Murder By Mercury

A Stella Penhaligon Thriller

Jane Holland

Thimblerig Books

Copyright © 2025 Jane Holland

All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

CHAPTER ONE

Chatrey Bay, North Cornwall, present day

It was a beautiful Saturday morning in late June on the north coast of Cornwall. Or it would have been, if not for the dead body spreadeagled across a weed-encrusted rock halfway down the idyllic, sandy beach at Chatrey Bay. Pulling on his plastic gloves, Detective Sergeant Jack Church trod carefully over the sand, its gentle undulations still wet from the tide, now a thin blue haze far out in the bay. Ahead, he could see his young constable Ronny Myles leaning precariously over the body, though wobbling as he did so, careful not to make contact. He was pointing something out to the forensic team in their rustling white protective gear, the photographer taking advantage of the bright morning sunlight as she snapped furiously away.

‘Morning, Ronny. I’ve just had a bacon bap, so I hope this won’t be too gruesome.’ Jack stopped at the head of the jagged rock, which stood roughly hip-height, jutting out of wet sands and crusted with limpets and shining green strands of weed. His gaze was on the body though, not its setting. ‘What have we got here, then? Made any progress yet?’

‘You took your time getting here, Sarge,’ Ronny replied cheerfully, fiddling with his own gloves. ‘But then I guess you were busy.’ And he finished this with a wink.

‘Excuse me?’

But this forbidding rejoinder was lost on Ronny, who rattled on, ‘A little birdie in the canteen told me your astrologer friend has moved into the flat with you. Is that right? You and the zodiac lady, eh?’ His cheeky smile faded as he met Jack’s hard stare. ‘Not that it’s any of my business.’

‘No, it’s not.’

‘Right.’

‘The body, Constable?’

Ronny nodded hurriedly, stammering, ‘Oh yeah, the body… Well, soon as I saw him, I knew who it probably was.’ He led Jack around the rock, adding as he went, ‘You don’t have to worry about messing up any footprints, Sarge… There weren’t any. Tide most likely brought him in early this morning and left him here when it went back out. Though even if that wasn’t what happened, the sand’s too wet here to hold a print.’

The evidence for this truth was right beneath them, Jack thought, shaking salt water off his dripping boot and watching as the sand quickly smoothed over the boot-shaped hole he’d made.

He took a moment to study the dark, jagged rock and its surroundings, then looked down into the dead man’s face.

He’d been young, though clearly no longer a child. Late teens? Early twenties, at a pinch. His chin showed faint signs of stubble. He was lying awkwardly on his back, legs sprawled at an angle, head tilted back as though he’d clambered out across the rocks to sunbathe and fallen asleep there. Except his skin was sickly pale and mottled, short fair hair matted against his scalp. Somewhere along the way, he’d lost his shoes… Assuming he’d been wearing any, of course. Grey jogging bottoms, and his hoodie had ridden up his midriff. Also cheap grey cotton, no markings, no obvious logo. But presumably there’d be a label somewhere.

‘So, you recognise him?’ Jack glanced about the rocky beach, which had already been cordoned off to prevent summer visitors ogling the dead body. It was still only mid-season, the last week in June, but Cornwall was a popular holiday destination from spring onwards and a small crowd had already gathered on the foreshore. A lone WPC was holding them back behind the police Don’t Cross tape, her firm reprimands barely audible at that distance. ‘Shouldn’t there be a tent over this poor bastard?’ he added, frowning.

‘Not very practical, given the location,’ Cameron told him, a little snappily. ‘Unless you’re King Canute.’

‘Sorry?’

Cameron nodded down the beach to the thin line of sea. ‘Tide’s already on the turn. Unless you think you can stop it, we need to get the photographs and scene examination completed as quickly as possible, and get out of here before we’re washed away along with this poor sod.’

‘Duly noted.’ Jack raised his brows at Ronny. Head bent, the young constable was checking his phone, from which a faint tinny music could be heard. ‘When you’ve quite finished checking social media, Constable? The victim’s name? You said you knew who he was.’

‘Yes, sir. In fact…’ Ronny held out his phone. A video was playing on the screen: a young man at a disco was performing what looked like a Cossack dance, crouching with his legs stuck out, one after the other, his arms folded, grinning madly. ‘That’s him. Simon Trevethy… He and my younger brother did a charity swim together a couple of years back, that’s how I recognised him.’ They both watched the video again, which was only about thirty seconds long. ‘I made some calls while I was waiting. He was nineteen. Reported missing two days ago by his uncle, a fisherman. This video was posted at Christmas on one of his social media accounts. Taken at one of the nightclubs in Newquay.’

Jack took the phone and replayed the short video a few times, studying it carefully. He turned the volume up but any voices were drowned out by the loud music and a group of young people laughing and clapping in the background. Their faces were blurry and indistinct, the video quality poor. It looked like a typical night out in Newquay, a seaside resort town well-known for its arcades and nightlife. The Cornish equivalent of Blackpool. And Simon himself looked like any other young man his age… Carefree, boisterous, even a little silly perhaps.

‘Was the boy a fisherman too?’ he asked.

‘Only this past year. His dad said he was due to start uni in the autumn, after taking a gap year to help him on the boat. Fishing’s the family business, you see… The lad, his father, and his uncle.’

‘Which university?’

Ronny cocked a brow. ‘Oxford, no less.’

‘A smart lad, then.’ Jack handed him back the phone and looked down into the pale, waxy face again. He bent closer, examining a few patches of unusual discolouration. ‘Seems he might have been knocked about a bit in the water there.’

‘Body hit these rocks coming in, do you think?’

Jack grunted. ‘The PM should tell us whether that one was inflicted pre or postmortem,’ he said, peering down at the nasty gash on the lad’s right temple. ‘What was he going to study at Oxford?’

Ronny hesitated. ‘Not sure, Sarge. But I can find out.’

‘And do the parents know yet?’

‘No, sir.’ Ronny put away his phone, grimacing. ‘Though his parents are divorced. Lives with his dad, apparently. The mother’s estranged from the family. Had cancer recently but is in remission. His uncle said the lad took a gap year rather than start uni last year, so he could be near his mum while she was going through chemo.’

‘That’s a tough break.’ Jack straightened and looked out to sea.

Chatrey Bay was as still and flat as a millpond, the sea a soft blue line in the distance, like something drawn with a blunt pencil. He could see a hint of white breakers too as the tide began to head back in over the gleaming wet sands.

Had the weather been stormy over the past couple of days?

He thought back, still frowning. Maybe a little gusty, with a few sharp showers, but nothing to account for all the bruising or the gash on the boy’s head. Still, it was a rocky coastline. Anything could have happened out there once the water got hold of the body.

‘I wonder where he went in,’ he said, squinting into the haze. ‘We’ll need someone to look at recent tidal activity, try to figure out the likeliest spot… Wait, you said his uncle reported him missing two days ago? So he didn’t fall off the fishing boat, I take it?’ He shook his head, instantly answering his own question. ‘No, we would have heard about that. And the coastguard would have gone out to look for him.’

Ronny was consulting his notebook. ‘There doesn’t seem to have been any suggestion of a possible drowning. He went missing after a night out with friends. From what I could find out, the constable who originally dealt with the Missper report only made a few calls. I don’t think there was any serious search made for him.’

‘Why not?’

Ronny shrugged. ‘Young man, last seen out with his girlfriend? Hardly a priority for Missing Persons. One of his mates said they left the club together around midnight. I expect it didn’t seem worth the bother of a search, not for an adult who’d barely been missing a day when the report first came in.’

Jack, who had been walking gingerly around the rock, looked back in surprise. ‘Hang on, his uncle reported him missing the next day? Bit quick, don’t you think?’

‘That’s what the constable thought who dealt with the report. She assumed Mr Trevethy was over-reacting, that the lad was on a bender somewhere. Or on a promise. And maybe he was.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Well, they could have headed onto the beach after the club, still half-cut. Maybe taken some drugs too… But then they had a row. She storms off home. Simon wades out for a midnight swim, gets into difficulties… and drowns.’

‘It’s a working theory. His shoes are missing, so that would certainly tally. You don’t go for a swim with your shoes on, right?’ Jack crouched, examining the young man’s sodden white socks. His gaze reluctantly moved higher. ‘But why not take the rest off too?’

‘Dunno, Sarge. Perhaps he just wanted to go for a paddle, to cool off, or…’

‘Or he wasn’t planning on coming back.’

There was a short silence. Gulls cried mournfully, circling overhead on warm air currents. The sound of the sea was a constant hoarse whisper down the beach. An ice cream van must have arrived in the car park nearest the seafront; Jack could hear its tinkling, sentimental tune. Abruptly, it stopped.

‘We’d better go and talk to the uncle. And the dad. Give them the bad news and ask them to identify the body.’ Jack straightened, a leaden feeling in the pit of his stomach. ‘My least favourite part of policing.’

He paused, watching a group of teenage girls strolling along the seafront in shorts and tee-shirts. They stopped near the crowd at the police line and gazed curiously down the beach, shielding their eyes against bright sunshine.

‘And we’ll need to speak to his girlfriend too,’ he added with a frown, aware of something nagging at him.

Ronny’s suggestion of a lover’s tiff followed by a midnight swim… It was a neat idea but something wasn’t right. It might be late June but the seas around Cornwall weren’t that warm yet, especially not late at night. It would be useful to check the weather report for the time he went missing. Jack could be mistaken but there’d been some heavy rain a few nights back. As keen as any young couple might be for some privacy after a night out together, it would rather knock the ‘sex on the beach’ theory on the head if it had been raining hard that evening.

‘After all,’ he added, ‘she could be the last person to see him alive. Did anyone interview her when the boy was first reported missing?’

‘I don’t think so. But I’ll check with the constable again.’ Ronny stepped back to allow the photographer past. ‘Shall I stay and wait for the pathologist?’

‘I think forensics have everything in hand here,’ Jack told him flatly. ‘You’re coming with me. I hate doing death knocks. Where does Mr Trevethy live?’

‘Out on the road from Crookston.’

‘That’s not too far. I’ll bring the car around. You can let Cameron know we’re done here and then get on the phone. I want to know if anyone’s spoken to this girlfriend, asap.’

Ronny got out his phone again. ‘Sarge.’

Jack left him to it and headed up the beach, slipping discreetly through the crowd of onlookers on the narrow seafront. Infuriatingly, a local reporter had arrived and was already busy with her phone camera.

Recognising him, the woman lunged forward with her phone held out, asking questions about the dead man’s identity. But Jack merely muttered, ‘Can’t talk now, sorry,’ and strode on without looking back. Informing the next of kin and getting the body officially ID’ed was their next step. Everything else would follow on from that.

In the car park, his phone buzzed with a text as he passed the queue for the ice cream van. He smiled down at the name on the screen. Stella Penhaligon.

I’ve put a wash of towels on for you. There didn’t seem to be any clean ones left. I hope you don’t mind. xxx

He laughed, and then sobered, re-reading the message with new eyes. They weren’t officially living together but they were certainly living in each other’s pockets, he and Stella. She still had a room in her friend’s house, and he hadn’t asked her to move in with him, regardless of what Ronny Myles thought. They were both deliberately keeping things casual. But the relationship had become anything but casual and they knew it.

Quickly, he thumbed out a response. Very kind, thanks. But shouldn’t you be interpreting someone’s birth chart or something?

He hesitated, glancing at her sign-off again, but decided not to add kisses, simply hitting return instead. Text kisses were her thing, not his.

Seconds later, as he was getting into the car, her reply came.

It’s the Grand Opening for Luke’s shop today, remember? I’ll be on my way there in a minute.

Have a great time, he replied.

Jack started the car, reversing carefully out of the space. No kisses either this time. He pondered what that meant, and then dismissed it as unimportant. He’d asked Stella to stay over at his place a few times after they’d been out on a date. Dinner, a movie, and so on. It had seemed a natural enough progression. Only now she was doing his washing for him.

It was anything but casual, this relationship. Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe it wasn’t. Because he wasn’t sure yet how he felt about getting in too deep with another woman. Not after the way he’d lost his wife, Chloe. The guilt he still felt over her depression and suicide… He doubted it would ever go away. But he couldn’t keep beating himself up for past mistakes. Not unless he intended on repeating them and making another woman miserable too.

Besides, there was something about Stella… He didn’t know what exactly, but their relationship made him happy. She made him happy. And for such a long time he’d thought he could never be happy again. Was it so wrong to hope that this time might be a happy-ever-after?

His smile was crooked, glancing in the rear-view mirror. Happy-ever-after…

‘Don’t be an idiot,’ he muttered.

Ronny was waiting for him on the steps up from the beach.

The young constable jumped into the car, fumbling with his seatbelt. ‘She couldn’t trace the girlfriend,’ he told him eagerly, looking almost excited. ‘One of his mates was under the impression she was living with Simon at his dad’s house. But when the constable rang Mr Trevethy to ask about her, he denied the whole thing flat-out. Said he didn’t know anything about his son having a girlfriend. Bit of a mystery, eh?’

‘Certainly something to unravel,’ Jack agreed, and swung out onto the coast road out of town, heading towards Crookston.

CHAPTER TWO

Druid’s Den Occult Shop, Parsloe, North Cornwall coast

‘I can’t believe this is really happening,’ Luke Emerson whispered to Stella, his mobile face excited and agitated at the same time, his white-blonde hair gelled to a quiff. Always an eccentric dresser, today he was wearing a purple silk waistcoat dotted with stars over a crisp white shirt tucked into tight-fitting black jeans. Giving her a quick hug, he pressed a kiss to her cheek too. ‘Thank you for being here,’ he added breathlessly. ‘Thank you for agreeing to get involved with this madness. Thank you so, so much… Having a famous name like Stella Penhaligon associated with my shop means more than I can ever tell you,’ he said, winking as he flattered her shamelessly. ‘Did I say thank you yet?’

Stella laughed, and shook her head. She and Luke Emerson had been good friends for some years, and there was a deep bond of affection between them. Luke had endured his share of troubles in the recent past, just as she had, but things seemed to be looking up for them both. He had this shop now, and she had a growing relationship with a man she respected and liked. But she’d seen her own transits chart and knew things could turn on a dime this year…

‘Hardly famous, though possibly infamous, given everything that’s happened to me in the past few years,’ she told him. ‘But look, no need to thank me. I was happy to do it. In fact, as soon as you told me about your plan to open an occult shop all the way out here at Parsloe, I knew I had to be involved. Even if it was just as a cleaner!’

‘A cleaner? With your expertise?’ Luke shook his head, grinning. ‘Though, even as a cleaner, you’d know exactly which hours to turn up for work, having calculated the most auspicious moment to mop the floor and dust the crystal balls. That’s what I love most about you, Stella Penhaligon. Your eye for detail.’ He tugged on his waistcoat, though it was still perfectly aligned. ‘Closely followed by your ability to synthesise astrological data, that is.’

‘I’m not sure how important that skill is these days,’ she sighed, ‘what with all these computer packages claiming to read every chart perfectly for you. And let’s not even mention the rise of AI… No, I’m afraid the age of the consulting astrologer may be on its last legs.’

‘Oh, come on. Don’t be so defeatist.’

‘I’m not, I’m being realistic.’ She pulled a face, knowing she’d entered a niche profession just at the moment it seemed to be changing irrevocably, and not for the better. ‘Everyone’s an astrologer these days. You don’t need to know the first thing about planet replacements or aspects or how to draw up a chart. All you need do is enter a few key details, and software does the rest for you.’ She laughed, seeing his troubled expression. ‘Sorry, I must sound like a dinosaur.’

‘Only because you’re talking like one,’ a male voice drawled behind them, and they both turned, stiffening at the sight of their eavesdropper.

‘Bernard.’ Luke drew a breath, then stuck out his hand. ‘Welcome to Druid’s Den. I’m so pleased to see you here. I’m hoping you’ll be one of my best customers.’

His hesitation was not lost on Stella, who wondered if in fact Luke had invited the great Bernard Doughty to his grand opening. Bernard, who’d become famous for his starring role in a series of cult horror films back in the day, was now a local mayor and one-time independent candidate for Member of Parliament for this area of Cornwall.

Easily six-foot-three and well-built, an imposing figure even in a black tee-shirt and jeans, his reddish-grey beard neatly trimmed, the former actor glanced about the shop with an air of disdain. ‘Yes, I daresay you do.’ He grunted. ‘Nobody would guess this was once a stinking pigsty, eh?’

‘Farm outbuilding,’ Luke corrected him hurriedly. ‘The farm was turned into holiday flats a few years ago, but this place was still available, and perfect for a renovation project. Plus, there’s plenty of customer parking in the old farmyard. But that’s modern life, isn’t it? Everything is repurposed. Even, erm, pigsties.’ Still looking embarrassed at this mention of his precious shop’s former life, Luke hurried away after shaking Bernard’s hand again. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ve just seen Patricia Wyatt walk in. You know Patty, I’m guessing? She used to be in films too.’ His smile hid the disdain Stella knew he felt for the actress-turned-website designer. ‘She helped me set up the website for Druid’s Den. I just need to speak to her about some coding issues. Be right back.’

Stella found herself alone with a glowering Bernard, and wished she could find a reason to make her excuses to leave as well. Damn Luke, she thought, watching as the shop owner spoke to Patty Wyatt for all of twenty seconds before diving sideways into the private backroom. So much for being grateful. He’d abandoned her at the first sign of trouble.

She managed a smile for the mayor though. There was no need not to be civil, even after he’d embarrassed poor Luke like that.

Bernard was still dying his hair red, but there were silvery threads at his temples, and she knew he was nearing fifty, for she’d created a birth chart interpretation for him a few months back, with a Year Ahead forecast thrown in for half-price, hoping to tempt him into becoming one of her long-term clients. ‘How are you, Bernard?’ she asked politely, shaking his hand too. ‘How’s that Year Ahead forecast going? Has it proved useful?’

‘I’ve been meaning to email you about it for ages.’ Bernard turned, snatching a flute of champagne for a passing waiter’s tray. Luke had pulled out all the stops for Opening Day, including dragooning a few local kids into helping out with the catering. ‘To be frank with you, my dear, it was complete and utter garbage.’

Stella continued smiling, but her heart sank. Bernard was clearly in a horrible mood. In the gory horror films he’d starred in, someone had always ended up bludgeoned to death. She wondered if she was to be his latest victim. ‘Oh? In what sense?’

‘In every sense, darling.’ Bernard sucked down half his champagne, studying her through golden bubbles with a malevolent expression. ‘And all that guff about my temperament… There’s nothing wrong with my temperament. I was an actor for many years,’ he went on, pronouncing the final syllable of actor to rhyme with core, ‘and to be an actor, one must be sensitive to the world. In the same way that a poet or artist is sensitive. That doesn’t make me volatile.’

Stella peered longingly down at her own champagne glass, which was empty. ‘Did I say volatile? I’m sorry, I expect I meant sensitive.’

She gazed about the main room of the shop, which was thronging with guests. She suspected many of them, like Bernard perhaps, had not actually been invited, but had arrived anyway, no doubt drawn to the garish banner strung across the top of the shop sign that morning, proclaiming to all passers, Druid’s Den Grand Opening Today in large red italics, and an equivalent sign displayed in the verge on the road from town.

Was there anyone in that chattering crowd whom she knew, someone whose eye she could catch in the hope of being rescued from Bernard Doughty?

‘If you meant sensitive, darling,’ he said, heavily emphasising the last word, ‘then you ought to have written sensitive. I can’t be expected to guess what you mean if you clumsily use the wrong word.’ His lip curled. ‘You’re the psychic, not me.’

‘Yes, I really am sorry, that does sound clumsy. Though I’m not a psychic. Astrologers read charts, not minds. A common misconception, I believe.’ Stella began to edge sideways, wondering if she could make some excuse about needing the toilet. There was only one toilet in the tiny shop, and it was for staff only, but there was already a queue of guests lined up outside it. Of course there would be, she thought unhappily. ‘Perhaps I could give it another shot?’ she suggested, only half serious. ‘For free this time, of course.’

His predatory eyes narrowed on her face. ‘You wouldn’t be trying to fob me off, would you? Quite frankly, I don’t want to trawl through yet another sub-standard horoscope report. If you ask me, it was probably generated by software in less than a minute.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Yes, I overheard you before… And the lady doth protest too much.’

Cross herself now, Stella had trouble controlling her temper. ‘Bernard, I write all my reports myself. I don’t use software for interpretations, only to generate the chart drawings.’

‘Well, regardless, I want my money back.’

Stella frowned, taken aback. ‘But I did that report for you three months ago, at least. If it was so bad, why didn’t you ask for a refund at the time?’

‘I intended to,’ he admitted, after a slight hesitation, ‘only I’ve been busy.’ Bernard Doughty drew himself up. ‘I am the Mayor, you know.’

‘Yes,’ she muttered, ‘I know.’

‘Unlike you, I’m in demand.’ He looked up and down with disdain. ‘What kind of qualifications do you have for being an astrologer, anyway?’

‘I have a recognised diploma in astrology, various accreditations from international astrology schools, and I’ve been working as a professional astrologer for some years now,’ Stella assured him in a barbed tone.

‘Oh, bunkum!’ He’d raised his voice, and several people were looking their way. ‘You’re a charlatan. And you overcharged me. I demand a full refund,’ he insisted, ‘or else.’

‘Or else what?’ she demanded, baffled.

‘Or I’ll be forced to take you to court.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Ridiculous, am I?’ His cheeks flushed darkly. ‘Well, I can at least make sure everybody knows what kind of money-snatching fraud you are. A few articles in the right newspapers, and a full-length feature on my online platform, Doughtless. I have over one hundred thousand followers and a full exposé should do the trick.’ His voice rose even higher. Now people were openly staring. ‘Nasty amateurish work. Won’t even give me a refund for something a teenager could have written. You ought to be disbarred. Or whatever it is people do to bad astrologers.’

‘De-star them, perhaps?’ a young man asked, sidling up behind Stella. He had shoulder-length black hair, paper-pale skin despite the summer sunshine they’d been enjoying lately, and a conspiratorial smile. ‘You must be Stella Penhaligon,’ the newcomer said, shaking her hand. ‘The shop’s astrologer, am I right?’

‘Only three days a week.’

‘That’s so impressive. I’ll be working here too. Luke’s just taken me on as his, erm, Saturday boy.’ He grinned, and turned to look at the alcove. ‘And that’s where you’ll be holding your astrology and tarot readings? Behind this curtain?’

‘That’s right.’

The young man ran long pale fingers across the red-and-black bead curtain that shut off the alcove from the rest of the shop. It tinkled gently as it swayed, exposing the space behind. A small table, two chairs, a red-shaded overhead light, barely enough for the crystal ball and tarot cards on the baize-covered table to be seen.

‘Hmm… Very cosy.’ He raised his eyebrows at Bernard, who had drawn himself up at the young man’s approach, his expression grim and forbidding. ‘Bernie, I don’t like to interrupt,’ he added in a purring tone, ‘but is there any chance of a quick word before you scurry back to your cliffside pied-a-terre?’

A hard flush came into Bernard Doughty’s face. ‘I’m sorry, I… I don’t believe we’ve met.’ He looked restlessly about the shop as though hunting for one face in particular. ‘And there’s somebody I need to talk to. So if you’ll both forgive me…’ And he began to edge away.

‘Oh wait, don’t say you’ve forgotten me? After that lovely evening we spent together?’ The young man’s smile broadened, ‘Anyway, it’s Teddy,’ he said, holding out a slender white hand that Bernard ignored. ‘Teddy Bear,’ he added with a wink.

‘Yes, well…’ Bernard cleared his throat, still not looking directly at the young man. ‘Well, maybe we could catch up some other time. I’m sure you understand.’

‘Because you’re so busy. Such an important man. Oh yes, I understand.’ Ted was sneering, Stella felt sure, surprised by the underlying hostility between them. His smile was just a shade unpleasant. ‘Thing is, Bernie, I left something at yours that night we met and I need it back.’ He paused. ‘Urgently.’

Bernard shot the young man a quelling frown. ‘I’m not in a position to talk right now, as you can see perfectly well. Why don’t you text me and we can arrange a time for you to drop by?’

‘I have texted you, Bernie,’ Teddy replied, a strained note in his voice. ‘Several times, in fact, and you’ve ignored all my messages. I’ve even taken a Saturday job here in the hope of catching you one day, and getting a face to face. I know you partly fund this place.’ The young man grabbed his arm as Bernard attempted to turn away. ‘And I already tried the house twice… Couldn’t get past your bloody gate security. It’s like a foreign embassy. What are you afraid of? Armed invasion?’

‘Excuse me.’ Embarrassed, Stella hurried away as the young man’s voice rose, surely now audible to others in the shop. But she hadn’t taken more than a few paces before she felt a tug on her own sleeve, and looked round into the face of a parish councillor.

‘Oh… Hello, Cheryl,’ she said uncertainly.

The local businesswoman, who was somewhere in her early sixties, had dumped her neat ponytail, stud earrings and smart suit for this gathering. Better known for her connections to the occult than appearances at the council chamber, Councillor Hughes-May had turned up to Luke’s opening day in long, star-spangled purple velvet robes with gold hoop earrings, thin silver hair trailing over her shoulders, and a badge that read: Witches Do It On Broomsticks. Her husband, also in his early sixties, a mute little man called Frank, clung to her arm in a black tracksuit and tee-shirt.

‘Hello, Stella, and mega congrats,’ Cheryl replied loudly, no doubt raising her voice to be heard above the hubbub. ‘Such a clever business move of Luke’s, bringing you on board here. The infamous Stella Penhaligon. He knows you’ll draw punters from all over the South West.’

‘Infamous?’ Stella wasn’t sure what she meant by that.

‘Come on, don’t be coy. You’ve been helping the police with their enquiries, haven’t you? Practically on their books as a specialist consultant, or I’ve heard.’ Cheryl gave a tinkling laugh. ‘You’ll be on the telly next.’

‘I’ve helped out with a few investigations, that’s all,’ Stella muttered.

‘And now I find you talking to the great Bernard Doughty.’ Cheryl’s searching gaze narrowed on her face. ‘You two were deep in conversation just now. What was that about, then?’

‘Nothing in particular.’

‘What a coincidence,’ Cheryl said smoothly. ‘I was wanting to talk to Bernard about nothing in particular too. Only he seems very much in demand at the moment. A hard man to reach. I sent him a series of emails last month. No reply to any of them. And Teddy and I tried to talk to him earlier but he wouldn’t give us the time of day.’ Her husband nodded silent agreement, his sharp gaze fixed on Bernard’s imposing figure. ‘As soon as that young man stops tearing a strip off him, we might try again.’

‘Yes, well, I wish you good luck with that,’ Stella murmured, and squeezed past the couple.

With relief, she saw Luke a few steps away and threaded her way through the jostling crowd towards him, but almost immediately found her path blocked. This time, it was by a large, barrel-chested man with studs in his lip and nose, greasy swathes of greenish hair and a huge silver cross dangling from his neck that didn’t quite obscure the lettering on his black tee-shirt: Jesus is Lord.

She froze, fearing another hard-to-escape conversation and wondering how best to escape. But the man looked her up and down in disgust, cracked his knuckles loudly, and then sidestepped her, continuing in his dogged path across the shopfloor. From his trajectory and the determined look in his eyes, she felt sure he was also headed in the direction of Bernard Doughty. It seemed everybody wanted a piece of the great man today.

Turning, she found Luke immediately in front of her, also watching the progress of the man in the Jesus tee-shirt. ‘Good God,’ he exclaimed, ‘who invited Dick?’

‘You know him?’ Stella was surprised. She knew most people in the occult and New Age community in North Cornwall, yet hadn’t recognised the man at all.

‘Dick Fell? Yes, unfortunately.’ Luke grimaced. ‘He’s not one of us, if you’re thinking you’ve never seen him before. He’s Bernard Doughty’s new neighbour since poor old Mrs Pengoll died last year. Lives in her ramshackle cottage-cum-shed down the lane from his mansion. He moved in just after Christmas, apparently, and has been giving poor Bernard a hard time about those old cult movies he starred in.’

Dick Fell had stopped a few feet short of Bernard Doughty – who had finally escaped the unpleasant young man, only to be captured by Cheryl and her husband – and was now hunched over, arms folded, glaring at the former film star. What with the knuckling cracking, the facial piercings, and the straggling mass of green-dyed hair flipped over his bald patch, Stella thought he looked quite deranged.

‘I hope he’s not going to cause trouble,’ she said, watching the man anxiously. ‘I wouldn’t want anything to spoil your big day.’

‘Oh, Dick’s harmless enough. But he can be a bit full on. He’s Australian… and a fervent late convert to Christianity after a misspent youth, or so I’ve heard on the grapevine. He goes around occult shops buying up books on Wicca and burning them in his back garden. He actually called me a Satanist once.’ Luke chuckled. ‘I should give him a crystals goody bag on his way out. That might soften his mood.’

‘Or turn him violent,’ Stella warned him, raising her brows. ‘Seriously, I wouldn’t advise it.’ Then she saw his grin and rolled her eyes. ‘You were joking. Okay, very funny. Sorry, it’s all this noise… I need some alone time.’

‘To get your chakras back in order?’ Luke winked at her. ‘Take five in the back room. That’s what it’s there for, after all. A bolthole from difficult customers.’

‘You don’t mind?’

‘Consider it my penance for leaving you alone with Bernard Doughty.’ Luke bared his teeth. ‘Bloody man… He always gets drunk at these things and starts boring on about his past glories.’ He grinned as she opened her mouth. ‘And no, I didn’t send Teddy over there to save you. Honestly, he volunteered. Nice little thing, isn’t he?’

Stella met his innocent gaze. ‘Bit young for you, surely?’

‘Oh God, it’s nothing like that, sweetie. I owed his dad a favour, that’s all. Teddy’s not had much luck securing gainful employment since leaving college. I said the best I could do was give him a Saturday job, at least for the summer.’ Luke ran a hand through short white-blonde hair, grimacing. ‘Fingers crossed I make enough money to stay open during the winter months too. But I doubt it.’

‘You’ll be fine. Visitors love all this Cornish magic vibe.’

‘Let’s hope you’re right.’ He gave her a brave smile. ‘Now, I’d better go and speak to Bernard myself. Bit of a golden opportunity, really.’ Intrigued, Stella looked a question at him, and Luke pursed his lips dismissively. ‘Money, bloody money! I’ve got none and he’s loaded. Excuse me.’

She elbowed her way through the crowd again. Someone had closed the shop door and the over-crowded room was suffocatingly warm. Before she could reach the cool of the back room, however, her eye fell on the new display Luke had been finalising when she’d arrived that morning.

She hadn’t paid much attention to the display earlier, too busy setting up the table and chairs behind the beaded curtain where she would give astrology readings on a Saturday, Tuesday, and Thursday.

Now though, the framed photographs and newspaper cuttings he’d been hanging on the wall hit her like a punch to the throat.

One was a photograph of her late father, the Reverend Penhaligon.

‘What the hell…?’ she whispered.

Her stunned gaze dropped to the display beneath the framed photograph of her father. Two ritual daggers with jewelled handles – their blades not sharp enough to do harm, but still impressive-looking – a crystal quartz wand, three polished wooden wands, a small crystal ball on a silver stand, a black hooded robe with silver pentagram, and other ceremonial knick-knacks. Above these was a laminated strip, dramatically proclaiming these to be magical artefacts once belonging to a great Cornish magician, now ruined and deceased. Beside this label was the photograph of her father, and above it, framed clippings from assorted newspaper articles about her father’s disappearance, death and disgrace.

Luke must have acquired some of her father’s infamous collection of ritual and Wiccan objects, recently auctioned in Truro, and was planning to sell them in his occult shop. Right here, under her nose, for God’s sake…

Hurt and betrayed, Stella staggered past chattering punters, groping her way along the wall to the private room behind the cashtill.

‘Excuse me,’ she gasped to a man in tight-fitting cycling gear who was in her way. He didn’t seem to hear, stooping to pick up a crystal ball to examine it. Not surprisingly, given his dark glasses in an already dim shop, he fumbled and dropped the crystal ball straightaway, perhaps surprised by its weight.

‘Sorry,’ the man said gruffly as she hopped over the rolling ball, which kept going. Behind her she heard little gasps and cries as the crystal ball encountered other people’s feet. The cyclist didn’t even bother going after it, though, she noticed, merely hurrying away himself, head bent.

These people, she thought furiously, and dove into the shop’s back room, shutting the door with a click. She stood in darkness for a few turbulent minutes, eyes closed, willing her thumping heart to slow down,

She didn’t blame Luke for acquiring those magical artifacts. They were worth reselling. But he knew she hated any mention of her father. And after she’d done him this massive favour too… She hadn’t needed the extra work but had agreed to be the shop astrologer for this first summer, to help him bring in more customers. And he’d repaid her by putting that nonsense about her own father up on the wall.

The strip of light under the door abruptly dimmed and the chatter in the shop died, followed by gasps, laughter, and a few shouts of, ‘Hey, who turned out the lights?’

Luke had closed the shutters on the shop windows just before unlocking the door that morning, adamant that he wanted to conjure up a dark, magical space for the customers. But that had meant turning on all the shop lights instead, so punters could see and admire his occult wares. Now it seemed that somebody had accidentally hit the master switch. Or maybe Luke had done it deliberately to spook everyone out. Unless this was a power cut?

She opened the door to the back room and peered out into a shadowy room. At the same time, somebody threw open the shop door, and light poured in from the bright June day outside. At the same time, the lights came back on, showing people blinking at each other in confusion. A few guests laughed, one calling Luke a ‘joker’, and chatter resumed at once.

Stella stood unnoticed in the doorway, still sick and furious about having to share a space with that photograph of her father, and wondering if she could somehow escape the shop without being noticed…

Then she caught the familiar tinkling rustle of the bead curtain and automatically glanced that way, towards the astrology alcove.

Sure enough, a middle-aged woman with sandy, braided plaits was peering through the bead curtain into the alcove, perhaps hoping for an astrology reading. Far from retreating when she saw that Stella was not in situ though, the woman stiffened and let out a scream.

All conversation ceased again as everybody turned to stare.

‘Help!’ the woman in plaits shrieked, recoiling and pointing in past the swaying beads. ‘There’s a… a man behind the curtain… I think he’s dead!’

CHAPTER THREE

‘You’re sure this is the right place?’ Jack cupped his hands against the glass to peer through the grimy window of the two-storey, sunlit cottage. They’d already knocked at the front door and wandered around the periphery for several minutes, looking for signs that anyone was in. So far, no joy.

‘This is definitely the right address, Sarge.’ Ronny checked his phone again. ‘Mr Trevethy isn’t answering his mobile. I’ve sent him a text to say we’re at the house and would like to speak to him. I didn’t say why, of course.’

‘That’s the dad, right?’

‘Yes, Sarge.’

‘Did you say the wife is estranged?’

‘Yes, and we haven’t been able to get hold of her at all. Lives in Wadebridge, I think.’

‘Better try the uncle too, if you’ve got his number.’

‘Sarge.’ Ronny wandered away, presumably to get a better signal.

Jack peered through the kitchen window, but he couldn’t see much. Washing up liquid and sponges on an untidy windowsill, plus a few coffee mugs upside-down on the draining board. One showed a map of Cornwall, another a joke about pilchard fishing, another a black bird on a red background… The sink was piled high with unwashed pots and pans. But if housework had fallen down recently, that was hardly surprising.

He was always uncomfortable on a death knock. It had to be the worst job in the world. Even worse than finding the body, in most cases. He could handle the sight of most corpses, even the gruesome ones, except when it came to a dead child. But facing the inevitable pain and shock of the victim’s loved ones… No, that was the most traumatic part for him.

‘No answer either, but I’ve left a message.’ His constable came back, peering up at the whitewashed façade. ‘Nice place to live. Bit lonely though. I wouldn’t be able to stand living all the way out here in the middle of nowhere.’

The fisherman’s cottage stood on a narrow, winding lane in a valley bottom, not far from a stream that bubbled its way down through tangled undergrowth towards the sea. A few stunted thorn trees stood between the cottage and the road, bent almost double by the prevailing wind. Otherwise there was little by way of cover, just rough grasses and browning ferns that rustled on the sloping valley walls around them.

Jack listened but could hear nothing – apart from the nearby bubbling stream – but seagulls crying overhead and the constant rumble of the sea.

Ronny was right. This part of North Cornwall was isolated, rural, very different from the buzz of city life Jack had mostly enjoyed before relocating to Cornwall. Though, unlike his constable, he wasn’t averse to the idea of solitude. Maybe it was seeing rather too much of the seamy side of life as a detective, but he would definitely welcome waking up in the morning and not hearing traffic outside or seeing anyone else for miles. Most detached country properties in Cornwall were beyond his means on a police salary though. Beyond the means of most people, in fact.

Fishermen could earn a fair amount when successful, or so he believed. Was Trevethy in that bracket? This cottage though, with its ramshackle, neglected air, looked like the kind of place that might have been in the Trevethy family for decades. An inheritance then, rather than a purchase?

‘They’ve got a few neighbours, at least.’ Jack nodded down the lane towards the nearest dwellings, a cluster of similar-looking cottages about five hundred yards further on. ‘We can always ask there if we can’t reach Trevethy. They might know his movements.’

Even as they were treading back to the car, however, an ancient transit rattled along the lane and screeched to a halt outside the cottage, just missing Ronny, who jumped back with an exclamation.

‘Watch it, you maniac!’ Ronny growled, glaring at the driver.

‘Actually,’ Jack murmured, ‘I think that maniac may be our fisherman.’ As the man jumped out, clearly agitated, Jack stuck out a hand. ‘Peter Trevethy? I’m Detective Sergeant Jack Church and this is Detective Constable, Ronny Myles. Can we have a word inside, sir?’

‘Is this about Simon? Have… Have you found him?’ Peter Trevethy demanded. He was a tall, lanky man in his forties, with unkempt fair hair thinning on top. He had rather prominent blue eyes and a thin-lipped mouth that together suggested a volatile nature. He wore stained white overalls with a white T-shirt beneath, and one of his trainers had come undone, the lace flapping and trailing as he strode forward. ‘It’s been days since he went missing and we’ve heard bloody nothing.’ He sounded breathless, his voice betraying impatience, anger, but also a hint of fear. ‘I suppose that’s why you’ve come.’

‘If we could talk inside, sir?’ Jack repeated, unsmiling. This wasn’t the kind of conversation you could have at the roadside, remote area or not.

Peter Trevethy looked from him to Ronny. The anger died from his face and he took a shaky breath, perhaps realising at last what was going on. ‘Yes, of course. Sorry.’ Fumbling for his keys in his pocket, he led them back to the front door of the cottage. ‘Come in.’

It was cool and dim inside the cottage. There was a distinct smell of damp as well as cigarette smoke. He took them into an untidy living room and drew the curtains to let in the light. The sofa cushions were in disarray, old newspapers everywhere, and the coffee table was littered with empty beer cans and remnants of food. The results of one night’s partying? Or several nights of ordinary living without anyone bothering to clear up?

With a muttered apology, Trevethy shoved some of this detritus aside and began tidying the place.

Jack stopped him. ‘It’s all right, sir. We don’t need to sit down. I’m afraid we have some bad news for you.’ Carefully, trying not to be brutal about it, he told the fisherman about their grim discovery on Chatrey Beach, and how they suspected it was his missing son, Simon. ‘The body fits the description you gave. But you’ll need to formally identify him before we can be certain.’ He hesitated, adding, ‘I’m very sorry, Mr Trevethy. I know this must be desperate news, but –’

Peter Trevethy had listened to his explanation with an expressionless face, seemingly lost in a trance. It was not an unusual reaction to such news, in Jack’s experience. The grief would set in later. At the moment, the man was simply coming to terms with the probable death of his son.

Now he cut across Jack’s apology, exclaiming savagely, ‘Perhaps if you’d found my son earlier… If the police had bothered looking when I first reported him missing…’ With a groan, he halted and dropped his head into his hands. There was silence for a moment. When Mr Trevethy straightened, there were tears in his blue eyes. He looked broken. ‘All right, what now?’ he muttered. ‘What you need me to do? I hope you’re going to get the bastards who did this to my son.’

‘You think someone did this to Simon? Murdered him?’ Jack studied him. ‘Until the pathologist’s report comes back, we’re keeping an open mind.’

