18
ROSE’S KITCHEN WAS warm and welcoming. Aaron had arrived just a few minutes ago, and after a brief introduction, Rose had announced that dinner—or ‘tea’ as she had called it—was ready. Now, he and Nat sat at the table, while Rose served up beef stew and dumplings. Aaron thanked her for the invitation, then proceeded to attack the stew like a man rescued from starving in the wilderness.
“Tell me about yourself, Mr. Black,” Rose said, as they dined. Aaron had liked her immediately. Her eyes were honest and friendly, and she had a smile that could melt Winter’s frozen heart. “It’s not every day I have a famous author sitting at my table.”
Aaron dabbed the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “Please, call me Aaron. And I wouldn’t call myself famous.”
“It’s true,” Nat shrugged. “I’d never heard of him.”
“Don’t be so rude.” Rose waved a dismissive hand before returning her attention to Aaron. “It must be an exciting life.”
Aaron shifted on his chair.
“Honestly? The most exciting things to happen in my life happen in here.” He tapped his left temple, making Rose laugh.
“Still, you must love what you do? It’s not many people who can say they’re happy with their lot.” She smiled warmly at Nat. “Guess we must be the lucky ones, Aaron.”
Aaron smiled. Lucky wasn’t a word he would have used to describe recent life events.
Rose continued with her polite interrogation. Where was he from? Where had he gone to university? How many books had he written? Was he married? Any children? Aaron answered as evasively as he could, occasionally glancing in Nat’s direction, who watched him with amusement. Eventually, Rose’s questions came to an end. Silence draped itself over the table as her jovial expression grew serious.
“Nat tells me she’s helping you research a book about Grady Spencer,” Rose said, interrupting the quiet.
Aaron nodded, noting her accusatory tone. “That’s right.”
Suddenly, he knew why he’d been invited to dinner.
Rose locked eyes with him. “Tell me, Aaron, I’m curious—why ever would you want to write a book like that?”
“Well,” Aaron said, pausing to clear his throat. “I suppose because such a horrifying story needs to be told. It’s this type of story that make us feel safe in our beds at night, thankful that it hasn’t happened to us but to someone else.”
Rose leaned back, crossing her arms over her belly. “I see. The problem with that, though, is that it didn’t happen to someone else, did it? It happened to us, right here in Porth an Jowl. And I can’t see how writing a book about it will make any of us feel safe in our beds ever again.”
Aaron glanced at Nat, who was busy staring at the table. Rose waved a hand. “Just my opinion, of course. But I’m concerned, like others in the cove, that this book of yours might do more harm than good.”
“It’s not my intention to cause harm,” Aaron said, attempting to smooth out the irritation from his voice. “I’m simply trying to understand why Grady Spencer did what he did. Granted, it’s not the most pleasant of subjects, but if we can understand the motives behind his actions, perhaps we can prevent something like this from happening again.”
More silence. Aaron speared a chunk of beef with his fork and stared at it, his appetite rapidly fading.
“Tell me, Aaron,” Rose said, after a long, awkward silence, “have you noticed that great archway of rock down at the beach, the one protruding from the left cliff?”
Aaron nodded. “I believe it’s called the Devil’s Gate.”
“That’s right. Do you know why it’s called the Devils Gate?”
“I can’t say I do.”
Rose shifted her weight, getting more comfortable. Aaron leaned forward, wondering where the conversation was heading. He had expected a pleasant dinner and an opportunity to interview his host, not to be the subject of a hostile interrogation. And why wasn’t Nat coming to his rescue?
“It’s from an old legend,” Rose continued. “Hundreds of years old, it is. As you may know, Porth an Jowl translates from the Cornish language as Devil’s Cove, but it can also be interpreted to mean the Devil’s Gate. Legend has it that archway of rock was a gateway to hell. One night, long ago, when Porth an Jowl was just a handful of fisherfolk, the gate opened and the devil came out. He rose up from the water to cross the beach and snatch the fisherfolk’s children. Not because the people of the cove had done him any wrong, but because he was the devil. And the devil is evil incarnate. They say, to this day, that if you go down to the gate at night when the tide is low and you’re standing in the right place, you can still hear those kiddies’ screams coming all the way up from the fiery pits of hell.”
A smile spread across Aaron’s lips. “That’s quite a story.”
“It’s more than a story,” Rose said.
“How’s that?”
“Because the devil came back again to take our children.”
Laughter fell from Aaron’s mouth, surprising even himself. “You don’t believe Grady Spencer was the devil in disguise, do you?”
He was shocked to find no trace of amusement on Rose’s face.
“Why not? Evil takes many forms. And what Grady Spencer did to those poor children was truly devilish.”
“Grady Spencer was mentally unstable.” The smile faded from Aaron’s lips. “He was sick. A psychopath and a sadist. But he wasn’t the devil.”
He glanced across again at Nat, but she only shook her head.
“So, you’re saying Grady Spencer did all those terrible things because he was unwell?” Rose said.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“Not because he had evil in him? Not because he was born bad?”
“I don’t believe anyone’s born bad,” Aaron retorted. “I’m not excusing what he did, far from it. But I do think something terrible had to have happened to him to make him that way.”
