Blood Falls

by Tom Bale

  ‘Old friend,’ Joe corrected her. ‘Anyway, she’s got a new man in her life, hasn’t she?’

  Ellie’s face coloured. ‘What?’

  ‘Diana. I got the impression she has a … boyfriend.’

  ‘Hasn’t she told you?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Joe said. ‘And I didn’t like to pry.’

  ‘In that case, it’s not for me to divulge.’

  ‘Okay. But with all this gossiping you mentioned, I thought you’d—’

  ‘Ahem!’ Rawle having made his escape, Bastian was at the counter, glaring in Ellie’s direction. A middle-aged couple were behind him, clutching several books each.

  ‘Sorry,’ Ellie said. ‘If you’re curious about Diana’s love life, you really should ask her to explain.’

  Ellie was still busy when Joe left the library. He raised a hand to wave, but she didn’t look up.

  Outside there was a welcome surprise: bright sunshine and even a hint of autumnal warmth. All at once the town seemed more colourful, more attractive. Benign, if not exactly friendly.

  At the bottom of the hill, directly opposite the harbour wall, Joe found the cafe that Ellie had mentioned. When he stopped to read the menu in the window, he could hear the water gushing from the stream that ran under the road. A couple of teenagers were leaning over the wall, spitting and dropping leaves into the harbour. It was the closest thing to rebellion Joe had seen so far; in a strange way it was reassuring.

  Less pleasant was the fact that he had to study the menu and weigh up the price of a coffee and a scone. Peering through the window, he saw the girl, Alise, inside. That swayed his decision; that and a desire to avoid getting under Diana’s feet for another hour or two.

  A bell rang as he opened the door. The cafe was small and quaint, fewer than a dozen tables crammed into a modest space. Lots of pictures on the walls, mostly with a nautical theme, all with little price stickers on them. The tables were covered in floral cloths, with laminated menus propped between salt and pepper pots, a china bowl full of sugar lumps and a vase of dried flowers.

  Two other tables were occupied: a young couple in bikers’ leathers at one and two elderly women at another. Alise was in the corner, reading a local newspaper. Joe moved alongside her and indicated the chair opposite.

  ‘It’s Alise, isn’t it? Do you mind if I sit down?’

  She looked up, then stared at the empty table next to her, as if wondering whether Joe was blind, or stupid.

  He said, ‘I was there this morning, when you were arguing with the undertaker.’

  Her eyes narrowed. Joe felt a stab of guilt, recalling the moment when Cadwell had grabbed her by the throat.

  ‘I wish I could have been of more help.’

  She shrugged. Muttered something he didn’t quite catch. He decided to make one last try.

  ‘I heard you asking Cadwell about your sister.’

  She leapt on the comment, instantly energised. ‘Did you know Kamila? Do you know where she is now?’

  Her desperation provoked a shudder of recognition in Joe. This was precisely how he had felt last night, asking Diana if she’d heard from Helen.

  Once again he ignored his best instincts, pulled out a chair and sat down.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ he said. ‘But I’d like to hear what happened.’

  Eighteen

  FEW THINGS IN life can sap your strength as much as the fruitless search for a loved one. Joe understood that, dispassionately, from his time as a police officer, but he appreciated it even more viscerally from personal experience. With every false lead, every dead end, a little more energy seeps away, leaving you exhausted, dispirited and even bitter. He knew it was possible to end up resenting the object of your search, blaming them for your misery and failure.

  Joe saw all of that in Alise. He saw it in the set of her body, and the lines in her face; in the difficulty she had putting any real light into her smile. He saw it most of all in the long pause; the process of evaluation while she decided how much to reveal. Telling the story of her sister’s disappearance would consume precious emotional energy; having been through this routine many times, she’d be anxious to conserve that energy.

  During her deliberations, a waitress approached: a sturdy woman in her fifties with short hair, tightly permed and inexplicably tinted bright orange. Joe ordered coffee and a scone, and Alise asked for another pot of tea. Then, her decision made, she described the situation in a series of verbal bullet points.