‘What?’ The fisherman stared at him, his mouth working. ‘You think it was suicide?’ he managed at last, and shook his head. ‘Simon? Don’t be so bloody ridiculous. Why the hell would he do that?’

‘That’s what we’d like to know.’ Jack studied his face closely. ‘So your son wasn’t unhappy, I presume? Did he have any problems at work? Or financially, perhaps? We heard he had a girlfriend… Perhaps things had gone wrong between them. Any information you could give us may be helpful.’

Peter Trevethy was already shaking his head. ‘Like I told the police on the phone, my son didn’t have a girlfriend.’ His voice lacked conviction though and his gaze slid away. Was he hiding something? Or was the man beginning to doubt that he’d known his son as well as he’d thought? ‘Simon certainly didn’t have any financial worries. I’d been supporting him, for God’s sake. Given him work on the boat, made sure he wanted for nothing… Besides, he was due to get a student grant soon. He’s going to university in the autumn.’ He caught the wrong tense, and sucked in a breath. ‘Was going to uni, I mean.’ Trevethy looked like he was losing it, his eyes widening as the truth of his son’s death hit home again. ‘Oh God…’

‘Take your time, sir,’ Ronny said. ‘Why don’t you sit down? Do you need us to call anyone?’

‘No… I’m fine.’ But Trevethy was frowning, looking dazed. ‘It must’ve been a… a fight. Do you hear? Someone’s done this to him. Thrown him in the sea when he was too drunk to swim, maybe.’ A sudden colour sprang into his thin cheeks. ‘You say you’re detectives… So, do your job. Find out who did this to my boy.’

‘We’ll do our best. And it’s always possible it was an accident. Please bear that in mind. The postmortem should tell us more.’ Standing in the doorway, Jack glanced up the shadowy cottage stairs. ‘While we’re here, could we see your son’s room? He lived here, I take it?’

The fisherman didn’t answer at first, seeming lost in his own world. When Jack repeated himself, he stirred. ‘Yeah, he lived here most of the time. Sometimes he stayed with his mum. She was ill a few years back. Cancer, you know? But she pulled through. Simon was always close to his mum…’ His voice tailed off.

Another car pulled up outside the cottage.

Jack peered through the mucky window. A second transit van, this one blue and battered. ‘Expecting company?’

‘It’ll be my brother, Harold.’ Peter Trevethy groaned. ‘I need to tell him about Simon. He’ll be devastated.’ He ran a hand through his thinning fair hair. ‘I’d rather do this alone, if you don’t mind.’

‘I’d prefer to be present,’ Jack said apologetically. ‘We may need to ask Harold a few questions too.’ His phone buzzed. Looking down, he saw the body from the beach was already at the morgue, being cleaned up for identification. ‘Besides, I’d like to take you back with us to ID the body straightaway. I’m sorry to be insensitive and rush you. But, in cases like this, it’s usually best to get identification established as soon as possible. That way, we won’t be wasting time on false leads.’

Peter Trevethy glared at him resentfully, but nodded. ‘All right,’ he growled, turning swiftly as his brother let himself into the house.

‘Harold, these are the police. It’s bad news.’ He put a hand on his brother’s arm, his voice dropping, suddenly husky. ‘They’ve found a body.’

CHAPTER FOUR

Druid’s Den Occult Shop, Parsloe, North Cornwall

‘He’s dead,’ the woman screamed, backing away. The bead curtain rattled back into place, swaying gently in the silence that followed. Everyone seemed frozen in place. Then people began to scramble for the door, pushing and shoving to be first out of the shop.

‘Nobody should leave,’ Stella heard Luke shout. But none of his invited guests paid any attention, stampeding into the bright Cornish sunlight outside. She spotted vast, green-haired Dick Fell in his Jesus Is Lord T-shirt elbowing other punters aside in his rush to get out, and a woman still clutching what looked like an astrology book she hadn’t yet paid for, since it was not bagged up.

Stella wanted to speak but her throat was clamped shut. Not again, she was thinking, not again…

Someone was dead all over again. Someone behind that bead curtain. Someone had died in the cosy little space she’d created only that morning for her private astrology readings.

Was it her? Did she cast some baleful influence over people to make them die or commit murder in her proximity? Something in her stars, perhaps…

Luke caught her arm. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

Without realising it, she had begun to walk towards the astrology alcove. Surprised, Stella stopped and blinked, staring into his face. ‘I need to see who it is. We can’t just do nothing.’

They both looked towards the beaded curtain. Through the dense, glittering beads she could see a dark shape bent over the circular table. Presumably the dead man.

But who was it and how had he died?

‘Look, I know you’ve had a few brushes with the law recently… Seen a few things you shouldn’t have, no doubt. But you don’t know what’s behind that curtain and it’s probably better that way.’ Luke swallowed, squaring his shoulders. ‘It’s my shop; I’ll take a look. You wait here.’

‘We’ll look together,’ she insisted.

They were not alone in the shop, she realised. Most of the crowd of Opening Day attendees were now milling about noisily in the car park or peering in through the half-open door. But not everyone had fled the scene. Luke’s young Saturday helper, Teddy, was still there, also staring fixedly at the bead curtain – though from a safe distance, she noted. Councillor Cheryl Hughes-May was also in the shop, although there was no sign of her husband. And a couple of nervous punters were lurking at the back behind an astrology card spinner and a display of pagan altar goods.

‘Stay back,’ Luke told them, following her gaze. ‘Has anyone called the police?’

‘Me.’ Cheryl held up her phone, looking horribly officious, her eyes glittering strangely. ‘So there’d better be a dead body behind that curtain, or else I’m in trouble.’

‘But wasn’t it you who found him?’ Stella asked her, frowning. She thought she’d recognised the screaming woman’s voice.

Cheryl shook her head vehemently. ‘I was just leaving. In fact, Frank’s already gone back to the car to wait for me. I wanted to buy a few things but there was nobody at the till.’ The councillor was clutching a book on angelic spirits. ‘I guess it’ll have to wait until next time now,’ she finished lamely, putting the book aside on quite the wrong table.

With one last apprehensive glance at each other, Luke and Stella approached the astrology alcove together.

‘Here we go…’ Her friend was looking ashen as he reached for the curtain, hand shaking, and pulled it back slightly to peer inside the narrow space. With a choking gasp, Luke recoiled, letting the beaded curtain slip. As it swayed gently back-and-forth, Stella caught a series of sinister, intermittent flashes of the body through the coloured glass beads.

The dead man was Bernard Doughty.

‘Oh, my God!’ Stella heard from behind her, and glanced back to see Cheryl Hughes-May peering past them. ‘Is that who I think it is?’

‘I told you to stay away,’ Luke said unsteadily, turning to usher her and young Teddy back towards the door. ‘Please wait outside. I don’t expect the police will be long.’

‘Poor, poor Bernie… Was it a heart attack?’ Teddy asked with what felt like faux sympathy, flicking back strands of long black hair, his face curiously intense.

Stella looked down at the slowly spreading teardrop of dark blood escaping from beneath the beaded curtain.

‘No,’ she said shortly. ‘He was murdered.’

‘Murdered?’

Luke caught his breath. ‘Oh sweet goddess…’

Ignoring Cheryl’s loud exclamation of ‘No!’, Stella stepped through the beaded curtain and let it close behind her with a rustling tinkle of beads.

Always her and death, she thought grimly. Alone together.

Bernard Doughty was slumped over the circular baize-topped table in a pool of blood. He lay with his left cheek down, his eyes wide open as though still alive. But there was no chance of that. Not with so much blood loss… Besides which, he was perfectly still.

The blood was slowly dripping from the tabletop onto the floor, and trickling out under the curtain. The open tarot pack she’d left on show for the punters had been knocked over, the cards scattered around, some lying in the blood, others on the floor. Beside the blood pooling under his head, there was a thick red smear… Almost as though something had been pulled away from the dead man by the killer.

Stella bent closer to examine him, suppressing an urge to be sick, when the beaded curtain moved again and Luke peered through.

‘Stella, don’t touch anything.’

‘I won’t.’

He shuddered and carefully averted his eyes from the corpse. ‘I can’t believe it… You really think Bernard was murdered?’

‘It seems unlikely he did this to himself,’ she said, nodding to the dead man’s head. ‘Hard to tell from this angle without moving him, but I think his throat’s been cut.’

‘Ugh.’ Luke blenched and backed away.

Knowing how sensitive he could be, and feeling guilty for having spoken too bluntly, Stella turned to follow him through the curtain. Only her foot knocked against something that skittered sideways on the sticky wooden floor.

A knife.

In the narrow space, she crouched as daintily as she could, taking care not to touch anything, and looked down at it. The murder weapon, presumably.

It was a ceremonial knife, which would normally mean a fairly blunt blade, intended for show rather than actual sacrifice. It should certainly not be sharp enough to cut a man’s throat. Yet the blade looked menacingly honed, not to mention being stained with blood. She couldn’t remember seeing a ceremonial knife this sharp on display in the run-up to the grand opening. But Luke had still been unpacking boxes of newly arrived shop goods as late as this morning. So perhaps this had been a recent acquisition.

There was a design on the silver hilt. It looked astrological. An astro-glyph of some kind. Possibly the symbol for the planet Mercury. But it was too small for her to be sure of the design without picking up the knife. And she wasn’t about to do that. The last thing she needed was her fingerprints on the murder weapon…

The sound of approaching police sirens warned her to get out of there quickly.

Stella straightened and pushed through the bead curtain to find herself alone in the shop. Teddy and Cheryl had both disappeared, and she could hear Luke moving about in the small washroom and WC behind the till area. The door was ajar and she could hear the poor man retching.

While she was waiting for him to recover, the police arrived on the scene. Two uniformed officers, both male, staring about themselves in amazement, no doubt unsure what on earth they were doing in an occult shop on a sunny day, answering some dubious call about a dead body.

The younger one turned, gaping, to study a witch’s broomstick hanging on the wall, while the older man gave me an awkward smile. ‘Are you the owners?’ he asked in a rich Cornish accent, looking from me to Luke as my friend came stumbling out the washroom. ‘Sergeant Trenown. And this is Constable Shipton. We’ve had someone call in to say there’s been a body found on the premises. Or that someone’s died. It wasn’t quite clear.’

‘I… I’m the shop owner. Luke Emerson.’ Luke nodded towards the curtained alcove. ‘Behind there,’ he managed to say thickly, dabbing at his mouth with a flannel. ‘His name’s Bernard Doughty. And yes, it looks like he’s been killed. Murdered, I should say.’

The older man, a burly type in his mid-forties, had removed his cap to scratch his head. ‘Bernard Doughty?’ he repeated blankly. ‘As in the Bernard Doughty?’

‘Who’s Bernard Doughty?’ the young constable muttered.

‘Used to be in films,’ Sergeant Trenown told him. ‘Horror and all that. Cult classics. Some of them were filmed up on Bodmin Moor.’ He pulled a face. ‘Not too bad. If you like that kind of thing.’

‘Never heard of him.’

The sergeant shrugged. ‘Ah, well.’

Luke was looking as though he might throw up again. ‘Sorry, officers, do you mind if I wait outside?’ he asked faintly. ‘I need some air.’

‘If you could just hang on a minute, sir.’ Sergeant Trenown had approached the bead curtain. He held it back, looking through. ‘Bloody hell!’ he exclaimed, and let the curtain drop again.

Turning to his colleague, the officer swallowed hard before saying, ‘Yes… That’s Bernard Doughty all right. And it looks like his throat’s been cut.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Right, we’re going to need a forensics team down here for starters, as soon as possible. And maybe some extra officers to deal with the public. I’d best get on to headquarters and let them know the situation. Then we’ll need to cordon off the building. Meanwhile, Constable Shipton, I want you to stand guard.’

‘Eh?’

‘Preserve the scene.’ The younger man was looking visibly shaken. With a brusque nod, Sergeant Trenown gestured him to stand by the open door. ‘Come on, it’s all right… You won’t need to look at him. Just guard the shop. Nobody in or out without my say-so, is that understood?’

Outside, the car park was half empty. Teddy explained apologetically to the older officer that he’d asked everyone to stay put until the police arrived, but very few had paid attention. However, he’d photographed the numberplates of most cars leaving. ‘I tried to stop them,’ the young man insisted, sounding almost tearful, ‘but there were just too many and nobody was listening to me.’

‘Don’t you worry about it, son,’ Sergeant Trenown said, wiping a hand across his hot forehead in the blazing summer sunshine. ‘We’ll take those photos off you in good time.’ He trudged off to his car to make his report. After a while, he came back, studied the Druid’s Den Grand Opening banner draped above the shop door, and asked, ‘By the way, did the customers all arrive in cars?’

Luke was still on his mobile, pacing back and forth, muttering something about ‘overheads’ and needing more time.

‘I think so, yes,’ Teddy told him confidently, since Luke was preoccupied.

‘No,’ Stella interrupted, and saw Teddy flick her an annoyed glance. ‘There was a cyclist in the shop too. And several others with rucksacks and walking sticks. So they likely arrived on foot.’

‘And left the same way, I expect,’ the sergeant agreed, glancing about the half-empty car park as though hoping to see a group of hikers waiting to be questioned.

‘Most likely. The nearest bus route is a good half hour’s walk that way, but we’re in prime rambling country here. The coastal path runs along the cliffs less than a mile from the shop,’ she added, pointing in the direction of the sea, which was invisible beyond high, overgrown hedgerows.

‘Can you give me a description of these people, Miss?’ the sergeant asked, but was interrupted by the arrival of a large white van. ‘Ah, that’ll be forensics,’ he muttered, hurrying away. ‘Excuse me.’

Luke and Stella perched uncomfortably on the low wall surrounding the car park while forensics were inside the shop, doing their grisly work. The young officer took statements from the few customers who hadn’t already left, and was then tasked with cordoning off the area, which he did laboriously. Once everyone had been questioned, Sergeant Trenown let the motorists go, but asked Luke and Stella to hang on until the police detectives had arrived.

‘Sorry for the delay,’ the officer told them with a grimace. ‘They’re out somewhere on another shout. Should be here soon enough.’

Stella wondered if it would be Jack attending, and felt uneasy at the thought. Their relationship was still so very new fragile… Now here she was, somehow embroiled in another murder.

Luke was on the phone to another of his financial backers, explaining apologetically what had happened, when a car pulled up swiftly beside the forensics van in a cloud of dust.

Jack was behind the wheel, his constable Ronny Myles beside him. They were both looking grim.

Jack came straight over to her, his cropped fair hair sleek in the sunshine. ‘Are you okay?’ He was frowning, studying her face. ‘Are you hurt?’

Touched by his concern, Stella shook her head with a faint smile. ‘I’m not the one who got their throat cut.’

She saw him flinch, and wished she hadn’t put it so bluntly.

His look was grim. ‘Yes, so I heard on the phone…’ Jack hesitated, glancing at Luke. The two men had not met before, but she’d talked often about the occult enthusiast. ‘You must be Luke Emerson.’ They shook hands, each eyeing the other warily. ‘I expect you’ve already given a statement to uniform, but I’ll need to talk to you both later. Yes, you too, Stella. Are you able to hang on here for now?’

‘Of course,’ Stella agreed.

‘Druid’s Den is my shop,’ Luke pointed out, hands deep in his pockets, hunching his narrow shoulders. Stella had never seen him so miserable. ‘Where the hell else would I go?’

Jack gave him a curt nod and rejoined his constable, who was talking to the uniformed officers first on the scene.

‘Some grand opening,’ Luke muttered under his breath, watching the police.

‘Hey… ’ Stella put a comforting arm about him. ‘None of this is your fault.’

‘Isn’t it? You warned me last month not to choose today for the opening. You said the stars were giving mixed signals for this weekend, remember?’

‘No,’ she lied.

‘I ignored you and this is the result. I sank every penny I had into this place. Now I’m ruined.’

Teddy had wandered over again, one of the few people who hadn’t fled the car park as soon as they’d given a statement. His loyalty had to be commended, at least. ‘Some people love horrible stuff,’ he remarked, clearly having caught the tail end of their conversation. ‘So long as it’s happening to someone else, at any rate. Once you’re able to open the shop properly, you wait and see… Punters will be flocking to see where Bernard Doughty died. You’ll be turning them away in droves.’

Stellar thought that a very cynical point of view. But probably true, all the same. She knew from her own experience that nothing whipped up excitement in the local community like a juicy murder.

‘That’s all very well,’ Luke said gloomily. ‘But when will I be able to reopen? My shop’s a crime scene now.’ They all watched as Jack and the others ducked under the Police Don’t Cross tape and disappeared inside his shop. ‘How long will I will be forced to close for? Until they’ve finished their investigation? I mean… murders take weeks to sort out, don’t they? Months, even. I can’t stay closed that long. I’ve already got the bank breathing down my neck as it is.’

Teddy tipped his head to one side, looking thoughtful. ‘Except it might be a suicide.’

‘Suicide?’ Luke stared at the young man in disbelief. ‘You think he cut his own throat? Worse yet, he chose to cut his throat on my big day? In public, in a shop, for goodness’ sake?’ He pursed his lips, glaring. ‘I don’t think so, pet. Bernard Doughty may have been many things in his life, but he was never a maniac. And only a maniac would have done something like that.’

Teddy shrugged, looking away.

‘Listen, I’m sure you’ll be allowed to reopen Druid’s Den once they’ve collected all the forensic clues they can, and removed the… the body. But all that will take time. It was quite a mess in there, after all.’ Stella was trying her best to reassure her friend, who was clearly suffering. But she too suspected the shop might need to stay closed for some time. Forensics would want to have access to the crime scene until they were completely satisfied, after all. Which might take a long while… ‘You just need to be patient.’

Besides, she was uneasy too. Not so much about the gruesome sight of the great Bernard Doughty in a pool of his own blood, though she was having to block the horrid memory to avoid feeling queasy, but also… The way Jack had looked at her on arrival had been troubling, to say the least.

They’d spent another lovely night together yesterday, watching a film and sharing a bottle of wine. Then she’d tidied up and even put a wash on for him before leaving his place this morning. Everything between them had been wonderful, in fact. But unless she was imagining things, his manner had been distinctly distant just now. Frosty, even.

Surely Jack didn’t think she had anything to do with Bernard’s murder?

CHAPTER FIVE

Jack had never met Bernard Doughty while he was alive. Now he was meeting him in death, and the encounter felt oddly similar to his reputation as an actor. He’d noticed his name in local newspapers, of course, and even seen a few of his cult films over the years, possessing at most a passing interest in the horror genre. Blood Hall was a classic of the supernatural. Then there was Into The Forest and the bizarre Seventy-Three Windows. Doughty’s films had been all blood and gore, populated by screaming teenagers and strange, hooded figures pawing at dirty windows in smoky darkness, usually backlit by a blazing bonfire, or with unexplained lights in the distance. Doughty had often played the villain in these films, though in Blood Hall he’d taken on the role of an eccentric professor trying to prove that the supernatural didn’t exist, only to end up in a bloodbath… Literally, as Jack recalled.

Given all that, he could understand the uniformed officers’ reluctance to approach the alcove again where Doughty’s body lay stiffening, the huge chest weighted heavily against the blood-drenched baize tabletop, the face as waxy-pale as a corpse’s in one of his horror films – where it wasn’t spattered obscenely with blood, that was.

‘It’s like a scene from Blood Hall.’ Jack pulled on a pair of disposable gloves and crouched to examine the ornate silver hilt of the knife found not far from the corpse. ‘This needs to be bagged up,’ he added, glancing around at the Scene of Crime Officer, Cameron, pointing to the knife rather than risk touching it and contaminating any DNA.

‘On it.’ A large man himself, Cameron trod gingerly around the congealed pool of blood to reach the knife, his white plastic suit rustling noisily. ‘Joan’s already taken photos of the whole area. But we didn’t want to bag up the knife until you’d seen it in situ and given us the all-clear.’ He paused, studying Jack. ‘That’s a healthy tan you’ve got there. Don’t tell me you’ve actually been to the beach once or twice this summer?’ Opening an evidence bag, he retrieved the likely murder weapon with gloved hands and dropped it into the bag. ‘I’ve not seen you in a while. How are you?’

‘Can’t complain. And yes, I’ve had a few weeks off. Been down on the beach. And in the surf.’ Jack straightened, watching as Cameron sealed the evidence bag and meticulously labelled it with an indelible marker pen. ‘What do you make of this?’ He turned to study Bernard Doughty again. ‘Some of the customers were apparently suggesting it might be suicide. Seems unlikely me, given the method.’

‘If they were shopping in a place like this, I wouldn’t take their theories too seriously,’ the SOCO remarked caustically, and turned to place the evidence bag in the box with the others. ‘There were some tarot cards on the table, mostly soaked with blood. I took the precaution of removing them before they were completely ruined, in case any DNA could be retrieved. But Joan got photos of them before anything was touched.’

‘Thanks, and agreed about the suicide theory. The post-mortem should confirm murder. But all this…’ He looked back at the body. ‘It’s a bit over-dramatic, isn’t it? Not to mention a high-risk strategy if the murderer wanted to get away with it.’ He checked the pockets of Bernard’s trousers, finding a few coins there, tissues, scraps of paper… The usual debris. But worth making sure. ‘Bag, please?’

‘Murdered on impulse, perhaps?’ Cameron suggested, handing him a couple of empty evidence bags. ‘A split-second decision? The murderer had no choice and had to improvise. Hence the knife.’

‘You think it’s from one of the shop displays?’

‘They’ve got a whole glass cabinet of fancy New Age knives and wands over there.’ Cameron nodded down the shop to where Joan, the forensics’ team photographer, was still snapping pictures of occult items on sale. ‘The cabinet’s locked but… Maybe it was taken from a storage area? Or some other display?’

‘You think Bernard Doughty was killed because he was about to say or do something that might expose the murderer, so he or she grabbed a knife from a display and cut his throat? Right here in the shop?’

‘I don’t think anything,’ Cameron pointed out with a grim smile. ‘I leave all that to you, remember?’ He hesitated, nodding to the curtain of glass beads that separated the alcove from the rest of the shop. He or Joan had tied the curtain up and out of the way with some silver tape, presumably to get better access to the crime scene. ‘Though I’d be curious to know how anyone could get a man his size through a bead curtain without anyone noticing. There couldn’t have been a struggle… But maybe they offered to tell his fortune. Cross my palm with silver, and all that.’

Jack felt a prickle of unease at the suggestion. This was the astrology alcove, after all, which would point towards Stella as the murderer. Which was ridiculous.

‘It’s a bit early to be jumping to conclusions,’ he said shortly. ‘Let’s wait for the PM. Though I’m confident we can rule out suicide. The knife was a bit far from the body for that, wasn’t it?’

It was a narrow space, but he managed to squeeze between where the beaded curtain would have hung and Bernard Doherty’s back. There, careful not to touch anything, he mimed dragging a man’s head back and slicing his throat.

He hesitated, looking down at the imaginary knife in his hand. ‘The murderer was shocked, perhaps, at what he’d done…’ He found himself avoiding using ‘she’ for the murderer. ‘Or maybe he was disturbed or feared he was about to be, so dropped the knife…’ He frowned down at the space where the knife had been found. ‘That must have made a noise, even if the throat-cutting was relatively quiet. Though maybe it was very noisy… Still, why did nobody see the murderer leave?’

Jack stepped clear, shaking his head. ‘Well, I get why people might assume suicide. Because otherwise it’s brazen, isn’t it? To kill someone in such a crowded place, just a bead curtain between you and the public. That suggests cockiness. Or desperation, like you say.’

‘Sir?’ Constable Shipton stuck up his hand, as though they were in a classroom and Jack was the teacher.

‘Go on,’ Jack encouraged him.

‘It’s about the knife, Sarge.’ The young uniformed officer consulted his notes. ‘That dark-haired woman outside, the astrologer, Miss, erm…’

‘Miss Penhaligon?’

Shipton nodded. ‘In her statement, she said she knocked the knife with her foot when she was looking at the body.’

Jack frowned.

Ronny stared at Shipton. ‘Looked at the body? Why did you let her? This is a crime scene.’

‘It was before we arrived,’ Shipton told them, his air defensive. ‘I think several people had been in for a look by then.’

‘Sounds like you took your time getting here,’ Ronny said.

Shipton’s shrug was sheepish. ‘We thought it was a hoax at first. For publicity. You know, body found in occult shop… Murder at Druid’s Den, and all that. We certainly won’t expecting… that.’ He swallowed, glancing queasily at the dead man. ‘Sorry… It’s my first dead body.’

The shop door opened. Detective Inspector Martin came in, bringing the sunshine with him, halfway through a sentence. ‘Yes, Sergeant,’ he was saying to Trenown over his shoulder, ‘if the forensics team have taken DNA swabs for elimination purposes, and you’ve taken statements and contact details, they can all go home. But we’ll need to speak to some of them again. Certainly the owner and Stella Penhaligon.’ The inspector came limping over, having broken his leg the summer before. ‘Ah, Jack, there you are.’ He grimaced, averting his gaze from the body. ‘You’d better fill me in.’

Jack briefed his superior. ‘Incredibly, nobody seems to have seen exactly what happened. The lights went out… Not sure who did that or why. Then somebody looked through the beaded curtain here and started screaming. We haven’t been able to establish who that was either. But quite a few people left as soon as the body was discovered.’ He nodded to Cameron, working quietly a few feet away. ‘Photos are done and the SOCO’s bagged up the likely murder weapon.’

‘Excellent. A knife?’

‘Yes, we might get prints off it. Forensics have nearly completed their work. We should be able to move the body soon.’ He glanced at Cameron, who gave him the thumbs-up.

DI Martin nodded, peering around the shop. ‘So, what’s the beaded curtain for? Some kind of tarot reading area?’

‘There were tarot cards on the table. But the owner says it’s chiefly for astrology readings,’ Constable Shipton told him helpfully. ‘The astrologer says she didn’t see anything though. She was in the back room the whole time, apparently.’

Jack didn’t like the way the constable stressed the word apparently. As though to suggest that Stella wasn’t telling the truth.

‘Yes, I saw Miss Penhaligon outside,’ DI Martin agreed. His brows twitched together and he lifted a troubled gaze to Jack’s face. ‘I thought perhaps she’d foreseen the murder in one of her charts and that was how she’d got here so quickly. But you’re saying she actually works here?’

Constable Shipton consulted his notes. ‘That’s right. The owner is Luke Emerson, and he employs Miss Penhaligon as the shop astrologer. Today was the Grand Opening… You will have seen the banner over the shop door as you came in, sir.’

‘If Stella says she was in the back room, then she was in the back room,’ Jack said shortly, unable to prevent himself from shooting a fiery glance at Constable Shipton.

DI Martin watched as the forensic team, having completed their investigation of the scene, began returning evidence bags and equipment to their van. The body would go next.

‘Could I have a quick word in private, Jack?’ Leading him to the other end of the shop, the inspector stood regarding a spinner of occult books with unlikely interest. ‘A little birdy tells me you’ve been seeing quite a lot of Stella Penhaligon recently,’ he murmured, pulling out a book on Native American Spirit Guides and turning it over to study the back cover. ‘Is that true?’

Jack hesitated. ‘Yes, sir. But this is hardly the time and place to –’

‘And the body was discovered in the alcove she uses for astrology readings?’ the inspector interrupted him.

‘Yes, sir, but as Constable Shipton said, she was nowhere near the alcove at the time Doughty was murdered.’

‘Can we verify that?’

‘Sir?’

‘Miss Penhaligon has to be considered a prime suspect, given the location of the body.’

‘You can’t seriously think –’

‘Oh, of course she’s innocent. I don’t doubt that for a moment, Jack. But you need to think of the optics,’ DI Martin reminded him, lowering his voice. ‘Doughty was a big star. His death is bound to attract a lot of media attention. How will it play out in the press if we start treating one of the suspects with kid gloves simply because she’s your girlfriend?’ As Jack began to protest, DI Martin held up a hand, shaking his head. ‘Listen, I know this must seem unfair. But we must do this by the book.’

‘No argument there, sir.’

Good. Because the Chief Super is going to want results, and fast. I’ve already had a call from him.’ DI Martin pulled a face. ‘Everything we do will be scrutinised. Which means we can’t let the press get hold of anything that might discredit us. Do you understand?’

Jack frowned. ‘Sir?’

‘I’m asking you to step back from this one, Jack. I’m sorry, but there it is.’

Jack couldn’t believe his ears. ‘Step back?’

‘On advice, I’m bringing someone in from over the border. Detective Sergeant Jane Dawlish, most probably. I’ve heard good reports of her. She’s been in Devon three years now, working murders. You won’t have to worry about a thing, Jack. If Stella Penhaligon is innocent, and I’m sure she is, Jane Dawlish will soon prove that and no harm done.’ Jack opened his mouth again, but DI Martin took a step back. ‘No, my mind’s made up. Sergeant Trenown says a few of the witnesses heard your Stella Penhaligon and the deceased having a row only moments before he was found dead. You must see that I can’t have you investigating this case, being so close to her. It would be hugely inappropriate.’

Stella and Bernard Doughty had argued before his murder? Jack’s heart began to race as he realised the implications. ‘First I’ve heard of it,’ he said stubbornly.

DI Martin looked at him sympathetically. ‘I’ve been hugely impressed by Stella’s talent in the past, not to mention her courage. People can mock all they like but, as an astrologer, she’s proved enormously helpful to our investigations. But that’s precisely why we need to bring someone else in, Jack. A complete outsider, who can demonstrate Stella’s innocence without anyone being able to accuse them of bias or a cover-up. Now,’ he went on more briskly, ‘have you informed the next of kin about that body on the beach?’

Jack swallowed his fury at being sidelined just when Stella needed him most. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Accidental death, I presume?’

‘We’ll know more after the postmortem.’

‘Yes, very well.’ DI Martin rubbed his chin, looking thoughtful. ‘In the meantime, there’s a hit-and-run victim out Parsloe way who needs to be interviewed. Joseph Cannell, a retired labourer.’

‘Sir?’

‘His wife Molly used to be a Police Community Support Officer… She’s been ringing Headquarters every five minutes, demanding to know why nobody’s been round to interview her husband about the incident yet. And since the unfortunate man’s leg was broken, she’s got a point.’ He paused. ‘I’d like you to take charge of it.’

Jack was surprised. ‘A hit-and-run? But surely Ronny –’

‘I need him here on the Doughty case.’ DI Martin shook his head. ‘All hands to the pump. But this hit-and-run won’t wait. Besides, it’ll make a nice change from your usual duties.’ He raised his bushy brows at Jack’s silence. ‘Is there a problem, DS Church?’

‘No, sir,’ Jack muttered.

Cameron and his assistant returned with a trolley and body bag. DI Martin grimaced and hurried away to speak with Sergeant Trenown about witness statements.

Jack felt as though he’d been hollowed out. Not content with taking him off the Doughty murder, DI Martin had also stripped him of Ronny’s assistance. And he knew why… Because Stella was an immediate suspect in this case, and he and Stella were in a relationship. Which meant he himself was automatically tainted by association.

Fury flickered in him, but he damped it down. Things could go badly wrong here if he wasn’t cautious. Not just for him, but for Stella too. Any hint of a cover-up could make it impossible to get a conviction further down the line, especially if evidence against the perpetrator could be depicted as weak or having been tampered with. It wouldn’t even matter that it wasn’t true. Sowing the seed of doubt in a judge or jury’s mind might be enough to imperil the investigation and end with a murderer walking free…

But would she understand that?

As Stella came across the car park, a shy, trusting smile on her face, Jack steeled himself not to show too much affection. This conversation was going to be difficult enough without letting emotion get tangled up in the workings.

‘Hi,’ he said, thrusting his hands deep in his pockets.

As soon as word had reached him about the murder at Druid’s Den today, he’d known instinctively that she would be involved. Not behind Bernard Doughty’s death, of course. But in the thick of it. Somehow, death always seem to follow her around. And now, for her sake, to avoid complicating this very delicate murder investigation, he needed to keep his distance from her. But he knew she would struggle to see why.

‘What is it?’ Stella asked, instantly alert to his expression.

‘They’re taking me off the case,’ Jack began, and stumbled through an excruciating explanation that sounded thin even to his ears. ‘Overall, I think it’s probably best that we don’t see each other socially for a bit either. Just until whoever did this is caught.’

Stella looked stunned. He saw the hurt behind her wide-eyed stare and winced. ‘And if he’s never caught?’ she whispered.

He…

‘We’ve got good people on this team,’ he told her doggedly.

‘But not you.’

‘They’ll cope. I’m not indispensable. Besides, that was DI Martin’s decision, not mine.’ He paused, groping for the right words, the words that would soothe her pain. But he found nothing but cool logic. ‘It’s unfortunate, I know, but –’

‘But I’m a suspect in a murder enquiry, and we’ve been seeing each other, so you’re compromised.’

Jack dug his hands even deeper into his pockets, looking away miserably. He didn’t know how such a brilliantly sunny day could suddenly seem so cold. ‘I’m sorry. DI’s orders.’

‘I get the conflict of interests. But if you’re not on the case anyway, why do we still need to break up?’ He couldn’t stand hearing that break in her voice.

‘We’re not breaking up. Just… pressing pause for the time being.’ Jack frowned. He was floundering, out of his depth. He didn’t want to say any of this wretched stuff. But he felt a fierce urge to protect her. He knew far better than Stella how bloody these things could get, especially with a victim as famous as Bernard Doughty. And he couldn’t bear to see her torn apart by vicious newspaper reports and social media posts. ‘That’s my decision, not the inspector’s,’ he admitted. ‘And it’s for your own sake. People will talk otherwise.’

‘Sorry?’

‘They’ll say you’re in this mess up to your neck and it’s being hushed up, because of me. Because you’re my girlfriend.’ He cleared his throat, hating the way she was glaring at him. ‘This way, if it comes out that we’ve been involved, you can deny it without lying. Keep things clear-cut. We let the investigation run its course,’ he finished lamely, ‘and then – ‘

‘And then nothing.’ Her voice was hoarse, a sheen of tears in her eyes.

‘Stella…’

But she shook her head at his protest. ‘No, you’re right. It’s probably best we break things off. To be honest, I never thought it would last long anyway, you and I.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘I ought to have trusted the compatibility charts. All that Saturn interplay… But I wanted so much for this to work. In the end though, we’re just too… different.’

Before he could find a single damn thing to say that would stop her, Stella turned and stalked away, not looking back.

‘Have a great summer without me, Jack,’ she threw over her shoulder.

CHAPTER SIX

Stella parked in the back alley behind Julie’s terraced house and threaded her way down the path into their small back garden. She’d been living with Julie for several years, since they’d met as teachers at the school where Julie still taught. Stella had eventually left to become a full-time astrologer and was deeply grateful to her friend Julie for allowing her to rent a room in her easy-going, ramshackle household for less than typical rates. Julie lived there with her girlfriend Claire, and also rented a room to Nick, a genial giant in his thirties who worked as a care assistant at the local old people’s home. It was a nice place to live, on the outskirts of their quiet Cornish town, and Stella had always been glad to be a part of the household. Recently, of course, she had been spending more and more time with Jack. After today’s events though, she didn’t need to be an astrologer to predict a future spent exclusively at Julie’s.

What on earth had Jack been thinking?

She could understand him being annoyed with DI Martin for removing him from the case due to a conflict of interests. But why did he think that meant the two of them shouldn’t continue seeing each other on top? It made no sense to her. Unless he’d been looking for an excuse to end things between them…

Hurt shot through her, and she gritted her teeth, refusing to give into such a feeble emotion. Yet she couldn’t ignore the reality of her situation. They had been getting along so well lately, she’d started thinking about a long-term future with him. Now everything lay in tatters.

Julie and Claire were cuddling on the new garden bench, shielded from prying eyes by high hedges on either side. As Stella stormed into the garden, the couple broke apart as though embarrassed.

‘Sorry,’ Stella mumbled, heading into the house, head down.

Claire reached for a cold drink, muttering something, and Julie called after her, ‘How did the grand opening at Druid’s Den go?’

She forced herself not to be rude. ‘Oh, you know,’ she managed to say, pausing without looking back at them. ‘The usual grand opening stuff. Someone got murdered; the police turned up to question us all,’ she blurted out, before adding in a choked voice, ‘and Jack broke up with me. A pretty boring day, overall.’

Ignoring their noisy exclamations, she pushed through the back door and into the kitchen, where she was brought up short by the sight of Nick, Claire’s cousin, in blue overalls, halfway up a ladder just inside the door.

She had forgotten that he was painting the kitchen this weekend.

‘Hey, careful where you’re stepping!’ Nick admonished her as she stumbled over the heavy floor cloth he’d laid down to protect the kitchen lino from paint splashes. He paused, frowning down at her, roller in hand. ‘Stella? What’s up?’

She had tears in her eyes, she realised, and dashed them away with the back of her hand. ‘Nothing, really. Just me and Jack…’ She got no further, bursting into embarrassing tears.

‘Good grief.’ Nick hurried down the ladder, threw the roller into a paint tray, and came towards her with his arms wide open. ‘What on earth’s the matter? Have you had a row with Jack? I thought you were at that Druid’s Den opening thingy today?’ Without waiting for an answer to any of these questions, he gave her a tight hug. Too tight, really. When she struggled, he released her and peered down into her face. ‘Better tell Uncle Jack everything.’

Stellar choked with laughter and tears, but tried to pull herself together as Julie and Claire came tumbling through the back door behind her. They too were full of demands to hear what had occurred at Druid’s Den.

‘I’d better tell you the whole story, I suppose,’ she said.

‘In that case, I’ll get the kettle on.’ Julie filled the kettle, taking care not to knock into any of Nick’s paint pots and brushes that were littering the newspaper-covered kitchen counters. Her gaze swept the room critically. ‘Hmm, you’re not doing too bad a job here, Nick.’

‘Worth two months’ rent instead of just one?’ Nick asked her with a quick wink.

‘Let’s see how it looks after the second coat, eh?’ Julie replied. ‘Tea?’

‘I’m a great British workman now, need you ask?’ Nick presented their landlady with a half-empty mug. ‘Sorry. The last one went cold while I was painting.’

Claire pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and insisted that Stella sit down. ‘Come on then, spill the beans. Have you broken up with Jack? Is that what all these tears are about?’ Her voice was gruff, because she was not the most sympathetic person in the world. But Stella knew she meant well.

Somehow, in between foolish sobs and grimaces that made her feel more like a teenager than a grown woman, Stella managed to explain the whole thing from start to finish. How she’d arranged the astrology alcove at Druid’s Den to her liking before all the guests arrived for the grand opening, and then her embarrassing conversation with Bernard Doughty, which had drawn so many eyes, followed by all the other noisy interactions that have driven her to seek refuge in the back room of the shop. And then the lights going out, hearing the scream, and Bernard’s body behind the bead curtain. ‘His blood was all over the tarot cards,’ she added grimly. ‘His throat had been cut.’

‘Oh my God!’ Julie was ashen with horror.

Eyes wide, Claire gripped her own throat. ‘Ugh.’

Nick handed Stella a steaming mug of tea, concern etched on his face. ‘Small wonder you look so shaken. It sounds gruesome. You poor thing.’

‘Poor Bernard Doughty,’ Julie pointed out, sitting down.

‘It sounds like something out of his horror films,’ Claire whispered, frowning in thought. ‘I wonder if that was intentional?’

The kitchen fell silent as everyone considered that disturbing possibility.

‘In the garden, you said something about you and Jack breaking up,’ Julie said at last. ‘Were you being serious? Surely not because of what happened at the opening?’

Stella nodded miserably. Dragging a tissue from her pocket, she wiped her eyes. In a few strained words, she outlined what Jack had told her after having examined the crime scene. ‘He said it was for my own good. That the two of us being in a relationship would only muddy the waters of the investigation, or something stupid like that.’

Nick drew a sharp breath. ‘He’s probably right, you know. People would talk.’

‘They’ll talk anyway,’ Stella said savagely. ‘They always do.’

Claire crouched to give her a hug, her face sympathetic. ‘Well, whatever his reasoning, it’s still not fair on you. What do you need from us, Stella? You know we’re here for you, whatever happens.’

‘Well, first off, just for the record… I didn’t murder Bernard Doughty.’ Stella looked around at her housemates as though daring them to say otherwise.

‘Good God, none of us thought you did,’ Julie exclaimed.

