Blood Falls (5 page)

As far as he could tell, the town was laid out on a steep hillside, curving around a narrow bay. The road he was on appeared to follow a winding course down the hill, and he assumed it would lead
eventually to the seafront. That seemed like the best place to begin his search.

He passed a development of relatively modern bungalows, then the road narrowed as it descended through an older part of town: an attractively chaotic jumble of stone cottages, mostly well-maintained, adorned with hanging baskets and a variety of wall plaques. Lots of parked cars, slotted into every available space, but no passing traffic, no pedestrians. Barely eight p.m. and the town was asleep.

The severe slope put a strain on his ankles and shins. Joe found himself leaning back so as not to break into a run. Glimpsing the lights of distant properties to his left and right, his impression was of a bowl-shaped settlement, hidden away from the rest of the world. Directly ahead, the horizon was blotted out by cloud and rain. Somewhere below it the sea lay dark and forbidding: an absence of land rather than a presence in its own right.

He took a left turn into a wider street that looked to be a more direct route to the front. The homes along here were bigger, mostly rendered and painted white, with brick chimneys and roofs of slate or tile. For the first time there were pavements, and grass verges, and even a little passing traffic. Joe found himself watching every car closely, his muscles tensed for flight.

Ten minutes later he was on the seafront. A coast road ran parallel to a wide promenade, with a small harbour at roughly the midpoint. Joe crossed the road to get a better view of the buildings that faced out to sea.

The promenade was an attractive space, with ornamental granite benches positioned at regular intervals between clusters of palm trees in large stone planters. Illumination was provided by Victorian-style street lamps, throwing a weak light into the drizzle. Once again, there wasn’t a soul to be seen.

Turning to face the town, Joe made out half a dozen signs for guest houses and B&Bs. He crossed back and headed to the nearest one.
Tregary House was a plain square building, three storeys high and painted pink. As he reached the driveway he saw the sign in the downstairs window:
CLOSED FOR WINTER
.

He carried on in the direction of the harbour, passing several large Edwardian properties that had been converted into flats. The next B&B was called Britannia Place. A Union Jack hung wetly from a flagpole jutting from above the ground-floor window. There were three cars parked on the drive.

No sign to indicate whether they had vacancies, but at least it appeared to be open for business. Joe walked up to the front door and tried the handle. It was locked. There was a doorbell set in a brass surround in the shape of a rosette, and below it a sticker that said:
NO HAWKERS, NO JUNK MAIL, NO FREE NEWSPAPERS
.

He rang the bell. After half a minute the door was wrenched open by a man of about sixty, with suspiciously dark hair Brylcreemed into a razor-sharp side parting. There were two boil plasters on his neck, just below his left ear.

‘Yes?’ Not outwardly aggressive, but not friendly, either.

‘I wonder if you can help me. I’m looking for Diana Bamber.’

The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who?’

‘Roy and Diana Bamber? They ran a B&B down here. Roy died a few years back.’

‘Nope. Can’t help you.’

‘All right. Supposing I wanted a room here, how much for one—?’

‘We’re full.’

‘At this time of year?’

The man seemed furious that Joe was doubting his word. ‘A couple of rooms are out of action. While we paint ’em.’

He was lying, and Joe held the man’s gaze for a moment, to communicate that he knew. ‘Can you tell me where I might find a place to stay?’

The man sucked air between his teeth. ‘Bit late now.’

‘It’s twenty past eight.’

‘Late,’ the man repeated, ‘
and
it’s late in the year. You want a room, you’d best get the bus out to Wadebridge.’

‘There aren’t any more buses.’

The man shrugged:
not my problem
. Without another word, he slammed the door.

Joe turned away, his neck tingling as his departure was tracked from one of the ground-floor windows. Despite his earlier efforts to smarten up, he wondered if he still looked too unsavoury. If so, he was unlikely to find anybody willing to give him accommodation tonight.

But the man hadn’t just lied about not having a room available. Joe felt sure he’d seen a glimmer of recognition at the mention of Roy and Diana. The hotelier
did
know who Diana was, but had chosen not to say so.