“And that’s what you’re hoping to do with your book, is it? Prove that Grady Spencer wasn’t a monster but damaged goods? You want people to feel sorry for him?”
Tonight was going from bad to worse. “Not at all. Spencer was a monster in every sense of the word. I’m just trying to understand why.”
“Evil can’t be understood, Mr. Black.” Rose’s angry face stared at the space between them. “Bad people do bad things.”
“Then how do you explain Cal Anderson?”
Aaron had the sudden urge to confess he had seen Cal, that he had witnessed the aftermath of his anguish and rage. How would Rose react, he wondered, if he were to tell her that the devil really was alive and well, here in Porth an Jowl?
He drew in a breath and shook his head. “Bad people do bad things because of illness or chemistry. Not because of ridiculous, superstitious nonsense like the devil made them do it.”
Nat was staring at him, her mouth hanging open. At the end of the table, Rose grew silent and still.
“Let me tell you something, Mr. Black. Some food for thought, if you like,” she said at last, fixing him with a hawk-like stare. “You see, I know what outsiders like you think about a place like this. You come down here on your holidays, or your little research trips, and you think, ‘what a funny little place with their silly superstitions and nonsense stories.’ You say to yourself, ‘Oh, aren’t they so sweet and so naive?’ But what you all fail to understand, Mr. Black, is just how much we need those silly superstitions and nonsense stories.
“You see, Cornwall is a hard place to live. It’s isolated. There’s no jobs, no money. Winters are long and cruel. We’re the ass end of the country, Mr. Black, and nine months of the year, it feels like the rest of you forget we exist.
“Then summer hits and down you come for your ice creams and your pasties and your pretty cliffs and beaches. And as long as we have our superstitions and our stories, you’ll keep coming. And as long as you keep coming, we’ll have money in our pockets and food on our tables for another year.”
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She paused. When she next spoke, her voice was sad and pleading. “The thing is, Aaron, this town’s been hit hard enough this year. A missing boy meant families stayed away in droves. And now, after all this horror next door, it’s only going to get worse. You think your book will make families want to come back to our town again? You think it will make all our troubles go away?”
Aaron tried to speak but the words wouldn’t come.
Rose shook her head, disappointment filling her eyes. “No, I didn’t think so.”
Dinner continued in subdued silence. Once the table had been cleared, Nat sent Rose off to the living room for a calming glass of port. Now, Aaron stood at the kitchen sink, sulking as he washed the dishes.
“You know, if that’s how you try and get people on your side,” Nat said, drying the clean plates and putting them away, “it’s no wonder no one in this town wants to help you.”
“I was defending myself,” Aaron protested. “And by the way, thanks for coming to my rescue. Now Rose thinks I’m a know-it-all asshole from the city who’s here for my own gain.”
“Aren’t you?”
Aaron flinched. “Is that what you really think?”
Nat leaned against the counter, watching him. “I think that’s what the people of this town think. I think they’d tell you that the police are still identifying bodies, and that Cal’s still on the run somewhere. People are hurting, Aaron. They’ve not had a chance to process it all.”
“And you think I’m rubbing salt into their wounds?”
“I can guarantee that’s what Rose is thinking right now. What I want to know is why you’re writing this book in the first place. You write trashy mysteries. It’s a far cry from the real horror of what happened in this town. Why don’t you just write another Sulky Winters?”
“It’s Silky Winters,” Aaron corrected her. “And I don’t want to.”
Nat flashed him a wry look. “Nothing to do with your last book sinking like the Titanic, then?”
Aaron’s jaw swung open. “You’ve been checking up on me!”
“I was interested in your books, that’s all. It’s pretty easy to stumble across things on the Internet.”
“Well, how about you mind your own business and stumble across the research I’m paying you to do?”
He could feel his mood turning to panic. Today had revealed a lot about Cal’s psyche, but it hadn’t brought Aaron any closer to finding him. And what about the book?
Nat was right. No one in this godforsaken town wanted to help him, especially not Carrie. Which was why it was imperative he found Cal, sooner rather than later, because if he didn’t, he’d be filing for bankruptcy before spring.
“You find anything new about Spencer?” he asked.
“Only that he’s had that limp for years.”
“Anything else?”
“Not yet. I haven’t had time.”
“Well, find the time.”
He thought back to his afternoon at Penwartha and at Glebe Farm. Get it together, Black! Use that damn brain of yours. There were three more attack sites on his list to visit. Perhaps they would reveal something, a clue to Cal’s whereabouts. But before he could investigate them, he had an appointment with the Baker family. At least they’d agreed to talk to him, unlike everyone else.
Nat was staring at him, eyebrow raised. “You’ve gone mute.”
“Sorry. There’s a lot on my mind.”
The dishes done, he drained the sink of water. Nat dumped the towel to one side and pulled her tobacco pouch from her pocket.
“To do with your so-called ‘development’?”
She stared at him, her eyes shifting from side to side. Aaron could almost feel her trying to penetrate his skull and read his thoughts.
“Those things will kill you,” Aaron said, nodding at the cigarette she had almost finished rolling.