‘Sorry, I just wanted to get that out there.’ Shakily, Stella took her tea mug and lurched to her feet. ‘Look, I need to do some stuff upstairs. Charts and so on. And get my head straight again. See you later?’ They parted without comment to let her leave the kitchen. At the door, she looked back, aware of her housemates watching her. ‘And thank you for everything. I know I’ve been staying over at Jack’s a lot recently. But this is still very much my home.’

‘And you’re welcome here,’ Julie insisted, smiling, and handed her an unopened packet of biscuits. ‘Here, take something sweet with you to eat. You look done in.’

‘And if you need to pick up anything you’ve left at Jack’s place,’ Nick added as she headed for the stairs, ‘I’m happy to ride shotgun with you, if you don’t want to go there alone.’

‘Thanks,’ Stella told him gratefully. ‘I may take you up on that offer. But not right now.’

In the familiar surroundings of her small back bedroom, Stella pushed aside the bitter hurt of Jack’s rejection and opened up her laptop. Work, as always in times of crisis, would be her distraction.

Sipping at her mug of tea, she searched through her clients’ charts for the relevant folder.

Bernard Doughty.

Born twenty-second January, 1962, at 3pm in Banbury, England. The time of birth had been fairly certain but not set in concrete. His late mother’s best recollection, he’d told her at their first consultation.

Although she clearly recalled her astrological forecast reading for Bernard, word for word in most instances, she had mostly blotted it from her memory. His unpleasantness still left a bad taste in her mouth. But there was no point not looking. Not now he’d been murdered.

Yes, there it was…

Cancer Rising, Sun in Aquarius sandwiched between gloomy Saturn on one hand and sweet Venus on the other, and a fiery Moon in Leo, the luminaries forming an opposition by sign, if not by degree.

A strong personality, she thought. Deft, dynamic, argumentative. And that Moon in Leo, both conjoining wild Uranus and opposing an intelligent Aquarian Mercury… The mark of a forceful, emotive speaker and performer. Not quite perfect for someone in the acting profession, especially in film, for he would probably have benefited from a few softer aspects… In particular watery Neptunian vibes, as Neptune ruled the medium of film.

Yet Bernard had still carved out a path in the horror genre, where a pungent self-regard was never unwelcome.

Fiery and self-determined too, but a little autocratic at times. Not someone who would suffer fools gladly. She didn’t consider herself a fool, of course, but it was obvious that Bernard had, both when she’d shared her findings with him and during their brief conversation at the shop before his murder.

A chart opposition always indicated a head-on clash. Here, she saw a deeply cerebral nature and a passionate interest in social justice clashing at times with Bernard’s innate desire to shine and be recognised on the public stage. Meanwhile, the Moon’s close contact to the fateful North Node suggested a deep-seated need for recognition, to feel special, to know a sense of destiny.

A fire Moon linked with wild, rebellious Uranus would have made him a risk-taker too, and a prickly character, prone to sudden bursts of temper and a driving need to be free of all restraints.

It would also have made him seek out unusual sexual partners, particularly with Venus in eccentric, freedom-loving Aquarius. Most likely the casual kind who wouldn’t ask to stay the night… Though it could also signal a tendency, especially in men, to choose ‘forbidden’ or unavailable partners. Married women, for instance. He had certainly never married himself. She recalled some talk about Bernard and a young man a few years back… But the film star had never come out as gay. So either that had been a one-off experiment or simply a salacious rumour.

Frowning, she studied the associated graphs, her gaze flicking over aspect ratios and glyphs while she struggled to put the horrific memory of his bloodied body out of her mind.

She recalled his temper at their first encounter, meeting at Bernard’s place on his suggestion – a beautiful villa standing detached on rugged cliffs above the Atlantic Ocean, a setting as dramatic as his own personality – to show him the charts and talk through them with her client. Unfortunately, that had proved impossible. Bernard had insisted he knew more than her about his own chart, despite having only a passing acquaintance with the tenets of astrology.

A little knowledge of astrology though, as she had often observed, was a dangerous thing, leading people to misunderstand their own aspects and transits, and to slap down any astrologer who might attempt – however mildly – to correct them.

But it had been her summary of his ‘Future Trends’ that had incensed the film star most.

His Moon was in mid-Leo, tangled up with the planet of revolution, Uranus. So the current transit of Uranus through the middle of Taurus would have been squaring his natal Moon-Uranus conjunction for most of the past year, and perhaps even earlier.

A strong Uranian transit could be a difficult time for anyone, sometimes triggering past traumas, but always bringing sudden and unexpected changes. Some people thrived on change. But with both Moon and Sun in fixed signs, it seemed unlikely that he would have the flexibility to deal well with such changes.

When she’d told Bernard this, he’d flared up at once.

‘I’m open to change,’ Bernard had insisted, pointing to his Moon-Uranus conjunction. ‘I’ve studied enough astrology to know that means I enjoy the ups and downs of life.’

‘Generally, yes. But this change might not mean more ups and downs… It could mean an end to your freedom.’

He’d looked alarmed. ‘What?’

‘If you’re used to being footloose and fancy-free, Uranus could bring a change that makes you suddenly crave the opposite.’ As usual with her clients, Stella liked to give a brief explanation of how astrology worked, rather than simply make predictions out of thin air. She found that tended to make people more likely to remember her advice rather than dismiss it. ‘You have to see the chart as a whole. So, signs of the zodiac fall into three categories… Fixed, Mutable and Cardinal. Leo is a fixed sign, and so is Aquarius, where your Sun is. So you’ve got a double whammy there. Two hits of fixed nature.’ She’d smiled, hoping to put him at his ease. ‘Being fixed gives you stability and tenacity, but it also means you prefer things to remain predictable, if possible. And Uranus is the opposite of predictable– ’ She’d stopped when he waved a dismissive hand in her face.

‘For God’s sake, I know all about Uranus!’

‘Well, that’s good. It will make it easier to explain what’s ahead.’ She’d struggled on with her reading, trying to be patient with his constant interruptions. ‘So, as you know, there’s a reason why Uranus rules revolution and rebellion. Uranian changes tend to come out of the blue. They may even force themselves on you, especially if you try to resist them, because Uranus is the planet of necessary change. Sometimes, it’s not only governments that get stuck in their ways and need a popular uprising or an unexpected event to shake off out-dated views and situations. Individuals need a jolt every now and then too.’

‘Excuse me? I may not be in my twenties like you, but that doesn’t mean I’m out of date or stuck in my ways,’ Bernard had fumed.

‘I’m not saying you are. But looking at the chart overall, with a few challenging aspects to your ninth-house Mercury coming up, these Uranian changes could also bring difficult travel and communications this year. Maybe even some serious misunderstandings. The ninth is also the house of the law. So you could get into a difficult legal situation or fall foul of the authorities later this year.’

‘What do you mean?’ he’d thundered, peering at her from beneath dark, frowning brows.

Inwardly, Stella had been quaking under his dangerous stare. But she’d stayed cool, saying, ‘Only that you’ll need to double-check all your messages and calls, to make sure wires haven’t been crossed, and if you plan to travel at all, it might be as well to have a contingency plan, in case of major disruption.’ She’d hesitated, peering at the chart, unsure now whether or not to mention the most sinister aspect she’d seen. ‘Also, this Pluto transit to your Sun… That’s rare and could become, erm, problematic this summer. It might bring you a few unexpected challenges.’

‘Pluto?’ His voice had sharpened. ‘Doesn’t that signify death?’

‘Death is an ancient interpretation of Pluto, yes, but a highly literal one and by no means the most likely,’ she’d hurried to reassure him. ‘These days, we see Pluto as representing a long-lasting change. The end of one phase of your life and the beginning of another. As the saying goes, when one door closes, another one opens. That’s Pluto.’

She wished he’d given her time to elaborate. But his strong, dogmatic nature had rejected what she was saying. His Mars in Capricorn hadn’t helped, demanding realistic action and iron-clad certainties, not the metaphorical underworld of Pluto. He was an Aquarian, and the modern ruler of Aquarius was Uranus, yes. But its ancient ruler was Saturn, the same as Capricorn, Lord of Boundaries and Limitations… and few planets were as resistant to change as grim, time-conscious Saturn.

So when she’d started to give him a few tentative pointers on how to deal with unsettling changes and miscommunications ahead, Bernard had lost patience and practically thrown her out of the house.

‘And don’t bother coming back,’ he’d flung after her before jabbing an accusatory finger in her face. ‘And not one word to the media about my chart, understand? Or you’ll be the one facing Pluto!’

‘Client confidentiality is paramount to me,’ she’d stammered, amazed by his intemperate reaction, but he had already slammed the door in her face.

But he’d had Cancer Rising too, she noted, his natal chart ruled by the Moon itself… Changeable, fickle, always in flux.

Again, perhaps she had been wrong to suggest he might not cope well with surprises that year. Though a Cancer Moon, in her experience, could be quite cautious too. Cancer’s emblem, the humble crab, had armour to protect it, and cultivated a sideways walk, never reaching for something directly. Not a creature known for its vulnerability, but only because it took pains to stay close to home and never reveal its soft inner flesh.

She suspected that Bernard Doughty had been the same. Strong-willed, stubborn, fiery, dramatic… But hiding a secret vulnerability.

‘All right, so what was your vulnerability, Bernard?’ she asked out loud, taking a sip of lukewarm tea. ‘I know all about your strengths… But what was your hidden weakness?’

The great man’s natal chart stared back at her, silent as the grave.

With a sigh, she pulled up today’s planetary transits and began to compare that chart to Bernard Doughty’s natal placements, still displayed in an inner ring. Yes, there was the Uranus in Taurus square trigger to his natal Moon-Uranus conjunction in Leo. Plus that looming Pluto transit to his Sun. Definitely dramatic. Capable of wreaking havoc in anyone’s life. But both were long-term contacts and, on their own, unlikely to have brought about his abrupt, bloody end today…

And then, studying his Secondary Progressions and his Solar Return, she saw something that left Stella choking on the ginger biscuit she’d been nibbling. Hurriedly, she reached for her tea to wash down the crumbs, staring at the laptop screen.

Mercury, messenger of the gods, was about to conjunct fateful Pluto in his nearest Solar Return. Pluto itself was already conjoining the Sun there… while the sinister South Node was exactly conjunct the chart Ascendant.

If ever there was a year when death was high on the agenda, this had to be it, she thought, grabbing a pen to quickly scribble down some notes.

And hadn’t there been a glyph of Mercury engraved on the murder weapon?

CHAPTER SEVEN

Joseph and Molly Cannell’s cottage lay along a narrow, winding track that dipped in and out of the coast road between Tintagel and Boscastle. Probably once the original coast road before coastal erosion or too many tourists forced the main thoroughfare inland, it was now forgotten by all but local traffic. And a good job too, given its too-sharp bends and switchback stretches, oncoming traffic mostly hidden by high, overgrown hedgerows in summer. Jack guessed the road might also be frequented by suicidal ramblers in the summer months, plus the occasional badger or lost sheep, and slowed his usual breakneck speed accordingly to a more sedate thirty miles per hour.

Opening the car window, he laid an arm along the frame and tried to relax, since it would be dangerous to go much faster.

Prevailing sea winds had bent the stunted thorn trees and hawthorn almost double along these muddy, wandering edges of farmland. But wildflowers blew in clusters among the rough grasses, and there was a pleasant tang of salt to the air that spoke of the sea and wide-open spaces.

Five minutes later, he went past the small, tucked-away cottage by accident, missing its white-washed walls and thatched roof as he rounded a blind corner, so continued on until it was safe to turn and go back.

There was an ancient area for free parking along one stretch of cliff, poorly kept up by the council and mostly overgrown. As Jack pulled slowly around its rough semi-circle of mud, he glanced out at the ocean, letting its great brooding vastness fill his senses. He was still smarting from that awful discussion with Stella… Having to break up with her. Or ‘press pause’ as he had rather fatuously put it. He had known instinctively that she wouldn’t understand his reasoning. He needed to protect her from any later suggestion of corruption by the police investigation. But Stella’s face as she’d turned away from him…

Jack swallowed, pushing the memory aside. He would deal with it later, he promised himself. When it all felt less painful and raw.

There was only one car in the free parking area today. An old man behind the wheel of a dirt-encrusted hatchback, munching on a sandwich as he admired the Atlantic breaking on sunlit rocks below. Jack nodded his way but the old man merely stared back for a moment before returning to his admiration of the view.

Mrs Cannell was waiting at the gate when he stopped outside the cottage. She looked to be in her sixties, silver-haired and dainty, and was holding a tiny dog in her arms. This animal barked and squirmed excitedly as he got out of the car, and the woman gave Jack an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry about Prince. He’s not used to strangers.’ She looked him up and down with faded blue eyes. ‘Detective Sergeant Church, is it? I thought so… There aren’t many cars come down here that I don’t recognise. Not since they closed the cliff path at Parsloe Head.’ She tutted at the barking dog. ‘Hush now, Prince! This nice man has come to talk to your daddy.’

Daddy?

It was early afternoon and quite warm. He rolled up his shirt sleeves and slung his jacket over one shoulder, following Mrs Cannell into the house. The sunny porch was thick with musty-smelling tomato plants, its cracked slate floor littered with muddy wellies and scuffed hiking boots.

‘I’m Molly and my husband Joe is through here,’ she said, thankfully depositing the yapping dog in a side room first and shutting the door. ‘This way.’

‘The cliff path you mentioned… Does that meet the car park a little further along?’

‘That’s right. It was built to accommodate all the summer visitors that used to stop along the verge there and walk down to the beach. Only the path got too dangerous so they closed it. Rockfalls, and soil erosion. We had a few bad storms a couple of years back, and I expect that was the final straw. Since the council closed the path down the cliff, we don’t get many come this way. Not when there’s a faster A-road to Boscastle.’

In the cosy back room, overlooking a vegetable garden, Joe Cannell sat in an armchair with one leg encased in a purple cast boot, the hurt limb stretched out and supported on a footstall.

‘Here’s the police at last,’ his wife told him, tutting as she bent to remove a half-empty soup bowl from the arm of his chair. ‘You barely touched that.’

He threw aside his phone and reached up to shake Jack’s hand. ‘About time too,’ he said brusquely. ‘Better sit down. This could take some time.’

‘Tea?’ Molly Cannell offered, and scurried away when he accepted, looking pleased. The small dog continued to yap sporadically from the other room, no doubt frustrated by this incarceration, but neither of them seemed bothered. Unlike Jack.

‘Tell me all about this hit-and-run then, Mr Cannell,’ Jack said with a strained smile, and got out his notebook.

‘Gladly.’ The retired labourer settled back against his cushions with a satisfied air. ‘Well, I like to go out on my bike in the early mornings when the weather’s fine like it is now,’ he began in a leisurely way.

‘Motorbike or bicycle?’ Jack interrupted.

Joe Cannell stared at him as though he was mad. ‘Bicycle.’

‘Right you are.’ Jack wrote this down. ‘Go on.’

‘I cycled along the coast for a couple of miles, as I usually do, and then turned back when I guessed Molly would be getting up to put our breakfast on. I still like a full English, even though I’m not working anymore… Eggs, bacon, sausage and so on.’ He shifted the position of his leg, clearly uncomfortable, and winced. ‘Since the accident, Molly’s had me on half-rations,’ he grumbled. ‘I’m allowed a bowl of porridge or yogurt with nuts and seeds. Tasty enough, I suppose… But it’s not the same, is it?’

‘Mmm. And the hit-and-run?’ Jack prompted him with barely restrained patience.

‘Oh, aye. Sorry.’ Joe pulled on his lip, remembering. ‘So I was almost home when I heard a vehicle coming fast behind me. I was between two bends in the lane, and I knew the driver couldn’t possibly have seen me, not with the hedges so high at this time of year, all overgrown… So I pedalled like hell to get past the next bend in time, and I would have made it too, except for a rabbit. Blasted thing darted out in front of me right on the bend, out of nowhere. I swerved, as anyone would, and the bike wobbled…’ The man gritted his teeth. ‘I could hear the vehicle right behind me on the bend. Bloody driver clipped me, didn’t he?’

‘Clipped?’

‘Hit me, then. Made contact with the back wheel first. You can still see the damn thing out there in the shed, all bent out of shape. I was thrown up into the air and fell onto the verge, and the bike ended up a few feet away in the undergrowth. I probably would have been alright, except there was a little ditch right there, with a drainpipe from the field… And I fell on it. That’s how I broke my leg, the A&E doctor reckoned.’

‘Yes, I see.’ Jack was scribbling furiously, and missing his constable. Ronny usually took the notes so he could concentrate on listening and assessing. It was hard to listen out for nuance and check for changes of expression when being challenged on his shorthand. ‘So, did he just keep driving, this… What kind of vehicle was it? Did you see?’

‘Transit van, a metallic blue.’ Joe scowled. ‘No, he stopped about fifty feet down the lane, just before the next bend.’

Jack looked up at him sharply. ‘Did you get the numberplate?’

Molly Cannell had come bustling in with a tray during this exchange and was offloading it onto the coffee table. She gave a short laugh at this question. ‘No, bless you, my poor Joe was upside-down in a ditch, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes, I wasn’t really thinking about numberplates and such,’ Joe agreed. ‘But he got out of the van and stared back at me. Maybe thirty seconds. I shook a fist at him and shouted something.’

‘Bloody maniac,’ his wife supplied fondly.

‘That’s right. Bloody maniac, I shouted at him,’ Joe agreed, ‘and blow me, he gets back in the van and drives away.’

‘Didn’t even bother coming back to check you were all right, did he, the nasty man?’ Molly said, handing her husband a mug of tea. She offered Jack a plate of biscuits, and looked disappointed when he shook his head, unable to write and eat at the same time. She set his mug of steaming tea at his elbow instead. ‘Foreigner though, I daresay. One of these illegals, perhaps. Didn’t want to stick around and maybe get spotted by the police.’

Jack paused in his writing, curious. ‘What makes you say that, Mrs Cannell?’

‘Molly, please. Sugar?’

‘No, thank you.’

She spooned sugar into her own tea. ‘Oh, only because Joe thought he looked foreign.’

‘I didn’t get a proper look, being on my back with a broken leg, and all,’ Joe Cannell qualified his wife’s statement. ‘But he was quite dark,’ he agreed reluctantly. ‘Dark beard and olive skin. It’s a while ago now, you understand. I wrote the description down somewhere, only Molly can’t remember where she put it.’

Molly looked apologetic. ‘I’d lose my head if it weren’t screwed on.’

‘That’s all right. Can you recall what he was wearing, this bearded man?’ Jack asked her husband.

Cannell nodded. ‘Blue and white chequered shirt with short sleeves, and dark blue denim jeans. I’m not sure why, but I think he struck me as a Mediterranean type. Or maybe one of these Syrians.’ He hesitated, looking worried that he might have said something offensive. ‘Though that doesn’t mean anything these days, does it? He could have been from the UK.’

‘Yes, quite possibly.’ Jack wrote this description down meticulously. ‘If you find the description you wrote at the time, you’ll let me know?’

‘Of course,’ his wife said. ‘I used to work for the police at one time. I was a PCSO for nearly three years, mostly in Truro.’

‘Yes.’ Jack shot her a smile. ‘So I’ve been told. Why did you leave the police, if you don’t mind me asking?’

‘Only because we’d moved out here, and it was too far to commute.’ She pulled a face. ‘Also, I was getting on a bit by then. It’s a job for a younger person, to be honest. But I haven’t forgotten my training, and I still try to keep my eyes peeled for anything suspicious,’ she finished with a wink.

‘And did you know the driver? Had you seen the vehicle before?’

‘Oh yes,’ Molly Cannell exclaimed. ‘We’d seen it parked up the evening before when we were out walking the dog. Didn’t we, love?’

Her husband nodded. ‘It was parked in the free car park down the road. We often get people parked up there for the view, but it was almost dusk when we walked past and there was no sign of the driver. We thought he might of gone to… You know, relieve himself. There’s no public toilets for miles so that does sometimes happen. Only he was nowhere in sight.’

Helpfully, Molly Cannell added, ‘I said to Joe that he might have gone down the cliff path towards the beach. There’s a closed sign at the top of the path, and a barrier too, just past the sign. It’s only knee-high though, easy enough to hop over’

‘What’s down the cliff path?’

‘Only the cove,’ Joe Purnell told him. ‘There’s not much of a beach down there. Shingle and rocks, mostly. But it’s sheltered, so people used to swim there in the old days. The path has been closed a few years now though. Too dangerous, apparently. Most folk hereabouts would like to see the path reopened.’ He shook his head. ‘But there are some who’d prefer it to remain closed, it seems.’

Jack felt there was more to this mysterious statement, but before he could ask for details, Molly Cannell jumped to her feet.

‘Would you like to see it? Where the van was parked, I mean.’ She smiled. ‘I was going to take the dog for a walk anyway, so I can show you if you like.’

After a quick examination of the bent and buckled rear wheel of the bicycle, Jack accompanied Molly and her little dog down the road towards the free parking area. It only took them about five minutes at an easy pace to cover the ground.

It was early afternoon, and the sun was blinding on the ocean visible at intervals on their left, a slight breeze rustling the trees and hedgerows. By the time they reached the parking area, the old man in the hatchback had gone, leaving a crust of his sandwich behind. As they approached it, a young seagull came flapping down, snatched up the remnants with a convulsive gulp, and then rose into the air again, shrieking defiance.

Molly Cannell let her dog off the lead. The animal promptly disappeared into the overgrown brambles and coarse grasses along the cliff, yapping at invisible enemies.

She pointed out the spot where the transit van had been parked the evening before the hit-and-run. ‘It was right there.’

Jack crouched, studying a faint impression of tyre treads crushed into the dirt. Not that forensics would bother coming out for a mere hit-and-run. Besides which, the incident had occurred some weeks previously. He suspected several dozen cars must’ve come and gone since then. Any discernible trace of the original vehicle would be lost by now.

‘And you’d never seen it parked here before?’

‘No, but I thought I might have seen it once. Rattling past the cottage at a crazy speed, like all these out-of-towners do.’ She pulled a face. ‘There are plenty of dark-coloured transits though, aren’t there? It might’ve been a different van I saw.’

Jack couldn’t disagree with that analysis. ‘And where’s the entrance to this cliff path you and Joe mentioned?’

She led him across the car park semi-circle to a beaten track still visible between brambles, leading to the edge of the cliff. ‘Down there,’ she pointed, and as she did so, her rascally dog ran that way, barking enthusiastically. Molly Cannell looked embarrassed. ‘I admit, we do sometimes walk down the cliff path a little way with the dog, though only when it’s dry weather. I know it’s closed, so we shouldn’t use it. But the path’s not dangerous until further down. Though,’ she added, with a frustrated shake of her head, ‘I don’t see that it’s that dangerous at all. Bloody council… It’s just a few loose stones. Insurance costs, I daresay.’

Jack walked a few steps past the Footpath Closed sign to peer beyond the low wooden barrier… A narrow, heavily overgrown track led stonily down the cliff, twisting and turning in bootlace fashion, presumably all the way to the bottom, where he could see the Atlantic Ocean glittering at its base, waves lapping at dark, jagged rocks.

His gaze rising again, Jack studied the cliffs on either side. The edge of the cove sheared away to his left, rough clifftops with sea below. To the right, maybe a quarter of a mile away, the land rose to where an attractive, whitewashed villa stood, perched perilously high above the cove. Directly below its palm tree-edged white terrace, there was some kind of landing stage or boardwalk, a stretch of decking with one small motorboat moored alongside. Nearby, he could just glimpse what looked like a boathouse tucked under the sheltering overhang of the cliff. Quite a new structure, by the look of it. An expensive build too, he guessed, given its hard-to-reach location.

‘Who lives up there?’ he asked, nodding to the cliff-top villa.

‘What, at Shangri-La?’ Molly’s tone was lightly contemptuous. ‘That place belongs to our local celebrity, Bernard Doughty. Him that was a big horror film star back in the day.’

Jack’s senses prickled. ‘Did you know he’s just been found dead?’

Her face became shuttered, and she turned, whistling for the dog. ‘Um, yes, we did hear something about that on the radio this morning. Not that they were giving out many details. Sounds like a nasty business, if you ask me.’ She hesitated. ‘Of course, I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but Bernard Doughty… He wasn’t a very nice man, Detective Sergeant. I doubt there’ll be many round here who’ll miss him.’

‘What makes you say that?’

But she seemed reluctant to say more, bending to clip the dog’s lead to its collar. When he pressed her, she eventually mumbled, ‘Well, if you ask me, it was most likely Bernard Doughty who persuaded the council to close that path.’

‘Do you know why?’

‘My husband says Doughty didn’t want tourists anywhere near his new villa, and that’s why he went into local politics. Got himself elected mayor so he could influence the council into making this whole area a no-go zone.’ She grimaced. ‘There’s no evidence of that, of course. It’s all gossip. But we never had any stones falling along this path until he started building his big fancy house there.’

‘I see.’

The wind had begun to gust, blowing sharply off the sea, and by mutual consent they turned back to the house.

Jack thanked her and was about to get into his car when Molly Cannell came rushing back out of the cottage, waving a hand. ‘Hang on a minute, Sergeant,’ she called breathlessly. ‘Can you spare a minute? Joe’s just remembered something else.’

Jack glanced at the time oh his phone and then went back into the house, flipping open his notebook again. After all, it wasn’t as though he had much else to do, except several hours’ worth of online report sheets and forms to fill out, supposedly quicker than old-fashioned paperwork but only when the software wasn’t glitching or the operating system running slow.

The retired labour was still in his armchair, where no doubt he spent most of his day at the moment, and was looking almost excited.

‘Yes, Mr Cannell?’ Jack asked him. ‘Your wife says you remembered something you forgot to mention earlier.’

‘That’s right, and it’s the strangest thing of all.’ Joe Cannell gave him a crooked grin. ‘You’ll think I’m barmy, I daresay, but just as the van clipped me, and I went head over heels onto the verge, I thought… Well, I heard something odd.’

Jack lowered the notebook. ‘Heard what, exactly?’

‘It sound like somebody shouting from inside the back of the van.’

‘Shouting?’ Jack stared. ‘What did they say?’

‘Well, that’s the thing. I don’t know.’ Joe Cannell shrugged. ‘Sounded like a foreign language to me. Just a quick yell, like… Someone shouting out in surprise, or swearing perhaps.’ He nodded, seeing Jack’s bemused expression. ‘Told you it was strange. If you ask me, that bearded driver had someone in the back of his van. And whoever it was, they weren’t from hereabouts.’

CHAPTER EIGHT

Stella glanced once more about the popular seaside resort of Tintagel, crowded with summer visitors, but couldn’t see Luke anywhere. She was seated on a low wall in full sunshine, opposite a row of fast-food takeaways, selling a limited range of tourist food from fish and chips to giant cookies and ice-cream. Today was meant to be her day to work at Druid’s Den, as her phone calendar had smugly reminded her that morning on waking. But the occult shop was still closed, sealed off with Police Don’t Cross tape, in case forensics required further access to the crime scene, so there would be no in-person astrology readings today. But she would still be seeing Luke today.

Her friend was at a loose end, it seemed, and in dire need of company. After calling the evening before to ask if she’d meet him, Luke had refused her offer of lunch at the house, suggesting instead that they meet here in Tintagel. ‘For an ice cream,’ he’d said awkwardly. ‘Honestly, Stella, I need to speak to you. Just the two of us.’

The way he’d said that had prompted her to say, embarrassed by the admission, ‘I’m not seeing Jack at the moment, if that’s what’s worrying you.’

‘You two have broken up?’ Luke had sounded shocked.

‘We’ve taken a break, just for a little while. To see how things go.’ Though she felt sure this break-up would be forever, and was miserable about it.

‘Not because of Bernie’s murder, surely?’

‘I’d rather not talk about it, sorry.’

‘Oh, of course.’ Luke had agreed hurriedly. ‘But let’s meet, yeah? I have a favour to ask.’ He’d hesitated. ‘But only in person.’

Remembering his refusal to talk more openly on the phone, she wondered again if he believed mobiles were somehow insecure, and grimaced at the thought. Luke had always been on the paranoid side, frequently accusing the government or ‘dark forces’ of controlling people’s lives. No doubt Bernard Doughty’s murder, taking place on his own premises, on the very day of his shop’s grand opening, had confirmed all those fears…

Since he lived just outside the bustling town of Tintagel, they’d agreed to meet there. And since it was such a lovely summer’s day, she’d gladly taken her car out for a spin, not even minding the heavy traffic queues as she approached the town centre, which was basically one road in and out, lined with tourist trap souvenir and food shops. It was a very different place in winter, especially in the evenings, the rainy streets empty and windswept. Being out and about in this glorious sunshine was a lovely perk for her spirits, and she enjoyed seeing all the summer visitors spending their money and helping locals make a living. But secretly she had to admit to preferring the ancient Cornish settlement in its quieter, more atmospheric winter robes.

‘Stella!’ A piercing whisper brought her round.

Someone was lurking behind a glinting silver SUV in the car park behind her. A white-blonde head popped up as she stared, and Luke beckoned her to join him. ‘Over here,’ he whispered, jerking his head when she didn’t move. ‘Hurry up, before someone sees us.’

Astonished, she picked up her shoulder bag and joined him in the shade of the RV. ‘Luke? What on earth…?’

‘I want to keep a low profile,’ he told her urgently. ‘Where’s your car?’

‘I thought we were having an ice cream?’

‘Oh, erm, yes… Maybe later. First, let’s have a chat.’ He glanced about the car park anxiously. ‘Where’s your car?’

She led the way back to where she’d parked her new car, still ridiculously proud of her little Mini Cooper. ‘What’s this all about, Luke?’

Safely inside the small car, he checked over his shoulder, as though concerned someone might be watching them. Then he gripped her arm, saying with an air of desperation, ‘I need your help. I’m really sorry and I apologise but… You’re the only person I can trust with this.’

‘Trust with what?’

‘I need a lift somewhere, that’s all.’

‘No problem. Where, exactly?’

Luke hesitated. ‘Only somewhere local. I’d get there under my own steam but I lost my licence, remember?’ He pulled a face. ‘Drunk driving.’

‘I remember.’ He’d been banned for a year only a few months ago, as she recalled, and had needed a friend to drive him to and from Druid’s Den in the weeks leading up to opening day. ‘But what about Ken? I thought he was your designated driver.’

‘Um, yes.’ Luke ran a hand through his hair, more like a nervous tic than to restyle his spiky white-blonde hair. ‘The thing is, I can’t ask Ken to do this.’

‘Sounds mysterious. Why not?’

‘You promise not to repeat what I say, even if you decide afterwards that you won’t help me?’ he urged her.

Intrigued now, she agreed. ‘Come on, let’s hear it.’

‘I need you to drive me to Bernard Doughty’s place and wait for me outside while I collect something from the house.’

Stella sucked in a breath, processing what he’d said. Leaning back, she stared at him, eyes wide with shock. ‘Luke, you can’t be serious. You know I couldn’t possibly do that. What you’re asking is… Well, it’s illegal.’ When he said nothing, she searched her friend’s face, unable to believe that he meant it. ‘Please don’t tell me you had something to do with his murder after all.’

‘Of course I didn’t. How can you even ask that?’ His eyes were glassy with tears. ‘Stella, you know me. I wouldn’t hurt a fly. And I could never have done something like that. Cut a man’s throat? Let alone Bernie’s…’ He shuddered. ‘I can’t get what we saw out of my mind. It was horrible!’

‘Then why do you need to go to his house?’

‘You promise you won’t tell?’ he urged her.

She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t make that promise. Not if it’s something to do with his murder. You must realise that.’

Luke hesitated, his gaze on her face, turning one of his flashy silver rings round and round with nervous mania. ‘Oh, very well… But I swear, I’ll put a curse on you if you betray me.’

‘Fair enough,’ she said with a chuckle, not particularly believing in anyone’s ability to put a curse on another living soul. She was an astrologer, not a witch. Her father, a vicar, had been a secret Wiccan, something she hadn’t discovered until after his murder. But while she respected others’ beliefs, she herself had always tried to steer clear of all that…

‘All right, then.’ He checked around the busy car park again, but nobody was looking their way. ‘You see, the thing is… Bernie and I were sort of involved.’

‘What?’

‘Please, just let me finish before you start preaching.’

‘I wasn’t going to preach. But shouldn’t you have told the police about that?’

‘No, because it wasn’t serious enough to bother mentioning,’ he insisted hotly. ‘More like an occasional one-night-stand. The police might have leapt to the wrong conclusion and arrested me on the spot, in front of all my guests. It would have ruined me.’ He grimaced. ‘Though having someone murdered on the premises hasn’t exactly helped business either. Especially since they’re refusing to say when the shop can reopen.’

‘I see.’ She wasn’t sure she believed him, knowing that Luke could be slippery about his relationships. But she didn’t think him capable of murder, so asked lightly, ‘If you weren’t that close, why do you need to go to his house? Let’s face it, given what happened to Bernard, the police should already have been round there, taking DNA samples and searching his house.’

‘No, they haven’t,’ Luke told her triumphantly. ‘Because I spoke to a friend of a friend this morning who knows Bernard’s housekeeper. Forensics aren’t due there until tomorrow. Apparently, they’ve been overstretched. At the weekend, there was a young man found drowned, a big house fire, and a fatal road traffic accident on the A39, all on top of Bernard’s murder. The police and forensics teams have been run off their feet, and too busy to get down to his house yet for a poke around.’

Having heard Jack complaining about how over-stretched the police were, that delay in chasing up evidence did seem possible. But she still didn’t like the idea of breaking into a murdered man’s house, even if she was only the chauffeur.

‘Okay, but whatever you left there, I’m sure it won’t incriminate you. If you’re innocent, what’s the issue?’

‘Are you really that naïve?’ Luke stared at her, desperation in his face. ‘Bernard Doughty was murdered in my shop, and the police say it was likely done with one of the knives from my own displays. I have to go to police headquarters tomorrow to give them a statement and also look at the murder weapon to identify whether or not it was from the shop stock.’ There was perspiration on his forehead. ‘Can you imagine what will happen if it was one of my knives, and then the police find my stuff at his home too? They’ll arrest me for murder on the spot.’

Stella tried to reassure him that this was highly unlikely, but her old friend was not convinced. She thought it through for a moment, and then said carefully, ‘You should called DI Martin and explain the situation. Tell him that you and Doughty had some kind of on-off relationship going on, and that you’ve left something there.’ When he shook his head urgently, she took his hand and squeezed it reassuringly. ‘You’ll look guilty as hell if you don’t tell them. Because they could still find your DNA there even after you’ve removed your possessions. And they took swabs from us at the shop, so they’ll know it belongs to you.’

There was a flare of colour in Luke’s face. ‘I already told the detectives that I’d been at Bernie’s house recently. But I said it was for a party. I… I didn’t tell them the whole story.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Well, there was a party a couple of weeks back, and Bernard invited me. I swear, I was only there a few hours. It wasn’t my kind of scene.’ Luke hesitated. ‘But I did leave some, erm, clothing behind.’

‘Clothing? You mean, like a coat?’

The colour in his face deepened. ‘Underwear,’ he mumbled.

Stella bit her lip. ‘Oh.’

‘And some handcuffs. Maybe a paddle.’

‘A what?’

‘You don’t want to know.’ Luke pulled a face, reddening. ‘But if it comes up in court, and gets reported in the media… It would be too embarrassing.’ He pulled on his lip, looking torn. ‘And Ken would never speak to me again.’

‘Good grief.’

‘I love Ken,’ he said abruptly.

‘Okay.’

‘Look, I swear by the goddess and all that’s holy, I’ll be in and out of that house, five minutes absolute maximum. All I need is for you to drive me there tonight – once it’s dark and I can be sure the housekeeper has gone home – and wait outside for me. I’ll do everything else.’

‘But the house will be locked up, surely?’

‘Yeah, about that… I happen to know the gate and door codes.’

Stella sat back, staring at him fixedly. ‘It sounds like your relationship with Bernard Doughty wasn’t just the “occasional one-night-stand.” Exactly how well did you know him?’

Luke swallowed, looking away. ‘Better than most, I suppose,’ he said, hunched and miserable. ‘But not as well as whoever killed him, I’m guessing.’

Against her better judgement, but fearing that her friend would recklessly try to make his way there via taxi or perhaps even on foot, thus attracting too much attention, Stella reluctantly agreed to drive him to Bernard Doughty’s house that night. She picked him up outside his flat just after ten o’clock in the evening, when the long summer’s day had faded to soft burnished gold over the sea, turning a dark, velvety lilac further inland. She took the coast road, which she knew was unlikely to be as busy as the main A-road known thereabouts as the Atlantic Highway, and sure enough they passed few vehicles. The minor road that ran past Bernard Doughty’s cliffside residence, pointed out to her by a nervous Luke in the passenger seat, was narrow and winding, taking them laboriously past fields and old rural cottages, most in darkness at that time of night. At last, she saw the sign for Shangri-La, the name Doughty had chosen for his luxury villa, surely tongue-in-cheek, and slowed to a halt in front of the gates.

There was a key code pad on the driver’s side. Thankfully, the keypad was lit up. Stella lowered the driver’s window and leant out. ‘What’s the code?’

She had originally intended to dump him at the gate and wait on the road outside. But it looked to be a long, lonely trudge to the house from the tall, wrought-iron entrance gates, and the dark villa in the distance looked rather creepy. Someone had, after all, cut Bernard Doughty’s throat, and she knew that someone wasn’t her or Luke. Which meant someone out there had a deadly grudge against Doughty, and it was possible they too were hanging around his house at this late hour, perhaps also looking to retrieve something once the diligent housekeeper had gone home. Not a very comfortable thought. But it made up her mind for her. Misguided he might be, but she wasn’t letting her friend go in there alone.

In a shaky voice, Luke recited the gate code, and she punched out the numbers. Almost instantly, the gates began to swing inwards, and she drove through as softly and slowly as she could, her tyres crunching on fine gravel, and then halted uncertainly.

In her mirror, lit up in the red gleam of her brake lights, she saw the gates swing majestically shut behind them. No going back now, she thought anxiously.

‘If this gets me into trouble again with the police,’ she muttered, hands clenched on the steering wheel, ‘so help me God, Luke, I’m going to make you sorry.’

‘Five minutes max, honestly,’ Luke assured her again, already taking off his seatbelt and sitting forward. He pointed ahead to where the drive swung in a semicircle in front of the villa. ‘Drop me there and just wait. You can keep the engine running if you want.’

‘What, like a getaway driver?’

As she came to a halt in front of the villa entrance, he opened the car door, shooting her a worried look. ‘You… You won’t leave without me, will you? Promise me, Stella, you’ll still be here when I come out.’

‘I’ll be here.’

Using his phone as a light, he trod gently up the three steps to the door and she watched as he punched out the door code. The red light on the keypad turned green, and he pushed through the front entrance, leaving the door open behind him. In case he needed to make a quick escape, she guessed.

After two minutes of sitting there with her engine running like a taxi driver, she began to find the noise irritating and turned it off. Lights too.

Plunged into silence and darkness, Stella leant an arm along the open window frame and looked about herself uneasily, wondering if it might not have been better to leave the lights on at least.

Crickets chirped in the sprawling flower beds to either side of the driveway. The spiky fronds of palm trees stood outlined against the soft night sky, a few last red-gold glints of sun just visible behind clouds far out on the western horizon. Everything else was slowly fading to black. She smelt jasmine in the darkness, and other subtle perfumed delights. In the distance, the sea whispered at the foot of the cliffs that she knew lay on the other side of this stately, white villa.

Bernard Doughty’s pad was beautiful, she had to admit it. A lovely place to live. Indeed, it was hard to imagine why anyone would have wanted to murder the former film star, despite his bad temper and his reputation for dodgy dealing in local politics. He had been occasionally charming, after all, and many people had admired his talent for acting.

But someone had not only wanted him dead, but had achieved it.

Five minutes elapsed with no sign of Luke.

She sat staring down at the time ticking away on her phone in dismay, and then, as it hit seven minutes, reluctantly got out of the car.

Instantly, she felt vulnerable. As though a hundred pairs of eyes were watching her from behind dark shrubs and trees, or from inside the silent villa. So much for five minutes, she thought grimly. But perhaps he’d got himself into difficulties.

