Careless in Red

by Elizabeth George

  “So let me spray first, get that down pat, and go on to shaping afterwards.”

  “No,” Lew said. “That’s not how it’s done.”

  “Jesus. What the hell difference does it make how it’s done?”

  “We do it my way, Cadan, or we don’t do it.”

  “That’s always how it is with you. Do you ever think you might be wrong?”

  “Not in this. Now get in the car. I’ll drive you back to town.”

  “I’ve got—”

  “I won’t have you driving Jago’s car, Cade. You’ve had your driving licence taken—”

  “By you.”

  “—and until you prove to me that you’re responsible enough to—”

  “Forget it. Just bloody fucking forget it, Dad.”

  Cadan strode across the car park to where he’d left Jago’s car. His father called his name sharply. He kept on going.

  He headed back to Casvelyn, burning. All right, he thought. Bloody all right. His father wanted proof and he would prove. He’d prove until he was blue in the face, and he knew just the place to do it.

  He drove with far less care on his return to town. He blasted over the bridge that spanned the Casvelyn Canal—mindless of the yield to the oncoming traffic sign, which earned him two fingers from the driver of a UPS van—and he took the roundabout at the bottom of the Strand without braking to see if he had the right of way. He coursed up the hill and charged down St. Mevan Crescent and onto the promontory. By the time he reached Adventures Unlimited, in a lather was the best description of his state.

  His thoughts ran circles round the word unfair. Lew was unfair. Life was unfair. The world was unfair. His entire existence would be so simple if other people would just see things his way. But they never did.

  He shoved open the door of the old hotel. He used a bit too much force, and it hit the wall with a crash that reverberated through the reception area. The sound of his entry brought Alan Cheston out of his office. He looked from the door to Cadan to his wristwatch.

  “Weren’t you meant to be here this morning?” he asked.

  “I had errands,” Cadan said.

  “I think errands get done on your own time, not on ours.”

  “It won’t happen again.”

  “I hope not. Truth is, Cade, we can’t have employees who don’t show up when they’re intended to show up. In a business like this, we’ve got to be able to depend—”

  “I said it won’t happen again. What more do you want? A guarantee written in blood or something?”

  Alan crossed his arms. He waited a moment before making a reply and in that moment, Cadan could hear the echo of his own petulant voice. “You don’t much like to be supervised, do you?” Alan said.

  “No one told me you were my supervisor.”

  “Everyone here is your supervisor. Until you prove yourself, you’re rather a bit player, if you know what I mean.”

  Cadan knew what he meant, but he was sick to death of proving himself. To this person, to that person, to his father, to anyone. He just wanted to get on with things, and no one was letting him. That fact made him want to hurl Alan Cheston into the nearest wall. He itched to do it, to act on the impulse and to hell with the consequence. It would feel so good.

  He said, “Fuck it. I’m clearing out. I’ve come for my clobber.” He headed for the stairs.

  “Have you informed Mr. Kerne?”

  “You can do that for me.”

  “It’ll hardly look good—”

  “Like I almost care.” He left Alan staring after him, lips parted as if he was about to say more, as if he was going to point out—correctly—that if Cadan Angarrack had some sort of kit he’d left at Adventures Unlimited, it would hardly be on the upper floors of the building. But Alan said nothing, and his silence left Cadan in command, which was where he wanted to be.

  He had no kit at Adventures Unlimited. No clobber, no gear, no anything. But he told himself that he would check each room he’d been in during his very brief time in the employ of the Kernes because one never knew where one had left a possession and after this, it would be a bit uncomfortable for him to have to come by and pick up anything he might have left behind….

  Room after room. Door opened, a quick look inside, door closed. A quiet, “Hullo. Anyone in here?” as if he expected his supposed forgotten possessions to speak. He finally found her on the top floor, where the family lived, where he could have gone at once had he been practising honesty with himself, which he was not.

  She was in Santo’s bedroom. At least, Cadan assumed that it was Santo’s bedroom by the surfing posters, the single bed, the pile of T-shirts on a chair, and the pair of trainers that Dellen Kerne was caressing on her lap when Cadan opened the door.

