On Deadly Tides Page 2

  “When you say ‘back home,’” Colin said when she was seated, “would that charming accent be from Australia?”

  “No, the other one. New Zealand. And you two—Americans, are you?” She gave them a youthful grin, revealing two rows of perfect white teeth.

  “No, we’re the other one as well,” said Penny. “Canadian.”

  “Oh, I see.” She took a sip of cider, set her glass on the table, and allowed her eyes to wander over the crowded room. As the woman who had been serving behind the bar made her way from table to table, collecting empty glasses and loading them on a tray, Jessica leaned forward and said in a conspiratorial voice, “But besides the Bill Ward story, I’m actually here in the U.K. to investigate a murder.”

  Chapter Two

  “Oh my goodness,” exclaimed Penny, her wine glass frozen in place halfway to her lips. She lowered it and asked, “Whose murder?”

  “Well, I say murder. That’s just Dave’s opinion. He’s my editor and he likes to sensationalize things to try to sell more papers. Besides the Bill Ward story and a few travel features, I’ll be looking into the disappearance several years ago of a New Zealand man. Something must have happened to him. People don’t just drop out of sight for no reason, do they?”

  “Actually, sometimes they do,” said Colin. “Every now and then, you read a newspaper story or see an item on the television news about a person who wanted to start a new life someplace else, so they stage a disappearance, usually involving a pile of clothes and a pair of shoes abandoned on a beach so it will look like they drowned, and then they move to a third-world country where their money will go farther, and assume a new identity.”

  “Well, that’s probably what happened to him, but whatever it was, I intend to get to the bottom of it. His parents are getting on a bit now, and they’re desperate to know what happened to their son, and if he’s alive and well somewhere, it would be nice to be able to put their minds at ease.”

  “Have you spoken to the police for your story?” Penny asked, and then she answered her own question. “Of course you have. You’re a newspaper reporter, and you know what you’re doing. That’s probably the first place you started.”

  “The police!” Jessica let out an exasperated sigh. “They don’t want to know. I spoke to the police in New Zealand almost every week for a while. Finally, they got irritated with me. Said the British police could find no evidence there was anything suspicious about the man’s disappearance and that if anything turned up, they’d be sure to let me know. Naturally, I never heard back from them.” She took a sip of cider. “There’s only so much you can do, trying to investigate something from eleven thousand miles away. But it cost my paper a lot of money to send me here, and newspapers just don’t have the budgets they used to. So, now that I’m here, I intend to make the most of it. I’m going to find out what happened to him.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear that he’s gone missing,” said Colin. “I can understand how not knowing what happened to him must be a terrible burden for his family.”

  “It was very worrying for his family at first,” agreed Jessica, “when they stopped hearing from him. No emails or phone calls. But gradually they came to accept that something bad must have happened to him, and with the parents getting older, as I said, and for legal reasons, it’s time to get some answers.”

  “But why here?” Penny asked. “Was he last living on Anglesey?”

  “Oh, I don’t know that he was ever here,” Jessica said. “But I did discover that he was close to someone with a connection to this area, so there might be something there. I don’t want to say too much about that. Don’t want to jinx my story, as we say.” She drained the last of her cider and fixed first Penny and then Colin in the beam of her bright blue eyes.

  At this natural break in the conversation, the barmaid reached their table, and the three sat in silence as she lifted empty glasses onto her tray and gave the table a quick wipe. When she’d moved on to the next table, Jessica spoke.

  “I’m very lucky, you know. Would you believe this is my first time out of New Zealand? And to come all this way and have the chance to work on such great stories. I can’t believe it. And to get to see all these beautiful places. Did you know there’s a lighthouse here? How wonderful it would be to see it by moonlight.”

  Having done a lot of travelling herself when she was about Jessica’s age, Penny returned Jessica’s irresistible grin with an understanding smile.

  The three talked for a few more minutes, and then Jessica stifled a yawn, muttered something about jet lag, gathered up her backpack, and left.

  “You have to admire the enthusiasm of youth,” said Colin. “She’s just getting a taste for all the adventure that lies ahead.”

