DC Turner stood far back near the perimeter of police tape and barricade of uniformed officers, a growing crowd of camera crews and journalists making noise and hurling questions on the other side. They were waiting for more officers to be sent down, but resources had already been stretched long before the Church family murders and Lindsay’s disappearance had brought them to breaking point. All eyes were peeled for overenthusiastic journalists or curious dog walkers tempted to break the perimeter. But it seemed that a murdered child, at least for now, earned obedience and respect.
Turner’s gaze shifted from the police line to the Crime Scene Investigation team, who had set up camp just inside the perimeter and were patiently waiting for the crime scene photographer to finish her job. Then he found himself involuntarily turning his head to the left and his gaze wandering further, until it was resting on the body again. He was glad he could only see the feet. He'd seen murder victims before, back when he’d been stationed in London with the Metropolitan police, but this was his first murdered child. They seemed so out of place; those thin little legs poking out. The idyllic setting somehow made the crime even more heinous; if that was even possible.
Dressed in pristine white coveralls, the crime scene photographer was hunched over, ducking in and out from behind the tree as she snapped pictures of the body and the surrounding area. Turner looked away, certain he could hear the gentle click of the shutter despite the growing din of the press.
If only they knew, he thought. Because it wasn’t Lindsay Church lying dead in the dirt, one shoe off and one shoe on. It was little Luke Beaumont, five-year-old son of John Beaumont, who had both been abducted one night in December. Now they shared something else in common.
The child’s body had been found by an early morning dog walker, who had already been processed by CSI and was now on her way to the station in Penzance to give a statement. She’d told the first officer on the scene that she’d almost tripped over the boy’s legs, that she’d thought they were fallen branches until she’d looked down and saw his blue eyes staring lifelessly up at her. Like two ice cubes melting on snow, she’d said. And there had been no blood. At least the boy had not been cut open. At least he’d been spared that.
Turner shivered in spite of the already warm day. Behind him, more journalists were joining the throng. It always amazed him how quickly the press found out about these things. It was like they had a sixth sense for murder.
And for failure.
Luke Beaumont had been missing for six months. The police had searched but found no trace of him or his abductors. The national press had accused them of being incompetent. Cornwall may have been rural and remote, but it wasn’t exactly huge, they’d said, as if there weren’t a thousand places you could hide a body in a county made up of fields and woodland and ocean on three sides. As if over twenty of Cornwall’s police stations hadn’t been shut down in the last few years alone.
All those tiny bodies unearthed at Grady Spencer's house hadn't helped the situation, either.
Or the video footage of Cal Anderson murdering John Beaumont in front of a cult of children; a cult that the police still knew nothing about.
Except they’re still out there, Turner thought, his eyes wandering back to the body.
Who were they? What did they want?
How were they connected to Grady Spencer?
These were questions that neither he nor his colleagues could answer. Perhaps the press was right to cry incompetence. Children were dead and missing. At least the local newspapers had been more sympathetic.
The photographer had finished preserving the scene on film. She emerged from behind the tree, her white suit so alien against the earthy colours, like the abominable snowman had made a wrong turn and lost its way. Turner watched her approach the rest of the CSI team, heard the jostling of media bodies, their voices growing loud with excitement. He supposed they were just trying to do their job, just like he and his colleagues were trying to do theirs.
The rest of the CSI team got to work, tool kits and notebooks in hand as they advanced along the plastic walkways that had been laid down to prevent contamination of the crime scene.
Turner looked away, saw Detective Sergeant Hughes walking towards him, a similar, grim expression souring her face. She didn't speak as she stood beside him, only nodded. Like Turner, she was doing her best to avoid those tiny legs sticking out from behind the tree, toes pointed skyward.
We failed him, Turner thought.
It was a heart-breaking, unbearable confession, but one he believed was true. Which was why it was more important than ever not to sink into despair.
Six months after Luke Beaumont’s disappearance, his body had turned up freshly deceased, which meant that the people who had taken him – the same people that both Cal Anderson and Grady Spencer had been connected to – were out there somewhere. Possibly even nearby.
What’s more, they’d dumped the child’s body out in the open, in a place well known for dog walking.
It was almost as if they’d wanted him to be found.
He glanced over at the gaggle of press.
“Look at them,” he said, suddenly needing to shift the blame. “Like hyenas fighting over a lion’s spoils.”
“They just want to know what everyone else does – what the hell is going on here?” DS Hughes said, the first words she’d spoken to him that morning. “Well, I'll tell you what's going on here. We’re about to be fed to the wolves. Those delightful chaps have more or less announced on morning television that it’s Lindsay Church lying dead over there. Wait until they find out it’s Luke Beaumont. He’s half the age of Lindsay, which means twice as much outrage and appointing of blame. Three guesses who’s getting it in the neck.”
Yet again, Turner’s gaze wandered back over to the tiny body. The medical examiner was on his way but running late. The sooner he got here and did his job, the sooner the poor Beaumont boy could be taken away. At least the press couldn’t see him from where they were being contained.
“What are you thinking, Will?” Hughes said.
“That I’m glad I’m not the one who has to inform the poor boy’s mother.”
