Blood Falls

by Tom Bale

  ‘As the proverbial whistle.’

  Leon inspected the living room, noting that the furniture was back in place. The polythene sheeting had been incinerated; every hard surface wiped down and polished for good measure.

  Pam appeared. She was grey-haired, small and round and twinkly-eyed, like a granny in an American sitcom. ‘Drinks, boys? Something to eat?’

  Leon patted his belly. ‘Cooked breakfast in the hotel. Not up to your standard, but …’

  She smiled indulgently. ‘Just cranberry juice, then, my love?’

  ‘Perfect.’ He scratched himself. ‘I need to have a shower soon. Didn’t have time this morning.’

  ‘Joe Carter was here,’ Fenton told him as they made for the office. ‘He wants to accept the position, providing the wages are right.’

  ‘Cheeky bastard. Where else is he going to earn anything?’ Leon brooded for a moment. ‘All right. Tell him to start tomorrow. Ten quid an hour: take it or fuck off.’

  Fenton was already tapping himself a note on his BlackBerry. ‘I’ve been thinking about that message on Alise’s pho—’

  ‘Ah, ah.’ Leon raised his hand. ‘We don’t say that name now. Not any more.’

  Fenton dipped his head in apology. ‘Of course. But the text, the one she sent to Joe, we have to consider where it will lead …’

  ‘Away from here. I’m fine with that.’

  ‘But do we want this man, whom we’re about to employ, searching for the missing sister of a girl who is herself now missing?’

  ‘Don’t worry. We’ll keep a close eye on him.’ Leon studied the paperwork on his desk, then shook his head. Sighed. ‘Last night,’ he said. ‘Do you reckon Derek was …?’

  ‘What?’

  There were tiny beads of sweat on Fenton’s forehead. Leon stared at them for so long that he completely lost his train of thought.

  ‘Dunno. Forget it.’ He scratched himself again, gazing restlessly around the room. ‘Hope there weren’t any fucking bedbugs in that hotel.’ The laptop prompted a memory. ‘Those pictures we sent out. Any replies yet?’

  ‘Only one. Mark Kowalski.’

  ‘Ah, shit.’ Kowalski was a semi-retired low-level cocaine dealer who’d say anything to anyone if it curried favour or earned him a few quid.

  ‘I can tell him to take a running jump, if you like?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Leon burped loudly, then grimaced at the taste in his mouth: acid indigestion. ‘No. Seconds thoughts, get his number and I’ll call him.’

  Lonsdale Avenue boasted a mix of properties: traditional Cornish bungalows, some Edwardian town houses – most of them converted into flats – and a few modern apartment blocks.

  Number 28 was one of the Edwardian buildings, at the end of a terrace of five properties. It was four storeys high, with dormer windows in the roof: an ugly modern addition. Four steps led up to the front door, which was half-glazed and had an industrial-sized letter box.

  The house was in dire need of maintenance. The stonework was cracked and bleeding mortar. Most of the paint had peeled from the door. A gouge in the frame suggested that someone had tried to jemmy it open in the not too distant past.

  There was no intercom; just a square plate on the wall with nine doorbells mounted on it, each with a name tag fixed under clear plastic. Some were blank; others practically illegible. On the one for 5 there was a single scrawled word: Noye.

  Before pressing the bell, Joe tried the door. The ageing timber creaked and groaned, but the lock held fast. He rang the doorbell, then checked his phone. There was a signal, so he called Alise again. Still nothing.

  After ringing the bell a second time, a net curtain swayed in a downstairs window. The lower sash opened and a man’s bony arm emerged while his other hand fought with the curtain, clawing it over his head like a corpse escaping its shroud.

  The man was in his seventies or older, pale and painfully thin, a rash of white stubble on his chin. Hollow eyes and a collapsed mouth. He smacked his lips a couple of times, like a goldfish, and Joe saw that he had no teeth.

  ‘Who you after?’ he said. The lack of teeth mushed the words into: ‘Ooyouaffer?’

  Be discreet, Davy had warned. ‘Karen Noye,’ Joe said.

  The man squinted at him. Joe thought: Damn: it’s Sharon.

  ‘She’s out. Who are you?’

