‘Well, don’t forget Hector. I don’t think he was particularly depressed. His Aunt Agatha – “Aunty Aunt” as he called her – gave him carte blanche, and who do you think was going to be the beneficiary of her estate?’
‘You really don’t think it was an accident, do you?’
‘No, and I’ll tell you why. The week after Hector drowned, Robert Vernon and I returned to Cornwall – just about making it in my clapped-out old Peugeot 204 – and we headed to the Office. My pub band were playing an August bank holiday gig, and I persuaded Robert to come down and help us out on drums, as our regular guy had overdosed the previous weekend. I told the guys it would be my last performance, which I don’t think devastated them too much! Trevor Mullings, the fisherman who reported Hector’s death, was in the pub that night. I asked him if Hector had left on his own after his very long final session in the Office. Trevor told me that he himself was under the table by then – as the publican had closed the pub and allowed drinking to continue into the early hours. However, Trevor did recall that Hec, as he called him, had left with someone he didn’t recognize.’
‘How odd,’ said Grant. ‘Why didn’t you say something at the time?’
‘Robert told his old man, Mark, who contacted the police only to be told that it was an open-and-shut case, that the coroner had released the body, there were no fingerprints on him and the incident room had been closed down within days with a verdict of “accidental death by drowning” recorded. Mark was told that the CPS had no interest in the case as there were no suspects. Looking back, perhaps we should have gone to the Old Bill directly, but Mark’s dad seemed so respectable – owning that private bank off Trafalgar Square that had been in the family for centuries – whereas we thought we’d be dismissed as unreliable, long-haired juvenile hippies.’
‘Well, it sounds like a botched job all round – and Hector Wallace never got justice either.’
‘I couldn’t agree more. I had a soft spot for old Hector. I know everyone thought I was some sort of druggie flying with the teapots, but it has really bothered me all these years that Hector left the pub with someone who was never identified and who has never come forward.’
Grant saw that Justyn was genuinely upset about Hector, and the years had diminished neither his anger nor his sense of injustice. ‘Then come with me to Cornwall next week,’ he suggested hopefully. ‘I’ve booked into a B&B near Zennor to try to establish what really happened, to set the record straight for Tom – but now also for Hector.’ Prior to this conversation Grant had always thought of Hector as the hopeless drunk he had described to Brigit, but Justyn had provoked in him a radical reappraisal.
‘I can’t, old mate. My schedules with clients are tight, and I am very focused and structured these days,’ Justyn replied with a slightly self-conscious smile.
‘Fair enough, but I will try to find Trevor Mullings – although it may not be easy. There are too many unanswered questions.’
Such had been the intensity of their conversation that neither had noticed that the lounge had filled up around them.
As they parted they high-fived, agreeing to speak soon, both pleased to have rekindled an old friendship. Grant now shared Justyn’s view that Hector Wallace’s drowning forty years ago was no accident. He was encouraged, even uplifted, by Justyn being the first of the younger generation of former holiday-makers to show any enthusiasm for his belated sleuthing. Grant hailed a cab and jumped in, feeling sprightly and thinking for the first time that he was not alone in his mission to seek out the truth.
20
PRESENT DAY
The following week Grant took the train from Paddington to Plymouth. He was greeted at the station by Robert Vernon who had suggested that Grant should stay with him and his wife Jackie en route to Cornwall. This he was more than happy to do, as Robert was a friend with whom he had kept in touch. Moreover Grant was intrigued by Justyn’s mention of Robert the previous week. He was pleased – and in some ways relieved – that the Vernons had never been dragged into the 1972 police inquiry or implicated in any way. Furthermore, Grant was keen to speak to Mark, Robert’s father, who had been a witness to Tom’s distress in the lane near Zennor and who had spoken to the police about Hector’s exit from the pub with the unidentified stranger.
‘He died last month,’ Robert revealed, when Grant asked how his father was. Grant was visibly crestfallen, and, on seeing his expression, Robert added, ‘I didn’t think you would be so shocked. He was eighty-seven.’
