by Tom Bale
Or maybe there weren’t any vandals. Joe passed a couple of empty houses, their doors and windows boarded over, but even these had no graffiti, no sign of fires or attempts at forced entry. Trelennan might have its own slice of poverty to accompany the affluence, but its inhabitants seemed remarkably well behaved.
And no burglar alarms here, he noted. No sign of the LRS logo at all.
Beyond the estate, the town’s boundary resumed along the top of the hill. Here, on the south-eastern corner, the incline was much steeper than on the western side. This was the wooded area that Joe had seen from the seafront: the Alpine district, with a scattering of large, secluded homes and one or two exclusive hotels dotted among the trees.
Joe smiled ruefully. He was firmly back in LRS territory. Their alarm boxes were everywhere; then one of their vans came drifting along a parallel street, slowing at the junction while the driver checked him out. Not Reece or his buddy, but it could have been the man he’d seen last night.
He carried on walking. The road was arranged in a series of switchbacks, with stone retaining walls to hold back the banks of bracken and gorse. Signs urged drivers to remain in a low gear. There was no pavement for pedestrians, and Joe had to press himself against the wall every time a car came past.
The sound of rushing water alerted him to a fast-moving stream. Joe peered over the wall and watched the clear, bubbling water flowing beneath the road. After that, he was sure he could hear its progress as a distant, almost subliminal noise as he descended into the town.
As he emerged from the tree cover, the blustery wind hit him full in the face: an effect that the locals probably described as ‘bracing’. But the clouds were slowly breaking up, allowing a hint of sunshine to peek through, and Joe felt his mood lifting.
At the top of the High Street he paused by a large office building with a religious bookshop on the ground floor. The front of the block was shielded by a cloister. Joe stepped behind one of the brick columns for shelter and privacy, made sure his phone had a signal, then checked the time: just after eleven o’clock.
Perfect.
It was Joe’s new phone, so the number wouldn’t be familiar, but he was calling a mobile that Maz reserved only for him. Just as he’d expected, his friend was eating when he answered.
‘Anything nice?’
‘Cream doughnut,’ Maz said, all but purring.
‘Lovely. I wouldn’t normally interrupt your elevenses, except that I ran into a face from the past.’
‘You’re kidding.’ There was a sudden bout of coughing.
‘Jesus, Maz. Don’t choke on your doughnut.’
‘Too late.’ More coughing. ‘What happened?’
Joe gave him a brief update: Danny Morton, the chase through Bristol and Joe’s escape. Nothing about where he’d gone afterwards.
‘How the hell did he find you?’
‘I don’t know. You got any ideas on that score?’
A beat of silence. Then: ‘Christ, you don’t think that I …?’
‘No. What I meant was, you’re the only direct contact I’ve had.’
‘But you never told me where you were.’ Maz’s voice was indignant. ‘You just said the south-west, not Bristol.’
‘I know—’
‘And I told you about your mum. Weren’t you going to get in touch with her?’
‘Yes. I phoned her from a call box in Wales. She’s doing pretty well. I also emailed my brother. I’m not blaming you for a second, Maz. But something’s going on here.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You remember last time, the reason my cover was blown?’ Joe didn’t want to spell it out – that he’d been betrayed by a police officer on Doug Morton’s payroll – and Maz understood his need for caution.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘I wonder if something similar has happened again. Perhaps they picked up “south-west”, used that as their starting point and then got lucky.’
‘But that means someone close by.’ Maz groaned. ‘I’m bloody careful, Joe.’
‘Then maybe they tracked the emails, but that would take some serious outside help. The Mortons aren’t exactly technical wizards.’
‘Either way, it’s not good.’
‘Don’t I know it?’ Joe was gazing idly at a selection of religious tracts in the shop window. The one that caught his eye was called Praying for a Miracle?
‘Are you safe for the time being, while I try and work out what happened?’
‘I think so, but that’s not my main concern. What if they’ve managed to trace Helen and the girls?’