  ‘A friend. Are you the landlord?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘No reason.’ Ignoring the man’s malicious scowl, Joe trotted down the steps and walked away. There was an alley that separated the terrace from a modern apartment block next door, but he couldn’t use it without being seen from the landlord’s window.

  Instead he continued to the end of the street, made two left turns and found himself in a narrow access road that ran parallel to Lonsdale Avenue, serving a row of lock-up garages. The drizzle had let up slightly but still gave him good reason to hunch down into his collar, obscuring his face from anyone who might be watching.

  Each building in the terrace had a modest backyard enclosed by a high stone wall. Joe hoisted himself up onto the wall, toes scrabbling for purchase on the mossy, rain-slicked stone, then slithered down into the yard. It was empty apart from an old rotary washing line and a rusted bicycle. Lying almost at his feet, as if thwarted in the act of escape, were the decomposing remains of what might have been a rat.

  A wrought-iron fire escape clung to the back of the building, threading between two small balconies on each floor. Joe guessed that flat five would be on the second floor, assuming each floor had two apartments. He thought he might as well take a look through the windows and see if there was any obvious sign of trouble.

  Even though he trod slowly, the metal steps reverberated with a dull clanging noise that must have sent vibrations right through the building. Reaching the second floor, he climbed over the rail onto the left-hand balcony and put his face to the window. The room was bare, with a patch of ceiling missing, lath and plaster dangling like severed limbs.

  He moved back to the fire escape, then onto the opposite balcony, his heart beating wildly. If he was spotted now he’d have a hell of a job explaining himself to the police.

  There were curtains up at the window, and what looked like women’s clothes on the floor. He cupped his hands to shield his eyes from reflected light and examined the interior. More clothes in a cheap canvas wardrobe. Cosmetics on a chest of drawers. The room was untidy, but not suspiciously so. No evidence of a struggle.

  Joe sighed. This wasn’t going to tell him anything, and it might just land him in—

  A heavy clunk from below: somebody jumping on to the bottom step. Then a voice: ‘Down you come. Nice and slow.’

  Thirty-One

  OF COURSE, IT wasn’t the police waiting for him. Not in Trelennan.

  It was an LRS patrol.

  Worse still, it was the same one he’d encountered yesterday: stocky, belligerent Reece and curly-haired Todd. Two of the men who’d allegedly attacked Patrick Davy.

  As Joe descended, each step slow and reluctant, he saw them exchange a knowing glance: This is going to be fun.

  The moment Joe reached the ground Reece swung in with a blow to the ribs. Joe was expecting it and managed to lean back, but the space was too restricted to evade it completely.

  ‘You keep still now,’ Reece told him. ‘Or there’ll be more where that came from.’

  ‘That’s him!’ the landlord shouted, hobbling from a door at the side of the building. He was dressed in filthy pyjama trousers and a modern Puffa jacket. He’d put his teeth in, which gave his face a fuller, stronger appearance. ‘Tryin’ to break in, he was. Bold as fucking brass.’

  Reece squared up to Joe. ‘What have you got to say for yourself?’

  Todd stepped closer. ‘Say nothing, if you like. We’ll beat the shit out of you instead.’

  ‘I wasn’t breaking in anywhere,’ Joe said calmly. ‘I was walking past and thought I saw smoke coming from one of the windows. I climbed up to check there wa
sn’t a fire.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ Reece said.

  ‘We caught you red-handed,’ Todd snarled, saliva bubbling on his lips.

  Reece grabbed Joe’s right arm, twisting him sideways and securing his other arm. ‘Your turn,’ he said, and Todd grinned and punched Joe hard in the stomach. Joe managed to wrench one arm free, but too late. He doubled over, coughing and choking.

  ‘Tell us what you’re doing here,’ Reece said.

  ‘Let’s get him inside, shall we?’ Todd said.

  ‘Why? Who cares if anyone sees us?’

  Hearing Reece sound so unconcerned made Joe appreciate the risk he was taking. They seemed to have no idea that Alise lived here. He had to make sure it stayed that way. Exaggerating the effects of the blow, he said, ‘Leon’s going to be pissed off with you two, treating a workmate like this.’

  ‘What the fuck do you mean?’

  Gingerly, Joe straightened up. ‘Leon offered me a job.’

