‘Mm-hm,’ she murmured vaguely.
Mrs Crabtree was shaking her head at the memory. ‘Would you believe, your uncle rented number 28 sight unseen and fully furnished, right down to the pictures? That’s what the estate agent told me. And from what I’ve witnessed when I’ve had occasion to call on him, nothing’s changed since.’
‘What, not even the pictures?’ said Laura, thinking of the ugly seascape in her bedroom.
Mrs Crabtree gave a triumphant smile. ‘Not even the pictures. Apart from the books and now yourself, it’s as if it was freeze-framed the day he walked in.’
Laura had been telling the truth when she informed Mrs Crabtree that she loved living with her uncle and had a great time with him. What she hadn’t mentioned was that her uncle had as many moods as the sea and that those great times were few and far between. They were five minutes here, or the occasional meal there.
He was unfailingly kind to her; that could not be argued. He saw to it that she wanted for nothing - not that Laura asked for much. When he did focus on her, as he did when he escorted her to the gate on her first day at school, presenting her with a lunch box full of treats to help her through it, or on one magical morning when they went for a dawn walk on Porthmeor Beach together and he’d asked her to tell him stories of Sylvan Meadows and related some of his favourite childhood stories about her mother, she felt a strong feeling of kinship towards him, as though he were her father rather than her uncle.
He was different from every other grown-up she’d ever met. He had a different way of thinking. When Laura had nervously confessed that she’d taken herself out for breakfast with the money he’d given her, he’d replied: ‘Did you really? On your first morning in St Ives? That takes guts.’
He said no more about it, but she sensed that by doing something that required a degree of courage, even something as small as going out for a meal by herself, she’d earned his respect.
But he was rarely home. He worked long hours and odd hours. Laura saw more of Mrs Webb, which was not something she’d have done out of choice. Once, Laura went downstairs at 3am to get a glass of water and noticed that Calvin Redfern’s bed had not been slept in. When she asked him about it the next day, he laughed and said something about being ‘Overworked and underpaid’. Even when he was at home he might as well have not been there for all the hours he spent in his study. On a couple of occasions, Laura had come across him sitting in the darkened living room with a book open on his knee, staring out of the window with an expression so haunted she’d had to restrain herself from rushing to throw her arms around him.
After her conversation with Mrs Crabtree, Laura had thought a lot about her neighbour’s description of Calvin Redfern’s arrival in St Ives a year before, ‘in the dead of night’ and looking ‘wild-eyed and dishevelled’. Even allowing for the fact that Mrs Crabtree was, in all likelihood, prone to exaggeration, it did make her curious.
What was her uncle running from? Was he running at all?
Laura’s imagination, always fertile, went to town on the possibilities. She had a different theory for every day of the week. One day she’d decide he was a master criminal who’d staged the biggest heist in Britain and was waiting for the fuss to die down so he could start selling off his gold ingots. The next, she’d persuade herself that he’d abandoned his wife, or that his wife had run off with another man, and that he’d moved to St Ives to get over his broken heart, or help her get over hers. Not that she knew whether he’d ever had a wife.
What she hoped to discover was that he was an MI5 spy or an SAS commando gone AWOL, but the chances were that Mrs Crabtree had an imagination as overactive as her own. In all likelihood her uncle really had come to Cornwall to work for the fisheries department, as he claimed. He was innocent, his move to St Ives was innocent, and he’d merely been weary from the long drive the evening he got to town.
Of course, that didn’t answer the question of why he’d rented a house full of somebody else’s furniture and pictures and never changed any of it. However, Matron had often talked to Laura about the hopelessness of men when it came to decorating or keeping house, so maybe it was simply that.
The obvious thing would have been to ask her uncle directly, but the first time she’d tried he’d looked at his watch, put a lead on Lottie, and said with a sad smile: ‘There’s a saying: Yesterday is history; tomorrow is a mystery. Let’s enjoy today, eh, Laura?’