Maz swore softly. ‘I’d have heard something. I’m sure they’re fine.’
‘You don’t have any idea where they are?’
‘No. Whatever else might be leaking round here, that secret is still locked up tight.’
‘I hope so. I never thought I’d say this, Maz, but it’s almost a relief that you haven’t found them.’
Afterwards, Joe felt bad that he might have offended his friend, and yet a tiny disloyal voice in his head refused to be silenced. Had Maz said or done something, however inadvertently, that had drawn Danny Morton to Bristol?
Brooding again, he continued down the hill. The High Street was busy, but the demographics were markedly different to the part of Bristol where he’d been living. The streets of Clifton were full of affluent, trendy young mothers, as well as lots of students. In Trelennan the residents might still be well-off by national standards, but they were older – and less concerned with fashion.
That was putting it kindly, Joe thought, as he realised how well his zip-up jacket allowed him to blend in. There were very few students – hardly anyone in their teens or twenties, in fact. Some harassed-looking mums with babies and toddlers and a sprinkling of tourists, again mostly elderly. There was no real ethnic variety, but that probably wasn’t too unusual for a small West Country town. Even so, something about the mix nagged at him.
One refreshing difference was the individuality of the shops themselves. Aside from a Co-op and a Boots, there were hardly any of the generic chain stores that rendered most towns indistinguishable from one another.
Having made this observation, Joe felt like a hypocrite when he realised that Boots was actually the one shop he needed.
He picked up a toothbrush, deodorant, shaving gel and a pack of cheap disposable razors. There were two checkouts open, both staffed by young women. One was serving a customer, while the other chatted and giggled with a man in a security guard’s uniform.
When her attention wavered the guard looked round, and Joe saw it was Reece’s partner, the man with the curly hair. He puffed out his chest and sent Joe an intimidating glare. Quite untroubled, Joe held his gaze, and after a few seconds it was the guard who turned away.
Joe paid for the toiletries and left, trying to push aside the feeling that he’d unwittingly embarked on a route towards a confrontation he could do without.
His next stop was the plaza, and specifically the library – if it was open. He’d come to rely heavily on libraries over the past couple of years, and he was dismayed by the constant threats to the service.
According to the sign outside, this one closed two days a week but was open today. Joe pushed through the doors, the doubts already setting in. After what he’d said to Maz, should he risk going online while he was here?
Then he approached the counter and saw who was behind it. But by then it was too late to turn and leave without it looking like a personal snub. She had spotted him, too.
Sixteen
IT WAS THE woman who’d given him directions the previous evening. She seemed as reluctant as Joe to renew their acquaintance, greeting him with a brittle smile.
‘Hello again,’ Joe said. ‘Is it safe to ask you another question?’
The smile turned wry, but warmed up a fraction. ‘Depends what it is.’
‘I’d like to use one of the computers.’
‘It’s three pounds sixty an hour – unless
you’re a member of the library?’
‘Uh, not here. I only need it for ten minutes.’
‘Well, the first half-hour is free of charge for members.’ Theatrically checking there was nobody within earshot, she said, ‘I suppose I might be able to bend the rules. Since it’s you.’
‘Thanks.’
She was smaller than Joe remembered, perhaps because last night she’d been bundled up in a thick coat. In a tight-fitting purple tunic over a thin black sweater, she looked slim and petite. Her face was framed by very dark hair, cut in a pageboy style. Her features were finely drawn and symmetrical, and she had a pale complexion that made it easy to see the laughter lines around her eyes and mouth.
Joe reassessed her age upwards by a few years: mid-thirties, he’d say. A lot of experience in those big dark eyes, to go with the intelligence and the sardonic humour. The eyes of a woman who might be about to kiss you or slap your face, and you wouldn’t know which until she’d done it.
‘I still need you to fill in the form,’ she said, and while she hunted for it Joe turned away, aware that he’d been scrutinising her rather too closely.
