Blood Falls

by Tom Bale

  Kestle, panicked, said: ‘That’s Marc’s route today. I just got off my shift.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, rustle up some drinks, would you? I’ll have my usual, and get Pam to do me a cheese sandwich and some crisps. Lots of crisps.’

  ‘Didn’t they have a spread laid on at the council?’ Glenn asked.

  ‘Only some finger food. Vol-au-vents and shit like that.’ Leon snorted. ‘Still, paid for by our taxes, so I’d have been pissed off if it had been caviar and steak.’

  ‘I bet they keep that back for themselves,’ Glenn said darkly.

  ‘Yeah. Whatever.’ Leon didn’t rise to it; he knew Glenn was sucking up to him. ‘Makes no difference, seeing as how I just dumped most of it down the bog.’

  Although there was a small private study upstairs, Leon’s main office was on the ground floor: a vast room that contained a desk, a couple of sofas and a conference table spacious enough for a dozen people.

  Derek Cadwell was sitting on one of the sofas like a lumbering white zombie, a cup and saucer balanced primly on his knee. Clive Fenton was behind the desk, a stack of paperwork under one elbow, two laptops up and running in front of him. Fenton was another big man, not as tall or freaky as Cadwell but massively overweight. Hair like a baby duckling’s, teased and brushed to look thicker than it was.

  Fenton was Leon’s right-hand man – although Glenn, in his own head, probably thought he occupied that position. But Fenton had real brains, as well as solid experience in the world of law and accountancy. Proper legitimate skills and a great head for figures, albeit not as good as Leon himself. Nobody could touch Leon on arithmetic.

  Both men greeted him warmly. Both spotted that something was wrong.

  ‘Migraine coming on,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe you should have a lie down,’ Glenn suggested.

  Leon took a chair at the conference table. ‘In a minute. First I want to hear exactly what we’ve got going on.’ He saw Glenn opening his mouth, so he said, ‘You first, Derek.’

  As it turned out, neither of them had much new information. Leon wasn’t happy to hear that.

  Kestle came in with tea and coffee, plus cranberry juice for Leon, who didn’t care for hot drinks. He took a careful sip, his stomach lurching and queasy and yet craving food, as often seemed to happen with the migraines.

  ‘I wanna know more about this Joe Carter,’ he said, stabbing a finger at Glenn. ‘You think Diana’s holding back on you?’

  Glenn shrugged, his cheeks bright red. ‘I bloody hope not—’

  ‘Me neither. So find out. I don’t expect you to slap her around, but you can get more than this. Tell her to search his room, or you do it. I want to know what’s in his wallet, what’s on his phone. Gotta be something there.’

  Glenn nodded, but without much enthusiasm. Pam delivered his sandwich and a selection of crisps: salt-and-vinegar, cheese-and-onion, as well as Quavers, his favourite. Leon grabbed a bag, tore it open and inhaled the contents.

  ‘So what about this damn girl?’ Cadwell said. ‘I can’t go on like this, soaking up the heat on your behalf.’

  ‘I know that,’ Leon snapped. ‘But I got this journalist on me like a second skin.’

  ‘Of course, long-term his article could exacerbate the situation,’ Fenton cut in. ‘If it raises your profile, she might be encouraged to shout all the louder.’

  Leon prised the debris of the crisps from his molars while he translated Fenton’s words into English. Eventually he signalled his agreement with a grunt. ‘Good point.’

  ‘Then she has to be removed,’ Cadwell said. ‘It’s that simple.’

  ‘Hardly simple,’ Glenn said, indignant on Leon’s behalf.

  Cadwell shrugged, like it was beneath him to respond to anything Glenn said. He addressed Leon: ‘Your friends on the force can turn a blind eye, can’t they?’

  Something about his tone got Leon’s hackles up. ‘They won’t have to, if we’re smart about it.’ He opened a bag of salt-and-vinegar and stuffed a handful of crisps in his mouth. Aware that Cadwell was wincing at the noise, he crunched as loudly as he could, mouth wide open, spraying fragments into the air. ‘If we do it, we need to move fast.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Fenton said. The others nodded.