Hughes chewed the inside of her cheek. “They’ll need a stiff drink after.”
Another surge of noise.
The detectives both turned to see that the medical examiner had finally arrived, red faced and flustered as he signed in with a uniformed officer.
“About bloody time,” DS Hughes muttered. “Stay here and keep watch. Make sure none of our press friends break the line.”
She nodded at him, flicked her eyes back to the body, then marched over to the doctor, who was old and tired-looking and who waved his hands manically in the air as he attempted to defend his tardiness. Hughes was having none of it. She directed him over to the CSI base camp to suit up, then shot a glance over at Turner, rolling her eyes.
Turner let out a sigh, fought the urge to seek out little Luke Beaumont. His body would soon be gone, stretchered away in a black bag too large for his tiny frame.
Good, he thought.
Not that it would make a difference. He would be seeing those spindly legs and feet in his dreams tonight, one shoe on, one shoe kicked off on the ground.
The medical examiner was making his way over to the body now.
On the other side of the cordon, two paramedics waited silently with a stretcher. Turner pictured it rumbling along the bumpy ground, body bag on top, Luke Beaumont’s teeth chattering inside.
He pictured the child on a cold metal slab. Imagined the sharp blade of a scalpel slicing through his chest.
His phone vibrated in his jacket pocket. Absentmindedly, he pulled it out and checked the screen. Carrie Killigrew was calling him. No doubt she'd seen the initial news report on TV.
She’d tried to warn him, hadn’t she?
She’d been petrified that the Dawn Children were back and he’d brushed her off.
How did he tell her that she was right? That
the murders of Luke Beaumont and the Church family, and the abduction of Lindsay Church were all connected? Because they had to be – the timing was too much of a coincidence.
He stared at the phone screen. More questions he couldn’t answer.
He waited for the call to ring off, then slipped his phone back inside his jacket pocket.
There was one person who could answer all these questions and more. One person who knew everything the police did not. But those answers were forever trapped behind a wall of silence, inside a broken mind.
Turner cleared his throat and tried to clear his mind.
Something was happening.
Something bad.
He could feel it all around him, pressing down.
For now, he returned his gaze to the tiny body lying half behind the tree. It was the least he could do.
23
NAT SAT AT HER BEDROOM desk, poring over art history textbooks and scribbling notes on a pad, while screechy guitar music played from laptop speakers. She'd been studying for two hours now, deep into it, enjoying the flow. Something had changed in her. More and more, she’d started to contemplate moving to London. It wasn’t like she hadn’t daydreamed about it before, but ever since Aaron had died, she’d wiped the idea from her mind. But now, it was creeping back in.
Why was she turning her back on the potential to live an artist's life in London? Was it solely because she felt responsible for Aaron Black's death? Or was it more than that? Her whole life, she'd been told she was no good, a deviant, a mistake. She'd been told it so many times that it was as if her body had absorbed the words, processing it into DNA, until every cell believed it was true. But something had changed.
It was Rose. Nat had hurt her feelings time and time again. She’d acted up, lashed out, taken from Rose, then pushed her away. But Rose had kept coming back. Even after Nat’s disappearing act last Saturday, Rose had returned to her usual, cheery self. Yes, it had taken her a few days this time, but now it was like it had never happened.
Nat had never much liked herself. But Rose did. And if Rose believed in her, surely Nat could at least try to believe in herself. That was the change. The idea that perhaps Nat was worth something. That London could be more than just a daydream. She just had to get this final exam out of the way.
Through the music, Nat thought she heard the doorbell ring. A moment later, she heard Rose calling her name.
“Natalie! You've got a visitor!”
Nat sat up, switched the music off. She must have misheard.
“What's that?” she called.
“I said you've got a visitor. Get yourself down here!”
Nat stared at the door, frowning. She didn't get visitors. She didn't know anyone in Porth an Jowl who would call on her. Unless it was Jago, but he'd said that he’d never –
“Are you deaf, girl?”
“Coming!”
Still wondering who it could be, she left the room and headed downstairs. Reaching the bottom step, she froze. Rachel was standing by the front door, arms crossed awkwardly over her stomach. She raised a hand, then looked away. Nat was silent, gaze flicking from Rachel to Rose then back again.
“I’ll leave you two chatterboxes to it,” Rose said, when the silence became excruciating. Arching an eyebrow at Rachel, she disappeared into the kitchen and shut the door.
When they were alone, Rachel let out a long breath and glanced around. “Wow, you really do have a thing for floral print, Natalie.”
“What are you doing here?” Nat said, the words coming out more hostile than she'd intended.
Rachel lowered her head, then looked up. “Just wanted to say hi. And to say sorry about –”
Nat stepped forward and opened the front door, escorting Rachel outside. Closing the door behind them, she shrugged. “Rose doesn't know where we went and I don't want her finding out.”
Rachel nodded. “As I was saying...sorry for disappearing on you. That crime scene freaked me out and, well, maybe I'm not as tough as I make out to be. Not as tough as you, anyway.” She blew out more air, shook her head. “Sorry if I made you feel like a freak. I'm not very good at making friends and I'm always saying the wrong thing. If I hurt your feelings, then –”
“You didn't. I'm fine.” Apologies usually made Nat feel uncomfortable, but this one seemed to be having the opposite effect, which made her nervous.