The library was in a modern building that could have done with a fresh coat of paint, though the utilitarian metal shelves were well stocked and the books themselves looked to be in good condition. Joe could see several people browsing, and in the children’s section a woman was reading a picture book to a pair of toddlers. He guessed that no one was going to criticise the decor when the entire service was under threat.
Supplied with the form, he filled it in, giving his name as Joe Carter. A phone rang on the desk below the counter.
‘Trelennan library, Ellie Kipling speaking.’
Passing the form back, Joe waited out the call by examining a rack of tourist leaflets. He picked up one for a place called ‘The Shell Cavern’ just as Ellie said, ‘Yes, it came back in this morning. I’ve put it aside for you.’
She put the phone down and told him: ‘That’s amazing. You must go and visit.’
‘Where is it?’
‘Top of the town. Only twenty minutes’ walk.’
‘Okay. I’ll check it out some time.’
She seemed gratified by his interest. ‘Here for a while, then?’
‘A few days.’
‘I expect Diana was delighted to see you?’
Joe nodded, unsure whether the note of sarcasm was specific to the question, or whether it was merely her natural tone of voice.
‘We’re friends from years back.’
‘Really? Must be a long way back.’ When Joe frowned, she added: ‘Because you didn’t know where she lived.’
‘Oh, I see. No. We sort of lost touch.’
‘Evidently. So you’ll have noticed the difference in her appearance?’
Joe had a feeling he was being lured into a trap. ‘Quite a transformation.’
‘Isn’t it? I think she looks fabulous – for her age.’ A flash of humour in her eyes served to lessen any malice. Joe couldn’t find it in him to take offence on Diana’s behalf.
He offered his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Ellie. I’m Joe.’
‘I know. It says on the form.’ She surprised him by looking slightly abashed. ‘Sorry if I was a bit brusque last night.’
‘Brusque? I’d say downright hostile. Though that seems par for the course.’
His tone was light-hearted, but Ellie took the comment seriously. ‘What do you mean?’
Joe described the confrontation he’d witnessed. At the mention of the funeral director Ellie blew out her cheeks, as if suppressing the urge to vomit.
‘Derek Cadwell isn’t the most charming of men.’
‘The girl seemed convinced that he knew something about her missing sister.’
‘Mm. Alise is a sad case. She spends hours in here, searching through the missing-persons websites. Either that or she’s killing time in the harbour cafe.’
‘And what about her sister?’
‘Vanished without trace, apparently. Whether she was ever here or not, I don’t know. Alise isn’t doing herself any favours, throwing accusations at people when she’s got no proof.’
‘And would anybody help her, do you think, if they could?’
Ellie pursed her lips. ‘What a strange question to ask. Why?’
‘Well, from my experiences so far it isn’t all that friendly round here.’
For a moment Joe thought she might bridle at the suggestion and leap to the defence of her home town, but she simply gazed at him and then nodded, sadly.
‘No. It’s an odd place, I suppose.’
She came out from behind the counter, light on her feet like a dancer. Joe followed her to the computer terminals, clutching his shopping in one hand and the tourist leaflet in the other. He could hardly discard it now that she’d recommended it to him.
There were six PCs set up in the centre of the room, presumably to discourage the browsing of unsavoury sites. Only one was in use. A man in his sixties with ruddy cheeks and a misshapen purple-veined nose was tapping away with surprising dexterity, punctuating his typing with little grunts and sighs. Although the room was warm, he wore a navy greatcoat and a trilby. He tutted as Ellie directed Joe to a seat on the opposite side.
‘I really do have to concentrate, you know,’ he said, huffing.
Ellie gave him short shrift. ‘These are public computers, Mr Bastian, available for anyone who wants to use them.’
Joe sat down. Ellie crouched over the desk, using the PC monitor to hide her from the man’s view.
‘I wouldn’t mind,’ she whispered, ‘but he comes in to write complaint letters to the council, and half of them are about the library service.’