She texted him. Where are you?

There was no response.

By the time she’d been waiting ten minutes, Stella knew she had to go inside after him. It was either that or call Jack or the police, and both of those were fraught suggestions. Jack would be furious at her for brining Luke to the dead man’s house, and the police would almost certainly arrest her for breaking and entering, or at least for aiding and abetting, whatever that really meant. Though she felt sure that driving the getaway car came under the heading of aiding and abetting, and she didn’t relish either facing Jack’s deserved ire or the insides of a police cell for the night.

And she couldn’t just take off and leave Luke to his fate. Not after agreeing to bring him here in the first place. Basically, she had enabled his crime. She couldn’t now abandon him. It simply wasn’t in her nature.

Going inside Bernard Doughty’s villa was the only other viable option and, bizarrely enough, the one with the least question marks over it.

As quietly as she could, she slipped through the open front door and stood a moment in the dark hallway, feeling like an intruder. Which she was, of course.

‘Luke?’ She whispered.

No reply.

Fumbling with her phone, she flicked up the torch app and held it out to light her way. ‘Luke?’ Still no response. Disturbingly, she couldn’t hear anything but the loud thump of her heart. ‘Where… Where the hell are you?’

She swept the hall with the thin beam of her phone light. White and gold marble, gilt fixtures, a bronze statue of a rearing horse. Multiple doors, most wide open, leading into darkness.

‘Please, Luke… You’ve been ages,’ she whispered, too anxious to raise her voice, even though there was theoretically nobody in the place but her and Luke. ‘We need to get out of here.’

She heard a faint sound of moaning from further into the house, and then a crash, as though something had been knocked over. Her heart almost stopped. ‘Luke?’ She raised her voice at last, though it shook. ‘Luke? Are you okay? Talk to me, for God’s sake…’

She looked but couldn’t see a light switch anywhere. Groping along the wall instead, she squeaked in trainers across the marble-floored hallway and through the furthest open door, following her instincts and the faint sound of moaning she caught again.

Had Luke fallen over something in the darkness and hurt himself?

It seemed possible, given how many strange and exotic ornaments and statues were arranged about Bernard Doughty’s house. One statue stared back at her, a life-size figure with long black hair and pale skin, sharp teeth showing red. A vampire? Count Dracula, perhaps? Passing one robed and hooded figure with outstretched arms, whom she might have thought was real except for the glassy stare, Stella began to suspect that many of these statues were in fact props or representational figures from horror films he had starred in.

Horribly, the room she entered was walled with mirrors on all sides, like a booth in a fairground. She didn’t understand what was happening at first and threw up her other hand to shield her eyes from myriad bright lights, while a dozen Stella’s copied the abrupt move, the light blinking and wavering. As she lowered her arm, realising it was just an illusion, so did her multiple reflections.

‘What on earth is this place?’ she muttered, her heartbeat more erratic than ever. If she didn’t find Luke soon, she was leaving, she promised herself. Moaning or no moaning.

Further into the mirrored room, a draught of warmish air hit her, and she realised she could hear the sea again. There was a break in the mirrored wall… A door had been flung open at the far end of the room. Through it she could see the dusky evening sky and a faint glimmer of ocean.

Shining the phone torch that way, she took another hesitant step and almost fell over a body.

It was Luke, lying face-down on the marbled floor, his right leg sprawled awkwardly at an angle. The light caught a glint of red on his temple, and she gasped.

‘Luke? Oh my God, are you hurt?’ Crouching beside him, she lifted his wrist to feel for a pulse when he didn’t answer. To her relief, he was still alive, his pulse faint but steady. There was a nasty gash across his forehead though, and blood trickling down his cheek and matted in his white-blonde hairline.

What could have happened?

She shone the light behind her, but couldn’t see anything that he might’ve tripped over, coming too quickly through the room. The path to the door seemed clear enough, with elegant wooden chests to one side and a leather sofa and armchair to the other, but nothing between them.

Then she heard it.

Someone was breathing heavily, not far away, and clearly trying to muffle the sound. Someone who was presumably still in the room.

Her first instinct was to get out of there as quickly as possible. But she couldn’t leave Luke unconscious and defenceless. Besides, she hadn’t yet been attacked, so whoever was hiding was perhaps as wary of her as she was of them. Which gave her an advantage, at least for the moment.

Carefully, Stella straightened, and forced herself to shine the light slowly about the room. She couldn’t see anything but repeated glitters of light, and her own reflection, turning in a circle. ‘Who’s there?’ She attempted to sound calm and authoritative, as though she had the situation well in hand. ‘You might as well show yourself. There’s nowhere to run and the police are on their way.’ Not true, obviously, but whatever…

She waited but there was no reply. Well, it had been worth a try. But then she realised she could no longer hear the sound of breathing either.

Had she imagined it? Or heard Luke’s breathing and thought it was an attacker’s?

She wanted to call the police and an ambulance, but feared being distracted while there might still be someone in the room. Someone who very possibly had tried to kill Luke, or at least hit him with something. She had to be sure. There was probably a light switch somewhere back near the door, but again, she didn’t fancy turning her back.

Gingerly, she tiptoed towards the open door onto what looked like a verandah overlooking the sea, hoping to find a light switch at that end instead, or perhaps even one outside.

Glancing back at Luke’s prone body, she poked her head out of the door. It was indeed a terrace overlooking the ocean, set with an ornate ironwork table and chairs, and with stone steps leading down one side into darkness, no doubt to a cliff path below.

As she shone the phone torch that way, wondering if Luke’s assailant had left via the cliffside steps, a noise brought her sharply round.

Someone was fleeing through the mirrored room.

‘Stop!’ she cried instinctively.

Dashing back into the mirrored room, she caught a dozen reflections of a dark, stocky figure in black hoody and jeans, ducking away from the torch beam, before they leapt over Luke’s body and disappeared into the hall.

‘Come back!’ It all seemed rather pointless, but she still stumbled after the intruder, shocked and breathless.

Sure enough, the hall was empty, and all she saw outside in the dark grounds, standing on the steps, was a brief flicker of movement.

She narrowed her eyes, turning her torch beam that way, and thought it might have been someone running across a lawned area toward the high wall that enclosed the property. But her phone torch only lit a few feet ahead, and if she had seen a fleeing figure headed that way, they were soon lost in thick shadow…

Hurrying back to an unconscious Luke, she knelt to check his pulse again, thankful that he was still alive, and then called 999.

‘Hello, which emergency service do you require?’

‘Ambulance, please,’ Stella told the call handler, closing her eyes in quick dread as she added, ‘and the police.’

While she waited impatiently for the ambulance and police to arrive, having given the call handler the gate code in advance, Stella located the light switch and examined the strange, mirrored room more closely, careful not to touch anything. There could be DNA traces of the attacker in the house, though from that brief glimpse, she suspected they might have been wearing gloves.

Luke groaned again and stirred.

‘Try not to move,’ she told him, hurrying back to his side. ‘The ambulance is on its way.’

He gave another groan, louder this time. ‘Ambulance?’ He shifted, wincing. ‘You called an ambulance? Why the hell did you do that?’ he mumbled. ‘I… I’m fine.’

‘You are far from fine,’ she said, peering down anxiously at his bleeding forehead. ‘You’re a mess, Luke. You need medical attention.’

‘Now the police will know we were here.’

She took a deep breath. ‘Yes, I asked for them too. This is a crime scene. I mean, come on, Luke… You think forensics wouldn’t have found your DNA here when they checked the house?’ She pointed to the blood smear on the floor. ‘Best face the music now, not get arrested for it later. If we explain why you came here – ’

‘Why we came here,’ he interrupted her, and struggled to a sitting position, despite her protests. He was clutching a small plastic bag, she noticed. ‘This is a… a disaster.’

‘What happened? Who was that guy?’ She hesitated. ‘I mean, I assume it was a man.’

‘I have no idea.’ Gingerly, he touched the bleeding gash in his forehead and hissed in pain. ‘Damn it… I got what I came for, no problem. My stuff was all upstairs. Then I came down and heard something… A noise like someone opening and shutting drawers. I should have left, but I couldn’t help myself.’ He grimaced.

‘Curiosity nearly killed the cat, did it?’

‘My dad always told me I’d die of stupidity one day… Seems he might have been right.’ He started to laugh and then stopped, wincing again. ‘Feels like I’ve broken a rib.’

‘Stay still then. The ambulance won’t be long.’ She listened to the dead silence in the isolated villa. ‘At least, I hope not.’ She helped him sit up properly, his back against the wall. ‘So what did the curious cat do to get his head bashed in?’

‘I turned off my phone torch and tiptoed in here to see who it was.’ He nodded to the five-drawer mahogany cabinet a few feet away. ‘I could just make out someone hunting through that. He’d tucked a few things under his arm while he was searching for whatever it was… Things he must have wanted to take with him.’ There was grim satisfaction in Luke’s voice. ‘Only he must have heard me and was startled. He looked up, saw me, and charged at me like a maniac. I tried to fend him off and we struggled for maybe thirty seconds. But he had a torch – a proper torch – and he hit me with it.’ He gestured to the gash on his temple. ‘Down I went, and next thing I knew you were here, telling me the bloody ambulance was on its way.’

Stella frowned. ‘This must be something to do with Bernard Doughty’s murder, don’t you think?’

Luke shrugged, lapsing into silence. He was looking very pale.

‘That could have been his murderer, in fact,’ she went on, musing out loud, and saw his eyes flicker. The thought had clearly occurred to him too. ‘He was hiding when I came in,’ she explained, ‘so I didn’t realise he was in here at first. I think he must have broken in through the terrace door.’ She studied the cabinet thoughtfully. ‘I wonder what he was looking for in there. Though I suppose he'll have taken whatever it was with him when he ran.’

There was something on the floor next to the elegant cabinet. ‘Hello, what’s that? Looks like a photo frame.’ Stella got up and peered down at the framed photograph, careful not to touch it. The glass was cracked, exactly as though it had been knocked off the cabinet during the struggle. ‘Now, who’s that, I wonder?’

Luke had his eyes closed, but his fists were clenched. She guessed the pain must be very bad.

She studied the framed photograph, which was of a tanned young man in shorts and bare chest, standing on the deck of what looked like an old fishing boat. He had his hands on his hips and was smiling warmly into the camera. Behind him the sea glittered, a hazy dark-green coast in the background. Cornwall?

Behind him on the decking, lying beside a heap of coiled netting, was the edge of something gold-coloured, strangely incongruent in that setting.

A sandal?

CHAPTER NINE

Having rolled up to work early that morning, Jack had been at his desk for nearly an hour, first laboriously filling out online paperwork on that hit-and-run near Bernard Doughty’s place, and then scratching his head over why his computer was stubbornly refusing to upload the report to their central database, constantly confronting him with an error message, when his mobile buzzed.

It was his constable.

Relieved by this distraction, he answered it promptly. ‘Morning, Ronny.’

Though given DI Martin had purloined the young man, handing him instead to the specially seconded DS from Devon, could he really think of him as his constable anymore?

‘Sarge… Please don’t use my name, okay?’ Ronny was whispering.

Jack blinked. ‘Excuse me? Why are you whispering?’

‘I can’t risk anyone overhearing me. DS Dawlish is here and keeps breathing down my neck… Not literally, obviously, or that would be weird. Thing is, I shouldn’t be telling you this. In fact, DS Dawlish expressly told me not to tell you this. Or rather not to tell you about this yet…’ Ronny paused. ‘Though now I think about it, there weren’t any actual specifics on when I would be allowed to mention it, so maybe she meant – ’

‘Ronny, for God’s sake! What aren’t you supposed to be telling me?’

‘Hush! Not so loud… And please don’t use my name, Sarge. Walls have ears.’

‘So help me, Ronny, if you don’t just spit it out – ’

‘DS Dawlish arrested Stella Penhaligon last night,’ Ronny blurted out.

Jack took a few seconds to digest that startling information, staring at the error message on the computer screen, which seemed to be mocking him now.

‘Are you serious?’

‘Stella was at Shangri-La, Bernard Doughty’s place, at about midnight. She broke in there with her mate Luke SURNAME from Druid’s Den.’

‘What?’

‘Well, she claimed to have the gate code… But even so, it was still unlawful entry, besides being part of an active crime scene. Though forensics have been there ever since, working a double shift to collect as much evidence from around the house as they could find. They’re not pleased, I can tell you. It’s a big house.’

‘Ronny, slow down. You’re not making sense.’ Jack took a deep breath, aware of his heart beating unpleasantly fast, especially considering he was still seated. ‘What the hell was Stella doing out at Shangri-La?’

‘She claimed she took Luke there to collect a few things he’d left behind. Things he didn’t want forensics to find,’ Ronny added with careful emphasis.

‘What kind of things?’

‘Latex underwear. Handcuffs.’

Jack closed his eyes. ‘Okay, please tell me this is a joke.’

‘Sorry, Sarge. It’s all true, cross my heart and swear to die. Stella was arrested and has been in the cells all night.’

‘You mean, she’s here? At the station?’ Jack leapt to his feet, phone in hand, even though the computer was now solicitously warning him it was about to time out and his data could be lost if he didn’t keep working. ‘Luke too, I’m guessing?’

‘No, Sarge… He’s at the hospital.’

Jack froze, even more alarmed, if that was even possible. What the hell had happened last night? And why hadn’t anyone told him?

‘The hospital?’

‘Apparently, there was someone else at the house when they arrived. This person hit Luke and knocked him unconscious, then made off with whatever they’d gone there to find. Stella said she heard drawers being opened and closed… When the assailant had fled, she called for an ambulance.’

‘Description?’ he demanded crisply.

‘It was dark, Stella said, and the assailant was dressed all in black with a hood covering their face. So not much of a description.’

‘Of course not.’ Grimacing, Jack seized his car keys and made for the cells. ‘Has she been interviewed, do you know?’

‘Yes, Sarge,’ Ronny continued in a whisper. ‘That’s why I thought I should call you. DS Jane Dawlish was just here, telling the duty sergeant to process Stella’s release. Then I think she’s heading out to Shangri-La to talk to forensics.’ He paused. ‘I’m actually down at the cells myself. Thing is, Stella’s car is still parked at Shangri-La. Forensics say they’ve finished with it, so DI Martin’s given her permission to drive it away. Only there’s nobody free to take her out there to pick it up.’

‘Make her wait for me, I’m on my way down,’ Jack said crisply, and rang off.

Stella was standing outside the building when he arrived, arms folded, head bent, Ronny loitering uneasily beside her.

‘I’ve told uniform to expect you at the house, Sarge,’ his constable told him, glancing anxiously about as though this were some kind of clandestine arrangement. ‘I’ve got to head out there myself later, but I thought you might prefer to… ’ His voice tailed off.

‘Thanks, Ronny.’

Ronny hurried back inside.

‘How are you doing?’ Jack asked Stella, who shrugged without answering. She was looking pale and unhappy. ‘Ronny filled me in on what happened last night. Your car’s still at Shangri-La but forensics have given it the all-clear. I can drive you out there if you want to collect it right away.’

‘Thanks, yes, I do,’ she agreed huskily. ‘I would have asked Nick but he’s at work today, and so are the others. And there’s no bus route out that way.’

‘No need to explain. I’m happy to help.’

They got into his car, and he started the engine. From an upper window, he saw an austere blonde gazing down at them with disapproval, and pulled a face. He’d seen DS Jane Dawlish in briefings but not spoken to her yet. Now she was watching him drive off with a probable suspect in a murder enquiry.

No doubt there’d be words about this later.

But Stella’s arrest had changed things. He’d been steering clear of her to let the investigation unfold without interference. But Jack knew she was innocent in all this, and he’d be damned if he would let her struggle through this preposterous arrest without him.

‘Want to tell me about last night?’ he asked lightly.

He listened while Stella explained in a subdued voice what had happened at Bernard Doughty’s place. He tried to stay calm, but the thought of her driving out to the remote home of a murdered man before forensics had even had a chance to examine it, and when it had clearly been dangerous, had him clutching the steering wheel with whitened knuckles.

Silently, he cursed Luke’s name. But he knew it would do no good to voice his thoughts, and could only harm their friendship. She was good friends with Luke, and was working alongside him now at Druid’s Den. And perhaps if he hadn’t cut ties with her while the investigation was ongoing, she might have turned to him for advice instead of driving out there on her own with Luke last night. So some of the blame attached to him as well…

‘And you didn’t catch a glimpse of this man’s face? But you’re sure it was a man?’

‘People keep asking me that. But I’m pretty certain it was a man, yes. Though I suppose he was big, quite a stocky build… So it could have been a large woman.’ She buried her face in her hands. ‘Oh, you’ve got me confused now. I’m beginning to doubt myself.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘No, I’m sorry,’ she muttered. ‘It was a stupid thing to do. I should never have gone out there with Luke. I should have told him no. But he was so upset last night, and absolutely frantic to get those things back…’ She threw him an embarrassed look. ‘I suppose you heard what it was he went there to retrieve?’

‘Yes,’ he said grimly.

‘I couldn’t believe it when I realised. I mean, he’d told me it was some clothing, underwear et cetera. That was bad enough. But I swear, I knew nothing about the handcuffs.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’

‘It must have been from some kind of… of sex party. An orgy, I guess.’

‘Presumably.’

‘I’d heard rumours about Bernard’s tastes in that direction, of course, but nothing concrete. He was working in horror films for years, after all, and I’d heard some of them were quite explicit… But I assumed he’d left all that behind when he went into politics.’ She gave a moan. ‘You think I’m an idiot, don’t you?’

‘I think you need to be more cautious and not let your natural loyalty to Luke cloud your judgement,’ he said carefully, not wanting to upset her further. ‘You mentioned seeing a photo on the floor. What was that about?’

‘Erm, yes, there was a framed photo that got knocked to the floor. The glass was badly cracked. I think I mentioned it in my statement. But I was so tired by then, and so worried about Luke’s injury, I can’t be sure if I actually did mention it.’ She knitted her hands together in her lap, her face anxious. ‘How is Luke? Do you know? I haven’t had a chance to find out yet. I mean, the paramedics said it was probably just a concussion. But I’m awfully worried about him.’

‘I’ll find out for you.’ He gave her a restrained smile. ‘Meanwhile, tell me more about that photo. You said it was in a frame and the glass was cracked. But what was the photo of?’

‘A young man on a boat. Probably a fishing boat. At least, there was netting piled up in the background,’ she told him, ‘and something else… It looked to me like a gold sandal.’

Taking his eyes off the road briefly, Jack stared at her. ‘Gold sandal?’

‘I know,’ she agreed, nodding. ‘It looked totally out of place. I mean, gold sandals on a fishing boat? And I have no idea who the boy was.’ Briefly, she described his appearance to Jack. ‘One of Bernard Doughty’s inner circle, I expect. Though he looked rather young to be a friend. A fellow actor, perhaps? Or a relative.’

Jack was frowning. ‘Maybe,’ he said vaguely. But he was thinking something quite different.

‘What is it?’ she asked, her gaze intent on his profile.

He hesitated. ‘When I got to Druid’s Den on Saturday, Ronny and I had just come from a drowning. It was a body found on the shore. A young man, and he sounds remarkably similar to this lad in the framed photograph.’

Stella straightened, her eyes widening. ‘I heard about that… In fact, it was Julie who mentioned it. Simon Trevethy. She’d heard his name on the news.’

‘She knew him?’

‘Simon used to be one of her students at school. She taught him for a few years. Nice boy, she said. Though a bit wild at times.’ Stella took a deep breath. ‘So you think this could be the same young man? The one I saw in the photo?’

‘Simon was working as a fisherman during his gap year, so a fishing boat would fit. Though I can’t think of any plausible connection between him and Bernard Doughty.’ He shrugged, uncomfortably aware that he shouldn’t be discussing a live case with her. It wasn’t appropriate. Besides, all this was pure conjecture on his part. ‘All the same, thanks for the heads-up. I’ll make sure that photograph is bagged and examined by forensics, if that hasn’t already been done.’

There was a short silence.

‘I really am very sorry,’ she said in a small voice.

Catching the pain behind her words, Jack reached for her briefly, touching her cheek before putting both hands firmly back on the wheel. ‘I know,’ he muttered, ‘and it’s okay.’ He pushed away his own feelings, trying to stay in control. ‘It’s done now, anyway.’

Stella said nothing.

When they reached Shangri-La, he spoke briefly to the uniformed officer who’d flagged them down at the high iron gates, then drove slowly on towards the villa.

It was an impressive pile, he had to admit, though there was something unreal about it too. The stately lines of the large, whitewashed villa overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, with palm trees waving gently on either side, looked like something out of an old Hollywood film set. It felt as though they might walk through the ornate entrance doors and find the whole thing was a façade, with nothing behind it but open space.

To his relief, the forensics van was still parked up in front of the house. A few forensics team members were chatting beside it, clad all in white. Beyond them, he could see Stella’s car with the doors and boot standing open. Forensics had obviously given it a good sweep.

‘You left your keys for the forensics team, I take it?’ When Stella nodded, he gave her a reassuring smile. ‘If you wait here, I’ll check with Cameron that he’s finished and you’re okay to take the car away. Won’t be a minute.’

Inside the villa, he found Cameron packing up his kit in the marbled hallway. He straightened on seeing Jack. ‘Hello,’ he said, grinning, ‘I thought you were off the case? Should you be here? DS Dawlish is on her way here, you know.’ He winked. ‘You might want to make yourself scarce before she arrives.’

‘Thanks for the warning.’ Jack returned his smile, though it wasn’t a particularly funny situation. ‘Look, I brought Stella Penhaligon to retrieve her car, if you’ve finished with it.’

‘Sure.’ Cameron drew a set of keys out of his pocket and handed them over. ‘We took some swabs in the car but it looks clean enough to me.’

‘Thanks.’ Jack hesitated, knowing he was treading on DS Dawlish’s toes just by being there. ‘By the way, Stella mentioned a framed photograph that got knocked to the floor during the struggle last night. Did you bag it?’

‘Certainly did. It was on the floor near where we found Luke Emerson’s blood. I thought I’d better bag it up just in case.’ Cameron rummaged in the evidence chest and drew out the photo frame, labelled and wrapped in plastic. ‘You want to take a look, don’t you?’ He studied Jack speculatively. ‘I should say no, by rights. You were taken off the case. Conflict of interests.’

‘I don’t want to get you into trouble.’

Cameron gave a short laugh. ‘I’m always in trouble.’ He held out the evidence bag. ‘Just a quick look, okay? And don’t tell anyone I showed you.’

‘Thanks, I owe you.’

While Cameron bent to tidy away his equipment, Jack studied the framed photograph through the protective plastic. Just as Stella had described it, the glass was cracked, but the young man in the photograph was still recognizable. And it was definitely Simon Trevethy, standing bare-chested on the deck of a fishing boat, with what looked like the Cornish coast in the background. He spotted the coiled pile of netting to the right behind Simon, and the glint of something gold-coloured too, partially obscured by his leg. It was hard to tell for sure through the evidence bag, but it did look like a gold sandal.

‘What the hell are you doing here, DS Church?’

Jack turned in surprise at the unfriendly voice. DS Dawlish again. The Devon police detective was staring at him across the marbled hallway, arms folded across her chest. She was a long-legged, well-built blonde with shoulder-length hair brutally dragged back into a ponytail, her lipstick bright scarlet. She wore large gold hoop earrings. Her tailored green trousers brushed a pair of black high heels, her white blouse open at the neck, revealing a thick gold link chain resting on heavily sunburnt skin.

She strode towards them, nodding to Cameron in a brusque fashion. ‘Is that my evidence you’re showing him? If so, kindly box it up with the rest. This is my crime scene, not DS Church’s.’

‘Actually, I’m working on a case that may be related,’ Jack told her, but relinquished the evidence bag to an amused Cameron. Pushing aside his impatience, he explained about Simon Trevethy, and the photograph found inside the house.

DS Dawlish heard him out but seemed unimpressed. ‘Yeah, that all sounds a bit tenuous,’ she replied, with only the most cursory glance at the framed photograph Cameron was holding out towards her. ‘I mean, this is a very rural area. Everyone knows everyone else round here, don’t they? It could just be a coincidence that this particular photograph got knocked down during the struggle.’

With a shrug, Cameron replaced the evidence bag with the rest.

‘Oh, come on!’ Jack exclaimed, finding it hard to suppress his temper. ‘You’re trying to tell me this is a coincidence? If there is a connection between Doughty and Simon Trevethy, we need to follow it up. Because it’s clear you know diddly squat about North Cornwall.’

‘Excuse me?’ DS Dawlish bridled angrily.

‘Everyone knows everyone else round here?’ Jack quoted her, and shook his head. ‘How many people do you think knew Bernard Doughty well enough to have their framed photograph on display in his home? Not many, I’d say. He may have been famous but he was also a very private man, by all accounts.’

She shrugged. ‘He liked good-looking young men. He asked that one for his photo and got it framed. That’s not unusual for a film star of his reputation, nor is it illegal.’

‘True enough, but this particular young man drowned last week under mysterious circumstances. Now Bernard Doughty is found murdered too?’ Jack drew a sharp breath. ‘No, that’s more than a coincidence. I’m taking this to DI Martin.’

‘You can do what you like, DS Church,’ she threw back at him, a flash in her blue eyes. ‘Just do it somewhere else, would you?’ When he hesitated, she waved her hand at him dismissively. ‘Go on, shoo, get out of here. I’ve got more important things to do than listen to your conspiracy theories.’

Frustrated, because he’d hoped to get at least a brief look around, he glanced at Cameron. ‘Stella’s keys?’

‘Here.’ The forensics guy fished them out of a pocket in his white plastic outfit. ‘Catch!’ And he threw them across to him.

Jack caught the keys one-handed, glared at DS Dawlish, and left the house.

Outside, Stella was waiting for him beside her Mini Cooper, staring across the neat, green, manicured lawns with an arrested expression. ‘Everything okay?’ she asked, straightening as he approached, no doubt alarmed by his brooding expression.

‘Police politics,’ he muttered. With an effort, Jack followed her gaze, trying to shake off his dark mood. ‘What were you looking at?’

‘That guy in the hoody who attacked Luke last night… I’m pretty certain I saw him running that way to escape, rather than out through the main gate.’

‘Across the lawn?’ He was surprised but heard DS Dawlish’s voice behind him and decided not to risk her encountering Stella and upsetting her. ‘Look, you’d better go home, okay?’

He’d heard the blonde detective from Devon had a reputation for getting things done, but he suspected her reputation was more down to her unpleasant behaviour; colleagues liked farming her out to other police areas just to get a respite from her bull in a china shop conversational skills.

Stella looked hurt at this curt dismissal but nodded. ‘Okay. Goodbye, Jack.’ She took the keys, her face averted, and was soon driving out of the gate.

The car out of sight, he felt the pain of her absence bite deep. This wasn’t the right time or place to feel it though. Maybe later tonight, he thought bitterly, with some mood music in the background and a glass of whisky, he would give those feelings house room.

Right now, there was something he needed to do.

Having checked the detective sergeant had gone back inside, Jack headed across the lawn in the direction Stella had been looking. Beyond the lawn were more flowerbeds, backed by the high wall that ran around the property. It had jagged glass around the top to deter intruders, but Jack knew that wouldn’t stop a determined burglar.

Something pale in the flowerbeds caught his attention. He picked his way forward very cautiously, using lush summer bedding to cushion his steps and trying to avoid treading directly in the soil, to preserve any footprints left there. It looked like a floppy, folded piece of paper, possibly still wet from the garden sprinkler system which must have been set to activate at certain times, such as evening and early morning, to water the lawns and flowers.

‘Hmm.’ Jack donned plastic gloves and reached for the paper, then jumped back out of the flowerbed.

Unfolding it gingerly, he held the single sheet up to the sunlight.

It contained only three words, made from ten coloured letters most likely cut out of a glossy magazine and glued clumsily onto the sheet.

YOU WILL DIE

CHAPTER TEN

Stella’s landlady Julie was in tears at the breakfast table. She’d been reading about Simon Trevethy’s death in the local newspaper and discussing how well she’d known him back in the day. ‘He was such a lovely lad… Nice smile, always loved my classes and did his homework on time. Highly intelligent.’ Julie shook her head, reaching for another tissue. Her cheeks were damp with tears. ‘He had such a bright future ahead of him. I can’t believe he’s gone… He was offered an unconditional place at Oxford University, you know. So full of ideas and ambitions. You can teach for a decade and only meet someone like Simon once during that entire time. This death… It’s nothing short of a tragedy.’

Her partner Claire leant over her, giving her a hug. ‘I’m so sorry, Julie… You must be in bits over this. He does sound like a lovely young man. And very clever.’

Sitting down at the breakfast table with her mug of tea, Stella glanced surreptitiously across, studying Simon’s grainy picture in the newspaper. It did seem an awful waste of a promising life. Especially given his bright future. She only wished she didn’t know about that framed photograph of him broken in the struggle, that there might be a connection between his death and Bernard Doughty’s. It made her too nervous to respond naturally, in case she inadvertently let something slip that she ought to have kept secret.

Nick, at the cooker, slid a fried egg onto his plate beside some bacon and sausages, and then carried his full English to the table. ‘Has Jack said anything about it?’ he asked Stella, reaching for the brown sauce. ‘Was his death an accident, do you think? Or suicide?’

‘Suicide?’ Julie looked at him furiously. ‘Not a chance. Not Simon.’

‘Well, you never know… Lads that age sometimes fall in love and then it all goes wrong.’ Nick squeezed a generous dollop of brown sauce onto the plate beside his bacon. ‘I nearly topped myself when I was seventeen over some blue-eyed girl. Can’t even remember her name now. But it felt like the end of the world at the time.’

‘That’s not very helpful, Nick,’ Claire warned her cousin with a narrow-eyed look. ‘And FYI, you may have forgotten, but Stella and Jack are no longer an item. So I doubt he’s been trading information with her about that boy’s death.’

‘Right… Sorry, Stella.’ Nick picked up his knife and fork and tucked into his breakfast without another word.

Stella grimaced as the other two looked at her sympathetically. ‘Yeah, Jack hasn’t said much about it, for obvious reasons. Though I did see him the other day,’ she admitted, not meeting their interested gazes. ‘He drove me out to, erm, collect my car after I’d been arrested.’ She didn’t mention where she’d left it, though anyone with half a brain could have worked out she meant Shangri-La.

‘Very kind of him,’ Julie remarked, her tone slightly suspicious.

Claire patted her hand across the table. ‘I hope the police apologised for that. Treating you like a criminal!’

‘Well, technically, she was breaking and entering,’ Nick mumbled through a mouthful of sausage.

‘We didn’t break in, we had the gate code,’ Stella pointed out, embarrassed at having to go through the details yet again. ‘At the time, I didn’t see what harm it could do. Now, of course, I see how stupid we were. I mean, Bernard Doughty didn’t just die. He was murdered. It must’ve looked incredibly suspicious, us going out there late at night. But I genuinely thought we’d be in and out in a few minutes, with nobody any the wiser.’

With a sigh, Julie closed the newspaper. ‘Have they found out who it was who attacked Luke that night?’

Stella shook her head.

‘You were lucky not to get hurt yourself,’ Nick told her, gesticulating with egg-stained cutlery. ‘I wish you’d asked me to drive Luke out there instead. I would have chased after that bloke and tackled him to the ground.’

Claire shook her head, peering at her cousin in a pitying way. ‘You lead such a rich fantasy life, don’t you, Nick? When does your shift start at the old peoples’ home? Eight-thirty? Because it’s ten past the hour, so you’d better change out of your superhero togs and get a move on.’

‘Ten past?’ Swearing under his breath, Nick jumped to his feet. He grabbed his last sausage, crammed it into his mouth, and half threw his plate into the sink. ‘See you later,’ he mumbled, and disappeared towards the stairs.

Julie began clearing away her and Claire’s cereal bowls. ‘I’d better get dressed for school myself. Some of my form are leading an assembly this morning, and it wouldn’t do to be late.’ She hesitated beside Stella’s chair. ‘There’s a memorial service for Simon coming up, by the way. The details are in the newspaper. I’d love to go but it falls on the day when we’re taking Year Eight to Stratford-upon-Avon for a two-day Shakespeare trip.’

‘You could send some flowers,’ Claire suggested, getting up to help her.

‘I suppose so. But it all feels so impersonal.’ Julie shrugged, beginning to rinse the plates for Claire to stack in the dishwasher. She looked round at Stella wistfully. ‘I don’t suppose you’d be free to go to the memorial, would you? Then you could give his mother my condolences in person. And my apologies for not being there. He truly was my best student ever.’

Stella looked up at her awkwardly. ‘But I haven’t been invited.’

‘It’s not by invitation, anyone can go.’ Julie dried her hands on a tea towel. Her eyes were still glassy with tears. ‘Of course, if you’re too busy…’ Her voice tailed off unhappily.

Stella met Claire’s stern gaze, and relented. ‘Of course I’ll take flowers for you, Julie. And give your condolences to the young man’s mother. When is the memorial?’

‘Oh, bless your heart.’ Julie bent to kiss her on the cheek. ‘I’ll ring the time and place for you in the newspaper when I get home tonight. Now I must dash and get dressed, or there’ll be hell to pay.’

‘Thank you,’ Claire said quietly, once her partner had left the room. ‘She’s been so upset about the whole thing.’

‘it’s no problem, really.’ Stella finished her tea. ‘Julie’s right. It’s a real tragedy. That poor boy…’

‘You look nervous.’ Claire looked at her speculatively. ‘Druid’s Den reopens today, doesn’t it? The police have finished examining the crime scene, I take it?’ When Stella nodded without saying anything, she asked gently, ‘And how do you feel about that? I mean, that’s where you’ll be working, isn’t it? Right where he was murdered.’

It was indeed a horrible thought. And Stella wasn’t looking forward to it. But she was determined not to let Bernard Doughty’s murder ruin things for Luke or herself. They had worked so hard to get Druid’s Den off the ground, Luke especially, and she didn’t want to let him down.

‘Luke says there’s been a deep clean of the whole area, in line with health and safety. So there shouldn’t be any trace of… I’m sure it’ll be fine.’ Chin up, Stella gave Claire a brave smile, repeating firmly, ‘I’ll be fine.’

Stella was not feeling quite so brave by the time she reached the shop to find several cars already drawn up outside, and a buzz of conversation from inside the shop. It was a bright, sunny Cornish day, just like the Saturday of the ill-fated grand opening. A sickening sense of déjà vu swept over her as she remembered the dead man slumped over the green baize of the tarot table in his own blood, and it took a supreme effort of will to force herself through the open door of the occult shop.

Luke spotted her at once and came over. ‘Stella, darling, you made it.’ His head was still bandaged from the nasty gash he’d got the other night. He looked full of energy though, almost cheerful. ‘The astrology alcove is all ready for you. And please don’t worry, it’s been thoroughly cleaned,’ he added with a grimace, lowering his voice. ‘You’d never know, in fact.’

‘Never know that Bernard Doughty had been murdered in there?’

Stella turned, aware of a prickle of unease. It was the councillor Cheryl Hughes-May who’d spoken, this time in the shop without her husband, Frank.

‘I’m so glad the police didn’t try to pin that on either of you,’ Cheryl said, touching Luke on the arm as though bestowing a blessing. ‘Especially you, Miss Penhaligon. We all heard the two of you arguing just before he was… Well, I heard you’d been arrested but then let go. Is that right?’

Stella was horrified. ‘Excuse me,’ she muttered, and tried to escape.

‘Not that anyone could blame you,’ Cheryl Hughes-May threw after her in a penetrating voice, so that several heads turned to stare. ‘Bernard was a horrible man. Everybody hated him.’ She gave a rather wild laugh. ‘I never understood how he got elected Mayor to be honest. Money and corruption, I have no doubt. Well, it’s all over now.’

Stella sought sanctuary behind the bead curtain which rattled more noisily than she remembered from last time. That was when she noted with a shudder that the original curtain of colourful glass beads had been removed and replaced with wooden beads. There was still a small table in the space, but it was not the same one. Nor was it covered with green baize. This one was square, not round, and it had a red felt top.

Perfect for tarot readings, she thought, and balanced her tablet on it alongside her phone. The floor had been scrubbed clean, just as Luke had promised, and even smelt faintly of bleach.

Perhaps if she tried very hard, she could forget what she’d seen…

A voice made her jump.

‘Hello? Sorry if I startled you…’ A woman was peering through the wooden bead curtain. Tall, with shoulder-length blonde hair, somewhere in her mid-to-late forties, she was wearing very little make up, yet her skin still looked flawless, cheeks dusted with a scattering of pale freckles. Her eyes were a deep blue and wide-set with long, dark, sweeping lashes that didn’t quite seem real. ‘You’re the astrologer, is that right?’

‘Yes, I’m Stella.’ Forcing herself to smile in a professional manner, though she felt ill-prepared to do any kind of reading, Stella shook hands with the woman and invited her in. ‘Please, take a seat.’

She lit a calming incense stick and set it in a burner, the scent soon filling the narrow space. Not her typical thing, but Luke had requested that she ‘occult-up’ her readings in keeping with the florid, New Age style of Druid’s Den.

‘Would you like a tarot reading?’ Stella asked politely, reaching for her tarot pack from the shelf behind her. ‘Or to talk about your birth chart, perhaps?’

Seated opposite her, the woman placed both hands on the table, staring down at them rather than at Stella. She had beautiful hands. Long, smooth, tapering fingers with sleek, soft pink nails decorated with sparkling diamante.

‘Goodness,’ Stella exclaimed, grinning as she took her place. ‘I love your nails. Where did you get them done? Or did you manage that yourself?’

‘I’m a beautician. You want nails like it too? I have a salon in Wadebridge.’

The woman took a business card from her handbag and passed it across to her. She was smiling but it was a perfunctory smile, like her own, and there was strain in her face. No, Stella thought, looking at the woman more closely. It was more than mere strain. It was… distress.

‘Luke suggested I should ask you for a special chart,’ she went on softly, still not meeting Stella’s eye. ‘I can’t remember the word he used… Horary?’

‘You want a horary chart? Yes, that’s a special astrological chart we used to ask a question of the universe. You ask the question, I cast the chart, and then I look for significators that suggest either a yes or no answer. So it’s best if the question can be answered simply yes or no, otherwise things become confused.’ Stella began to log into her astrological software, when the name on the business card suddenly struck a chord. She stopped what she was doing and picked up the card again, frowning. ‘Cindy Trevethy. Sorry, I’m being stupid, I know… But that name seems familiar.’

The woman hesitated. ‘You may have seen it online or in the news. My son Simon Trevethy died recently. He drowned.’ The woman’s voice had become husky. ‘It’s about him that I’ve come, in fact. About his death and how it happened. My question for the horary chart is… Was my darling boy murdered? Yes or no?’

Stella stared at her in horror.

Beyond the gently swaying bead curtain, she could hear Luke and the councillor still locked in some low-voiced conversation that tugged at her consciousness. But she couldn’t take her eyes off the woman’s face.

‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ she said faintly. She was thinking of the framed photograph she’d seen in Bernard Doughty’s villa. The photograph of a handsome, tanned young man on the deck of a fishing boat, his face half-obscured by the crack in the glass. She instantly wanted to ask about any connection between the two men but was wary of treading on Jack’s toes… ‘My landlady Julie knew your son. She taught him at school. She said he was brilliant. A genius, in fact.’

Cindy nodded, smiling sadly. ‘Yes, a genius. That’s a good description of my Simon. He was incredibly clever, you see. Had so much potential. I still don’t understand why anyone would want to…’ She swallowed convulsively, and a tear trickled down her cheek. ‘If we could just do the reading though, so I don’t have to… I’m sorry but talking about his death makes me useless.’ She dug into her bag for a packet of tissues and dabbed impatiently at her cheek. ‘I paid Luke what was required. But if you need extra money –’

‘No, that’s fine. Luke deals with the money side. I just do the readings.’ Stella slipped the business card into her jeans pocket and finished logging into her tablet software. ‘I’m sorry to be insensitive, but are you sure you want to ask that particular question though? It could be very upsetting either way, and I’m not hundred percent confident of my ability to –’

‘I’ve heard of you, Miss Penhaligon. You’re a good astrologer. And I believe in astrology. If anyone can answer this question, it’ll be you.’

