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

by Malcolm Richards

  “What are you doing under there?” he said, his voice still angry.

  “Cal got scared from all the shouting.”

  Guilt flashed across Dylan’s features. He drew in a deep breath.

  “I’m sorry.” He stood, watching Carrie rub Cal’s back.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  Cal’s whimpering had quietened to a baby-like moan.

  “Bloody journalists, why can’t they just leave us alone?”

  “What happened?” Carrie repeated, this time her voice sharp and waspish.

  “It doesn’t matter. He’s gone now.”

  “Did you hit him?”

  “No, I did not.” Dylan unfolded his arms and held his hands out in front of him. “His camera may have had an accident, though. The idiot must have butter fingers.”

  At the table, Melissa’s eyes moved from her father to her mother. A broken camera was better than an assault charge, Carrie supposed. But the last thing she wanted was for the press to paint them as an aggressive family.

  “How did he know about Cal?” Dylan said, hovering by the kitchen sink. “The police aren’t releasing their statement until tomorrow.”

  Carrie shook her head. It was a good question. She wondered for a moment if Margaret Telford had spoken to the journalist. Or if Mabel Stevens had told him about the police showing up at Cove Crafts. In a town as small as this, a secret was not a secret for very long. At least they’d got Cal home safely.

  Carrie stared at his cowering frame beneath the table. “Can you take Melissa out of here? Let me get him calm.”

  “But I’m still eating,” Melissa complained.

  Dylan crossed the kitchen and swept his daughter and her dinner plate up in his arms. “Well, I guess you get to break the house rules and eat your dinner in the living room!”

  He glanced uncertainly at Carrie as he passed by.

  Carrie returned her attention to Cal. His face was still buried into the floor and his hands still covered his ears.

  “I’ve got you,” she soothed, her hand gently running up and down his spine. “Everything is going to be all right.”

  She bit down on her lip, hoping she spoke the truth.

  14

  SCOTT TRIGGS WAS FURIOUS. He sat in the driver’s seat of his car, the door open, one foot resting on the curb as he dabbed his scraped elbow with a tissue. His camera sat in his lap in two pieces. Dylan Killigrew was nothing more than an inbred thug. He had a good mind to report him to the police.

  Dumping the bloody tissue on the passenger seat, he picked up the main bulk of the camera, popped a button, and pulled out the memory card. Dylan was also an idiot, and come tomorrow, Scott would make sure the world knew about it.

  He had the photograph he needed to go with his exclusive—the Killigrew family sitting around the dinner table with a ghost. He already had a draft of the story prepared and he’d even crafted a headline: THE BOY WHO CAME BACK FROM THE DEAD. Now, he needed to phone the press room and talk to his editor-in-chief before tomorrow’s paper was finalised and sent off to print.

  Wincing as the graze on his elbow rubbed against the car seat, he pulled his phone from his pocket. He looked up. A thought occurred to him. This story was potentially much bigger than the reappearance of Callum Anderson. What if his disappearance was somehow connected to the disappearance of Noah Pengelly? If he was right, if he could discover the link, this story could be the one to send his career skyrocketing into the big leagues.

  Judging by the lack of other journalists, Scott was confident he was the only one to have discovered Callum’s identity. But with the police having announced tomorrow’s press conference, it meant he had a small window of time.

  Scott stared across at the Killigrew house, an idea forming in his head. Slamming the driver door shut, he dumped the camera pieces on the passenger seat and started the engine. He spun the wheel, pulling away from the kerb. Turning onto Cove Road, he took a left and headed uphill. As he drove, he dialled the press office of The Cornish Chronicle.

  “Charlie, it’s Scott,” he said into the phone, indicating left and turning onto another small row of houses. “Put Mike on the line. Have I got a story for you!”

  There was just one parking space remaining on the roadside. He wedged the vehicle into it, bumping the car in front, and killed the engine as the editor-in-chief’s voice spoke in his ear. It took exactly thirty seconds to convince him to hold the front page.

