The phone on Paul’s desk rang and he picked up the receiver, hoping it was Carole to say that Sophie had returned safely.
He felt his heart beating fast as he recited his name.
It was Carole, but she wasn’t calling with good news. ‘She’s still not back, Paul. I’ve just had a call from one of her school
friends. He asked to speak to her and I had to tell him she was still missing. He said they met up on Thursday night but after
that they went their separate ways. He said she was with Barney and they didn’t mention anything about going off anywhere.’
‘Where did they meet?’
‘Somewhere out near Queenswear, I think.’
‘What’s this friend’s name?’
‘Dun.’
‘Surname?’
‘Her friends don’t tend to do surnames.’ She paused. ‘I asked him about Blood Hunt.’
‘What did he say?’
‘That it’s just a computer game and it can’t have anything to do with them disappearing. He was quite definite about that.’
Paul picked up on the uncertainty in her voice. ‘Too definite, do you think?’
‘Do you want to speak to him?’
‘We might.’
‘I don’t really know him but I believe his dad’s a farmer. He lives just outside Morbay.’
As Paul thanked his aunt and promised to keep her posted, he was engulfed by a feeling of helpless frustration. Maybe there
was more he could be doing. Maybe he should be out there looking for them.
The dogs gave Richard Catton a good excuse to walk around the estate. Not that he needed an excuse – it was his land, after
all, or rather his father’s – but he felt less awkward with a pair of black Labradors by his side.
He had never intended to return to Catton Hall but a few months ago his father had contacted him to say that he’d been diagnosed
with a heart condition and he needed help with the running of the estate. Richard had abandoned his London life, surprised
that time had blunted the antagonism he’d felt towards his father for so many years, and when he’d returned Alfred’s state
of health meant that he had suddenly become responsible for the manor house, estate and even the run-down holiday park. The
reality of being in charge of the place at last had drawn him back and kept him there, full of tentative plans and misgivings.
The holiday park had been a money spinner in its 1960s heyday and beyond, but in recent years his father had lacked the money,
enthusiasm or good health to ensure that the company running it had kept it going to a high standard. Now, like everything
else on the Catton Hall estate, the holiday park had faded, crumbled and for some time it had lain semi-derelict, awaiting
a Prince Charming to wake it up and give it new life. After prolonged negotiations with
the bank and a couple of local backers, Richard had secured the necessary funding and soon renovation work would begin. But
finances would be a struggle until the whole thing was up and running – that’s why Kevin Orford’s bizarre proposal had come
as a welcome surprise. And that’s also why he had permitted Carl Heckerty to use the land for his strange games, even though
he wasn’t particularly comfortable about it.
It was a perfect summer evening; warm with a gentle breeze blowing in from the sea and rustling the leaves on the surrounding
trees. Richard would have liked to do something leisurely like others did on a fine Sunday evening.
Sometimes he dreamed of being with Daniel. Drinks on the terrace at the back of the house. A meal cooked from the best local
ingredients bought from the farmers’ market in Tradmouth. Then bed and that precious intimacy he craved but which always seemed
to elude him these days. For a long time now, sexual encounters had left him feeling empty. But it hadn’t been like that with
Daniel. Theirs had been a meeting of souls.
He’d asked Orford whether he’d heard from Daniel but the answer had been a terse no, as though it was something the artist
preferred not to talk about. Perhaps there’d been bad blood between them, although he hadn’t sensed it at the time.
It was sixteen years since Daniel had gone without a word and his mother had left for a new life abroad. They’d both vanished
from his life, and now the reopening of that trench in the field next to the holiday park was resurrecting memories of that
summer. Perhaps he should have told Orford to get lost. But money was money.
The dogs ran ahead, tails wagging like windscreen wipers, making for the holiday park’s empty chalets. The places would still
be habitable – just – if they were cleaned up and given a coat of paint. But the chalets with their basic amenities and shabby
lino floors belonged to another era; an era of make-do and mend and ferocious seaside landladies. An era when you were glad
for what you were given. People these days expected more comfort for their money, especially when they were on holiday.
