‘Oi’ve got something for you.’ She handed him a magazine. ‘Recipes made with honey.’
‘I’m impressed,’ he lied, browsing through the glossy pages. ‘Chicken with honey glaze; honey strudel, honey banoffee pie. Oh, look here, it gives all the health cures from honey. Author is Janice Trembath.’
Thinking back to the last time he had banoffee pie, it was about 20 years earlier when Piran had hosted a formal dinner in their rooms on the Exeter University campus. He could still remember how uncomfortable he felt sitting with Piran’s yuppie friends from the law department, most of whom rented houses in the nearby Cowley Bridge.
‘What are you thinking about?’
‘Oh, nothing much, just thinking about when I last ate banoffee pie, it was at university.’
‘Did you study bees at university?’
‘No philosophy.’
‘What bejesus is philopofy?’
Guthrie liked her strong Southern Irish accent, it was quirky, like her.
‘Philosophy is really about knowledge. For example, the obvious one is the table. How do you know this table really exists?’
‘Of course oi know it exists. We’ve just been eating our dinner off it.’
‘Yes, but it’s not quite as simple in philosophy.’
‘What’s the point to it?’ She appeared totally bewildered as to why anyone would study the subject. ‘If you already knew it was a table before you went to university, what was the point of going to university if you didn’t learn anything that you didn’t already know before you went?’
‘Love your dimples,’ he digressed.
‘Same as yours,’ there was a hint of playful sarcasm in her voice.
‘If we had kids, what’s the chance they’d have dimples?’
‘What’s the chance they’d also have green eyes?’ she winked. ‘What’s your star sign?’
‘Capricorn.’
‘Oh, ruled by Saturn.’
‘Actually, I’m not really into all this.’
‘Doesn’t matter, it’s still into you. Martin Luther King was a Capricorn. And so are Rod Stewart and David Bowie. You’re a sea goat.’
‘Thanks. So what is your star sign?’ he humoured her.
‘Born 25th June, Cancer, ruled by the moon.’
‘Moon goddess or crab? So what can you tell about me?’
‘Capricorn is the tenth sign of the zodiac so you’re very ambitious. You’re also a loner and have knee problems.’
‘Well, I do have knee problems so that’s right, had to have a knee op a couple of years ago. Is that all?’
‘No, there is more.’ She raised her fine arched brows. ‘Capricorn is an earth sign and one of the four cardinal signs.’
‘Not the cardinal sins, ha-ha. So are we compatible?’
Katie laughed, ‘yes.’
‘Well, that’s a relief.’
‘Mind if I smoke?’
‘Course not, have one of mine.’ He pulled out a packet from his pocket. As he lit her cigarette their eyes accidentally connected - for a second too long, and he knew that he wanted her.
‘Oi could photocopy the governor’s notes about the bees if you’d like.’
‘That’s very gracious of you. Why would you do so much for me?’
‘Cos oi hate him, what better reason would oi have?’
‘Bang goes my theory that you might have liked me just a little,’ he grinned.
Katie also laughed, her dimples erupting like crevices of sunshine. ‘Oi may do.’
Leaning across the table he kissed her full on. She did not pull away.
‘Shall I pick you up after work, I could take you back to mine?’
‘And have your wicked way?’ she smiled. ‘Oi am a good Cat’olic girl.’
‘And I’m a Catholic boy, that’s a match,’ he teased.
‘Not unless you put a ring on my finger, wedding ring that is,’ she laughed. ‘Oi know what you handsome men are like, wanting your wicked way with any girl who crosses your path.’
After dropping Katie back at Tehidy, he rode on to the nearby bay of Portreath.
A handful of bronzed teens with honed bodies rode the waves, their hair bleached blonde by the sun. The surfing area was restricted due to Gulls Rock, a huge black boulder that sat in the water like an obstinate sea monster. The harbour was on the other side of the bay, and cut off from the beach. It was known as the inner harbour, with houses on either side.
