“You can get through the fence! By the track!”
“Where?”
“Along, towards the power station. That’s where I found it, in the mud. Can’t you see the fucking mud on it?” shouted the drifter.
“Did you see anyone by the water, when you found this?” asked Kate.
“I don’t go down there if I see people. They patrol the water with boats. I don’t like people. People are cruel.” The drifter moved quickly, reaching up and grabbing the knife from Kate, and the twenty-pound note. He shoved them into the folds of his coat, and pulled out a broken bottle with a spur of glass. “NOW GET OUT, DO YOU HEAR ME! OUT!” he shouted, his arm flailing with the broken glass. Kate and Tristan stepped back out of the toilet cubicle, and the old man slammed the door shut, kicking at the wood. There was a click as the lock was turned. Kate knocked on the door, but there was no answer. She knocked again, pleading with him to open the door, but there was no answer.
Kate and Tristan left the toilet block and came back outside, relieved at the taste of fresh air. It was now dark and raining harder.
“We need to confirm Simon had a penknife,” said Kate.
“We should check out the fence,” said Tristan.
They put up their hoods and walked back down across the grass to the fence. The turbines from the power plant seemed to be humming at a higher pitch, and on the other side the water was rushing past.
They found an opening in the trees leading off to the right, in the direction of the power plant. They had to put their phone lights back on. It led to a thin track. The roar of the turbines grew louder, and Kate saw that there were tire tracks in the soft grass. On each side the track was lined with trees. The tall fence continued on their left-hand side.
After a couple hundred meters, the track widened out to a square of rough ground, and for a few feet there were no trees, just the bare metal fence.
They got up close and started to examine the fence with the flashlights from their phones. Pushing her fingers into the mossy dirt where the fence panel met the ground, Kate found a small piece of metal attached to the fence panel that hooked into a small hole in the tall fence post.
“Hang on, there’s something here,” she said. Tristan came over, and they fiddled with it for a moment and pulled. The hook suddenly popped out, and the whole bottom panel of the fence came loose. They could lift it up, leaving a half-meter gap. They crouched down and crawled through.
On the other side was a moss-covered bank and some trees with a clear path through them down to the water.
They emerged onto the muddy edge of the reservoir, where there was lots of rubbish, thrown up in several lines with the changing water level.
“The drifter said he found the penknife in the mud by the water,” said Tristan.
“If he did, how did he know about the fence?” said Kate.
“Simon or the drifter?”
“Both of them . . .” Kate’s voice trailed off, confused.
They looked up at the two huge domed buildings housing the hydroelectric turbines. The red lights were flashing on and off in unison, to warn airplanes.
“Let’s go back a bit. Simon gets up in the night; he leaves the tent and goes for a walk . . . ,” started Tristan.
“It’s dark. Creepy as hell. He’s on his own. Screwed up in the head. He’s got that penknife, but it’s a silly little thing, almost a toy. Maybe he grabs one of the sharp metal tent pegs as well, to protect himself, feel safe,” said Kate.
“He walks down here and somehow finds there’s a gap in the fence, to get down to the water’s edge.”
“What if someone was here, doing something at the fence? And Simon saw them?” said Kate.
“He scared someone, and they attacked him? And Simon ends up being stabbed with the tent peg.”
“Yeah.”
“So, Simon scared someone, but doing what?” asked Tristan. There was a pause. Kate moved to the edge of the water. It was now dark, and the lights from the power station were shining off the inky-black water as it rushed past, toward the turbines. Kate turned it over in her mind for a moment, but kept coming back to the same thought.
“The most logical conclusion, right now, is that Geraint was involved. Geraint and Simon had a fight, they ended up in the water, and Simon was trying to get away. If he went into the water here, he would really have to fight against the current,” she said, confused. “If Simon was badly hurt, he would have been sucked toward the turbines. You see how the water is being drawn into the sluice gates here.”
Tristan nodded.
