by Tom Bale
He stepped close to the fence and looked through. To his right he caught glimpses of the shore and a slice of tranquil sea. Directly ahead there appeared to be a deep but narrow cleft in the hillside, which was almost certainly the location of the pounding water.
Then he caught a flash of light: sunlight reflecting on glass. A house was poised on the edge on the gully, with a veranda running along the rear and a timber deck on one corner, jutting out to form a viewing platform. Joe could see steel supports angled into the rock face beneath the platform.
There was a man on the decking, wearing what might have been the uniform of an LRS guard. He lifted a pair of binoculars and directed them at Joe, who waved, somewhat sarcastically, then made a point of admiring the view for a minute or so before slowly turning away.
Back at the road, Joe was grudgingly impressed to find an LRS van waiting for him.
The driver was a heavyset man in his thirties. Shaved head, goatee beard and the needlessly aggressive bearing of a nightclub bouncer. He was standing on the pavement, arms folded across a barrel chest.
‘Path’s closed,’ he said.
‘I gathered that.’
‘And it’s private property.’
‘Not where I was.’
‘You were intent on trespassing.’
Joe shrugged. He saw no sense in arguing with someone who was intent on a fight. Better just to fight and have done with it.
The man jerked his head towards the van. ‘Get in.’
‘What?’
‘The owner of the property wants to see you.’
‘Why?’
‘He’ll tell you that himself.’ He took a step back, opened the passenger door and jerked his head again: Get in.
‘Who’s the owner of the property?’
The man scowled, making it clear that he ought to be beating Joe’s face to a pulp rather than answering his questions.
‘Leon Race.’
Twenty-Three
THE JOURNEY TO Leon’s home took less than two minutes, and most of that was spent turning the van round.
Joe could have refused to go, but he guessed that might cause more problems in the long run. If what he’d heard so far was true, it seemed likely that he would show up on Leon’s radar at some point during his stay. Despite the van driver’s thuggish demeanour, Joe didn’t regard himself as in any particular danger, and his instincts for these things were generally reliable.
The entrance to the property was marked by a set of steel gates. A wide gravel drive cut between leaf-strewn lawns. Mature trees ran along the high perimeter wall, which was constructed of a weathered yellow stone.
The house itself, built from the same pale stone, was a solid, symmetrical Georgian mansion, with a dark slate roof and thick chimneys at each end. The ivy that crept towards the upper windows gave the sense of a building that was long rooted in the landscape and might one day be consumed by it.
To the right of the house another high stone wall enclosed a kitchen garden. A modern ugly car port had been erected against the wall, with several cars and vans parked beneath it. Joe’s immediate reaction was to wonder how the owner had managed to obtain permission to build such an eyesore – and then he remembered who the owner was.
The van rolled to a halt behind an E-class Mercedes, and Joe climbed out. Another guard was waiting for him in the doorway. He looked about nineteen, thin and pimply, with dark red hair and a ferocious shaving rash on his neck.
‘Leon Race?’
The man gawped, until it registered that Joe was taking the piss. ‘I’m Kestle.’
Joe shrugged: As if I care. Stepping into a large entrance hall, he was instructed to leave his bag and remove his jacket.
‘I have to pat you down,’ Kestle said.
‘You’re joking.’
‘That’s the rules.’ The guard turned his head, as if seeking reinforcements. With perfect timing, an obese middle-aged man came waddling towards them, dress shoes clopping on the flagstones. He wore pinstriped trousers and a pink shirt, his neck bulging over the collar like a cake spilling from its mould.
‘Just a small courtesy to Mr Race,’ he said. He had a soft local accent, and a voice that sounded like his sinuses were blocked. ‘I’m Clive Fenton.’
They shook hands, then Joe allowed Kestle to perform a quick, ineffective search. He missed several places where Joe could have concealed a weapon.