  ‘Kamila is twenty, three years younger than me. We are from Latvia. I have been in England four years. In London. Kamila came to London last summer. In Latvia she studies to be accountant. I help her find job in hotel. Very long hours. Bad pay. Some kind people but also rude nasty people.’

  Joe nodded. He could attest to that himself.

  ‘But this is good way to learn English. She stay a few months, then home to Latvia. At Christmas she works a few weeks, then home to study. Easter, same thing. Then, in June, she meets a man at hotel. He pays for her to take holiday. He is much older. A rich man.’

  Alise pulled a face, as though the very idea was distasteful. The waitress brought their order, and Alise resumed her account.

  ‘They go to a place with beautiful countryside, a village in … the Cots-wolds?’ She phrased the word as though it sounded absurd – which, in a way, Joe realised, it did.

  ‘We speak on the phone, and she is so happy. She will not return to Latvia at end of holiday. But the next week I talk to her and everything is changed. She has broken with this man, but she refuses to tell me why. Just that they are not together.’

  ‘But she didn’t go back to London? Or Latvia?’

  Alise shook her head. ‘She says she has money to see more of England. This is what she will do, then study next year.’ Alise hesitated, sniffed a couple of times.

  ‘In this conversation, she scare me. If she has this money, it could help much more in Latvia. Always we work hard, save everything we can. For our future,’ Alise added, choking up as she emphasised the final word.

  ‘And she came to Trelennan?’ Joe asked, feeling like he was back in an interview room, coaxing information from a traumatised witness.

  Alise said, ‘Other places, first. Cardiff. Bristol. Every day I send texts. Sometimes I get reply. Sometimes nothing.’ A juddering sigh. ‘Then she goes to furthest place … the End something?’ She frowned, trying to recall the name.

  ‘Land’s End?’

  ‘Yes. Then Newquay. She likes it. Lot of surfers, lot of nice guys. She says she might stay, find job in hotel. I am so pleased. This sound more like normal Kamila.’ She clamped her hands over her heart in a gesture of relief. ‘Then I hear she has met someone new. With him she is going to Trelennan. I ask her, will you find job there?’

  Her voice was thickening again. The bikers were staring at Joe with a vague disdain.

  ‘Kamila says there is no need for a job. This man is very powerful. This man will pay for everything.’

  ‘Sounds too good to be true.’

  Alise nodded vigorously. ‘I say this. I tell her, be careful. Kamila is not a child, but she is … not experienced. Not wise?’ She tapped her forehead, rooting for a better word.

  ‘Naive. Innocent.’

  ‘Innocent, yes. With me, I am hard person. With everyone, I learn to ask: What do you really want? But Kamila is not like this.’ She leaned over, pulled a tissue from her bag and blew her nose. ‘After that, no more phone calls. No texts. Silence.’

  Joe sighed. ‘What did she tell you about this man?’

  ‘Nothing. Because I am older sister, I maybe get too … too much control, you know?’ A regretful smile. ‘She calls me witch. It was August twenty-eighth, the last time I speak to her, and we say horrible things. We fight like we hate each other, and now I just want to find her and tell her how much I love her, my little sister.’

  Alise had tears streaming down her cheeks. Joe gave her time to compose herself while he pondered on what he’d
heard, knowing that he shouldn’t even think of getting involved but at the same time wanting to offer her a glimmer of hope; something to focus her search.

  ‘She never said anything that could help you identify him?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Alise said, and he realised she had been holding this in reserve. ‘She tell me his name by mistake. “You should see Leon’s car,” she said.’

  ‘“Leon’s car”,’ Joe echoed.

  ‘Leon Race. It was Leon Race who took my sister.’

  * * *

  The allegation hung in the air like smoke: visible, toxic, dangerous. Joe took a look around. The bikers were holding hands across the table, absorbed with each other. The elderly women were talking in loud voices. Joe tuned in for a second: they were discussing a friend’s golfing holiday in Portugal, a marriage in trouble. They seemed engrossed, but Joe sensed that one of the women had ten per cent of her attention elsewhere; periodically sweeping the room for something more interesting.

  Joe remembered Ellie’s comment, quickly retracted, about Leon’s spies. Lowering his voice, he said: ‘You’re certain about this? It was definitely Trelennan?’