  ‘Tonight.’ Leon swallowed, smacked his lips together. ‘And I wanna talk to her first.’

  Twenty

  OVER A FRESH round of tea and coffee, Joe asked more about Alise’s life. Did she have any kind of support network in London?

  ‘Only my boyfriend,’ she said, with a derisive snort. ‘He works for same company, in IT development. We had been two years together, we talked of marriage. Then Kamila goes missing and Jason is not worried. He thinks Kamila is spoilt bitch.’

  ‘What was her opinion of him?’

  ‘Huh. She always tell me I can get a better man. She is right. When police are here, talking to Leon, I call him, and Jason is like …’ She mimed a yawn while making a yak yak motion with her fingers. ‘So I dump him.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Better to find out now he is a prick, instead of marrying him first.’

  The bluntness of her response made Joe laugh; after half a second Alise joined in.

  ‘And you?’ she said. ‘You are new to this town?’

  ‘I’m staying with a friend. She runs the Dolphin B&B.’

  Alise grimaced. ‘When they find out why I’m here, none of these places would give me a room. They know I am blaming Leon. In their eyes I am his enemy, so they want nothing to do with me.’

  This is Leon’s town. Although Ellie had subsequently downplayed the statement, Joe was inclined to believe it had been a truthful response, before she’d thought to worry about speaking out of turn.

  He surveyed the cafe again. The two women had just departed, the nosier one treating Joe to a haughty glare on the way out. The bikers remained engrossed in one another. The waitress was behind the counter, wrapping a cake in cling film.

  ‘Not everybody’s like that, surely?’

  Alise waved dismissively at the window. ‘Some days it can look beautiful, but this is not a nice town. No one cares. No one will help.’

  Then a long, calculated pause. Joe knew what was coming. He couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t blame her for saying it.

  ‘But you care. Will you help me?’

  He knew he should refuse outright, but it shamed him that he had stood and watched while Cadwell grabbed her by the throat. Now, during this conversation, he’d shifted into professional mode, assembling the raw material of the case as if preparing to investigate it. That was no doubt how it would seem to Alise – raising expectations that he couldn’t fulfil.

  So, for now, he avoided giving an answer, diverting her with another question.

  ‘What do you know about the first man your sister met? The one who took her to the Cotswolds?’

  ‘I know his name, but nothing more. You think we should talk to him?’

  ‘Was he interviewed by the police?’

  ‘No, I … did not mention him.’ She blushed, suddenly haunted by guilt. ‘Did I get this wrong?’

  ‘Not at all. I’m sure he isn’t involved, but it’s a place to start. Did you say he met Kamila at the hotel where she worked?’

  ‘Yes. Palace Garden hotel, in Piccadilly.’

  ‘Any friends of Kamila’s there? Anyone who could look up the records and find his address or a phone number?’

  Alise was starting to read his thought processes; smiling and nodding even before Joe finished the question.

  ‘Yes. There is one man. He liked Kamila, also. He is worried for her.’ She beamed at him. ‘This is good. I never think of this. Thank you.’

  Joe shrugged, a little rueful because he was still backing himself into a corner. The worst thing was, part of him didn’t particularly mind.

  ‘I will call him this afternoon,’ Alise went on. ‘Let me take your mobile number, yes?’

  He gave her the number, reassuring hi
mself that it couldn’t really hurt. Another thought struck him.

  ‘Do you know where Leon lives?’

  Alise looked taken aback. ‘It is on the hill above the town. There is a cave, for tourists. Follow the sign to the cave. Leon’s house is just before this place.’ She studied him for a moment, her eyes misting over. ‘All this time it is my dream to have someone who listens.’

  Joe felt unworthy of the praise. The voice of caution reminded him that Ellie Kipling, whilst appearing to be no great fan of Leon’s, had nevertheless been scornful of the allegations that Alise was making. Joe wondered if he was susceptible to a sob story like this because, in their own way, his own wife and children were missing.

  ‘What about Derek Cadwell?’ he said, remembering that Ellie had at least shared Alise’s loathing of the undertaker.