Carl Heckerty’s people had used the chalets recently but Richard didn’t ask too many questions about that. As long as Carl
paid him in cash.
He heard the dogs barking as though something was bothering them. They were out of sight now but he followed the noise and
found himself outside a detached chalet at the end of a row. The dirty floral curtains were drawn so he couldn’t see inside
but the dogs were scrabbling at the door, barking as if demanding admission.
He took hold of their collars and pulled them away. ‘What is it, lads? What’s the matter?’ he said as he turned the door handle.
When the door swung open slowly he stepped inside and followed the eager dogs into one of the rooms at the back. They were
sniffing around, tails wagging excitedly, their attention focused on the clothes lying discarded on the floor. Richard pulled
them away and touched the clothes with his toe. There seemed to be two sets, one male and one female, including underwear.
He seized the dogs’ collars again and pulled them outside.
Those things should never have been left there. Heckerty had screwed up. And he guessed it was up to him to do something about
it.
The Steward’s Journal
27 May 1815
She calls herself the Lady Pegassa and even the Squire is puzzled as to her origins and he is a man who claims to know all.
She speaks no English – and yet she seems to know what is asked of her and she has no trouble in making her desires understood.
He assures me that she is not a French spy and he mocked me for my suspicions.
There has been no talk of turning her out. Rather the Squire has given her the blue bedroom which is kept for honoured guests
and he has instructed the maidservant, Mary, to see to her every need.
I took Mary aside to speak some words of warning to her privately – and to ask her to report to me daily. I must know what
manner of creature this Pegassa is, for I fear that her arrival at the Squire’s door was no accident.
The Lady Pegassa spends much time in the Squire’s library taking the books off the shelves one by one and pretending to study
them – although I noticed that she held some upside down, a frown of concentration on her face as though she was reading some
engaging story, before replacing the books, careful to keep them in their rightful place. I stood outside watching her through
the window for a good while and she never seemed to tire of this feeble entertainment, for feeble it must have been for someone
unable to make sense of the volumes.
28 May 1815
It seems from what the cook has told me that word of our strange visitor has spread, and now all of Tradmouth society is curious
to view the newcomer. However, the Squire’s reputation may keep them from his door. I, of course, will obey his instructions
and turn visitors away if necessary.
Mary tells me that this morning she met with the mother of William and the woman would say nothing other than he keeps to
his bed. I have heard that the Squire instructed the doctor to visit William, paying him well for his silence. Perhaps his
conscience troubles him.
29 May 1815
This morning Pegassa visited the library again. The room seems to hold a fascination for her, and I suspect that she has never
seen books before in the strange country from whence she has travelled.
When I entered the library she stood up and looked boldly into my eyes. There is no maidenly modesty about Pegassa and I wonder
whether all the women of her land conduct themselves thus.
She began to approach me, a smile on her full lips. She is a beautiful woman with dark eyes, full breasts and black hair like
polished jet and I took a step backwards and averted my eyes from hers. When she kissed me full on the lips, for several moments
I was too astounded to break away. I pray that I am strong enough to resist the temptations of the flesh.
Monday was a fine morning for sailing and the breeze was warm and light as the
Justice Done
sailed round the headland making for Tradmouth harbour.
It was an ideal day to be up on deck and the owners of the
Justice Done
, a retired judge and his good lady who passed most of the summer months at their Tradmouth second home, felt the breeze on
their faces as they breathed in the clean sea air; so different from the blend of traffic fumes and the stink of crammed humanity
that passed for air in London. Seagulls wheeled overhead, crying like souls in torment, as the judge shielded his eyes from
the sun and looked at his watch, wondering if it was too early for a gin and tonic. Probably not. It was never too early on
a day like this.
He was about to call out to his wife when he spotted something at the base of the cliffs. He slowed the engine and brought
the boat closer to the shore.
He could see them quite clearly now. Two pale human shapes, like naked mannequins, sprawled on the thin stretch of inaccessible
sand beneath the towering cliff.