After making sure that Joe was set up, she lingered for a second, and he took the opportunity to say casually, ‘Another thing I’ve noticed is a logo with “LRS” on it. They seem to have vans and security guards everywhere. I assume it’s a local business?’
‘Oh yes.’ Ellie was still whispering. ‘Leon Race. This is Leon’s town.’
Seventeen
EVEN WHEN SAID quietly, it was a bold statement. Before Joe could ask what she meant, a sharp rapping noise made them both jump. There was a man at the counter, plump and prosperous, with a leather document wallet under one arm.
‘Major troublemaker number two,’ Ellie muttered, a sly delight in her voice. ‘With any luck they’ll cancel each other out.’
The man registered Ellie’s presence and beckoned her towards him. A moment later he spotted the complainer, Bastian, and seemed to recoil.
‘Councillor Rawle!’ Ellie called. At the sound of the name Bastian jerked to life; half out of his chair, he stared at the councillor with a ferocious intent. Then the unfinished letter dragged him back down and he started typing frantically.
While Ellie and Rawle conversed in low voices, Joe noted the man’s stiff, self-important manner; from his body language it was clear that he didn’t regard Ellie as sufficiently deferential. Either that or he was uncomfortable in the presence of an attractive woman.
Joe turned to the PC and opened a couple of Internet pages. In one he searched for the Shell Cavern’s website, and in the other he called up Hotmail and logged into his account.
There was a single new message – from his brother – sent two days ago. Their mother had completed the first session of chemotherapy and was bearing up well. Making jokes about wig-shopping, should that be necessary.
Joe wanted to reply. He was almost certain it was safe, that his email could not be traced; that his brother’s computer had not been compromised. Ninety-nine per cent certain.
But not a hundred per cent.
So he didn’t send the email. He gazed at the screen and wondered if he would ever again live in a normal world of uncomplicated relationships and open communication.
There was a clunk as Bastian pushed back his chair and stood up. Not content with the hat and coat, he now wrapped a scarf around his neck. Joe caught the foul, me
aty waft of body odour as the man swept past, honing in on Ellie and Rawle and all but vibrating with the need to interject. Within seconds Ellie stepped back, allowing Bastian to slip into the gap, his opening remarks loud enough for the whole library to hear.
‘Councillor Rawle, the minutes of the, ah, finance committee meeting. I wonder if you would kindly elucidate certain …’
As Ellie headed towards him, Joe casually swapped the page on screen from Hotmail to the Shell Cavern. Ellie gave him a wicked grin.
‘Rawle’s the man who will wield the axe, and enjoy doing it. Let him explain himself to one of our most dedicated users.’ She noticed the website. ‘Don’t you trust the leaflet?’
‘It sounds fascinating, but …’ Joe shrugged. ‘I have a bit of a claustrophobic thing.’
‘Oh, it’s quite spacious down there. And well lit.’
‘Yeah, but it’s underground. Stick me in a wardrobe, or an aeroplane toilet – even a large suitcase – and I can deal with it. But underground …’ He shook his head.
‘Well, if you need somebody to hold your hand …’
‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ He waited a beat. ‘What did you mean about Leon Race?’
‘Nothing, really.’ She took a step sideways, checking behind her. ‘He’s the owner of LRS, that’s all.’
‘But he’s pretty important?’
Ellie nodded. Glanced round again. Rawle was still being buttonholed by his constituent, his horror written all over his face as he backed towards the exit.
‘Like a dog with a bone, your Mr Bastian,’ Joe observed.
‘Yes. He prides himself on holding our elected officials to account.’
‘Someone has to,’ Joe said. ‘But it’s Leon Race who has the real power, then?’
‘Look, I’d rather not say any more.’ A quick, nervous laugh. ‘For all I know you might be one of his spies.’
‘Does he have spies?’
‘I’m joking,’ Ellie said. ‘But this is a small town. People love to gossip. You can bet there’ll be tongues wagging about you and Diana. Having an old flame turn up on her doorstep …’