  Both men looked dumbfounded. The landlord, watching from a safe distance, was enraged by the possibility of a truce. ‘Go on. Give him a good kicking.’

  ‘Speak to Leon,’ Joe said, taking a step forward. Reece barred his way.

  ‘Wait.’

  ‘What you gonna do?’ the landlord demanded.

  Reece unclipped the phone from his belt. ‘You can piss off now, grandad.’

  The old man seemed about to object, until he remembered who he was talking to; then he hobbled away, muttering to himself.

  Reece turned his back on Joe while he made the call. Joe heard a couple of exclamations, an enquiry cut short. Reece shoved the phone back in his pocket and jabbed a finger at Joe.

  ‘We’re going to finish this later, you and me.’

  Joe shrugged. ‘Any time.’

  Leon was on the phone to Kowalski when Reece called, so Fenton took it on the other line. Leon tried to follow both conversations at once.

  Kowalski was adamant that he recognised the man in the photo, and ninety per cent sure he was police.

  ‘And when d’you last see him?’

  Kowalski whistled. ‘Oh, gotta be a good ten years ago now.’

  ‘We already knew he was a cop then. What else can you tell me?’

  ‘I’m racking my brains, Leon. I really wanna help you with this.’

  To his caller, Fenton said, ‘Yes. Joe Carter. What was he doing?’

  Leon frowned a question at Fenton, who shrugged. Leon asked Kowalski: ‘So what about the name? Is he Joe Carter?’

  Kowalski made a humming noise, and Leon growled, ‘Don’t fucking lie to me.’

  ‘No, no. I can’t say for sure, Leon. But it sounds right enough.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Not that springs to mind. That’s gotta be a help, though. Gotta be worth something, eh, just by way of a thank-you?’

  ‘Maybe at Christmas.’ Leon slammed the phone down and growled, ‘Santa says you’re getting fuck all.’

  Fenton said, ‘No, that’s correct. Best let him go.’ He finished the call, shaking his head. ‘That was Reece. Called to a suspected burglary and he finds Joe Carter on the balcony of a block of flats owned by Sean Collins.’

  ‘That old scrote? What did Joe have to say?’

  ‘Gave them a cock and bull story, according to Reece. But he hadn’t broken in. He’d gone up the fire escape and was looking in through the windows.’

  ‘Doesn’t strike me as a peeping Tom.’ Leon was troubled. ‘Who lives there?’

  ‘That’s what I was wondering. It’s gruesomely cheap accommodation …’ Fenton’s voice tailed off; and the idea struck them both at the same time.

  ‘Our little foreign friend?’

  Fenton nodded. ‘Could be. Either Collins kept quiet, or he doesn’t know.’

  ‘Shacked up with somebody.’ Leon sighed. Alise had proved surprisingly resilient last night. There were various things she hadn’t told them; where she’d been staying was one of them.

  ‘Not that it matters now,’ Fenton said. ‘But it shows how persistent Joe is.’

  ‘You made the call yet?’

  Fenton nodded. ‘I left a message for him. Nine o’clock tomorrow.’

  ‘Shame. We could have pulled him in this afternoon, found out what this is all about.’

  ‘Best not change our plans now.’

  A tap on the door. Glenn slipped into the room. Leon kept his focus on Fenton, who asked what Kowalski had given them.

  ‘Fuck all.’

  ‘But if he recognised Joe, the likelihood is that someone else will, sooner or later.’

  Leon snorted. ‘Is this your fucking “accentivate the positive” or whatever it is?’

  ‘Accentuate,’ Fenton said, and Glenn winced. Fenton was the only one allowed to correct Leon’s use of English, because the superiority of his education was never in doubt. Besides, they all knew that – aside from his intellect – Fenton had precious little going for him.

  ‘Whatever,’ Leon said. ‘You got me some better news, I hope, Glenn?’

  ‘Not really. The journalist’s here.’

  ‘Ah, shit …’ Leon looked at his watch. ‘Already?’

  ‘He’s all done. Just wants to say goodbye.’

  ‘Well, there you go,’ Leon said drily. ‘Accentuate the positive. Before you send him in, I have a job for you. Should have thought of this last night.’

