Cold Justice (13 page)

‘Okay, well, we appreciate your help,’ Carter said. As he shifted his weight to the front of the sofa ready to stand Willis closed her notebook.

‘You won’t find any problem here,’ Raymonds added.

‘Maybe not, but he has to be somewhere. Tell me, if you were to hide a boy here,’ Carter asked, ‘where would you do it?’

‘Dead?’ Raymonds shrugged. ‘Down a mineshaft, inside a badger sett. That little one would fit snug wherever you put him. You could weight him down and throw him off a boat, the fish would make short work of it. It wouldn’t be too big to burn either.’

‘What about alive?’ asked Willis.

‘If he’s here you’ll never find him. Just about every farm has a million places to hide a little lad, keep him sedated even, and wrap him warm, be right as rain for a while.’

‘But not “right as rain” for ever.’

Raymonds looked at Carter with mockery in his eyes. ‘He’d die eventually, of course. Look for someone in the family. It’s nearly always the father, isn’t it?’

They got back into the car in silence.

‘What a piece of work.’ Carter looked at Raymonds, who was standing on the front step watching them leave. ‘We’ll drive by the farm shop and see if Stokes is in there; if not, we’ll head straight out to his farm to have a word. Thoughts, Willis?’

‘On the Neanderthal man?’ Willis strained to look up out of the corner of her window at the sound of a helicopter hovering above.

‘Yes.’

‘I’d say Raymonds is a complete control freak, even now,’ answered Willis. ‘No way has he retired from anything. What struck me is – even though he’s a complete Cornish homeland fanatic – he says he liked the man with the second home from London.’

‘Yeah – makes no sense to anyone,’ Carter replied. ‘I think he must have had some sort of relationship with JFW. Either business, or otherwise. Why didn’t he just rejoice in the fact that it was one more second-home owner dead?’

‘Because he feels – felt – a bond with either the house or the man,’ said Willis. ‘Could be the house – he is trying to buy it. If it’s the man, we need to find out more. Doesn’t make any sense either way. He doesn’t care about Samuel at all, does he, guv?’

‘He doesn’t give a shit if the boy’s alive or dead,’ said Carter. ‘What did he say? ‘‘The fish would make short work of it’’? Who speaks like that about a missing child?’

‘A man who thinks he can say whatever he likes.’

‘Exactly. An arrogant git who needs taking down a peg or two. I’m going to make it my business to achieve that before we leave here, Eb.’

‘Do you think Samuel is here?’

‘You know what, after talking to Raymonds and being subjected to his narrow-minded bigotry, his abject disregard and almost hatred of anything outside his narrow little world, I think I do. Is that Pascoe?’

‘Yes, guv.’

Raymonds looked across the table at Eileen and picked up his spoon. He smashed the crown of his soft-boiled egg with the back of his spoon, picked up his knife, and sliced through the top half of the egg in one clean strike. He looked up at her and smiled watchfully.

‘Is something the matter?’ she asked, and he could see the mistrust in her eyes.

‘Yes. These eggs are underdone. They need to be timed – it’s not a haphazard thing, boiling an egg. It’s not difficult, for Christ’s sake.’

Eileen went to delicately open the top of her egg by carving but it was too soft – she crushed it as she held it. She scraped up the slimy egg that had splattered across the table. Raymonds paused mid-spoonful and watched her with disgust.

‘You’re putting me off my food.’

‘Sorry.’

Raymonds sighed. If there were a way of bullying his wife out of behaving like a victim he would have found it by now. They finished their meal in silence. Raymonds picked up his plate, scraped the remainder in the bin, and stacked it away in the dishwasher.

‘I’m going out.’ She nodded but didn’t answer. She went to look out at the back garden.

He followed her gaze. A pile of logs littering the pathway obstructed the usually neat and tidy pathways. ‘I’ll tidy that up when I get back,’ he said.

‘Don’t you want me to put the logs into the store?’ she asked. ‘It might rain.’

‘Don’t touch anything. I’ll be a couple of hours, it can wait till then. Don’t let anyone in if those people come back.’

‘The coloured girl?’

