Laura Marlin Mysteries 1: Dead Man's Cove eBook (8 page)

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Authors: St John Lauren

BOOK: Laura Marlin Mysteries 1: Dead Man's Cove eBook
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Laura was smiling again when she climbed the stairs to her bedroom, but underneath she was more than a little wounded by her uncle’s rejection of her dream career. Added to which, it was hard not to be suspicious. What possible reason could he have for reacting like that unless he’d had a bad encounter with detectives in the past? Unless he’d broken the law and had a guilty conscience? There was so much that she didn’t know about him.
Laura put on her pyjamas and climbed into bed, hugging her hot water bottle for comfort. She couldn’t bear to think that her uncle had committed some awful deed in the months or years before he came to Cornwall. And yet it was obvious
something
had happened. Something terrible had driven him to St Ives. There were too many things that didn’t add up. For instance, he appeared to have no friends. In the three weeks Laura had been living with him, not a single person had come to visit and the phone had only rung three times. Twice it had been double glazing salesmen and one call was a wrong number.
Not only that, there was not the smallest hint of his previous life in the house. Not one photograph or CD. Not so much as a stick of furniture, embroidered cushion or fridge magnet to indicate a past, good or bad. It was as if he’d been beamed down to St Ives from outer space, pausing only to hire Mrs Webb from an alien planet.
Tired of thinking about it, Laura reached for
The Secret of Black Horse Ridge,
one of the Matt Walker novels she’d found downstairs. She opened the cover and did a double take at the inscription.
For Darling Calvin,
Don’t worry - you’re still the best!
All my love always,
J xx
Laura read the inscription several times. The best what? Who was J? And where was J now?
Downstairs, the front door groaned on its hinges. Laura glanced at the clock. It was after midnight. Surely her uncle wasn’t going out to work now? She peered through a crack between the blind and windowframe. It was a moonless night, but the streetlights gave off a faint yellow glow and she could make out Calvin Redfern striding down the side of the cemetery towards Porthmeor Beach. The wolfhound loped beside him. When he reached the main road, Laura expected him to turn right towards the harbour where the fishing boats came in. Instead he switched on a torch with a strong beam and took the coast path left towards Dead Man’s Cove - the same path and cove he had expressly forbidden her to go near because
‘any number of fates’
could befall her there.
Laura closed the blind and flopped down onto the pillows. As much as she liked her uncle, it was obvious that there was much more to him than met the eye. She owed it to herself, and maybe to this J person, to do some investigating.
8
‘IF IT ALL
ends in tears, don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ said Mrs Crabtree, materialising from behind a bush as Laura returned from school on Thursday.
Laura blinked. Her neighbour was wearing pink rubber gardening gloves, a purple scarf and a fake fur coat patterned with horizontal orange and black stripes. She looked like an exotic, oversized bumblebee. Laura put her bag on Mrs Crabtree’s wall and covered her mouth to hide a yawn. It had been 1am before she’d fallen asleep and it hadn’t helped that Mr Gillbert’s lessons that morning had seemed especially boring. ‘What’ll end in tears?’
‘I
mean
,’ said Mrs Crabtree, ‘Mr Mukhtar’s not going to take kindly to his boy going gadding about the hills and beaches with you when he should be minding the store. Likes his afternoons off, does Mr Mukhtar. When else is he going to do his wheeling and dealing with the fancy tapestries? Bring in a lot more money than a can of baked beans, they do. He’s not going to like it if you put a spanner in the works just because you want a playmate.’
‘How do you know all this stuff?
’
demanded Laura. ‘Have you got the seagulls spying for you? For your information, Mrs Mukhtar herself suggested Tariq come for a walk with me. She practically forced him out of the door.’
Mrs Crabtree produced some shears from a pocket in her coat and began aggressively snipping her plants. ‘That’s
Mrs
Mukhtar. It’s her husband you need to worry about.’
Laura hopped onto the stone wall and sat with her back to the street and cemetery, watching twigs and dead flower heads fly beneath Mrs Crabtree’s nimble fingers. Overhead, the wheeling gulls cried.
Under normal circumstances Laura couldn’t bear people who gossiped, but right now her neighbour seemed to be the only person in her life willing, or able - she thought of Tariq’s silence - to answer questions. ‘Are the Mukhtars popular?’ she asked. ‘In the community, I mean? Do people like them?’
Mrs Crabtree straightened up, wincing. She massaged the small of her back with one hand. ‘The Mukhtars? They’re pillars of society in St Ives. They moved here a couple of years ago and took over the North Star Grocery, him in all his finery and her looking like a movie star, and you’d think the royal family had come to town. Right away they were welcomed with open arms because, from the get-go, Mr Mukhtar was a model citizen, always the first to put his hand in his pocket if there was a community fund-raiser. Still is, by the way. Plus the North Star is one of the cheapest and best-stocked stores in town. Such wonderful fresh produce.’
