Hell's Mouth

by BATEMAN, A P

  “Well, I might know where to find her,” she said.

  11

  The road from Mylor towards Point Geddon, like much of the area, was lined with trees and interspersed by paddocks and fields. The hedges were high and covered with foliage, and for much of the route, the trees topping the hedges grew over the road in arches, their branches meeting and forming a tunnel of thick green leaves. The sun shone through the canopy, occasionally blinding O’Bryan in its glare when the foliage thinned. He wished he’d brought some sunglasses with him. He looked across at DS Hosking, who with her dark, glossy hair, dark Gucci sunglasses and tight-fitting white blouse, looked like chic personified. She swept a lock of hair away from her face, the breeze blowing through her half-open window.

  O’Bryan slowed as they approached a grand entrance on their right. The signage was carved elegantly into a slab of granite at least six-feet square. He downshifted the Alfa Romeo and slowed to a crawl. Beside the sign was a colourful banner promoting an event for a local charity tomorrow night. It advertised champagne and free bar, an auction, canapés and a house tour. The main event was a raffle draw for a car supplied by a local BMW and Mini dealership. There was a number to call and a weird black and white symbol in a box.

  “Malforth Manor,” she said.

  “Their land backs down all the way to Barlooe Creek?”

  “That’s right,” she nodded. “Why are you interested?”

  “Just something I need to check,” he replied. “Later.” He took out his phone and took a couple of pictures of the sign.

  “Just scan the QR box,” DS Hosking said. “It will take you right to their website.”

  He looked at her, then to his iPhone. “I wondered what those things were.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” She laughed. “They’re all over London.” She snatched the phone out of his hand and flicked through the screens. Then she opened an app and held it up to the sign. “That’s it,” she said, then looked at the phone, disappointed. “Can’t help the Cornish phone signal though. You’ve got no bars.”

  “I barely have since I’ve been here.”

  “Well, when you get enough for internet access, go to this app…” She showed him and passed the phone back to him. “It will tell you all about the event being held at Malforth Manor. Either that, or the charity Ogilvy is raising money for.”

  “Ogilvy?”

  “Charles Ogilvy is the Lord of the Manor, or likes to think he is. He’s not really a lord, or any type of nobility, but he acts like it. He came from money, but made a load more on his own. Filthy rich. He owns other properties, mainly holiday homes. He’s responsible for keeping the Cornish out of homes and driving them to where property is more affordable, according to some.”

  “And is he?”

  “Doubtful,” she scoffed. “He owns some of the most luxurious homes down here. They aren’t the sort of properties to keep low earners or key workers off the property ownership ladder. But his properties still manage to piss people off. They are usually big and modern looking, stay empty for half the year, so that kills local trade and communities.”

  O’Bryan nodded. “There’s quite a few of those in Point Geddon and Barlooe. I thought they would be rented up until October half term at least.”

  “I think the seasons are getting shorter. Parents can’t take their kids out of school either side of the holidays. Businesses are suffering for sure. I think affordable cottages do okay, but some of those houses on the creek rent out for seven grand a week.”

  “What?” O’Bryan shook his head. “Well, they should all make their investment money back soon,” he said. “So Ogilvy makes that kind of money?”

  “All day long. He owns care homes across the county as well. There was some controversy a few years ago. He does, or at least did, deals with the people going into his homes, along the lines of buying their houses and releasing the equity which he would then off-set against their care fees.”

  “And the families objected?”

  “Exactly. He made his accounts available and it showed good value in terms of ancillary care, but the houses were woefully undervalued and he paid far less than market rate. He was the silent partner in a letting and estate agency. The properties ended up being let out or sold through the agency, but they came into the company at a far higher investment price than the old people were given. Ogilvy couldn’t account for the deficit and ended up paying a fortune in personal taxes. It was all over the local papers, but he’s done a lot of charity work since and everyone loves him again.” They entered Point Geddon and DS Hosking pointed left towards the river. “Down that road,” she said. “See the big house on the quay?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s it.”

  “Really?”

  “Really,” she said. “I’ll wait in the car. Don’t get too reacquainted.”

  He smiled and parked up behind a ten-year-old convertible Mini Cooper. He got out and shut the door without saying anything. In truth, he was a little embarrassed. He hadn’t thrown himself into anything before the date with Sarah. And he had felt comfortable kissing her last night. But something did not feel right, and that only came about when he had spent time with Becky Hosking. He had never had relationships with colleagues, but this time he seemed to be able to justify it somehow. He had only known her for a matter of hours, but he felt something he had never felt before. Not even with his wife, the woman he had vowed to be with forever. He thought of spending more time with DS Hosking. The idea appealed to him. And it wasn’t just the fact that it would be driving DCI Trevithick crazy.