Fenton led him across the hall and into what Joe guessed was a secondary living room. It had a polished wood floor with several Turkish rugs, a collection of sofas and armchairs, a mid-sized plasma TV, but little sign that it saw much use. There was a coffee table with a stack of newspapers, mostly tabloids, and a large metal tambour cupboard that looked more like it belonged in an office. No pictures on the walls, no ornaments or personal belongings.
Fenton shut the door behind them. The room’s other occupant was standing at the window, watching a gardener trudge across the grass, sucking up leaves with a hand-held vacuum.
‘If he worked any slower he’d fucking rust.’ He turned his unhappy gaze upon Joe. ‘I’m Leon Race. And you are …?’
‘Joe Carter.’
‘Hello, Joe Carter, I’d like to hear why you were spying on me.’
Leon didn’t really correspond to the image that Joe had formed in his head. In a few aspects, certainly: the coldness in his voice, the steely glint in his eyes. But physically Leon Race was disconcerting. Maybe an inch or two over six foot, he had to weigh at least sixteen stone; and somehow he managed to look both blubbery and strong.
He had a round face with chubby features, soft white skin, blue eyes and fine silky hair the colour of straw. He wore an olive-green T-shirt and blue polyester jogging pants. His huge feet were encased in gleaming white trainers, which perhaps explained the spring in his step. Even standing in one spot he kept bobbing up and down on his toes.
His hands were also large and expressive, constantly on the move. Chunky platinum rings on both forefingers.
‘I wasn’t spying,’ Joe said. ‘I didn’t even notice this place until I saw your guy with the binoculars.’
‘You were trying to find a way onto my property.’ Leon sounded stern rather than aggressive. Joe had the impression that this was a game; a test of some kind.
‘I’d been to the Shell Cavern,’ he said, pulling the crumpled leaflet from his pocket. ‘I spotted the path and decided to check out the view, but your fence put paid to that.’
Leon waited for more, but Joe knew that game well. He said nothing.
Then Leon abruptly jerked his head back and laughed, as though he and Joe had been friends all along.
‘You wouldn’t believe all the grief I got over that fence. Bloody ramblers or whatever they are.’ He winked. ‘In the end we had to stage a landslide to help the council prove it wasn’t safe. That saw ’em off, eh, Clive?’
Fenton addressed his response to Joe. ‘It is genuinely hazardous, of course.’
Leon tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger. ‘Very clever man, my Mr Fenton. D’you want to see it?’ he added, so swiftly that Joe was baffled.
‘See what?’
‘What d’you think? The fucking view.’
Leon strode out of the room, through the hall and into another, larger room that was being used as an office. Joe followed in his wake, with Fenton bringing up the rear, puffing from the effort of matching his boss’s pace.
Behind the desk, full-length louvre blinds covered a set of double doors. Leon pulled the blinds aside and threw open the doors, letting in dazzling sunshine and the sound of water pummelling rock. They stepped onto the veranda that Joe had seen from the other side of the gorge. It ran along two sides of the building, and at several points there were steps down to a lower level of hardwood decking.
Leon marched across to the viewing platform in the far corner. It was enclosed by a high rail and boasted a set of wrought-iron furniture. Red-faced and panting, Fenton grabbed one of the chairs and
sat down, sighing gratefully.
The view was every bit as spectacular as Joe had anticipated. He took in the grand sweep of the bay, the town laid out on the hillside to his left, and the rocky tree-studded slopes to his right. The motor boats in the harbour looked like toys. The sea was such a deep, sparkling blue that its gentle waves might have been lapping against a Caribbean shore.
Leon beckoned him forward. ‘Come here.’
Joining him at the rail, Joe peered over. A narrow ravine ran beside the property, carving up the lower section of the terraced gardens. The stream widened into a deep, churning pool, then spilled over a rocky ledge, forming a waterfall about twenty feet high that disappeared into the trees on the hillside beneath them.
Joe found himself calculating his chance of survival should Leon suddenly pitch him over the edge. He didn’t think it was going to happen, but he gripped the rail tightly just the same.
‘Is this the stream that runs into town?’ he asked.