  ‘Definitely Trelennan. And definitely Leon.’

  ‘But you have no evidence?’

  Looking scornful, Alise clicked her fingers as though performing magic. ‘Where do I find evidence?’

  ‘But you went to the police?’

  ‘Oh yes. At first they don’t want to hear. Said she is grown woman, able to decide for herself. I say I will go to newspapers, to BBC. So they make enquiries, but in Newquay …’

  ‘Because that’s where she was last seen.’ Joe saw her scowling, and added, ‘Which is reasonable enough. It’s the best place to start.’

  ‘Maybe. But they find nothing there. Because she has come to Trelennan.’

  ‘Is that where she was, the last time you talked to her?’

  Alise hesitated, and Joe knew she was contemplating a lie. ‘No. Just before she left, she makes a call to me without Leon knowing. Because of all the messages I leave for her.’

  ‘Didn’t you think that was odd, that she should need to phone you in secret?’

  ‘Of course. I say I am scared for her. But, to her, I am the interfering witch. She says I am jealous … because she is so pretty, and I am plain.’

  Joe groaned in sympathy. ‘I used to have arguments like that with my brother. It doesn’t mean anything. And you’re not plain,’ he added, perhaps a touch too hastily.

  Alise grinned and said, without false modesty, ‘Compared to her, I am plain.’

  She rummaged in her bag and produced a battered 6x4 photograph. Taken on a beach somewhere, it showed a willowy doe-eyed girl with long dark hair, beaming at the camera. She was stunning.

  Joe studied the picture. ‘So what did the police do next? Did they come here?’

  ‘Finally, yes. They say they speak to Leon, and he knows nothing. Has not been to Newquay. Has never met Kamila.’

  ‘He had an alibi for that last night, the night you spoke to her?’

  ‘Yes. Says he is here in Trelennan, with many people. Mostly the men who work for him, but also Derek Cadwell. And a politician, Rawle. All of them say this for him.’

  Joe sighed. With that level of alibi, the police would have no cause to dig any deeper.

  ‘They tell me she will be recorded as missing, but I can see they do not care. Maybe she has gone back to her own country, they say, and in their eyes they are wanting her to be gone. Wanting me to be gone, too.’

  ‘Is there no chance that she’s returned home?’

  ‘And not told me? Or our mother, our cousins? No. This could not happen.’

  ‘All right. But she might be elsewhere in the UK.’

  ‘Her phone is dead. The police say switched off. No more signal after Newquay.’

  ‘Perhaps it broke, and she bought a new one. Perhaps she hasn’t got in touch because she’s angry with you?’

  ‘Then she would speak with someone else. Other family, her friends in Latvia.’

  ‘Did she have a bank account over here?’

  ‘Yes, but it is almost empty. The police say no one used it since August.’

  ‘Okay. That’s a strong indicator that something has happened. But you still don’t know for sure that Leon brought her here. She might have changed her mind. Or maybe the relationship ended, like the one before it.’

  Alise folded her arms tightly, as if warding him off. ‘You don’t want to believe me. You look for reasons to call me a liar, a fool.’

  She’d raised her voice, and now the bikers were staring at Joe again. So were the elderly women.

  ‘I’m trying to be thorough,’ he said. ‘You have to examine every possibility at the outset, otherwise you go running off on a wild-goose chase.’

  ‘Huh. Don’t you think I pray every night for a good reason for her to be missing? Don’t you think I hope she is somewhere else, safe and happy? So I can leave this terrible place and go back to my home, and my job, and my life?’

  Weeping again, she found the tissue she had previously discarded, folded it until it was impossibly small and yet managed to blow her nose on it.

  Chastened, Joe reached out and grasped her shoulder briefly. ‘I’m sorry. It’s not that I don’t believe you.’

  Alise let out a sigh. ‘You must ask these questions. I know.’

  ‘Where do you work?’

  ‘For insurance company, in the City. I am an actuary.’

  Joe must have made a bad job of concealing his surprise, for she eyed him with a glint of humour. ‘You think I would be cleaning the toilets?’

  ‘No. But I’m surprised you’re able to get time off to do this.’

