The Cove: a shocking thriller you won't be able to put down (The Devil's Cove Book 1)

by Malcolm Richards

  Pots of strange and exotic succulents lined the ground. Above her head, three wooden beams were covered in thick vines. Bright flowers protruded from hanging baskets.

  Carrie made her way to a small picnic table and sat down. Fishing out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from her bag, she sparked one up and inhaled deeply. As she blew out the smoke in a steady stream, her head filled with cotton. Some of the knots in her shoulders loosened.

  It was a bad habit, she knew; and one that Dylan was under the impression she had quit long ago. She had quit the day she’d discovered she was pregnant with Melissa, but she had started up again recently. In secret. The same day Noah Pengelly had vanished.

  It was just one cigarette a day, here at the shop. One cigarette to help soothe the tension that had been simmering beneath her skin. To distract her from those old, dreadful thoughts that had been resurfacing since Noah’s disappearance.

  There were police at the beach. Margaret had found a body.

  Carrie stubbed out a cigarette and lit up another. So, it would be two cigarettes today. Big deal, she thought.

  Taking a paperback from her bag, a crime thriller, she flipped to the bookmarked page and attempted to read. Usually, it took a minute or two for the words to push her dark thoughts aside. But now, they were having trouble getting through.

  She put the book down. Sipped some coffee. Sucked on her cigarette.

  She and Tess Pengelly had been friends since school. When Noah vanished, she had been there for Tess, visiting her every day she could, bringing home cooked meals, and her leftover prescriptions of sleeping pills and diazepam; anything to help her friend sleep at night. She knew all too well how torturous those sleepless nights could be. She knew all too well how loss tore you apart, inside and out. Which was why, when Noah had still not been found a month later, Carrie had stopped visiting Tess altogether. It felt all too familiar. And much too painful.

  Picking up her book again, she forced the words into her mind. Little Noah Pengelly’s face pushed them back out.

  Was he dead, then? Washed up on the shore along with the flotsam. Poor boy, Carrie thought. Poor, poor Tess.

  Memories that Carrie had been fighting to ignore lit up her mind like lightning. She was back there, on the beach, running through swathes of people and desperately calling out a name that she had since not uttered in seven years. She could still hear her mother’s high-pitched shrieks, her father’s usual strong and steady voice now scared and broken. She could still see the looks of confusion, the gradually dawning horror. She could still hear her own screams as hands pulled her back onto the sand, could feel the cough and gag of her lungs as they purged themselves of seawater.

  Carrie snapped the book shut and stubbed out what was left of the cigarette. She stood up, swaying on her feet. Perhaps she should walk to the beach, to see what was happening. Perhaps she should call someone—Tess, maybe. No, not Tess; but someone. To find out exactly what Margaret Telford had found.

  Or perhaps she should open the shop and worry about her own family’s livelihood now they would be relying almost entirely on Dylan’s fisherman salary over the winter.

  She dumped her coffee cup in the storeroom sink, used the bathroom, then returned to the shop floor. Through the window, she could see Jack Dawkins, the proprietor of Porth an Jowl Wine Shop, who was talking conspiratorially with Mabel Stevens. Poor old Mabel couldn’t seem to keep the news of Margaret’s discovery to herself. Carrie watched them for a minute as they shook their heads and pointed in the direction of the beach.

  Someone strolled past the window. She was too distracted to notice who. Perhaps she would call Dylan, see if he was up yet. To hear his gravelly, just-woken voice tell her everything was going to be all right. That he loved her.

  She took a step toward the counter where her mobile phone lay, then froze. Something was happening outside. Mabel and Jack had fallen silent and were both staring across the square, their eyes moving in unison, following something, until they came to rest on the window of Cove Crafts.

  An unpleasant, icy sensation slipped beneath Carrie’s skin.

  At the same time, two uniformed police officers, one male, one female, appeared from the left. They stopped outside the shop door. Carrie watched as the female officer knocked on the glass.

  Her first thought was that something terrible had happened to her family. But she had only left them a couple of hours ago; Dylan sleeping, Melissa playing happily in her bedroom.