And Laura, who loved her new life in St Ives and was already quite fond of her uncle, in spite of his eccentricities, was inclined to agree.
5
THE NORTH STAR Grocery was on Back Road West, the narrow road that ran parallel to Porthmeor Beach. On a Tuesday afternoon in mid February, two and a half weeks after the dog fight, Laura was on her way there with a list from Mrs Webb in her pocket (she’d volunteered to do the shopping in order to have an excuse to see the Asian boy) when a seagull as big as an albatross swooped down and snatched one of the clotted cream and strawberry jam scones she held in each hand. It happened so unexpectedly and the gull’s talons were so huge that Laura let out a little scream. She quickly stuffed the other scone into her mouth.
That’s how she was, cheeks bulging like a hamster, when she looked up and saw the Mukhtar boy laughing at her. He wasn’t laughing out loud, but his eyes were dancing and his shoulders shook slightly. Then a shout came from inside the store and it was as if someone had thrown a bucket of icy water over him. The shadows returned to his face. He flung down the broom he’d been using to sweep the pavement in front of the shop and disappeared from view.
When Laura walked into the North Star Grocery, he was standing behind the counter and Mr Mukhtar was hissing something into his ear. Whatever it was must have been unpleasant. Mr Mukhtar had to make quite an effort to compose himself when he glanced up and saw her.
Much to her astonishment, the housekeeper’s note transformed him. His moon face stretched into a radiant smile. ‘Ah, the wonderful Mrs Webb,’ he cried. ‘Please to give her my very best regards. Alas, I am on my way to a business meeting, but my son will be pleased to help you. He can read and understand a little English, but at eleven years of age he cannot yet write it or speak it. It is as if he has a mental block about it - ’ he paused to glower at the boy, ‘as if he is afraid of the language. My poor wife has been driven to the brink of despair by his obstinacy and laziness. She is his teacher, you know, and a very fine one. God willing, with faith and perseverance we will overcome this challenge.’ He checked his watch. ‘But what am I doing talking to you when I am late for my meeting? Greetings to Mrs Webb, my dear.’
He picked up a heavy parcel wrapped in brown paper and departed in a wave of aftershave and spices.
Laura looked around the store. It smelled faintly of fruit, bread and the printed labels of canned goods. Along with the usual selection of corner-store groceries, fizzy drinks, chocolates and crisps, there were buckets and spades and rainbow-coloured surfboards. But it wasn’t those that caught Laura’s attention. Behind the counter was a striking wallhanging. In brilliant colours, it depicted scenes of turbaned princes, snarling tigers and bejewelled elephants. Laura would have done anything to take it home and hang it in her bedroom in place of the seascape. Beneath it a sign read: Hand-made tapestries by one of India’s most talented artists. Order here.
Laura didn’t bother to ask the price. She didn’t have to know anything about art to know that the tapestry was worth many hundreds of pounds.
The boy had his head down and was studying the shopping list. Without a word to Laura, he began assembling the items on the counter. Eggs, milk, flour, spinach.
‘That was pretty funny with the seagull, wasn’t it?’ said Laura when she could stand the silence no longer. ‘The way it snatched my scone, I mean. I bet that wouldn’t have happened to you. I saw how you calmed those dogs at the harbour the other day. Like those people told you, you have an amazing gift with animals. That thing you did before you touched them, that still thin
g, was really cool.’
He didn’t answer or turn in her direction. He opened the fridge, took out some cheese and added it to the pile on the counter.
Laura tried again. ‘I’m Laura,’ she said, pointing at herself in case his English was as bad as Mr Mukhtar had made out. ‘Laura Marlin. What’s your name?’
When he didn’t respond, she said in frustration: ‘Hasn’t anybody ever told you that it’s rude to ignore a person? I appreciate that you can’t speak much English, but you could at least tell me your name or look in my direction.’
This time he did turn round and the expression on his face made Laura’s breath catch in her throat. It reminded her of a stray dog beseeching a passer-by not to strike it. It was a plea for understanding.
