by Shaun Baines
“Of course. That’s what they do in the movies, right? They search through clippings on microfilm.”
After a brief enquiry with the librarian, Holly was assured they didn’t have a microfilm reader and they weren’t living in a movie, either.
She slumped back in her seat. “I’m so bad at this,” she said into her chest.
Callum licked a fingertip and typed slowly, pausing between each letter as he searched for the next.
“Never used a keyboard before,” he said. “What do I do now?”
Holly pressed Enter.
A search for the Little Belton Herald came up blank, but it gave Holly an idea and she looked for The Crockfoot Mail.
Three stories appeared on screen. The first discussed the closure of the mine, detailing the loss of jobs and its impact on the area. Years later came an article on the Wentworth family abandoning Black Rock Manor after failing to find a buyer. It came with a picture of the Wentworths standing outside their front door, side by side, showing a united front. The head of the family Charles clasped a crucifix hanging around his neck.
If Holly didn’t know any better, she’d think the Mail was revelling in the bad luck of its neighbour. From her brief time on the Little Belton Herald, Holly knew they didn’t deal in scandal so it was no wonder these stories weren’t covered between their pages. It also explained the Herald’s low circulation numbers.
The third article was dated from the 1960s. Most newspapers kept a copy of every paper printed. Holly suspected even Old Jack had done so, but The Crockfoot Mail had photographed theirs and placed them online. It was a difficult read, but Holly followed it because she’d heard a different version of the story from Old Jack.
It followed the disappearance of not two sisters, but one – Regina Foxglove. Being a sickly, but headstrong teenager, she’d been caught in a storm while exploring the estate. Stumbling into Black Rock Manor, Regina sought shelter and within hours showed the first signs of bronchitis. Being a Christian man, Charles Wentworth looked after her, sending word to her parents that Regina was safe with him. She stayed at Black Rock for three months, receiving daily visits from her sister Nancy.
“Is that how the goat learned its way to the manor?” Holly asked.
“Goats live for ten to twelve years,” Callum answered. “I’m guessing the goat Nancy has now is around five years old.”
“That means Nancy has been going there recently.”
“The Wentworths have been gone for ages so who was she going to see?” Callum asked, his brows knitted into a frown.
Holly tapped her fingers on the desk. “It was Regina with the first link to the manor, but something inspired a life-long fascination for Nancy. When her health returned, Regina was paranoid she’d become ill again and she locked herself away in Bellcraig Stack. Nancy continued to roam the estate on her own. The question isn’t who Nancy was visiting, but why?”
“Didn’t Old Jack tell you it was both sisters that went missing?”
“Yes,” Holly said, “and I think I know why.”
A shadow fell over them and they turned to find the elderly librarian standing uncomfortably near.
“We’re closing,” he said, his voice sounding like sandpaper scratching down glass.
Callum checked his watch. “It’s only 2 pm.”
“Closing early,” the librarian said. “Going to get my hair cut next door.”
Holly rustled in her handbag. “Five minutes?”
“Glenda doesn’t like me to be late,” the librarian said, returning to his desk with another loud tut.
“What’s that?” Callum asked pointing at the brochure scrunched in Holly’s hand.
“It’s promotion for Mr Masterly’s parks around the world.” Holly flattened out the brochure and flicked through the pages. “Look at this. It’s Mountain Safari Land in Nevada.”
It was a double page spread with pictures of black bears and coyotes and other species indigenous to mountain deserts. Next to them were images of rollercoasters, go-karts and rows of shops selling Safari Land merchandise.
“Is that what he’s going to do with Little Belton?” Callum asked.
Holly remembered the newspaper clipping featuring the town called Eureka and entered its name into a search engine. “All of these entries talk about how a town called Eureka went down the drain. Crime rates went up. Businesses closed and people moved away.”
Callum slapped the desk with his hand. “Mr Masterly called it ‘another Eureka moment.’ This is what he meant.”