Seeing that it would be difficult to dissuade her without causing a scene, Stella nodded and began to draw up the chart. The woman was clearly deeply distressed, and small wonder… Once the chart had been calculated, she could always study it for a while and then find a way to tell her the answer wasn’t clear. Because either ‘yes’ or ‘no’ would cause the boy’s mother greater distress, and it might be best to find a way to conceal the true answer.

‘We set the chart for the time the question is asked,’ she murmured, aware of the woman watching her work, and corrected the time in the transits data box to two minutes previously to make it more exact. ‘You want to know if your son was murdered or not. So, let’s find out what the chart says, shall we?’

The chart appeared on the screen. Stella scanned it rapidly, interested to know the answer despite herself.

Virgo Rising, she noted, which surely signified a clever, intellectual young man. That made the chart ruler Mercury, as the planet that ruled Virgo.

Mercury, Lord 1, was situated on the cusp of the Twelth House. The house of vanishing and darkness and secret enemies.

Mars was conjunct the Virgo Ascendant within less than a degree. Even in Virgo, it signified violence and even death. Worse, Saturn, the ancient ruler of death and endings, was about to conjunct Neptune, lord of the sea and mysteries, in the Eighth House of Death.

Simon had drowned. Violence, death, the sea… It was all there.

But there was more.

Unpredictable Uranus and love planet Venus, inexorably linked together at the top of the chart, were almost exactly conjunct the Midheaven, suggesting an unexpected and potentially violent end to the matter, connected to love or a woman.

Though Venus could also rule money, she thought, studying the conjunction with interest. If this death had been a murder, was money involved?

But all she’d seen so far was a description of the situation as it stood.

Simon, suggested by that clever but febrile Mercury in fire, was about to slip into the Twelth House, the fathomless Neptune house. Saturn and Neptune – death and the sea – were also about to conjunct in the death house. Violent Mars was right on the Ascendant. There was no answer for the boy’s mother to the dangerous question, was he murdered?

Unless that separating opposition from Mercury in Leo to Pluto, the modern Lord of Death himself, in the Fifth House of romance, gambling and love affairs. It was wide by four degrees, and Stella knew many purists would discount Pluto as a significator, as it had not been known to the ancient astrologers who had developed the art of horary. But it was so visually prominent, cutting the chart in two… It was hard not to see it.

The young man must have fallen – or been pushed – into the ocean around the time that Mercury-Pluto opposition would have been exact, a few days before Bernard Doughty was murdered.

Simon had met Death, clear enough. But had Death come to him alone or via someone else?

Acutely aware of Cindy’s gaze on her face, Stella peered closer at the chart, playing for time. ‘Erm, let’s look at the Moon,’ she murmured, checking its position, power and aspects. ‘It’s in the Second House of Values and Money, and in Libra, a Venus-ruled sign.’

More Venusian vibrations in the chart, she thought. It was also applying to an opposition with Chiron, a dwarf planet known for its sympathetic connections with pain and early wounds.

Otherwise, the Moon was pretty much standing alone in the chart… Not exactly a singleton. But that airy, cerebral Moon seemed disconnected from the rest of the chart, which was all Earth, Fire, Water. Apart from the death significator, of course: Pluto in Aquarius.

It felt like a Moon struggling to break away from logic and simply feel, be itself, in an alienating landscape. And at eighteen degrees of Libra, it was also conjunct the Fixed Star Seginus, she realised with a start, a star which held echoes of Mercury, didn’t it?

‘Well?’ Cindy asked anxiously.

Stella took a deep breath, thinking back to her study of Fixed Stars.

Seginus indicated a sharp intellect, but also sometimes violence, or a loss, usually brought about by companions or fatal decisions.

And when conjunct the Moon, it was often associated with an impressive rise to fame or fortune, or some position of influence – swiftly followed by disgrace and ruin.

Seginus, friend to Mercury. The patron saint of travellers and tricksters alike. So, she thought with quickening interest, this was a travelling, Venus-ruled Moon, set against a baleful Fixed Star with two opposing faces: one, an alluring promise of greatness, and two, sudden ruin and downfall.

That would suggest suicide. But what ‘ruin’ in Simon’s life could have prompted such unhappiness or despair?

‘Please,’ the boy’s mother begged her. ‘What do you see?’

Stella considered the possibility of another party at work in this death.

‘Was he in love?’ she asked cautiously.

Cindy’s eyes widened. ‘In love?’ Sudden colour flooded her cheeks. ‘You think he did this over a… g-girlfriend?’ She stammered the word, then shook her head. ‘He wasn’t seeing anyone.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘I’m his mother, of course I’m sure.’ Cindy licked her lips. ‘There was no girlfriend.’ She hesitated, looking at the chart. ‘But was it murder?’

Stella didn’t want to answer that. It could lead to trouble. Besides, if there was a murderer, he or she could rightly be taken as Lord 7, Ruler of the Seventh House of relationships and significant others. In the dance of death, there was usually just the victim and the murderer. Two people engaged in a battle for supremacy. Polar opposites.

So Lord 1 here could presumably be seen as Mercury, the clever young man, being opposed by Pluto, planet of death and endings. Polar opposites, indeed.

But Mercury was not Lord 7.

Lord 7 was Jupiter, the traditional ruler of watery Pisces, and he was looking fairly stable on the Eleventh cusp of friends and associates, having just met the Sun there in the sign of Cancer.

So Jupiter could be the murderer.

Which suggested in turn that Mercury was not the best significator for Simon, given that Jupiter was unrelated here to Mercury. The two planets didn’t meet in the chart, and their connection was tenuous at best.

‘Saturn has low dignity here, really low… It’s practically friendless. Heavily in detriment.’ She checked the table of Essential Dignities. Sure enough, Saturn was the least powerful planet in the chart.

‘Meaning?’

‘I think your son may be represented by the Fifth House. That’s the house that rules children and offspring,’ she muttered, for now ignoring its other interpretation, which was romance. ‘And Capricorn is the sign on the fifth cusp here. Capricorn is ruled by Saturn.’

‘So, Saturn is my son?’ Cindy blinked. She turned a silver ring nervously on her finger. ‘And you’re saying he’s weak in this chart. Powerless? Friendless?’

‘At the time of his death, yes, I suppose so. Though there’s also a connection to friends and associates. All this Eleventh House activity.’ Stella grimaced, deciding not to say that Jupiter in the Eleventh might represent the murderer. She didn’t want to send this poor woman off on a wild goose-chase. ‘Look, I’m sorry, we shouldn’t do this now. You’re grieving. Let me sit down with you another time. Maybe in a week or two?’

‘No, I want to hear this now!’ The woman caught her arm as Stella tried to rise. ‘Please, sit down again, I’m begging you. It helps me to talk about it… You say Saturn is my son here.’ She peered at the chart unhappily. ‘But I know a little astrology, and shouldn’t he be represented by the First House? That’s Virgo, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, Virgo is on the Ascendant here. That’s what I thought too. But I’m not sure now. I feel Simon is more likely Saturn here, about to meet Neptune.’

‘The sea,’ Cindy whispered.

‘Yes.’

‘But why?’

‘In a horary reading, we often “turn the chart,” to change the First House to the most appropriate house for the subject. So if I turn the chart to put Capricorn on the Ascendant, that makes Saturn Lord 1, or the chart ruler.’ Stella swallowed, trying not to let emotion control her. But all this talk of death, right here where Bernard had been murdered… It was hard to stay cool and logical. ‘Which would certainly fit with that close Saturn-Neptune conjunction in the Eighth House of Death, I’m afraid.’

‘But who is Mercury, then?’ The woman tapped the chart, staring from the glyph for Mercury to the opposing planet of Pluto. ‘This Mercury opposite Pluto? Pluto is death, yes?’

‘Yes, true.’ Stella hesitated. ‘It could be an echo of the other chart elements. You often get that in a strong chart, where several things point in a similar direction.’

‘Or?’

‘Well, if your son was murdered, and I’m not saying he was, I suppose that Mercury in the Eleventh House could then represent…’ She stopped, not wanting to shift any deeper into such difficult territory. Besides which, if the chart was turned to put Capricorn on the Ascendant, it would also put Cancer opposite on the Seventh cusp, meaning Lord 7 or the murderer was the Moon.

‘His murderer?’

The question, so blunt, so forcefully spoken, threw her. And right now she felt confused by the possibilities, with more questions than answers. She needed to study the chart for longer and on her own. And maybe convey her findings to Jack afterwards, assuming he would even listen to her.

‘I… I don’t think we should pursue this,’ Stella stammered, hurriedly closing the tablet. ‘I’m sorry. Luke will give you a refund.’

‘But I need to know what happened to my son. I must know!’ her client hissed.

‘I apologise, and I hope you can forgive me, but it’s just not appropriate to conduct a reading on such a sensitive topic, especially given the ongoing police enquiry,’ Stella told her awkwardly. Simon’s mother was becoming agitated, and she felt uncomfortable proceeding any further. ‘Again, I’m truly sorry for your loss. I’m sure Luke will refund the fee.’

‘Oh, forget it!’ With a snarl that turned into a sob, Cindy Trevethy jumped to her feet, knocking over the chair, and pushed violently through the bead curtain.

Stella waited until she’d heard the shop door shut behind the woman, then swiftly flipped open the tablet again before Luke could appear and demand to know what she’d said to upset her first-ever Druid’s Den client.

She didn’t like that applying Uranus-Venus conjunction. So violent, so unexpected, and yet right there in their faces too, smack bang on the Midheaven. In the last degree too, meaning everything was about to change.

And there was that Fixed Star too, Seginus, a star closely connected to Mercury, and here conjunct a Venus-ruled Moon in sweet, smiling Libra.

The Moon was Lord 7 in the turned chart. Lord 7 was potential the murderer. The Moon… Venus… So much femininity at work in this chart, she thought, frowning over the glyphs.

Could a woman be behind Simon’s death?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Jack walked into the briefing room and everyone’s head turned towards him. Forensics were there, Cameron perched on the edge of the table, looking dour as ever. DS Dawlish was standing at the front, about to give a death by PowerPoint presentation, no doubt. DI Martin was fiddling with a stack of stapled papers, trying to make it look as though he wasn’t interfering with his sergeants, and Ronny was at the briefing table, playing with a stapler for some reason.

‘Aha,’ DI Martin said, perking up at the sight of him. ‘Come in, Jack. We were just about to discuss your discovery.’

‘Sir?’

‘This threatening note you found. Very interesting, and puts quite a different perspective on Doughty’s death.’ The inspector nodded at Jane Dawlish. ‘If you would?’

DS Jane Dawlish said nothing but turned and tapped the presentation screen with one violent fingertip. Up popped a blown-up photograph of the anonymous threatening note he had found in the flowerbeds at Shangri-La.

YOU WILL DIE

‘Good work,’ Ronny told him with a wink.

Jack grinned at his constable but hurriedly sobered under the cold look cast at them both by DS Dawlish. ‘I was just following up on something Stella Penhaligon told me,’ he admitted, drawing out a seat at the briefing table. ‘She thought she saw the man who attacked Luke running towards the wall, not the gate.’

‘That wasn’t in her statement.’ Dawlish was unimpressed.

‘Yes, I think she was understandably distressed that night, first by what happened to Luke, and then by being arrested. So she forgot to mention what she’d seen after the man fled the house.’

‘Assuming it was a man and not a woman,’ Jane Dawlish pointed out, her gaze steady on his face.

‘True enough,’ he conceded.

‘I’m usually the first to back Stella’s play, you know that, Jack… But I can’t approve of what she did. Going out to Shangri-La with that occult shop owner to retrieve some… What was it? Kinky underwear and handcuffs? This thing is just going from bad to worse. If the press get hold of that kind of sordid detail…’

‘She knows how stupid it was, and she’s very sorry. It was a mistake.’ Jack sat down and reached for one of the information packs. ‘So you’ve called me in, DI Martin. I take it that means I’m back on the case?’

Jane Dawlish looked at her superior officer with cold appraisal.

‘Well, erm…’ DI Martin cleared his throat. ‘It’s more that I think the two cases are related. That photograph of Trevethy that got knocked over at Doughty’s house gives us a link between the drowning of Simon Trevethy and Bernard Doughty’s murder. What that link is, God only knows. But I think that’s for you to find out, Jack.’

Jack leant back in his seat, shifting his gaze to Jane Dawlish, who appeared to be sucking a lemon. ‘Understood, Sir.’

‘That won’t be a problem, will it, Jane? I mean, Detective Sergeant Dawlish.’ DI Martin gave her an uncertain smile. ‘We need to get to the bottom of this, and smartish.’

‘Whatever gets the job done quickly,’ she agreed, but it was clear she wasn’t happy.

‘So you think this man climbed over the wall, and dropped that note? Is that what he was doing at the house that night, do you think? Retrieving the evidence that he’d been sending nasty little notes like that? Jane, can you put up the slide?’ DI Martin studied the note on the screen with interest. ‘Hmm… YOU WILL DIE. Clearly a threatening letter, then.’

‘Or a statement of fact,’ Ronny muttered.

DI Martin glared at the constable. ‘But very short,’ he went on sternly, ‘and not particularly specific. Cameron, where are we on the forensics for this?’

Cameron stirred, pulling a face. ‘We found DNA on the note, but no prints. The fact it got a proper dunking from the sprinklers for some hours before discovery hasn’t helped. No match on the database though. However…’ he added, brightening, ‘we’re still analyzing the origin of the individual letters themselves, since they’re obviously cut out from a magazine. I’ve got someone trying to pin down which publication they came form. That may or may not prove useful, if it’s an unusual one.’

‘You mean, like Fly Fishing for Seniors?’ Ronny suggested, chuckling. When nobody else laughed at this second interruption, merely looking at him, he sobered. ‘Sorry, go on.’

‘As for where he climbed over the wall,’ Cameron continued, his gaze on Ronny’s embarrassed face, ‘we found no DNA, except for bird droppings. Presumably, he was wearing gloves. But there was a thread from dark clothing and we’re looking at that, amongst everything else. Should have something for you soon. There was also a footprint in the mud,’ he added. ‘A size ten, not an uncommon size for a man, but it would be fairly large for a woman.’

‘So more likely a man that Stella saw.’ DI Martin looked satisfied.

‘But there was glass on top of that wall to deter burglars, wasn’t there? How do you think he – they – managed to get over without cutting themselves?’ DS Dawlish demanded.

‘Ah, that’s more interesting.’ Cameron nodded to the presentation screen, and she clicked on the next set of images. ‘As you can see, these fragments are pine. We think a piece of pine wood was used to straddle the wall, and then taken away afterwards. Maybe part of an old table. But it’d been cleaned with bleach.’

‘So our intruder was aware of DNA and how to remove it, then,’ DS Dawlish said.

Cameron nodded, arms folded.

‘What about the framed photograph of my drowning victim, Simon Trevethy?’ Jack asked. ‘Anything useful on that?’

‘Doughty’s prints… As I said, the intruder clearly wore gloves.’

Ronny, who had been flicking through the information pack, looked up and asked, ‘Are we sure that Luke Emerson, the shop owner, wasn’t connected to Bernard Doughty’s murder? He was right there on the scene,’ he added enthusiastically, having recently swallowed a book on homicide motivation that he was forever quoting at Jack. ‘People heard him arguing, probably about money, with the deceased, and it was a ceremonial knife that was used to cut Doughty’s throat. I mean, he claims the murder weapon wasn’t one from his shop display, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t own it himself. In my book, Emerson had motive and opportunity.’

DI Martin nodded, tapping his pen on the desk. ‘Some excellent points there, Ronny,’ he told the young constable encouragingly. ‘But other people were seen arguing with him at the opening, weren’t they? And Doughty wasn’t just an old film star… He was a mayor, deep into local politics, and maybe feathering his own nest too, which may explain why he was so unpopular in local circles.’

‘Yes,’ Jack agreed. ‘I’ve been going through the statements from witnesses, and there were various people at the shop on the day that I’d like to talk to further… For instance, Teddy Ball, a part-time worker at the shop, who was seen in a possibly heated conversation with the deceased just before his death, some anti-occult eccentric called Dick Fell, though I haven’t been able to track him down yet, and a local councillor, Cheryl Hughes-May, who had some major political beef with the mayor, by all accounts.’

‘Oh, I know Cheryl. Known her for years, in fact. Lovely woman,’ DI Martin said with heavy irony, scratching his nose with his pen. ‘Don’t like her husband Frank much either. Bit of a weasel. Still, unlikely murder suspects, I would have thought. Prominent local dignitaries offing each other in public places? No, we need to focus on more solid leads.’ He paused. ‘This Teddy character you mentioned… Is he in the frame for this?’

‘He’s on my list of people to question further,’ Jack agreed wearily. ‘It’s quite a long list but I’m hoping to work through it over the next few days.’

His boss nodded. ‘Get right on that, then.’ He looked back at Cameron. ‘And are the forensics back on the murder weapon yet? Assuming that knife was the murder weapon.’ He nodded to Jane Dawlish, who located the slide of the murder weapon and displayed it on the big screen. ‘Thanks.’

Cameron nodded. ‘It was indisputably the murder weapon. Blade is a good match to the wound, Doughty’s blood and tissue were found on it… We’re still trying to trace its origins but the design doesn’t match any of the shop displays, so my team are still trawling through online sites to find a possible match, in case it was ordered specially. Some astrological symbol on the handle,’ he noted, and they all stared at the odd glyph on the handle, which did strike Jack as astrological. ‘We’re looking into that. No other recoverable DNA or fingerprints on the knife, unfortunately. No doubt the knife had been thoroughly cleaned beforehand, and the killer was likely wearing gloves.’

‘Sounds premeditated,’ DI Martin remarked. ‘Not an act of impulse.’

‘What about Stella Penhaligon? Given that astrological symbol on the knife hilt, does that suggest a link between the dead man and the astrologer?’ DS Dawlish asked in a steely voice, not looking at Jack.

Jack’s hands clenched into fists. ‘Stella wasn’t wearing gloves on the day,’ he pointed out stiffly. ‘People might reasonably have noticed that.’

‘True, but she might have put them on specially to commit the murder, then removed them and disposed of them later.’

Jack glared silently at DS Dawlish, who gave him a thin smile.

Cameron cleared his throat. ‘We did find Stella Penhaligon’s DNA on the dead man… But only what might reasonably have been transferred while he was lying face-down on the table, which we know she’d placed there herself only a few hours earlier.’ Cameron ignored Dawlish’s narrowed stare, turning to DI Martin. ‘While we’re waiting for further test results, Detective Inspector, it might be useful to take a closer look at the rough land on the other side of the wall at Shangri-La and try to work out where this attacker or intruder might have gone after he left the villa. I’ve been looking at the aerial map and there’s an area of what looks like woodland straddling both sides of the road just past that scrubland, and a few derelict-looking structures. He might have been parked up out of sight somewhere there… Left tyre tracks, perhaps. Something we could use to pin down his identity.’

‘Good idea,’ DOI Martin said approvingly. ‘Why don’t you go out there with Jack and Ronny, see what you can find?’

‘Sir?’ DS Dawlish looked affronted. ‘I thought DS Church would be continuing with his investigation of this young man who drowned.’

‘I don’t see why he can’t do both, at the moment, given the two cases seem to be linked.’ DI Martin looked at Jack. ‘Unless you’re too busy to pitch in?’

‘Happy to help, sir. Though I do have to speak to some of Simon Trevethy’s friends this afternoon. The ones he was with the night he disappeared. But I don’t anticipate that being a long interview.’ Jack raised his brows at Cameron. ‘The light should still be good enough later. Shall we agree to meet out at Shangri-La at around five o’clock?’

Cameron’s phone buzzed with a text and he read it, frowning. ‘Sorry… Are you able to spare me for the rest of the briefing? I need to deal with this.’

‘Of course.’ DI Martin nodded. ‘Thanks for your help, Cameron. Let us know what else you find.’

Cameron gathered his things and left, apologising again.

‘We’re finished, then?’ Looking pleased, Ronny began to put away his notebook. ‘Great… I could murder a cup of tea.’

Jack glared at him. ‘Murder?’

‘Sorry, Sarge.’

‘Sit tight, Constable, your cuppa will have to wait. I haven’t quite finished yet.’ DS Dawlish went briskly through the rest of her presentation. It included several reports from his own case, that of Simon Trevethy. ‘The preliminary post-mortem findings are out,’ she rattled off in a disgruntled way, clearly affronted at having to pool resources with the officer she’d been brought in to replace. ‘Seems definite that he drowned, but he had been hit on the head before death. Likely this would have proved a fatal blow in time if he hadn’t subsequently drowned. The pathologist doesn’t think this blow occurred during a fall from a cliff or on rocks. More like a blunt instrument, but sea damage is obscuring the wound. They’re still working on a full report. But there was also bruising to the upper arms and abdomen, suggesting a tussle before he went into the sea.’

‘That fits with our own initial look at the body on the beach,’ Jack agreed. ‘Seems like we’re leaning towards murder, then?’

DI Martin nodded. ‘The Trevethy PM certainly casts doubt on the idea of suicide. But important to keep digging on this one, DS Church. We can’t let the pathologist do all our work for us.’ He nodded to Ronny. ‘I’d like you to go with DS Church today,’ he told the constable, who looked surprised, adding briskly, ‘Wait outside for a minute, would you, DC Myles?’

As soon as Ronny had left the briefing room, the detective inspector turned a stern eye on Jack and DS Dawlish. ‘Listen, I get there’s a bit of friendly competition between you two. But you need to work together on these murders. It does seem like they could be linked, but equally they might not be, so let’s not make fools of ourselves by rushing to judgement.’ He frowned. ‘And no foul-ups or petty quarreling. I want to see proper co-operation between you two, with information being shared freely. Is that clear?’

‘Sir,’ they both chorused, not looking at each other.

‘Good.’ He stood up, playing with his cuffs. ‘And get this Doughty murder solved quick as you can, Jane,’ he told DS Dawlish brusquely. ‘I can’t keep the media at bay much longer.’

‘Yes, sir,’ she told him.

Jane.

First name terms already?

Jack gritted his teeth at this obviously preferential treatment but said nothing, merely stalking after his superior.

‘That’s right, Jack,’ DS Dawlish called after him softly. ‘Run away.’

His fury sparking at this provocation, Jack turned in the doorway and shook his head at her. ‘You’ve made it clear from the beginning that you don’t trust me, Jane, so why should I trust you? The boss says we need to work together on this one, so that’s exactly what we’ll do. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.’

‘Ditto,’ she said, her lip curling.

The lads who’d been partying with Simon Trevethy on the evening he went missing had agreed to meet Jack for an informal chat. Their chosen venue was a bar next to the nightclub where he’d last been seen, where they regularly met for a pre-club drink. The bar was decorated in Hawaiian style, straw fringes everywhere, bright fabric draped over their heads to disguise a high ceiling, and drinks served in plastic coconuts decorated with sparklers and umbrellas. Even the piped music was cheerfully Hawaiian. There were four of them, all in their late teens, one a junior accountant, one working as a labourer in the building trade, one a plumber’s apprentice, the other unemployed so far but taking online course classes to improve his qualifications. The surroundings seemed incongruous, given their uniform black and white joggers and T-shirts and crewcut hair. But one of them had a brother serving behind the bar, who was clearly giving them a discount on the expensive drinks.

They struck Jack as subdued, particularly the one who was out of work, whose name was Peter. The tall blond labourer was Artie, the accountant Trev, and the plumber’s apprentice was Lee, whose brother was the one who’d brought over the tray of drinks.

‘We miss him like crazy,’ was the first thing Lee said after introductions. ‘And there’s no way it was suicide, whatever they put in the papers. Not a chance in hell.’

‘What makes you say that?’ Jack asked him, secretly pleased to see Ronny flip open his notebook, ready to note down anything of interest. He hadn’t enjoyed riding solo these past few days without his constable, especially when the onus always fell on him to take notes.

‘He just wasn’t the type to kill himself,’ Artie insisted, but looked awkward when Jack turned his way. ‘I mean, why would he? Simon was in a good place at last. Plenty of money in his pocket, going to Oxford University this autumn, pretty girlfriend on his arm.’

‘Girlfriend?’ Ronny repeated, glancing from him to Jack. ‘We asked his dad about this girlfriend, but he’d never heard of her. He definitely had a girlfriend though, you think? Did you ever meet her?’

‘Oh yeah.’ Artie rubbed his stubbly chin. ‘Nice looking girl. Quiet though. Barely had a word to say for herself. But friendly enough.’

‘Can you describe her?’

‘Blonde, slim, about five foot two, pretty…’ Artie paused, his voice tailing off.

‘Foreign,’ Trev stuck in helpfully.

Surprised, Jack asked, ‘What nationality?’

They all shrugged, looking at each other helplessly.

‘Not sure,’ Artie admitted. ‘Eastern European, maybe? She had that look, you know… We didn’t ask where she came from though. I mean, we were just happy for him. Simon had been single forever. Then one day he turns up with this foreign bird on his arm. We weren’t going to ask too many questions, were we?’

‘What was her name?’ Ronny asked.

Artie looked blank. ‘Don’t know.’

‘I think it was Natalie,’ Trevor said after a moment’s thought.

‘No, it was Natalia.’ This was Lee, who kept gulping whatever alcohol was in his coconut to hide his nerves. ‘I asked her once, when Simon was in the loos. Artie’s right, we didn’t talk to her much.’

Peter chimed in, ‘Yes, because every time we did, Simon went crazy… I think he was worried we were going to steal her off him. He was very insecure about her if you asked me.’

‘Not insecure,’ Artie told him, frowning. ‘Protective.’

‘And how many times did you see him with Natalia?’ Jack asked.

They all looked at each other again.

‘Three or four times?’ Artie seemed unsure, playing with the striped umbrella in his plastic coconut.

‘Three times,’ Trevor insisted.

Lee concurred. ‘First time was about a month back. We were at the park one evening, just hanging out, and he turned up with her. Then she came to a pub quiz about a week later. Then that last time before he went missing, he brought her clubbing with us. We were celebrating Trev’s birthday.’

‘That’s right.’ Trev threw a salted peanut in the air and caught it in his mouth, rather like a performing seal. ‘She was different that last time, though,’ he mused, crunching on his peanut. ‘A bit off.’

Jack studied him. ‘Off, how?’

‘She was tense… Unhappy, I suppose. Time of the month? Or they’d had a row over something.’

‘What kind of mood was Simon in that night?’

‘He was definitely on edge, always looking over his shoulder. It wasn’t like him to be so nervy. But we already told the police all that when he was reported missing,’ Trev pointed out.

‘Well, I’d like to hear it again, if you don’t mind.’ Jack looked round at them all. ‘Your friend is dead. I know this is difficult but let’s keep that fact in mind, eh? We need to get to the bottom of what happened that night.’

Nobody said anything for a while. The Hawaiian music was beginning to grate on Jack’s nerves.

‘So you don’t think it’s suicide?’ Peter asked abruptly, staring down into his plastic coconut. Jack noticed that he hadn’t said much at all.

‘We’re not sure,’ Jack fibbed, wanting to keep details about the case as quiet as he could. ‘But either way, we need to speak to this Natalia as soon as possible. Do you have her address?’

Artie and Trev both shook their heads.

Lee frowned. ‘Hang on, I thought she was staying at his place.’

‘With the Trevethys, you mean? Simon’s dad and uncle?’ Ronny asked him, turning over a page in his notebook.

‘That’s right,’ Lee agreed. ‘The mum doesn’t live there anymore. She and Mr Trevethy got divorced. It shook Simon up bad when that happened. He was really bitter, missing his mum.’

Peter leant forward, his face in earnest. ‘That’s why we were glad to see him with Natalia. He was happy again for the first time in ages. I felt sick when I heard he was dead. Poor Simon…’ He stopped, swallowing hard.

Artie nodded, putting an arm about Peter’s shoulders and giving him a quick hug. ‘Yeah, we were in bits when we heard the news. And none of us thought it could be suicide. Maybe a year ago, yes. But he had everything going for him this summer. Why end it all?’

‘Unless he split up with Natalia that night,’ Ronny muttered, looking down at his notebook.

‘No,’ Peter insisted, shaking his head. ‘Him and Natalia… They were still tight at last orders. I saw them at kick-out, laughing and kissing… We were outside, waiting for a taxi at the end of the night, but they headed off together. Simon said she wanted to look at the sea. He had his arm around her waist. They weren’t arguing.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘That was the last time I saw Simon alive. I’ll never forget it.’

It was obvious that Peter had been closer to the dead man than any of the others. Jack waited a moment, downing half a glass of ice water he’d ordered on walking in. ‘Did you see anyone else in the vicinity? I mean, when you were leaving the club… Maybe there was someone else with them? Or following them?’ When the lads looked back at him blankly, he asked, ‘Did any of you see anything even vaguely suspicious that could help us work out what happened that night?’

Peter pushed away his drink, looking thoughtful. ‘There was that van, I suppose.’

‘Van?’ Jack asked. ‘What kind of van? Can you describe it?’

‘A transit of some kind. Maybe dark blue or green?’ Peter shrugged. ‘Hard to tell at that time of night, and it wasn’t parked under a streetlight. Also, we’d been drinking pretty hard that night.’

Artie’s eyes widened. ‘You’re right, Pete, there was a van parked near the club. Well-remembered.’

‘Why was that unusual or suspicious though?’ Jack was thinking of the hit-and-run van out near Bernard Doughty’s place, the ‘dark green’ van that had knocked Joseph Cannell off his bike and broken his leg. Could this be related?

Peter said, ‘For starters, it was parked on double yellows. At that time of night, nobody cares about double yellows, of course. But the road’s really narrow just outside the club, only room for one vehicle at a time. You know how tiny those lanes are in the town centre… So, if you park there, nobody else can get through. I remember, several taxis tried to get past the van and couldn’t. One of them beeped his horn, and another driver got out and started yelling at the bloke in the van.’

‘There was someone in the van?’ Jack asked.

‘Oh yes.’ Peter leant back, nodding. ‘He was sitting there with the window open, just smoking a cigarette, ignoring all the beeping… Like he was waiting for someone to come out of the club.’

‘Did you get a good look at him? Did he get out of the van and talk to anyone? One of the taxi drivers, perhaps? Did he talk to Simon at all?’

Peter shook his head, as did the others. ‘No, that was what was really strange. He just ignored everyone. We were waiting for a taxi, like I said. But, before ours arrived, he started his engine and drove off. Just like that.’

‘And you’re sure he didn’t speak to Simon or seem to be waiting for him specifically?’

‘I don’t know. But I don’t think so.’

‘Hang on,’ Trev said, tapping the table with his plastic coconut. ‘I took a look through the passenger window when the others were horsing about, around the time Simon and Natalia left. And he was staring after them. I thought maybe he fancied Natalia. Just from the way he was looking at her, you know?’ He frowned. ‘Christ, you don’t think he had something to do with Simon’s death?’

Rather than answer that difficult question, Jack asked instead, ‘Have any of you seen Natalia since that night?’

All four lads shook their heads.

‘And you really don’t know where we can get hold of her?’ he added.

‘No, but you should be asking Simon’s dad that question.’ Artie finished his drink. ‘I don’t know why he told you that Simon didn’t have a girlfriend. Because, on that last night out, Simon himself said she’d been staying with them at the house for several weeks.’ Artie shook his head. ‘I mean, why would anyone lie about that?’

Jack drove rapidly back to Parsloe with Ronny, heading to Shangri-La with one eye on the clock. ‘We need to speak to the Trevethys again. That girlfriend is the key to Simon Trevethy’s death.’

‘Yes, Sarge.’ Ronny made a note, then glanced at him sideways. ‘How’s Stella doing? She seemed pretty upset when you came to take her out to Bernard Doughty’s place.’

‘She’d just spent a night in the cells. Anyone would be upset.’ Jack paused, aware that he’d snapped. His constable meant well, even if that question had taken him off guard. ‘But yeah… She wasn’t happy about any of that. It was a mistake, her taking Luke out there that night, and she readily admitted it.’

‘I tried to cheer her up while she was waiting for you. But I don’t think I was very successful.’ Ronny cleared his throat. ‘I told her I thought it was rough, you and her having to… Well, to cool off, just because of what happened to Doughty.’

Jack said nothing, but his hands tightened on the steering wheel.

The clouds that had been gathering out to sea while they were speaking to the lads at the bar had finally rolled inland, the sky dark and gloomy. The air turned distinctly chilly. A few spots of rain began to speckle the windscreen. Then, as they turned off the main A-road and along the narrow lane towards Shangri-La, the rain grew heavier, blurring the way ahead.

‘Damn.’ Glancing up, Jack set the wipers going. Within two minutes, the rain was beating down violently in one of those unexpected storms that often hit the Cornish coast in summer. The hedgerows and trees swayed back and forth, lashed with wind and rain, and he was forced to slow down. ‘Okay, this isn’t good.’

They reached Shangri-La and were flashed by Cameron, parked up beside the gates. Jack pulled alongside his car and partially lowered the window. Rain instantly spat through the gap, making him blink and lean away. ‘This rain… How long will it last, do you think?’

Cameron, also with the window barely open two inches, held up his phone to display a weather app. ‘This heavy cloudburst should ease off in about ten minutes, but it’ll keep raining most of the evening. It’s unlikely to be much better until tomorrow morning, and even then it won’t be properly dry underfoot.’

‘Point taken. Not much use looking for tyre marks or footprints in a torrential downpour like this.’ Jack pulled a face, studying the dark clouds overhead. ‘You want to sit and wait, see if it’s not too bad in about twenty minutes or half an hour?’

Cameron looked aghast. ‘I’m not hunting for forensic clues in the rain,’ he said loudly through the window gap. ‘Besides, while I was waiting for you, I had a preliminary look down beside the wall where you found that note. It’s all woodlands and thick undergrowth for a good quarter of a mile in a northerly direction. Even if we found something of interest in those woods, we’d likely make a complete mess of the scene in this weather.’ He shook his head. ‘Let’s reconvene at a better time, yeah? Though not tomorrow… I’ve got another case I’m working on in the lab.’

Jack was frustrated but could see the sense in waiting for the ground to be drier. ‘All right, I’ll give you a call.’ He let Cameron leave before turning his car in the lane outside the gates to Shangri-La. ‘So much for that. But at least it means we can go and see Peter Trevethy again tomorrow.’

‘Aren’t they holding a memorial for Simon in a day or so?’

‘I’d forgotten about that.’ Jack peered ahead through the beating rain, driving slowly. The lane was already running with water, deep muddy puddles on either side. ‘Well, maybe it would be a good idea to attend. If this mysterious Natalia is ever likely to show her face again, it would be at his memorial service, don’t you think?’

CHAPTER TWELVE

When there was no reply, Stella rang the doorbell a second time. It was pouring down and she was getting soaked. At last, a light came on in the hallway and then Jack was opening the door.

He stared at her blankly. ‘Stella? Come in, you’re wet through.’ She followed him into the hall and he closed the door. ‘Hang on, I’ll get you a towel.’

While he disappeared in search of a towel, Stella stood dripping in the hallway, hugging herself with embarrassment. She hadn’t wanted to come to his place like this. Equally, she hadn’t felt comfortable at the thought of giving him such sensitive information over the phone. She couldn’t really explain to herself what she meant by that. It wasn’t as though anyone was listening to their conversations. Perhaps it was simply that she’d needed to see him in the flesh, and this was as good an excuse as any.

He returned, holding out a fluffy white towel. ‘You should have gone into the living room and sat down.’ His tone was accusing. ‘You’re soaked. How long have you been standing outside? I’m sorry if it was a long time,’ he added gruffly, ‘I was listening to music. Didn’t hear the bell.’

‘Not your fault,’ she stuttered, shivering with cold. ‘I ought to have rung first. Or just rung, in fact, rather than come round here without warning.’ Following him into the living room, she towel-dried her long black hair vigorously. When she finally emerged, rather warm in the face, she peered at him through messy strands of hair. ‘I needed to see you,’ she admitted impulsively. He was standing very close, and the skin at the nape of her neck was prickling with awareness. ‘Oh, Jack…’ she whispered, staring at him.

He dragged the towel from her grasp and tossed it aside. ‘I’ve missed you too, Stella,’ he said huskily, as though she’d told him out loud what she’d been thinking, and bent to kiss her.

They clung together for some time, lost in a heavy, drugging kiss.

Stella felt an urgent need to drag him to the bedroom and finish what he’d started. But she resisted it. There were things they had to say to each other first. Important, heart-searing things. Anyway, he was the one who’d finished with her. Had she no pride?

Reluctantly, opening her eyes again, she drew back at last. ‘Funny as it sounds, I didn’t come here for that. Though I enjoyed it.’ Stella saw his half smile and her own lips twitched. ‘Okay, that was an understatement. I loved it. And I’ve missed being with you. Especially at night.’ She caught an answering intensity in his eyes, and backed away, shaking her head. ‘But we need to talk.’

‘The most terrifying words a woman can say to a man,’ he murmured.

With a shaky laugh, she sat down on the sofa and he sat beside her. They stared at each other in silence from a moment.

‘It’s about the boy who drowned,’ she said unsteadily. ‘The one in the photograph at Bernard Doughty’s place – ‘

‘Simon Trevethy,’ he supplied.

‘Yes.’ For something to distract her from his proximity, she grabbed up the towel again and continued drying the ends of her hair. ‘His mother came to the shop and asked me for an astrology reading.’

He stared at her. ‘Simon’s mother? You mean Mrs Trevethy? I sent Ronny to speak to her a few days ago. The lad’s father gave us her new address. They’re estranged. Getting a divorce. He said that Mrs Trevethy hadn’t had much to do with the boy recently and wouldn’t be helpful. But we were hoping she might be able to shed some light on her son’s last days, all the same.’ He pulled a face. ‘But the husband was right. Ronny reported back that she didn’t say much though. More or less clammed up as soon as she saw him on the doorstep. She also claimed she wasn’t close to her son anymore.’ He frowned. ‘Now you say she came to Druid’s Den? Specifically to see you?’

‘I think so, yes. She wanted me to draw up a horary chart for her.’

He sat back, confusion in his face. She was finding it hard not to stare at him hungrily. It felt like an age since they’d been to bed together. ‘On what topic? What was the question she was asking?’

At least she didn’t have to explain to him what a horary chart was or how it worked. She had been working with the police long enough now. They knew her methods, even if they didn’t always believe in them. But she knew Jack believed, at least to a point. He had seen too many of her theories and predictions come true to understand that it wasn’t complete mumbo-jumbo.

‘She wanted to know if her son had been murdered or not.’

‘You’re joking? Good God… I didn’t even realise you could use horary to ask something like that.’

‘Any question that can be answered yes or no can be asked with a horary chart,’ she reminded him mildly.

‘Of course, sorry.’ He drew a sharp breath. ‘But please tell me you didn’t draw up a chart for that question.’

‘I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right. It was a dangerous question and a dangerous chart to draw up. I tried to be professional. I told her I didn’t want to do it.’ Stella heard the strain in her voice, and told herself to stay calm, despite his frowning disapproval. ‘But you didn’t see her, Jack. She was so determined. Besides, I thought I could use some diplomacy… Draw up the chart to keep her from getting upset, and then pretend I couldn’t interpret it properly. Say Saturn was in the Seventh House, which is an obstacle to judgement. Only the chart was just too powerful… I couldn’t help but read it.’

‘Tell me what you saw.’ Jack had spoken evenly but she could tell that he was tense, maybe even unhappy about her behaviour. She wasn’t happy about it herself, but there was more to this business than she’d realised at first, and perhaps that horary chart would bring them one step closer to finding not only Simon Trevethy’s murderer, but Bernard Doughty’s.

Slowly, painstakingly, trying not to leave out any key details, she told him about the chart. ‘It does strongly suggest that he was murdered,’ she finished, holding his gaze, ‘and here’s the funny thing… Mercury is somehow key to this whole business. I don’t know how exactly but it was all there in the chart. That Mercury-Pluto opposition cutting across the chart was so prominent, so mesmerising, I couldn’t take my eyes off it. And then I remembered,’ she ended in a rush.

‘Remembered what?’

‘The knife at Druid’s Den,’ she said, leaning urgently towards him. She had dropped her voice to a whisper without even realising it, even though they were alone in the house. ‘The murder weapon.’

‘What about it?’