  “You’ve got two hours, Triggs,” the older man said, his voice wheezy with excitement. “Don’t you dare let me down.”

  Scott grinned from ear to ear. “You offend me, Mike. When have I ever disappointed you?”

  Hanging up before the man could reply, he climbed out of the car and looked up at the Pengelly house. As usual, the curtains in all the windows were closed, making it impossible to tell if anyone was home.

  Crossing the road, Scott checked the rest of the street. No one else was around. Sunday in Devil’s Cove was like a ghost town. Just as well, he thought, as he pushed open the garden gate and made his way along the path. The last thing he needed was nosy neighbours getting in the way.

  As he drew closer, he saw the front curtain twitch. Before he could press the buzzer, the door opened. He had hoped to see Tess Pengelly in all her sedated glory. To his dismay, Jago Pengelly stood in front of him, thunder rolling across his face.

  Damn it, Scott thought. He wasn’t going to get the quote he had hoped for. But time was running out. Which meant right now he would take any quote or reaction he could get. And he was willing to take one on the chin in exchange.

  “Don’t you give up?” Jago said, spitting out the words.

  “God loves a trier.” Scott smiled as he pulled out his phone and switched to voice recorder mode. His thumb hovered over the record button. “Do you mind?”

  Narrowing his eyes, Jago moved to close the door.

  Scott held up a hand. “I have something to tell you. Something you’ll want to hear.”

  Jago paused, staring at him. “Not interested.”

  “Really? Then why are you still standing here?”

  “Good point.” He moved to close the door again.

  Scott thought about using his foot as a wedge then quickly decided against it. There was no time for a trip to A&E.

  “I know who the boy on the beach is,” he said, catching his breath. In the doorway, Jago’s body tensed.

  Got him. Scott held up the phone.

  “Do you mind?” he asked again.

  Jago stared at him, anger flashing in his eyes. He was going to say no. He was going to tell Scott to leave before he regretted it. The boy’s gaze travelled from the phone and back up to Scott’s face.

  “Who is it?” he asked.

  “Do I have your permission to record this?”

  “How do I know you’re not lying to me? How do I know this isn’t bullshit just to get me to say something stupid?”

  “Because tomorrow morning my story is going to be a frontpage exclusive. And it’ll be out before the police hold their conference.”

  Jago pushed the door open a little. He turned and looked over his shoulder into the house.

  “Bullshit.”

  “It’s true.”

  “You’re lying.”

  This wasn’t working. Scott chewed his lip. Time for a different tactic. Shrugging his shoulders, he slipped his phone back inside his pocket. “All right. Suit yourself. I just thought you’d want to find out first-hand before the rest of the world does.”

  He turned to leave.

  “Wait.” Jago looked back into the house once more before stepping onto the path and closing the door behind him. “I’m listening.”

  Scott pulled the phone from his pocket again.

  “Do I have your permission to record this conversation?”

  Jago shrugged. “Whatever.”

  Scott’s pulse raced as he tapped the record button. He took in a deep breath and blew it out. There was n
o point in having a heart attack when he was about to hit the big time.

  “So, who is it?” Jago asked, looking impatient now.

  “Actually, I believe it’s someone you know.” Scott watched with glee as confusion clouded Jago’s face. “Someone who you used to be friends with, so I hear.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  His pulse still pounding, Scott took another breath. “This is going to come as a surprise, but the boy they found on the beach is Callum Anderson.”

  Jago’s face grew a shade paler. His jaw swivelled open. His eyes grew wide. Then they narrowed. Scott glanced down to see the boy’s hands curling into fists. “It’s true. I’ve seen him with my own eyes. Just now, sat at the dinner table with the rest of his family.”

  “Cal is dead, you sick asshole. He drowned. What are you trying to do?”

  He stepped forward, his fists clenching and unclenching.

  “It’s true,” Scott insisted. “I have pictures.”

  “Show them to me.”

  “I can’t. That idiot Dylan Killigrew broke my camera.”

  Jago was inches from Scott’s face now. The journalist took a large step back.

