Desperation Point

by Malcolm Richards

  She watched the librarian shuffle over to his desk and sit down. Then Nat pulled a notebook from her bag and stepped toward the shelves. She spent the next ten minutes stomping up and down the aisles and repeatedly referring to the shelving map in a frustrated bid to understand the library’s ridiculous filing system. Twice, she looked up and was annoyed to see Terence watching her, an amused smile on his lips.

  Fine, don’t help me, she thought. But hadn’t she just told him she could manage? Pushing the irritation down, she narrowed her eyes and continued her search for Grady Spencer’s death certificate.

  Another ten minutes passed by. Bubbling with exasperation, Nat eyed the wall clock. She was no closer to finding the certificate even though she was certain she’d finally worked out the system.

  Perhaps it wasn’t here.

  Exiting the maze of shelves, she marched up to the desk, where Terence sat in front of the computer. He looked up, one expectant eyebrow arched.

  “Can’t find what you’re looking for?” the old man said with a hint of a smile.

  Nat bit her lip and shook her head.

  “You’re looking for a death certificate, I presume? When did the person in question pass away?”

  “Three months ago,” Nat said, her words clipped.

  “Ah, that explains it. A copy of the certificate won’t have been shelved yet, you see. We’re just a skeleton crew of volunteers, we can only go as fast as we can. Which isn’t all that fast, these days.”

  Disappointment pulled at Nat’s shoulders.

  Some research assistant you are, she thought. You can kiss staying on Aaron’s couch goodbye.

  Terence leaned forward, pushing his thick-lensed glasses back up his nose.

  “We could try the database. It won’t have the death certificate, but we can cross-reference the county parish registers. If the person you’re looking for was ever baptised, married or buried within church grounds, there should be a record.”

  Nat stared at the dinosaur of a computer weighing down the librarian’s desk. It had to be older than she was. And what would happen when she told Terence who she was searching for? As kind and helpful as the old man was, she had a feeling his benevolence would be immediately revoked. But the alternative was to walk away with nothing.

  Screw it.

  Nat sucked in a breath and pushed it back out.

  “Okay, fine,” she said. “I’m looking for Grady Spencer.”

  A veil of recognition, then confusion fell over Terence’s features. “You mean that . . . you think you could be related to him?”

  “I’d rather not discuss it,” Nat said, a little too forcefully. She took another breath, forcing the tension from her features. “Please. Could we just look?”

  Something had changed in the way the librarian was looking at her. Before, there had been sympathy. Now, there was fear.

  Nat nodded at the computer. Let him believe it, she thought. After all, Grady Spencer was only marginally worse than her own parents, and she’d already conned her way into the library; what did it matter?

  Terence cleared his throat. His skin had paled to the colour of skimmed milk. “Grady Spencer. . .”

  He turned to the monitor and tapped on the keyboard with his index fingers. They waited in silence, avoiding each other’s gaze, as the computer processed information.

  “Here we are,” Terence said at last, working the scroll wheel on the mouse with a shaky hand. “Grady Spencer. . .”

  Nat leaned over his shoulder, desperate to see what had been found. Her eyes grew wide and round. “You’re sure it’s the right Grady Spencer?”

  “Ain’t too many folk around here with that name.”

  Nat stared at the marriage certificate on the computer screen.

  “Grady Spencer had a wife. . .” she breathed.

  20

  ZENNOR WAS A TINY COASTAL village with a population of approximately two hundred people, most of whom lived in old cottages over a scattering of quiet streets. At the centre, the small and ancient St Senara’s church stood directly opposite the Tinner’s Arms—a pub that had been serving ale for over seven hundred years.

  Aaron pulled into the car park at the edge of the village; a gravel stretch of potholed ground surrounded by tall hedgerows. The drive had been short but perilous, along narrow and winding single lane roads that predated the modern vehicle. Anxious to get his feet back on the ground, Aaron climbed out of the car, then swore under his breath as he realised he’d left his umbrella back at the hotel. The rain had started up again during the night and now it fell in a depressing drizzle with no sign of stopping soon.