‘Yes, yes, I mean, I’m so sorry. His death must be a great loss, with you being an only child.’
‘It’s OK, Grant. We all go through it at some point, but thanks all the same.’
Grant realized Robert had no idea how sorry he was or why. However, over dinner in a nearby pub – Jackie was out at her bridge club – he homed straight in on the topic of Hector Wallace.
‘Justyn told me that you and he went to the Office the week after Hector died. Wasn’t that a bit macabre?’
‘Possibly, but Justyn was distraught about Hector, and he had a hunch that someone at the pub would know something about his drowning.
‘And that someone was Trevor Mullings?’ Robert nodded. ‘Pity the police weren’t more interested in what you told your father about Hector’s mystery companion.’
‘I know, but he told them, and they closed him down very promptly. All he got back was the usual stuff about coroners accepting accidental death by drowning, the CPS not being interested and so on, so there was nowhere for him to go. Justyn was incandescent when he heard, as he knew Hector really quite well. They used to refer to one another as “the far-out men”. It started with Hector mocking Justyn’s use of the expression “Far out, man.” I think they both saw themselves as outsiders from the rest of us and the world in general. They were both a touch eccentric, let’s face it, and that created a bond between them. They used to chat into the early hours when Justyn couldn’t sleep and sat strumming his acoustic guitar. Hector would often be there, asking Tom for another drink.’
‘Justyn’s playing wasn’t that bad,’ interrupted Grant.
‘Ha-ha. He used to strum “Father and Son”. Poignant at the time, although later he and Bob got on rather well, after they legally adopted Clive Holford and became one much happier family. By the way, did Justyn tell you that we went back to Cornwall a week after we’d all left to play a gig?’
‘Yes, and you were the new Charlie Watts. But who do you think Hector left the pub with?’
‘Who knows? It could have just been someone trying to usher him outside so old Keith could get some sleep. Let’s face it, Hector getting legless was a regular occurrence – every night and most lunchtimes. It was just that he went a bit further than usual that night and decided to get completely wasted.’
‘I think he was encouraged down to the beach, Robert, and coerced into the water. Even a drunk doesn’t want to drown.’
‘Why? Who would want to harm him?’
‘Lord only knows, but I need to find Trevor Mullings. I’m beginning to think Tom’s poisoning and Hector’s drowning are related. Justyn thinks so. We have two horrendous events within a few days of each other, in a fairly remote location. How on earth were we all allowed to leave Cornwall when we chose to?’
‘Fair point, but your family and mine were never implicated,’ Robert replied, sounding ever more the stereotypical schoolmaster he had become, having eschewed the family banking tradition. Grant didn’t want to hold on to this thought. In his own mind his mother remained implicated, deeply so, and he felt nauseous at his memory of the time that Richard Hughes-Webb and his mother were caught in the porter’s car headlights. The image remained in Grant’s mind, as did the fact that it was Hughes-Webb who had berated the hapless Hector Wallace.
The following day Grant rented a four-by-four, mastered its satnav system and set off on the two-hour drive to Zennor. By the time he stopped for fuel near Redruth he had grown tired of the radio’s musical offerin
gs and bought a Peter Cook and Dudley Moore recording, which made him chuckle to himself for the rest of the journey.
His first port of call on arrival was the church of St Senara. Soon after, he pulled up in a makeshift car park between the pub and the museum. Before checking the graveyard he decided to enter the church, where his attention was taken by a carving of a mermaid on one of the ancient pew ends. Ted Jessops drawing the picture of a mermaid after his heart attack sprang to his mind. What the hell was that about? Grant kept thinking there must be a connection, but he couldn’t join the dots. At that moment he heard the church door shutting behind him. He swiftly left the church in time to see a shadowy figure in an old coat hurrying down the lane. Deciding not to give chase he walked over to the graveyard. After inspecting several rows of moss-covered decaying headstones, he found what he was looking for: a simple commemorative plaque.