  “I don’t believe you,” Jago said, although the uncertainty in his eyes told a different story. “You’re just trying to get me to say something I’ll regret so you can put it in the papers.”

  “Can you share your thoughts?” Scott said, holding his phone between them as if it might protect him. “Do you think Callum Anderson knows where to find your brother?”

  Jago shook his head. “Get out of my garden.”

  “If Callum does know something about your brother’s whereabouts, why hasn’t his family come forward to the police?” Scott took another step back. He felt Jago’s anger gathering energy like a storm. The boy’s knuckles grew deathly white.

  “Come on, Jago. You need to give me something,” he said.

  Before Scott could utter another word, Jago swung at him. A fist connected with Scott’s chin. His vision turned white, then yellow. He stumbled back, tripping over his feet.

  At the same time, his phone slipped from his fingers and fell to the ground. Jago shot forward, raising his foot and bringing it crashing down, over and over.

  Scott watched in horror as his phone came apart in pieces.

  “Stop that!” he roared.

  He stooped to pick up the remnants.

  Jago was faster. Snatching up the pieces, he flung them into the road and they rained down on the tarmac.

  “Fuck your exclusive,” Jago said. His eyes blazed with fury. “Cal is dead. You’ll be joining him if you don’t leave now.”

  His chin throbbing, Scott leaned forward. His body trembled with anger.

  “Listen to me, you little prick. Come tomorrow, I’ll make sure you and your mother look like the backwater inbreeds you are. You want to know who’s responsible for your brother’s disappearance? You are! Maybe if you’d kept a better eye on him, he’d still be—”

  Jago’s fist connected with his nose. Scott flew back, blood spraying in the air. Pain shot up his spine as he hit the ground.

  Leaning over him, Jago raised his fist again.

  Scott drew up his hands.

  “Jago, stop!”

  Tess Pengelly stood in the doorway, a faded blue bathrobe wrapped around her skeletal body. Her hair hung in lank tresses around her shoulders. Black shadows circled blank eyes. She held onto herself as if the action was the only thing keeping her together. Scott watched as Jago slowly lowered his fist.

  “Come back inside,” Tess said, her eyes trained on her son.

  Scott pulled himself up on his elbows. Blood flowed from his nose and splashed on his shirt. He looked up at Jago, who slowly turned to face him. Without saying another word, the boy moved toward his mother. Only when Jago had disappeared inside, did Tess acknowledge Scott’s presence.

  She looked like a ghost, he thought; the life draining out of her a little more with each day that Noah was missing.

  Tess opened her mouth to say something. She closed it again. She turned and looked down the street, then disappeared inside the house, closing the door behind her.

  Pinching his nose to stop the blood flow, Scott pushed himself up with his free hand and staggered to his feet. Well, this is just great, he thought, as a wave of pain turned into nausea. He stumbled back to the road, where his phone lay in pieces.

  So he’d failed in getting the quote he’d wanted from the Pengellys, but he still had the picture of Callum Anderson. And he had the story ready to go on his—“Shit!”—phone.

  Blood was still flowing. He could taste it at the back of his throat. A fresh wave of pain pulsed from the centre of his nose.

  “Think, Triggs,” he hissed. He was running out of time. If he could get to a phone, he could call the press room again and dictate the story to Charlie. But he still needed to send the photo from his memory card. He could do that from his laptop, but not without an Internet connection.

  The alternative option was to get in the car and drive like a maniac back to the office, hopefully without getting himself killed. But he couldn’t drive until his nose had stopped bleeding.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose harder. A bolt of white hot pain brought tears to his eyes.

  Screw the Pengellys! And screw the Killigrews, too! They’d not only destroyed several hundred pounds’ worth of his property, but they’d thrown his big break into jeopardy.

  There was no way he was letting them win. Tomorrow, that front page would be his and their names would be dragged through the mud.

  His eyes wandered up and down the street as he tried to think of a plan. They came to rest on the dirty walls of the cottage two doors up.

  Grady Spencer.