After a quick pint in The Waterfront Inn, he headed into the beach shop to buy cigarettes, taking the opportunity to check out the tabloids on display. It was just the usual rant about the closure of South Crofty mine and the sewage problem at Portreath.
Plastic buckets and spades hung from the ceiling, in bright red, yellow and blue. Beach balls, swimming accessories and cheap toys and gifts filled the shelves.
A customer entered the shop and asked for an evening paper. The man was wearing RAF uniform.
Guthrie slyly glanced over. He was fairly good looking, apart from the deep scar on the side of his jaw.
‘Good afternoon,’ the proprietor smiled. ‘Will the girls be back for the summer holidays?’
‘Perhaps, we’ll have to see. Probably want to go to Spain.’
‘To visit granny and granddad, I presume. I won’t recognise your parents when they come home, probably be as brown as ni…’ he stopped himself just in time.
Keeping his head down until the officer had left, Guthrie casually sauntered over to the till.
‘Don’t those RAF boys look smart?’
‘You mean Wing Commander Paul Trembath? Yes, he’s done pretty well for himself.’
‘Oh, isn’t his father the bee farmer?’
‘Yes, that’s right. I’m not so keen on honey, prefer jam myself. Mind you, the wife likes it,’ the man confessed.
‘They say honey is good for you. It’s natural goodness.’
‘To my mind, it’s jam that is natural, it’s made from fruit. But honey, well, that comes from the honeybees producing nectar by regurgitation. Puts me right off, to think it’s the vomit of an insect.’
‘Ha-ha, I’ve never really thought about it like that. So what’s with the sewage problem?’ He glanced down at the newspaper headlines.
‘Had it for years,’ the man lowered his voice. ‘Between you and me, it stinks here. God knows what the kids are swimming in.’
‘Oh goodness, I never knew that.’
The man raised his brows. ‘I don’t let my kids go in. I take them to Perranporth or Newquay. But then, I suppose, it’s not as bad as what happened in Camelford.’
Guthrie looked bemused.
‘It’s known as the Camelford water pollution scandal. Camelford is in North Cornwall, around the Tintagel area, you know, King Arthur country?’
‘Yes, the knights of the round table.’
‘Well, it was the summer of ’88. Someone accidentally contaminated the drinking water with aluminium sulphate.’ The man shook his head. ‘It was a dreadful time. A lot of people got sick, and no one knows the long term effects.’
‘Perhaps it wasn’t a mistake.’
‘Well, you’re not the first to say that and I expect you won’t be the last,’ the shopkeeper said, restacking the newspapers. ‘Many of the parents of children born with deformities blamed the water.’
More customers entered the shop interrupting the conversation, much to Guthrie’s disappointment. He paid for the newspaper and was heading out the door when the man called after him.
‘Some of the Camelford folk got that Alzheimers thing that old people get, and they are only in their thirties.’
‘Anyone died?’
‘Only 20 so far, - that we know of.’
CHAPTER TEN
‘Hello, after ammo?’ the proprietor of the St. Austell gun shop asked, that following afternoon.
Guthrie handed him the list for the ammunition he needed for his Walther PPK pistol, his MP5 9mm flat nose submachine gun and his SA80 rifl
e. Better to be safe than sorry, his mother always said.
‘How were the last bullets?’ The man called out from his stock room.
‘Great.’
‘Did you catch the pheasant shoot in January?’
‘Yes, but missed every time,’ he lied, having never been on a shoot.
‘Ha-ha, there are cards on my counter. Take one. It tells you the dates of the shooting seasons.’
Searching about on the dirty counter he found the cards.
‘It says Partridge Sept 1 to Feb 1. But if you live in Northern Ireland it ends a day sooner,’ he looked to the man bemused. ‘Is there any particular reason for adding or subtracting a day?’
‘Probably another yuppie conspiracy.’
‘It says the grouse season is from August 12th to December 10th. Perhaps the grouse would do better to migrate in July and return in January, ha-ha.’
‘Do you sell your kill, or do you eat them yourself?’
‘Give them away to friends,’ he lied for a second time.