HERE LIES THE BODY OF THOMAS YOULEN
Born 25th January 1919. Died 5th June 1977
The plaque carried no other inscription, no personal reference to the man’s life whatsoever, but some roses had been planted in front in a little stone rockery. It looked as if someone tended the grave.
Grant was filled with a sense of injustice for Tom, both in life and death; a sentiment heightened by the lack of any kind of commemorative message. There was not even a ‘Rest in Peace’. However, he reflected that it appeared as if the rose rockery was tended regularly; he hoped that it was by a relative or friend rather than simply by churchyard maintenance. He found himself a little overwrought. He had never previously owned up to any personal involvement in any of this, but he now felt it by association. His feelings of guilt at Tom’s poisoning elicited a quiet but determined vow that surprised even himself. ‘I’ll find out what happened, Tom.’
Later that day Grant checked into his B&B, a pub with accommodation. The bright-yellow building stuck out at the end of a cul-de-sac, just in front of the headland that looked down on a churning, unsettled sea. He checked into an upstairs room facing towards the barren moorland and wasn’t best pleased to discover that it was right above the bar. That evening, after fish and chips, a couple of pints of the local brew in the bar and some banter with the locals, he turned in for the night and assessed his mission thus far. Mark Vernon’s death the month before was a blow, and several questions preoccupied him as he lay in bed. Who closed the church door and hurried away? Why did Ted Jessops draw a mermaid? Was there a connection to the legend of the mermaid at Zennor, where Tom was poisoned and subsequently buried? Finally, just before drifting into sleep, Grant resolved he would drive further west the next day and visit the Porthcurno Telegraph Museum, which apparently had a display dedicated to messages in bottles found in the sea near by.
Grant’s deep but troubled sleep was interrupted a few hours later by a quiet tap-tapping on the door. He listened intently; the noise was barely louder than a woodpecker. His watch told him that it was three-thirty in the morning. He jumped out of bed, looking for a non-existent peephole in the door. His heart thumped louder than the noisy clock on the wall that ceaselessly confirmed the time. Again came the tap-tap on the door. Hastily grabbing the key to unlock the double-locked door, he fumbled and dropped it. He eventually turned the key only to hear footsteps rushing down the stairs. Charging down the corridor he was accosted by an angry fellow guest who opened his door to demand, ‘What the hell’s going on?’ Grant tried to explain about the tapping at his door. The other guest had heard someone running down the corridor and stairs but hadn’t heard any knocking. The two men returned to their rooms, and Grant lay awake for the rest of the night trying to make the jigsaw fit together.
Despite feeling tired the next morning, Grant followed through with his plan to visit Porthcurno, near the Minack Theatre where he and his friends had spotted Bob Silver with Clive Holford all those years ago. For over 140 years Porthcurno had been at the centre of global communications. The first undersea telegraph cable had arrived there in 1870, linking Britain to India, and it had a pivotal role in the Second World War as the largest and busiest telegraph station in the world. Of most interest to Grant was the town’s museum, which celebrated the world of telecommunications long before mobile phones and the internet. He was delighted to discover a glass cabinet with various old bottles that had been washed up on Porthcurno Beach. He studied the reference book that contained the messages from each bottle, reading them in chronological order. When he found the entry for Exhibit 51 his eyes nearly popped out of his head. He felt the blood drain from his face and had to sit down.
‘Are you OK?’ someone inquired.
‘Water. I need a glass of water.’
The entry for Exhibit 51 read, ‘Dear Aunt Agatha. I will love you always. Tonight I am not alone.’
The message bore a date that was almost illegible but which he could just about decipher as 23 August 1972. Grant tried to compose his thoughts. He had not expected this. Was someone playing a trick? This had to be the message in a bottle of which Arnie Charnley had spoken to Jenny. If so, it must have washed up the day after Hector died, so why didn’t Arnie report it? The Charnleys, together with everyone else, had departed on 24 August 1972 at the end of the holiday, and Hector’s corpse had been found on the beach on 24 August. Grant tried, unsuccessfully, to find out how the bottle had found its way into the museum and how long it had been there.
