The Cove, page 20
part #1 of The Cove Trilogy Series
She wasn’t sure if she wanted to find out.
35
Carrie woke with a start, pulling herself from a nightmare. She’d been running through the streets of the cove, calling for Cal, already knowing she’d lost him forever. Turning over, she reached out for Dylan. It took her a second to remember he was still at sea. After all these years, it still took her a second.
Blinking the sleep away, she checked the time and was startled to see it was almost ten. Memories of last night’s confrontation with Cal played on her mind. He could talk. He hadn’t admitted it but the look in his eyes had told her Melissa had spoken the truth. And the truth felt like a hundred bee stings.
Hauling herself out of bed, Carrie threw on one of Dylan’s sweaters and grabbed the door keys from the side.
Out in the hall, a voice stopped her in her tracks.
“Mummy?”
Melissa sat on her bedroom floor in her usual position. Her typical morning cheer was absent.
“Morning, sweet pea. What’s up?”
Melissa put down the doll she’d been playing with and folded her arms. Her eyes glistened.
“Are you mad with me and Cal?”
Guilt squeezed Carrie’s lungs. It took a few seconds to think of the right words. “I’m not mad. I’m worried.”
But this only confused Melissa further. Her forehead wrinkled. Her eyes moved off to the side.
Carrie moved further into the room and crouched down. She stared at her daughter for a long time, then ran a hand through her long hair.
“I want you both to be safe,” she said. “If there’s a bad man that wants to hurt you, I need to know who he is. I need to tell Detective Turner all about him, so he can stop him from hurting anyone.”
Melissa picked up her doll and wrapped its hair around her fingers.
“If you don’t want to tell me, maybe you can speak to Daddy when he comes home tomorrow,” Carrie said. She slid a finger beneath Melissa’s chin and gently guided her face upward. “You can tell us anything, sweet pea. Even if you’re scared or worried that someone will hurt you. We’ll always make sure you’re safe.”
Melissa blinked. She let out a long sigh through her nostrils. “I want Daddy to come home now.”
Carrie felt a sting in her heart. She forced a smile to her lips and stroked her daughter’s cheek. “You know I love you, don’t you?”
Melissa avoided her gaze. She nodded then picked up another of her toys.
Leaving her daughter to play, Carrie returned to the landing. It was beginning to feel a lot like her family was falling apart.
She walked a few steps to Cal’s room and paused outside, wondering if she could take another rejection. But wasn’t that part of being a parent? Sometimes you just had to take your children’s feelings on the chin.
Knocking softly on the door, she turned the handle and entered Cal’s room. She wrinkled her nose. That bad smell was still there, despite her having aired the room yesterday. She would need to have a conversation about personal hygiene.
Carrie turned to the bed. She gasped. Cal was not lying under it in his usual position. He was on his side on the mattress, the bedsheets draped over him, his back to the room. He was asleep.
Carrie watched the gentle rise and fall of his ribcage. The pain she felt in her heart lessened.
“Cal?” she whispered.
He didn’t stir. She stood for another minute, watching her son sleep in his bed. It was a simple yet wonderful sight.
But she needed him awake. She needed to ask him again about the bad man. About Noah Pengelly.
Detective Turner would soon be expecting a phone call. She would have to tell him about Melissa’s drawing. About the fact that Cal had been speaking to his sister. And once the police had learned he could talk, there would be an expectation he tell them everything he knew.
And if he refused? What then? It would seem very much like he was hiding something.
Carrie stared at his sleeping form. Are you hiding something, Cal? Why are you hiding it from me?
Leaving him alone, she drifted downstairs. She would delay Detective Turner until Dylan returned home. Once he’d convinced Melissa to talk to him, they’d speak to the detective together. Hopefully, Cal would cooperate. If he didn’t want to talk, they could use visual aids, or pencil and paper like the intermediary had suggested. And if he still refused then they would have to find another way.
