Laura Marlin Mysteries 1: Dead Man's Cove eBook (13 page)

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Authors: St John Lauren

WHY? she’d written on the beach. It had been a cheeky reply because she didn’t see why she should have to prove herself to a total stranger. She unrolled the paper and spread it out on the path.
BECAUSE IF I TRUST THE WRONG PERSON I COULD DIE.
She dropped the paper and stepped back from it. A gust of wind caught it and blew it onto the rocks. Seconds before it was washed into the sea, she snatched it up again. She looked up at St Nicholas’s chapel, hoping to see a giggling prankster or group of pranksters - perhaps Kevin Rutledge and his moronic friends - falling about because she’d been gullible enough to reply to their messages. But no one was there.
A chill went through Laura that had nothing to do with the March wind. She’d been ninety-nine per cent sure that the notes in the bottle were a game. Now she was about seventy-five per cent sure they were not. She straightened out the paper. BECAUSE IF I TRUST THE WRONG PERSON I COULD DIE.
She could return the note to the bottle, leave it on the path, and hope that someone else would find it. That way it would be their problem, not hers. But walking away from someone in trouble was not in Laura’s nature. If the message writer died because she’d turned her back on a cry for help, she didn’t want it on her conscience.
For several long minutes she agonised over the right thing to do. At last she took a pen from her school bag and wrote on the bottom of the paper: TELL ME WHAT TO DO.
Over the course of the day Laura came up with dozens of different theories on why the message writer was in mortal danger. She wondered why he or she didn’t go to the police, a lawyer, or even a doctor. Weren’t those sorts of people supposed to be trustworthy? The fact that the note writer hadn’t contacted the authorities suggested that they were scared or had done something illegal. They had to be pretty desperate to put their faith in a random, passing stranger - a stranger who might just turn out to be an eleven-year-old girl.
Walking home from school, Laura kicked a rock savagely. If she had a friend, life would be so much easier. If Tariq hadn’t turned into a freak, she could have taken the notes to him, and in his sensitive, thoughtful way, he’d have known what to do, just like he’d known what to do when the dogs were at each other’s throats. He was smart. More than that, he was intuitive. He had always known when she’d had a terrible day at school long before she told him. He’d present her with a bar of chocolate or a fresh peach or some other treat she had a feeling the Mukhtars didn’t know about.
That, however, was the old Tariq. The new Tariq would simply laugh at her. He’d joke with Mr Mukhtar that she’d been reading too many Matt Walker books. Actually Laura wished she’d read even more. Matt Walker would have seen through the puzzle in an instant. He’d have identified the calligraphy as being unique to a particular region of the world, and would have known off the top of his head that the paper used was, say, made by a special printing press found only in the Outer Hebrides. Laura could only see that a cheap biro had been used on one note and a quill and ink on the other.
She had no plans to tell her uncle about the messages either. Oh, he’d listen to her carefully and be very nice to her about them. He might even tell her that he’d have a chat with the police the next time he passed the station. Then he’d go into his office and forget she’d ever mentioned it.
No, apart from her penfriend, she was on her own.
Again.
Laura was hurrying along Ocean View Terrace with her head down, hoping not to run into Mrs Crabtree or the birdwatcher, when something shiny caught her eye. A fragment of silk tapestry was lying in the gutter. It was about three inches square and damp from the morning’s rain. On it was the face of a tiger, exquisitely crafted. A tear was rolling down the tiger’s cheek.
Laura’s heart began to thud. She knew precisely where she’d last seen such a tiger: on the tapestry behind the counter at the North Star. She picked it up and looked up and down the street. There was no one in sight.
She found herself hoping with every fibre of her being that Tariq had left it for her as a sign. As an apology or a plea for understanding. But if he had, surely he’d have put it through her letterbox in an envelope, or at least left it on her doorstep weighted down with a rock. As it was, there was no telling how long the tiger had lain undiscovered in the gutter.
Mrs Crabtree! She always knew everything. If Tariq had been within a hundred metres of Ocean View Terrace, Mrs Crabtree would have spotted him from her window. Laura bounded up her neighbour’s path and knocked on the door. There was no answer. Typical. The one time Mrs Crabtree’s spying might have come in useful, she’d gone out.
Much to Laura’s surprise, her uncle was in the kitchen when she got home. He was putting the roast Mrs Webb had prepared into the oven.
‘Half day,’ he explained with a weary grin. He was unshaven and there were deep grooves of tiredness around his eyes.
Laura sat down at the table and he made her a hot chocolate. He brewed himself an extra strong coffee and joined her.
‘I stopped by the North Star today, as I said I would. It’s probably not what you want to hear, but Tariq seems to be doing very well. I didn’t talk to him because he was rushing in and out unpacking boxes, but I had a good look at him and there were no bruises on him. Not visible ones in any case. He certainly wasn’t limping or showing any other sign of injury or distress. Mr Mukhtar was behind the counter and he was praising his son to the skies.’
Laura couldn’t conceal her irritation. ‘Mr Mukhtar and his wife are such phonies. They always do that. I can’t understand why everyone is so taken in by them. And Tariq is not their son. He’s adopted.’
Calvin Redfern took a sip of black coffee. ‘They’re popular because they help out in the community, run a good store, and they’re pleasant to everyone who goes into it.’