The curator was not especially helpful. ‘Nothing to do with us, sir. We hire the bottle exhibition from a local trader, who moves it from place to place around the county. In fact, you’re lucky it’s here. It’s off to St Ives tomorrow.’
How strange, thought Grant. ‘And who’s this local trader?’ he inquired.
‘Just a moment. I’ll check.’ The man reappeared, having asked a colleague. ‘His name’s Trevor Mullings.’
‘Thank you,’ said Grant. It was the fisherman who had reported Hector’s death all those years ago. He was someone Grant was now even more keen to meet. For the second time in the space of five minutes he experienced a sudden lightheadedness and had to sit down again. He concentrated on taking deep breaths to increase the quantity of oxygen reaching his brain. Once he had recovered, something about the message bothered him. The first part was in faded red ink, but the words ‘Tonight I am not alone’ were in black. He asked the curator how the ink colour could be so different after forty years or so.
‘The first part is not written in ink at all, I’d suggest,’ replied the curator in a voice that managed to be simultaneously officious and menacing. ‘It may have ink reinforcing it, perhaps, but it’s primarily written in blood.’
21
PRESENT DAY
Grant was both euphoric and unnerved at his discovery that Trevor Mullings possessed the bottle in which Hector had placed his note. Euphoric, because he had specifically set out to find Trevor; unnerved, because he now had to add him to his list of circumstantially suspicious people, alongside Ivan Youlen and Ken Holford. As he headed back to his accommodation he looked forward to meeting an old friend for dinner: Ian Fothergill, who was driving over from a village near Truro. Ian had been a partner in Grant’s law firm but had decided to ‘go west’ for a better quality of life and had joined a small regional legal practice in the town. Grant looked forward to hearing about Ian’s changed circumstances and sharing with him what he was up to in Cornwall.
He was somewhat dismayed on arriving back at the pub to be greeted by an unenthusiastic receptionist-cum-general assistant who seemed to work all hours; her offhand manner was accentuated by her spiky yellow-and-pink hair and oversized thighs that protruded from a 1960s-style miniskirt.
‘Oh, there was a phone call for you, if I remembers right.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘I made a note here. A Mr Fothergills.’
‘Fothergill,’ corrected Grant.
‘Yes, that be he. Anyways he says he’s not coming for dinner with you tonight.’
‘Really?’ asked Grant, knowing this to be unusual be
haviour from his old friend and colleague, who would normally have made contact directly and would have offered a full explanation.
‘Yes. I’m not a liar.’ The punky young woman was affronted.
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I do apologize. I mean, of course you are telling the truth. It’s just not like him, my friend Ian, to cry off and not leave a message, you see.’
‘Well, don’t shoot the messenger, guv’ nor.’
‘No, of course.’
Apologizing again, Grant withdrew to his room. Seriously disappointed, denied his need for friendship and a familiar face with whom to share revelations, he decided against calling Ian and lay on his bed. Clasping his hands behind his head, he reflected on how isolated he felt; there was no signal on his mobile and no internet access. He resolved to go to the bar early that evening and order a simple ploughman’s with a half of bitter, after which he would withdraw to catch up on his sleep.
As he climbed on to a high stool he noticed an elderly woman in a white raincoat and headscarf sitting alone in the corner. She seemed to be fixing her gaze on him in a most disconcerting manner. He was cheered by the 1960s’ jukebox playing Richard Harris’s ‘Macarthur Park’. Just as the song reached its crescendo – ‘Someone left the cake out in the rain’ – the lights fused and the bar was pitched into darkness. The landlord called for calm, saying he would get a torch and fix it.
At that moment Grant felt a hand stroke his face. He recoiled from his bar stool and held his hands in front of his face in fear of further intrusion. Had it been a hand? If so, whose was it? While the saloon bar was still in darkness, he heard a female voice sing softly, only just audibly, ‘Half a pound of tuppenny rice, half a pound of treacle’. The sound seemed close to him, but it stopped abruptly as the lights came back on.
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