by Shaun Baines
“It sounds like his fault,” Callum said, the fire dying by his boots. “Not yours.”
“I should never have stayed here last night.”
Callum shifted in his chair. “Nothing happened.”
The road by Callum’s cottage was lost to the night. His driveway led into the unknown. There were no guiding lights, except for the stars. They blinked into existence, like lightbulbs switched on by unknown hands. Holly gazed up at them, hoping to find a way home.
“I take it you won’t be staying again?” Callum asked,
The question was loaded and they both knew it. His voice was low. Its vibrations hummed in Holly’s bones. It was the voice of a man saying one thing and meaning another.
She had no doubt what would happen if she stayed.
Looking to the cottage, Holly saw the door was invitingly open. She imagined the heat from the fireplace and the comfort of the candlelight.
Holly got to her feet. Callum stood too and she stepped away, pulling a torch from her pocket. She shone it down the driveway and saw the road to Little Belton.
Back to her home and back to her husband.
“I came prepared this time,” she said, waving the torch.
“Of course, yeah.”
Holly rested her hand on Callum’s chest.
“Thank you,” she said. “For listening to me.”
Callum smiled and jerked his head to the cottage. “Actually, I would like you to come inside. I have something to show you.”
“Don’t make me be blunt with you, Callum.”
He took her hand. “It’s not like that. This one has me baffled.”
Callum led her to the cottage where moments ago Holly had considered staying and they stood over his kitchen sink.
“I went back to the manor hoping to find that squatter,” Callum said. “The police did what they could, but I tore that place upside down. He wasn’t there. When I’m stalking through the estate, there isn’t an animal alive that doesn’t leave some trace that it’s been there.”
“What did you find?”
Callum pointed into a sink filled with water. The light was poor and Holly struggled to see what was concerning him. A silver flash cut through the water and she peered closer.
“I found them swimming in the toilet bowl,” Callum said. “I think he tried to flush them away.”
“You really did look everywhere, didn’t you?” Holly asked. “So you fished these out of the toilet?”
“I’m not proud of it, but it seemed weird.”
There were three fish in total, small and fierce, their spines erect as they chased each other through the kitchen sink.
“Were there any bags about?” she asked.
“Plastic bags? Yeah. Lying on the cistern.”
Sticklebacks, thought Holly and she knew how to find more.
Chapter Fourteen
Early the following morning, Holly and Callum met by a beach on the north-east coast. They crested a hill together, leaning into a wind whipping off the sea.
The tide was out on Ratkin Bay, exposing black rocks crusted with limpets. A small rowing boat was tethered to the shoreline. Its owner was walking through the waves.
“They think I don’t know about their poaching,” Callum said, “but I know. They’re here at the same time every day.”
Holly and Callum skidded down the slope, stepping onto white sand the consistency of sherbet.
“How’s it going?” Callum shouted at the unsuspecting figure in the water.
Mrs Winnow turned in fright, her feet slipping underneath her. She was subsumed and her shriek was lost beneath the salty surface. Holly went to help, but Callum held her back.
“She deserves a dunking,” he said.
A second passed before Mrs Winnow reappeared and staggered to the beach.
“You bloody fool,” she shouted.
Her hair hung in ropes down her face. Lipstick carefully applied that morning now made her look like The Joker.
Mrs Winnow dragged herself toward them, coughing and spluttering.
“What did you do that for?” she asked, shaking her hands and feet like a wet dog. “Here I am minding my own business and you do something like that.”
Callum braced his hands on his hips. “Catch much today?”
Her mouth dropped open and she glanced sideways to the rowing boat. “I don’t know what you mean, dear. I was merely out for…a constitutional.”
“Where’s your husband?” Holly asked.
“Tending the shop as always. Can’t have a day off in this game.”
Callum walked to the rowing boat and found crab nets wet with sea water. Captured inside were a gang of grey crabs, waving their pincers in protest. “Mr and Mrs Winnow are poachers,” he called back to Holly.
“Such an ugly word,” Mrs Winnow said, wringing her hair dry between her hands.
“They can buy fish at Amble,” Callum said, “and sell them in their shop, but there’s more profit if you cut out the middle man.”
The rowing boat was made of fibreglass and chequered with bitumen patches where it had been made watertight. The bow was dented. The oars were spindly and ready to break.
“Where’s the big one?” Callum asked Mrs Winnow. “Where’s the Sea Cucumber?”
“I had that in a restaurant once,” Holly said, not following the conversation. “It was like chewing out-of-date glue.”
“The Sea Cucumber is the Winnows’ old Plymouth Pilot boat,” Callum said. “Hand-painted in olive green. I watched it cruising the waterline in search of fish for ages, wondering who was behind the wheel. It was only when Mr Winnow once delivered some winter coal for me that I noticed his flatbed truck was the exact same colour as the boat. I suspect they got a deal on surplus paint.”
“The Cucumber is in Amble shipyard, as it happens,” Mrs Winnow said, ruffling her collar. “Trouble with the engine. It’s too large to be brought this close to shore anyway.”