Eight

THE RAIN INTENSIFIED
as Joe continued towards the town centre. Even with his collar pulled tight he could feel it trickling down his neck. The spectre of a night in a bus shelter loomed large.

Across the road from the harbour there was a junction with what turned out to be the High Street. A pub on the corner, the Harbour Lights, had opaque windows, so Joe couldn’t tell if it was doing a roaring trade or was completely empty. Probably the latter, judging by the lack of sound from within: no raised voices or muffled thump of music.

But there was a definite pounding noise coming from somewhere else. He realised it was beneath his feet.

He crossed the coast road and peered over the harbour wall. Water was churning and foaming as it gushed from a culvert that ran under the road. Several small boats moored close by rocked vigorously in the swirling current. This must be from a stream running down the hill. Parallel to the High Street, maybe.

He headed in that direction, climbing the steep slope, and again he was struck by the lack of activity. Where were the bored teenagers, clustered in doorways, or the older kids racing up and down on mopeds? Where was the
nightlife
, for Christ’s sake?

As if in answer, a faint burst of laughter reached his ears. Coming from a pub, tucked away in a little plaza that also contained the library,
an Italian restaurant and a barber shop. The restaurant was open but only one or two tables were occupied, whereas the pub was thriving. Through the patterned glass windows Joe could see a mass of silhouetted drinkers.

Somebody in there might know Diana, but an innate caution made him reluctant to venture inside. Did he really want to advertise his presence to the entire town?

While he hesitated, the pub’s double doors clattered open. Joe took cover in the doorway of a bank and watched as three men crossed the plaza.

The middle one was very tall, perhaps six foot four, wearing a long black overcoat and a top hat. Joe glimpsed a strong profile with a Roman nose, a face in late middle age but with skin that was unusually pink and smooth, as though it had been highly polished. There was no hair peeking from beneath the hat, and Joe guessed he was completely bald.

The men who flanked him were younger and shorter, but dressed in similar formal attire. They had the demeanour of lackeys, nodding heartily at everything the tall man said.

Once they were out of sight, Joe entered the plaza and found a woman hurrying towards him, head down as she struggled to unfurl an umbrella. It opened with a pop and she looked up, saw Joe and gave a cry of surprise.

He raised his hands: the universal gesture of placation. ‘Sorry. Can you help me? I’m trying to find someone.’

‘Oh yes?’ The woman’s tone was dry, but not necessarily hostile. She was wrapped in a thick wool coat. Thirtyish, he would have said, with dark hair and big, dark eyes lively with intelligence.

‘Do you know a Diana Bamber?’

Frowning, the woman took half a step back. She looked Joe up and down as if rethinking her first impression. ‘Diana Bamber?’

‘She ran a B&B with her husband Roy, but he—’

‘I know who you mean. Diana Walters, she is now. She reverted to her maiden name.’

‘Ah. Can you tell me where she lives?’

The woman motioned toward the seafront with her free hand. ‘Left at the bottom of the High Street, follow the coast road along to Potters Lane. The B&B’s called the Dolphin. It’s about halfway up, on the right.’

‘Thanks.’

‘My pleasure,’ she said, as though it was anything but.

Brooding on another charming encounter, Joe retraced his steps and turned along the seafront. There was a white van approaching, headlights splashing yellow light on the road. It slowed as it drew alongside, and Joe felt the driver’s gaze. A young man, in a uniform of some kind, giving him a good hard stare of the sort Joe had often employed during his own days in uniform:
I’ve clocked you, sunshine
.

There was a logo on the side of the van, too dark to see clearly. After it had turned into the High Street Joe glanced back a couple of times, half expecting the driver to reappear and check him out again.

Potters Lane turned out to be only seventy or eighty yards from Britannia Place. The junction was little wider than a domestic driveway, squeezed between two low slate walls constructed in a distinctive herringbone pattern.

The hill was even steeper than the High Street, and lined with attractive white stone villas, marred only by the presence of an electricity substation. In a concession to the gradient the gardens were mostly paved and set out in a series of terraces. The driveways contained BMWs and Mercedes and Audis. In one, a road-legal Yamaha quad bike worth at least five grand was parked, unsecured, just inside the open gates. Joe felt sure it would be stolen by morning if the owner didn’t come out to secure it.