  She was all in black, jersey and trousers and a band holding her blond hair off her face. She had on no makeup, and a scratch marked her cheek. Her feet were bare. She was sitting on the edge of the bed. Her eyes were closed.

  Cadan said, “Hey,” in what he hoped was a gentle voice.

  She opened her eyes. They fixed on him, the pupils so large that the violet of her irises was nearly obscured. She dropped the trainers to the floor with a soft thud. She held out her hand.

  He went to her and helped her to her feet. He saw she had nothing on beneath her jersey. Her nipples were large, round, and rigid. He stirred at this. For once, he admitted the truth to himself. This was why he’d come to Adventures Unlimited. Jago’s advice and the rest of the world be damned.

  He grazed the tip of her nipple with his fingers. Her eyelids lowered but did not close. He knew it was safe to continue. He took a step to be nearer. A hand on her waist and then circling round, cupping her bum while the other hand’s fingers stayed where they were and played like feathers against her. He bent to kiss her. Her mouth opened willingly beneath his and he pulled her more firmly against him so that she would feel what he wanted her to feel.

  He said when he could, “That key you had yesterday.”

  She didn’t reply. He knew she knew what he was talking about because her mouth lifted to his once more.

  He kissed her. Long and deeply and it went on and on till he thought his eyeballs might pop from his head and his eardrums might burst. His slamming heart needed some place to go besides his chest because if it didn’t find another home, he reckoned he could die on the spot. He ground against her. He began to ache.

  He broke away from her and said, “The beach huts. You had a key. We can’t. Not here.” Not in the family quarters and certainly not in Santo’s room. It was indecent, somehow.

  “Can’t what?” She leaned her forehead against his chest.

  “You know. Yesterday when we were in the kitchen, you had a key. You said it was for one of the beach huts. Let’s use it.”

  “For what?”

  What the hell did she think? Was she the sort who liked it said outright? Well, he could do that. “I want to fuck you,” he said. “And you want to be fucked. But not in here. In one of the beach huts.”

  “Why?”

  “Because…It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

  “Is it?”

  “Jesus. Yeah. This is Santo’s room, right? And anyway his dad might come in.” He couldn’t bring himself to say your husband. “And if that happens…” She could see it, couldn’t she? What was wrong with her?

  “Santo’s dad,” she said.

  “If he walks in on us…” This was ridiculous. He didn’t need to explain. He didn’t want to explain. He was ready and he thought she was ready and to have to talk about all of the whys and wherefores…Obviously, she wasn’t yet hot enough for him. He went for her again. Mouth on nipple this time, through the jersey, a gentle pull with his teeth, a flicking of the tongue. Back to her mouth and drawing her near and it was odd that she wasn’t doing much in turn but did that really matter? “Jesus. Get that key,” he murmured.

  “Santo’s dad,” she said. “He won’t come here.”

  “How can you be
sure?” Cadan examined her more closely. She appeared to be marginally out of it, but even so it seemed to him that she ought to know they were in her son’s room and her husband’s house. On the other hand, she wasn’t exactly looking at him now and he didn’t know if she’d actually seen him—as in registering his presence—when she had looked at him.

  “He won’t,” she said. “He might want to, but he can’t.”

  “Babe, you’re not making sense.”

  She murmured, “I knew what I ought to do, but he’s my rock, you see, and there was a chance. So I took it. Because I loved him. I knew what was important. I knew.”

  Cadan was flummoxed. More, he was fast deflating, losing ground with her and with the moment. Still, he said, “Dell…Dellen…Babe,” to coax her. She’d spoken well of chances because if there was the slightest chance that he could still get her down to the beach huts, he was willing to go for it.

  He took her hand. He lifted it to his mouth. He ran his tongue across her palm. He said huskily, “What d’you say, Dell? What about that key?”

  Her reply was, “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  WHEN KERRA AND HER FATHER WALKED INTO TOES ON THE Nose, the café was virtually empty. In part, this was due to the time of day, which was in between one meal and the next. In part, this was due to the conditions on the water. When the swells were good, no surfer in his right mind would be hanging about a café.

