Blood Falls (17 page)

‘And what happened?’

‘Cadwell and Race frightened her off.’ He found a couple of mugs, blew dust off them, then reconsidered and gave them a rinse under the tap. ‘After that I couldn’t find anybody else to replace her.’ He hunted in the cupboards. ‘There’s coffee, tea and sugar, but no milk, I’m afraid.’

‘Black coffee’s fine,’ Joe said. ‘So why did they attack you?’

‘Simple enough. Cadwell is keen to expand, and he wants this place.’ Davy indicated the gallery. ‘I guess the death trade is looking up, even if nothing else is.’ His laughter had a bitter ring to it.

Joe was confused. ‘A funeral parlour doesn’t need a prime retail site.’

‘Nope, you’re spot on. But this is about status. Power. It’s their town, so they’ll get whatever they bloody well want.’

‘And for that he half-killed you?’

Davy nodded. ‘He made the first approach just over a year ago. A bloody silly offer. I guess he knew I was struggling. I said I wasn’t interested but he didn’t listen. In the end I had to get my lawyer to tell his lawyer, in the usual polite legalese, to get stuffed. Fool that I am, I assumed that would do it.’ He stared into the middle distance. ‘But Derek didn’t give up. He went running to Leon.’

They took their coffees up to the mezzanine, where the only remnants of the cafe area were an aluminium table and a couple of matching chairs. There was a stack of canvases in the corner, large expressionist paintings of turbulent oceans and grotesquely compelling portraits. Davy caught Joe admiring them and said, ‘That’s how I vent my frustrations. In oil and acrylic.’

‘They’re excellent. I like them a lot.’

‘The tourists don’t. They prefer tidy watercolours. Yachts and lighthouses and sandy beaches at daybreak. I make more from commission on other people’s work than I do from my own.’ Davy sighed. ‘And I tell myself it still beats pen-pushing, nine to five.’

‘If you didn’t believe that, wouldn’t you have given in to Cadwell?’

‘Yeah. Fair point.’ Unconsciously or not, Davy started gently rubbing his scalp. ‘It was less than a week after I gave my final answer. In Newquay with a mate. We came out of this bar and got jumped from behind. Three of them, we think.’

‘So it could have been anybody?’

‘Not quite. As I fell I managed to take one of them down with me. Trapped his arm under my body.’ He paused, the memory vivid in his eyes. ‘Last thing I heard before I fainted was the crack of a bone breaking. I was laid up for a month, but friends from here told me that one of Leon’s bullyboys had his arm in a sling. Bloke called Reece Winnen.’

‘Reece?’ Joe said. He described the LRS men who had turned up during the incident with Alise and Cadwell.

‘Yeah, that’s Reece. The one with curly hair is probably Todd Ancell. I reckon he was one of them.’

‘And the police couldn’t do anything?’

‘Nope. Reece claimed he fell off a ladder at Leon’s place. There’s some maintenance man who backed up the story.’

‘That wouldn’t be Glenn, would it?’

‘Yeah. How’d you know him?’

Joe shook his head, a feeling of dread twisting in his stomach.
What was Diana playing at?

‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘I suppose the police investigation fizzled out?’

Davy gave a caustic laugh. ‘According to the boys in blue it had, to quote: “All the hallmarks of a homophobic assault.”’

‘Homophobic?’

The Australian laughed again. ‘Don’t be shocked that you missed the signals. I don’t give out signals if I can help it. In that sense, the cops were dead right.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It wasn’t a homophobic attack
per se
, but Leon and his crowd aren’t exactly fans of cultural diversity. I’ve been here eight years, and I reckon they only tolerated me because I’m white and I speak English – even if there are Poms who’d disagree. But now my time’s up, because Cadwell’s set his heart on a morgue with a view …’

Joe gazed at the bank of windows that filled the gallery’s north wall. The bay was obscured by a misty drizzle, an iron-grey sea rolling out of the murk. Gulls drifted like scraps of litter flung into the wind.

Davy’s story sounded plausible, as had Alise’s tale of woe, but Joe couldn’t dismiss the possibility that both of them had an axe to grind. What he needed was corroboration from a more objective source.

He turned back to the Australian: ‘Do you really think they’ll try again?’

‘Sure of it. But they’ll vary their tactics, like they did before.’

Joe stared at him. ‘Before?’

‘Yeah. When Leon wanted Trelennan’s taxi firm he used petty vandalism and fake bookings. Eighteen months of it, something different every night. Sent the proprietor insane.’