Immediately she felt awful. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘You could be having a bad day for all I know, and I’ve gone and made it worse. Don’t pay any attention to me. I’m forever getting into trouble for saying exactly what I think all the time.’
The boy shook his head quickly, but as he looked away Laura fancied he gave a small smile. He checked the list once more, fetched a ladder and climbed up to a high shelf to collect a wooden crate of spices. He was on his way down, holding the box with both hands, when he slipped. He and the box crashed to the ground, spilling spice bottles everywhere.
Laura rushed to his side and tried to help him up, but he flinched from her touch. She didn’t say anything, merely gathering up the spice bottles and returning them to the crate. Luckily none were broken. She was putting the last one in when she noticed the boy was bleeding. He’d nicked a couple of fingers on the side of the steel ladder trying to save himself as he fell.
‘Stay where you are,’ Laura told him. ‘I’ll be right back.’
She ran down the street to the chemist, bought a box of plasters, a pack of cotton wool, and a bottle of antiseptic, and hurried back to the North Star. She’d used £3.99 of her pocket money, not wishing to enrage Mrs Webb by using the money given to her for groceries.
The boy was still sitting dazed on the floor. Laura knelt down beside him. She took his hand and this time he didn’t pull away. Using the cotton wool and antiseptic lotion, she cleaned away the blood and disinfected the cuts. Finally, she put a plaster on each of his injured fingers. As she did so, she noticed he had dozens of tiny scars and callouses all over his hands.
‘Good as new,’ she said, sitting back. She was longing to ask him about his callouses and scars, but it would have to wait. ‘I learned how to do that on a First Aid day at Sylvan Meadows. I got a certificate and everything. Sylvan Meadows is the children’s home where I grew up. It’s an orphanage, but that’s what they call it: a home. I guess they hoped it would make us feel less like we’d been abandoned.’
The boy looked at her fully for the first time. His amber eyes were flecked with gold, and as mournful as his face. Sweeping black eyelashes framed them. His brown skin conjured up images of white beaches and scorching sun, and his hair was as black as a raven’s wing and cut short. He was tall for his age, but thin and sinewy.
‘Tariq Miah,’ he said.
‘Tariq Miah,’ repeated Laura. ‘Does that mean thank you in your language?’
He shook his head and touched his chest.
‘Oh, Tariq Miah is your name.’ She smiled. ‘It’s a good name. I like it.’
Walking home with her groceries, Laura decided that whether he knew it or not, Tariq needed a friend.
And, she was the first to admit, so did she.
6
THE FOLLOWING DAY at school Laura could hardly concentrate, she was so keen to get back to the North Star and find out more about Tariq. She wanted him to teach her that still thing he’d done with the dogs; that sort of meditating-standing-up. A skill like that could come in handy in any number of situations. She pictured using it on Kevin Rutledge, the boy who in her short time at the school had spent many hours pelting the back of her neck with a variety of missiles - wet loo roll, chocolate peanuts, paper aeroplanes, and, her personal favourite, bits of meat left over from his lunchtime hamburger.
Laura would have liked nothing more than to gather up the missiles and shove them down Kevin’s throat, but over the years she’d attended no less than eight schools and if there’s one thing she’d learned it was that boys like him thrived on reaction. She called it the Bambi syndrome. If you behaved like a weakened deer in a forest full of wolves, they preyed on you. The more angry you got, the more you cried, pleaded, became depressed, or ran to the teacher for help, the happier it made them. If you remained outwardly tranquil, even if you were screaming inside, they eventually got bored and went in search of a new victim - often one of their own friends.
Laura took a deep breath and focused on a seagull soaring outside the window. She put herself in the bird’s body. She imagined floating on air currents, gazing down on the smoky blue ocean and veil of mist that cast a haze over the horizon. Shortly she would fly over to Porthmeor Beach and steal an ice-cream cone from some unsuspecting tourist. What she really wanted to do was fly along the forbidden coastal path to Dead Man’s Cove to see why her uncle had banned her from going there. Laura had tried asking the kids at school about it, but although a few of them had heard of it and been told to stay away from it, no one seemed to know why it was forbidden. All she’d managed to discover was that it was rumoured to be haunted by the ghosts of dead sailors.
