Hell's Mouth

by BATEMAN, A P

  The banging hadn’t stopped. He had double-locked and bolted every door, feeling vulnerable that Pete Mitchell was still at large. He had uploaded the recordings to DS Harris and to Middlemoor, the headquarters of the Devon and Cornwall police in Exeter. He had also sent the file to the internal server at his office at Scotland Yard. He had sent the photographs of the family to each address as well. This family, whoever they were, were now in the system and accounted for. He could do no more for them.

  He swung his legs off the sofa and stood up unsteadily. He had slept in his clothes. Now the shirt and trousers looked creased and twisted. He straightened them out the best he could and headed towards the front door. The banging was both loud and impatient. He pulled back the bolt and turned the key. He opened the door inwards and blinked at the light.

  “Took your time,” DCI Trevithick said curtly.

  O’Bryan looked at him, but said nothing. He looked at DS Hosking standing beside him. His mouth felt like wool. He had no saliva and he knew he looked a state. “What’s wrong?”

  “Where were you between ten o’clock last-night and five this morning?” Trevithick asked accusingly.

  “Why?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “No.”

  “Then stick your question.”

  “You’re not under arrest, yet,” Trevithick paused. “But that can soon change.”

  “Do I need a lawyer?” he asked, then looked at DS Hosking and said, “Can you recommend one?”

  She frowned, shook her head. “It would be easier if you could just answer the question.”

  “No doubt. Is this about Mitchell? Have you found him?”

  “We’ve found a body,” Trevithick said. “Get yourself tidied up and come with us. I can make it official, if you’d prefer. Even get the cuffs out.”

  O’Bryan hesitated, but he decided not to taunt the man any longer. He wanted answers to his questions too, and he wasn’t getting them on the doorstep trading insults.

  They gave him five-minutes to wash and change. He took closer to fifteen. When he came back downstairs, DS Hosking was in the kitchen and had made coffee. She had tidied up and got rid of the empty bottles too. She looked at him knowingly. He took the coffee and thanked her. He was past embarrassed. Embarrassed was sixty-one days ago when he had woken up in his own piss and vomit. He hadn’t known where he was. Enough had been enough and he had vowed to stay dry. Disappointment was today. But disappointment could be beaten. It was only going to take sixty-one days.

  “Trevithick is waiting in the car. I thought you might need this first.”

  “Thanks,” he said and took hold of the cup. It had cooled a little in the five-minutes since she had made it and he took a welcome sip.

  “So where were you?”

  “Looking for Sarah,” he paused. “Searching for answers in a bottle…”

  “Did you find either?”

  “No.”

  She nodded. “Any kind of timescale?”

  “I searched for Sarah at the house. Then I came back here. I went to the new nursing home where her mother checked in as a resident yesterday. She wasn’t there either. I don’t know her address, gave up and got back here just after mid-night.”

  “No alibi?”

  “There never is, is there?” he smiled knowingly. “What is happening at Malforth Manor? Late night, I take it.”

  “There’s a fire-rescue unit working at the cave. We’ve drafted in a mountain and cave rescue unit from Wales, but they only got on the scene around four this morning.”

  “You’re wasting your time,” he said coldly. “Gowndry was under the rock. There were tonnes of it. It’s a body-recovery operation. Nothing more.”

  “Well what should we do? Say a few prayers and lay a wreath? We still retrieve bodies and have a funeral, even in darkest Cornwall,” she said, somewhat mockingly. “And while there’s a body unaccounted for, we treat it as a rescue until we know otherwise.”

  O’Bryan shrugged. “Well in that case, tell them to talk to Lucinda Ogilvy and find out where the entrance to the cave is through the house. It was bricked-up, but they should be three-hundred metres closer if they start at the other end.”

  She nodded, took out her phone and started to text. “I’m passing that on to the lead officer,” she said. “Could have done with that information last night.”

  “Well, nobody thought to question me.” He drank down half the cup then put it down decisively and nodded at her. “Let’s go then.”

  They walked out to the car, where Trevithick was waiting. He was smoking a cigarette and looked impatient. He flicked the stub into the flowerbed and opened the driver’s door. “Get in,” he said.

  “No, I’ll follow you in mine.”

  “Are you not still over the limit?” he asked callously. “You looked to have had a skin full last night.”

  “You got a breathalyser?”

  “I can send for one.”

  “I thought you were in a rush?”

  He seemed to consider this for a moment, then said, “Alright, so be it. There’ll be an officer at the crime scene with one, I’m sure.”

  “Okay, let’s go then,” O’Bryan said and unlocked his car. He was feeling self-destructive. One day it would get the better of him. That’s what his shrink had kept telling him. he had fired him, was yet to get a second opinion. He got in, started up and waited for Trevithick and Hosking to get into their car.

  The sky started to grey and by the time they drove out of Barlooe and through Point Geddon, the clouds were almost black. The rain started soon after and came down in sheets. O’Bryan had the wipers working at maximum but it wasn’t nearly enough. He slowed down, reacting to Trevithick’s change of pace, and he dropped back a little more than he usually would. The edges of the road ran like filthy muddy rivers, and the surface water was an inch deep. As they drove through a village called Carnon Downs the covers had blown off storm drains and geysers of brown water sprang at least two-feet into the air.