  It was probably too much to expect the old codger to have the Internet, but he might have a phone. Scott could call the press room and tell them he was on the way. If they refused to wait a little longer, he’d threaten to give the story to someone else.

  Pushing open the garden gate, he cast one last glance at the remnants of his shattered mobile phone, cursed Jago Pengelly’s name, then hobbled toward Grady Spencer’s house.

  “Okay, you old bastard,” he said. “You’re my only hope.”

  15

  GRADY SPENCER’S GARDEN was a mess. The lawn was choked with weeds. Thick brambles sprouted from the hedgerow. The path to the front door was old and cracked.

  Scott cleared his throat, dabbed at his bloody nose with a tissue, then knocked on the door.

  Immediately, the air filled with high-pitched yaps. Scott grimaced. If that rat started getting nasty again, he’d kick it where the sun didn’t shine.

  He waited a few seconds more, then impatiently rapped his knuckles on the front door. Caliban’s barking rose to a higher pitch.

  A moment later, he heard locks being drawn back, followed by chains being removed. The door opened a crack. Grady Spencer’s unpleasant face stared out. At the foot of the door, Caliban pushed his snout through the gap and drew back his lips into a snarl.

  “Ah, it’s you,” the old man sneered. “What happened to your face? Ask the wrong questions, did you?

  “Something like that,” Scott said, his voice nasally. “Listen, I need your help.”

  “Always wanting something, aren’t you? What is it now?”

  As Scott quickly explained his situation, Grady Spencer regarded him with a disdainful look. At his heels, Caliban continued to growl.

  “Was I right, then?” Grady said. “About the boy? It was that Anderson child.”

  Scott hesitated. Screw it, he thought. Tomorrow the story would be everywhere. He doubted even Grady Spencer could move fast enough to leak the news to another journalist.

  “You were right,” he said, nodding. “The boy on the beach is none other than Callum Anderson. You’re a real detective.”

  Grady Spencer arched an eyebrow. “You being clever?”

  “Just honest.” Scot
t tried to peer past the old man, into the house. An odour wafted out; a smothering concoction of dust and mould. “So, can you help a friend out and let me use your phone? I’ll mention your name in the story as a thank you.”

  He had no intention of doing so. The glory of revealing Callum Anderson to the world was his alone.

  Grady regarded him for a moment, his breaths laboured and filled with liquid. Down at his feet, Caliban let out a shrill yap.

  “You best be quick,” the old man said, opening the door to its full extent. Caliban growled, earning himself a swift tap of Grady’s foot. Scott paused, staring into the hallway. A dingy light hung from the ceiling, illuminating stacks of magazines and papers piled up against dirty walls. A staircase led up to the top floor on the left, its carpet threadbare and turning to dust.

  “Not fancy enough for you, is it?” Grady said, his upper lip curling at the corners.

  Scott smiled. “A man’s home is his kingdom.”

  He stepped over the threshold and into the hall. The smell of decay filled his nostrils, intensifying the pain caused by Jago’s fist.

  Grady Spencer closed the door and slid the bolt across.

  “Is that necessary?” Scott said, eyeing the locks.

  “Door doesn’t shut by itself. Been trying to get someone to fix it for months.” The old man brushed past him. Caliban trotted alongside.

  As he followed Grady through the house, Scott’s journalistic eyes grew wide and round. If the stacks of newspapers and magazines in the hallway were a subtle clue, the rest of the house screamed at him at a deafening volume. He had entered a hoarder’s domain. Open doors revealed rooms filled with boxes and crates stacked in precarious towers. Cupboard doors hung open revealing bags upon bags of unknown items that threatened to burst forth like a broken dam. Scott didn’t know what he felt the most—pity for the old man or disgust.

  The end of the hall lay in shadows. He followed Grady through a door on the right. The kitchen was large and high-ceilinged. The perfect size for Grady Spencer to fill it to the brim with crap. Scott watched as he shuffled over to a large table, which was covered in more books and magazines. Where the hell did this guy eat? Making a space on the table, Grady pulled out a chair and brushed it down with the back of his hand.