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

by Malcolm Richards

  Movement pulled his attention to the road.

  Three youths, dressed in loose jeans and dark hoodies, were rolling through the car park entrance on skateboards. They moved in tandem, turning in a half circle, then coming to a halt a few feet away from his car. They stared at the vehicle, then across at Aaron, their faces masked by their hoods.

  Aaron eyed them suspiciously. If they touched his car, he would break their hands. But only if it came to it; confrontation was not his way of doing things.

  The youths were still staring at him, muttering to each other.

  Aaron waved a hand.

  “How are you doing?” he called out.

  The trio stared. One of them whispered something, provoking sniggers from the other two.

  Aaron narrowed his eyes. It didn’t matter where they came from, teenagers were always the same: moody, self-involved little shits. But maybe these little shits could be useful. Putting the camera away, he made his way back to the car.

  “Kind of cold to be out here skateboarding, isn’t it?” he smiled.

  The trio, two boys and a girl, he couldn’t be sure, stared at him. Aaron smiled again, closed-mouthed this time.

  “Hey, do you know Jago Pengelly? Or where I can find his mother, Tess?”

  The trio turned to each other. Something was muttered. They turned back. One by one, all three dropped their skateboards to the ground.

  Aaron watched them roll out of the car park and onto Cove Road. None of them looked back.

  “Thanks for your help,” he muttered.

  A blast of wind roared across the tarmac, making his jaw clench. High above his head, a flock of gulls appeared, screeching as they soared toward the tide.

  Following in the direction of the skateboarders, Aaron exited the car park. Crossing the road, he cut through a narrow alley nestled between the cottages.

  Moments later, he emerged in the town square, which was small and paved with cobble stones. At its centre, a circle of seats surrounded a stone plinth, from which a Victorian style street lamp protruded.

  Shops lined all sides. The more touristic stores had banners taped across their glass fronts, all conveying the same message: CLOSED FOR WINTER. The rest were closed for Sunday and would resume business tomorrow.

  One shop caught his eye.

  Pressing his face against the glass, he stared through the window of Cove Crafts. Empty shelves peered back at him. Taking out his camera, he took a photograph, then turned and snapped a few more of the empty square.

  Porth an Jowl really was a ghost town.

  But there was one shop open, he noticed, as he crossed the square and headed away from the direction of the seafront, his shoes slapping against the cobbles.

  Aaron nervously licked his lips as he entered Porth an Jowl Wine Shop. He was greeted by a welcome blast of heat. It was a small shop, crammed with shelves of alcohol and snacks.

  An old man stood behind the counter, wiry white hair protruding from his scalp. He stared at Aaron and offered a polite nod. Aaron nodded back. For a moment, his eyes pulled away from the man to stare at the shelves of bottles behind him.

  “Afternoon,” the man said. “Surprised to see your face in here.”

  Aaron stared at him. Had he met this man before? He didn’t think so.

  “I know a visitor when I see one,” the man smiled, as if this would explain everything. “A tourist. We don’t get too many of your kind this time of year.”

  “I’m not a tourist,” Aaron said. He moved to the counter and offered his hand. “I’m Aaron Black.”

  “Jack Dawkins.” The man shook his hand then recoiled. “Oh, you’re freezing, boy. Need to get yourself a decent pair of gloves.”

  Aaron’s eyes lingered over the rows of whiskey bottles on the shelf behind. “You’re probably right.”

  “Where did you come from, then?” Jack asked, eyeing him.

  “London.”

  “Never much liked the city. Prefer the peace and quiet. On holiday, are you?”

  Aaron shook his head. “Work.”

  Jack regarded him for a second longer. “Oh? I hope it ain’t any kind of outdoor work. You ain’t dressed right for that. Anyway, what can I get you, Mr. Black?”

  Aaron pulled his gaze away from the shelves and back to Jack. “Actually, just some information. I’m looking for someone. Tess Pengelly. Do you know her?”

  A strange expression fell over Jack’s face. His smile faded.

  “Tess Pengelly?” he repeated. “I know her. She don’t live here anymore, though.”

  Shit. Aaron’s mind raced. “She moved?”

  “Last month. After all that terrible business.”

  “You know where to?”

  “A friend of hers, are you?”

  Aaron smiled. “Not exactly.”

  The old man’s brow crumpled into a frown. “I can’t say where she’s got to. All I know is she took her boys and left. Don’t blame her, neither.”

  Aaron felt a jab of frustration. This was going to make things difficult. But not impossible. Someone would know where she could be found. He turned back to Jack.

  “How about Carrie Killigrew?”