  Now, the female officer was trying the door and finding it locked. The male officer stared at Carrie and mouthed something.

  Slowly, Carrie moved to the door.

  This had to be about the boy Margaret had found on the beach. It was poor little Noah. He was dead. But why were the police here and not up at the Pengellys’ house?

  Turning the key, she unlocked the door and opened it.

  The male officer spoke first. “Carrie Killigrew?”

  Carrie’s voice was a whisper. “Yes.”

  “I’m PC Thomas. This is PC Matthews. May we come in?”

  The police officers waited for Carrie to step aside. But she was rooted to the spot. Across the square, Mabel and Jack were watching with hawk-like attention.

  “What’s this about?” she said, her eyes on the elderly pair.

  “Please,” PC Matthews said, her voice soft and steady. “It would be better if we could come inside.”

  Something was wrong. She could feel it in the air, in her blood. This wasn’t about the boy. This was about something else.

  Carrie stepped aside and let the police officers in.

  “Is there somewhere we could sit down?” PC Thomas asked, looking around.

  Oh God. Carrie swallowed, suddenly thirsty. She nodded and led the officers through the shop and out to the yard. She indicated the picnic table, noticed the cigarettes sticking out of her bag and quickly pushed them inside.

  The police officers stared at the picnic bench, before glancing at each other. They sat down on one side, awkwardly tucking their legs underneath the table. Carrie sat on the other side, staring from one police officer to the other, trying to read their expressions as she fought to control a wave of panic.

  There was a moment of silence that seemed to last an hour. Carrie held her breath. She squeezed her fingers beneath her thighs.

  “Mrs. Killigrew, you may have heard by now about the incident on the beach earlier this morning,” PC Thomas said.

  Carrie nodded. Her thoughts turned to her friend, Tess, and guilt dragged at her insides.

  “Please call me Carrie,” she said. “And yes, news travels fast around here. I heard Margaret Telford found a boy. They’re saying it’s Noah Pengelly.”

  A look passed between the police officers, but Carrie could not read it.

  PC Matthews spoke next. “Mrs. Killigrew, we—”

  “It’s Carrie.”

  “Carrie. . . Mrs. Telford did find a boy on the beach this morning.”

  “Oh God, poor Noah. Is he. . .” She couldn’t say it. To say it would make it true. Noah was just four years old. The same age as her daughter, Melissa. They were in the same class together, just like their mothers had been thirty years ago. They played together. Sometimes Noah would come for a sleepover.

  “Mrs.. . . Carrie. . .” PC Matthews was struggling to find the right words. “The boy on the beach, he was. . . The boy who was found isn’t Noah Pengelly.”

  Carrie’s mind swayed with confusion. Her gaze swung between the police officers. “Then who was it?”

  PC Thomas leaned forward. “Are you able to come with us?”

  Carrie stared at him. “Why? What for? What’s going on?”

  PC Thomas flashed PC Matthews another strange look, who took in a deep breath and exhaled.

  “Carrie, I’m not sure how to tell you this,” she said. “But we believe the boy who was found on the beach this morning is your son, Callum.”

  It was as if an invisible fist had punched Carrie in
the chest; she couldn’t breathe. Her entire body flinched and began to tremble.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” she whispered, when she managed to regain control of her airways.

  “Your son, Callum,” PC Thomas said. “We believe he is the boy who was found on the beach this morning. We’d like you to come with us to make a formal identification.”

  Any confusion Carrie felt was washed away with anger. Her jaw tensed. Her teeth mashed together, making it difficult to speak.

  “You’re mistaken,” she said in a low voice.

  A thick, heavy silence fell and it smothered the small yard. The walls seemed to close in, to grow taller. Inside Carrie’s head, thoughts smashed into each other. Her stomach churned; she was going to be sick. PC Matthews leaned further forward until Carrie could feel her breath on her face. When she spoke, her voice was calm.

  “Carrie, we have reason to believe this is your son, Callum Anderson. I know it must come as a shock, that it must be difficult to believe, but we would really like it if you could come and—”

  Carrie leapt up from the table. Her skin was on fire.