Holly pointed at a map in the brochure. “The town is a few miles north of Mr Masterly’s theme park in Nevada. The residents objected to its development.”
“Like Little Belton,” Callum said, “Well, some of us, anyway.”
“Remember what we found in Nancy’s file? There was an article about gun control in a place called Eureka. According to these websites, Eureka is a hunting town, or was, rather. It made its money from taking tourists out on shooting trips. The legislation was changed so only residents could have a gun permit. Visitors to the town couldn’t get one and the tourism died overnight.”
“Why would they do that?” Callum asked. “It sounds like suicide to me.”
“Why wasn’t Little Belton consulted about Mr Masterly’s plans?” Holly asked. “Why is the window for our appeal process so small? It doesn’t say anything on these websites about Mr Masterly being involved, but the legislation was changed. The town objected, but there wasn’t anything they could do. The residents started to leave and building on Mountain Safari Land started two months later.”
“Mr Masterly said Little Belton would benefit,” Callum said, his face contracting to stone. “He lied and if we object to what he’s doing, then he’ll destroy us.”
Holly closed the brochure, not wanting to see Mountain Safari Land any longer. She folded it in half, attempting to fold it again.
“When Old Jack and I shouted at Mr Masterly at the village green,” Holly said, “I think that counted as an objection. Don’t you get it? What comes next is because of me.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Mr Masterly isn’t going to go away, Callum. That’s not how big business works. He’s invested too much.”
They trudged through the sand dunes opposite Amble Caravan Park. It appeared busy with every caravan having a car parked beside it. The sea wind howled around the park like a stray dog, tearing up the grass and banging on screen windows. The caravan occupants stayed inside, watching the same TV channels they could have watched from home.
While Holly and Callum walked, they cradled cartons of chips under their coats, fearful of them being peppered with sand. They dropped greasy potato wedges into their mouths whenever the wind died down.
“I thought it was going to be alright,” Callum said. “I thought I had my job back.”
Holly rubbed grease through her fingers. Her friend looked tired. Not unhappy, but overwrought by the corkscrewing of events, as if he’d ridden one of Mr Masterly’s rollercoasters too far and for too long.
“Do you enjoy working on the estate?” she asked.
Finishing his chips, Callum crushed the carton in his hand. “It’s my life.”
The path along the dunes gave way to wooden boards and the sand crunched under Holly’s feet. “Who pays you?”
“What?”
“Your Dad worked for the Wentworths,” Holly said, “but you’d have been too young. They were gone by the time you took over from him.”
“Who have you been talking to?”
Holly wasn’t looking at Callum and Callum wasn’t looking at her. She took the carton from him and dropped it into a nearby bin.
“No one,” she lied. “I was wondering how you’ve survived out there on your own, that’s all.”
The wooden boards led to a pavement. They walked along it until they reached a disused car park. The tarmac was cracked and weeds grew through the gaps. Piles of windblown sand formed undulating waves, bringing th
e sea to their feet.
“I do what I have to,” Callum said. “Dad was the last gamekeeper for Black Rock. I learned from him and when he died, it was natural I took over.”
“But without any money?” Holly asked. “You could forage for food, hunt for it, but you can’t buy petrol with rabbit stew. And you show such devotion to your job. Who are you showing that devotion to? You’re on your own doing a job no one asked you to do.”
Callum pressed his fingers into the frown on his face. “I’m not used to people asking so many questions about me.”
“But they do. Just not to your face. Mr Winnow described you as half-feral. What do you think he meant by that?”
Callum dragged the tip of his boot through the sand, drawing a line. “Who’s asking? Him or you?”
“I don’t mean to pry, but – ”
“But you’re a journalist and it’s your job to be nosey.”
His answer stung, but Holly was ready to defend herself. She wasn’t asking as a journalist. She wasn’t probing for a story, but as the retort came to her lips, she wondered why she was asking. Because she was genuinely concerned for Callum? Or because Derek had put doubts in her head as a jealous husband? When she stared at Callum, what was she looking for?