  She’d invited Ben out for a cuppa. They could have more easily had one in the hotel, but she’d wanted to be away from Adventures Unlimited for their conversation. The hotel was redolent of Santo’s death and the recent row she’d had with her mother. For this chat with her father, she wanted to be in neutral territory, in a place that was fresh.

  Not that Toes on the Nose was fresh in the true sense. It was instead an inadequate refashioning of what had once been the Green Table Café, a perfect example of if-you-can’t-beat-them-join-them, long ago taken over by surfers because of its proximity to St. Mevan Beach. The café had recent new owners who’d seen commercial possibilities in putting up posters of old surfing films and playing music by the Beach Boys and Jan and Dean. Their menu, however, remained what it had been when they’d bought the place: cheesy chips, lasagna with chips and garlic bread, jacket potatoes with a variety of fillings, chip butties…One’s arteries could clog just reading the menu.

  Kerra ordered a Coke at the counter. Her father ordered coffee. Then they took a table as far from the music speakers as possible, beneath a poster for Endless Summer.

  Ben looked at the Riding Giants poster across the room. His gaze went from it to Gidget, and he seemed to compare them. He smiled, perhaps nostalgically. Kerra saw this and said, “Why’d you give it up?”

  He returned his gaze to her. She thought for a moment that he wouldn’t reply to so direct a question but he surprised her. “I left Pengelly Cove,” he said frankly. “There’s not much surf in Truro.”

  “You could have gone back. How far is Truro from the sea, after all?”

  “Not far,” he admitted. “I could have gone back once I had a car. That’s true enough.”

  “But you didn’t. Why?”

  He looked momentarily pensive and presently he said, “I was finished with it. I’d faced the fact that it had done me no good.”

  “Ah.” She thought she knew the reason, which at the end of the day was the reason for everything Ben Kerne did. “Mum,” she said. “That’s how you met her.” And yet her reply was based solely on assumption, she realized, for they’d never once discussed how Ben and Dellen Kerne had actually met. It was the sort of question children asked their parents all the time once they became aware that their parents were people separate from themselves: How did you and Mummy meet? But she had never asked and she doubted whether Santo had either.

  Ben was accepting his cup of coffee with thanks to the café’s owner. He didn’t reply until Kerra had her Coke. Then he said, “Not because of your mum, Kerra. There were other reasons. Surfing led me to a place I’d have been better off not going to.”

  “Truro, you mean?”

  He smiled. “I’m speaking metaphorically. A boy died in Pengelly Cove, and everything changed. That was down to surfing, more or less.”

  “That’s what you meant: No good came of it.”

  “That’s why I didn’t much like Santo surfing. I didn’t want him to fall into a situation that might cause him the sort of trouble I’d seen. So I did what I could to discourage him. It wasn’t right of me, but there you have it.” He blew across the top of his coffee and sipped. He said wryly, “Damn, though. It was daft to try. Santo didn’t need me interceding in his life, at least not about that. He took care of himself, didn’t he?”

  “Not at the end of the day,” Kerra noted quietly.

  “No. Not at the end of the day.” Ben turned his coffee cup in its saucer, his gaze on his hands. They were silent as the Beach Boys crooned “Surfer Girl.” After a verse, Ben said, “Is that why you’ve brought me here? To talk about Santo? We haven’t mentioned him yet, have we? I’m sorry for that. I haven’t wanted to talk about him and you’ve paid the price.”

  “We all have things we’re sorry about when it comes to Santo,” Kerra said. “But that’s not why I wanted to talk to you.” She felt suddenly shy about her subject. Any discussion of Santo made her look upon herself and her motives and deem them selfish. On the other hand, what she had to say was likely going to lift her father’s spirits, and the look of him told her his spirits needed lifting.

  “What is it, then?” he asked. “Not bad news, I hope. You’re not leaving us, are you?”

  “No. I mean, yes. After a fashion. Alan and I are marrying.”

  He took this in, a slow smile beginning to brighten his face. “Are you, now? That’s excellent news. He’s a fine man. When?”

  They hadn’t set a date, she told him. Sometime this year. There was no ring yet, but that was to come. “Alan insists,” she said. “He wants to have what he calls ‘a proper engagement.’ You know Alan. And—” She put her hands round her glass. “He wants to ask your permission, Dad.”