‘Is Tariq their only child?’ prompted Laura before Mrs Crabtree could get started on the virtues of the Mukhtars’ vegetables.
‘Well now, that’s just it,’ said Mrs Crabtree, resuming her pruning. ‘He’s not, is he?’
Laura stared at her. ‘Not what?’
‘Not their child.’
‘So he’s adopted?’
‘Oh, I don’t know the ins and outs of that, only that he’s the son of her sister who died. He came all the way from India, must have been nine months ago, looking even more emaciated than he does now, all rough and ready and not speaking English. That’s why Mrs Mukhtar has to take time away from her manicures to teach him at home. But from day one Tariq always had impeccable manners. Such a nice boy.’
Laura’s mind was whirling. Tariq’s mum was dead and he was alone in the world. He’d been brought to a strange place, to live with strangers. That’s why he looked so lost. That’s why she felt so drawn to him. They were the same.
‘There’s one thing I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘If the Mukhtars are so respected in St Ives, why are you telling me I should be worried about Mr Mukhtar? Don’t you trust him?’
Mrs Crabtree tossed the shears into a nearby bucket and removed her pink gloves. ‘To be truthful, I’m not a fan of either of the Mukhtars even if they do sell the best produce in town. Well, it’s that poor, sad boy, isn’t it? He’s a reflection of the things that aren’t being said. He’s a reflection of what’s going on behind closed doors.’
Mrs Crabtree had done no more than confirm Laura’s suspicions about Mr Mukhtar, but she thought it wise to avoid antagonising the man unnecessarily. For the remainder of that third week in St Ives she stayed away from the North Star, because each time she ventured anywhere near it, Mr Mukhtar seemed to be in residence. From her sheltered position on the balcony of the holiday flats opposite, Laura could make out his shadowed bulk through the salt-speckled window of the store. The slim frame of Tariq appeared only rarely.
Once, she’d disturbed two seagulls and Mr Mukhtar had been alerted by their screams. Without warning, he’d pressed his face flat against the window and stared menacingly in her direction. Laura was well-hidden, but her heart had skipped a beat. It was as if he could see through concrete. She glared at the departing birds. She’d been joking when she’d asked Mrs Crabtree if she had seagulls spying for her, but it wasn’t such a far-fetched idea. It was uncanny how much her neighbour seemed to know.
But, Laura told herself, Mrs Crabtree didn’t know everything. She hadn’t known about ‘J’, for instance, although her ears had pricked up when Laura asked her if she’d ever heard of anyone with the initial ‘J’ living at, or visiting number 28 while Calvin Redfern had been in residence.
‘Is there some mystery about this person? Ooh, I do love an intrigue,’ she’d said. Laura had been saved from answering by the arrival of Mrs Crabtree’s sister. She planned to heed her neighbour’s advice and continue to be wary of Mr Mukhtar, but she had no intention of staying away from Tariq. Not now she knew he was alone in the world except for the Mukhtars. Not now she was even more certain he needed a friend.
But there was to be no repeat of their afternoon at the Island and splashing in the surf of Porthgwidden Beach. As winter gave way to spring in St Ives, Mrs Mukhtar never again offered to mind the store so that Tariq and Laura could enjoy the sunshine. Mostly Laura just hung around in the cool half-light of the North Star as Tariq served customers or stacked shelves.
If there were people in the store, she’d sit quietly to one side of the counter until they were gone. But the tourists had not yet arrived with their surfboards and broods of children clamouring for Cornish pasties and ice-creams, and much of the time business was slow. Those were the afternoons Laura loved best. She’d tell Tariq stories about Sylvan Meadows, or complain about that Kevin Rutledge. When she read aloud to him from her Matt Walker books, Tariq became completely entranced.
Sometimes she wondered how much he took in. She found it peculiar that he seemed to understand English but could not speak a word beyond her name or the occasional hello. Not that it bothered her. To her, the most important thing was that, as she read to him or chatted about her day, the tension seemed to melt from his thin shoulders. What’s more, she could feel the same thing happening to her. Their friendship might have been an unconventional one, but it made her smile. She felt a bond with Tariq. For the first time in her life, she had a best friend.
Often she had the feeling that he was bursting to talk to her. He’d open his mouth and appear to be on the verge of saying something, but he’d always clamp it closed again. The shutters in his amber eyes would descend once more. He’d be standing right in front of her, but she could tell that he’d mentally retreated, like a sea creature withdrawing into its shell.
If it weren’t for Mr and Mrs Mukhtar, who were constantly checking up on Tariq like two circling guard dogs scenting danger, thereby restricting Laura’s visits to once or twice a week, life would have been close to perfect.
One afternoon, Laura was helping Tariq unpack some boxes of vegetables and thinking how exhausted he looked, as if he hadn’t slept for days, when his sleeve slipped back and she saw purple bruises on his arm.

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