“Maybe it’s time we went home,” Holly said, a queasiness in her stomach that had nothing to do with the chips she’d eaten.
Callum laid a hand on her arm. His grip was firm and warm.
“Pottery Boat Yard,” he said, pointing along the shore.
She followed his gaze to a large building constructed from wooden slats. The roof was formed from rusted corrugated iron. At its entrance was a small pier leading into the calm waters of a bay. Boats in varying states of dishevelment either bobbed in the water or were beached by the building. One in particular stood out. It took dishevelment to a new level of sinkability. The front half of the hull was missing and jagged fibreglass protruded like British teeth. It was painted in thick olive-green paint. If Holly was a gambling woman, she’d put money on it containing lead.
“That’s the Sea Cucumber. It belongs to the Winnows,” Callum said. “Mrs Winnow told us it had engine trouble.”
“You’d think she might have mentioned that massive hole,” Holly said.
The gates to the boatyard were open and they were drawn to the scream of an angle-grinder. A man in his forties looked up as they approached. He was bare-chested with a pot belly damp with sweat. His trousers were black leather and his moustache was a patchwork of greys and nicotine yellow.
“Alright, Callum?” he asked, switching off the angle grinder. He flipped a cigarette into his mouth and lit it from the glowing blade.
“Alright, Mr Potts,” Callum answered. “The Winnows sent me down. Asking about the Cucumber.”
Holly caught the lie and said nothing, intently examining a coil of orange, nylon rope instead.
Mr Potts laid the grinder on the floor and reached for a moth-eaten shirt hanging from a nail. He dressed quickly, generating clouds of smoke from his cigarette.
“They’ve really done one this time,” he said, taking Callum and Holly outside. “Tell them the price has gone up. It was more than a bloody bump in the ocean, this one.”
“What did they do?” Holly asked.
Rolling the cigarette around his mouth, Mr Potts took a long draw. “They must have told you.”
“Keeping it hush-hush,” Callum said, tapping the side of his nose. “You know how they are.”
Mr Potts nodded with a grimace. “I know exactly, but there’s no hiding this. Don’t get me wrong. They slip me the odd bit of mackerel, but if they think they can run a boat aground and not pay for it, they’ve got another thing coming.”
“Where did they ground it?” Callum asked.
“I picked her up from Ratkin Bay.”
“Wasn’t that where we found Mrs Winnow collecting crabs?” Holly asked Callum.
“And it’s the same place I found those salmon tins,” Callum said.
“They’re always down there,” Mr Potts said, scratching at his chest. “That’s where the best mackerel are, they say. Nothing like fresh fish.”
Callum studied the Sea Cucumber, prodding the crumpled fibreglass with his finger. Part of it fell away. He picked up the remnant and examined it in the light. “There’s an inlet down there.”
“That’s where I hauled her from,” Potts said. “There’s an extra fifty for that alone.”
Callum walked around the boat, his hands searching the damage. Stooping low, his arm snaked through the hole. When he pulled it free, he showed a battered tin of salmon to Holly – the same type of tinned salmon Callum still had stacked in the back of his Defender.
“I should be grateful. It looks like they’ve given up poaching for a while,” Callum said.
“Don’t tell me they’re selling that filth,” Mr Potts said, clutching his throat. “Tinned fish?”
“Wait until you see what’s inside,” Holly said.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The brakes screeched on Callum’s Defender as he lurched to a stop outside of Winnows’ Conveniences. The frontage had been redecorated in a bunting Holly recognised from the Spring Fair. The triangular flags were weather-beaten. Some were torn and mended with tape. They whipped in a cool breeze, crackling as they fluttered.
Stepping from the jeep, Holly and Callum paused.
“What’s that smell?” Callum asked.
Holly looked through the window to the store. Unusually, there was no-one behind the counter, but she saw the inside had been redecorated, too. There was a new range of products, including books on Northumberland history, a pile of Northumberland tartan scarves and tins of Northumberland shortbread.