  “Does he indeed?”

  “He said he wants to do things right, from beginning to end. I know it’s silly. No one asks for permission to marry any longer. But it’s what he wants to do. Anyway, I hope you’ll give it. Your permission, I mean.”

  “Whyever would I not?”

  “Well…” Kerra looked away. How to put it? “You may have gone a bit off on the whole idea of marriage. You know what I mean.”

  “Because of your mother.”

  “It can’t have been a pleasant journey for you. I could see how you mightn’t want me to take it.”

  Ben took his turn at avoiding Kerra’s gaze. He said, “Marriage is difficult no matter the situation the couple finds themselves in. Think otherwise, and you’ll be in for a surprise.”

  “But there’s difficult and there’s difficult,” Kerra said. “Truly difficult. Impossible to accept.”

  “Ah. Yes. I know you’ve thought that: the why of it all. I’ve been reading that question on your face since you were twelve years old.”

  He looked so regretful as he spoke that Kerra felt pained. She said, “Did you never think…Did you never want to…”

  He covered her hand with his. “Your mum has had her trying times. There’s no question about that. But her trying times have made her own path rockier than they’ve made mine, and that’s the truth of it. Beyond that, she gave me you. And I have to thank her for that, whatever her faults may be.”

  At this, Kerra saw that the moment had arrived when she’d least expected it. She looked down at her Coke, but something of what she needed to say to her father must have shown in her features because he said, “What is it, Kerra?”

  “How do you know?” she asked him.

  “Whether to take the leap with another person? You don’t know. There’s never any certainty about t
he kind of life you’ll have with someone else, is there, but at some point—”

  “No, no. That’s not what I mean.” She felt the colour come into her face. It burned her cheeks and she could imagine it spreading out like a fan towards her ears. She said, “How do you know about us? About me? For sure. Because…”

  He frowned for a moment, but then his eyes widened a little as he took in her meaning.

  She added miserably, “Because of what she’s like. I’ve wondered, you see, from time to time.”

  He stood abruptly, and she thought he might stride out of the café altogether since he looked towards the door. But instead he said to her, “Come with me, girl. No no. Leave your things where they are,” and he took her to a coat rack, where a small mirror hung within a seashell frame. He stood her in front of that mirror, himself behind her, his hands on her shoulders. “Look at your face,” he said, “and look at mine. Good God, Kerra, who would you be if not my daughter?”

  Her eyes burned. She blinked the smarting away. “What about Santo?” she asked.

  His hands tightened on her shoulders reassuringly. “You favour me,” he replied, “and Santo always favoured your mum.”

  BY THE TIME LYNLEY walked into the incident room in Casvelyn, he’d been gone most of the day, traversing Cornwall from Exeter to Boscastle. He found DI Hannaford and Barbara Havers acting the part of audience for Constable McNulty, who was expatiating on a topic that seemed dear to his heart. This consisted of a set of photos that he’d laid out on a table. Havers looked interested. Hannaford listened, wearing an unmistakable expression of sufferance.

  “He’s catching the wave here, and it’s a good shot of him. You can see his face and the colours of his board, right? He’s got good position and he’s got experience. He mostly surfs Hawaii and the water’s cold as the dickens in Half Moon Bay, so he’s not used to it, but what he is used to is the size of the wave. He’s scared, but who wouldn’t be? If you’re not scared, then you’re mad. Tonnes and tonnes of water and unless you’ve caught the last wave in the set, it’s not exactly as if another wave isn’t going to come along, right after the one you might very well wipe out on. And that’s going to hold you down and suck you into the trench. So you better be scared and you better show some respect.” He moved to the next picture. “Look at the angle. He’s losing it here. He knows he’s going to wipe out and he’s wondering how bad it’s going to be, which is what you see here, in this next shot.” He pointed at it. “A full body slap right into the face of the wave. He’s moving God only knows how fast and so’s the water, so what happens when he hits? Break a few ribs? Get the breath knocked out of him? It doesn’t matter which because now he’s going the last place anyone would ever want to go at Maverick’s and that’s over the falls. Here. You can just make him out.”