“Surely, Simon would have swum across the reservoir to the other side; even if he lost his bearings at first, you would swim across to the nearest point of land,” said Tristan, indicating the trees directly ahead of them, on the opposite bank of the reservoir.
“But he swam over a mile in the other direction, away from the power station. The adrenaline could have kept him going for a bit. He swims away from something. Logically, a boat. A boat ran him over . . . I’m still having trouble imagining Geraint attacking him. We need to talk to that drifter again. He said he saw a van, but there could be a boat involved too. He might have seen Simon and Geraint on the night Simon died,” said Kate.
25
The rain stopped as Kate and Tristan walked to the campsite. They came back to the toilet block and went inside, but the last cubicle was empty. The drifter was gone.
“How long were we down there?” said Kate. “I thought he looked bedded in for the night.”
“He left the chocolate bar wrapper, but all his stuff’s gone,” said Tristan, shining the flashlight in the cubicle.
“Where would he go? We’re miles from anything. We need to find him,” said Kate.
From outside came the rattling sound of a car engine, and through the gap in the boarded-up window, car headlights lit up the inside of the tiny toilet. A vehicle came to a stop outside, but the engine continued running.
Kate looked at Tristan. A deafening gunshot reverberated through the tiny space, and she grabbed hold of Tristan’s arm.
“What the hell!” she said. Her ears were ringing. They jumped again as another shot was fired.
“All right! Come out of there, right now!” shouted a man’s voice with a thick Cornish accent.
“Who are you?” Kate shouted back.
“Come out! You’re trespassing on private property,” said the voice. It had an authority and certainty, which made her think it was police.
“Out! Don’t make me come in there!”
Kate moved to the door and announced who they were.
“We are lecturers from the university. We’re not drug addicts or homeless people! We know our rights with regards to firearms . . .” Her fear was that they could be shot accidentally.
There was silence, and then they heard the click of a gun magazine being opened and the chink of the spent bullets popping out.
Kate nodded at Tristan, and they cautiously came out of the toilet and into the glare of car headlights.
Kate held up her hand against the light. It was an older-looking man, rather short and dressed in shooting gear, with a long wax jacket. His face was jowly, indicating he was in his sixties, but his hair was dyed jet black and slicked over in a side parting. He was braced on both feet, with the gun lying open on the crook of his arm. Behind him was a large, ancient Land Rover, mud splattered with the engine still running.
“What are you doing trespassing?” he said, looking them up and down.
“This is public land,” said Kate. Tristan had his hands in the air. She shot him a look, and he dropped them to his sides.
“The campsite is, but we got a call from the plant saying there were two people on the banks near the sluice gates. That’s private property, and very dangerous. You could’ve fallen in.”
Kate went to say something, but he carried on.
“I don’t give a fuck about your safety, but if you fell in and ended up in the turbines, we’d have
a right mess on our hands and have to shut down.”
“Do you work at the power plant?” asked Kate. “Can I see some ID?”
The back door of the Land Rover opened, and an elderly lady got out. She was surprisingly tall, the same height as Tristan. She was wearing a pleated tartan skirt, Barbour wellies, and a wax jacket. She wore a head scarf over her head, but her sharp-featured face was heavily made up.
“Who are you? You were trespassing. There’s a two-thousand-pound fine for trespassing. Have you got two thousand pounds to spare?” she said, jabbing a finger with red nail polish at the reservoir and then Kate and Tristan.
“There’s an old man sleeping rough in here,” said Kate.
“What?” said the woman, her eyes narrowing.
“He said he was hungry and he wanted to sleep,” said Tristan. “We gave him some chocolate.”
“What are your names?”
“This is public land. We don’t need to tell you our names,” said Kate. She was always taken aback by the arrogance from some of the well off and privileged.
“You were trespassing on my land and government land. The power station provides a vital function as a public utility. Now get the fuck off before we shoot you and then bill your relatives the fine.”
“I’m a private investigator. My name is Kate Marshall, and this is my associate, Tristan Harper. We’re investigating the death of Simon Kendal. His body was found in the reservoir in August.”