‘There was a planetary glyph on the handle, wasn’t there? I remember seeing it on the day. But I was in shock, and it didn’t really sink in at the time. It wasn’t until much later that I realised it was the glyph of Mercury I’d seen.’ As he continued to stare at her blankly, she told him with great emphasis, ‘Mercury… The winged god, the trickster. But also the planet of travelling and communication. Somehow, this whole horrible thing is connected to Mercury and mercurial things.’

‘Trickster?’ He shook his head, not understanding. ‘You mean, like everything’s back to front? A mirror world? Or like the whole thing is a pretence?’

‘Not necessarily exactly that, but it’s possible. All I know is there’s a strong link with travel of some kind. That’s what Mercury can represent. A journey, a movement from A to B.’ She touched his arm, and saw his gaze arrow in on her hand. So he felt it too, this strong, sensual tug between them. ‘And not just any kind of travel,’ she continued with difficulty. ‘That Mercury opposition to Pluto is so striking, it doesn’t just describe her son’s death. I think it describes the background to this whole business as well. Pluto is the planet of endings, of death, yes? But the death of anything brings a new beginning. In that way, it’s almost Saturn-like. It’s a boundary between life and death, between an old way of being and a new one.’ She recalled the horary chart she’d drawn up, thinking of its crisscross patterns. ‘Pluto is the god of the underworld in ancient myth. The realm of death but also of secrets, of things that are hidden.’

‘You think this is about a secret journey?’

‘It could be, yes,’ she agreed, pleased to see how quickly he understood. ‘Or a journey into the underworld. After all, one of the oldest names for Mercury was Psychopomp.’

‘Psycho –’ He shook his head, bewildered. ‘Sorry?’

‘IA Psychopomp means someone who can enter and leave the realm of death without dying. Like a messenger or a go-between, or even an angelic figure, someone escorting people who have died into the afterlife. A guide for souls who have left this earthly plane and need help finding their final resting place.’

He was looking mystified. ‘Right.’

‘Don’t worry.’ She grinned. ‘You don’t need to understand any of the mythology. And I’d like some time to unriddle this out a bit more. But it’s definitely Mercury-linked.’ She handed him the towel, which was distinctly damp now. ‘Thank you. And I’m sorry.’

He got up to stretch the towel over a radiator. ‘What for?’

‘I forced this meeting on you. I could have said all this on the phone. But we always communicate so much better face-to-face.’

He perched on the arm of the sofa beside her, and reached out to tuck a damp strand of hair behind her ear. ‘I can’t argue with that.’ Then she saw his eyes narrow and looked past her, staring at nothing.

‘Jack? What is it?’

‘Your Mercury thing… What if it’s not about journeys, but communications? You said Mercury rules communications too. Like when everything goes wobbly during a Mercury Retrograde period and your WIFI goes down or you miss an important email?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

Jack unlocked his phone, then flicked through a few screens before showing her a photograph. It was of a horrible three-word message, all the letters cut out from a magazine or newspaper and stuck onto a dirty piece of paper.

YOU WILL DIE

She stilled, staring down at the message in trepidation.

‘Nasty, isn’t it?’ Jack said, misinterpreting her response. ‘You told me the intruder at Bernard Doughty’s house ran off towards the wall. I went that way to check for footprints, and found this. A threatening letter. I think that may be what our intruder was there to retrieve. Evidence that he’d been harassing Bernard Doughty, whoever he is.’

‘Luke had a couple of those,’ she admitted.

Jack frowned. ‘Go on.’

‘One came about a month ago, I think. And another one maybe a week before the grand opening. It didn’t make much sense though. “Repent,” was all the last one said. With capital letters cut out from magazines or newspapers, just like that.’ She nodded to the note on the screen. ‘Luke showed me the note, and I advised him to… to ignore it. I feel awful now.’

‘He reported it to the police, though?’

‘No.’ She closed her eyes briefly, feeling a sting of guilt. ‘I just assumed they were harmless nonsense, not worth bothering about, and told him so. I’ve had a few choice comments said to my face about being an astrologer and Luke… Well, Luke is a Druid, not that he practices regularly. It’s more of a front for the shop. But of course there are going to be people out there who target him for his beliefs.’

‘Could we at least examine these notes forensically? Did he keep them?’

‘Sorry.’ She shook her head. ‘As far as I know, Luke threw them away.’ She grimaced at the frustration in his face. ‘I’m really sorry, Jack. If I’d realised… Well, I would have made him bring them to you and DI Martin, of course.’ She ran a hand through her dishevelled hair, wishing she didn’t look such a mess. ‘And I should have mentioned it when giving my initial statement to Ronny. But I’d completely forgotten about those notes at the time, what with Bernard’s murder…’

‘It’s okay. Just another piece in the puzzle, I guess.’ He threw the phone aside. ‘So Bernard Doughty wasn’t the only target, assuming that came from the killer.’

‘Do you think whoever it is might come after Luke next?’

‘I don’t know, but we’d better warn him, I guess. Do you know where he is tonight?’ He saw her embarrassed look. ‘What?’

‘He’s at Teddy’s place, watching films. You know, his new “Saturday boy”?’ She grinned at Jack’s raised brows. ‘He’s not really a boy, of course. Teddy’s at least twenty. But Luke was only telling me the other day that the two of them have become close since the murder.’ She paused. ‘Very close.’

‘I see. And where does Teddy live?’

‘No idea, actually.’ She studied Jack’s face. ‘Should I call Luke? Warn him to be careful?’

But Jack shook his head. ‘No point being alarmist. I need to discuss this with the team first. And maybe Luke isn’t the only other one to have got a threatening note like that.’

‘Plus, the note writer might not be the killer,’ she agreed. ‘And you’re busy trying to solve Simon Trevethy’s murder… If it was a murder.’

‘Oh, it was,’ he said smoothly. ‘The forensics point that way.’

‘Two murders along the same tiny stretch of coast, one shortly after the other… They’ve got to be related, surely?’

‘That’s my guess too. But I can’t see Simon Trevethy having received a threatening note about hellfire or whatever. I mean, he wasn’t anything to do with the occult. Not like Luke and Bernard. Simon was just a lad… A young fisherman. But there is a link, I’d stake my life on it. There’s this van, for instance. It keeps popping up… First near Doughty’s place, and then close to where Simon most likely drowned after a night out. But I’m damned if I can see the connection.’

‘Mercury,’ she murmured. ‘Lord of journeys.’

‘Yes, maybe. But how does that help us in real terms?’ Jack blew out his cheeks, exasperated. ‘It’s a mystery, for sure. But we’ll get to the bottom of it somehow. We must.’ He looked grim. ‘Before anyone else dies.’

Stella glanced at the clock on the wall, suddenly aware of how late it was. ‘I should get going.’

‘Do you have to?’ He looked at her solemnly. ‘You could stay the night.’

Her heart leapt and her surprised gaze shot to his face. But in the same instant, she recalled him breaking up with her, and the humiliation and pain that had followed. Was she a complete doormat, even to consider saying yes? She knew what her friend Julie would say. And Nick. And even Claire.

‘I thought you and I weren’t an item anymore,’ she said, a little caustically.

Jack ran a hand through his short fair hair. ‘Yeah, about that. You know I’m an idiot, right?’ She raised her brows. His jaw clenched and he looked away. ‘But then again… I may be an idiot. But I’m not wrong about this. Things are getting too dangerous.’

‘Between you and me?’

He shook his head, his look terse. ‘This case… But there’ll be other cases too. I feel like I’m just constantly dragging you into things, Stella.’ He sucked in a breath. ‘Into danger.’

‘Because you’re police?’

‘Maybe.’ His eyes were dark with pain. ‘My wife… I told you what happened, didn’t I? You remember?’

‘How could I forget?’ she whispered. His wife had left him, depressed and grieving after a lost pregnancy, and then stepped under a train one day. Jack had blamed himself, saying he should have been there for her after the miscarriage. But his police work had got in the way, and he’d missed the signs…

‘I couldn’t bear doing that to you too.’

‘It wasn’t your fault.’

Jack lifted a weary shoulder and let it drop. ‘Whatever it was, I don’t want that life for you, Stella. So yes, you’re right and I was wrong… I shouldn’t have asked. And you should probably go home.’

He got up, thrusting his hands deep into his jeans’ pockets. She could see how much effort it cost him to send her away. ‘Thank you for coming round though and sharing that information.’ It sounded like the cool, professional voice he used to strangers.

‘Look,’ he added as she turned to go. ‘I’d like to go to Simon Trevethy’s memorial service. And, given that the mother approached you for a chart, would you like to go too?’

Stella was surprised. ‘Go there together, you mean?’

He hesitated. ‘You’ve got great insight into people, and I’d appreciate your input.’

‘I’ll go if you need me there, of course, but… Seriously, I can’t keep up with your mood swings.’

‘Ugh, why does everything between us have to be so difficult?’ Jack buried his head in his hands, an unexpected gesture of vulnerability that took her off-guard. Then he looked up, saying, ‘I didn’t want us to break up. I deeply regret it… But I still think it was the right thing to do. Maybe you’ll look back on this later and see why more clearly. But this murder hunt can’t go on forever. At some point it’ll be over and then…’ His eyes searched her face intently. ‘Do you think there’s a future for us? Given my job, I mean. I want us to be together, Stella, but I don’t want you to suffer because of what I do for a living.’

‘Ditto,’ she muttered.

They stared at each other, then Jack’s mouth twisted in a crooked smile. ‘Fair enough. But I want you to know one thing… I love you. Simple as that. And it’s because I love you that I think we should keep things as they are.’ He grimaced. ‘Even if it hurts.’

It did hurt, she thought grimly.

But her heart had leapt despite herself. Jack loved her. And she loved him, she knew that for sure. But if she admitted it right now, and they still ended up apart, she didn’t think she could handle the humiliation. To know that she’d bared her soul for nothing. Which was petty, perhaps, but still important to her. Perhaps she needed to work on her pride.

‘And the memorial service?’

‘We’ll go as colleagues, that’s all. You’ll be, erm, helping the police with our enquiries,’ he said doggedly. ‘Again.’

When she dropped into Druid’s Den the next day to pick up a useful book she’d left behind, Stella found a few customers milling about the shop, and Teddy there, tidying a display of occult books.

Seeing her walk-in, Teddy turned from his work, smiling in an oily fashion. ‘Stella!’ He flicked back his hair. ‘Goodness, we didn’t expect to see you in today. Luke’s just popped out for a walk. Poor thing, he’s not feeling himself… He told me all about what happened the other night at Bernie’s place.’ The shop assistant folded his arms, tipping his head to one side with a disapproving expression. ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying, but I was never more shocked. You could both have been killed. I mean, it was your choice to go out there but I wouldn’t have done it.’ He paused. ‘Did you see who hit poor Luke?’

Stella grabbed up the astrology book she’d returned for and tucked it under her arm. ‘No, I didn’t. And I’d rather not talk about it. It was a mistake.’ She forced a smile to her lips, though she found Teddy difficult to talk to. ‘How is Luke today?’

‘Physically, he seems okay to keep working. But inside… Well, that a different story, isn’t it?’ Teddy flicked back his hair again; it was an affected gesture that she was beginning to find irritating. ‘FYI, he’s finding all this very difficult. Poor lamb, that’s why he went out for a walk. All the customers ever want to talk about is the murder, the murder, the murder… It’s too gruesome for words.’

‘Well, I’m glad you’re here to support him. Oh, and by the way,’ she added guiltily, ‘I won’t be in tomorrow as scheduled. I’m going to a memorial service for Simon Trevethy. The young fisherman who drowned.’

‘Oh yes, Simon…’ Teddy shook his head mournfully. ‘I knew him, you know. Only slightly, of course. We didn’t hang with the same crowd. But he was such a good-looking young man, a real head-turner, it was impossible not to notice him around the place. In fact, I distinctly remember dear old Bernie referring to him as arm candy.’ Teddy winked, and then grimaced when she didn’t smile back. ‘Tragic, a real waste. People are saying it was suicide. Though I can’t imagine that. Simon was always in such high spirits.’

Deciding it was better not to discuss that case either, Stella merely smiled politely. ‘Yes, a mystery,’ she agreed. Remembering what Jack had said, she added, ‘By the way, unless you’ve already been warned, the police think whoever killed Bernard might have a grudge against anyone connected to the occult and places like this. So you and Luke should be careful, okay?’ When he nodded, her gaze fell to the hardback book in his hands. It was a new history of Cornish Magic. ‘I’d better leave you to your work. Customers to serve, and all that.’

‘Oh, they’re just browsing. I’m not really busy.’ Teddy stroked the dark glossy dustjacket with obvious admiration. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it? There’s a whole chapter on Cornish horror films in here, including Bernard Doughty’s. In fact, his name appears five times in the glossary.’

‘Goodness.’

Teddy smiled proudly. ‘While it’s quiet, I thought I’d work on this special display in Bernie’s honour. I think it’s going to draw a lot of attention…’ He balanced the glossy hardback on a shelf above a display of Cornish magical objects and books, with some newspaper cuttings about Bernard Doughty’s death, including one featuring the exterior of Druid’s Den with Luke posing outside. ‘You know, I can’t let you go without telling you how much I admired your father. His death was a tragedy.’ He stood back to study the display. ‘A tremendous loss to Cornish Magic.’

Stella stood frozen, staring at him in dismay. ‘My… My father?’

Her father had been a respected Church of England vicar for many years, attached to a small Cornish parish. But after his brutal murder, Stella had discovered that the Reverend Penhaligon had secretly been a pagan and magician, much revered by local cultists. He’d become tangled up in a dreadful feud and ended up decapitated, his body distributed in various parts according to ancient pagan practices.

As a suspect in her own father’s murder, she’d been forced to use horary astrology to discover where the rest of his body had been hidden…

‘That’s something else I’d rather not talk about,’ she stammered, backing towards the sunlit door. ‘Sorry, I’m in a bit of a hurry.’

‘If you’re interested, that’s the real reason why Bernard Doughty didn’t like you,’ Teddy threw after her.

Stella’s back thumped into the doorframe. She stopped dead, staring at the young man with her eyes widening. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Oh yes, he told me so himself, just a few days before he died.’ Teddy’s unnaturally pale face had become a mask of dislike. ‘Whatever he may have said in public, Bernie privately thought you were a talented astrologer, and even agreed with most of what you told him about his chart. The problem was, you hated your father, didn’t you?’

She didn’t deny it, though hate was a strong word for the mess of conflicted emotions she’d felt for the Reverend Penhaligon.

He nodded at her silence. ‘That was his problem with you. Bernard Doughty absolutely adored your father. They’d been friends for years. You didn’t know that, did you? But Bernie told me all about it… The occultist and the pagan vicar.’ His smile was unpleasant. ‘He felt you betrayed your father at the end, that you abandoned him in life and failed to support him in death. That’s why he was so horrible to you.’

She felt nausea, staring back at the young man. ‘I didn’t realise you were so close to Bernard Doughty,’ was all she could manage to say.

‘Just a one-night stand. Ships that pass in the night. Bernie was an old hack, let’s face it. But he was an incredible networker too, he was the mayor, and all over social media. He knew so many people, it was ridiculous…’ Teddy shrugged. ‘I had hoped to be his acolyte one day. Then someone took him away from me. And when I find out who that was, maybe I’ll serve them in the same way.’ Holding her gaze, he drew a long finger slowly across his throat.

Horrified, staring back into those cold, accusing eyes, Stella couldn’t find a single word to say.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

In the doorway to the church where the memorial service was being held for Simon Trevethy, Jack stopped to shake hands with Peter Trevethy, looking uncomfortable in a sombre black tie and suit jacket with black trousers. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr Trevethy,’ he said, and saw the fisherman’s gaze shift curiously to Stella, behind him. ‘This is my, erm, friend and colleague, Stella Penhaligon. She sometimes helps us out with police enquiries. We both wanted to come and pay our respects today.’ He paused. ‘I had hoped to give my condolences to Mrs Trevethy too. Is she here?’

‘She said she’d come,’ Peter Trevethy said shortly, looking flushed and angry. ‘We both wanted to give our lad a proper funeral. But we’ve been told the body can’t be released yet. The investigation’s still ongoing, your lot said.’ His tie was askew, watery blue eyes snapping. He had barely shaken Stella’s hand before launching into a tirade. ‘I know you police have got a job to do. But I need to bury my boy. That’s the only reason we’re holding this memorial service. Because we can’t hold a funeral. But our Simon needs to be remembered and respected by the community who loved him.’ His voice was rough with furious pain. ‘Sorry to be blunt, Detective Sergeant Church, but it seems to me that the police are bloody useless in this country nowadays. Nobody can get nothing done, or not without serious money behind them. And nobody seems able to tell us how my boy died.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ was all Jack could say to that, given the circumstances, and aware that others in the church had turned to stare at them. ‘Perhaps we can speak after the service? There are a few things I still need to ask you.’

‘More bloody questions… Well, if there’s time, maybe.’ And Peter Trevethy turned a cold shoulder on them both.

Moving hurriedly into the church, Jack ignored the hostile looks being thrown towards them and escorted Stella to a pew near the back, half behind a sturdy pillar. It looked like a good vantage point to watch people coming into the church, without necessarily being seen himself.

‘Hey, you okay?’ he asked Stella, who had stammered something apologetic towards the fisherman on her way past. ‘I’m sorry about that. It’s nothing to do with you. The police aren’t moving fast enough for the Trevethy’s, that’s all.’

‘I fully understand his anger. They want to give Simon a proper burial. Instead, they’re having to settle for a memorial service until the body can be released. All the delay must be very painful for them.’ Stella looked about the church unhappily. ‘Beautiful though, isn’t it? Look at all those flowers on the pew ends… Wonderful fragrance too. Someone must’ve spent a long time on the floral displays.’

‘Mrs Trevethy, perhaps?’ Jack peered up and down the church but couldn’t see any woman who looked likely to be Simon’s mother. He felt sure she must be coming to the service, despite her estrangement from her husband. But perhaps she was genuinely running late. Cornish roads could be hellish at this time of year, with many public schools already closed for the summer holidays, and even some state schoolchildren bunking off to enjoy the hot weather.

At the front of the church, someone had arranged a memorial display for Simon Trevethy. There were two blown-up photographs of him on a stand, either side of the altar, one of him presumably at his high school prom, good-looking but gawky in an ill-fitting suit, and another of him holding up what looked like an offer letter from Oxford University, a broad grin on his face.

It was hard not to contrast these happy snap-shots with the battered and bloated body he’d seen on the beach, and wonder how it had all gone wrong for young Simon Trevethy. The young man had clearly angered or offended somebody, or witnessed something he shouldn’t, and had been killed for it. Yet they were not much nearer an identity for the killer, especially now they felt certain his murder and Doughty’s were somehow linked, putting them back at square one in terms of finding a compelling motive.

Eventually, everyone seemed to have arrived. The pews had mostly filled up, many of the congregation young people who had perhaps known Simon Trevethy from their school days.

There was still no sign of a likely Mrs Trevethy, though he’d only seen an old holiday snap of her, so couldn’t be sure if she’d changed her appearance recently.

Peter moved to the front, accompanied by his brother Harold. The two brothers shook hands again with various people along the way, some of them clearly relatives from the family resemblance. It seemed tall, lean and fair were Trevethy traits. Then a woman in long clerical robes arrived, with a folder of paper and a mic attached to her lapel, and greeted everyone in a smoothly sympathetic but professional way, her voice bouncing off the walls and pillars through a sound system.

She spoke of why they were there and how much everyone had loved and respected young Simon. The heady, drugging scent of flowers seeped through the church. Soft light filtered through the stained-glass windows on either side, and the high, usually chill space grew warm with bodies.

As the service began in earnest, with everyone standing for a hymn, Jack glanced at Stella, who was sharing a tatty old hymn book with him. Out of nowhere, he imagined her in a beautiful, sweeping wedding dress of white satin and appliqué flowers, maybe with a veil trailing behind her, and himself waiting at the altar as she trod gracefully up the aisle towards him…

‘What on earth are you thinking about?’ Stella whispered as they sat down, the organ still throbbing with the last notes of the hymn. ‘You’ve been grinning like a maniac.’

‘Have I?’ he whispered back. ‘Sorry. That was inappropriate.’

Hurriedly, he schooled his expression to fit in with the sombre occasion. But it had been strangely humorous, imagining him and Stella getting married in a church just like this, lavish white flowers everywhere they looked. Then the humour in him died.

Why was he thinking about getting married? He had told Stella he loved her, and she had not given him those words back. Which presumably meant she didn’t love him. So imagining their wedding was a fool’s errand. Besides, he had also told her they shouldn’t keep seeing each other while this murder investigation was still underway, and he had not changed his mind. So if she no longer felt much for him, was it any surprise?

She was still frowning at him, a question in her face. But he shook his head, and leant back to listen as Simon’s life history was celebrated. He needed to concentrate on his job, not fantasise about an impossible life ahead with Stella.

Various members of the youth’s family, including a few cousins and his father, got up to speak, telling in shaky voices of how much their beloved Simon and how he had touched their lives. Young women wept openly in the pews, young men surreptitiously rubbed their eyes, and older people sat solemnly, occasionally blowing their noses. Some popular music was played, songs that Simon had enjoyed. A pretty young woman got up to read out a poem she had written on his loss. Then a final hymn was sung, some prayers were dutifully said, and they all filed out of the church again into brilliant Cornish sunshine.

He hadn’t clocked anything suspicious during the memorial. But perhaps there was nothing suspicious here. Only a time of grief for friends and loved ones. He needed to keep an open mind about this business. Perhaps the link between Simon and Bernard had nothing to do with these people…

There was a warm, brisk breeze blowing in from the coast. The trees were dancing, summer flowers swaying. Stella had worn an attractive light blue dress to the memorial, cinched in at the waist with a broad belt, and elegant white heels. The wind snapped at the folds of her dress and she grimaced, holding the skirt down with both hands, her long black hair lifting gently too.

‘Thank you for coming, Stella.’ He held her gaze. ‘What did you think of the service, and the people who came along? I respect your instincts.’

‘I was surprised that Cindy Trevethy chose to sit at the back, given that it was a memorial for her only son.’

He frowned. ‘Hang on… I was looking for Simon’s mother the whole time but didn’t see her in the church. You’re saying she was at the back?’

‘In the pew right opposite us, yes,’ she agreed, and touched his arm. ‘Look, that’s her over there… In the black dress, with a black broad-rimmed hat. Full mourning gear.’

He turned, following her gaze.

Simon’s mother looked rather older than in the picture he’d seen, which was perhaps why he’d missed her. Cindy Trevethy was a good-looking woman in her forties, with a curvy but neat figure, and shapely legs. She seemed to have come alone to the memorial, and gave off an air of being very much alone too. She had her back to the stone and slate church wall, while an elderly couple talked to her with noisy sympathy, kissing and hugging her before moving on.

As soon as she was standing on her own, Peter Trevethy and his brother turned and headed her way.

His wife seemed to stiffen, glancing anxiously around as though looking for an escape route. The three spoke for a moment, their conversation indistinct, then Mrs Trevethy broke away and headed back into the church. Jack watched all this with interest. It seemed she couldn’t handle talking to her estranged husband even for a few minutes. Or perhaps she simply needed a moment alone in there, after the bustle of the service, to feel closer to her son…

‘I need to speak to his father,’ Jack told Stella. ‘Will you come with me?’

But she was shivering in the breeze, cold despite the warm sunshine. ‘I’d rather not,’ she said apologetically. ‘You go ahead, I’ll wait for you somewhere sheltered. Maybe in the church porch.’ And she hurried off after Cindy Trevethy before he could suggest she waited for him in the car, which would have been warmer.

The Trevethys were deep in conversation, the two brothers listening to each other with bent heads and hands in their pockets. As Jack approached, he heard Peter ask something in a deep, gravelly voice, his brother swearing at him in reply. Then Harold shoved him aside with a savage gesture and strode off, making for the car park…

Peter turned to follow but found Jack blocking his path.

‘Everything all right, sir?’ Jack asked politely.

‘It will be if you get out of my bloody way,’ Simon’s father ground out, trying to muscle past him. ‘I need to speak to my brother.’

‘That doesn’t seem like a good idea right at the moment, Mr Trevethy,’ Jack insisted, holding him back. ‘Had a bust-up with Harold, did you? What about?’

‘That ain’t none of your business.’

‘Your son was murdered, Mr Trevethy, and I’m a police officer. This is my business.’

The fisherman wrenched at his blank tie as though it was too tight, gave a growling curse under his breath, but subsided. ‘Well, he’s gone now, anyway. Not worth the bother.’ And he spat on the ground.

‘What were you arguing about?’ Jack asked again. When Peter didn’t reply, he went on more persuasively, ‘I thought you and Harold were close.’

Peter shrugged. ‘Once upon a time, maybe.’

‘But times change?’

The Cornish fisherman grunted his assent to this but looked away without elaborating. The hard flush in his cheeks had died down, and he was wary again. ‘I saw Cindy out here. I need to speak to her.’

‘I think she went back inside the church,’ Jack told him, but put up a hand when Peter went to push past him again. ‘Hang on. I’d like a quick word first, since I’ve got you alone.’

Peter Trevethy stilled, lifting hard, suspicious eyes to his face. ‘Oh aye?’

‘You know about the Bernard Doughty murder?’

‘Could hardly miss it. It was on the bloody telly last week.’

‘We found a photograph of your son in his house. A framed photograph. It looks like a snap of Simon on your fishing boat, probably from this summer. Do you know who might have taken that photograph?’

Peter Trevethy said nothing, staring at him. Then shook his head.

‘It wasn’t you?’ Jack pressed him.

‘I don’t take photos.’

‘What about Harold? Does he like taking photos?’

‘What does that mean?’ Peter Trevethy growled at him, face-to-face, instantly aggressive again.

‘I just want to know who took that photo of Simon and how it ended up framed and in Bernard Doughty’s home.’ He paused. ‘Was she son friends with Bernard Doughty?’

‘I don’t know,’ the fisherman rumbled, no longer meeting his eye.

‘More than friends?’ Jack asked delicately.

‘Now you’re asking for a thump in the mouth, policeman or no policeman,’ the boy’s father told him bluntly. ‘My son was straight. Yes, he was a good-looking lad. And maybe the likes of Doughty asked him to a few late night parties out at Shangri-La, or whatever ridiculous name he called that bloody great house of his on the cliffs… But that was far as it went.’

‘How do you know if you weren’t there?’

‘Now, listen here, you… ’ Peter Trevethy’s face contorted with rage and grief. ‘Simon wasn’t like that. Anyway, he had a girlfriend, didn’t he?’

Jack raised his brows. ‘Is that so?’

The fisherman lapsed into silence, wrenching at his tie again, but there was a hunted look on his face now.

‘You told us Simon didn’t have a girlfriend. We told you what his friends had said, about your son and some girl that was staying at your house for a few weeks. But you said you’d never heard of him dating anyone. I can check with my constable to get your exact words, if you like.’

‘I know what I said,’ Peter Trevethy growled.

‘So?’

He scratched his head and grimaced, looked trapped. ‘There was a girl,’ he admitted slowly, and glanced about the churchyard as though worried someone else might be listening. ‘She stayed for a short while, I don’t remember exactly how long. A few nights, at least. Maybe a week.’ His face twitched. ‘Maybe longer.’

‘I see.’ Jack felt a jolt of triumph and struggled not to show it. Now, they were getting somewhere. ‘Okay, so why did you lie to us about this girl when we asked? Why did you claim your son didn’t have a girlfriend?’

‘It wasn’t a lie… I just forgot, see?’

‘That’s very unlikely.’

‘It was all the shock of Simon’s disappearance, and then hearing that he was dead.’ His mouth twisted. ‘You got any kids, Detective Sergeant?’

‘No.’

‘Well, one day maybe you’ll be lucky enough to have kids, and then you’ll understand. When a man hears something like that about his own child, everything else goes out of his mind. It’s impossible to think straight.’ Peter Trevethy ran a hand over his face, bending his head. ‘I just forgot, that’s all.’

‘What was her name?’

‘Natalie, I think.’

‘Natalia?’

Peter Trevethy stared at him. ‘If you already know all about her, why are you asking me?’

‘Because I’m a policeman and that’s what I do. Ask questions.’

‘Sounds like a waste of time to me. Anyway, she maybe broke up with him before he went missing.’

‘Simon was with Natalia the night he disappeared. His friends said he seemed happy and relaxed.’

‘But you know what women are like. Happy as larks one minute, next they’re slapping your face.’

‘You think they broke up that night and he was unhappy about losing her? A good enough reason for him to take his own life?’

Peter Trevethy dismissed that with an abrupt gesture. ‘That’s nonsense… Not my Simon. He wasn’t the moping type. There’s no point asking about that girl, because I barely saw her and she never spoke to me. Foreign girl, she was. Didn’t have good English, Simon told me, and preferred not to eat with us.’ He swallowed hard. ‘But someone killed my son, sure as I’m standing here. I know that and you know that.’ Angrily, he jabbed at Jack’s chest. ‘And it’s your job to find out who and see them punished. Unless someone else gets there first, that is, and does your bloody job for you.’ And with that threat he too strode away in the direction of the car park.

When Jack headed back into the church, he found Stella seated in the sheltered church porch, staring down at her phone screen.

He hesitated, glancing into the church. Sure enough, Cindy Trevethy was sitting in the front pew, right beside the photograph of her dead son, head bent and with her hands clasped as though in prayer.

‘Leave her,’ Stella whispered, joining him in the arched doorway. ‘Poor woman. She stopped to apologise for speaking rudely to me at the shop, you know. Even asked if I’d visit her in Wadebridge for a private reading. Not about Simon this time but for herself, she told me.’

‘Will you go?’

‘I think so, yes. She seems so upset.’

‘I suppose I can wait to speak to her,’ Jack conceded. ‘But I’d like to hear what she says when you meet her.’

He was feeling a little bruised from the confrontation with Peter Trevethy, and didn’t fancy another difficult interview with a bereaved parent. Though he was aware of a sense of elation too. Now they had real confirmation that a ‘foreign’ girl called Natalia had been living at the Trevethy house for some time before the lad’s death, and that Simon Trevethy had been to a few parties at Shangri-La. Perhaps he’d even joined in with one or two of Doughty’s notorious orgies without his father knowing about it. A bisexual, perhaps. Or curious about that lifestyle. That would certainly explain why he’d given the film star-turned-mayor his photograph to frame and display at the villa.

But Jack was still unsure who had taken that photograph… The girl, perhaps?

‘We need to track down this girlfriend, Natalia,’ he said softly. ‘Maybe the mother knows something about her whereabouts.’

Stella sighed. ‘You want me to ask?’

‘Only if you feel comfortable doing it.’

‘I don’t, as a matter of fact.’

‘Then don’t.’

‘Oh, very convincing.’ She rolled her eyes at him. ‘Look, I’ll do my best. But I’m not police. I’m not giving that poor woman a grilling and I’m certainly not promising to come back with hard information.’

‘Understood.’ He gazed down at the phone she’d been studying. The screen showed an astrology chart. ‘What’s that?’

‘Nothing.’ Hurriedly, she shut it off and put her phone away.

‘Stella…’

‘It was something… personal. Not connected to any of your murders.’

‘Fair enough.’ Jack smiled, holding out his hand. ‘Shall we head back?’

‘Definitely,’ she agreed, but didn’t take his proffered hand, wandering out into the sunshine instead, heels clicking on the stone floor.

He followed slowly, wishing he could just take her in his arms and kiss her. But the situation was too delicate and complicated.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

‘It’s nothing. Teddy Ball was a bit horrid to me at the shop, that’s all. I was looking at my transits, trying to work out if it’s serious or not.’

‘Teddy? Luke’s new boyfriend?’

‘I don’t think you can call him that. Luke always has a few on the go.’ She smiled faintly. ‘He blames me for Bernard’s murder.’

‘What?’ Jack stopped, staring at her.

‘Oh, he didn’t mean it like that. At least, I hope not. But he obviously felt I was somehow to blame.’

‘What did he say?’ Jack heard fury in his voice, and tried not to over-react. But the thought of that kid making Stella uncomfortable…

‘Nothing much, honestly. But he said he’d do this to Bernard’s killer.’ She mimed drawing a knife across her throat. ‘And I got the feeling he was talking about me.’

His temper spiked. ‘My God… I’ll have him arrested. That’s threatening behaviour. That’s a criminal offence.’

‘Please don’t. I’m sure he was just being silly and dramatic.’

Jack’s hands curled into fists, though he said nothing. But Teddy Ball was immediately bumped to the top of his lists of suspects. For anything, basically.

‘Hello… I wonder who that is,’ Stella said curiously as they reached the car park, nodding across the churchyard. ‘He vaguely reminds me of someone. But who?’

A stocky man of about six foot was leaning back against an elm tree trunk and smoking a vape. He was dressed in black jeans and hoody, the hood drawn over his face, but Jack got the sense he was Caucasian. He seemed to be watching the church.

Jack stared at her, reading her expression. ‘The intruder, you mean? The guy who hit Luke at Shangri-La?’ Before she’d even nodded, he broke into a run, heading for the man in the hoody. The man, spotting Jack heading his way, pelted off across the churchyard at an incredible pace for someone so stockily-built, hurdling several gravestones and disappearing around the back of the church. By the time Jack got round the back and stopped, looking frantically about for which direction to take, he heard the starting roar of an engine and saw a dark van slip away at speed between parked cars and tree trunks on the far side of the churchyard.

There was no chance of getting a numberplate and he couldn’t even be sure of the exact make. But he stopped and called it in anyway, asking Headquarters to keep an eye out on CCTV camera footage in the town for any dark vans, especially in the vicinity of the church.

Stella was waiting by the car when he returned, panting. ‘You didn’t catch him, I take it?’ she asked, looking worriedly over his shoulder.

‘Sorry,’ he told her breathlessly. ‘But you definitely think it was the same guy? Though if he wasn’t, why would he run?’

‘Honestly, I’m not sure if that was the same guy,’ she insisted, but he saw fear in her eyes. ‘Though he had a similar build, I suppose. But what on earth he was doing here?’

‘Good question,’ Jack said, and looked round instinctively.

Cindy Trevethy had just emerged from the church porch on elegant heels, holding a mobile phone to her ear as though making a call. Without looking their way, she walked quickly around the side of the church until she too vanished behind rows of old, lichen-covered gravestones.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

‘Come in,’ Cindy Trevethy said with surprising warmth, ushering Stella inside her flat that overlooked the Camel estuary at Wadebridge. It was a small home but beautifully presented, nothing out of place, everything immaculate. The home space of a woman who lived alone, Stella thought privately, thinking of the untidy, ramshackle house where she lived with Julie, Claire and Nick, and sometimes Julie’s daughter Melanie too. It was messy, yes. But she preferred it that way.

Cindy made her a cup of herbal tea, and even produced some home-made biscuits that tasted light and delicious. She sat at the round kitchen table, and smiled across at Stella. ‘I didn’t think you’d come,’ she admitted shyly. ‘I’m glad you did. I want to apologise again for the way I spoke to you at Druid’s Den. It wasn’t fair. I know you were doing your best to read that chart. Such a difficult subject.’

Relieved, Stella nodded. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t have been more direct with you. But if I’d said the wrong thing… As you say, a difficult subject.’

‘That’s why I asked you here.’ Cindy sipped her chamomile tea, her large blue eyes on Stella’s face. ‘I have a friend, let’s say. A young friend, a bit uncertain about her future prospects. I wondered maybe if you could read her horoscope and see what might be best for her going forward.’ She had spoken with great hesitation, looking nervously behind her every few words as though concerned someone was listening. ‘Do you think that would be possible?’

‘It would be useful to meet her first, and to give her my findings face-to-face.’

‘I don’t think that’s possible,’ Cindy said delicately.

‘I see.’ Stella took out her tablet and flicked through to her astrology app. ‘Well, I can make a start and we can take it from there.’ She tapped the New Chart button. ‘Do you have her birth data?’

Cindy took a folded piece of paper from her pocket and pushed it across. ‘She wrote it down for me.’

‘St Petersburg, two minutes past one in the afternoon, 16 August, 2005.’ Reading the data out loud, Stella tapped it into the app and the chart came up. ‘Libra Rising, with Jupiter on the Ascendant, Mercury on the Midheaven.’ She glanced curiously at Cindy. ‘I’ll need to put a name on the file to save it. What should it be?’

Cindy hesitated, chewing on her lip and again looking nervously to one side.

She was constantly glancing towards the balcony window, Stella realised. Peering that way, she could see the end of a balcony lounger. As she stared, a shadow moved under the lounger, and she realised that there was someone out there. Someone with bare legs, sunbathing on Cindy’s balcony. Her gaze fell to a pair of sandals placed neatly side-by-side under the lounger.

A pair of gold sandals.

‘Natalia, by any chance?’ she asked.

Cindy flinched. ‘How… How did you know?’ the older woman whispered, staring at her.

‘The gold sandals on your balcony… I’ve seen them someone else. In a photograph of your son on a boat. His dad’s fishing boat, I imagine. There was netting in the background and one gold sandal.’ Stella pointed. ‘It looked identical to those two. Plus, I know Simon had been seeing a girl called Natalia at the time of his death. Only she seems to have disappeared into thin air.’ As Cindy swallowed, she asked gently, ‘Natalia wouldn’t be sunbathing on your balcony, would she?’

Cindy covered her face in her hands. ‘There’s no point pretending anymore,’ she said with a groan. ‘Yes, that’s Natalia. She asked me to hide her.’ She took a deep breath and sat up. ‘She said she wasn’t safe at the house anymore, and I believed her.’

Stella leant back in her seat, frowning. ‘What house?’

‘My husband’s. The cottage where he lives with his brother. Natalia has been staying there this summer. Then Simon died and…’ She stopped, anguish in her face.

‘Natalia was with Simon when he died, wasn’t he she?’

‘They’d been out clubbing with friends. Natalia said she wanted a walk along the sea. That it reminded her of home. Only a man came along the cliff path, shouting her name. Luckily, it was dark and he couldn’t see her. Simon pushed her behind a bush and told her to hide. Then he went off to confront the man. There was shouting and some kind of fight. When Natalia eventually came out, the man had gone and so had Simon.’ Cindy looked pale and drawn, her eyes hollow. ‘After that, she… she came to me. She didn’t trust them, you see.’

‘Didn’t trust who? The Trevethy brothers?’ When she nodded, Stella frowned. ‘I need to speak to her. You should call her inside.’

‘I will,’ Cindy promised, but looked pointedly at the tablet in her hand. ‘First though, please tell me what you see in her horoscope.’

‘She didn’t ask you to draw up this chart, did she?’

Cindy shook her head. ‘Natalia’s a lovely girl and I want her to be safe. But I couldn’t be sure if she was telling me the whole truth. I thought maybe if you could look at the chart and tell me what kind of person she is, deep down, I might be able to trust her better.’ There were tears in her eyes. ‘Simon loved her. And I took her in because of that. I wanted to tell the police when I heard that his body had been found… But I knew they would arrest Natalia and likely deport her. And wherever Simon is now, if he’s looking down on us, I know he’d never forgive me if I let that happen and didn’t try to put up a fight.’ She bit her lip. ‘But I want to be sure.’

There didn’t see much point insisting. The girl wasn’t going anywhere, unless she leapt off the balcony into the River Camel below.

Reluctantly, with one eye on those gold sandals outside the balcony window door, Stella turned her attention to the chart. ‘Libra rising… A pleasant personality that usually takes the way of least resistance. Libra is ruled by Venus, which means keeping everything sweet and non-confrontational. But can be indecisive too, and easily swayed by stronger personalities.’ She looked at the Midheaven, remembering the connections to Mercury through all the charts she’d drawn up to do with this business. ‘Mercury on the Midheaven,’ she went on slowly, ‘and in Leo too, the sign of the performer, opposed by Neptune… That could signal an ability to be deceived by others and to not know her own mind, or perhaps to be a skilled actress. Maybe both at the same time.’

‘Could she be good at deceiving people? Telling lies?’

‘Absolutely.’ But still she hesitated. ‘Leo is a fixed sign though. Fixed signs are less prone to deception than others, as lying tends to require a more flexible, adaptable mindset. And this Mercury is also conjunct Saturn, the two planets straddling the Midheaven. It suggests deep scars to her psyche. And great self-discipline. She may have had trouble speaking or reading when younger, or been restricted by an authority figure, most likely a father. Mercury squares Mars in the seventh house of significant others too. She may have feared having her speech and actions restricted by others all her life. Especially men. Or one particular man.’ She looked directly at Cindy. ‘You said she’s afraid the police may deport her. Is she here illegally?’