  Pulling up the collar of his jacket, he headed for the road. He could hear the low roar of the ocean somewhere behind him as he entered the village. Passing the church, he peeked through the open door. The interior was small and archaic. Early this morning, he’d read about how one of the pews had an ornate carving of a mermaid etched into the wood; something to do with a local legend. His thoughts turned to last night’s conversation with Rose Trewartha, and his cheeks started to burn.

  Clearing the village without seeing a single person, Aaron found the private lane that led to the Bakers’ home. A hundred metres along, the lane opened on to a gravel drive

  A large granite house with a slate roof stood in the centre of a sodden lawn. Beyond it, cliffs the colour of rust rose like giants from the swell of a steel-grey ocean. Aaron was momentarily transfixed, his breath snatched away.

  And then he remembered why he was here.

  Charles and Anthea Baker were both in their early fifties. He was a retired Naval officer, while she had once made a living as a seamstress. For the past eight years, they’d run their sizeable home as the Clifftop Guest House, serving bed and breakfast to tourists during spring and summer. Like other small businesses dependent on the tourist trade, the guest house was closed for winter.

  Charles Baker was short and stout. There was strength there but it had turned soft. Anthea was taller, slimmer, with a furtiveness about her that reminded Aaron of a hare.

  Charles made a pot of coffee and the three sat down in a small living room with moss-green carpet and patterned flock wallpaper. Introductions and small talk were quickly exhausted.

  “If you’re ready, could you tell me about your son?” Aaron said after a prolonged silence. His digital voice recorder sat on the coffee table between them. All he’d gleaned so far was that Toby Baker had disappeared in 2007, and that his remains had been among those discovered at Grady Spencer’s house.

  Charles and Anthea stared at each other, both waiting for the other to speak. Anthea began.

  “Toby was a happy boy,” she said, her hands clasped neatly over her knees. “Always smiling and laughing. A bit of a clown, really. Everything was a delight to him.”

  Aaron leaned back on the sofa, feeling years of grief sweep across the room like a wave.

  “He was bright, too,” Anthea continued. “Not quite top of the class, but certainly nowhere near the bottom. And he was curious, always wanting to know how things worked. Why things were the way they were.” She paused for a moment, the smile on her face wavering. “Perhaps he was a little too curious.”

  Aaron picked up his cup. It was good to give his hands something to do. He cleared his throat. “Did Toby have friends?”

  He directed this question at Charles, who so far had been sitting in a silent daze. The man blinked, as if waking from a dream. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and measured.

  “Yes, of course. He was a popular boy. No one had a bad word to say about him.”

  Aaron nodded, distracted by the blinking red light of the digital recorder. He looked up again, catching Anthea’s disquieting stare.

  “And that day . . . the day Toby went missing?” he prompted.

  Husband and wife stared at each other. Something passed between them, through them, out into the air. It was heavy and smothering. Aaron recognised it instantly. Guilt.

  “It was the
afternoon, the first Sunday of August,” Anthea said. “We’d been to church that morning and after lunch we decided to go for a walk along the cliff path. It’s something we did occasionally, as a family. Toby loved the ocean, didn’t he, Charlie?”

  Beside her, Charles had slipped into a kind of trance. He gave a slight, faraway nod.

  “That day, we put on our boots and followed the coastal path westward,” Anthea continued. “Do you know, Mr. Black, you can walk all the way across to St Ives? If you’re ever here on holiday and you enjoy walking, you should give it a try. You’ll see some truly stunning views, but you’ll need a good pair of walking shoes.”

  Aaron smiled politely.

  “That Sunday was nice and warm.” Anthea unclasped her hands and slipped them beneath her thighs. “There were people walking the path. Tourists mostly, but a few familiar faces as well. Toby was certainly an adventurous child, but he knew he needed to be safe on the path, that being reckless could end badly. . . Well, with all the people around, he was in an excitable mood. He loved the summer, you see. All the noise and new faces. . . And so, he wouldn’t wait for us. He kept running on ahead, weaving his way between the bodies, showing off to the tourists about how clever he was on those paths, I suppose.