‘Get onto the radio and call the coastguard,’ the judge barked.
His wife obeyed without question as she always did.
Wesley ended his call and put the telephone down, looking round the room and taking a deep, calming breath before making his
way to Gerry’s office. He could see the DCI through the glass, feet up on desk, reading something that looked like a witness
statement, away from the hum of conversation in the incident room. He opened the door without knocking. He was about to ruin
Gerry’s day.
Gerry looked at him as though he sensed something was wrong. ‘You’re going to tell me our dead woman’s not Tessa Trencham?
We’ve got to start again?’
‘Worse than that. I’ve just had the coastguard on the phone. Two bodies were spotted by a passing boat lying beneath the cliffs
a couple of miles north of Fortress Point.’
‘Washed up from a boat?’
‘Or a suicide pact.’
Gerry sighed. ‘Or an accident – someone messing about too near the cliff edge?’
‘The bodies are being taken to Tradmouth Hospital so we’ll know soon enough.’ He paused, wondering how Gerry was going to
take the next bit of news. ‘It appears that the victims were shot.’
Gerry dropped the file he was holding and leaned back in his swivel chair which groaned beneath his weight. ‘Go on.’
‘According to the coastguard they’re both young – one
male, one female and the female has long fair hair. And they were naked. Colin’s been called in.’ He paused. ‘You know Paul’s
cousin’s missing from home.’
‘Now let’s not jump to conclusions, Wes. There’s no reason to think—’
‘It’s just the age …’
Gerry picked up a pen and turned it over and over in his fingers, considering the problem. After a few moments he spoke. ‘If
it’s a shooting, it’s odds on it’s drugs related; some small boat bringing stuff in and there’s been a falling out. They were
probably dumped from a boat and washed ashore.’
Wesley left the boss’s office, shutting the door quietly behind him, hoping Gerry was right. He could see Paul Johnson sitting
by the window tapping something into the computer on his desk, his face a picture of concentration. When he saw Wesley approaching
he stood up.
‘I thought I better let you know that two bodies have been found at the foot of the cliffs below the coastal path from Queenswear
to Fortress Point,’ Wesley said as he pulled up a chair to sit beside him. ‘It looks like a shooting so the boss reckons it’s
probably drugs related. There’s no reason to believe one of them’s your cousin but …’
Paul slumped down in his seat and stared at him for a few seconds, taking in the information. Then he frowned. ‘There must
be a description.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He couldn’t quite bring himself to give the details he already knew. ‘Look, there’s no point in worrying your
aunt with this before … I’ll let you know as soon as we have anything. Try not to worry, eh.’
He knew his last words were futile. Paul looked as if he had all the worries of the world on his shoulders.
Wesley passed Trish’s desk on his way back to Gerry’s office. He stopped when she asked if she could have a word, squatting
down to her level so that he wouldn’t have to shout.
‘Paul looks upset. Is something the matter?’ she said in a whisper.
He told her about the bodies, adding optimistically that it might be more the drug squad’s concern than theirs. Trish didn’t
look convinced and he was rather relieved when she changed the subject.
‘That second reference Tessa Trencham gave to Morbay Properties – Carl Heckerty. I’ve managed to contact him. He owns one
of these paintball ranges just outside Dukes-bridge – bit of a local entrepreneur by all accounts. I’m going to see him at
lunchtime.’
‘Did he sound worried when you spoke to him?’
She thought for a moment. ‘Yes, he did a bit come to think of it. Any luck contacting Tessa in France, sir?’
‘Not yet. I’m starting to think that Sylvia Cartland might have been lying about speaking to her on Saturday.’
Trish picked a file up off her desk. ‘I’m going to see Tessa’s dentist later. Now we’ve got the dead woman’s dental details
he’ll be able to tell us for sure whether it’s her or not.’
‘It’s about time we had something definite to go on.’ He paused. ‘If … if that body does turn out to be Paul’s cousin, he’s
going to need your support.’