Cindy nodded. ‘She needs to tell you her story herself,’ she said reluctantly. Then she went to the balcony door and opened it. ‘Natalia? You should come in and speak to this lady. It’s the astrologer… She may be able to help you. You can’t keep hiding forever, love.’

Stella had half risen from her seat, unsure what to do. But when she saw the diminutive blonde stand up from the balcony lounger and slip her feet into the golden sandals, she saw two things at once. First, why Simon had fallen so deeply in love with this young woman. And second, why she needed to be protected from whoever was pursuing her. Because her vulnerability shone out from her… She was like a modern-day Aphrodite. Perfect physical dimensions, her skin flawless, her eyes huge, and with a generous bow of a mouth that dominated her face. She looked as though she could become a famous actress or model, though her smile was shy and unassuming as she came into the room and shook Stella’s hand.

‘Hello,’ she said, her accent husky and Russian. ‘You are Stella, yes?’

‘Yes, and I’m glad to meet you at last, Natalia,’ Stella agreed, gesturing her to sit opposite. ‘I have a friend who’s been looking everywhere for you. Jack Church. He’s a good man and will look after you if you give yourself up.’ She saw fear in the girl’s eyes and said hurriedly, ‘I’m really sorry, but you must realise you can’t keep running. And Jack will do his best to protect you.’

Cindy squeezed Natalia’s hand. ‘She’s right, love. There’s nowhere safe out there. Not for someone with no papers and no money. Besides, with the state the world’s in right now, you may get asylum once they hear your story.’

‘What is your story?’ Stella asked Natalia gently.

While Cindy fixed the girl up a cool drink from the fridge, Natalia began to speak, hunting for words at times, her English imprecise and broken, but mostly understandable.

‘I answered advertisement for job,’ she began falteringly, ‘when I was living with Grandmother in St Petersburg. Much money and opportunities… I was so hopeful of a new life. My grandmother, she is very poor and we live in a poor home. I am not clever, but I have always wanted to be in film. And advertisement promises work in film.’ Natalia paused, frowning delicately. ‘You think me stupid. But I believed advertisement. So I pack bag and leave, and kiss goodbye to Grandmother, and tell her I go to be in film.’

‘But they lied to you?’

Her smile was sad. ‘I went to the meet place, and there were other girls too, just like me. They tell us to get into large van. It is crowded and dirty. I am scared… We drive all night and all day. There is no way to go to the toilet.’ She shuddered, closing her eyes. ‘They take our phones so we cannot call for help. The driver, he say… Be quiet or we kill you. So we are quiet.’

‘What happened then?’ Stella was furious this had happened to her, that men could trick innocent girls. Natalia was not a child but she was young and clearly naïve. And those men had played on her dreams and ambitions. She glanced down at the chart in front of her, noting the prominent Neptune, ruler of films, opposing Mercury. It would have been easy to deceive this girl by playing on her fantasies of fame and fortune.

‘We are put on ship. It sails for days and days. Three of the girls, they die. There is water though and a little food.’ Tears were rolling down Natalia’s cheeks. ‘The ship arrives in port. Then we are on lorry again. Driving and driving. I am sick. I think I will die too. Then at last lorry stops in woods. They open the doors and take us out.’ She choked. ‘They dig a big hole in woods and put dead girls in. The smell… I never forget.’

Cindy gave a groan, and hid her face in her hands again.

Stella tried not to let the horror overcome her too. She pushed the cool drink towards Natalia and waited while the girl took a few sips to steady herself.

‘Then what?’

‘We wait a few days, then they put us in new ship… We sail a few hours. It is night. The boat stops in the middle of sea, and we wait. Another boat comes. I am scared. We get onto new boat.’ Natalia’s face changes, and she gives a beatific smile. ‘But they are kind. They give us blankets and food. And they are gentle too. He is gentle.’

‘He?’ Stella asked, though she’d already half guessed who she meant.

‘Simon.’ Natalia said sadly. ‘Cindy’s son, Simon. He is one of men on boat. He tells me… Many, many girls come on boat in the night. Two, three times a year. They take girls to a big house where they are put in van… This van, it goes to London and Birmingham and other cities. He never sees these girls again.’

‘People traffickers.’ Stella swallowed her fury, trying to stay calm. But she was beginning to understand what had happened. ‘Go on.’

‘There was a delay when we arrive… The van has problem. We wait in the big house. There is a man there. I do not like him. He is big and rude. He says we must go. We cannot stay.’ Natalia pulled a face. ‘Simon calls him Bernie.’

‘Oh my God.’ Stella dropped the tablet onto the table, staring at her. ‘Bernard Doughty? You were kept at Bernard Doughty’s house? Shangri-La?’

‘I don’t know name… A big house near sea where boat comes. Then, erm, van is fixed. Only I do not go on the van.’

Everything was beginning to fall into place. Except Stella couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. Bernard Doughty had been involved with people trafficking? Was that why he’d been killed? But then why had Simon been killed? Or was she missing something?

‘Why not?’

Natalia wiped away a tear. ‘My fault…’ Sobbing, she accepted a tissue from Cindy. ‘I was sick. The fear, it makes me sick. When we are alone with Simon, I tell him, I cannot go on van. I will kill myself. I tell him, I want to go home. Back to Russia.’

‘So Simon hid you from the man who came to collect the other girls?’ Stella asked astutely. ‘And then took you home with him?’

Natalia nodded. ‘His father, he was so angry. He say I cannot stay. But Simon, he says no, I must stay, or he leave with me.’ Her tears were flowing freely now. ‘His uncle says I can stay. They will hide me from man with the van if he comes. It is very happy.’ Her smile was tremulous. ‘I love Simon, he love me, we spend many days happy together. Then it is my fault again…’ She moaned, her voice cracking with grief. ‘I get bored in house all day. I say, take me to meet your friends. Take me to pub. To clubbing. I just want to be normal girl with boyfriend.’

‘So Simon took you out clubbing. But the man with the van – the trafficker – he saw you with Simon, didn’t he?’

Natalia nodded mournfully. ‘After club, we walk on cliffs and he come after us. Simon says, hide. So I hide in bush. I hear shouts and big fight. Then nothing.’ Cindy had risen and was staring out across the estuary, her back very stiff. Natalia glanced her way, and went on unhappily, ‘I do not see Simon. The man, he come and look for me, but I stay very, very quiet. Then he goes. So I start walk.’

‘You walked back to Simon’s house?’

‘Yes. It take all night to walk. I tell his father and uncle what happen to Simon. His father is so angry… He blames me. He tell me to go, to get out!’

‘And did you?’

‘His uncle promises I can stay, but only if I… ‘ Natalia made a disgusted face. ‘You know… He is beast. Now Simon gone, he want my body.’

‘Oh God.’ Stella’s stomach churned. The girl was still only nineteen.

‘I pretend yes, he can have me. Then I call Cindy on the phone. Simon’s mother. I know he love her… So I run away, tell her what happen. She bring me here.’ Natalia looked round at Simon’s mother gratefully. ‘She hide me and tell no one. Until you come.’

Cindy’s shoulders were shaking. When she turned, tears were running down her own cheeks too. ‘Natalia wasn’t sure if Simon fell from the cliff accidentally during the struggle with this man, this trafficker, or if the man pushed him. But I have to know… What did you really see in that chart at the shop? Was Simon murdered?’ She came back to the table, her eyes pleading. ‘I know it must sound strange. I mean, he’s dead either way. But it’s important to me to know the truth. I hate not knowing how it happened, not knowing my son’s last moments on this earth.’

Nodding her understanding, Stella flicked quickly back to the chart she’d drawn up for that question originally. Looking at it now, with fresh information, and knowing most importantly why the question had been asked, she felt able to say, ‘He was pushed. This chart doesn’t show an accidental death, Mrs Trevethy. It shows a murder.’

‘Thank you.’ Cindy stumbled away, gulping. ‘I’m so sorry… Excuse me.’ A moment later she could be heard weeping noisily in another room.

Natalia dried her own tears. ‘My fault, all this.’ She sounded dreary and forlorn of hope. ‘And now this Bernie… He is dead too.’

‘True.’ Stella frowned. ‘But who killed him, and why? I mean, it wasn’t his fault you didn’t get into the van. And why get so angry over one missing girl?’

The Russian bit her lip. ‘When he put us in container on ship, the man says to me, you are for this special man in Birmingham.’ She pronounced the name of the city with difficulty. ‘He give me extra water and food. For survive better. He say this man in Birmingham like my picture. He is very important man, and he want me for himself.’

‘I see.’ Stella nodded. ‘So when you disappeared, it was noticed.’

‘Yes.’

‘And they guessed that Simon had you.’ She closed the chart app. ‘And maybe thought Bernard Doughty was involved in your disappearance, so they killed him too. But why do it at the occult shop? It seems strange.’ She was puzzled. ‘Why murder him at all, in fact? I mean, they were still using his house for the trafficking. He must have been more useful to them alive, surely?’

‘I don’t know.’ Natalia could only shrug. ‘What now?’ she asked as Stella got to her feet. She looked scared again. ‘You call police?’

‘I’m going to tell my friend about you, yes.’

‘Jack?’

‘Exactly. Jack’s a good man and you can trust him. He’ll know what to do.’ Stella patted her hand reassuringly. ‘Thank you for telling me your story, Natalia. I’ll be back in touch.’

Sitting in her Mini Cooper in the car park opposite Mrs Trevethy’s flat, Stella called Jack. As soon as he answered, she said quickly, ‘I know you’re probably working and I’m sorry to disturb you, but it’s about Mrs Trevethy.’

‘Tell me what you know,’ was all Jack said. ‘I’m out at Shangri-La at the moment, waiting for Cameron to show up, so I’ve got a few minutes.’

As briefly as possible, she told him about the gold sandals on the balcony and meeting Natalia, and smiled at his triumphant shout. ‘Hang on, there’s more.’ Then she explained about the people traffickers, and the man from the van struggling with Simon on the clifftop and most likely bashing him on the head before pushing the poor lad into the sea.

‘Good God, that explains a lot,’ Jack gasped. ‘So these people traffickers have been bringing the girls ashore at Bernard Doughty’s place? But of course, that’s why he had that huge new boathouse built at the bottom of the cliffs… And he had the public cliff path sealed off too, supposedly for safety reasons, so that nobody could come snooping around. Good God, what a villain. And he was the mayor too.’ He paused. ‘Are you with them right now?’

‘No, I’m outside in the car. Why?’

‘Because that man is still out there somewhere, hunting for Natalia. She knows a lot about their operation, by the sound of things, and they won’t let her go easily, especially if she really is considered special merchandise.’ He paused. ‘Remember that man we saw after the memorial service, hanging around? I bet he was watching in case Natalia turned up at the church… Or maybe he was following the Trevethys because he suspects one of the family of harbouring her. They may have other people watching addresses where she might be hiding. Which means you could be in danger if you’ve been spotted in the vicinity of Cindy Trevethy’s flat today.’

Stella blenched. She hadn’t thought of that. ‘I hope Natalia will be safe,’ she said, biting her lip. ‘She’s been sunbathing on the balcony.’ Though, glancing across at the riverside flats, she realised the balconies were all made of frosted glass. So it was unlikely the girl would have been seen from the road, at least.

‘I’m more worried about you at the moment,’ Jack said curtly.

‘Okay, what should I do?’ She peered cautiously about the car park, but couldn’t see anyone obviously watching her.

‘Leave everything to me. I’ll alert DI Martin, and get out there as soon as I possibly can to speak to this girl. I’m afraid we’ll probably have to arrest her, of course, since she’s here illegally. But I expect she’ll be eligible to ask for asylum, given what she’s been through, especially if she helps us break up this trafficking ring.’ His voice had deepened. ‘Meanwhile, promise me you’ll go straight back home and stay there. No heroics.’

‘Heroics? No, thank you, I learnt my lesson long ago.’ Stella smiled though, pleased that he still cared enough to worry about her. ‘I’m on my way home right now,’ she added firmly, turning on the engine. ‘Call me later and let me know what happens with Natalia, okay?’

On her drive home, thinking back over the various disturbing events since the grand opening of Druid’s Den, she found herself circling back to Bernard Doughty’s murder. What on earth did his killing have to do with Simon and Natalia? Yes, Bernard had been working with the traffickers, no doubt making a ton of money to fund his film star lifestyle years after he’d finished making films. But there didn’t seem to be any obvious connection to point the finger at Bernard being the guilty party when Natalia disappeared. So why murder him at all? And why kill him after having killed Simon, knowing Natalia had been hiding her, not Bernard?

Had Simon said something that night to incriminate Bernard, so that he became next on their list? Yet surely even a beautiful girl like Natalia would not have been worth disrupting their trafficking arrangements over?

No, it made no sense for the traffickers to have killed Bernard Doughty.

So who had killed him, then?

As she thought back to the day of the murder, trying to reconstruct it in her mind, a vague memory came back to her. Just before she’d closed the door, taking refuge in the back room of the shop, she’d seen that cyclist dropping one of the crystal balls. Then, later, there had been no sign of him anywhere.

Of course, as soon as Bernard’s body was discovered, everyone had been pushing and shoving to get out of the shop, and quite a few people must have driven away before the area could be secured. Perhaps the cyclist had rightly decidedly he didn’t want to spend hours incarcerated with everyone else, and had simply got on his bicycle and cycled off along the road towards Boscastle or maybe Tintagel. There was nothing unusual in that…

Yet there’d been something distinctly odd about him too. What was it? What had she seen that she couldn’t quite remember?

Slowly, groping her way towards a clearer memory, she rewound the morning in her head. Arriving at Druid’s Den to sort out her astrology space, and then stepping outside with everyone else to see bunting fluttering in the wind, and people crowded around the entrance where Luke was cutting the ribbon. She’d seen the cyclist for the first time then, arms folded, watching the proceedings with dark glasses on and a cyclist’s cap pulled low over his brow. But it was his bicycle that had caught her attention, even though later she had completely forgotten even noticing it.

Yes, she thought, thumping the steering wheel and nearly shouting out loud as she realised.

The bicycle!

He’d been wearing all the usual professional cyclist kit, shorts and special jersey, and the funny little shoes. Even those padded shorts that stop long-distance cyclists from getting a sore bottom, perched on those tiny saddles for hours.

And yet the bicycle that she’d seen him lean up against the wall had not been a match for his gear. It had been one of those old-fashioned pushbikes, the sort with a wicker basket at the front and large, thick-rimmed wheels. The kind of bike an old lady might’ve ridden along the village street in years gone by.

So what on earth had a man in full pro cycling gear been doing with a bike like that? It had been utterly out of place. And she’d noticed that disparity for a few vital seconds, her gaze skating across the scene, and then had promptly forgotten what she’d seen.

But then she’d been fretting about the grand opening, and her own role as shop astrologer, and then the embarrassing argument with Bernard Doughty, and his subsequent murder… All that had blotted other irrelevant details from her mind. The cyclist and his old lady’s sit-up-and-beg bicycle had fallen away from her memory. But it was back now.

The crystal balls… The cyclist must have handled them, because she’d seen him fumble and drop at least one.

She suspected no customers would have bought any of the crystal balls yet, for they were one of the more expensive items in the shop. Perhaps if she gathered them all together, Jack could have forensics examine them for prints, and they might find out exactly who that cyclist was. Though that would mean going straight to the shop right now instead of home. And it was half day closing, she realised. There wouldn’t be anyone there.

Luckily, Luke had given her a key to the back door of the shop, just in case of emergencies, and it was in her glovebox. So she turned off the main road instead of heading straight home, and made her slow way cross-country, down narrow lanes and muddy tracks, back to Druid’s Den.

The car park was empty, but there was a white transit van parked a short distance down the road, half blocking a gate into a field. She glanced at it, thinking the farmer would likely be unhappy about that. But delivery vans often parked there and walked, rather than taking a van down the tiny, bumpy track to the farm, so she thought nothing of it.

Parking up near the front door, she hurried round to the back, spare key in hand. But it wasn’t needed.

The back door was already slightly ajar, the wood frame splintered near the lock.

Shocked, she stopped dead, staring at the partly open door.

Someone had broken into the shop.

Gingerly stepping back a few feet, she called Jack. But it went straight to answerphone.

‘Damn it,’ she mouthed, staring at the door.

Holding her breath, phone still in hand, Stella pushed the door as silently as she could and peered inside. The shop was dark and silent. Relief flooded her. Whoever had broken the lock had presumably already stolen whatever they’d come for, and were long gone. Merchandise, presumably, as Luke never left any money in the till overnight, and had a sign in the window saying so.

She went inside, noting that the alarm didn’t appear to have been set that day, since it hadn’t gone off, and checked the shop floor for intruders.

Thankfully, nothing seemed to have been taken from the main displays and spinners. But around the corner, near her astrology alcove, the floorboards were shiny with liquid, there was an overpowering smell of fuel, and she saw a fuel can sitting abandoned in the middle of the shop.

‘What on earth…?’ she muttered, coughing violently at the smell, and bent to grab the fuel can and get it out of the shop.

Stella caught the tiniest creak of a floorboard behind her, and began to straighten, alarmed. That was when something hard came down on the back of her head, and everything went black.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Jack pocketed his phone after his call with Stella, and swiftly crossed the road, seeing Cameron pull up opposite in his van. The forensics guy jumped out and opened the back of the van, quickly pulling on protective clothing.

‘Hey there,’ Jack said, full of fresh energy at what he’d learnt, and soon filled him in on the new information. ‘I’d better ring Ronny and get him to let the DI know. As soon as we’re finished here, I’ll need to go out and arrest this Russian girl, I suppose. I’m not looking forward to it though. Sounds like she’s been through a terrible ordeal.’

‘Send DS Dawlish to do it instead, then,’ Cameron suggested lazily, and grinned at Jack’s shocked expression. ‘What? I know you don’t like her, there’s no point pretending otherwise. So give her the lousy job. You need to talk to this Russian girl about what she saw. Nail down that lad’s killer. But you don’t need to handle the dirty work yourself. Not when DI Martin has brought in this other Detective Sergeant to replace you.’

‘She’s not replacing me,’ Jack said testily. ‘It was only while it looked as though Stella might be a suspect, to keep things straight.’

‘Okay,’ Cameron said, locking the van and heading off down the road with his gaze bent to the ground. ‘Though I notice the dear Detective Sergeant hasn’t gone back from whence she came now that Stella’s apparently in the clear. So why not use that situation to your advantage?’

Jack didn’t bother answering that. He was only too aware that DS Dawlish was still on secondment from Devon, despite him now taking an active role in the investigation. But it wasn’t a bad idea, getting her to pick up Natalia instead.

He tried to ring Ronny and set that in motion as soon as possible, but failed. Checking the bars, he realised that his signal had died. ‘Damn… We must be in a blind spot. Do you have any signal?’

Cameron fished in a pocket for his phone, and then shook his head. ‘Sorry.’

‘It wasn’t too bad across the road, back where I parked the car… Perhaps I should head back there and tell Ronny to send Jane Dawlish out for the Russian girl.’

Cameron raised his head from his examination of seemingly fascinating dried mud on the roadside and glared round at him. ‘Jack, I’ve got a full day ahead. This is only my second stop, and I have another three items of evidence to fiddle with today. So, do you mind if we get this done first before you go gallivanting off across the countryside? We’re looking for footprints, tyre treads, anything like that, right?’

Jack relented, seeing the sense in that. ‘Okay, but we’ll need to be quick.’

‘Wish I’d brought my running shoes now,’ Cameron murmured, flicking him a sarcastic look.

They walked briskly along the road until they met the glass-topped wall that ran around Shangri-La. Jack soon identified the spot where the intruder had come over the wall, and they searched rigorously from that point, scouting around the bushes and in muddy hollows for any signs of prints. There were a couple of vague boot prints, but it had rained heavily since that night and they were no longer clear-cut enough to be useful.

Cameron let out a whoop a few yards further on, pointing to the dirt. ‘Tyre tracks… Belonging to a transit van, or I’m a donkey.’

‘Well, we can’t have you living out the rest of your days as a donkey, can we?’ Jack crouched to study the prints in the mud. ‘Definitely vehicle tracks. And yes, I suppose they could be from a transit. You can do the comparisons back at base.’

After Cameron had photographed the tread marks from every angle, they followed the ever-fainter traces through undergrowth and onto the road, where they stopped. Slowly, hunting for any sign of a resurgence of the tread marks, they wandered along the road northwards for about three hundred yards, where Cameron gave another cry, and bounded into the woodlands on the other side. Though woodlands was too fancy a term for the mess of scrub and low trees on that side of the road, Jack thought, following on hurriedly.

‘What have you found this time?’

‘More tracks from our mystery vehicle… and they go this way. Look, there’s a kind of rough track ahead, can you see it?’

He couldn’t, frankly, but trusted in the forensics officer’s greater experience of tracking tyre treads. Together, they followed this apparent ‘track’ into the hinterland for a short distance, where it became more distinct.

‘I think this used to be a lane,’ Cameron mused, ‘but it’s overgrown now. There may be some kind of disused building at the other end, which would explain why there’s a track here in the first place.’

Sure enough, within another five hundred yards, they glimpsed a structure through the trees ahead, and followed the overgrown track to a clearing where an ancient stone building stood alone, its roof partially tumbled in. The arched single window and narrow doorway told Jack that they were looking at a disused chapel. He had no idea how old it was, but it struck him as at least seventeenth-century, perhaps eighteenth-century at the latest. He’d heard of tiny, isolated chapels hidden here and there in the Cornish landscape, but had never known about this one so close to home. He guessed it couldn’t have been in use for maybe over a hundred years though, not only because the track was so overgrown, but because of the building’s crumbling stonework and ramshackle air.

There was a door at the rear of the old chapel, set under arched stone like the front entrance. But the lock was modern, and there was a sheen to it too, as though oil had recently been applied. Cameron walked on around the outside, but Jack stopped to try the large brass handle, which turned quite easily.

Hesitant, wondering if someone was inside the chapel, Jack pushed the door wide open and stuck his head around it. ‘Hello? Police…’ There was no reply, only a faint echo that suggested emptiness. ‘I’m coming in for a look around, in case anyone’s here.’ Again, there was no reply, so he stepped inside.

It was a small space, basically just one room, with an curtained alcove to one side of what must have once been the altar, but was now simply a rectangular stone table with thick dust, dried flowers and fallen plaster littering its surface. There was a strong smell of damp and mustiness, and he could see that a bird had been nesting in a corner of one of the rafters, no doubt having been tempted inside by the partially collapsed roof.

He stepped cautiously into the centre of the chapel, noting a trail of dried muddy boot prints leading from the back door to the curtained alcove. A local, coming in to check the place? Sometimes people volunteered to look after these disused chapels and churches, didn’t they?

Unable to resist, he decided to take a peep behind that vestry-style curtain. The ancient greening fabric was clearly the source of the musty smell, but he was disappointed to find nothing behind it either. Just an old, tatty robe hanging up on the wall – clerical, he guessed, – and a wooden cabinet that may once have housed Communion wine and wafers, but now contained nothing but mouse droppings. Rattling the curtain closed again, he returning to the body of the chapel, turned on his heel in the gritty dirt, studied the worm-eaten remnants of wooden pews stacked in a corner, and then went back out into the sunlight.

‘What’s inside?’ Cameron asked, coming round the corner again at that moment.

‘Nothing much. It’s empty. Doesn’t look like it’s been a working chapel in decades.’

‘Not surprising. Who builds a chapel all the way out here?’

‘Maybe it wasn’t always so overgrown,’ Jack pointed out, checking his mobile again. Still no signal. Impatience fizzed in his veins. ‘Besides, there was probably more of a village community at Parsloe a hundred years or so back. And nearly everyone went to Sunday Mass in those days, didn’t they? This would probably have been the nearest thing they had to a church within easy walking distance.’

‘Location, location, location.’ Cameron grinned and pulled off his plastic gloves, stuffing them in his pocket. ‘Okay, I’m done here if you are. Shall we walk on a little way, see what else might be out here?’ He pointed, and Jack followed his gaze to another squat building hidden by trees. ‘That, for instance. Care to take a look?’

He wanted to call Ronny. But he had asked Cameron to help out, so it would be rude to call it short now. They walked on together, finding the track curiously well-beaten. Jack studied the occasional boot print, which looked similar to the ones he’d seen in the chapel. Whoever lived further on must presumably make frequent trips towards the chapel, for exercise or even perhaps to worship, though that seemed unlikely given the state of the place.

It was a cottage, he realised, coming across it around the next corner. Also in disrepair but showing signs of recent if not current habitation. The roof had once been fully thatched but was now patched with lopsided wooden planks and sections of cracked slate. The tiny windows looked filthy and were hung with greying net curtains. The front door was crowded thickly by gigantic rhododendron bushes on either side, their glossy leaves shining in the sunlight, so the door itself could barely be seen.

‘Nice… not. I wonder who on earth lives here?’ Cameron paused, and then inexplicably strode out of sight.

Puzzled, Jack walked around the cottage without him, peering in through ground-floor windows to no avail. They were impenetrable. By the time he got back to the front, Cameron had returned. He was holding a white envelope. ‘There’s a postbox further along the track, and I suspect we must be quite close to the road that runs parallel with the one that goes past Shangri-La. And by the heavy vehicle tracks here, I’d say whoever lives here tends to come and go by the other road.’ He handed over the envelope. ‘This was sticking out of the postbox. It’s addressed to a Mrs Pengoll.’

‘Well, Mrs Pengoll doesn’t appear to be home. If she’s still alive.’

‘The postmark on that letter is only a few days old. And it appeared to be the only post in that box. Ergo, my dear Sherlock, Mrs Pengoll is still collecting her letters on a regular basis.’

‘Or she’s in a care home and someone’s collecting them on her behalf, Watson.’

Cameron grimaced. ‘Touché.’

Jack drew his attention to further tyre tracks in the lean-to garage area where it looked like a vehicle was occasionally parked. ‘They look very similar to the ones we saw near Shangri-La.’

Cameron took photos of the tracks and then compared them to the ones he’d taken of the other tracks near Bernard Doughty’s villa.

‘That’s because they are one and the same,’ he said after a moment’s study. ‘In fact, I’m willing to bet that the intruder who attacked Luke Emerson lives here in this cottage.’

‘You think Mrs Pengoll was the intruder?’

‘If so, she is one nimble lady.’ Cameron shook his head. ‘Unlikely, don’t you think? Besides, the rogue DNA we found on the wood fragments belonged to a male. More likely her son or perhaps husband.’

‘Can we find out for sure?’

‘Is the Pope Catholic?’ Cameron grinned. ‘Though first we’ll need to find out who lives here, and invite them to take a DNA test. For exclusion purposes, you understand.’

‘Of course.’

‘And we can easily find out if a vehicle is registered to this address.’ Cameron looked dubiously at the dilapidated cottage. ‘Assuming this ancient heap even has a postal address.’

‘Number 1, Rhododendron Cottages, Woods Lane, Parsloe?’

Cameron grinned. ‘I’ll get the team on it straightaway. Or rather,’ he added, checking his mobile with a frown, ‘I will as soon as we’re back within signal range. Come on, enough of this wilderness living. I’m peckish and there’s a nice, civilised bakery shop I need to visit in Bude. Not to mention their excellent customer toilets.’

Jack grinned.

They headed back to where they’d left their vehicles.

Jack had to admit himself puzzled. There didn’t seem to be an obvious connection between this cottage in the woods and the people traffickers. He had assumed, having listened to Stella’s somewhat bare account of what she’d learnt from Simon Trevethy’s girlfriend, there must be something missing, and now it seemed likely there was. Because otherwise this didn’t make sense. A woman living practically wild in the woods had broken into her nearest neighbour’s home to retrieve threatening letters, and then attacked Luke Emerson before dashing across the lawn at Shangri-La and scaling a ten-foot wall topped with broken glass? If he tried selling that idea to DI Martin, he’d be asked what he’d been smoking…

No, he needed to speak to Simon Trevethy’s girlfriend himself and straighten all this out. But without wanting to dump the dirty work on his new colleague, it was possible that DS Dawlish would prefer to be involved in any arrest. He certainly didn’t want to tread on her toes any further than he was already doing by coming out here with Cameron to hunt for evidence.

‘Ah, I’ve got a signal.’ Hurriedly, fearing it might disappear, he called Ronny. After explaining what Stella had told him, he asked if DS Dawlish would be available to bring the girl in from Wadebridge.

‘Sorry, Sarge, but she’s not here,’ Ronny told him. ‘We got a lead on that van… You know, the dark green van we’ve been looking for? It was reported stolen from Birmingham a few weeks back. It’s just been found abandoned and set on fire in a field off the A30 near Okehampton. DS Dawlish has gone out there with a couple of the forensics team to take a look.’

Jack cursed under his breath, but said, ‘Okay, I’ll go to Wadebridge myself and bring the girl in. Can you relay everything I’ve learnt so far to DI Martin and DS Dawlish? I haven’t got a great signal here, I could lose you at any moment.’

‘You’ll have to work hard to lose me, Sarge,’ Ronny told him cheerfully. ‘I’m hard to get rid of… Or so my mum’s always saying.’

‘Go on, get along with you,’ Jack said, laughing, and ended the call.

After agreeing to meet up again with Cameron in a day or two to discuss his team’s findings, Jack jumped into the car, heading for the riverside town of Wadebridge. It wasn’t a long distance as the crow flies, but the road to Wadebridge was narrow and winding along that part of the Cornish coastline, and crowded with summer visitors driving erratically, or so it seemed to him, and Jack was feeling jaded by the time he arrived. It was mid-afternoon before he pulled up in front of the block of riverside apartments where Mrs Trevethy lived and got out wearily, running a hand through his hair.

Jack stood a moment, watching the River Camel flow generously into widening estuary mudflats, two immaculate white swans bobbing on the current, and a handful of ducks quacking and paddling like crazy for the steep bank as the river narrowed, pooling under the arches of the old stone bridge.

He couldn’t put off this arrest forever. The girl had clearly been a victim in all this… First trafficked from Russian to Britain, destined for some city hellhole, no doubt, then had to witness someone she cared for deeply being murdered in front of her, only to be propositioned by the boy’s uncle, and then having to flee the dead of night with no money…

Perhaps she would come in willingly to be questioned and afterwards handed over to Immigration. But if she didn’t, he would be forced to arrest her, and that didn’t sit well with him.

Sighing, he leant on the doorbell to Flat 3 several times. It was definitely the right flat, since it had the name Trevethy written in biro next to it. But there was no answer.

Eventually, a middle-aged woman came bustling out past him, and he grabbed the heavy entrance door before it could shut.

‘Excuse me?’ The woman stopped to glare at him. ‘These are private flats. Where do you think you’re going?’

He fished his warrant card out of his pocket and held it up. ‘Police. I want to speak to Mrs Cindy Trevethy in Flat 3. Only she’s not answering the bell.’

The woman looked him up and down dubiously. ‘That’s because she’s not in. Her and that young girl who’s been staying with her, they’ve both gone out.’

Frustration boiled inside him at this news. Suspicion too. Stella had claimed the girl was not allowed to go out, in case she might be recognised. So what was going on?

‘Do you know when they might be back? Or where they’ve gone, maybe?’

‘Well, they took the car. So it won’t be somewhere local.’ The woman paused, frowning. ‘Actually, come to think of it, Cindy had a bag with her.’

‘What kind of bag?’

‘A suitcase, I think. One of those smaller ones that you take on a flight as hand luggage. Yes, she was wheeling it along the path… It made a dreadful noise. So maybe they’re going away.’ She smiled benignly as though pleased that his attempted visit had been thwarted.

‘Thanks,’ he said, trying not to sound sarcastic.

Back at the car, he stood staring at the rolling river for a moment, trying to work out his next move. If the two women were truly planning to disappear, he’d have to put out a description of them. Maybe an all-ports call. Newquay Airport was only a short drive away. But they’d need to discover what car she was driving, for starters, and whether this Natalia actually possessed a passport. ‘Damn it,’ he growled.

He was about to call Ronny to put the wheels in motion for an all-ports flag and BOLO when his phone rang. He didn’t recognise the number. ‘Hello?’

‘It’s Luke Emerson. Is that you, DS Church?’

‘Speaking.’ Jack frowned, catching something in his tone. ‘What is it, Luke? What’s the matter?’

‘I… I’m at the shop, at Druid’s Den,’ Luke blurted out, sounding breathless. ‘I came over to do some admin work while it was quiet, since it’s half-day closing. And Stella’s car is here in the car park, her Mini Cooper, but there’s no sign of her in the shop or anywhere…’ Panic flaring in his voice, Luke drew a sharp breath, almost a gasp. ‘Worse, someone’s broken into the shop.’

‘What?’

‘The lock on the back door’s been smashed and there’s fuel all over the floor… I think whoever broke in must have been planning to torch the shop. Only there’s nobody there now.’ He gulped. ‘The place is deserted.’

The light was fading to soft gold by the time Jack screeched to a violent halt outside Druid’s Den and leapt from his car. Luke was waiting for him, his face a pale, anxious mask.

‘You’re the first to arrive,’ he told Jack, clearly agitated, and not surprisingly. Jack was feeling more than a little agitated himself. ‘I called 999 like you suggested and they swore they’d send a patrol car out. But no one’s here yet.’

Jack’s simmering frustration threatened to boil over, but somehow he kept it suppressed. It was an effort though. ‘We’re stretched pretty thin at the moment,’ he admitted, following the owner round to the back of the stone-built, one-storey building. Even in the twilight, he could see where the door had been prised open, most probably with a crowbar. There was no sign of any such implement now though.

The lights were on inside and, as Luke had said, the stink of fuel was powerful.

‘Careful, that filthy-smelling stuff is all over the floor,’ Luke warned him as he ventured inside. ‘Whoever did it must have intended to burn this place to the ground. But what I don’t understand is why didn’t they? Do you think they were interrupted?’ He stared wildly about his shop. ‘Perhaps by Stella arriving? God, where can she be?’

That question had already seared itself indelibly into Jack’s mind on the wild drive over here from Wadebridge, taking bend after bend at reckless speed. If people traffickers had snatched her…

That horrific possibility was driving him almost mad.

Thankfully, professionalism clicked in before he could admit to his own fears, and he said reassuringly, ‘Don’t worry, we’ll find her,’ without a single shred of conviction.

Trying to focus on his job, he crouched to examine the plastic fuel can, still standing abandoned in a pool of pungent fluid. ‘Hmm.’ Careful not to touch the can, he sniffed the remaining contents cautiously. ‘Well, that explains one puzzle at least. It’s diesel, not petrol.’

Luke stared at him blankly. ‘Sorry?’

‘It’s not flammable,’ he explained, wondering how Luke had managed to reach his late twenties without knowing such a basic fact. But then perhaps he was not alone in that ignorance. ‘Whoever did this could have been standing here with a lighter for twenty minutes, wasting his time trying to get it alight, when the most he could have achieved would be to make it smoke or smoulder. Which would explain the smell…’ Jack straightened, frowning. ‘Who brings diesel to torch a building? Except an idiot, of course. Makes me wonder if we’re dealing with children here.’

‘Children? Breaking open that heavy door at the back? Pouring fuel everywhere? No, I don’t buy it.’ Luke shook his head vehemently. ‘Anyway, where’s Stella? You’re not going to tell me that a bunch of kids abducted her.’

Jack said nothing but he shared Luke’s skepticism. This didn’t strike him as a trick played by kids, not even the usual young hooligans who vandalized toilets and shopfronts along the Cornish coast for kicks on a Saturday night.

There were scuff marks on the polished floorboards, he noted, where the varnish was now peeling and sticky, damaged by prolonged exposure to diesel. It might not ignite easily but it could still cause damage. And not just to Luke’s flooring. His eyes were stinging, for starters.

Coughing, Jack covered his mouth with a tissue and bent to study the floorboards. ‘Hang on, what’s that?’ He pointed to the scuff marks, and what looked like a long smear across the damp floorboards, as though someone had dragged something heavy over the floor. His mind leapt immediately to Stella’s dead or unconscious body. Panic engulfed him, and it took immense resolve to add with restraint, ‘Looks like someone may have slipped over in the fuel here… You?’

‘Not me, no.’

‘And what’s this?’ He crouched again, rummaging in his pockets for a pair of tweezers.

Behind him, Luke made a helpless noise of protest. ‘Honestly, I haven’t been anywhere near that noxious stuff. I was careful… I walked around the edge to check that Stella wasn’t here before I called you.’ He peered over Jack’s shoulder at what he’d picked up with the tweezers. ‘What on earth… ? Is that a leaf?’

Jack remained silent, staring down fixedly at the glossy leaf fragment. Its ragged edge was faintly smeared with mud. There was something familiar about its shape…

Then he stirred, reaching for his phone. ‘Yes,’ he agreed, his heart thumping uncomfortably. ‘It’s a leaf from a rhododendron bush.’

‘Is that significant?’ Luke asked, sounding mystified.

‘It wouldn’t have been a few hours ago,’ Jack admitted, dropping the torn leaf fragment delicately into an evidence bag, ‘but it is now.’

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Stella was lying in the back of a dark, rattling van that kept rounding corners at speed, sending her rolling from one side to the other. Someone in the front was playing heavy metal at an excruciatingly loud volume, which wasn’t helping the throbbing pain in her head. She had come to with a jolt some ten minutes before, instantly recalling being hit on the back of the head in Druid’s Den, and realised that somebody had abducted her. While unconscious, she must have been dumped into the back of this smelly van, hands bound behind her back with what felt like sticky tape, and more tape used on her mouth to silence her.

She’d panicked at first, trying unsuccessfully to get to her knees without the use of her arms, and then given it up as useless after banging herself on the edges of boxes and crates that littered the back of the van. At every jolt, the contents of these boxes rattled, jingled and chinked, as though full of china plates and bric-a-brac. As the van rounded another sharp bend, she had to brace with her feet against a large crate to avoid being thrown sideways again.

Who the hell had taken her? It had to be the people traffickers Natalia had mentioned. But why? Because she knew too much?

She’d already passed on the information to Jack though, so it was pointless if they hoped to kill her and shut her up that way. But maybe they didn’t know she’d already made that phone call. If so, they were idiots.

The pain in her head intensified and she closed her eyes, her temples throbbing. Something here didn’t make sense. Think, think, think…

Someone had broken into Druid’s Den. They’d poured fuel all over the floor. That didn’t sound like people traffickers. Unless Luke Emerson was somehow involved with trafficking, which she sincerely doubted. He was quirky and often a little strange. But he wasn’t a criminal. At least, if he was, he was also a fabulous actor and deserved several gold Oscars on his mantelpiece.

So, if it wasn’t traffickers, then who on earth had hit her on the head and thrown her into this van? And what did they intend to do with her?

She had interrupted a crime in progress. That explained the why. They had taken her because they thought she’d witnessed them planning to torch the shop. But she hadn’t witnessed anything, in truth. All she knew was that someone had hit her on the head from behind, and it hurt like mad.

The van slowed and turned to the right.

She tensed, listening. She hadn’t heard anyone talking in the front of the van, which was closed off from the back compartment. Though that was hardly surprising, given the heavy metal music thumping through the hardboard partition. Perhaps that was why they were playing music so loud… To prevent her from hearing their conversation.

Her mind leapt to people traffickers again, and a horrible suspicion began to take hold that she herself had been trafficked. They’d seen her tiptoeing into the shop, thought she looked like a likely victim, and now she was going to be bundled off to be a sex slave in Birmingham or Bradford or somewhere like that, never to be seen again.

The van began to bump over an uneven surface. She was jolted and thrown about, and groaned as she hit her head again. She was going to have an almighty lump there, she thought grimly. Perhaps several almighty lumps.

At last, the van swayed to a stop, the music was shut off, and the driver got out of the van.

She lay very still, hearing footsteps.

One set of footsteps only.

So she’d been taken by one person. Unless a second person was sitting absolutely still and silent in the van. Which seemed unlikely.

Lying on her side, hands bound behind her back, Stella couldn’t imagine there was much she could do to thwart her captor. But she had to admit to some curiosity. It would be good to put a face to her abductor and understand at last what was going on…

But the footsteps receded, rather than coming round to the back of the van.