They were both quiet, shifting their weight from one foot to the other.
“How's your holiday going?” Nat asked. “Been anywhere nice?”
Rachel rolled her eyes. “Yeah. Lots of pissy teashops and boring old gardens. Exactly my idea of a good time!”
Nat smiled. “Sounds thrilling.”
“How about you? It’s Devil’s Day tomorrow, isn't it?”
“That’s right. Is your family coming?” she clamped her jaw shut, wincing at the hope in her voice.
Rachel shook her head. “The folks are going to Padstow for the day.”
“Oh.”
“But I'm sticking around.” She flashed a smile at Nat, who smiled back and ran a hand over her shaved head. “In fact, I was wondering if maybe we could hang out together. Festivals are no fun when you have no friends. Besides, I'm only here for another day, then we’re going back to London. I'd like to hang out with you some more.”
Nat drummed her fingers nervously against her thigh. She liked Rachel. She did. Would even consider becoming friends with her. But that would mean letting her guard down. Opening the gates and letting her in. And she still felt awkward about the other day. Still wondered if Rachel thought she was a sideshow freak.
She wouldn't be here if she did. Maybe she actually likes you.
“Don't take too long to decide,” Rachel said, smirking.
Nat pursed her lips. “Um...Sure. Whatever. We could hang out.”
“Great! That's really great.”
“So, the parade starts at eleven tomorrow. Why don’t you meet me here fifteen minutes before? We can watch the parade together, then you can come down to the town hall with me, Rose, and a bunch of old ladies.”
“What’s at the town hall?”
“Several giant barrels of cider and four hundred empty cups needing to be filled.”
“For the toast you told me about? The offering?”
“That’s right. And that’s the deal – we hang out, you work. Take it or leave it.”
Rachel flashed another smile. “Well, lucky for you, I happen to love hanging out with old ladies, so count me in.”
They both laughed. Rachel turned, her eye catching the plot of earth where Grady Spencer's house had once stood. Her smile faded. Nat followed her gaze. She could almost feel the energy there, pulsing in nauseating waves. The sooner the town council decided what to do with it, the better.
“You want to come inside? Hang out for a bit?”
“I can’t,” Rachel said. “But I'm looking forward to tomorrow. It’ll be the highlight of this whole boring holiday.”
Winking at Nat, she turned and headed down the garden path and out through the gate. Then she was off, sauntering along Grenville Road and turning up the hill.
Cheeks flushing, Nat watched her go.
“You see,” she told herself. “Maybe you're not so bad after all.”
24
SATURDAY MORNING CAME around, bringing good weather to Porth an Jowl. Nat stood at the end of Grenville Row, nervous energy crackling through her limbs. She peered up at the crest of Cove Road and saw the tops of people’s heads bobbing up and down amid a sea of dazzling colours – the Devil’s Day parade taking shape. Down the hill on Nat’s right, crowds were gathering – mostly neighbours, with the bulk of tourists and visitors from nearby locales already waiting in town.
Pulling out her phone, Nat checked the time: 11:12 a.m.
The parade was running late. Rachel, too. She should have been here thirty minutes ago. So why hadn't she turned up?
The performers were still milling about. A woman was barking ins
tructions over a megaphone, her voice straining with frustration as she attempted to get the performers into their places. “Children behind the marching band! No, Oak class, then Birch! Where are the dancers?”
She was interrupted by the accidental crash of cymbals, followed by a chorus of laughter.
Yesterday, Rachel had shown up at Nat’s house of her own volition. She’d asked Nat to hang out with her, practically begged her to let her help with the parade. And now she was a no show.
Nat heaved her shoulders, ignored the voice whispering in her ear. It’s the same old story – you let someone get close and then they disappear. You’re a freak, Tremaine. Why else would you take someone you just met to a crime scene? Why else would you be obsessing about a murderous cult when just about everyone else your age is down on the beach and drinking beers and getting laid in the dunes?
More neighbours were coming out of their houses and lining the fringes of Cove Road. Nat checked her phone again. Stuffed it back inside her jeans pocket and stared at the ground. She was a freak. Rachel had even called her one, too. At the time, she’d thought Rachel had been paying her a compliment. That the two of them were aligned. But Nat had got it all wrong yet again.
Here was more proof: she’d texted Jago this morning, trying to persuade him to come to the festival – a desperate attempt to reignite their friendship. So far, Jago had yet to reply. Nat cast an eye over the empty, fenced off ground to her left. She couldn’t blame him, she supposed. Why would he return to the place that had almost destroyed his family? And yet his name still tasted bitter on Nat’s tongue. Because if Jago hadn't rejected her in the first place, she wouldn't have gone chasing after Rachel like a needy puppy, desperate to please her. Desperate to be liked.
You’re a freak. No good. Stop trying to convince yourself that you’re anything else.
“Hey!”
She glanced up, heart leaping into the throat. Then sinking into her stomach.
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