This seemed to have an effect on the woman.
“Yes. A very sad business, but the police are dealing with it.”
“We’re also investigating the disappearance of another woman, a professor. She went missing close to the reservoir. Can I ask you, have the police conducted a search of the reservoir?”
“Who are you again?” said the woman, advancing on her.
“Kate Marshall.”
The woman took the gun from the man.
“Listen to me,” she said, carefully. The man fumbled in his pocket and handed a shotgun cartridge to her, which she slipped into the barrel. “This is your last warning. If you trespass again, we will call the police, and you will be prosecuted.” He handed her a second cartridge, and she loaded it into the gun and closed the barrel. “Have I made myself clear?” She handed the gun back to the man. She went to the car door and got into the passenger seat, closing the door.
“Is that your car?” the man said, tipping his head toward Kate’s Ford.
“Yes.”
“Get in it. Go.” He pointed the gun at them.
“Pointing a firearm at us is technically an assault,” said Kate.
“You better hop to it, then, before I technically pull the trigger,” he said. Tristan glanced at Kate, trying not to look scared. They walked over to her car and got in. She saw the man drop the barrel of the gun, but he carried on watching as she started the car and then pulled away.
“Jesus Christ,” said Tristan, holding out his trembling hands. “Can they do that?”
“No, but it’s our word against theirs.” She looked in her rearview mirror as the Land Rover was obscured by trees. “I’d like to know why they showed up. Isn’t there a proper security firm who would come and check it out? You okay?”
“Yeah. I’ve never heard a real gun being fired before,” he said.
There was a roar, and suddenly the Land Rover appeared on the track behind them, only slowing at the last minute, with its bonnet against their bumper. She could see the grim-set, jowly face of the driver and the old woman’s outline in the shadows of the passenger seat.
Tristan glanced back nervously.
“Let them overtake, Kate.”
They got to the main road, and Kate kept calm and pulled out of the junction. She expected the Land Rover to pass, but it stayed very close, almost touching their bumper.
“What’s he doing?” said Tristan, as Kate slowed and he matched their speed. The Land Rover’s headlights were on full beam, and Kate winced against the glare.
“Intimidating us,” she said. They crawled through the winding roads for a few minutes. Kate’s heart was thudding in her chest. Then just as they passed a large set of gates to the right, the Land Rover turned abruptly into the driveway, and they were plunged into darkness.
“Where did they go?” asked Tristan. Kate slowed, did a U-turn and doubled back to the gates, and stopped outside. “Careful,” he said.
Far up ahead, she could see the rear lights of the Land Rover as it got to the top of a steep hill. Perched on top they could just make out the outline of a large house.
“Can you see what it says on the gate?” asked Kate.
“Allways Manor House,” said Tristan, peering at the sign.
26
“Do you think we can enhance the photo?” asked Kate, holding up Tristan’s iPhone. It was the picture he’d taken of the penknife in the campsite toilet. Tristan was embarrassed and annoyed that the light had glinted off the metal, making the engraved inscription a blur.
“I enhanced it already,” said Tristan as he chopped vegetables for a stir-fry. They were back at Kate’s house, and he’d offered to prepare dinner as a thank-you for letting him stay. “Sorry I screwed up.”
“It’s not your fault,” said Kate, putting his iPhone down and grabbing hers. “I’m going to check this with Lyn Kendal.” She dialed the number and put the phone under her chin. She opened the fridge, and Tristan saw it was rather bare inside. There was a huge jug of iced tea on the top shelf, a saucer with slices of lemon, and a few pieces of cheese. “It’s her voice mail.”
Kate hung up the phone and filled a tumbler with ice from a bag in the freezer. Tristan set to work on chopping a red pepper and watched as she concentrated on filling the tumbler before garnishing it with a slice of lemon. She took a deep drink, closed her eyes, and sighed. She opened her eyes, and he looked away.
“Sorry, my manners. Would you like a drink?”