  There were an open set of wrought iron gates, painted black with gold paint on the spear-tips. It looked a little too Cheshire for O’Bryan. For the rest of the village too. There was a ‘for rent’ sign attached to the railings by a company called Clive & Gowndry. The gravel on the drive was grey slate chips, both large and thickly applied. The borders were weeded and heavily planted out with flowers and plants and the earth was covered with bark chips. It looked as if a gardener had worked hard on the beds over the summer. O’Bryan stood and looked at the house. It was large and square, and constructed from granite, the cement new and repointed. The roof looked new also and the windows were triple-glazed and from the discreet tubing above, looked to be self-cleaning. Sarah Penhaligan worked part-time shifts at a local pub. There was no way she would afford this, and even if she could, through inheritance or windfall or even hard work, a few hours at minimum wage wasn’t going to make a bit of difference.

  He rang the doorbell and stood back. He could see a figure moving behind the quarter section of smoked glass in the dark oak door. It looked like Sarah, and she seemed to stop and look at the wall before opening the door. O’Bryan realised it had been a mirror. He stood back a step and smiled. “Glad to see you’re…” he paused. She was wearing a figure-hugging leather dress that would have been an effort to get into, and it was so short that it barely covered her knickers. “…okay,” he said.

  She looked visibly shocked when she saw him. She managed to regain some composure, but frowned and looked past him warily. “Ross?” she said. “What are you doing here?”

  O’Bryan recovered quickly, or thought he had. His face still questioned her appearance. “Sorry, I wanted to see if you were alright, after last night.”

  Again she looked past him. “Fine, just a misunderstanding, that’s all.”

  O’Bryan smiled, but his expression dropped almost as quickly. He walked in, barging her out of the way. She over-reacted, feigning an act of losing her balance and looking surprised. He wasn’t having any of it. “Bullshit!” he snapped. “Shut the fucking door and listen to me…”

  She did as he ordered, stood back from the door and smoothed the dress over her hips. It was a challenge to breath and keep her intimate area covered. “I...”

  “Shut up!” O’Bryan glared. “Last night, two men threatened me with a shotgun and tied me up. They beat the living crap out of me, and the last
I saw, you were being manhandled out of the house with the threat of a man taking you for sex, apparently against your will. You don’t get to pick and choose. I want to know who they were, and you have to make a statement. Which you can do tomorrow morning at nine o’clock, to me in person, at Camborne police station.”

  “But…”

  “I said, shut up!” he snapped again. “DCI Trevithick. You know him, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened when the guy took you away?”

  She shrugged. “Nothing.”

  “He said he was going to give you one,” O’Bryan said. “You were kicking and screaming, that would suggest he was going to rape you.”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “So he didn’t rape you or sexually assault you?”

  “No.”

  “What then?”

  “He said he was there to warn you off. That I should go and forget all about it.”

  “And that was that? He let you go?”

  “He did.”

  “Well, thanks for your concern,” he said coldly. “You didn’t think to see if I was okay?”

  “I called the cops!”

  “And said what?”

  “That there’d been a fight.”

  “A fight? It was more than a fight, Sarah. They had a gun, they tied me up…”

  “Look, I called the police, but I don’t want to get involved.”

  “Did you know the men?” She hesitated. O’Bryan watched her closely. “Well, did you?”

  “No.”

  O’Bryan turned and walked out of the hallway and into a spacious lounge. It looked out on the creek, just a mile closer to the sea than the Hemingway House. “This is a million-pound view,” he said. “How are you here?”

  “Thanks!”

  “You’re a barmaid,” he retorted. “You work part-time.”

  “It belongs to a friend,” she conceded quietly, solemnly. “He’s letting me stay while I get straight.”

  “Where are your things?”

  “What?”

  “There’s nothing in here,” O’Bryan walked out into the kitchen. She followed, tottering on her high heels. He looked around the kitchen, opened the fridge. “Nothing. Not even milk. The fridge isn’t even switched on.”

  “Get out!” she snapped venomously. Then added, “How did you know I was here? Who told you?”

  “A colleague.”

  “That bitch Becky Hosking,” she laughed. “I thought so. DS Bloody Hosking.”

  “You’ve got history then?”

  “And then some,” she seethed. “She needs to let it go.”

  “What?”

  “Ask her,” she said. “I’m done talking. I’ll make that statement tomorrow, until then…” She walked back out to the hallway and stood by the door, her hand resting on the door handle. She waited for O’Bryan to catch up. “Goodbye then…”

  He looked at her incredulously. “DCI Trevithick told you not to get involved, not to make a statement, didn’t he? Why?”

  “Ask him yourself. I’m done.”

  “He knows you’re a prostitute?”

  She glared at him, but he could see the sadness in her eyes, and there were tears forming making them glossy and vulnerable. “Just go, please…” she said quietly. “I thought I saw a way out of all this with someone like you. Someone who didn’t know what I have had to do, someone who took me for what they saw and liked me… And now you’re standing there, judging me. Well life isn’t always a bed of roses and you don’t get to know people’s pasts or secrets, or what they’ve had to do.”

  “Sarah…”

  “Just go!” she snapped and turned around, facing the door. She was crying. She cupped her face and the skirt was so short it rose up to reveal a flash of red silk underneath. O’Bryan put a hand on her shoulder and she flinched away. “Stop it, leave me alone,” she said sadly.