  “Why are you doing this?” she shrieked. “My son is dead. He’s been gone for seven years. You’ve made a terrible mistake.”

  The police officers remained seated.

  “Carrie,” PC Matthews said calmly. “Seven years ago, your son was reported missing. There was an extensive search. No body was ever discovered.”

  “Jesus Christ, I know what happened!” Carrie spat. “I was there. We never found him because he drowned. He was washed out to sea. He’s dead.”

  PC Matthews shook her head. “Carrie, the boy who was found on the beach this morning is very much alive. We’re confident it’s your son. Please. Let us take you to him so you can see for yourself.”

  She could feel tears spilling down her face. She could hear the thud of her heartbeat repeating in her ears. Without warning, a peal of laughter escaped her mouth.

  “My boy is dead,” Carrie said.

  The yard slipped away. Time ceased to exist. Carrie’s legs quaked beneath her. A hundred memories of her son flashed before her eyes.

  She pressed a hand against the wall to steady herself. Slowly, she shook her head.

  “My boy is dead,” she whispered.

  But a flicker of hope had ignited inside her stomach.

  2

  THE CORRIDOR WAS QUIET; the only sound the squeak of shoes on polished tiles. Carrie walked on unsteady legs. Officers Thomas and Matthews walked on either side, staying close.

  They had driven her to the hospital in Truro, Cornwall’s only city, just a few miles east from Porth an Jowl, where she had been made to wait for what seemed like forever in a small visitors’ room, with her uniformed chaperones for company. Nobody could tell her any more than she already knew, only that she had to wait a little longer while the doctors performed tests. She’d sat at the table, staring at its surface, trying to quash the hope that was now burning in her chest. Then she’d started pacing from one end of the room to the other in quick bursts, feeling like a caged animal.

  Maybe an hour had passed. Perhaps two. Now, as she walked the corridor, Carrie felt as if she had fallen into a dream. Nothing seemed real. Sounds were distant. It was as if she were seeing through someone else’s eyes without permission.

  They had made a mistake. That was all. A terrible, outrageous mistake. Her son was dead. He’d drowned. He couldn’t just reappear after seven years.

  I shouldn’t be here, she thought, as the corridor stretched out before her. She had a business to run. She had a promise to keep to her daughter.

  She needed to call Dylan, to tell him there had been a terrible mistake and that he needed to come get her. Sooner rather than later, please. In fact, drop everything and come right now.

  Because she didn’t like how she was feeling.

  All those old wounds that had never healed but she’d sort of stitched back together and dressed—they were all opening again and bleeding. She was drowning, just like her son had.

  Callum. Cal. Her precious boy.

  “A mistake,” Carrie whispered, making both officers turn and look at her. She stared straight ahead. The corridor was turning a corner. The three turned with it.

  The light seemed to grow brighter, hurting Carrie’s eyes. They were turning again. Through double doors. Into a ward, past a reception desk, where the duty nurse looked up with curious eyes. Now, they were heading left, along a short corridor with individual rooms on one side.

  Outside the last room, three people sat on plastic chairs. Another uniformed police officer, a woman in civilian clothing not much older than Carrie, and a light-haired man in his early forties who was dressed in a charcoal suit. All three stood as Carrie approached.

  “Hello Carrie, I’m Detective Constable Turner,” the man in the suit said. He nodded to the woman next to him. “This is Leanne Moss, a social worker.”

  Leanne offered a polite nod. Carrie said nothing; her eyes had found the open door of the room behind and she could see the foot of a bed inside.

  Someone was in there. Moving around.

  “I’m aware this must come as a shock to you,” Detective Turner was saying. He had kind eyes and a genuine smile. “But the woman who called in. . .”

  “Margaret Telford,” PC Matthews said.

  “Right, Margaret Telford. She recognised the boy as your son, Callum. A little older, of course. Since then, we’ve run a DNA test against samples that were collected at the time of your son’s disappearance and stored on our database. The samples match. Now, we’d like you to make a visual identification.”