  ‘Cadwell and Leon work together on many things.’ Alise crossed her fingers to illustrate the point. ‘You should speak to a man named Patrick Davy. He owns a gallery along from here. Ask him if Derek Cadwell is a—’

  She broke off as the bell over the door jangled and a man entered the cafe. He was young and smartly dressed. Joe had a feeling he was one of the men he’d seen last night, leaving the pub with Cadwell.

  He didn’t pay Joe much attention, but when he saw Alise he flinched as if he’d been slapped. After ordering three coffees and a hot chocolate to take away, he glared at them both, then began tapping out a message on his phone.

  Alise picked up her handbag and took out her purse. ‘I must leave now.’

  There was a good-natured dispute over the bill. Alise wanted to settle it in full, because she’d eaten lunch prior to Joe’s arrival. They agreed to go halves, and Joe tried to ignore the wrench of pain as another tenner disappeared. He now had roughly forty pounds left.

  Once outside, Alise said, ‘That is Ben. He works for Cadwell.’

  ‘I thought so.’ Joe followed Alise along the pavement, both of them squinting in the bright sunlight. Alise indicated a large building on the corner of the block.

  ‘The gallery. But it is shut this afternoon.’ She went up on tiptoe, peering over Joe’s shoulder. ‘Ben is leaving,’ she whispered.

  Joe turned, saw the young man crossing the road, carrying his drinks in a tray made of paper pulp. He got into a Vauxhall Astra that had been parked on double yellow lines next to the harbour wall.

  ‘You said Cadwell was one of the people who gave Leon an alibi?’

  ‘Yes. But there is more than that. Much more.’

  Alise’s tone seemed unnecessarily dramatic. Joe wondered if she was embellishing certain aspects of the story in order to secure his help.

  ‘The job he does,’ she said quietly, almost hissing at him.

  Joe nodded. A gruesome idea had been floating at the back of his mind for the past few minutes. If Kamila had been murdered – which was surely the unspoken assumption – then a man in Cadwell’s line of work could be very useful when it came to disposing of the body.

  ‘If you mean what I think you mean, that’s quite an accusation.’

  ‘He would help Leon do anything,’ Alise said, fearfully looking around. The street was quiet, a handful of tourists drifting along the promenade. ‘He has no choice. Leon knows his secrets.’

  ‘What kind of secrets?’

  Alise watched Joe closely, perhaps anticipating a sceptical response. ‘Things he does … with the dead.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Leon hid a camera in the funeral home. So now Cadwell must do anything for him.’

  Joe gave her the reaction she must have expected. ‘If that was true, he’d lose all his business overnight. No one would go near him.’

  ‘They are careful with this secret. Very few people know.’

  ‘Then how did you find out?’

  She’d been expecting this question as well, forlornly shaking her head. ‘I cannot tell you.’

  ‘You’re asking me to take a lot on trust here.’

  ‘Please, Joe. I cannot tell you,’ she said again. ‘But I know it is true. I swear it.’

  Twenty-One

  JENNY FOSTER.

  She had a name, an identity and a raging thirst.

  She had a full recollection of who she was but not – thankfully – of what had been done to her.

  The wound between her legs was healing. She knew that because her captor had told her so. But while it healed, it stung and burned and throbbed. When it was touched she felt as though she’d been set on fire.

  She knew that because he’d touched her again. He had tried to rape her, but the screams had put him off. Even when he stuffed a rag in her mouth, the scream emerged through her whole body: it vibrated along her bones and poured from her skin like sweat.

  ‘Couple of days,’ he’d said after he climbed off, giving her a bad-tempered kick while he zipped up. ‘Then you’ll be good as new.’

  He had visited her twice. The first time, the attempted rape, he brought with him a battery-operated torch. Its illumination was weak but had an incredible effect on her. She was almost willing to suffer the pain he inflicted, if only because he had rescued her from the darkness.

  She had practically no sense of time. His visit might have been hours after she first recovered consciousness, but she thought it was probably longer: a day or so. When he left, he took the light with him. She was bereft.

  The second visit, by contrast, seemed much sooner: only hours after the first. Her mind was clearer, despite the rhythmic bass-drum-and-cymbal clash of a dehydration headache. She knew who she was. She understood, at least partially, what had happened to her.

