Cold Justice (Willis/Carter #4)(34)
‘Yes. Okay, get off me.’
‘Dump it in the sea, weight it down. You fail me now and I will hand you in myself.’
Raymonds got back to his car and drove up past the shops and on to Kellis House. He stopped for a few minutes and wound his window down to get a better look; to listen to the rooks in the pines. He needed to regain his calm. He’d always loved the house. He loved all things solid and strong. Things that stood their ground, no matter what was thrown at them. This house, grey and mardy-faced, was like him. It would be here long after he was ashes in the wind above Penhal. Long after he was bone fragments floating on the Atlantic, or in the shifting sand that gathered in all the doorways in Penhal. That would be him. Not buried in the earth. He would be in every breath that the people of Penhal took. He would be all around. He’d be damned if a man from beyond the grave or anyone else’d break him now. They would all toe the line in the end and Jeremy Forbes-Wright would not have the last laugh.
He drove up to the brow of the hill and parked where he could look down on the caravans in the field below. There was a line of them at the top of the field. Only one was occupied. He could see the smoke rising from a fire at the back of it. He saw Misty the horse grazing nearby. He murmured to himself then scowled as he watched the occupant of the van, Kensa Cooper, come out and stand in the centre of the field. She was dressed in a dark sack-type dress with her arms wrapped in a shawl. He watched as she started slowly moving her feet and hips; she seemed to contemplate dancing. But instead, she opened out her arms and the blanket blew in the wind. She stood like a crow with wings open – being buffeted but holding strong. Above her, the seagulls were swirling and diving at one another. Misty began galloping around the perimeter of the field. Christ, Raymonds muttered to himself. This whole village has gone mad. He started the engine again and took the road to Penhaligon. He passed by the sign to Stokes’ farm and almost turned but decided the detectives might be already there. Instead, he drove on, taking the narrow lane that led towards the cliffs, then parked above Garra headland and took his walking boots out from the back of the car. He headed towards an old tin mine that he could see above him on the craggy edge of the cliff. Its stack was still strong and tall; the engine house looked like a church, with its steeple sides and arched windows. It was had no roof or glass but stood stoically, facing the Atlantic storms. A reverence and history of men’s toil. To his right, he spied the roof of Cam’s cottage and saw Cam walking back to his house. Raymonds hadn’t looked to see if Cam’s café on the beach was closed – he would have to keep an eye on that. The village would fall apart if none of its shop owners could be bothered to open. He would call a meeting of the leaseholders and instil some little home truths into them all. No open shops, no lease. He walked up to the cliff edge and looked down to the mine shaft that was perched so precariously near to the edge of the cliff. Burrowed in the granite.
He stood and breathed in the air – the faintest smell of rotting came from below him to the side of the ruins. He looked about him and saw the remains of a sheep, its wool and bone, blackened flesh freeze-drying in the biting wind. It had fallen on the steep path and died above the entrance to the old mine shaft, where a metal grid was bolted over the hole in the granite. Its leg was caught between the metal and the rock, and twisted shards of bone jutted skywards.
The low sun lit Raymonds’ face and set fire to the windows of the ruin. He looked at the waves breaking out in the ocean. The sea was white with spume. Holding tightly to the side of the cliff, he made his way down to the mine below. He passed the sheep and stood looking down through the metal grille covering the mine shaft. Far below, he saw a ripple as the light reflected on the water. He knelt down and examined the bolts. They gave as he twisted them. Pulling on his leather gloves, he knelt over the grille and tightened each of the bolts by hand. As he heard a helicopter returning overhead he walked smartly back up the cliff path and away from the ruins.
Chapter 16
Jeanie had spent the first half of the morning at Fletcher House. She was holding a copy of a tabloid in her hand as she approached the Forbes-Wrights’ apartment at Riverview at eleven. The front page was plastered with the story of missing Samuel. The theory that it could have something to do with his grandfather was already making the most attractive headline and probably selling the most papers. Toby was painted as a Stephen Hawking character – brilliant but somehow crippled by his own limitations. Experts on Asperger’s had come forward with quotes after someone had mentioned the word autistic. Toby was definitely still in the frame for a murderer, albeit a misunderstood one. Lauren was painted as a cougar who had ensnared one of the UK’s brightest but most vulnerable. Outside the building she’d had to get past the press. They were being forced to stay behind a barrier that had been erected at the end of the apartment block. The river police had moved on a press boat that had been taking photos of their apartment with a telephoto lens.
‘Bullshit,’ Jeanie said aloud before she spoke into the intercom of the door of the Forbes-Wright flat and put the paper into her bag.
‘Hello, Lauren – it’s Jeanie.’
The door buzzed open and she took the stairs up to the third-floor apartment. As she got near the apartment door Lauren opened it.
‘Any news?’
Jeanie shook her head. ‘No, but I’ve just come from a meeting of all the departments involved and we are doing everything.’