‘Kind of. At the top of the hill it splits into two. A couple of centuries back this channel was dug out to support a mill that used to be just down there. At the bottom of the hill it runs underground and joins the main flow that comes out in the harbour.’
‘It’s stunning,’ Joe said.
Leon nodded, but the air of convivial host was absent once again. He turned and scrutinised the hillside, pointing out the spot where Joe had been standing.
‘Are you gonna tell me why you were watching my house?’
‘I wasn’t. I had no idea who lived here.’
‘But you’ve heard of me. You know who I am?’
Joe shrugged. ‘Your name’s been mentioned.’
Leon exchanged a glance with Fenton, then snorted. ‘I bet it has.’
Joe decided that a dignified silence was his best response. He leaned his back against the rail so he could look directly at Fenton but also monitor Leon in his peripheral vision. Just in case.
‘What are you really doing here, Mr Carter?’ Fenton said.
‘In Trelennan, you mean? Visiting an old friend.’
‘Diana Walters,’ Leon said, and ignored Joe’s surprise, as though vaguely insulted that Joe hadn’t expected him to know. ‘So what’s she to you?’
‘Like I said, she’s an old friend.’
‘What about her husband? Was he an “old friend” as well?’
‘He was, yes.’
‘And a fellow officer of the law, maybe?’
Joe pushed himself off the rail and stood upright, facing Leon. Trying to project a calmness he didn’t entirely feel, he stared into Leon’s eyes and said, ‘That’s none of your business. Why the hell do you care who I am or what I’m doing here? Unless you’ve got something to hide.’
He waited a beat, savouring the shocked, incredulous reaction from both men.
‘Well?’ he said. ‘Do you have something to hide?’
Twenty-Four
AS SHE SENT the text, Alise felt a thrill run through her. After so long on her own, it was wonderful to have an ally, someone willing to fight alongside her.
Not that Joe had actually said as much. She shouldn’t get overexcited. Experience had taught her that too much hope could be a destabilising force, especially when the promised results failed to materialise.
But Joe seemed genuinely interested in her plight. There was a quiet strength to him that had impressed her. The sort of man who wouldn’t boast or shout about his capabilities; he would just get on and do it.
And he had a hardness, a flinty, stubborn streak that was as dangerous as it was useful. She had seen it in men she had known back home. One had been in the Military Police; the other was a notorious drug smuggler in Riga who’d been shot dead by his Russian supplier. Joe had the same look in his eyes: that even he might not know what he was capable of until it was too late.
But nice eyes, also, she thought, blushing inside. Warm eyes.
Then again, her judgement could be wrong. Once Joe understood what he was facing he might decide he wanted nothing more to do with it.
Getting too negative … She gave herself a mental slap on the face. Stop it.
For the past hour she’d been sitting on the promenade, but the air was rapidly cooling. She stood up and crossed the road. Walking was the best way to keep warm.
She was lodging unofficially in a building where the landlord, a mean and suspicious man, lived on the ground floor. Her flatmate, Karen, finished work at five. By then the landlord was normally at the pub. Alise would hide around the corner until it was safe to sneak inside.
An odd way to live, on top of everything else. Afternoons were the worst, finding somewhere to wait out the endless hours. Maybe it was a good thing that her employers had run out of patience. Perhaps, after one more week without progress, she should return to London …
She started up Crabtree Lane, vaguely intent on wandering past the undertaker’s home. Too preoccupied to notice the van rolling to the kerb behind her. She didn’t hear the soft clicks as first the passenger door opened, then one of the rear doors.
The van was plain white, no livery, the registration plates obscured by dirt and grease. Three men ghosted onto the pavement, dressed all in black and wearing sunglasses and baseball caps. One of them carried a knife. He didn’t expect to use it, but if he had to, he would.
Finally Alise sensed their approach, but too late. All she knew was a sudden muffled darkness, some kind of hood or blanket thrown over her head, a hand clamped on her mouth, strong arms dragging her backwards. Her heel bumped against the kerb and she felt one of her shoes loosening, falling away. A man said, ‘The shoe,’ and another said, ‘Got it,’ and she realised there were two of them at least, probably more: it was a team.
