couldn’t ask questions or issue commands, except in code, and although Glenn was one of the brighter men on his team he still wasn’t that bright.

  ‘She swears he’s not a problem, but I dunno. I got the feeling she might be keeping something back.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘The way he’s turned up out of the blue like this. No phone call or nothing. And no family with him, though Di says he’s married with two kids. She was a bit funny about that, too. According to Vince Hocking, the guy was on foot and he didn’t have any bags. Just the clothes he stood up in.’

  ‘That does sound interesting.’

  ‘Yeah. I got to thinking, there’s really only one thing it can mean …’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘He’s gotta be in trouble of some kind. On the run, maybe?’

  ‘That’s a possibility, I agree.’

  ‘I pushed her on what he does for a living. She swears he left the force years ago, just does painting and stuff these days. But you know what they say. Once a cop, always a cop. What do you reckon, Leon?’

  ‘Oh, I’m taking a relaxed view, long-term.’ This was a lie, of course, and Glenn should have known better than to keep asking questions that Leon couldn’t answer openly.

  In a bright, upbeat tone, Leon ended the call with: ‘Thanks for keeping me in the picture, Glenn.’ Which meant: You lousy useless fucker, I’m gonna tear you a new arsehole.

  Nothing else he could do right now. Leon was in the back of his E-class Mercedes, travelling to Exeter for an important photo op. He’d chosen the Merc because it was classy without being too flash, and he’d chosen Warren to drive because he scrubbed up smarter than most of his employees.

  In honour of the occasion Leon had even made an effort to look the part of a respectable and prosperous businessman, which was exactly what he was. He’d got himself a new suit for the occasion, a sober dark grey Ted Baker job. It came with a waistcoat, but that would have been taking things too far.

  Day to day, Leon was a lot more comfortable schlepping round in polyester tracksuits, living up to the image people had of him as a rough and ready chancer: a bit of chav scum that had got lucky. He encouraged people to think like that, because it was all the more satisfying when he made them eat their words. Today was going to be a grade-A example of that.

  While he indulged in a little daydreaming about it, the stumbling block to free speech was sitting beside him on the back seat, pretending to admire the passing countryside while sneaking glances at Leon whenever he thought it was safe.

  His name was Giles Quinton-Price. He was in his mid-fifties, a lank-haired wet-lipped twat with a strange honking voice that managed to sound both deep and squeaky at the same time. It was driving Leon spare, but he couldn’t block it out or shut him up. Couldn’t smack him in the mouth and dump him on the hard shoulder.

  Because Giles was a journalist on a national newspaper, writing a feature article about Leon and Trelennan. He and Giles had been joined at the hip for two days already, with at least one more day to go. Leon didn’t know how much longer he could handle it, that weird grating laugh and his stupid fucking questions.

  Like this: ‘Got yourself a few personnel problems?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘People! The bane of your existence, I dare say?’

  Leon nodded, thinking: Pricks like you are.

  ‘Still,’ Giles said, ‘a day like today makes it all worthwhile, does it not?’

  ‘You bet it does.’ Leon tried not to sound sarcastic, then realised he wasn’t being sarcastic. It did make it worthwhile, getting his picture taken with the chief constable. A big two-fingers to all the lowlifes back on the Trelawny estate who’d written him off from the start. Even more so to all the filth who’d tried to bring him down over the years. Shaking hands with their boss, making it clear that he and Leon were on equal terms – that was going to taste really fucking sweet.

  And a boost for the business, too. Good publicity meant more money rolling in. Nice clean spendable money. Money you could flaunt, if you wanted.

  All very different from the old days.

  The second call was from Derek Cadwell. Not an employee as such, but quicker on the uptake than Glenn. A man who knew where his best interests lay.

  ‘That foreign bitch was outside the house again.’

  ‘You talked to her?’

  ‘I tried. She refuses to listen.’

  ‘Same here. Sometimes it takes a bit longer for the message to sink in.’

  Derek’s voice lowered. ‘You can’t speak freely? Oh – the journalist’s with you.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Bugger. We need a proper discussion about this. She virtually attacked me.’

  ‘Get hold of Clive. Arrange a meeting for late afternoon.’

  ‘Thank you.’ There was a pause: more bad news to follow. ‘During our confrontation, somebody else got involved. A stranger. He looked pretty unsavoury. Said his name was Joe.’

  ‘Did he?’ Leon said, aware that Giles was straining
to hear the other end of the conversation.

  ‘One of your patrols was on hand. Reece and that other lad. I have to say, this Joe didn’t seem particularly intimidated by them.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry. Already on my agenda.’

  ‘Really? You know who he is?’

  ‘Like I said, go through Clive. We’ll catch up this afternoon.’

  Leon put his phone away. He knew he couldn’t dwell on it now, but something had to be done with the girl. Nobody else in Trelennan would say a bad word about him, but she was a head case, shooting her mouth off to anyone who’d listen. A sap like Giles wouldn’t necessarily know it was crazy talk.

  And then there was this feller. It had to be the same one Glenn had described. An ex-cop, pitching up at Diana’s with no car, no luggage. Could be on the run, in which case Leon needed to find out why. Leon could sniff out an opportunity better than anybody.

  But Glenn was right about something else. Once a cop, always a cop. In which case this guy wasn’t an opportunity at all, but a nuisance. A threat.

  Forgetting for a moment the image he was trying to project, Leon let out a long heartfelt sigh. In response, Giles tutted sadly.

  ‘The price of greatness is responsibility,’ he declared in a grand voice, like he was quoting from a play or a speech.

  ‘Too right,’ Leon said. With a pointed look at the journalist, he added, ‘Especially when I’m surrounded by fuckwits.’

  Fifteen

  JOE TRIED TO put the incident with the security men out of his mind. He explored a series of narrow lanes on the town’s southern perimeter. Beyond the crest of the hill, and thus robbed of the stunning sea views, he discovered a large council estate, dating back to the 1950s or ’60s, the houses constructed of prefabricated concrete panels. There were a few unkempt gardens with the usual broken bikes and discarded mattresses, but for the most part the properties were well kept. Plenty of pot plants and satellite dishes that had escaped the attention of the local vandals.