  “Charles and I, we both called after him, but he raced on. We came to a section in the path where it suddenly dips and disappears behind a large outcrop of rock. When we got to the other side a couple of minutes later . . . the path was empty.”

  Anthea reached out a trembling hand. His mind still elsewhere, Charles automatically slipped his hand over hers.

  “Toby was gone,” Anthea said. “Just like that. One minute in the distance, the next. . . It was like he vanished into thin air.”

  Aaron stared from husband to wife, their sadness soaking into him like rain.

  “All this time we thought he’d fallen into the sea.” Anthea stared at Aaron with red-rimmed eyes filled with horror. “I wish he had. It would have been a merciful death in comparison.”

  What air had been left in the room was gone. Aaron’s chest heaved. Rose’s words returned to him again. What was he doing here? Why was he writing this book, stirring up terrible memories?

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” he said, wanting nothing more than to be far away from the Bakers and their unbearable grief.

  Anthea nodded, her tired eyes telling him she’d heard that line a hundred times before. “Tell me, Mr. Black, do you know much about the other children? Do you know why . . . why he took them?”

  Aaron shook his head.

  “I’d like to know why he chose our boy,” Anthea said. “Why choose him over some other child? Is that something you can help us understand with your book?”

  Aaron shifted in his chair. He opened his mouth and closed it again. Did he tell her it was unlikely? That she was better off accepting she would never know because Grady Spencer was dead, and the reasoning behind the selection of his victims had died with him? That she would ask herself the same question, over and over, until the moment of her own death?

  He averted his gaze from the Bakers, who were both now looking at him with hope in their eyes. He needed to tell them something, anything.

  “I hope so, Mrs. Baker,” he said, nodding. “I truly hope so.”

  “You know, they couldn’t find the rest of his body. Only his skull,” Anthea said. “How can we let go when the rest of him is still missing?”

  GUILT WEIGHED HEAVY on Aaron’s shoulders as he said goodbye to the Bakers and began making his way back to the village. Halfway along the lane, he slid to a halt. Something else was pressing down on him. Something he couldn’t quite figure out.

  He turned back to the depressing gloom of the Clifftop Guest House and to the stark beauty of the cliffs beyond. Something about Anthea’s story didn’t feel right.

  A few minutes later, after negotiating muddy fields, Aaron emerged onto a rocky, winding path that travelled along the cliff’s edge and disappeared into the distance. Wind and rain whipped his hair and battered his clothes. Far below him, the ocean boiled and churned, crashing violently against the rocks.

  Ignoring his mounting fear—he’d never been a fan of heights—Aaron began walking along the coastal path, retracing the steps that the Baker family had taken one devastating afternoon.

  The path twisted and bucked beneath his feet, dropping toward the sea then rising up until Aaron became breathless and his legs ached. Soon, the path descended again, twisting around a large, rocky outcrop.

  This was the spot where the Bakers had lost their boy forever. Aaron followed the path around. The wind howled as it blasted him, threatening to knock him into the depths below. He came to a standstill.

  The path straightened out again. The feeling that something wasn’t quite right intensified. As he turned his head to the left and stared up at the barren cliff face sloping above him, he suddenly understood what was wrong.

  At the time of Toby Baker’s disappearance, Grady Spencer had been seventy-two years old and had walked with a limp. How had he managed to negotiate the potentially dangerous cliff paths of Zennor and abduct a child seemingly into thin air?

  Aaron discovered the answer to the second part of the question a moment later, when the path forked in two. Following the left path, he climbed upward, until the ground flattened out and the village came into view once more. To his surprise, the path led him back to the large stretch of gravel where he’d parked his car.

  Had Grady Spencer lured the Baker boy away from the cliff top and into a waiting vehicle? But how? Perhaps he’d used his age as a decoy—an old man in need of assistance after exhausting himself on the cliff. Passing tourists would have seen a grandfather being helped by his caring grandson.

