Outside, the morning was cool and a light mist hung in the air. Clara could imagine this mist remaining all year round, expanding in the approaching winter to envelop the whole village in quiet damnation.
‘Now doesn’t this look like the ideal place to buy Nazi memorabilia?’ Malcolm said as they approached a small grocery store a few streets away from their hotel.
The shop’s windows were obscured by a succession of handwritten advertisements for local handymen and reminders that only one child at a time was allowed entry unless accompanied by an adult. Not that they’d seen many children in Bridgelands Cross. Anyone making a delivery outside the unspecified opening hours was advised to contact Mrs Muldoon, the shop’s proprietor. The last two digits of her phone number were lost where the scrap of paper had torn.
‘Now open on Wednesdays,’ Malcolm read aloud from one handwritten note taped to the shop door, before adding, ‘but not, it would seem, open this morning.’
He rapped his knuckles against the glass.
‘There’s no-one in,’ Clara muttered.
A window overhead scraped open and an elderly woman leaned out.
‘What’s your business?’ she demanded.
‘Mrs Muldoon?’ Malcolm asked.
‘Yes,’ Mrs Muldoon replied, a scowl contorting her face. ‘Now what’s your business?’
‘We were wondering if we might enter your fine establishment,’ Malcolm said, ‘and perhaps purchase some of your wares.’
Mrs Muldoon narrowed her eyes.
‘You’re not trying to sell something, are you?’
‘Not at all, Mrs Muldoon,’ Malcolm said. ‘We’re here to buy something.’
‘Well, the shop isn’t open,’ Mrs Muldoon replied. ‘If you want to buy something, you’ll have to come back later.’
‘And when would later be?’
‘When the shop’s open,’ Mrs Muldoon snapped.
Withdrawing from the frame, she slammed the window shut.
Malcolm winked at Clara.
‘I think she likes me,’ he said, ‘but you mustn’t worry about the competition.’
Clara laughed.
‘She probably thinks you pushed that girl over the cliff.’
‘Didn’t I?’
Punching Malcolm lightly on the shoulder, Clara tried to cover her giggles.
‘You shouldn’t say things like that in public,’ she said, ‘one of her relatives might hear you.’
‘Maybe whoever pushed her will hear me and rush to the police to confess.’
He widened his eyes.
‘In case I steal their moment of glory.’
‘Maybe no-one pushed her,’ Clara replied. ‘Maybe she just fell.’
‘Then all I can confess to is my innocence.’
Clara snorted.
‘Speaking of confessing,’ she said, ‘are you ever going to tell me why you brought me here?’
‘I’ve already told you,’ Malcolm replied. ‘It’s business.’
He started to walk, as if further trying to evade her question. Clara caught him up in a few steps.
‘You keep saying it’s business, but what sort of business?’
‘Really Clara, you’ve never shown this level of interest in my work before.’
‘You’ve never brought me to the ruins of civilisation before.’
Clara thought a little further before elaborating.
‘I’ve heard about places, remote places, where they send paedophiles once they’re released. Whole communities of convicts who aren’t allowed to live anywhere else. This isn’t one of those places is it?’
Malcolm let out a great bellow of a laugh.
‘I honestly don’t know, Clara,’ he said, ‘but I would sincerely hope not.’
Warming to the idea, he added, ‘If you want to find out, why not ask the next local we meet? Nothing could be easier – just go up to them and say Excuse me, but are you a paedophile, or perhaps some other sort of convicted sex offender? I hear it’s quite the ice-breaker at parties.’
‘It’d be more than ice getting broken with that one.’
‘Quite,’ Malcolm said. ‘I fear the reception might be even frostier than the delightful Mrs Muldoon. Speaking of whom…’
‘Crazy or not crazy?’ Clara asked.
‘Precisely,’ Malcolm replied. ‘After three?’
‘One,’ Clara started.
‘Two,’ Malcolm continued.
‘Three,’ Clara concluded.
‘Crazy!’ they decided in unison.
Their walk had almost taken them to the cliffs. Ahead of them, the coast road curved to run parallel to the sea. A single turn-off before the bend gave way to an enclave of picturesque houses. Fascinated by buildings more modern than any other they’d seen in the village, Malcolm and Clara took a detour down the lane.
‘These look like holiday homes,’ Malcolm said. ‘Most likely empty at this time of year.’
‘What a place to holiday.’
‘Oh Clara,’ Malcolm said, ‘if I’d known you’d love it so much, I’d have enquired about house prices.’
A hacking cough erupted from inside one of the houses before Clara could reply, the choking sound of a heavy smoker attempting to clear the morning catarrh from his throat.
‘Sounds like someone’s hung around,’ Clara said. ‘Or maybe just escaped from a leper colony.’
Malcolm wrinkled his nose in distaste.
‘Perhaps we should call a doctor.’
Malcolm stepped onto the cottage’s path to try to get a look at the victim as the coughing continued. The door opened before he could reach it, and a large biker in faded denim leaned out to spit on the ground. The dislodged glob of phlegm hit the stone pathway with a thick thuck. Then the biker returned inside and closed the door behind him. With no medical intervention necessary, Malcolm walked from the grounds, leaving a single footprint on the still-damp soil.
