Hell's Mouth

by BATEMAN, A P

  It’s all in the past, all in your mind…

  He dived off the edge of the jetty and stroked powerfully out into the creek. He breathed to his right, every six strokes, a technique he used for powerful bursts to put on a good speed and distance. He didn’t hesitate, merely kept up the pace. After a dozen or so breaths, he glanced up and realised he was way off course. He had drifted a long way down river and he panicked for a moment as he treaded water and searched for the house. It was a hundred-metres further up-river and he changed course and swam as hard as he could. After several minutes of ploughing onwards, he raised his head to find he had made no progress whatsoever, and he felt a rush of fear within him, his heartbeat beating from both the exertion and panic. He aimed for the bank now and started to breast stroke, as his breathing was off and he was too tired to front-crawl. For the first time since the incident in London, the wounded muscle in both his shoulder and torso gave him pain, akin to sharp bursts like cramp. He made a little progress, but Barlooe was passing by and he was heading down to Point Geddon. At the quay, the creek veered right sharply and it was open water all the way out into the Carrick Roads. Panic was with him now, and he started to snatch his breath. For the first time in his life, he was genuinely fearful he would drown. He took a huge breath, dipped his head and made a last surge for the bank. After perhaps thirty strokes, he raised his head and saw a figure running in pace with him on the footpath. Part of his subconscious mind marvelled on the speed in which he was being pulled out to sea. A more useful part of his mind saw the buoy the person threw and thankfully, realised they had thrown it well down river from him. He breast-stroked hard, watching the buoy bob on the surface. He snatched at it and missed. His heart sunk, but he kicked and stroked hard and caught hold, gripping for dear life. He continued to kick, felt the rope go tight and felt himself stop dead in the current, which now pulled at him harder, putting a great deal of tension on the rope. He prayed they could pull him in, but he aided the effort by clutching the buoy close and using his left hand to stroke and kicked wildly with both legs. He could see the bank getting closer and after a dozen strokes and twenty-feet or so, he felt the bottom with tired feet. He righted himself, and waded against the current, feeling the tautness of the rope anchoring him upright and bringing him steadily in.

  As he reached the bank he collapsed, exhausted. His legs were still in the water, and he felt the current wash over his skin. He struggled upwards and rolled over onto his back, heaving for breath and a warm rush of euphoria enveloping him like a warm blanket. After a full minute, he looked up at the person who had undoubtedly saved him.

  “Jesus, Ross,” Sarah Penhaligan said. “You were doing well up until you hit the middle of the creek. But that’s where the river is running permanently, whether the tide’s coming in, dropping or slack.” She smiled, a thick lock of red hair slipped down across her face and she swiped it aside and tucked it behind her ear. “You’re like most emmets,” she said. “You could swim all day in a pool, but you don’t know shit about the tides and real swimming…”

  19

  O’Bryan wasn’t quite walking wounded, but he was able to lean on Sarah as she walked with him along the riverbank, without feeling that he was acting unduly dramatic. She was warm and he could feel the heat coming off her. He was shivering uncontrollably by the time they reached the garden and walked through the welcoming doors of the house.

  Sarah closed the glass doors and drew the curtains. She took a throw off the leather sofa and wrapped it around him. “Hot shower for you,” she said. “You’re bordering on hypothermic.”

  He would have agreed, had his teeth not been chattering so much, she put an arm around him and guided him up the stairs and into the bathroom. The shower was a double cubicle and had three jets, one large ceiling rose and two more from the sides. The water was heated by a gas combi-boiler, and the heat was instant. O’Bryan stepped in and the water burned and stung like pins and needles. Sarah placed a towel on the heated towel rail.

  “Thank you,” he stammered slightly. He couldn’t imagine himself getting out of the water once he had drifted past Point Geddon. He would surely have drowned. He looked at her sheepishly. “I think you just saved my life,” he said meekly.