  But hadn’t Anthea just said that the path had been empty? How could an elderly man with a limp have the speed and agility to lure Toby from the cliff path and disappear before the boy’s parents had turned the corner? Surely, it was impossible.

  21

  AARON PACED ABOUT HIS hotel room in a distracted haze. It was entirely possible his intuition was wrong, but the more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that he had stumbled upon something on that cliff path.

  Grabbing a coke from the mini-bar, he swallowed a mouthful, then sat down at the writing desk. He opened his laptop and began sifting through the various research files he’d collated on Grady Spencer, until he came upon a folder titled: Victims. Inside were scans of newspapers articles, pulled from online databases and detailing the disappearances of each of Spencer’s known victims.

  Aaron pored over one article at a time, caffeine buzzing through his brain as he scribbled down names, dates, and places onto a clean page of his notebook.

  Twenty minutes raced by. Aaron leaned back on the chair, perspiration beading his brow as his eyes flicked over the list he’d made.

  Reece Pilkington, 8 years old. Disappeared August 2001 from harbour area, St. Ives. Family holiday—Grady Spencer aged 66

  Lee Mallon, 8 years old. Disappeared June 2004 from Market Jew St, Penzance. Mazey Day (local festival)—Grady Spencer aged 69

  Toby Baker, 9 years old. Disappeared August 2007 from cliff path near family home, Zennor—Grady Spencer aged 72.

  Neal Carr, 5 years old. Disappeared July 2009 from promenade, Penzance. Family holiday—Grady Spencer aged 74.

  There was something here, but what?

  The hotel room phone pierced the silence, startling him from his thoughts.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Black,” the young man at the front desk said. “There’s a young lady here to see you. Nat Tremaine?”

  “I’ll be right down.”

  Making his way to the lobby, Aaron found Nat sprawled in one of the armchairs, hood pulled up over her head, right foot resting on top of her left knee, military boots on full display.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Well, hello to you, too,” she said, staring up at him with a wry smile. “I’m here becaus
e I found something.”

  “You’re not the only one. Let’s go up to my room.”

  At the front desk, the receptionist raised his eyebrows, then quickly looked away as Nat shot him a glare.

  Upstairs, Aaron picked up clothes from the floor and pulled up a second chair to the desk. He offered Nat a coffee, which she refused, while standing by the door with her hands shoved inside her jacket pockets.

  “What did you find?” Aaron nodded to the chair next to him.

  Sitting down, Nat took a notebook from her bag and a folded bundle of printouts.

  “Grady Spencer had a wife,” she said, handing Aaron a copy of a marriage certificate, before reporting what she had uncovered.

  Kathleen-Ann Nancarrow had been born 29th May, 1944, and had lived most of her short life in the village of St. Just in Roseland, situated on the east coast of Cornwall. Although the details of how she met Grady Spencer were currently lost to the annals of time, what was known was that they were married at St. Just’s Church, 16th September, 1963. Kathleen had been 19 years old, Grady Spencer, 28.

  “But I thought Rose confirmed Spencer moved to Porth an Jowl alone,” Aaron said, studying the marriage certificate.

  “He did.” Nat handed him another printout. “Kathleen-Ann Nancarrow died 14th March, 1966. Less than three years after she married Grady Spencer. Check out the cause of death.”

  Aaron read through the details of the death certificate.

  “Suffocation from drowning?”

  “I pulled this from an online archive of local news.” Nat said, handing him another printout—a scanned newspaper article dated, 17th March, 1966. Set within the news article was a photograph of Kathleen-Ann Nancarrow and Grady Spencer on their wedding day. She was small in stature and fragile looking in her simple white gown, while Spencer stood like a giant beside her, staring intensely at the camera.

  “Kathleen-Ann was found on the bank of St. Just Creek by churchgoers. The story says that after marrying Spencer and moving out of the village, she became a recluse, cutting herself off from her family. Spencer claimed his wife had been suffering a long depression, ever since a miscarriage had left her unable to get pregnant again. He let her friends and family believe she killed herself.”