A team had been sent to get her, to snatch her off the street in broad daylight. That could mean only one thing.
It was over. She had failed Kamila, and now she would suffer the same fate.
Leon stared at Joe, a feral look in his eyes. Bouncing on his heels as if preparing to attack. Then he turned and hammered out a primitive drum roll on the rail with his fists. The noise reverberated through the decking, competing with the roar of the waterfall. When he turned back, he was calmer.
‘That’s a brave question to ask,’ he said in a sober voice. ‘Fucking cheeky, too.’
‘I don’t understand your curiosity about me.’
‘You’ve been speaking to people. Ellie Kipling. And that Russian nutjob.’
‘Alise?’ Joe queried. ‘Why should you think we were discussing you?’
‘Because that’s the only thing she ever talks about. That and her bloody sister.’
Joe shrugged. ‘She believes the two subjects are linked.’
‘Yeah, but that’s because she’s got a screw loose. Did she tell you she even got the police down here? Interviewing me. Bothering my friends and associates. Fucking embarrassing, and a total waste of everybody’s time. I’ve never set eyes on her sister, and I doubt if the poor cow ever set foot in this town.’
‘She doesn’t accept that.’
‘No. And what do you call a person who won’t accept reality? A lunatic.’
‘She seemed perfectly sane to me.’
‘We’ll agree to disagree, then.’ Leon dragged a couple of chairs out, sat on one and pointed at the other. ‘Tell me, Joe, what do you do for a living?’
Joe pulled the chair another foot or so away from Leon before he sat down. ‘Various things. Painting and decorating, most recently.’
Leon nodded thoughtfully. ‘How long are you planning to stay here?’
‘I haven’t decided yet.’ Joe wondered if he was going to get his marching orders. Leave town by sunset or face the consequences …
‘Well, if you’re sticking round for a week or two I might have some work available.’
Wrong-footed, Joe stared at Leon for a moment, waiting for the catch. Leon could see it; he looked grimly amused.
‘Has anybody explained what I do?’
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‘Not really. Though I’ve seen the security business in operation.’
Joe’s ironic tone was lost on Leon, who said proudly: ‘Started that up from nothing, ten years ago. Now we have forty guys doing patrols in half a dozen local towns. More than eight hundred homes signed up to our personal-response service. Thousands of others with alarm systems. Thanks to me, crime in Trelennan is non-existent.’
‘Very impressive.’
This time Leon detected the hint of sarcasm. His mouth tightened. ‘That’s the core business. I also provide security for pubs, clubs, concerts, sporting events. I’ve got a few pubs of my own, plus a taxi firm and the amusement arcade here in Trelennan, and a vending-machine business with customers all over the South-West.’
‘What about the funeral director’s?’
‘That’s not mine, though the proprietor, Derek, is a friend.’ Leon paused, irritated by the break in his momentum. ‘The fact is, I always need people available at short notice, willing to work irregular hours. Cash in hand all right for you?’
Joe nodded, as non-committally as he could manage. ‘It can be.’
‘It’d be mostly driving, deliveries. Ferrying people and stuff from A to B. Cornwall’s a nice place to live, but the public transport is shit.’ He grunted. ‘What do you say?’
‘I’ll definitely think it over. Thanks for the offer.’
Leon looked like he was going to take offence. He glanced at Fenton, whose face remained impassive.
‘Right. You do that.’ Leon stood up, signalling that the meeting was concluded.
As they turned to go inside, Joe caught movement from an upstairs window, as though somebody had quickly backed out of sight. The after-image left in Joe’s mind seemed familiar.
A phone rang as they were passing through the office. Fenton picked up a cordless handset and passed it to Leon.
‘Reece?’ Leon said. ‘So what’s up?’ Reaching the hall, he put on some speed, extending the distance between him and Joe. He listened for a while. ‘No, I get you.’ Listened some more. Consulted his watch. ‘Not yet. Make it, say, around eight.’