  He opened a desk drawer and took out the pink Nokia. ‘I need you to take this to Plymouth and send a text with it, later this evening. But whatever you do, don’t turn it on till you get there.’

  ‘Triangulation,’ Fenton chipped in. ‘Enables them to trace the whereabouts of a phone, even when it’s not in use.’ He glanced at Leon. ‘Won’t it disrupt the timing?’

  ‘Chance worth taking, I reckon,’ Leon said. He outlined the message to Glenn, whose lack of enthusiasm was visible in the droop of his shoulders.

  ‘I was counting on finishing at six today,’ he said.

  ‘Stop moaning. This is important.’

  Glenn just nodded, then stomped out to fetch the journalist. Fenton wriggled excitedly, the sofa squeaking under his weight. He’d asked permission to be present for the farewell, and since he’d provided some advice on the language and phrasing, Leon had granted his request.

  Giles loped into the room, grinning his smarmy grin, sweeping his hair back from his forehead with a flick of his head. He strode up to the desk and struck out his hand. Leon pretended not to notice it.

  ‘Mr Race, sir! May I say how grateful I am for your cooperation this week?’

  Leon tipped his head forward once: Yes, you may.

  Giles, thrown by the silence and by Leon’s unwillingness to shake hands, nodded vigorously and ploughed on. ‘Splendid. Because it has, ah, it really has been … refreshing, to meet such a … such a shining example of what can be achieved, after a bad start in life, through sheer … determination—’

  ‘I get the message. Apology accepted, on one condition.’

  Giles frowned. ‘Apology?’

  ‘For patronising me. You have a very patronising manner, Giles. And yes, I do know what the word means. How about that, eh?’

  He beamed at Giles, who looked utterly lost. Fenton had a chubby hand clamped over his mouth, trying to muffle his laughter.

  ‘I put up with it because you’re my guest. That’s the kind of guy I am.’ A calculated pause, then Leon shook his head. ‘No, that’s bollocks. I put up with it because the story you’re gonna write is extremely important to me.’

  He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, his fists touching just in front of his chin, like a boxer waiting for the bell. Serious now, his voice low and menacing.

  ‘See, I know what journalists can do. They twist things. Even after they’ve acted all nice and friendly, they go back and write a load of sneering, poisonous crap. If your story comes out like that, Giles, if I get even a whiff of you patronising me in print, then you’ll have made one very serious enemy out of me
. An enemy like nothing you’ve ever imagined. Are you clear on that?’

  Giles was literally shaking: whether it was with fear, or rage, or a mixture of both, Leon had no idea and he cared even less. What mattered was that the message had hit home.

  Finally the journalist recovered his voice. ‘I’ll … I should be able to email you the article before it’s submitted.’

  ‘That sounds like a plan.’ Leon signalled to Fenton, who hauled himself to his feet. ‘Clive’s gonna see you out. Travel safe, Giles.’

  Thirty-Two

  SLOWLY BUT SURELY, Jenny was reassembling her world. With each visit, she had decided she would try to learn a little more.

  Today he had brought food: croissants and a bottle of Evian water. He had changed the bucket which she used as a toilet, and there was a packet of wet wipes. He wanted her to keep clean, for the sake of his own pleasure.

  Before he entered the cell, he knocked. It might have seemed like a quaint courtesy, but it was not. It was an instruction to switch off the torch and lie down facing the wall.

  At first, these rules had sent a thrill of hope through her. He didn’t want her to see his face: therefore he intended to spare her life.

  Then she remembered that she had met this man in a pub. She had chatted and laughed and drank with him, and then, probably drugged, she had left the pub in his company.

  She knew his face. However much she tried, she could not un-know it, and he would never believe it even if she claimed to have done so.

  She also knew his name, though she wasn’t sure if he would remember telling her. She wasn’t completely certain that she hadn’t invented it. A false memory, snatched from her nightmares.

  Either way, logic dictated that he would not permit her to live. Better to keep this knowledge to herself, though the restless, combative side of her character was only too willing to demand a response. He had reacted badly to a similarly blunt enquiry.

  ‘Are you going to rape me again?’

  ‘Don’t call it that.’ His voice loud and booming in the confined space, the voice of an ogre in a fairy tale. ‘It’s sex. We have sex. Okay?’