  He nodded at the officers Thomas and Matthews, who quickly departed. The other uniformed officer remained.

  Carrie returned her focus to the open door.

  “My son is dead,” she said.

  Detective Turner glanced at the social worker, whose name Carrie had already forgotten. Someone was coming out of the room.

  A doctor. She had a serious face, with high cheekbones, dark skin, and eyes that were furtive and analytical. She observed Carrie for a second before leaning into the detective and muttering inaudible words. The social worker offered Carrie a sympathetic smile. Detective Turner reached out and placed a hand on Carrie’s arm. She flinched.

  “They’re ready for you now,” he said.

  The entrance to the room opened like a wide mouth. Carrie stared at it. What was she supposed to do? Her son was dead. She didn’t need to go in there to know that. Detective Turner gave her an encouraging nod.

  “There has to be a mistake,” she said. “This is not my son.”

  The nausea in her stomach grew worse. Her head began to float away from her body.

  Detective Turner stared at the other professionals. He cleared his throat. “If you’d like to go in. . .”

  He stood to one side, opening the space between Carrie and the door.

  The lights above their heads seemed to burn brighter. The floor became jelly. Carrie opened her mouth and then closed it again. She felt a hand, calming and encouraging on the back of her shoulder. It was the social worker.

  “It’s all right,” she said, her voice maternal and kind. “He’s asleep right now. All you need to do is take a peek.”

  “He was quite distressed earlier,” the doctor added, glancing at Carrie. “He’s been given a mild sedative.”

  Carrie stared at the space between her and the open door. Her heart hammered in her chest. Her breaths flew in and out of her lungs.

  This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening.

  She moved forward, one foot unsteadily in front of the other. She reached the doorway and closed her eyes. Behind her, the social worker squeezed her shoulder.

  “It’s okay. We’re right behind you.”

  Opening her eyes, Carrie willed herself to step into the room. The others waited in the corridor as she folded into the shadows. A curtain was pulled halfway around the bed. Beside i
t, a machine attached to an intravenous pole blinked with colourful lights. A bag of clear liquid dangled above. Tubing led from the bag to the bed. The end of the tube was attached to a needle. The needle was inserted into the back of a hand. A hand that was much larger than the one she had held countless times before. She examined the fingers. They looked worn; not the hands of a teenager but those of a weather-beaten fisherman. The nails were surprisingly neat and freshly clipped.

  Holding her breath, Carrie moved her gaze from the hand and along the sinewy arm. Panic gripped her body. She looked away again and squeezed her eyes shut.

  Behind her, the social worker whispered encouraging words. Carrie’s gaze returned to the bed. The boy was asleep. Beneath the cuts and bruises he almost looked peaceful. He was thin. Too thin. Cheekbones jutted from his skin like shards of glass. A mass of straggly dark hair fell across his brow and the pillow. Wide full lips were pressed together. She recognised them instantly. They were his father’s lips; a man she had not seen in seven years.

  The boy in the bed turned his head slightly. If Carrie had had any uncertainty, it was immediately blown away. Below his left eye, just adjacent to his temple, was a perfectly round mole.

  “Your beauty spot,” she whispered, the voice coming from a memory she thought she’d forgotten.

  It was him.

  He was painfully underweight. Bruised. Battered. Older. It was impossible. But it was him.

  The ocean had swallowed him for seven years. Now, it had spat him back out. He was changed. Damaged. But he was her son. Callum Mark Anderson. No longer nine years old but still her Cal.

  She nodded. Tears found their way to her eyes. And then it was as if her body had been taken by the ocean, too. Everything was swept away. And she was drowning in joy and confusion and grief.

  “My boy,” she managed to say. She fell to her knees.

  3

  THE VISITOR’S ROOM was small and simple, furnished with a table and chairs, and a sofa. Carrie sat at the table, nursing a polystyrene cup of cooling coffee she had no intention of drinking. Detective Turner sat at the opposite end while Doctor Singh filled Carrie in on her son’s condition.