“Well, I can’t let you go out to sea in this,” Callum said, pointing at the crumbling rowing boat. “It’s a death trap. If you answer some of our questions, I’ll give you a lift in the Defender to wherever you’re going.”
Mrs Winnow winked at Holly. “He’s a lovely boy, really. Knows we’re not any harm. Hey, wait. What are you doing?”
Callum emptied the crab nets into a rock pool. “Don’t push your luck,” he said. “This is still my land to look after.”
The brief victory slipped from Mrs Winnow’s face. “What questions?” she asked Holly.
“We’re still trying to find Nancy,” Holly said. “It’s the least we can do after what happened to her sister.”
Mrs Winnow bit her lip to stop it from trembling. “Those poor sisters. You wouldn’t wish it on your worst enemy, would you?”
Holly explained about the squatter and Mrs Winnow nodded along, her eyes glazing over. Holly suspected she already knew. The whole village knew when the Reverend hung his washing out to dry. A juicy titbit like a squatter was unlikely to go amiss, but Mrs Winnow’s expression changed when Holly told her about the sticklebacks.
“We think the squatter came to your stall,” she said. “At the Spring Fair.”
“And he hurt poor Regina?”
“We’re not saying that, but he’s involved somehow.”
The tide had changed and Mrs Winnow stepped away from the waves rushing in at her feet.
“People came from all over,” she said. “We made a lot of money. I can’t remember everyone.”
“Did you see anyone suspicious? Someone looking shifty? Or someone who looked like they didn’t belong?”
Mrs Winnow shrugged, her face twisted with vague recollections. “I’m sorry, dear.”
The sea wind bit hard and Holly pulled up the zip on her coat.
“Hang on a sec,” Mrs Winnow said, raising a finger in the air. “There was a man. It was a warm day and his coat was zipped up to his neck. That’s odd, I thought. People from around here are used to t
he cold.”
Holly’s heart drummed in her chest. “Can you describe him?”
Mrs Winnow shook her head. “No, but I remember he was only interested in the fish. He bought three without tossing a single ball.”
“Was he tall? Short? Fat? Thin?”
“I can’t remember.”
“What about his hair? Black? Brown? Bald?”
“Stop it, dear. You’re confusing me.” Mrs Winnow wrung her hands, tracing a wet foot through the sand. “It’s too much.”
Holly clamped her mouth shut. The squatter was the closest thing they had to a lead. They had to find him because if he wasn’t Regina’s attacker, he might know who was.
“I’m sorry for pressing so hard,” Holly said.
“I know. I know. Poor Regina.” Mrs Winnow linked arms with Holly and they walked along the beach. The wind blew their footprints into dust. When they turned, their tracks were buried in sand. No-one would have guessed they’d been there at all.
Holly stopped and gave Mrs Winnow a smile.
“I have an idea,” she said.
Chapter Fifteen
A damp Mrs Winnow insisted on returning to her shop for a change of clothes. Her husband stood behind the counter, serving a customer. He mouthed, “Where are the crabs?” as Mrs Winnow bustled past him, but she had no time to answer.
Holly and Callum lingered by the entrance, pretending to browse the shelves.
Mrs Winnow reappeared moments later in a new outfit with make-up freshly applied.
Callum drove them to the newspaper office and they crowded around the flickering images on the screen.
“You’re so clever, dear,” Mrs Winnow said, stooping over the computer on Holly’s desk.
Holly’s first day as a journalist had been a disappointment, but it hadn’t been wasted. She’d taken random, thoughtless pictures of the crowd at the Spring Fair. At the time, they had meant nothing to her. Now, they might prove crucial in finding Regina Foxglove’s assailant.
Some of the pictures were blurred. Others were hidden behind a stray thumb. Holly whistled through them. On the whole, however, the pictures captured the Spring Fair in all its chaos, including the faces of several strangers.
“There’s Mrs Threadle on the nettle wine again,” Callum said. “The biggest sting is in the hangover.”
Mrs Winnow pointed at the screen with a smile. “That’s me. The Pilates is really working, isn’t it?”
The pictures rolled on and Holly pinched her shoulders, hoping to ease the tension from her neck. It didn’t work. Neither did filtering out the gossip flying between Mrs Winnow and Callum.
The door to the office creaked open and Old Jack paused before entering.
“How are you, Jack?” Holly asked.
His blue eyes scanned the room. “What are you doing here, pet? The office is closed.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Holly said. “I didn’t know.”
“It’s closed.”
She got from her seat and approached him. Up close, Jack’s blue eyes were pink and Holly smelled alcohol. Her hand itched to touch him, to offer some comfort, but he was her boss and Holly was practically a stranger to him.
“How have you been? You know, since visiting Regina in the hospital?” she asked.
Old Jack’s leathery hand slipped into hers.
“Have you found her yet?” he asked. “Have you found Nancy?”
“We will,” Holly said, hoping to sound convincing.
“That’s him,” Mrs Winnow said. “That’s the man asking about the sticklebacks.”
Holly rushed back to the computer. The face on the screen was of an ordinary man somewhere in his fifties. He was a little dour and his skin was mottled, but he didn’t look the type to hurt anyone.