“So will the suspense if you don’t tell me what you’re up to.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Tucking the cigarette behind her ear, Nat scowled.
“You’re hiding something,” she said. “This ‘development’—is it to do with Cal Anderson?”
Aaron glanced away. She was sharp, this girl. Perhaps too sharp. He wondered if he should tell her. Two people searching for Cal Anderson would mean twice the chance of finding him.
But could Nat be trusted? Aaron shrugged. “Get that research done and maybe I’ll think about telling you.”
“I’ve got study time tomorrow afternoon. I’ll work on it then.”
“Good. Call me when you’re done.” Aaron smiled. The more he thought about telling Nat, the more it felt like the right thing to do. “I’m glad at least someone around here can stand the sight of me.”
Nat wrinkled her face. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
19
A SHRILL BEEPING PULLED Nat from a dream in which she and Jago were fighting bitterly. She shot out a hand toward her mobile phone on the bedside table and silenced the alarm. All those residual negative feelings leaked into the waking world as she sat up amid a sea of black painted walls and posters of punk bands, and immediately began rolling a cigarette. As she worked, her gaze found its way back to her mobile phone.
Screw you, Jago, she thought. You don’t deserve my call.
Dragging herself out of bed, she opened the window and let in the grey, bitter morning. She smoked her cigarette and stared into the empty street below. Even though it was Friday, the thought of heading to college and spending her time with the rest of the losers tainted her morning smoke. What was the point when it all felt so . . . pointless? Her only chance now was to save as much money as she could and head for London. What she would do when she got there was another question entirely. One for which she still had no answer.
Rose’s voice rang up from downstairs, announcing breakfast was ready. The muscles in Nat’s neck tightened. Last night, Rose had decided that Aaron Black was a despicable, unsavoury character, and had forbidden Nat from engaging in any further work for him. Nat had responded with a few choice words of her own and had stormed off to her room.
Rose had no right to tell her who she could or couldn’t work for. And sure, Aaron Black was not the most likable person she’d encountered, and his arrogance seemed limitless, but at least he didn’t treat her like a damn child.
A thought struck her—if she could impress Aaron with her research skills, maybe he’d be open to letting her sleep on his sofa when she eventually made it to London, just until she could afford a place of her own.
Nat flicked the cigarette butt and watched the wind whisk it away. Closing the window, she moved to her desk and opened her laptop. If she was going to build an accurate profile of Grady Spencer’s life, she would need to start at the beginning.
She spent the next five minutes seeking out birth and death registrars in Cornwall and ignoring Rose’s repeated calls to the breakfast table. The good news was that the county’s central registrar was walking distance from her college campus in Truro. The bad news was that the registrar was not open to the public. Instead, information had to be requested—and paid for—online, and even then, you could not undertake the research yourself but had to wait several days while it was collated for you.
“Damn it,” Nat grumbled.
Making a mental note to ask Aaron for a research budget, she continued her search. A few minutes later, she found an alternative.
The Family Historical Research Society was a non-profit service, whose research library was contained within a grand Georgian-era terraced building on Lemon Street. A quick search of their site revealed that library access was for society members only, but Nat was undeterred.
After breakfasting in near silence with Rose, she made her usual bus journey to college, then slipped away to the nearest cafe, where she drank black coffee and waited until the research library was open.
Upon arrival, Nat was greeted by the librarian, an ancient and bespectacled, white-haired
man, whose name was Terence and who smelled faintly of boiled sweets. He listened earnestly as she spun a creative web of lies concerning a college project she’d been tasked with—which required tracing her family history—and while this was a relatively easy chore for the rest of her peers, for Nat, who had only recently discovered that she’d been adopted, it was proving an impossible task because she didn’t have access to the right resources.
Terence nodded and sighed, and his eyes became glassy with pity. Finally, he agreed to let her enter for one hour only, on the condition that she paid for any photocopying and that she kept her visit a secret from her peers.
Nat’s excitement quickly sagged as Terence showed her into the main library area. She’d expected a grand, musty hall filled with tall, cherry wood shelves. Instead, she was presented with a long and cramped room with yellowed ceiling tiles and harsh fluorescent strip lighting. Rows of cheap metal shelves containing boxes of files filled the space. The librarian’s desk sat at the end of the room. An ancient computer sat on top. Next to the desk, a rickety photocopier looked as if it might collapse with one press of a button.
Terence explained how the shelving system worked then pointed out a floor map pinned to a noticeboard.
“Births are over there,” he said, pointing to the left side of the room. “Marriage is in the middle. Death is on the right. Just like life, I suppose.”
Nat nodded. Where did she start? She knew the date Grady Spencer died but that was about it.
Terence hovered beside her.
“Looks daunting, doesn’t it?” he said, tipping his head toward the shelves. “Especially for you children today when all you need to do is look on the Internet. I’d be happy to assist if you need it.”
Nat stared at the shelves, feeling them bear down on her.
“I’m not like other kids,” she said. “And I’ll be fine on my own, thank you.”
Taking the hint, Terence raised his eyebrows. “Very well, if you think so. You have one hour.”
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