She lay there in silence for some minutes, straining to hear anything. The van was silent, apart from the odd creak and tick as the engine cooled. She could hear birdsong. But no traffic. And maybe the distant whisper of the sea.

Where the hell was she?

A grim fear flashed across her mind as she imagined the driver digging a shallow grave and then coming back for her. Was this it? Was she about to be murdered and dumped into a hole in the middle of nowhere, where she would never be found, or not until the killer was long gone?

She must’ve missed hearing his footsteps coming back, for the back door to the van was abruptly thrown open, the dark interior illuminated. Holding her breath, she craned around, but was unable to see who was standing there, his large figure blocking the light.

He laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. Then he reached in, grabbed hold of her feet, and began to drag her to the edge of the van. Her face banged on the floor and she struggled, kicking out at him.

‘Keep still, bitch, or I’ll hurt you.’

Astonished by that rough male voice, she obeyed.

Was that… an Australian accent?

A vague memory came to her. But it was mad. Impossible, surely?

Then she was plucked from the floor of the van, briefly aware of being in the countryside with dark greenery on all sides and the smell of the sea, and thrown unceremoniously over a bulky shoulder. She glimpsed a stubbly chin on the way, lip and nose piercings, and long straggly hair dyed green, shoved forward to cover a receding forehead.

A name came to her…

Dick Fell?

He had been the crazy guy at the grand opening of Druid’s Den… Some religious fanatic that Luke had warned her about. Wasn’t he supposed to be living somewhere near Bernard Doughty’s villa? That would certainly explain the absence of traffic noise, plus hints of being on the coast. But what  was Dick Fell doing, kidnapping her? And if that had been him at Druid’s Den, why had he been trying to burn the place down?

Then she remembered the notes that Luke had received prior to opening Druid’s Den. The one he’d shown her had simply said, Repent. But the first one Luke had received, which she’d never seen, had apparently said, You will burn in hellfire. Perhaps Dick Fell had decided to make that threat a reality, and she had interrupted him in the act.

With a grunt, the green-haired maniac slammed the van door shut and carried her through undergrowth, her head bumping helplessly against his back all the way. Then he ducked, and she realised he was carrying her inside a building. Chill air left her shivering in her light summer frock, and she peered up and around the dim space in trepidation. Where on earth had he taken her?

It looked like an old chapel, she realised, with arched windows and the faint remains of painted holy scenes on the crumbling plasterwork.

He set her down, none too gently, on what seemed like a stone table. The altar? Her bound hands dug into her back, making it impossible to get comfortable, assuming any comfort would be possible when lying on hard, cold stone. She was staring up into partially collapsed roof timbers, scarred with bird lime and mould. There even seemed to be an abandoned nest up there…

‘Welcome to your new home.’ Dick Fell ripped the silver tape from her mouth without warning, and she yelped in pain. He nodded with apparent satisfaction, as though it had been his intention to hurt her. ‘Yes, now you see the error of your ways. But it’s too late. God was watching. And this is your punishment, Stella Penhaligon.’

He reached for something that glittered in the half-light, and she froze, staring up at him in horror. It was a large knife.

Good grief, was he planning to sacrifice her on this altar in some deranged religious ceremony

‘You… You’re Dick, is that right?’ she stammered through dry lips, hoping to distract him. ‘You don’t need to do this, Dick. I won’t say anything about… About the shop. I really didn’t see anything, in fact, and that’s the truth. So you could just let me go.

‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you? For me to let you go, free as a bird, to fly back to your police lover and tell him everything.’ He nodded at her startled look. ‘Yes, I know all about you and Jack Church. I’ve seen you together,’ he hissed, bending closer and showing her the knife. It was a large, brutal -looking kitchen knife with a studied handle. ‘He has strayed from his name, hasn’t he?’

‘S-Sorry?’

‘Church,’ he repeated. ‘With a name like that, he should be a God-fearing man. But I know he has an ungodly relationship with you. With a Satan worshipper…’ He shook his head, pointing the knife towards her. ‘Your death would return him to the straight and narrow path, I see that now.’

She wanted to scream but knew it might make things worse. ‘Please don’t hurt me,’ she whispered.

He grimaced. ‘Stupid woman. I won’t hurt you,’ he said simply. ‘I don’t need to, because God will do it when he deems the time is right for you to die.’

With this, he thrust her roughly over and began to saw at the tape binding her hands so tightly behind her back. Weak with relief, she realised what the knife was for. Releasing her, not cutting her throat.

Stella closed her eyes and breathed more easily. But if he wasn’t going to hurt her, then why had he brought her here? What was his end game?

Once he’d dragged the sticky remnants of silver tape from her wrists, he helped her to sit up, and then fetched water in a small, dirty cup. It didn’t look very appetizing, and she hesitated, wondering if he planned to poison or drug her. But her throat was dry and she was thirsty, so she took a few cautious sips before handing the cup back. All the while, he stood watching intently, the large kitchen knife still in his hand. No doubt as a deterrent against her trying to escape.

‘Did you kill Bernard Doughty?’ she asked, glancing from the knife to his face. ‘Because he was a sinner?’

‘You’re right, the Doughty man was a sinner. One of the biggest sinners out there. Polluting God’s natural air with his wicked ways.’ Dick Fell ran an experimental finger along the sharp edge of the blade, his eyes gleaming, but then shook his head. She thought he looked almost disappointed at having to deny her accusation. ‘But I didn’t kill him, no. Someone else beat me to it and rid this world of that filthy scum. May their name be praised forevermore!’

‘Who, then?’

He shrugged. ‘No idea.’

‘But you sent him anonymous notes, didn’t you? Like the notes you sent to Luke Emerson.’

‘Sinners need to be warned what awaits them. God grants those who repent a second chance.’ He made a face. ‘But most refuse to repent. So they are punished, as he was.’

‘I don’t get it.’ She stared at him, baffled. ‘If you had nothing to do with Bernard’s death, then why were you at the shop today?’

‘I was going to purify that disgusting place. Purify it with God’s holy fire.’ Embarrassment flashed across his features. ‘Only it didn’t work. The fuel wouldn’t catch. I tried and tried… But God wouldn’t allow me to do it, however hard I prayed.’ His eyes gleamed again. ‘Then He sent you to me instead.’

‘Me?’

‘Indeed… You are proof of God’s Will.’ Dick Fell crossed himself reverently. ‘Now I understand His design in sending me to that Godless place. He wanted me there so I could find you and bring you back to his holy house.’

She glanced about the ancient, disused chapel. The place was utterly filthy. ‘What for? To be your cleaner?’

He swore and struck her full across the cheek with the back of his hand. She reeled back, her head throbbing again, her ears ringing. She could taste blood in the corner of her mouth.

‘Show some respect!’ Dick Fell bent close to her face, long green hair flopping, and she saw the flash of his blade. ‘Unless you want to experience pain.’

‘No, thank you.’ She shuddered, forcing herself to add meekly, ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. But it’s so strange… I don’t understand why you’ve brought me here.’

‘I don’t understand either, woman. But this is clearly what God intended me to do, otherwise he would never have put you in my path.’ He stepped back, muttering to himself over the kitchen knife. ‘Holy Father… Lord of Creation… Help Thy humble servant to see the path ahead.’ He closed his eyes, swaying slightly, then burst out with a flash of temper, ‘I prayed all the way here for guidance. But God has not yet replied.’

‘Perhaps he’s busy,’ she muttered, and saw his furious gaze snap back to her face. ‘Sorry,’ she repeated, aware of the knife turning her way again. But some devil on her shoulder forced her to add, ‘Though maybe you couldn’t hear his reply over the sound of your music. It was rather loud. Heavy metal? That doesn’t sound very God-fearing.’

He stared, mouth open. ‘Then that just shows how little you know, woman,’ he snarled. ‘Heavy metal music is part of God’s glorious plan for humankind. I play those songs to honour him.’ The knife point came up into her face, and then wavered again. His eyes narrowed. ‘You were there, weren’t you? At the house of sin.’

‘The house of… Oh, you mean Shangri-La.’ Her eyes widened, looking him up and down. ‘Of course… It was you. The big man in the hoody who knocked Luke down at Bernard Doughty’s villa.’ Then she realised what that indicated. ‘You went there to get back the threatening note you’d sent him, didn’t you? Because it was evidence and you knew the police would be searching the place. But if you didn’t kill him, why worry about it?’

He said nothing, but stared at her with horrible indecision in his face. Eventually, he muttered, ‘There were many notes. The police couldn’t be allowed to see them. They were for his eyes only… I’m sure they were clean. I made certain of it. I wore gloves. For everything. But the police… They’re clever, aren’t they? They have special techniques. And I might have made a mistake. I might have handled one of those magazines without gloves,’ he went on, staring at nothing, his eyes widening in horror, ‘and then they would know.’

She had listened to his disjointed rambling in bafflement. ‘Know what?’

‘Who I am, of course. Who I bloody am!’ His eyes were wide and staring, and he was pointing to his own chest with the kitchen knife. His Australian accent had become pronounced. ‘And I can’t allow that to happen, do you understand?’

She didn’t, of course. ‘But aren’t you… Dick Fell?’

He threw back his head and laughed, shaking his head so the lavish green hair fell about his shoulders, revealing his bald head. Then he stopped abruptly and stared at her. ‘So they don’t know yet. You don’t know. But if I let you go now…’ He pointed at her with the knife. ‘You’ll talk!’

‘No, I won’t.’

‘Women always talk,’ he said bitterly. ‘My mother… She never stopped.’ His eyes flashed. ‘Until she did.’

Stella, studying, suddenly realised what had been staring her in the face ever since she’d first laid eyes on Dick Fell, back in Druid’s Den. His horribly frustrated, gut-wrenching sense of betrayal… and of feminine betrayal, most specifically. She’d noted the heavy involvement of the Moon in all this, especially with the two murders, so different and yet eerily similar in some way, clearly linked by the same underlying theme or business… and that theme seemed to be the feminine. But not a light, flirtatious Venusian touch. This was the deep, heavy, almost suffocating presence of the Moon. The archetype of the feminine. Moon as Mother.

‘What was she like, your mother?’ she asked tentatively, wishing she could summon up his chart out of thin air. But she couldn’t feel the weight of her phone in her pocket, and guessed either Dick Fell had taken it or else it was still back at the shop.

‘She didn’t understand me.’ He flicked back his hair with an unconscious gesture. ‘She called me a freak. Said I wasn’t a… a real man.’ His mouth compressed. ‘Well, I told her I didn’t care. I never wanted to be a real man, anyway.’

‘Where is she now?” She knew the answer, but asked all the same.

‘Ten feet under.’

‘Was she Australian too?’

‘Her? She was never from Oz. You don’t know the first thing about me, do you know?’ He mocked her. ‘If you must know, I was born right here, in this miserable little place.’

She stared. ‘In this chapel?’

‘Ha ha, very funny. No, not in here. Though I’d have preferred that.’ He glared at the knife, as though blaming it for his troubles. ‘I was born in Cornwall, in a little cottage down the way. Only my mother was a slut. She always called herself Mrs Pengoll, but she was plain Miss Pengoll. My father was a married man. And he barely looked twice at me. Dead now, both of them.’ He gave a snort. ‘If they could see me now, see my power, realise what I’ve made of myself… But neither of them were interested in God.’

‘So you’re Cornish? But the accent…’

‘I left home when I was nineteen. This place was just too small for me. I wanted to see the world. Got a work visa, flew to Australian, dropped anchor in Sydney when I was twenty, and never came home.’ His face contorted. ‘Then my mother died and left me her house. Though hovel would be a better word for it.’

‘Yet you chose to come home.’

His expression became cautious. ‘Oh, well, I was already back in the UK by then.’ Again, he flicked back his green hair, not meeting her gaze. Not that she could read his face particularly… It was getting dark in the little chapel, the light outside rapidly failing, and there didn’t seem to be any electricity. ‘I needed the money, so I came back here to live. Only it was impossible to sell the house, because it’s falling apart. I could only sell the land. That devil made me an offer… But I wasn’t desperate enough to sell up to a Satanist.’ He shook his head. ‘Once I saw what was going on over there, so close to this holy house, I knew God wanted me to stay and make things right.’

She nodded, wishing she could see his chart. The Moon would figure prominently, she was sure, perhaps aligned with Pluto or Saturn. The suffocating mother. The son disappointing the parent. Aquarius Ascendant, perhaps. Or eccentric, unpredictable Uranus in the First House of identity. A refusal to accept social norms, a desire to live life according to his own rules.

‘Are you sure you didn’t kill Bernard Doughty?’ She saw his lips tighten, and pressed him. ‘But perhaps you know who did?’

‘Only God knows.’

She didn’t believe him. ‘Dick… Come on.’

‘I’m not Dick,’ he spat angrily.

Stella blinked. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I hate that name. I only took it because… because I thought it would be safer than my real name.’ He smoothed down his hair. ‘Richard,’ he murmured. ‘My name’s Richard.’

‘And Dick is a diminutive for Richard… Yes, I see. Did your mother call you Dick or Richard?’

‘Richard,’ he admitted. ‘They only started calling me Dick back in Australia, when I was… Well, that doesn’t matter. But I got used to it, okay? So I took it as my name when I came back.’ He paused, looking away. ‘Fell was my grandmother’s maiden name. I always liked it better than Pengoll.’

She didn’t understand. ‘Let me get this straight… You didn’t want people to know you were Richard Pengoll, so you changed your name to Dick Fell?’

‘It’s none of your bloody business what I did,’ he snapped back at her, the knife shaking in his hand. ‘I just like being incognito, that’s all.’

He stopped dead, head cocked, listening.

In the distance, she could hear a faint ring tone. Her phone, she realised, staring at him with widening eyes. He must have taken it from her in the shop and left it in the front of the van.

He hesitated, glancing about as though intending to secure her somehow. Then he seemed to give up and bit out instead, ‘Stay put. And no funny business!’

Slamming out of the chapel, kitchen knife in hand, Dick Fell – or rather, Richard Pengoll – shut the door behind him, and she heard what sounded like a key turning in the lock.

She jumped down from the altar stone at once and ran to the door, but it was definitely locked and refused to budge.

‘Damn.’

The light was almost gone, but she saw another arched door across the chapel, most likely the main entrance back in the day, and ran to that instead. It was bolted in two places but she dragged back its stiff bolts with trembling hands. That too proved to be locked though, merely rattling when she dragged on it, and there was no sign of a key anywhere.

Breathing hard, she stared around at the filth-encrusted windows, set in arched stone frames, but they were all too high to be easily accessible, and anyway, they were far too small. She could never hope to wriggle through one and escape, even if she could break the thick, milky glass.

If she couldn’t get out, then perhaps she could find a defensive weapon. Something to give her an advantage when he returned.

But an extensive search revealed nothing but a few old pots that had once held flowers. She could throw them at his head, perhaps…

Shaking with what felt like delayed shock, Stella sank down with her back against the damp wall behind the altar, clutching an old china pot, and stared through the gathering gloom at the door where, eventually, her would-be killer would likely reemerge.

It was some time later when Stella heard the sound of a vehicle engine, and sat up with a start, blinking at the darkness, wondering if she had actually fallen asleep while waiting…

Had he gone away and was now back? But she hadn’t heard the van leave. Perhaps he had called someone. An accomplice?

Then she heard her name being shouted in a familiar voice, and dropped the old china pot in a flood of overwhelming relief. It was Jack.

‘I’m in here,’ she shouted, running to the door and banging on it with her fists. ‘In the old chapel. I’m locked in, Jack. Oh, please hear me!’

Her prayer was apparently answered, for she soon heard him outside, and saw torchlight catch the high windows.

‘Stella?’

‘In here, Jack!’ She was crying, she realised. ‘Dick Fell abducted me. He was trying to burn the shop down.’

‘I know,’ he told her through the door. ‘It’s okay. I worked it out.’

She leant her face against the dirty wood of the door, loving the sound of his voice. ‘How on earth did you work it out?’

‘He left behind a piece of rhododendron.’

‘Sorry?’

‘I was out here earlier. There’s a little cottage just down the track, and it’s completely swamped by gigantic rhododendron bushes. I got onto Ronny and he did his magic and came up with the owner’s name. And then Cameron got in touch…’ He was fiddling with the lock. ‘I’m so sorry, Stella,’ he added, exasperation in his voice, ‘but I need a key for this. It’s too thick to break down.’

‘He has the key,’ she told him through the chapel door. ‘Dick Fell.’

‘That’s not his real name.’

‘I know.’ She almost laughed. ‘It’s Richard Pengoll. And he’s been living in Australia for years.’

‘You could give Cameron a run for his money, you know.’ Luke sounded amused. ‘That’s right. It turned out his DNA was on one of those letters he cut out to make Bernard Doughty’s threatening note. It came up on the database as belonging to a Richard Pengoll, who was only released from prison in Australia for kidnapping and attempted murder two years ago.’ His voice had turned sombre. ‘He kidnapped a woman he knew through his local church in Sydney, and stabbed her… She survived, but only just.’

‘Oh my God.’ Stella shivered, realising how close she might have come to losing her life. ‘Please, Jack, get me out of here.’

‘I will,’ he promised. ‘But I’m going to leave you with Luke for a few minutes. He’s here too and will keep you company.’ She heard Luke call a celebratory hello, and smiled, sobbing quietly with relief. ‘I need to find Dick Fell first and get the key off him.’

She turned cold, hugging herself in the dark chapel. ‘What do you mean? You… You don’t already have him in custody?’

‘No, we had a quick look in the cottage but couldn’t see anyone there. The lights are all out.’

‘His van – ’

‘It’s empty. I expect he heard us coming and made off on foot.’

‘He’s got a knife.’

‘Right.’ He paused. ‘Did he hurt you?’ There was strain in his voice.

‘No. But I think he wanted to. Listen, Jack, he’s crazy. Completely certifiable. He swears he didn’t kill Bernard Doughty and I believe him. But he’s still dangerous. I wouldn’t put anything past him.’

‘Understood. I’ve got some back-up on the way, please try not to worry. ’ll be back as soon as I can, love. Stay calm, okay?’

Then he was gone.

Stella covered her eyes, weeping. If Dick Fell hurt him…

‘Hello,’ Luke said awkwardly through the door. ‘Are you all right in there? It’s very dark, isn’t it? Jack’s got the only torch. I’ve got a light on my phone but it’s not very bright. Goodness, it’s so dark out here in the countryside, isn’t it? Rather spooky…’ He paused. ‘Shall I play some music on my app? Something cheerful to keep our spirits up? Or would you prefer to, erm, talk?’

‘Why don’t you call an ambulance?’

He sounded surprised. ‘For the guy who kidnapped you? You think Jack’s going to beat him up?’ He hesitated. ‘Or do you mean for Jack? My God, should I have gone with him, do you think? If this guy’s so dangerous –’

‘For me, Luke, for me,’ she interrupted with a groan, finally able to pay attention to the throbbing pain in her head. ‘Dick Fell bashed me over the head and I think there’s a good chance I should have some medical attention.’ She closed her eyes, leaning her forehead against the chapel door. ‘Either that or a large glass of gin.’

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Jack hated having to leave Stella trapped in the old chapel. In fact, everything inside him rebelled at the thought. But she seemed safe for the moment, and he couldn’t risk Dick Fell getting away. This was personal and he didn’t mind admitting it. He wanted that man to pay for what he’d done.

Night had fallen while he was reassuring Stella as best he could through the chapel door. Switching on the torch he’d taken from his car, he navigated the paths around the chapel, which were heavily overgrown.

Ahead of him, a few feet from his own vehicle, stood the van that Fell must have used to abduct Stella from the shop. It was a white transit, and the back was open. He’d already looked inside on their arrival before heading straight to the cottage, which had also seemed silent and deserted. Now, he shone the torch cautiously inside the back of the van, which was full of rubbish as far as he could see. Glancing into the crate nearest to the door, he saw nothing but low value bits and pieces, willow-pattern dinner plates wrapped in newspaper, musty old books, presumably once owned by his late mother and that perhaps Fell had been planning to sell.

But there was no sign of anyone, either in the back or front of the van.

Somehow, they must have missed the man when they arrived. Perhaps he’d heard them coming and turned off all the lights in the cottage, pretending nobody was home. Or perhaps it had no electricity and there were no lights to turn off. Or Fell had been lurking in the bushes near the van, and ducked out of sight when he heard a vehicle coming.

‘Okay, where are you?’ he murmured, shining his torch beam up and down the track. A faint noise reached his ears. A thud, coming from the direction of the cottage. He turned towards it and broke into a run, trying to make as little sound as possible. Aware the torch beam would give him away, he snapped it off, but then couldn’t see a damn thing and almost fell over a tree stump. So much for being stealthy…

Ahead, he saw a light shine out briefly, and stopped dead, turning off his torch again. Someone was heading his way with their own torch, a thin wavering beam lighting up the track from the cottage. Someone large and bulky, and carrying what looked like a holdall.

Holding his breath, Jack waited behind a bush until the figure was almost upon him, and then stepped out, turning on his torch again at the same time and directing the beam straight into the man’s face.

Sure enough, it was Dick Fell. He hadn’t met him, but he’d had a good description from Ronny, and it fitted this man perfectly. Large, overweight, weird green hair, facial piercings…

‘Police, stop!’ he told him.

Fell gave a frightened cry and dropped his torch. Then he barrelled into Jack, taking him by surprise, and scampered off like a hare in the darkness, surprisingly fast for a big man, though no doubt knowing the ground a lot better than Jack did. Within seconds, he was gone.

Jack turned his torch this way and that in vain, cursing under his breath.

‘You can’t hide forever, Fell!’ he shouted, hunting wildly between trees and shrubs, seeing nothing. ‘Or should I call you Richard Pengoll? Look, you might as well come out, Pengoll. It’ll be better for you if you do. Because there’s no way you can get away. We know who you are now.’

There was no reply.

Time for a change of tactic, Jack decided. He turned off his torch again and stood very still instead, listening intently.

Presently, somewhere to his right, he heard the crack of a twig, and turned just in time to see Dick Fell swinging something at him through the darkness.

He dodged, but whatever it was caught him a fleeting blow on the shoulder. Jack gave a cry and staggered backwards, shining the torch beam full into his assailant’s eyes to blind him.

‘This is useless,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘we know who you are and what you’ve done. Give it up!’

‘I haven’t done anything.’ Defiantly, Fell swung at him again, and Jack saw what had hit him. A crowbar. Presumably the same crowbar used to jimmy the back door of the shop.

‘Then stop this nonsense,’ Jack told him, dodging the blow again. ‘Give us your side of the story. You’re only adding time to your sentence at this stage. Resisting arrest, assaulting a police officer…’

‘I’m not going back to prison!’ Fell charged at him with a cry, having missed with the crowbar, and knocked the torch from his hand. Then he made off into the darkness again.

Scrabbling to his feet, Jack swore, bending to retrieve the torch, which was thankfully still on. Then he made after his assailant, who seemed to be heading for his van.

Within only a few seconds, he came upon Fell stretched face-first on the path, groaning. He’d tripped over his own holdall, which he must have dropped earlier in order to come back and finish Jack off.

‘Get up!’ Jack dragged the man to his feet, pulling his hands roughly behind his back. He didn’t have handcuffs; his pair was still in the car. But he used a deep, authoritative voice to hold the big man in position instead. Sometimes it worked on perpetrators; sometimes it didn’t. ‘That’s enough now, you’re coming with me.’

He was lucky this time.

Fell cringed, all the spirit going out of him now he was caught. ‘Don’t hurt me!’

‘I’m not going to hurt you, you berk. But I am going to arrest you.’

‘What for?’ Fell whined. ‘I haven’t done anything.’

‘Seriously?’ Jack shook his head in disbelief. ‘Richard Pengoll, also known as Dick Fell, you’re under arrest on suspicion of abduction, assault, breaking and entering, and attempted arson. Anything else I should be arresting you for? In case I missed something there.’

‘It’s not true,’ Dick fell sobbed as Jack dragged him back towards his car. ‘None of it.’

‘Save it for your statement. Oh, and you do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Right, now you’re under caution.’

Fell seemed pathetic now that he’d been caught, hanging his head. ‘I didn’t touch her, I swear. And that thing at Bernard Doughty’s house, it was just an accident. I was trying to get out of the house without being seen and that guy from the occult shop was in my way. I didn’t mean to hurt him.’

‘And the attempted arson at Druid’s Den? And abducting Stella Penhaligon by force?’

Fell growled but said nothing more. Jack suspected that he was foolishly considering the odds of making another break for it. But it was too late. He could already hear sirens, and soon saw lights bouncing unevenly along the bumpy track from the main road. He took a deep breath, knowing that the ordeal was over. Though for Dick Fell, it was just beginning.

‘Where’s the key to the chapel?’ he demanded, and shook Fell when he didn’t reply.

‘Back pocket,’ Fell told him, surly and defeated now, outlined in the bright headlights of the approaching police vehicles.

As he reached the back door to the chapel, having left his arrest in the capable hands of his constable and a couple of uniformed officers, Jack found Luke looking round at him anxiously.

‘Everything all right?’ Luke asked, peering past him. ‘Did you get him? And is that the cavalry?’

‘Yes, and yes,’ Jack agreed solemnly, handing him the torch and then unlocking the chapel door with the key he’d taken from Fell’s pocket. ‘And an ambulance has just pulled up. I presume that’s for Stella. Though I thought she wasn’t hurt.’

He dragged the door open and Stella fell into his arms. In the torch beam, she looked pale and bedraggled and had obviously been crying. There was a spot of dried blood on her lip. Fury boiled inside him as he held her tight, and then tenderly kissed her forehead. ‘You said he didn’t hurt you,’ he muttered accusingly. ‘But what’s that?’ He held her at arms’ length to examine her face. ‘That’s blood, Stella. Tell me the truth.’

‘He knocked me out in the shop,’ she admitted. ‘The back of my head hurts like nobody’s business. And then he backhanded me while we were talking in the Chapel. Didn’t like my tone, apparently.’

He bared his teeth. ‘I’ll kill him.’

‘Don’t be silly.’ Standing on tiptoe, she clung onto his shoulders, kissing him on the lips. Putting aside his anger, his arms came protectively around her. ‘I’m fine,’ she insisted, ‘or I will be as soon as someone’s looked at the back of my head and checked my brains haven’t fallen out.’

‘Yes, we can’t have brains falling out.’ He turned swiftly as paramedics, also armed with torches, came hurrying through the undergrowth. ‘Here’s your patient, guys. Blow to the back of the head.’ His fists clenched at the words, and he had to restrain himself from charging after Fell to give him a mouthful. But he didn’t want to give the vile man any ammunition against the police. ‘Treat her gently, okay?’

‘Can you find my phone, Jack?’ she asked. ‘I think it’s in the van.’

‘Will do.’

As the paramedics helped Stella back to their ambulance, Luke tugged on Jack’s sleeve. ‘I know this probably isn’t the best moment,’ he said, looking embarrassed, ‘but I haven’t got a lift home. You won’t leave me stranded out here, will you?’

Jack studied him. If Stella hadn’t been roped in to act as official astrologer for Luke Emerson’s occult shop, none of this would be happening to her. But he gritted his teeth and said, ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ His mobile rang, which was a miracle, given he only had one bar. ‘Excuse me, I have to take this.’

It was DS Dawlish. After he’d warned her that his signal might vanish at any moment, she said quickly, ‘Simon Trevethy’s girlfriend Natalia has shown up, with his mother in tow. Apparently, Natalia was planning to go into hiding but Simon’s mother persuaded her to give herself up instead. She says she’s willing to give us a statement about the people traffickers, but she’ll only speak to you and Stella.’ She sounded irate. ‘Have you got Dick Fell in custody? Ronny told me what was going down out there.’

‘Yes, we’ve got him safe. Ronny’s bringing him in. I’m just sorting out some loose ends here.’

‘And did he confess to killing Bernard Doughty?’

‘No, he claims he didn’t do it. Stella believes him and I trust her instincts.’

‘Well, I don’t know Stella Penhaligon well enough to trust her, and especially not on the grounds of her “instincts”. But if Dick Fell didn’t kill Bernard Doughty, then there’s still a murderer out there. Maybe more than one. So get yourself back here asap, and bring Stella Penhaligon with you.’

‘Respectfully, she’s had a severe blow to the back of the head and is getting treatment from the paramedics at the moment.’

‘Noted, but DI Martin and I both want this wrapped up as quickly as possible. We can’t have villains wandering about Cornwall, murdering people willy-nilly. So make sure Stella is fit to sit in on this interview and get her here as soon as possible. Is that understood?’

Jack counted silently to ten.

‘Are you still there?’ Jane Dawlish sounded peevish. ‘DS Church…? Jack?’

‘I’m still here.’

Jane Dawlish cleared her throat. Maybe she’d just remembered they were the same rank. He hoped so, otherwise he would have to remind her, and that wouldn’t be pleasant for either of them.

‘I need you in on this interview, Jack,’ she said after a short pause. ‘You and the astrologer woman. Otherwise this girl is not going to speak to us, she’s made that clear. I don’t know why this is so important to her, but I just want it done. So will you please,’ she added, ‘and this is me asking nicely, will you please get yourselves here as soon as possible?’

‘I’ll do my best.’ And he ended the call.

Much to his relief, Stella was given the green light by the paramedics to accompany him back to police headquarters. They claimed she didn’t seem to have concussion, and the bump on the back of her head was swollen but not actually bleeding. They gave her strong painkillers and warned her that she would probably wake up tomorrow feeling like she’d drunk half a barrel of whisky. But they also told Jack to watch her for potential signs of concussion, as sometimes it could show up a day or two after the blow had occurred.

‘You’re sure you’re okay to do this?’ he asked as they parked at police headquarters.

Stella nodded, scrolling through her phone now she’d been reunited with it. He had considered keeping it as evidence, but had decided against it when she began to protest. Some arguments were not worth having, and he was just grateful that she was alive and relatively unscathed after her abduction.

‘The painkillers are kicking in already,’ she said, yawning. ‘Just nudge me if I fall asleep.’

Jack smiled but kept an anxious eye on her as they made their way inside. He kept wondering if there was something more he could have done to protect her from Fell. He knew she’d be furious though if she guessed what he was thinking. Stella was very much an independent spirit, and hated being wrapped in cotton wool.

They joined DS Dawlish in an interview room, where Natalia was waiting for them with the duty solicitor, while Cindy Trevethy paced back and forth outside, looking strained and unhappy.

As soon as they’d sat down, Natalia agreed to talk. She kept pausing and glancing towards Stella, who would nod encouragingly, and then the girl would continue with her statement. It took almost an hour, but eventually they had the whole story. It more or less followed the same scenario that she’d described to Stella, and that Stella had explained to him. He wanted to throttle the traffickers for the harm they were doing, and the blight their ugly trade brought to so many lives. This wasn’t even people smuggling, where they were being paid to get immigrants into the country illegally, but outright fraud and abduction, in particular of naïve young women. He wished he could have ten minutes alone with these men… But reminded himself that if he didn’t act within the law, then he was no better than the criminals themselves. Meanwhile, he knew that Dick Fell was waiting in a police cell somewhere in the same building, and would be interviewed in the morning. The crimes did not appear to be related, but that arrest would have to satisfy him for now.

He found it hard not to keep looking surreptitiously at Stella himself. This was love, and he knew it. And he’d need to take better care of their relationship if he didn’t want to lose it. Somehow, he had to find a way for the two of them to be together, even though that seemed impossible at the moment. But he was damn certain that he couldn’t live without her.

When the interview was at an end, Natalia and Cindy were escorted to another room, to wait until someone from Immigration arrived to talk about the separate issue of her being in the country illegally, even though it was not her fault. She was hoping to apply for asylum here, given the issues in her home country just now, but he wasn’t sure of her chances.

On her way out, he shook the young woman’s hand, and Cindy Trevethy’s too, telling them, ‘Thank you for doing this. I know it was hard but it was the right thing to do. And I’m so sorry for your loss. If we can catch the men who did this, and get Simon’s murderer behind bars, I promise you it will have been worth it. Thank you again.’

Stella also wished Natalia good luck. ‘That was a very brave thing to do,’ she added, ‘and I hope the government takes it into account.’

Alone in the corridor, he put his arm around Stella and held her close for a moment. He was exhausted, and she was looking dead on her feet too. ‘I’m going to run you home and make sure you get safely to bed,’ he said into her hair, drinking in her warmth. ‘I think perhaps I should stay with you tonight. I can sleep on Julie’s sofa if you don’t want me in your bedroom – and assuming she doesn’t mind. Given the blow to the back of your head, someone ought to be watching over you tonight.’

Stella laughed shakily. ‘My guardian angel.’

‘Something like that.’

‘You don’t need to sleep on the sofa,’ she said shyly, ‘unless you want to.’

‘I don’t want to,’ he assured her passionately. He smiled and kissed her again, closing his eyes. ‘You had me scared tonight. I thought I’d lost you. Don’t ever do that to me again, okay?’

‘I can’t promise that, Jack.’

He sighed, but nodded. ‘Fair enough. You do your thing, I do mine. Come on though, let’s get you home to bed.’

As they were heading wearily out into the car park, with the pale light of dawn just breaking to the east, they were passed by Ronny bringing in Peter and Harold Trevethy for questioning, both men protesting loudly. ‘What the hell is this about?’ Peter Trevethy demanded, seeing Jack and Stella. ‘Nobody will tell me what’s going on.’

Jack hesitated, glancing at Ronny. ‘Who’s doing the interviews?’

‘DS Dawlish.’

His constable looked bushed as well, stubble on his chin and his eyes slightly bloodshot. It had been one hell of a night.

‘Perhaps I ought to… ’ Jack caught Stella’s eye and shook his head. ‘No, I’ll come back after I’ve grabbed some sleep. You should get to bed soon too, Ronny.’

‘Chance would be a fine thing, Sarge,’ DC Myles said, grinning.

One of the uniform officers was struggling with Simon’s uncle, who seemed beside him with fury over his arrest. He was wearing shorts and slippers, and a baggy vest top, presumably what he’d been sleeping in when the police knocked at the door in the middle of the night. ‘I want a solicitor,’ Harold was insisting noisily, flushed and angry. ‘Do you hear me? I won’t say a word otherwise.’

Jack almost laughed, recalling how thoroughly Natalia had just dumped both men in it, claiming the Trevethys had all been working with the traffickers that summer, and in cahoots with Bernard Doughty. But he didn’t want to alert them to the fact that Natalia was even in the building, let alone had just given a full statement, naming them as criminals. Instead he turned to Stella, but found her staring wide-eyed after Harold Trevethy.

‘What is it?’ he asked in quick concern. ‘Is your head hurting again?’

‘No,’ she whispered, clutching his arm. ‘Simon’s uncle… What he’s wearing… Those shorts…’ She was breathless and agitated.

‘What about them?’

‘I’ve just remembered. That’s why I went back to the shop, why I was there when Dick Fell hit me. To collect up the crystal balls.’

‘Are you feeling confused? Dizzy, perhaps?’ He studied her pupils. ‘Because those can be signs of concussion.’

‘No, listen… I’m being serious. The morning of the grand opening, when Bernard Doughty was murdered, I saw a cyclist in the shop. He was looking at a large crystal ball… But not really. I mean, he was holding it up, but looking across the shop at Bernard at the same time. And those crystal balls are surprisingly heavy… Hard to handle if you’re not used to them. So he fumbled the ball and dropped it, and it rolled away.’

‘So?’

‘So I remembered that while I was driving home, because I’d spotted something odd about him at the time, only it didn’t register. He was all dressed up like a pro cyclist… but he had one of those old pushbikes with a basket at the front. Not a racing bike at all. So I thought I should collect up all the crystal balls before they could be sold and get you to take them to your friend Cameron for forensics testing. Only Dick Fell whacked me on the head before I could tell you about it.’

‘Well, I know now, and it’s a great idea, we should definitely do that.’

‘Yes, but it was him.’

‘Who was him?’

‘Simon’s uncle. He was the cyclist with the pushbike,’ she hissed, watching as the tall, lanky fisherman was ushered into the building. ‘Seeing him in shorts again jogged my memory… He’s definitely the same man I saw in the shop that morning.’

‘What are you saying?’ Jack looked over his shoulder, bemused. ‘That Simon’s uncle – ’

‘Yes, exactly.’ Stella nodded vehemently, and then winced, putting a hand to her head as though in pain. ‘Harold Trevethy was at Druid’s Den in disguise that morning,’ she went on more gingerly, ‘and he went there deliberately to murder Bernard Doughty.’

‘But why would he do that?’

Stella stared at him. ‘Goodness, which of us is the detective, Jack? Because he probably knew by then that Simon was dead, even before you found the body. And he must have blamed Bernard Doughty. I don’t know why. But remember what Natalia said in her statement? Bernard got cross with Simon because he wouldn’t go to his special ‘parties,’ the ones with the kinky handcuffs and so on, so he told the traffickers about Simon pretending Natalia was among the girls who’d died in that container, so he could hide her from them?’

‘Of course…’ Jack realised what she meant. ‘And when the traffickers found out what Simon had done, that he’d tried to cheat them out, they killed him. Perhaps as a warning to the Trevethy brothers not to double-cross them again.’

‘Harold Trevethy realised, or perhaps was told what they’d done to his nephew, and blamed Bernard.’

‘So he killed him.’ Jack stopped dead in front of the car, torn between a desire to get her home safely and going back to share that information with DS Dawlish and the team. ‘You are a genius, woman.’

She smiled. ‘And you want to go and sit in on that interview,’ she said astutely.

‘Yes, but I’ll take you home first and ask Nick to keep an eye on you, or Julie, or Claire, or whoever’s awake…’ He kissed her, an arm about her waist. ‘And then can I come back when it’s done? I mean, to your place?’

‘Always,’ she whispered. ‘By the way,’ she remarked, ‘I was right. Mercury, see? God of journeys, guide for lost souls. Trafficking... Mercury was at the heart of this all along.’

It was gone noon by the time he thanked Nick, who’d been conscientiously checking on Stella every hour, dragged off his work gear and crawled into bed beside her, aching with exhaustion.

Stella stirred, turning drowsily into his body. ‘Well?’

‘Harold Trevethy confessed.’ He yawned extravagantly. ‘You know, his brother Peter didn’t even realise what he’d done. He was up to his neck in the trafficking business, of course, and hadn’t liked Simon keeping Natalia back from the Birmingham gang. But I don’t think Peter Trevethy disapproved once we told him the whole story, how his brother was a murderer. He actually looked… satisfied.’

‘He lost his only son,’ she said simply.

Jack shrugged. ‘Best news of the night though… Or the morning now,’ he admitted, snuggling into her softness, his eyes closing, ‘was that Harold cut a deal. He held out for a few hours under intense interrogation by me and DS Dawlish, but then Ronny called to say they’d found his mum’s old bike under a tarp at their cottage… and there were traces of blood on the handlebars. That was when Harold cracked. In return for us telling the judge he helped with our enquiries, he gave us contact details for the gang in Birmingham.’ He smiled, feeling his body begin to relax at last after weeks of unbearable tension. ‘Police up there raided the address, which they’d already been watching, and picked up the guy who killed Simon. His bosses are next on their list. He’d just walked in the door, weirdly enough, coming back from Cornwall. Apparently, he’d been staking out Cindy’s place for days, trying to track down Natalia for his boss, but it all got too hot for him when I nearly caught him after the memorial service. So he burnt out the van they’d stolen to ferry girls from Bernard’s place to Birmingham, and took the train home. To be greeted by a search warrant and a pair of handcuffs.’ He grinned. ‘Not the kinky variety, sadly for him.’

‘And that knife with the glyph for Mercury on it?’

‘A complete coincidence, apparently. He ordered it online to look occultish, hoping Luke might be blamed.’

‘Wow.’ She kissed him. ‘I’m glad it’s all over. Poor Natalia though…’

‘She’s a brave young women. She’ll find a way through this.’ He kissed her back. ‘I love you. When I thought you might be dead – ’

‘Hush,’ Stella whispered, putting her finger across his lips. ‘Time enough to talk about that later. Right now, I have a hot policeman in my bed and a fantastic sextile from Mars to my natal Venus, and I plan on making the most of it…’

THE END