Davy leaned back in his chair, eyes half-closed as he reeled off the details. ‘Whereas, with the amusement arcade, the police got an anonymous tip-off. Found child pornography on the owner’s computer. Roger Pengelly, a nice bloke. He swore blind it had been planted, and luckily there were enough people with access to his office to cast doubt. They dropped the prosecution, but you know how it is.’

Joe nodded grimly. ‘Mud sticks.’

‘People wouldn’t let their kids anywhere near the arcade. Leon made him an offer and Roger had no choice but to take it. Bloody effective way to build an empire, if you don’t have to worry about reprisals.’

‘And Leon Race doesn’t?’

‘Not round here. No one would dare.’

‘And the police?’

Davy shrugged. ‘The local station shut down a few years back. Wasn’t needed, since the official crime rate is zero. I’d say it’s also a fair bet that Leon has nurtured friendly relationships with one or two senior cops.’

Joe didn’t respond. Allegations of police corruption aroused an instinctive desire to defend his former profession, even though he knew from bitter experience that there were a few rotten apples in the barrel.

He said, ‘Did you know there’s a journalist in town, writing an article about Leon?’

‘Yeah? He won’t be allowed within a mile of this place, then.’ Davy grew thoughtful. ‘Maybe if Alise had a chance to talk to him …?’

‘I’m not sure he’d be all that sympathetic, but perhaps it’s worth a try. If I could get hold of her, that is.’

Davy sat upright. ‘What the hell do you mean? Has Alise gone missing?’

The Australian’s reaction set off a twinge of anxiety in Joe. ‘Not exactly. I saw her yesterday afternoon, then she texted me a little later. Do you know where she lives?’

‘I’ve got her address somewhere.’ Davy steepled his fingers, held them upright against his mouth as if praying fervently. His eyes seemed to bore into Joe. ‘You didn’t like me suggesting the police might be bent. Are you a cop?’

‘A long time ago.’

‘I thought so. That’s good. It means you have the expertise to help Alise. What’s your honest assessment about Kamila? Do you think she’s dead?’

‘I think something serious has happened to her,’ Joe conceded. ‘As for what – and who did it – that’s going to be very hard to establish.’

‘But you’re willing to listen. That’s more than most people round here will do. I know Leon’s involved, because I’ve seen what he’s capable of.’

Joe raised a hand. ‘The sort of intimidation you’ve described is terrible. But it’s not the same as abduction and murder.’

‘I disagree. To me, it’s exactly the same. It’s about greed. It’s about getting your own way.’ Davy’s voice rose as the passion of the argument gripped him; he made an effort to bring it under control. ‘Leon Race is a bully. A big, overgrown kid who never learned to compromise. He knows he’s lacking in education. He’s almost proud of it. But you know he’s never had as much as a speeding ticket? As a kid he’d wreak havoc and then weasel his way out of taking responsibility. What I’m saying here, Joe, is that he’s a bloody dangerous man, and he’s all the more dangerous because he relies on being underestimated.’

Joe nodded. He decided not to reveal that he’d already met Leon and been offered a job by him. Better not to muddy the waters.

Davy glanced at his watch and gave a start. ‘I should open up, in the vague hope of finding somebody willing to part with their money.’

He hurried downstairs, hunted behind the counter and located an old notebook. He licked his forefinger and dabbed the pages open.

‘You got me worried about her now,’ he muttered. ‘Ah, here it is. Flat 5, 28 Lonsdale Avenue.’ He gave Joe directions, then added, ‘Be discreet. She’s staying as an unofficial tenant with a girl … Karen somebody. Works in Gwynn’s on the High Street. Karen or Sharon, anyway.’

‘Okay. I’ll let you know when I’ve spoken to her.’

They shook hands. Davy gave him a penetrating stare. ‘You look like you could be pretty useful in a fight, Joe, but I’d have said the same thing about myself. It didn’t count for much when three blokes clouted me from behind.’

‘I hear what you’re saying,’ Joe told him. ‘I’ll watch my back.’

‘Good. And if you need a hand, you know where I am.’

Thirty

LEON WAS BACK
home by half past nine, in a sour mood that he couldn’t quite explain.

Last night, once the business with Alise was concluded, the clean-up had been assigned to Fenton. Leon and Cadwell drove to Bude, booked into a hotel, ate a late meal in the restaurant and then visited a couple of bars, making sure that plenty of people saw them.

Probably not necessary, but Leon was a firm believer in taking precautions. As it was, he had a nagging sensation that this was a misstep, and would come back to haunt him.