  Trevithick drove a complicated route of narrow backroads and the roads dipped down through two separate valleys. O’Bryan followed carefully, and realised from the map on the satnav, and the signs on the road, that they were going to cross the river by ferry and head onto The Roseland Peninsular.

  The rain ceased as abruptly as it had started. The clouds remained as grey and heavy and as threatening as they had been before the rainfall, and the landscape fell into a monochrome print. Although the trees were still full with leaves, it looked like a stark winter’s day. O’Bryan wondered what a dark February would look like in parts of Cornwall. Part of him hoped he’d never be there to see it.

  O’Bryan pulled his car over into the painted waiting lane and watched the ferry make its way slowly across the river. The ferry was asymmetrical, with a folded squared-off ramp hoisted at either end. Through his steamed-up windscreen he could see the giant chains coming out of the water, threading through great cogs and sprockets. There was an audible clatter, which increased greatly as he lowered his steaming window. The air temperature was still fairly warm for late summer, and combined with the recent deluge of rain, the air steamed and smelled of damp and rotted vegetation. He increased the blowers on the windscreen and the mist cleared quickly. The ferry hit the concrete slipway and the ramp lowered with a mechanical whine. The crew of three worked efficiently and the cars started to disembark and negotiate the steep hill and sharp corner. In a matter of minutes, the queue edged forwards and started up the ramp. O’Bryan was waved forward right up to the bumper of the car in front. He was level with DCI Trevithick and DS Hosking. The ramp was raised and the ferry started on its ten-minute journey across the river. A crew member approached the window with an old fashioned ticket dispenser and a leather satchel and O’Bryan paid for a return ticket. He glanced at Trevithick and the man looked away. O’Bryan opened his door and got out. He had noticed a viewing platform and stairs and thought he’
d take a look at the river. The stairs were steel grate and echoed as he climbed them. He saw on old man leaning over the railings and smiled when he realised it was a dummy dressed like a pirate or smuggler. He walked past and leaned on the railings. He could see the river opening up on one side and two enormous cargo vessels on the other.

  “They keep ships up here that need work.” He turned and saw DS Hosking just a few feet away. “That, or when the crew have difficulties to resolve. A ship stayed here for three months because of some kind of industrial action. Another because the company could not pay the port fees.”

  O’Bryan nodded. “Must be deep.”

  “One of the deepest channels in the world. I think Falmouth is the deepest natural harbour. Or second deepest,” she paused. “Shit, it’s pretty deep, whatever…”

  O’Bryan chuckled. “So that’s the Carrick Roads, out there?” He pointed to the widening river.

  “Yes.”

  “So the Pandora Inn is down that way?”

  She nodded, stepped in closer and leaned against the railing next to him. “It’s down that way, then back up another creek. There’s a quite few creeks on the water.”

  “Trevithick still doesn’t like me much, does he,” he stated flatly. “He thinks I’ve killed Pete Mitchell.”

  “No,” she paused. “He doesn’t like you, no. But he doesn’t think you killed Mitchell.”

  O’Bryan relaxed a little. He looked up and saw how close they were to the slipway. The water looked black and unimaginably deep, the sky was still as foreboding though and threatened to empty itself imminently. He realised they were almost across the river and said, “We’d better be getting back,” he said.

  The ramp scraped the concrete slipway and the gates opened. The cars had all long since started their engines and when the crew member started to wave the lanes of vehicles off it was like the start of a race. O’Bryan took his cue and left the ferry. Trevithick was now behind him and he drove a way up the steep road, then pulled in and waited for him to pass. Once he had, O’Bryan tucked in behind and followed him out of the valley. The road was fast, but most Cornish roads seemed to be. The traffic kept to ten miles an hour slower than a three lane motorway, but on a road with only a car and a half’s width at most times. Pull ins had been cut into the hedges every fifty or sixty metres, so Cornish drivers would no doubt be adept at reversing as well as Le Mans racing.

  They followed the road to Gerrans and Portscatho, but turned off shortly before. The road became even narrower and before long O’Bryan caught a glimpse of the sea. It was difficult to tell the blackness of the sea from the sky. The road dropped downhill and swept to the right. There was a slipway for launching small boats on the left and a sandy carpark on the right. Two police cars were parked as a barrier with one police officer sitting in one of the vehicles talking on the radio and three police officers milling around and chatting. They seemed to jump to it when they saw DCI Trevithick, but it was an isolated posting on a quiet morning. There was only so much busy that could be done. Before the two cars parked, they had reverted to chatting amongst themselves.

  Large boulders lay scattered on the beach and the first third of the beach was made up almost entirely from pebbles and rocks, then gradually it turned to sand all the way down to the low-tide mark.

  O’Bryan parked alongside Trevithick and got out of the Alfa Romeo. He looked at DS Hosking as she got out. She shivered, but it wasn’t cold. She saw him looking and said, “I don’t like this place much,” she paused. “There were three fishermen gunned down here one night, a while ago. A smuggling venture gone wrong.”