‘Well, if you want to sell any, I can give you the names of a couple of butchers who’ll buy them from you. They are quite partial to rabbits.’
‘Thanks.’
Once outside the shop, he glanced up at the sky. It threatened rain. Smokey grey clouds were overshadowing the fluffy white ones. Perhaps he should turn the Harley around, go home and have an easy day. However, The Eden Project was next on his agenda, and he would have to do this sooner or later.
Riding out of the town, he headed along a country lane, bordered by fields decorated in a patchwork of greens and yellows. In one field cows were grazing; in another they were herding together in a circle, as if undecided on the weather. Knowing his luck it would rain.
Thinking back to what the woman from Strawberry Lane had said about the Arabs, he now wondered if he should have checked them out instead of coming here. Never mind, it would have to wait until sometime in the future, if they were still around.
The woman’s name was Jill, he could tell that she really liked him. Maybe he would be able to use her in the future, to get more information about the hospital and the staff, if needed. But as for Irish Katie, well, she was a stunner, he would definitely be seeing her again.
On arriving at the Eden Project, he was happily surprised to find that building had already started. Of course, there were no huge golf ball shaped biomes, as yet, only the foundations had been laid.
Hiding the Harley between a couple of large skips in a nearby yard, he returned to the barren area to take a better look.
‘Can I be helping you?’ A voice asked in broad Cornish. The man was elderly, wearing a brown overall and cap.
‘Good afternoon. I came to St. Austell to shop and thought I’d take a look. Didn’t realise it was so far out.’
‘Yes, that’s what a lot of people think. Want to have a look around, although there’s nothing much to see?’
‘Please, that’s very kind of you.’
‘I might as well take you around myself. Not much to do until they bring more cement. Don’t know if you know anything about the site.’
Shaking his hand, Guthrie glanced around at the dusty earth.
‘Well, you be standing in china clay country. It’s all down to a man named William Cookworthy who discovered the clay in 1755,’ the old man stepped up to the role of tour guide. ‘And then pits were opened to mine the clay.’
‘I’d always thought clay was the brown squashy stuff you play with at kindergarten.’
‘Ha-ha, no me ‘andsome, not this ‘ere clay.’
‘Anything else of interest in the area?’
‘Well, tourists seem to like Carlyon Bay. And Charlestown is just up the road, it’s famous for its shipwreck.’
‘I suppose they’ll use the bay to transport building materials here or stock?’
‘Couldn’t tell you, but it flows out into the English Channel.’
Guthrie followed the old man, as he limped over the lumps and bumps of broken earth, until he paused to rest by a pile of concrete blocks.
‘When are they going to start building?’
‘Not for about 18 months or more. Got a lot of legal stuff to get through, you know,’ the man panted. ‘Planning permission, architects that sort of thing. They’re going to build kind of domes. Supposed to be like greenhouses, lighter than glass they say. They’ve also put 46,000 poles into store. Can you believe that?’
‘That’s a lot.’
‘They say that if you lay the poles down end to end, they would reach all the way from St. Austell to London. That be two hundred and thirty miles? What a waste of metal.’
‘Does seem a lot.’
‘Foundations ‘ere will contain two thousand four hundred and eighty square miles of concrete.’
‘Never, wow, that’s a lot of concrete.’
‘It’s going be fifteen hectares, can you believe that?’ The man was obviously overwhelmed by it all. ‘Yes. And you’ll never guess where the copper that’s going to cover the roof beams is coming from?’
‘Sorry, can’t guess, Geevor? South Crofty?’ Guthrie suggested, now wondering if the mines were going to be re-opened.
‘Rio Tinto’s getting it from one of their mines abroad somewhere, can ‘ee believe that?’
‘Rio Tinto?’
‘One of the business partners of the Eden Project,’ the man explained. ‘Personally, I blame them for the downfall of South Crofty.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, they were at one time the owners of the mine. They claimed its downfall was because the price of tin had dropped.’ He puckered his face tight, so that it looked even more wrinkled. ‘If they had the money to finance this, then surely they could have done more for the Cornish tin mines.’