Noah Pengelly was still out there somewhere. Whether alive or dead, he deserved to be found. And now, more than ever, Carrie sensed that Cal knew where to find him.
Melissa’s drawing felt like proof.
36
Nat stood on Grady Spencer’s doorstep, listening to the chime of the doorbell fading as she cast an eye around his overgrown garden. The police had cleared out ten minutes ago, taking the journalist’s car with them. She’d thought it was their presence making her feel uneasy, but now they were gone she felt no better.
Perhaps, beneath her hangover, she was genuinely worried about Honey. After all, Devil’s Cove was a small town. What if the sicko who’d murdered Margaret Telford’s dog was still hiding out here somewhere?
She could hear Grady’s dog, Caliban, yapping inside the house. She had never liked the animal, despite its cool name. Still, she didn’t hate it enough to do what had been done to the other poor mutt.
Nat pressed the doorbell again. Perhaps Honey wasn’t the cause of the bad feeling. Perhaps it was because she’d had to call Jago and tell him she couldn’t help search the hotel. He hadn’t said much but his tone had spoken volumes. He was out there looking for his little brother. Meanwhile, she was here looking for a stupid cat.
Jago was her best friend. Her only friend. But he was more like the brother she’d never had. And her heart wasn’t as cold and dead as people thought. She felt Jago’s pain as if it were her own. She felt his worry. His loss. She wanted to help him find Noah. She wanted to help him find his brother alive.
The scrape of locks being drawn back distracted her from her thoughts.
The door opened a crack. Grady Spencer stared at her with a suspicious eye. At his ankles, Caliban emitted an irritating growl.
“Good morning Mr Spencer, it’s Nat from next door,” she said, then wondered why she was introducing herself. Grady Spencer knew exactly who she was. He’d certainly asked enough probing questions about her past. Not that she’d answered any of them.
Grady pulled the door open wider. Over his shoulder, Nat saw the stacks and towers of a hoarder’s kingdom. She’d never had reason to enter the old man’s house and now, seeing what lay inside, she hoped she never would.
“Ah, young Natalie,” Grady said, his lips parting to reveal broken yellow teeth. “To what do I owe the pleasure on this fine Saturday morning?”
His laughter was liquid and rasping. Nat tried very hard to hide her disgust.
“I’m looking for Honey. Rose’s cat? She’s missing.”
Grady arched his eyebrows and wiped his mouth with a papery, lined hand. “Your cat, you say? Well, no, I haven’t seen any cat. Saw the police, mind you. Gone now, have they?”
Nat nodded.
“Had one of them knocking on my door asking questions, too. Told him I never heard about no journalist.”
Grady watched Nat closely, making her feel uncomfortable. She didn’t know much about him. To her, he was simply the old man from next door, who liked to know everyone’s business. And he was a little creepy. She suspected that living alone, he was also deeply lonely. But it wasn’t her responsibility to keep him company. That’s what families were for. Unless your family was made up of uncaring assholes.
“Well, thank you,” she said. “If you do happen to see her, could you let Rose know?”
“Worried, is she?”
“She’s pretty attached to that cat.”
Grady looked over Nat’s shoulder, into the street beyond. “Well, she has a right to be worried. Especially after what happened to Margaret Telford’s dog. You hear about that?”
Nat nodded.
“Terrible business,” Grady said. “Hacked to pieces, it was. And the police aren’t doing much about it. Mind you, they’ve got bigger fish to fry with that Pengelly boy still missing.”
A horrible image of Honey flashed in Nat’s mind. She pushed it away. “Well, like I said...”
She turned to leave. Grady’s hand shot out and grasped her wrist.
“Perhaps she’s got into my backyard. Take a look if you want,” he said.
Nat stared down at the old man’s fingers. He released his grip.
She didn’t want to go searching around Grady Spencer’s yard, thank you very much. But now she couldn’t shake the image of Honey’s mutilated body from her mind.
She glanced across at Rose’s cottage and heaved her shoulders. She would take a quick look. Then she would call Jago and tell him she’d changed her mind.