  This time, as well as the light, he brought water in a bucket, a towel, and some food.

  ‘All right?’ he growled. Unhappy about something.

  Jenny realised she was making noises: sobbing, whimpering. She forced them to stop, and he grunted and put the bucket down at her side, slopping water over the rim. The cold splash of it on her skin caused her to gasp and turn towards him. He kicked her savagely, and she screamed, her mouth wide open but making no sound.

  She wasn’t to look at him. She had learned that on the first visit.

  ‘You stupid bitch,’ he said. ‘Drink some of this, then clean yourself up. Afterwards, use it for a toilet.’ She felt him crouching, bending over her, his breath hot on her face. ‘And wash the blood off your tits. Haven’t you got any self-respect?’

  He opened the door and she sensed the dim light bobbing in the darkness, moving away from her.

  ‘Leave me the torch.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘So I can see, to clean myself. Please.’

  In his hesitation, she understood what this represented: the chance to open a tiny chink in his armour. A small but significant repositioning in the balance of power between them.

  He set the torch down, strode out and slammed the door behind him.

  Jenny waited a few seconds, then wept with joy at the scale of her victory.

  Twenty-Two

  JOE WALKED BACK through the town and then followed a different route from the one he’d taken that morning, winding his way up the hillside. He hadn’t actually committed himself to helping Alise. This was purely a way of killing time, he told himself. No harm in it.

  Eventually he reached level ground and found a sign urging him to sample the thrill of the Shell Cavern, a hundred yards further on. He was back in the wealthy neighbourhood, but Alise’s description wasn’t precise enough for him to distinguish Leon’s property from the other large homes, all shielded by high walls and dense foliage.

  For lack of a better idea, he wandered towards the tourist attraction. The site was on a small plot of untended grass, thick with nettles, bordered by a chain-link fence. No car park, but there were several cars and a minibus parked on the street outside.

  The visitor centre was housed in a ramshackle windowless building, possibly an old cattle shed, made of weathered stone and with a moss-encrusted roof. Joe pushed through the doub
le glass doors into a room about thirty feet square, with poster-sized photographs and display units, and a gift area with tables selling the usual tourist fare: pottery and ceramics, exotic stones and crystals, mugs and postcards and overpriced confectionery.

  The room’s only occupant was a member of staff, a tall, rangy man in his fifties with greying blond hair tied back in a ponytail. He gave Joe a cautious appraisal before nodding a greeting.

  Next to the counter, an open doorway beckoned. Joe eased his way over and peered in. A set of stone steps dropped twenty feet or so, then curved out of sight, lit by a series of weak bulbs strung along the roof of the cave.

  Joe shuddered. Not his thing at all.

  ‘I guarantee you’ll be awed,’ the man told him. He spoke with the deep, calm gravitas of a counsellor or clergyman. ‘For some, it’s a life-changing experience.’

  Joe smiled, but shook his head. ‘Another day, thanks.’

  He made his exit, feeling slightly foolish. What had Ellie said about holding his hand?

  Hmm. She was a prickly woman, unlikeable in many ways, and decidedly catty where Diana was concerned, and yet …

  She had definitely stirred something in him. Something that had lain dormant for a long time.

  He sucked air between his teeth and carried on walking. And yet was dangerous, he thought. And yet could get him into trouble.

  Joe soon discovered that the road led nowhere. It ended in a bulbous turning circle, beyond which lay a thick copse of trees and unwelcoming thickets of brambles and blackthorn.

  Retracing his steps and passing the Shell Cavern once again, he noticed a narrow footpath that he’d missed the first time. It was overgrown with weeds but Joe eased his way through them. A noise grew in volume as he followed the path through several twists and turns: the roar of rushing water.

  The bushes on either side towered over him, blocking his view until a final abrupt turn brought him out in a small clearing. A steel fence, eight feet high, had been erected across the path. It bore a plethora of warning signs: NO ENTRY and PRIVATE and DANGER: LANDSLIP.

  The path appeared to continue beyond the fence, dropping away steeply as it weaved through the rocky, tree-covered hillside. Joe guessed it might lead to the sandy beaches east of the town. If so, the views during the descent would be spectacular.