  She smiled, leaned into the shower and kissed him on the cheek, her hair getting wet with spray. He knew what she had done earlier that day, what she was, but there was an innocence in her eyes, and an infectiousness to her manner that made him look past it all. “You’re welcome,” she said. “Perhaps you can save mine.” She didn’t smile, or add someday to the sentence as banter. She said it seriously, and he looked back at her with concern.

  “Sarah…”

  She cut him off before he could continue. “Coffee!” she said. “I’ll get some on. You need to warm from the inside too.” She hovered at the door. “I can get another Chinese delivery, if you want to try again. We’ve got the life-threatening situation out of the way first tonight. What can go wrong?” She didn’t give him the chance to answer and closed the door after her.

  O’Bryan felt his core warming. The water had been tolerable, but he knew it was the shock and exertion that had knocked it out of him. The hot coffee would help, and he was ravenous now that Sarah had mentioned food. He could almost taste and smell the aroma of a Chinese takeaway.

  He switched off the cascades of hot water and stepped carefully out onto the tiled floor. The window and mirrors had steamed like a sauna and he could barely see across the room to the door. He rubbed the condensation away from the cabinet mirror and looked at himself. He was convinced he was going to die. He had felt the same way twice before and for some reason staring at himself in the mirror was a comfort. As if it were a chance to both condemn and praise himself, celebrate his evasion of the alternative to what he was seeing now. His reflection was confirmation of his survival.

  O’Bryan dressed in the master bedroom. Jeans and a sweatshirt. He was warmed through, and now he just wanted to slouch. He couldn’t remember feeling so exhausted. He thought about Sarah and how he had seen her earlier today. Dressed for a performance. Now she was the girl next door, in jeans and a tight-fitting T-shirt, a cardigan over her shoulders. She had run quickly down the quay and the footpath along the riverbank. He hadn’t noticed her footwear, but suspected she wore trainers. So different from when he had seen her in the leather dress that had barely covered her dignity and the ridiculous heels which had brought her up to his own height. But it had all seemed part of an act. She hadn’t been comfortable, and O’Bryan sensed that this was the real Sarah Penhaligan and he wanted to know more about her and the choices she had made in life.

  As he walked down the staircase he could hear Sarah in the kitchen. She was preparing something, the sound of the microwave and the fan oven, of the cutlery drawer opening. O’Bryan knew he did not have any food in the house and thought that mentioning another takeaway was more of a joke than a possibility. Perhaps she had brought some food with her, or had stopped by after shopping for some and decided to share. He was famished after the swim, needed to eat and wasn’t about to put up an argument.

  “Sorry to have interrupted, but I think I might have saved you again,” DS Hosking said, reaching two plates out of the cupboard.

  O’Bryan recoiled when he saw her, then gradually regained some composure. “Where’s Sarah?” he managed to say, almost casually.

  “I sent her packing,” she said. “Mind you, perhaps I was too late?” She laughed as she opened a microwave ready meal and started to spoon rice and chicken korma onto both of the plates. “I mean, she had wet hair, and you’ve just got out of the shower. Mate’s rates? Or did she charge full whack? What is that by the way? Must be at least thirty-quid…”

  O’Bryan glared. “It wasn’t like that,” he protested. He watched her spoon something red on the plate, tikka he thought. It smelled good. “She saved me, actually.”

  “From what, a night of abstinence?”

  “From drowning.”
r />   “Seriously? I thought you were a good swimmer, you know, from what they said in the papers…” she trailed off.

  O’Bryan walked over and picked up some naan bread. It was steaming. He dipped it in the red sauce and took a bite. “I swam over and took a look at the ground on Malforth Estate.”

  “What? Ross, they shot at us last time!”

  “I swam over and it was okay. On the way back I hit a bad current and missed the bank. Actually, I missed Barlooe completely and nearly missed Point Geddon. If Sarah hadn’t thrown me a line, I think I would have gone right on past The Pandora and out to sea…”

  “Jesus…” she said, but wasn’t compelled enough to stop dishing up the meal.