She turned back to Grady and nodded.
“Just go around the side of the house, there,” the old man said, pointing. Nat followed the path with her eyes, watching it disappear around the corner. “There’s all sorts of places for her to hide out there. Be careful, mind. That yard could do with a good tidy up. If I was ten years younger, I could do it myself. But not now, not with these old bones.”
He stared at Nat with expectant eyes.
Nat smiled politely. There was no way in hell she was going to be spending her day clearing up the old man’s junk.
“I’ll just take a quick look,” she said.
“Take all the time you need.”
She felt Grady’s eyes on her back as she turned and rounded the corner of the house.
Getting to the backyard was like negotiating an assault course made up of old refrigerators, broken furniture, and trash. When she had weaved her way through, she discovered that the backyard was no better.
“So, this is where old appliances go to die.”
Grady Spencer had created his own junkyard, complete with maze-like paths running through it all. There had to be the contents of an entire home here, cast out and left to rust.
Where did she begin? There was no way she was heading into that mess. There were probably rats. Definitely disease. A myriad of accidents waiting to happen. Instead, she stood at the corner of the house with her arms wrapped around her chest and called for Honey.
She waited for an answer. When none came, she called again.
“Here, Honey! Here, cat!” She squeezed her ribcage and took a step forward. That was as far as she was going. She called once more and was answered by silence. “Damn stupid animal.”
Honey was a fussy creature. There was no way she would be hiding in that infested scrapheap. Wrinkling her nose, Nat turned and faced the back of the house. The paint on the window frames was cracked and peeling. She could see curtains through the dirty glass, all yellowed and stained, as if they’d never been washed. There was an iron grille in the ground. Through it, she could just make out a small basement window.
That bad feeling returned to her. It was like butterfly wings flapping in the pit of her stomach. Moving quickly, she returned to the front of the house, where Grady Spencer still stood in the doorway, with Caliban now resting beside his feet.
“No luck?” He stared at her with intense eyes.
Nat shook her head. “Thanks, anyway. I’m sure she’ll show up.”
She turned to leave.
“You could have a quick look inside,” Grady said. “I leave the windows open. Sometimes cats come in.”
“I should probably get back...”
“There’s all kinds of hiding places in there. And old Caliban here is useless when it comes to chasing moggies out.” He stared at her, hopefully.
Again, Nat glanced over his shoulder into the cluttered hall. If the inside of the house was anything like the backyard, it wouldn’t be just a quick look. It could take hours.
Something in her gut told her to stay outside, to turn around and return home. But if Honey was in there, if she was stuck somehow, Rose would never forgive her if she found out Nat had turned around and given up.
She glanced over the fence at Rose’s cottage. She could hear her calling Honey’s name. Guilt lured Nat to Grady’s front door. This is your own stupid fault, she told herself.
Five minutes. That was all she was giving Honey. Then the stupid cat was on her own.
Grady was staring at her, his yellow smile splitting his face. He stepped to one side.
“Well come in. Don’t be shy.”
Looking back at the street behind, Nat felt the flutter in her stomach grow more intense. She was being ridiculous. Grady Spencer was an old man who couldn’t hurt a fly. He was lonely, that was all. And loneliness made people do odd things. Like turn their home into mazes of junk.
A chill ran down the length of Nat’s spine. She shook it off as she stepped inside Grady Spencer’s house.
It returned the moment she saw him close the door behind them. There was a musty smell in here. Like the windows hadn’t been opened in years. But hadn’t Grady just told her he kept them open?
Nat stared down the length of the hall, eyeing the piles of junk.
“I’ll show you around, shall I?” Grady said.
He shuffled past her, a curious expression on his face.
Reluctantly, she followed behind.
37
The Mermaid Hotel watched over the cove like a battle-weary sentinel; its upper levels blackened with soot. What had been a thriving hub for holidaymakers was now an eyesore that was slowly crumbling into the sea.