Then the road curved sharply to the right, and finally the Dolphin came into view. It was an imposing Victorian property, possibly once a rectory or even a manor house, built of traditional Cornish stone and bay-fronted at each end, with a pair of hipped dormers in the roof. Joe guessed it must have at least six or seven bedrooms. Roy and Diana had done well for themselves, Joe thought.

The property was enclosed by a wall of matching Cornish stone. Mature trees and plants grew along the boundary, but much of the front garden had been paved over, with half a dozen parking bays marked out in white lines. Only one was occupied, by a newish Mazda MX-5. Not the sort of car he’d have pictured Diana driving.

Three wide steps led up to a recessed porch with a tiled floor. There were narrow frosted-glass windows either side of the front door. The door itself was made of dark oak, with iron fittings. Next to an old-fashioned bell pull there was a sign that read:
The Dolphin Bed and Breakfast, open 1 May till 30 September
. That explained the solitary car out front.

Joe checked the time: just after nine. Late for a surprise call, but not excessively so. He hoped she would understand.

He rang the bell. The door opened almost immediately. He hadn’t seen Diana for over seven years, and at first he was taken aback. Was this the right house, the right woman?

She was wearing a pink knee-length dress with a white pashmina shawl over it, the dress tight-fitting and rather low-cut. She had never been seriously overweight, but now she was positively slim and shapely. She wore some subtle make-up, and her hair was shorter and probably coloured: it had a reddish tint. She looked, bizarrely, younger than he remembered her from nearly a decade ago.

Diana had opened the door without a hint of caution, a friendly smile on her face. Now Joe watched the smile fade, along with the
colour in her cheeks. Her knuckles tightened on the door, as though preparing to slam it shut, and it occurred to him that she’d hurried to answer the bell because she was expecting someone else.

He said, ‘Diana, it’s me. Joe Clayton. Roy’s old colleague.’

She gave a sombre nod. When she spoke, there was a hopelessness in her voice; she might have been deflating before his eyes.

‘I know who you are, Joe. But why did you have to come here?’

Nine

IT WASN’T THE
reaction he’d been hoping for. Then again, he could hardly blame her.

‘I’m sorry. I need your help.’

A long hesitation, while the door trembled in her hand, betraying her deliberations: let him in, or shut him out. Finally she said, ‘This isn’t a good time for me.’

‘You’re not in any trouble?’ Joe asked.

‘No, it’s nothing like that …’ She tailed off again, clearly unwilling to explain.

‘All right. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.’ Joe couldn’t bring himself to beg or plead. He had no right to do so. He stepped off the porch into the fine pelting rain, heard a creak as the door moved behind him.

‘Wait.’

He turned back, conscious of the rain dribbling down his face and neck, and wondered, if it had been a dry evening, would she have relented at all?

‘Sorry,’ Diana said. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking. Come in.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. I was just … shocked, I suppose. It’s been so long.’

‘It has,’ he agreed. ‘And I’m largely to blame for that.’

* * *

Joe stepped into a wide hallway, took off his jacket and his trainers. As he went to hang his cap on a coat hook, Diana said, ‘That’s not a style I’d associate with you.’

‘Me, neither. That was the point.’

She looked at him quizzically. ‘A disguise?’

‘Pretty much.’

‘Where have you come from? Do you have a car?’

He shook his head. ‘Trains and buses, all the way from Bristol.’

‘Bristol?’ She leaned towards him, studying his face. ‘You’re exhausted. Have you eaten lately?’

‘Not really. I’d kill for some coffee.’

‘That’s easily solved. Follow me.’

Diana led him along the hall, through a formal dining room with half a dozen small tables, and on into a spacious kitchen, which had been extended to encompass a breakfast room. The table in here was larger, with a pile of glossy magazines on it. There was a local newspaper open at the property pages, a clean ashtray and a used teacup and saucer.

‘Take a seat,’ she said, filling a jug of water for the coffee maker. ‘I could rustle up some food if you’re hungry.’

‘No, that’s imposing on you.’