“Follow me,” Callum said, leading her down a cobbled side street. The smell grew more pungent, making Holly sneeze. They pushed through a latticed metal gate and into a concrete yard.
The faces of Mr and Mrs Winnow were hidden behind masks. They held spray cans in their hands and clouds of red mist floated in the air carrying the astringent taint of chemicals.
“What are you doing?” Holly asked.
Engrossed in their work, the couple hadn’t seen Holly and Callum enter. They jerked to attention.
“Mymm thh bburrr,” Mr Winnow said.
Holly pointed at the masks and then to her ear. “We can’t hear you.”
Mr and Mrs Winnow tugged off their masks, leaving a clean mark around their mouths while the rest of their faces were stained in red.
“It’s our new business,” Mr Winnow said.
He stood to one side and revealed a line of wooden figures. They were about a foot tall with a round red nose and toothy grins. Their antlers were flecked with sequins.
“Are those Christmas reindeer decorations?” Holly asked.
Mr Winnow rattled his spray can at her. “Not after we’re done with them,” he said. “A little bit of paint and hey presto, you’ve got a herd of deer.”
Holly examined one of the finished products. Rudolf had been painted red, together with most of the ground he stood on. The red paint had done little to disguise his inherent Christmas vibe.
“Why would you do that?” she asked.
“For the tourists,” Mr Winnow said as if the answer was self-explanatory. “This new theme park is going to bring a lot of people to Little Belton and we have to be ready for them. There’s no fighting people like the Masterlys so we’re turning our place into a souvenir shop.”
“Oh my lord,” Mrs Winnow said, staring into her compact mirror. “Why didn’t you tell me I look like Donald Trump?”
Hiding her face, she scuttled from the yard and Holly hid her smile.
“Maybe your deer will help pay for the damage to your boat,” Callum said.
Mr Winnow rubbed his chest, wiping paint down his shirt. “Ah, Judy said she’d mentioned it. Engine trouble. Shouldn’t be a problem.”
“We’ve been to Amble,” Holly said. “We saw the boat.”
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The cheeks of Mr Winnow’s face turned redder than the paint spattered over it. “You went to the shipyard?”
Holly nodded, watching Mr Winnow skip from foot to foot.
“Hold on a second,” he said. “Were you checking up on me? What were you doing at Amble?”
“It was a day trip,” Callum said. “I was getting my haircut at the library.”
Mr Winnow stopped jostling and cast an eye over Callum’s long hair. “You need to go back for the rest.”
“We weren’t checking up on you,” Holly said, “but we did see the boat.”
She wasn’t blaming Mr Winnow for trying to make money. Holly was guilty of the same thing. This was one hustler talking to another and her insides squirmed at the thought of interrogating him, but Mr Winnow was involved in this whole debacle. Holly needed to know to what degree.
Wringing his hands, Mr Winnow stared at the ground. “Please don’t tell our Judy. She really does think its engine trouble. She’s going to kill me when she sees the bill.”
“We’ve already guessed part of the story,” Callum said. “You ran aground trying to bring in something pretending to be tinned salmon.”
Mr Winnow looked up, his eyes flitting between Holly and Callum. “What do you mean? ‘Something pretending to be tinned salmon?’”
“You didn’t look inside the tins?” Holly asked.
“They weren’t mine to look into,” Mr Winnow said. “I was asked to sail to the Port of Tyne and pick up a shipment of tinned salmon. I thought, that’s a bit weird. You can pick up salmon anywhere. Why there? But then I thought, what’s the harm? It’s hardly illegal and I am in the delivery business, after all. Maybe it was special salmon.”
“It was special, alright,” Callum said.
“I bring it back here and the instructions were to take it to the manor, which is a helluva hike from the beach. Judy had the truck so I was going to have to carry the lot by hand. So I try to get a little closer using an inlet and…well, you know the rest. I run aground and spill my cargo. I was too busy keeping the Sea Cucumber afloat to worry what had happened to the tinned salmon.”