Jago scrambled over the rusting gates and landed heavily on his feet. The nearest houses were just a hundred metres away, and although a small copse of trees blocked their view of the hotel, he found himself glancing over his shoulder. Satisfied he hadn’t been seen, he pushed forward, his boots crushing the weeds that sprouted from cracks in the forecourt.
As he moved, his thoughts turned to Scott Triggs. Something wasn’t right. People didn’t just leave their cars behind and disappear into the ether. Not when they were about to land a front-page story. The journalist’s disappearance and the murder of Margaret Telford’s dog had to be connected. But how?
The hotel loomed over him. Staring at its boarded-up windows, he skirted the once grand entrance steps and turned the corner.
The rear garden had been an elegantly landscaped space filled with swathes of hardy shrubs; one of the few plant types capable of surviving the salty air and coastal winds. Now abandoned, the garden was a strangled mass of grass and weeds, fenced off by eroded iron railings.
With his back to the hotel, Jago stopped to take in the view. Beyond the garden, was an endless expanse of charcoal sky and green ocean. Gulls flapped overhead. A ship sailed in the distance, a speck on the horizon.
As much as he hated living in Devil’s Cove, he could never complain about the view.
He turned back to the hotel, taking in its charred upper floors before lowering his gaze to the ground floor and locating the kitchen window.
The wooden board came away easily. The glass had been knocked out a long time ago, providing easy access for bored youths looking for a secret hideout away from their banal lives. As far as he knew, few kids came up here now; as fun as it was to get wasted or laid, falling to their deaths in a collapsing building was not as appealing.
Leaning the board against the wall, Jago hoisted himself up and swung his legs through in one fluid movement.
Planting his feet on the floor, he dusted himself off and looked around. The hotel kitchen had once been filled with industrial sized cookers and refrigerators, and a horde of kitchen staff racing to prepare fine cuisine. Now, its contents were gone, the empty space filled with dust and dirt, littered with empty beer cans and bottles.
With just one window of light, the room was cast in long shadows.
Someone had been here recently, after all. Sets of footprints were stamped in the dust, and led away from the window.
Jago walked from one end of the room to the other, inspecting the graffiti tags on the walls and wrinkling his nose at a long ago used condom hanging from a nail.
Someone had removed the inner door that led to the restaurant. More darkness greeted him as he walked through.
Pulling his mobile phone from his pocket, he selected ‘flashlight mode’. A white beam shot out, illuminating the space around him.
The emptiness of the restaurant felt vast. A few tables remained, covered in thick dust. Black mould sprouted from a stack of chairs in the corner.
A memory sprang to Jago’s mind. He had visited the Mermaid Hotel in its former glory only once, shortly before the fire. He had been twelve years old. His mother had just discovered she was pregnant with Noah. His father, who had finally quit the booze several months before, had insisted on taking his family for a celebratory dinner.
His mother had dressed in a glamorous blue gown, and she had joked that soon she would be as glamorous as a potato sack. Both he and his father had put on shirts and ties.
He remembered his parents both ordering lobster and laughing as they struggled to get to the meat. He remembered looking around the grand room, admiring the sparkling crystals of the ornate chandeliers, and the glow of candlelight, and how all the smartly attired serving staff had smiled and treated them like royalty.
A week later, his father was dead. Caught up in bad storms, a fishing trawler had sent out a Mayday call. By the time Jago’s father and the rest of the lifeboat crew had reached the trawler, the storm had grown with terrifying intensity. No one had come home that night. Not the fishermen. Not the crew trying to rescue them. It had been the biggest tragedy to hit the cove since the loss of Cal Anderson.
Holding his phone out ahead of him, Jago moved swiftly through the restaurant. Several pairs of footprints led to a set of double doors. Pulling them open, he found himself within a short, dusty corridor.
He walked on. His heart rate was up. His breaths quick and shallow. He would never admit it aloud, but the darkness of the hotel scared him.