“Have you got a Coke?” he asked, as he slid the sliced red peppers off the chopping board and into the pan. There was a pleasant hiss, followed by a delicious smell, and he gave it a stir. His stomach rumbled.
“Yes, I do. Jake seems to bathe in the stuff, so I’ve still got plenty here,” she said, opening the fridge again and finding one in the bottom of the drawer.
“How come you didn’t leave a message with Lyn?” he asked, opening the can.
“Messages can be ignored or anticipated. I want to ask her and hear what she says. It’s habit. I learned in the police, it’s best to talk to people . . .”
Kate’s phone rang again.
“Ah, this is Jake, excuse me,” she said. She took her drink through to the living room and sat down in one of the chairs by the window. After their weird, long day, it was odd to come back to the same house. Tristan knew he would have to go back and face Sarah. Kate was great, but they already spent a lot of time together, and he didn’t want to be in her way. He carried on cooking and heard snatches of her conversation with Jake.
“I thought it was definite that you were coming for half term. It’s next week, love. I’d like to know so I can get ready and go shopping,” said Kate.
Tristan quickly sliced some mushrooms and slid them into the pan, where the food was cooking nicely. Kate was still on the phone, and he wanted to know if she had any noodles. He was reluctant to go poking through her cupboards.
He turned down the gas under the pan and put the lid on. Then he opened his laptop and logged on to the UK Missing Persons Unit. He opened his notebook and checked what he’d noted down and typed “Ulrich Mazur” into the search box. The result came right back with a photo. Ulrich was handsome. He had short strawberry blond hair, blue-gray eyes, and a wide, round face with high Slavic cheekbones. It was an ID photo, but he was smiling—a broad, warm smile with perfect white teeth. He wore a dark T-shirt, and he was very thin. The missing person report had his stats written underneath. He was six feet tall and weighed seventy kilograms.
Tristan coul
d hear Kate on the phone, now talking to someone else. The conversation was getting a little heated, and she kept saying, I know, Mum. It wasn’t my fault, do you hear?
Kate’s kitchen opened right out into the living room. He debated taking the computer and going upstairs, but there was the food. He turned his attention back to the second name Rachel at the Wild Oak had given them. He typed in “Sally-Ann Cobbs.” An ID photo, which looked almost as if it had been taken under duress, appeared on-screen. Sally-Ann seemed very tiny in the photo and was grimacing. She had mousy hair, a ratty face, and acne over her cheeks. She was seventeen years old when she went missing. He thought back to what Rachel said, about Sally-Ann reaching sixteen and having to leave the children’s home and go out into the world. It made him think of him and Sarah. When their mother died, he was fifteen, and Sarah was eighteen. If it had happened a couple of years earlier, they’d have both been taken into a home. The food hissing on the stove broke him out of his thoughts, and he got up and stirred the pan.
Kate had finished her call, and she came back into the kitchen. She sighed, went to the fridge, and filled up her glass. Tristan wondered if he was getting in her way.
“Listen, I can get out of your hair tomorrow. I need to go home; I’m running low on clean clothes,” he said.
“No, you can stay. I’ve got two spare rooms, although I’m not sure if Jake is coming for half term . . . He’s started to see a counselor. One of the teachers at school heard about us finding Simon Kendal’s body in the reservoir. And now the school thinks he should be talking to someone,” said Kate.
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
“It’s good, yes. But this counselor, apparently, is now insisting that Jake goes to sessions regularly, which are on Wednesdays. That scuppers him coming here for a week. And Jake has made friends, who he has plans with.” Kate put her drink down and rubbed her eyes. “Who knows? They might be using the counselor as an excuse for him not to come and visit . . .”
Tristan saw there was a great deal of emotion going on under the surface with Kate and her relationship with Jake. His own mother had been absent for a lot of his childhood because of drink and drugs. From what he’d heard, Kate got clean when Jake was very young, but her mother had refused to give her back custody of Jake. It was a complicated situation, and he didn’t know everything, but Kate was a good woman who had sorted herself out. She deserved to see her son.
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