‘Mrs Crabtree says she doesn’t trust the Mukhtars because Tariq is a reflection of what’s going on behind closed doors. She called him a poor, sad boy.’
Her uncle grimaced. ‘I hardly think Mrs Crabtree is in a position to judge - not with the amount of time she spends poking her nose into other people’s affairs. The Tariq I glimpsed was neither poor nor sad. He’s very thin and was yawning a lot, but apart from that he appeared content and well taken care of.’
‘That’s good,’ Laura said. ‘I’m glad he’s happy. I’m still mad at him, but I want him to be okay.’
Changing into her pyjamas later that night, she studied the tiny tapestry again. It was ridiculous to think that Tariq had left it on her doorstep as an apology. Lots of people had bought tapestries from Mr Mukhtar. Any one of them might have dropped the miniature tiger as they strolled along Ocean View Terrace. Tariq sounded far too busy to give a moment’s thought to his boring ex-friend.
Still, it was hard to let go of the idea. She found the tiger comforting. She put it on the bedside table beside the picture of her mother. Then she switched off the light and lay for a long time listening to the ceaseless rolling of the waves.
It was at times like this that she wondered if she had it in her to be a detective. Mysteries were piling up and she could see no way of solving any of them. The whole situation was like St Ives itself - full of blind alleys. Frustrated, Laura asked herself the same thing she always did when she found herself with more questions than answers: What would Matt Walker do?
15
ON THURSDAY MORNING
Laura overslept and had no time to have breakfast, let alone check the beach or bottle on the path for messages. While in the shower, she’d come to the conclusion that if her detective idol were in her situation he’d be out investigating. He wouldn’t be sitting around with his head in his hands. He’d be analysing the handwriting on the notes, making enquiries about the Mukhtars, ‘J’, and Mrs Webb, and he’d be following Calvin Redfern on one of his mysterious midnight walks.
If Laura was going to make any progress, she needed to do the same.
After school she collared Mr Gillbert and asked if he knew anything about birds. Matt Walker always said it was bad to stereotype people. For example, it was wrong to assume that just because the local postman was a loner with a limp and a glass eye, he must be the villain putting threatening letters in envelopes. But he also said that it was worth bearing in mind that stereotypes were there for a reason. Mr Gillbert fitted Laura’s picture of a birdwatcher much more than the man loitering in the cemetery in the badly fitting trenchcoat had done.
Her instincts were right. Not only was Mr Gillbert a twitcher, or a birder, as birdwatchers sometimes called themselves, he was a fanatical one. His face lit up like a Christmas tree when Laura asked him about his hobby. When she told him that a rare gull had been spotted on the roof of her house, he almost danced across the classroom. She’d never seen him so animated.
‘A rare gull! Oh, this is the most exciting thing that’s happened in weeks - outside, of course, of this morning’s maths lesson. What species was it? Can you recall? There was once a Kumliens gull spotted in Plymouth and a glaucous Arctic gull in Newlyn. I missed the Kumliens, but the Arctic gull will live on in my memory for years to come. I have a photograph of it over the mantlepiece.’
‘It was an ivory gull,’ Laura reported.
Mr Gillbert gave a snort. ‘An ivory gull? Blown off course, was it? Thought it might take a small detour from the frozen wastes of the Polar region to drop in on sunny St Ives? I can assure you, Laura, the man who told you that was no birdwatcher. The newest, most mentally deficient member of the birding community would know that there is more chance of the dodo putting in an appearance than the ivory gull leaving its home in the snow and ice to fly thousands of miles for a beach holiday in St Ives.’
Laura, who’d had a hunch the birdwatcher was a fraud, was now surer than ever he’d been staking out number 28 Ocean View Terrace for some sinister purpose. But what? She thanked Mr Gillbert for his help, agreed with him that the man had patently been talking rubbish, and walked into town to get a Cornish pasty to keep her going until Calvin Redfern came home. She couldn’t face another early dinner under the watchful black eyes of Mrs Webb. Besides, she wanted to drop in on Mrs Crabtree to ask if she had spotted the birdwatcher.
Walking down Fore Street, Laura decided on the spur of the moment to visit Skye. He was not on the step and the sign appealing for a home for him had gone. Laura was crushed. Someone else had been allowed to adopt Skye. Someone else was going to get the chance to have a proud husky friend, loyal and brave. Someone else. Not her.
Laura was so disappointed her heart hurt. She was turning away when the shop owner called: ‘Would you like to say goodbye to him?’
Laura went into the store. Skye was lying in a basket. This time he did look dejected. When Laura stroked his head his tail thumped, but he didn’t lift his head. The shop owner, an elegant woman in a dress patterned with roses, came out from behind the counter and gazed sorrowfully at them both.
‘He’s a stunning dog,’ said Laura, standing up. ‘You must be glad to have found him a home. I’m amazed it took so long.’
‘Oh, don’t make me feel worse than I already do,’ cried the woman. ‘I’ve tried for weeks to re-home him, but I’ve finally admitted defeat. I must have had a hundred offers for him. He’s a Siberian husky, as you’re probably aware, and they’re highly prized. But when people take a closer look at him, they change their minds. They suddenly remember they have a train to catch or they can’t afford dog food or that he doesn’t match their furniture. My baby son is allergic to animals and I can’t keep a dog any longer. This afternoon I’m taking Skye to a rescue centre. They’ve promised to do their best to find a good home for him, but if no one wants him he’ll have to be put to sleep.’

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