  “Or gone right,” O’Bryan said. “Depending on your point of view. It obviously worked out for someone.”

  “You’ve got all the smart answers, haven’t you,” Trevithick sneered. He pulled on an anorak over his suit. It wasn’t raining, but it was merely a matter of time. “Come on.” He strode out across the sandy carpark and headed for the police officers stationed on the road.

  O’Bryan was surprised at the speed at which the detective walked. DS Hosking started to jog alongside. “No, he definitely still doesn’t like you,” she whispered.

  Trevithick spoke to the uniformed officers briefly, nodded, then looked back at them as they approached. “SOCO are on the way to do a preliminary. They’ll be here before mid-tide,” he paused. “Before it’s a problem, at least. This way,” he said curtly.

  O’Bryan looked out to sea. There was a thin sliver of grey between the blackness of the sky and the blackness mirrored by the Atlantic. White horses tossed all the way to the horizon. There were only three fishing vessels several miles out. Nobody went to sea on days like these unless their livelihoods depended on it. The beach was deserted. There was no real colour to it, merely the complete spectrum of grey in this monochrome scene. The rain started up again, heavy but by no means like the earlier deluge.

  O’Bryan saw the pile of red in the middle of the beach. The colour emphasised by both the darkness of the sky and the sea and the emptiness of the waterlogged beach. His mind took a moment to take it in, then the realisation dawned. He jumped down off the ledge and onto the pebbles. Running on them was difficult, but it became easier as the terrain went through to shale and then wet sand. His heart raced, but only from knowing what he would find, and not from uncertainty or hope. The red gave way to pale skin tones and the long locks of amber hair, wet and matted, draped over her shoulders and the wet sand.

  He slowed, walked the last few paces. Sarah stared blankly at him. Her eyes, once glossy and alert, looked dull and indifferent. Her skin had always been pale, but had now whitened and shone with a sheen of seawater. Her red dress was soaked, becoming almost see through, but even from where he stood, O’Bryan could see she wore no underwear underneath. He had snatched glimpses of a red bra under her dress last night.

  He looked at both Hosking and Trevithick as they approached. “Has anybody disturbed the body?”

  “It’s been in the sea,” Trevithick said. “There won’t be any DNA.”

  “She, not it,” O’Bryan corrected him.

  “There could still be DNA internally,” DS Hosking commented. “If anybody… interfered with her.”

  O’Bryan glanced down at Sarah’s body, then looked back at DCI Trevithick. “I thought you wanted to speak to me regarding Pete Mitchell…”

  Trevithick shrugged. “Don’t know where you got that idea.”

  “So where is Pete Mitchell?”

  “No idea,” Trevithick paused. “But it looks like he left a little parting gift for you. Turn her over…”

  “Why?” O’Bryan asked.

  Trevithick stared at him, nodded towards the body. “Just do it.”

  “I’m not falling for it,” O’Bryan said coldly. “I’m not touching a body after you asked me for an alibi for last night…”

  “You’re not under suspicion,” DS Hosking interjected.

  “So why the hell bring me out here? You inferred the body would be Mitchell’s. You asked me for an alibi. What sort of crap are you peddling here?”

  “Fine! I’ll do it!” Trevithick bent down and grabbed hold of a handful of her red hair and pulled. He put his toe under her shoulder to lever her up.

  O’Bryan kicked Trevithick in his buttocks, as much as a shove as a kick, and the man went sprawling into the wet sand. “Show some fucking respect!” he snapped. He knelt down in the sand and carefully eased his left hand under her waist and his right hand under her shoulder. She was ice cold, wet and sandy. Rigor mortis was starting to set in. There was a finality to it, more so than just seeing her body and knowing she was dead. It was a macabre confirmation. He eased her over into the recovery position, her head did not flop back when he let her go, she was stiffening quickly. He stood back and stared at her bare back. He took in the tiny dolphin tattoo he had seen, found somewhat erotic, when she had turned up with the takeaway.

  “You see?” Trevithick said from behind him. He brushed the sand off hi
s clothes and stood back. He didn’t look happy, but he didn’t square up to O’Bryan either. He seemed to take the fall, but he seemed smug too, like he was looking forward to something else to come. “You see what coming down here and poking about has done, where it has got you?”

  The bleeding had long-since stopped and the sea had washed any blood away. The knife wounds were deep, cut at least an inch into her pallor flesh, the red of the muscle exposed and looking like veal steaks. O’Bryan had no trouble reading the message. He felt bile rise in his throat as he read.

  O’Bryan - she’s all yours now.

  “So, why did you bring me out here?” O’Bryan asked quietly, staring at the words etched deep into her body. “You could have told me this back at the house.”

  Trevithick sneered at him. “You come down here, telling us what to do, with no authority and a letter you forged, just to give you credibility. Some hot-shit anti-terrorism officer with a medal you didn’t deserve. Everybody knows you drowned that terrorist, even if it couldn’t be proved…” he paused, his sneer turning to a look of pure loathing. “You treat me like some fucking security guard, not a DCI with twenty-years on the job. Well, here it is. This is what happened because you stirred up a load of shit and…”