“Are you sure that’s him?” Callum asked, hitching up the cuffs of his coat to expose sinewy forearms. He seemed to double in size, looking like an animal whose hackles were raised at the sight of danger.
Callum walked purposely to the door, his legs cantering, ready to break into a run. “The customer Mr Winnow was serving when we went to the store,” he said through a clenched jaw. “It’s the same man.”
Old Jack stepped to one side and Holly launched after Callum.
He was a blur, cutting over the village green, leaping over the boulders in the grass. His coat flapped behind him like wings.
Adrenaline fuelled Holly’s legs, but she couldn’t catch Callum, who raced on ahead. She hadn’t noticed the customer in the store. Her mind was on catching the man in the manor. It hadn’t occurred to her that they were one and the same.
By the time she reached the store, Callum was pacing the cobbled pavement. Mr Winnow was on his doorstep, ashen-faced and leaning on an upturned yard brush.
“We missed him,” Callum shouted.
Holly slowed to a stop and steadied her hands on her knees.
Mr Winnow rubbed a purple bruise on his cheek.
“Are you alright?” he asked Holly.
“Never mind me,” she said between gulps of air. “What about you?”
“Man, I didn’t see that coming,” Mr Winnow said. “The guy just flipped.”
“What happened?”
Mr Winnow held tightly to his yard brush. “I recognised him from the Spring Fair, but didn’t mention it in case he wanted to return his fish. They were sold in good faith, after all.”
“Why was he so interested in sticklebacks?” Holly asked.
“I’m not sure. He asked where I got them from. What I was doing with them. I didn’t tell him, though. He might have been a competitor. This is a cutthroat business.”
Callum pointed at the bruise on Mr Winnow’s cheek. “Is that when he gave you that?”
Mr Winnow shuddered. “He said, I was being evasive. That I didn’t understand.”
“Understand what?” Holly asked.
But Mr Winnow shrugged. “Then, he said he’d seen me and Judy on the estate. That we had to stop.”
Holly had recovered sufficiently to inspect Mr Winnow’s wounds. His bruise was glowing and his eye was shrinking under the swelling.
“Was he threatening you?” she asked.
“I told him, I didn’t know what he was blethering on about. We live by the letter of the law around here.”
Callum coughed into the back of his hand. “I guess he was talking about the poaching, Mr Winnow.”
The purple bruise was masked by the store owner’s reddening cheeks. He turned and began sweeping the pavement.
“Why would he care about you poaching?” she asked.
“I haven’t confirmed or denied we do that, by the way,” Mr Winnow said. “So, I asked him to leave and that’s when all the argy-bargy kicked off.”
“Did you see which way he went?” Callum asked, scanning the high street for tracks.
“Too busy seeing stars, mate.”
Callum muttered under his breath. To Holly, it sounded like a growl.
The high street was as quiet as usual. There were no witnesses, no-one out there to help. It was her and Callum and failure again.
She watched Mr Winnow push his brush around the pavement. He may not have been Gordon Gecko, but for him, business never slept. Not even in Little Belton.
“If it helps,” Mr Winnow said, sweeping an empty crisp packet further down the street, “he left his bag in the shop.”
Chapter Sixteen
Holly rushed down the hallway, frantically pressing her unruly hair into shape. The doorbell sounded again and she heard Derek stir in the sitting room.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ve got it.”
She opened the front door to find Callum waiting on the other side, wiping his muddy boots on the doorstep. In his hand was a bouquet of wild flowers. He looked up and smiled.
“Dad always said to bring a gift when you visit a stranger’s home.”
“But we’re not strangers, you dope,” Holly said, returning his smile.
“Who’s a dope?” Dere
k called from behind her.
The fumes from his alcoholic breath reached her before he did. Derek held a wine glass in one hand and planted the other on Holly’s shoulder as he peered at Callum.
“You must be Mr Fleet,” Callum said, extending his hand in greeting.
Derek drained his glass dry, watching Callum over the stained rim. “And you’re the gamekeeper? I’m surprised you’re here. I’d heard your cottage is much cosier than mine.”
Callum dropped his hand, casting his gaze to the ground.
Holly wriggled from under Derek’s grasp. He was usually asleep on the sofa by now.
“Why don’t you go back into the sitting room?” she asked her husband.
Without her shoulder to support him, Derek swayed in the hallway, pitching like a ship lost in a storm.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he asked, slurring his words. “Keep me locked up while you entertain your fancy man.”
Holly noticed Callum stiffen, the flicker of a frown on his forehead. She caught his eye and gave a small shake of her head. Callum appeared to relax at her command, though the wild flowers suffered under his tightened grip.
“Are those for me?” Derek asked, the question loaded with sarcasm.
Holly turned to her husband. “I told you Callum was coming. We have something to discuss. Would you allow him to come inside please?”
Derek snorted, but stumbled out of the way.
Holly hoped Callum could see the apology in her eyes. “Go to the kitchen, Callum. I’ll be right there.”
Callum nodded and made to cross the threshold.
But he was barred by Derek’s hand.
“Shoes off, please,” Derek said.
“Stop being such a pain,” Holly said.
Callum backed away. “Maybe we could speak outside?”