Mrs Crabtree hadn’t been much help either.
‘It’s a cove like a million other coves,’ she’d said. ‘Just one more rocky bay. Haven’t the faintest idea how it came by its name. You’ll probably find that a ship was wrecked there if you delve into the history books.’
The pelting stopped. Kevin had temporarily lost interest in her. Laura risked a glance at the blackboard. Mr Gillbert, a balding, bony man with glasses who looked as though he seldom, if ever, ventured out into the sun, was earnestly explaining a new homework project. By the time the term ended, he wanted everyone in class to have researched and written an essay on what they planned to do when they grew up.
‘What’s your dream job?’ he said. ‘Do you want to be a fireman, a doctor or a beekeeper? Now I don’t want you writing the first career that comes into your head. Try to be realistic. You’re not likely to become a pop singer if you know full well you’re tone deaf. You’re hardly going to be a striker for Manchester United if you’d rather be sitting on the sofa with a TV dinner than going to football practice. But if you genuinely aspire to have a career in something you’re passionate about - even if that something is flying to the moon in a space shuttle - I’d like to hear about it.’
Laura, who knew exactly what she wanted to do with her life - had known for as long as she could remember - was momentarily excited at the prospect of writing about how Matt Walker’s genius at solving crimes had inspired her. Then she remembered that the key to fitting in at new schools was to be one of the herd. It was no good behaving like an exotic dun Jersey cow in a field full of black-and-white Friesians. That was just asking for trouble. If kids believed you were harmless, easygoing and a trifle dull, they left you alone. Nobody asked you questions. Nobody asked you anything at all. Pretty soon you were as invisible as wallpaper.
The bell rang and Laura scooped her books into her bag. She’d have to come up with the kind of job that made people’s eyes glaze over. Something like accountancy. Something like her uncle’s job . . . counting fish for the fisheries.
Matt Walker’s surveillance technique was not dissimilar to Laura’s philosophy on new schools. The key was to blend in. In The Castle in the Clouds, he’d had to stake out an estate for weeks in order to discover which of the staff or family members was stripping the castle of its treasures. He’d posed as a doddering, partially deaf gardener who was such a constant presence in the grounds, always seeding, pruning, raking and boring to tears anyone who passed with his theories on the best fertilizer for roses, that in no time at all he was as invisible as his plants.
Laura didn’t think of what she was doing as surveillance. If she was honest, she was only watching the North Star because she was a bit bored, a bit lonely and curious about Tariq. At the same time, she didn’t think it was a bad thing if she watched the North Star over the course of a few afternoons to get a rough idea of the Mukhtars’ movements. Instinctively she knew it would not be a good idea to attempt to speak to Tariq if his father was around. Why, she wasn’t sure. Mr Mukhtar had been pleasant enough to her. But she hadn’t liked the way he’d hissed in his son’s ear, or talked about Tariq as if he wasn’t there. All that stuff about him being eleven years old and not able to speak or write English. It was hardly surprising he couldn’t do those things if his father always treated him as if he was an idiot.
And maybe Mrs Mukhtar wasn’t the ‘fine teacher’ her husband believed her to be. Maybe she was always out at the beautician or the hairdresser as Mrs Crabtree had claimed. In any event, Laura had decided to sit with her sketchpad and some watercolour pencils she’d borrowed from school on the third floor communal balcony of the block of holiday flats opposite, and observe the grocery. Twenty minutes after arriving on that first afternoon, she saw Mr Mukhtar leave with another brown paper parcel under his arm. By then her fingers were numb with cold, so she was relieved to see him go.
Laura Marlin Mysteries 1: Dead Man's Cove eBook Page 4