  “What did you say to her?” he asked. He owed Sarah more than the short shrift from a colleague he had only known for twenty-four hours.

  “I just told her to go.” She shrugged. “Look, Ross, I don’t know what you’ve got going on with her. But I’m surprised you’d have anything to do with her after finding out what she is today. But if you don’t mind that, then I’ll butt out. We’ll forget all about our drink or whatever after this, if you don’t mind… But she’s bad news. She falls in and out of love with the wrong people, she’s a train wreck socially, financially, in every conceivable area.”

  O’Bryan nodded. “She saved me tonight. And she said I might be able to save her. I’ve seen a lot of women do what she does, but I have never met one who should do it less. There’s something not right about why she does it. But regardless of that, she genuinely saved my life tonight. I owe her, and that’s reason enough for you to butt out, as you say.”

  “Fine. Fill your boots.” She snatched up her handbag and made for the door. O’Bryan had seen this before. He’d seen it in every relationship he’d ever had. Maybe it was him. She would stop and have the last word before she left. And the last word was always the most cutting. “I just hope you have enough money to pay for what I would have given for free…” She was genuinely tearful as she wrenched open the door and slammed it behind her.

  O’Bryan picked up a plate and a fork and started to eat. DS Becky Hosking’s words were nothing to him. He had liked her, fallen a little bit for her in a day, but she had shown him something more to her character. He didn’t believe that her bad feeling towards Sarah Penhaligan was down to the fact the woman had sold sex. There had to be more. O’Bryan had fallen out of his little crush in less time than it took to dish up a chicken korma. But what worried him most was that she had not asked anything about what he had done, or what he had discovered on the Malforth Estate. She had concentrated only on Sarah. There was so much more to her dislike of her, but right now, he was too tired and hungry to think.

  20

  The office was windowless and oppressive. There was a computer and monitor rigged up with access to the mainframe, server and national police database. He had a telephone and a printer. Someone had even left a few pens, pencils and a notepad on the desk.

  “We’ve got our exhumation,” DS Hosking said, hovering in the doorway, her body wrapped around the doorframe. She did not show any animosity from last night. No emotion whatsoever.

  “You surprise me,” said O’Bryan coolly. “That was pretty straightforward.”

  “Well, you said to play the race card. Nobody likes a scandal.”

  “Indeed.”

  “If the bodies are still there, then we have to call for the full exhumation. This will be a fact-finding-operation, if you will.”

  “Well, can you get whoever does the digging thing sorted for asap? I want to be on this today.”

  “A team of forensics officers, I suppose. I’ll try them first. I’ve never been involved with anything like this.”

  “Well start now.”

  “I’ll call Swanvale as well, tell them to expect us today.”

  He nodded. “Good. Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Sure, Superintendent, why do you ask?”

  O’Bryan thought for a moment, decided to leave it at that. “As you were, DS Hosking. Can you get a minion to make me a coffee please?”

  She nodded and left. He looked at the four walls and stood up decisively. He was isolated here, needed to see what was going on. The CID suite was three doors down and fifty-feet away. DCI Trevithick was in his office. DS Hosking was talking at the whiteboard with the overweight detective, DC Pengelly. Two younger detectives were looking at a screen, one bent over the desk pointing at the screen, the other sat comfortably back in his chair. They looked up but said nothing as O’Bryan walked in. They would have heard about yesterday. Half of the police in Cornwall would have heard about yesterday.

  DCI Trevithick walked out from his office with DS Harris. “Good morning, Acting Superintendent,” he said churlishly. “How would you like to tie up our criminal investigation department today? Another leisurely lunch? Some more swimming? I imagine just some crazy golf, a pasty and an ice cream and you will have ticked off your holiday list.” He smiled, held up a hand. “Just a joke. Seriously, how can my CID team be of assistance?”