‘Yes. She’s a police officer from the Met. I always said no good would ever come of the Met. He’s just as bad. They don’t know how to conduct themselves properly. If they think they can come down here and lord it over everyone, they’re much mistaken.’

‘What did they want?’

‘They want to find that missing boy, of course. What do you think they want?’

‘Are you going to see Marky?’

‘Why?’

‘Just that he said he’d come and see me yesterday and he didn’t. I’m worried that he’s not opening the shop like he should. People are talking about it.’

‘What, what – spit it out.’

‘I don’t know, I’m just worried about him, that’s all. Can you have a word?’

Raymonds went into the hallway, picked up his keys from the hall table and went outside. He smiled as the cold air hit him, fresh from the Atlantic. He pressed the fob on his key ring and the garage door shuddered and then whirred open. His cars waited shiny, immaculate, sitting neatly in the double garage. At the back of the garage there was a wall of drying logs. He’d spent all morning stacking them neatly on top of one another, like a drystone wall. Each log had its place but now he’d been interrupted it could wait. His mind was on other things.

He heard the helicopter overhead and listened intently. His eyes went skyward and stayed as he clenched his fists, his body going rigid. His face had become so strained that it looked mask-like as his mouth set into a grimace and stayed. He waited until the helicopter had moved on and then he got into the car on the right – a 1970s Ford Cortina 1600 E in metallic grey. He had restored it himself. He called it the Silver Fox. He started the engine, slightly rough and throaty – it was a sports model in its time.

Raymonds sat there for a minute, waiting for the car to warm up, before easing out of the garage and down the driveway, then turning and taking the main road towards the village. He turned in the car park behind the Surfshack and took a look around for the detectives’ car but it wasn’t there. He parked up and got out, walking round the back of the Surfshack onto the main street, looking into the Surfshack as he passed. It was a large cabin-type shop with broad wooden steps that usually had surfboards strapped to the railings. In the summer, racks of wet suits were wheeled out for people to hire; suntanned girls and boys skipped up and down the sandy steps. Its windows were full of posters of bronzed surfers. Usually it made Raymonds feel good just to be near it, but not today.

He looked inside and saw Marky waxing down a surfboard. Raymonds walked up the steps and shut and locked the door behind him. Marky stopped waxing as he watched his father approach. He was trying to gauge his father’s mood, but Raymonds had perfected the expressionless face. As he got close, and without warning, Raymonds raised his hand and whipped his open palm against the side of Marky’s head so hard it knocked Marky off his stool and sent the surfboard crashing to the floor. Marky began crawling backwards like an upside-down insect trying to get away.

‘I know what you’ve done.’ He caught hold of him as Marky tried to get away. ‘The whole village will suffer if you don’t get rid of it. Those are police helicopters up in the sky now. The whole of the UK is watching us. You think you’re going to come out of this, you and Jago? Think again. This has Jago written all over it and you just went along with it, didn’t you? It’s a stupid idea, stupidly executed.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Raymonds took another swipe at Marky, who ducked.

‘I fucking saw you at the motorway services after the funeral. Now the police are going to look at every angle of every CCTV camera trained on that services and they will see you. Get rid of it. You hear me?’ Raymonds tightened his grip on his son’s shirt and twisted it tightly around his neck until Marky began to gasp.

‘Yes. Okay, get off me.’

‘Dump it in the sea, weight it down. You fail me now and I will hand you in myself.’

Raymonds got back to his car and drove up past the shops and on to Kellis House. He stopped for a few minutes and wound his window down to get a better look; to listen to the rooks in the pines. He needed to regain his calm. He’d always loved the house. He loved all things solid and strong. Things that stood their ground, no matter what was thrown at them. This house, grey and mardy-faced, was like him. It would be here long after he was ashes in the wind above Penhal. Long after he was bone fragments floating on the Atlantic, or in the shifting sand that gathered in all the doorways in Penhal. That would be him. Not buried in the earth. He would be in every breath that the people of Penhal took. He would be all around. He’d be damned if a man from beyond the grave or anyone else’d break him now. They would all toe the line in the end and Jeremy Forbes-Wright would not have the last laugh.