  O’Bryan opened the door and stepped out. The door slammed behind him and he felt the wind off it against his back. He stepped down onto the gravel and walked back to the car without looking back. As he reached the car, a man in his fifties slinked around the hedge and railings and walked across the gravel driveway. He was overweight and balding. He fidgeted nervously on the doorstep. He rapped on the door and stood back. O’Bryan watched as the door opened, Sarah out of sight behind it, and the man stepped inside. The door closed and O’Bryan got back into the car.

  “You’re welcome,” DS Hosking said.

  “What for?”

  “You swerved a messy situation with that one. Good job it ended at a Chinese takeaway and a kiss.”

  “She doesn’t like you much,” he commented.

  “She said that? I’m hurt,” she smirked.

  “How do you know each other?”

  “I’m a police officer. She’s a whore. Our paths have crossed.”

  “She said you should just let it go. What’s that about?”

  “No idea. She doesn’t like being nicked, that’s all.”

  “Are you going to nick her now?” O’Bryan asked. “That guy could do with a shake down.”

  “Oh, he’s getting that for sure.”

  “I meant arrested. I’ll bet he’s married with kids. What makes someone risk all of that?”

  “Sex.”

  “Figures,” O’Bryan shrugged. “I hope it’s worth it. Losing a family makes you rethink just about everything in your life.”

  “And that happened to you?”

  O’Bryan started to the car and reversed back out onto the road. He said nothing, but he felt there was much to ask. He just needed to get the questions in the right order.

  12

  “So what are we doing at your house?” DS Hosking laughed. “It’s a bit too soon for me. I just meant we’d have a drink when we’ve finished your investigation, see where it goes.”

  O’Bryan looked at her and smiled. “I want to check something out.”

  “I bet you do.”

  “Come on, you’ll see,” he said. “How are you with boats?”

  “I told you, I don’t know what I’m doing and don’t know which end of the rope to hold.”

  “Well it’s not a thirty-foot power boat, and this isn’t the Pandora Inn,” he said and opened his door.

  DS Hosking followed. They walked around the side of the house and out onto the lawn. The tide was still coming in and three swans glided in with it. The sun was high above them casting a hue of gold across the water. “This is gorgeous,” she said.

  “Pretty idyllic, isn’t it?” He looked out across the water. “I don’t miss London when I stand out here and look at this.”

  “You could put in for a transfer,” she quipped. “Look at it every day.”

  He smiled. “It’s not my house, remember? I got cleaned out during my divorce. Unless I get some compensation for my injury, I’d be in a two-bed new-build semi on an estate someplace, wouldn’t see a view anything like this in the morning…”

  She chuckled. “Well, a view is always free. Just take an interesting route to work. So what boat is it, and what the hell are we doing?”

  O’Bryan stopped and looked at the upturned boat. He wasn’t sure what it was, but he went with a big rowing boat. He pointed at the hull. “That.”

  “That?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve never rowed.”

  “Good. That makes two of us,” he said. “But it can’t be that difficult.”

  “Famous last words…”

  They caught hold of each end of the boat and turned it over. It was heavy and cumbersome, but once it tilted so far, it spun freely and slipped out of their hands, the hull dropping heavily onto the area of chippings that had been laid aside for the boat and the remains of two broken-looking canoes. The quay was a three-foot drop to the shingle and mud beach, but at high tide O’Bryan had noticed it was over two-feet deep with water. They lowered the boat down onto the beach and O’Bryan jumped down, instantly sinking to his ankles
in the mud. He pulled a face and DS Hosking laughed. She kicked off her leather boots and rolled her tight jeans over her calves.

  “That mud stinks now that you’ve broken it up!”

  She was right. O’Bryan screwed his face up at the stench of rotted fish and vegetation and dragged the boat into the water. DS Hosking picked up the oars and handed one to him. O’Bryan got into the boat first, his muddy shoes streaking the fowl-smelling mud over the cream-coloured hull. He positioned himself on the forward bench and steadied the vessel with a hand on both sides. It did nothing to right the tilt of the boat as DS Hosking got in and slipped down onto the rear bench. She fumbled with her oar and the boat drifted out into the river.

  “Here, give me the other oar,” he said.

  He got both into the rowlocks and started to row. It didn’t go well and for the first five minutes the boat went in every direction but where he wanted it to go, and he caught the occasional oar on either the muddy bottom, or just got it wrong and the oar slipped out of the rowlocks and left them spinning in circles.

  “Can I have a go?”

  “You think you can do better?”

  “I think it would be impossible to do any worse…”

  He pulled the oars back in and set about transferring his weight across to the rear seat as she did the same. Unsurprisingly, this was difficult as well and the boat almost capsized when his three and a half stone premium on her weight almost sent him over the side. Now in each other’s seats, DS Hosking set about placing the oars in the rowlocks while O’Bryan clutched onto both sides. To his annoyance, she skulled the boat around and rowed in a fairly straight line towards the far bank.

  “The world and his dog hates a show off,” he said.

  She smiled. The sun lit up her face. He noticed her eyes were as blue as the sky and her hair was darker than pitch. She had a slight tan, which brought out her eyes. She was quite possibly one of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. And she seemed more so the longer he was in her company. “I take it we’re heading for the jetty?”