‘Oh, I thought it was a Canadian firm who owned the mine,’ Guthrie raised his brows. ‘Actually, thinking about it, I’m sure I read it was once owned by Charter Consolidated.’
‘Yes, they sold out to Rio Tinto. But don’t take my word for it. You ask any Cornish miner what he thinks about the closure of the mines.’
‘Well, I suppose if the tin industry is going downhill, no pun intended, they’d be throwing good money after bad if they kept the mines open.’
‘That’s not the reason. They’re buying copper from abroad, I already told ‘ee about Rio Tinto. Everything comes down to money in the end, boy.’
Guthrie nodded for the sake of politeness.
‘Now they’re interested in mining in Madagascar.’
‘For tin?’
‘For titanium dioxide,’ he raised his thick, white brows. ‘Anyhows, it looks like it’s going to rain. Look at they there clouds.’
Following his eyes upward, he saw a ray of sunshine peeping through the grey sky.
‘There’s going to be plants coming here from all over the world. Well, I suppose it will be good for conservation,’ the man sneered. ‘But I’ll be honest with ‘ee. Yes, this is all very nice, but it won’t bring much work to replace the mines that have closed down.’
‘No, I suppose not. So, where is St. Blazey from here?’
‘St. Blazey only be up the road.’
‘Isn’t Mevagissey somewhere near here?’
‘Yes. I live there.’
‘I’ve heard it’s beautiful. I must visit there some time.’ He offered the man a Marlboro, and then lit up his own. ‘Incidentally, do you know what’s underneath us, is it soil?’
The old man took a long drag on the cigarette before he answered. ‘We be standing on a reclaimed Kaolinite pit – a china clay pit.’
‘Oh, it’s a wonder they want to relinquish it.’
‘Yes, well it be the same with the fishing industry and the tin mines.’
Guthrie didn’t want another lecture about the tragic demise of Cornwall’s tin mines, so hurriedly changed the subject.
‘I heard that there were going to be bees here.’
‘I think they’re being supplied by a bee farm.’ The old
man pulled out a crumpled handkerchief to wipe his runny nose. ‘Take a look over there.’ He pointed towards a fenced off enclosure, that housed a row of wooden sheds and a cement mixer. ‘That’s where I think the beehives are going. But they don’t tell me anything. I’m only the skivvy here.’
‘Arthur!’ a voice yelled across.
‘That’s my supervisor. I best be going, it’s nearly half past five. He gives me a lift home, you see. Nice meeting you.’
‘Yeah, likewise, thanks for the tour.’
Guthrie watched patiently as Arthur limped back over the uneven terrain, climbed into the car and drove off.
Taking the opportunity to look into the enclosure, he headed towards the fence.
There were around half a dozen sheds in the area. Only one of them was open. Guthrie peered inside.
A pile of golf clubs were stacked up against the grimy wall, amongst some broken boxes and old newspapers. A few of the clubs had fallen out of the shed onto the soil.
There was only one shed that was padlocked. It took him just seconds to pick the lock and open the door.
This shed was different from the previous one. Spotlessly clean, the walls covered with wooden shelving and tube lights. Some of the shelves were filled with transparent boxes. Inside the boxes were artificial beehives.
Photographing them from different angles, he then grabbed one of the boxes containing a hive, and stuffed it into his satchel. After all, it was premature for an apiarist to be storing equipment when the project was not yet built.
Just about to head off, a hand suddenly came crashing down on his shoulder. It was biker in black leathers. He looked to be a serious body builder by the size of his biceps, and he was well over 6’. One arm bore a large tattoo of a skull. The other was stamped with the name Lucifer.
‘I was just passing. Thought I’d take a look to see how this was all shaping up.’
‘You weren’t just casually passing. I saw you picking the fucking lock!’ the man growled. ‘I saw you buying ammo in the gun shop.’
Guthrie had been negligent.
Lucifer just glared.
‘The bullets are for the gun club I belong to. What’s the problem?’
Catch The Stinger, Before It Stings You! Page 7