He drove up to the brow of the hill and parked where he could look down on the caravans in the field below. There was a line of them at the top of the field. Only one was occupied. He could see the smoke rising from a fire at the back of it. He saw Misty the horse grazing nearby. He murmured to himself then scowled as he watched the occupant of the van, Kensa Cooper, come out and stand in the centre of the field. She was dressed in a dark sack-type dress with her arms wrapped in a shawl. He watched as she started slowly moving her feet and hips; she seemed to contemplate dancing. But instead, she opened out her arms and the blanket blew in the wind. She stood like a crow with wings open – being buffeted but holding strong. Above her, the seagulls were swirling and diving at one another. Misty began galloping around the perimeter of the field.
Christ,
Raymonds muttered to himself.
This whole village has gone mad.
He started the engine again and took the road to Penhaligon. He passed by the sign to Stokes’ farm and almost turned but decided the detectives might be already there. Instead, he drove on, taking the narrow lane that led towards the cliffs, then parked above Garra headland and took his walking boots out from the back of the car. He headed towards an old tin mine that he could see above him on the craggy edge of the cliff. Its stack was still strong and tall; the engine house looked like a church, with its steeple sides and arched windows. It was had no roof or glass but stood stoically, facing the Atlantic storms. A reverence and history of men’s toil. To his right, he spied the roof of Cam’s cottage and saw Cam walking back to his house. Raymonds hadn’t looked to see if Cam’s café on the beach was closed – he would have to keep an eye on that. The village would fall apart if none of its shop owners could be bothered to open. He would call a meeting of the leaseholders and instil some little home truths into them all. No open shops, no lease. He walked up to the cliff edge and looked down to the mine shaft that was perched so precariously near to the edge of the cliff. Burrowed in the granite.

He stood and breathed in the air – the faintest smell of rotting came from below him to the side of the ruins. He looked about him and saw the remains of a sheep, its wool and bone, blackened flesh freeze-drying in the biting wind. It had fallen on the steep path and died above the entrance to the old mine shaft, where a metal grid was bolted over the hole in the granite. Its leg was caught between the metal and the rock, and twisted shards of bone jutted skywards.

The low sun lit Raymonds’ face and set fire to the windows of the ruin. He looked at the waves breaking out in the ocean. The sea was white with spume. Holding tightly to the side of the cliff, he made his way down to the mine below. He passed the sheep and stood looking down through the metal grille covering the mine shaft. Far below, he saw a ripple as the light reflected on the water. He knelt down and examined the bolts. They gave as he twisted them. Pulling on his leather gloves, he knelt over the grille and tightened each of the bolts by hand. As he heard a helicopter returning overhead he walked smartly back up the cliff path and away from the ruins.

Jeanie had spent the first half of the morning at Fletcher House. She was holding a copy of a tabloid in her hand as she approached the Forbes-Wrights’ apartment at Riverview at eleven. The front page was plastered with the story of missing Samuel. The theory that it could have something to do with his grandfather was already making the most attractive headline and probably selling the most papers. Toby was painted as a Stephen Hawking character – brilliant but somehow crippled by his own limitations. Experts on Asperger’s had come forward with quotes after someone had mentioned the word autistic. Toby was definitely still in the frame for a murderer, albeit a misunderstood one. Lauren was painted as a cougar who had ensnared one of the UK’s brightest but most vulnerable. Outside the building she’d had to get past the press. They were being forced to stay behind a barrier that had been erected at the end of the apartment block. The river police had moved on a press boat that had been taking photos of their apartment with a telephoto lens.

‘Bullshit,’ Jeanie said aloud before she spoke into the intercom of the door of the Forbes-Wright flat and put the paper into her bag.

‘Hello, Lauren – it’s Jeanie.’

The door buzzed open and she took the stairs up to the third-floor apartment. As she got near the apartment door Lauren opened it.

‘Any news?’

Jeanie shook her head. ‘No, but I’ve just come from a meeting of all the departments involved and we are doing everything.’

Lauren turned to Toby. ‘Toby?’ He was standing at the far side of the room. The couple had become disconnected. They seemed to have no way of sharing their crisis. There were bags packed at the front door.

Jeanie looked at him.

He nodded and went to stare out of the window. As fidgety as Lauren seemed, Toby was the opposite. He seemed to have gone into shock and was barely breathing.