  Jack folded his arms across his chest, his initial friendliness now gone. “What are you? A journalist or something? Because you’re about three months too late for that story. We’ve had enough of reporters writing rubbish about Porth an Jowl. So, if you don’t mind, if you’re not buying anything, I’ve got things to do.”

  Aaron flashed the old man a disarming smile. He was a tricky one, this Jack Dawkins. He liked him. But he still needed to tread carefully. It was far too early to be making enemies of the locals.

  “I’m not a journalist,” he told him. “I’m an author. A mystery writer. Maybe you’ve heard of me.”

  “A mystery writer, eh?” Jack raised his eyebrows. “Aaron Black. . . Nope, can’t say I have.”

  “What about the Silky Winters Mysteries?”

  “I like to read the newspaper. Leave all that hokum to the wife.”

  Ignoring the sting of his ego, Aaron laughed. “So, you’re a facts man? In that case, you just might be interested in my latest project. It’s why I’d like to speak to Carrie Killigrew and Tess Pengelly.” He paused, waiting for Jack Dawkins to look up. “I’m researching a book, you see. Not a mystery this time, but a true crime account of Grady Spencer’s horrific legacy. Did you know him?”

  Across the counter, the old man raised his eyebrows. Then narrowed his eyes.

  “Everyone knew Grady Spencer,” he said. “And I don’t know what you’re doing writing a book about the awful things he done, but I’ll tell you this for free, Mr. Black—no one in this town is going to help you with that. All we want is to be left alone. For the world to forget all the terrible things that happened here.”

  “Surely you know that’s not going to happen. Not for a long time. Maybe not ever.” Aaron turned for a second, distracted by light bouncing off bottles of amber liquid. A wanton thirst was growing inside him. Pushing it away, he turned back to the old man. “Look, I’m not here to cause trouble, Mr. Dawkins. I want to write a completely accurate account of what happened. No embellishment. Just the facts. People need to know the truth, to understand exactly what went on here.”

  “People need to mind their own damn business,” Jack Dawkins said. “Now, you buying anything or what?”

  Aaron shook his head. “Can you at least point me in the direction of Grady Spencer’s house?”

  Jack leaned across the counter, his eyes cold and steely.

  “That’s easy. It’s the last row on the left, on your way out of Porth an Jowl.” He leaned back again, folding his arms across his chest. “Do yourself a favour, Mr. Black. Go back to London. That can of worms has already been opened. You go stirring things up again, no good will come of it. I promise you that.”

  Aaron held his gaze for a moment longer. He felt a smile tugging at his lips and quickly pushed it away.

  “I’ll
bear that in mind,” he said. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Dawkins.”

  The cold attacked him the moment he stepped outside. Pulling his coat around his body, he hurried back to the car and started the engine. He could no longer feel his hands, so he rubbed them together as he waited for the heaters to kick in.

  His first encounter with the locals had gone as expected. But now he knew where to find Grady Spencer’s house of horrors. Turning the car onto Cove Road, Aaron shivered as he wondered what was waiting for him inside.

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  THANK YOU

  WRITING A BOOK IS NEVER done alone. Thank you to Natasha Orme, for your stellar editorial work and insight; to J. Caleb Clark for the amazing cover design; to Sarah Grey, OT, for your invaluable help with researching hospital procedures and patient aftercare; Andrea Lydon, former CSI, for your amazing insight into all things forensic; Philip Bates and DI Gail Windsor for guiding me through police procedures and the challenges specific to policing Devon & Cornwall; to Alan Burton for translating Devil’s Cove into Cornish – yeghes da!; to Sarah Hosken for being the best unofficial research assistant; to my family and friends for their continued support, especially Kate Ellis, Alasdair Gray, Dutch Hearn, Casey Hintz-McDonnell, Victor Martinez Cecilia; to my advanced reader team, whose enthusiasm knows no bounds!; to Mr Smith, my absolute favourite.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CORNISH BORN MALCOLM Richards writes dark mysteries and crime thrillers. After studying for a Bachelor of Arts in Writing at Middlesex University, London, he went on to work as a literacy tutor, a therapeutic teacher of children with emotional and behavioural difficulties, and as a teacher of creative writing. He has also worked as a freelance copywriter and scriptwriter.

  When not writing, Malcolm enjoys composing and producing music, cooking up a storm in the kitchen, and spending more and more time in the countryside. He lives in Crystal Palace, London, with his partner, a cat named Sukey, and a fish called Freddy Krueger.

  FIND HIM ONLINE AT:

  www.malcolmrichardsauthor.com

  www.facebook.com/malcolmrichardsauthor