Malcolm and Clara left the holiday homes and returned to the footpath following the cliff-top’s trajectory. Beyond the mist, a lighthouse could be seen in the distance.
‘I wonder if there’s still an old lighthouse keeper living there,’ Malcolm said. ‘They’re mostly automated these days.’
‘Probably nothing in there but rats feasting on the corpses of dead seagulls,’ Clara replied.
Malcolm grinned, though Clara could tell he wasn’t entirely sure if she was joking. She wasn’t even sure if she was joking herself.
The guard rail didn’t run the full length of the path. Where it ended, nothing but a strip of grass lay between the walkway and the cliff’s edge. Tied to the end of the rail, the last strands of abandoned police tape blew in the wind.
‘This must be where it happened,’ Malcolm said.
Both fell silent as they looked out across the water. The sea was calm this morning, but its calm was deceptive. Both knew the demons it had unleashed during the storm, when its waves had risen like the mythical sea-monsters once accused of devouring ships. All sailors knew there were no sea-monsters; the only monster was the sea itself.
‘Let’s go,’ Clara whispered. ‘I don’t want to think about her last moments.’
Malcolm crossed himself.
‘The poor girl,’ he added. ‘May God rest her soul.’
They followed the coastal path as it sloped upward. Although the gradient was shallow, Clara could feel the strain in her calves, and hoped Malcolm wouldn’t suggest they traversed the length of the peninsula to see the lighthouse.
He pointed instead towards the village. Beyond an expanse of tended grass lay a greying gazebo. Even at this distance, Clara could tell it was in need of a fresh coat of paint. A lone figure stood by the gazebo, in a pose so still Clara suspected it might be a showroom dummy that formed part of the band-stand’s design rather than a living person.
‘Hello there!’ Malcolm shouted.
When no response came, he waved to the motionless figure, both arms arching as if he was trying to attract the attention of a low-flying plane.
‘He can’t see you this far away.’
Clara and Malcolm turned to see who’d spoken. Further along the path, a man was coming up behind them. His strong jaw was flecked with a generous growth of stubble, while his skin still held the last glow of a fading summer tan. A couple of years older than Clara, his hardy stride suggested every muscle in his body had been toned by years of physical labour. Strapping was the word that came to Clara’s mind. Despite his imposing size, his dark eyes were welcoming.
‘That’s John Joseph Ford,’ the man said. ‘His eyesight’s not all that. After his accident, he’s lucky he can still see at all.’
Shielding his vision against the low sun, he looked at the couple.
‘Name’s Tony Lattimer,’ he said. ‘Don’t think I’ve seen you round these parts before.’
‘Malcolm Tennison,’ Malcolm replied. ‘We just arrived yesterday.’
‘You staying at the Forest View Lodge?’
‘For our sins.’
‘I run The Old Wheatsheaf,’ Tony said. ‘It’s not so far from your hotel. If you’re after food or drink later, feel free to stop by. I’ll even give you our new customer discount.’
‘That’s very kind,’ Malcolm replied. ‘We might just take you up on that offer.’
‘Make sure you do.’
Tony nodded at both before continuing on his way. Clara looked at Malcolm once Tony was out of earshot.
‘I see I don’t warrant an introduction.’
Malcolm raised an eyebrow.
‘You know I never introduce you to men who are younger than me.’
‘That rules out every man we’ve met but Brice. And even then…’
Malcolm tutted.
‘Cheeky,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I wonder what Ford was up to.’
‘Who?’ Clara asked.
‘The blind man out by the gazebo.’
‘No-one said he was blind,’ Clara corrected, ‘only that he’d damaged his sight. And who’s to say he was up to anything? He might just be out walking, like we are.’
Looking across the park, Clara saw no sign of Ford.
‘I wonder what his accident was.’
‘I wonder if he got compensation.’
Clara let out an exasperated sigh.
‘Oh Malcolm,’ she said, ‘That’s all you ever think about. Money, money, money. Which reminds me – what is this business you had to come here for?’
Malcolm inhaled and shook his head.
‘You’ve built it up to be something it isn’t,’ he replied. ‘If you found out now you could only be disappointed.’
He was, however, prepared to offer an ultimatum.
‘You see those woods up ahead?’ he asked.
At the head of the coast road, the trees loomed; tall and dark and ominous. It reminded Clara of the entrance to the fairy grotto where she and Simone once played as children.
‘If you’re willing to take a walk through there,’ Malcolm said. ‘I’ll tell you all about my business.’
‘No way,’ Clara replied. ‘Just imagine what sort of madmen are in there.’
‘There’ll be no madmen in the trees,’ Malcolm said. ‘All the madmen are back at the hotel.’
Clara laughed, but it was a nervous laugh. The fairy grotto of her childhood had hidden no fairies but those in her imagination. Clara knew how powerful imagination could be. In those woods, all that she feared could be made real.
‘I’m not going in there,’ she repeated. ‘That’s where the craziest of the crazies are. Look at those trees, Malcolm. That’s where the crazies hide.’