  ‘I use all my holiday for the year, plus some compassionate leave. Plus a warning that they will fire me if I am not back one week from now. I am good at my job, but their patience is nearly at the end. I need to find Kamila very soon. Even if she is dead …’

  Alise tailed off, giving a simple shrug. The tears had stopped. In their place was a calm, quiet pragmatism that chilled Joe, even though on another level he understood it perfectly.

  ‘If she is dead, I want the body to bury.’

  Nineteen

  IN GENERAL, LIKE most people, Leon thought sunshine was a good thing. Good for business, in a town reliant on tourism. Good for the mood – hence expressions like ‘a sunny smile’ and ‘a sunny disposition’. And good for photographs, taken outside, of a group of important but not particularly attractive middle-aged men, all keen to project an aura of power and prosperity.

  So, for the latter reason at least, Leon was glad when the weather changed for the better. It allowed a bright, optimistic light to shine on the little group of dignitaries as they stood, chests puffed out, trading phoney smiles and frozen handshakes for the cameras.

  Leon was confident that he looked every bit as powerful and prosperous as anybody else – and almost as respectable. A job well done, with all kinds of future benefits in terms of reputation and prestige. Plus, very sweet timing that Giles Haw-hee-haw was there to see it and include it in his article.

  But on the journey home the sunshine wasn’t so kind. During the buffet, while listening to some arse-licker from the chamber of commerce, he’d had a sense that a migraine was developing. A couple of times his vision had distorted, like glancing into a funhouse mirror. There was a vague not-quite-nausea swelling in his throat.

  He’d ignored the signs. Sometimes, if he stayed mellow enough, he could pretty much wish it away. But that meant not thinking about Alise-fucking-Briedis, or this new feller in town.

  On the way back the pain came creeping up on him, intensified by the sunlight lancing through the screens. The Merc’s tinted windows didn’t help; neither did his two-hundred-quid Oakley sunglasses.

  As the car pulled into the wide gravel driveway, Leon reached forward, gripped the passenger headrest and overcame the urge to vomit by the sheer force of his will.

  Giles s
wallowed loudly. ‘Leon …?’

  Warren, from the driver’s seat, said, ‘The boss gets terrible headaches.’

  ‘Migraines,’ Leon said. If there was one upside, it was that he didn’t have to fake a reason to ditch the journalist.

  When the nausea receded, he got out of the car, keeping his back to the sun. He spotted Glenn in the doorway, his whole posture screaming crisis. Leon tipped his head sideways, discreetly motioning for Glenn to go back indoors. Then he gave Giles some guff about checking out the amusement arcade.

  ‘Used to be a tip. I snapped it up, put Glenn in charge of the renovations. Added a snack bar. A bigger car park. Persuaded the council to stick a skate park and basketball court next door. We even took on some young kids, a couple of the … what do you have to call ’em? “Special needs”?’

  Giles pulled a face. ‘Alas, we do, now the PC brigade have us in their Stalinist grip.’

  ‘Yeah. Soft in the head, we used to say. They do a decent job, though. No fuss about minimum wage. Could pay ’em in jelly beans and they’d be grateful.’

  With the journalist dispatched, Leon hurried inside. Saw Pam, his housekeeper, and tapped his head. Then Glenn started up; Leon silenced him with a raised hand, and cut into the toilet just off the hall. Turned out the need to vomit had only been postponed.

  After throwing up, he rinsed his mouth with cold water. Splashed his face. Pam brought the box of Maxalt and a glass. He popped a 10mg tablet from its blister pack, told it to work fast or else.

  That was one pain confronted. Now for the other.

  ‘Fuck were you playing at?’

  ‘I thought you’d want to know.’

  ‘Yeah, but how could I answer with Giles practically parked in my lap? Engage your fucking brain in future.’

  ‘Sorry, Leon.’ With a morose sigh, Glenn followed Leon across the wide hall, the sound of their footsteps on the stone floor jarring Leon’s brain. He glanced in one of the living rooms and spotted Kestle, pimply and ginger, glued to his Nintendo DS.

  ‘Why aren’t you in Truro?’