  O’Bryan returned his smile, although his eyes were humourless. “Thank you DCI Trevithick. Your sarcasm is expected, although thoroughly unappreciated. But since you feel confident enough to attempt to humiliate me in front of your team, I will return the gesture. You can start by telling everybody here why you decided not to take further action when the Elmaleh family’s grave was desecrated?”

  For a moment O’Bryan thought the DCI was going to swing at him. Part of him hoped he would. He was ready and more than able. But the man looked crestfallen instead.

  Trevithick shrugged, looked at DS Harris. “You went out to that shout, fill the Acting Superintendent in, will you?”

  “No, I asked you. I was addressing you. I have seen DS Harris’ report. It goes on to say that it looked like the grave had been dug-up. That the vandalism was in fact superficial. Damage to a vase and some edging stones, but the headstone was intact. It was flagged as no further action. By you.” O’Bryan stared at Trevithick. “Care to explain?” DCI Trevithick looked flustered, but O’Bryan didn’t give him the opportunity to respond. “While we’re at it, and we broached this subject yesterday in case you have already forgotten, why were the sea conditions not taken into account? Flat and calm, according to the Harbourmaster’s report. Not the sort of conditions to sink an inflatable vessel which was equipped with ten separate air chambers. Then there’s the matters which struck me as obvious. No engine, no equipment found, not even an oar. The tide brings in all five bodies, the remains of the boat, but no oars. Interesting. Or what we detectives would call suspicious. But we have the biggest anomaly of all, in that the boat was purchased just three miles from this station.”

  “So you’re saying their deaths were in fact murder?” Trevithick scoffed. “Those illegal immigrants…”

  “Asylum seekers!” O’Bryan snapped. “Two doctors, both successful professionals, both trained in Europe, one of them educated at Oxford, three innocent children. Their deaths are unexplained at best. They were not commodities, unfortunate statistics. They were killed in this country, whether or not it was an accident or misadventure, there were enough anomalies to have investigated further.” He looked at the rest of the team. “Who else here thought that the incident required further action?”

  The detectives looked blankly at each other. There were awkward expressions all round, until DC Pengelly slowly raised his hand. “Sir, I pointed out that there were no oars, engine or fuel tanks,” he said, avoiding the DCI’s glare. “I just thought, well, you know? We’re not near Dover, they couldn’t have set out from France without an engine…”

  “Good,” O’Bryan said. “And why was this not added to the report?”

  The officer was almost shaking, his face flushed scarlet. He was sweating profusely. O’Bryan knew the man’s heart would be pumping wildly. “Sir, the DCI discounted it.”

  O’Bryan nodded, looked back at the officers in turn. Trevithick had turn
ed pale. He noted that DS Hosking was supressing a smile. “Now, the man who disturbed the people digging the Elmaleh family’s grave, did it not seem a coincidence that he died later that day?”

  There were looks all round, a few vacant expressions. DS Hosking half raised a hand, but lowered it sheepishly. “It does, on reflection. But the death was deemed an accident and it wouldn’t have come across CID’s desk.”

  “But it did,” O’Bryan corrected her.

  She frowned. “But…”

  “Sir,” one of the men O’Bryan had not seen before today held a hand up, just halfway then dropped it back to his side. He avoided looking at Trevithick. “DC Adams, sir. I mentioned that it was a coincidence that he died the day he witnessed the event at Swanvale. But I knew John Turner. I grew up as a harbour rat, always fishing and swimming, diving off the harbour wall. I lived my summers at Flushing. Turner was fishing all that time. I saw him swim with his nieces and nephews a few times, taught them where to jump off the quay. He wasn’t a great swimmer technically, but he was better than most fishermen.”

  “It was flagged up. And yes, DC Adams queried events, but it was overruled and no further action was taken.” O’Bryan looked at DCI Trevithick. “Why was that?”