Fenton met him in the hall. ‘You look as shitty as I feel,’ Leon said. ‘Are we all clean?’

‘As the proverbial whistle.’

Leon inspected the living room, noting that the furniture was back in place. The polythene sheeting had been incinerated; every hard surface wiped down and polished for good measure.

Pam appeared. She was grey-haired, small and round and twinkly-eyed, like a granny in an American sitcom. ‘Drinks, boys? Something to eat?’

Leon patted his belly. ‘Cooked breakfast in the hotel. Not up to your standard, but …’

She smiled indulgently. ‘Just cranberry juice, then, my love?’

‘Perfect.’ He scratched himself. ‘I need to have a shower soon. Didn’t have time this morning.’

‘Joe Carter was here,’ Fenton told him as they made for the office. ‘He wants to accept the position, providing the wages are right.’

‘Cheeky bastard. Where else is he going to earn anything?’ Leon brooded for a moment. ‘All right. Tell him to start tomorrow. Ten quid an hour: take it or fuck off.’

Fenton was already tapping himself a note on his BlackBerry. ‘I’ve been thinking about that message on Alise’s pho—’

‘Ah, ah.’ Leon raised his hand. ‘We don’t say that name now. Not any more.’

Fenton dipped his head in apology. ‘Of course. But the text, the one she sent to Joe, we have to consider where it will lead …’

‘Away from here. I’m fine with that.’

‘But do we want this man, whom we’re about to employ, searching for the missing sister of a girl who is herself now missing?’

‘Don’t worry. We’ll keep a close eye on him.’ Leon studied the paperwork on his desk, then shook his head. Sighed. ‘Last night,’ he said. ‘Do you reckon Derek was …?’

‘What?’

There were tiny beads of sweat on Fenton’s forehead. Leon stared at them for so long that he completely lost his train of thought.

‘Dunno. Forget it.’ He scratched himself again, gazing restlessly around the room. ‘Hope there weren’t any fucking bedbugs in that hotel.’ The laptop prompted a memory. ‘Those pictures we sent out. Any replies yet?’

‘Only one. Mark Kowalski.’

‘Ah, shit.’ Kowalski was a semi-retired low-level cocaine dealer who’d say anything to anyone if it curried favour or earned him a few quid.

‘I can tell him to take a running jump, if you like?’

‘Yeah.’ Leon burped loudly, then grimaced at the taste in his
mouth: acid indigestion. ‘No. Seconds thoughts, get his number and I’ll call him.’

Lonsdale Avenue boasted a mix of properties: traditional Cornish bungalows, some Edwardian town houses – most of them converted into flats – and a few modern apartment blocks.

Number 28 was one of the Edwardian buildings, at the end of a terrace of five properties. It was four storeys high, with dormer windows in the roof: an ugly modern addition. Four steps led up to the front door, which was half-glazed and had an industrial-sized letter box.

The house was in dire need of maintenance. The stonework was cracked and bleeding mortar. Most of the paint had peeled from the door. A gouge in the frame suggested that someone had tried to jemmy it open in the not too distant past.

There was no intercom; just a square plate on the wall with nine doorbells mounted on it, each with a name tag fixed under clear plastic. Some were blank; others practically illegible. On the one for 5 there was a single scrawled word:
Noye
.

Before pressing the bell, Joe tried the door. The ageing timber creaked and groaned, but the lock held fast. He rang the doorbell, then checked his phone. There was a signal, so he called Alise again. Still nothing.

After ringing the bell a second time, a net curtain swayed in a downstairs window. The lower sash opened and a man’s bony arm emerged while his other hand fought with the curtain, clawing it over his head like a corpse escaping its shroud.

The man was in his seventies or older, pale and painfully thin, a rash of white stubble on his chin. Hollow eyes and a collapsed mouth. He smacked his lips a couple of times, like a goldfish, and Joe saw that he had no teeth.

‘Who you after?’ he said. The lack of teeth mushed the words into: ‘Ooyouaffer?’

Be discreet
, Davy had warned. ‘Karen Noye,’ Joe said.

The man squinted at him. Joe thought:
Damn: it’s Sharon
.

‘She’s out. Who are you?’

‘A friend. Are you the landlord?’

‘Why?’

‘No reason.’ Ignoring the man’s malicious scowl, Joe trotted down the steps and walked away. There was an alley that separated the terrace from a modern apartment block next door, but he couldn’t use it without being seen from the landlord’s window.