  “She seems so keen and enthusiastic. It’s inspiring.”

  Finally, as people began to trickle out of the bar, Penny indicated that she, too, was ready to call it a day, and after a breezy, “Well, I’m off. Goodnight, then,” she headed upstairs.

  As soon as her door was closed, she switched on her phone and Googled Colin Campbell. His biography was impressive, but his photographs were stunning.

  * * *

  Penny checked the time: just after midnight. She’d been asleep for about an hour before she awakened, disoriented, to find her room unbearably hot and stuffy.

  She threw back the sheet and the light blanket, and groped about in the dark until her hand found the switch on the unfamiliar bedside lamp. In its soft light, she climbed slowly out of bed and padded across the room to the window. She drew back the heavily patterned curtains, allowing a bright beam of bluish-white moonlight to pour through the pair of mullioned windows. She turned the latches and pushed the casement windows open, and was rewarded by a welcome rush of night air. She closed her eyes and raised her face to it, allowing the light breeze to cool her flushed and perspiring face.

  Her room overlooked the garden at the rear of the hotel, and beyond the eerily empty promenade she could make out the Menai Strait, the narrow tidal waterway that separates the island of Anglesey from the North Wales mainland. As she admired its sparkling waters dancing under the full moon set against thin, grey clouds draped across the night sky, strident voices gusted out into the rich quiet and floated up to her. She couldn’t hear clearly what the speakers were saying, but she could make out that there were two of them, a man and a woman, and from the volume and intensity of their muffled words, it was clear that they were arguing.

  She turned her head to try to catch what they were saying, but without success. She placed one knee on the window seat and leaned out to see Bill Ward, whom she recognized from the distinctive red plaid sleeves, make his way unsteadily through the hotel’s back garden to the road that ran alongside the promenade. A minute or so later, the sound of a car’s engine starting up shattered the calm of a midsummer’s night, and a minute or so after that, quiet once more descended on the hotel.

  Chapter Three

  “This looks like a good spot,” said Alwynne the next morning. The last of the pale pink streaks of sunrise were long gone, leaving a milky blue sky dotted with a few fluffy clouds. “And we’ve got a beautiful day for it.”

  People carriers had been laid on to convey the artists and their bulky equipment to various scenic possibilities for their plein air painting sessions, and Alwynne and Penny had hopped off at Black Point, a jagged limestone headland on the most easterly end of the island, close to the sea-washed Trwyn Du Lighthouse. With its distinctive three black bands painted on a white background, the lighthouse, standing guard in the narrow channel that separates Anglesey from Puffin Island, attracted artists and photographers from all over the world.

  “This spot looks just fine,” said Penny. “It’s such a clear morning, and we’re high enough up on this cliff that we can see all the way across the Irish Sea to the Great Orme at Llandudno.” A gust of wind caught her scarf and lifted the fringed edge. “It’s a bit breezy, though. If the wind picks up, that could be
a problem for us.”

  “I’m surprised we’re the only ones who chose to paint the lighthouse today,” said Alwynne as she clattered about setting up her portable stool and unfolding the slim wooden legs of her easel. “I would have thought there’d be more of us here. What is it about a lighthouse that’s so appealing, anyway?”

  “The romance? Smugglers? Danger? In any event, artists have loved painting them, probably for as long as they’ve been around. I expect the other painters are saving it for tomorrow or Monday. But it’s nice to have this vantage point all to ourselves this morning.”

  “And another thing,” said Alwynne as she positioned a sheet of lightly textured paper on her easel and fastened it in place, “have you ever noticed that lighthouses are almost always round? I wonder why that is. Surely round ones must have been more difficult to build than square or rectangular ones.”

  “I don’t know,” replied Penny. “Are they almost always round? I guess they are. Do you know, I never thought about that.” She remained standing with her arms folded, her painting gear unpacked.

  “Aren’t you going to get started?” Alwynne asked. “You do know that we’re supposed to have something ready this afternoon for the critique session.”

  “In a minute. I’m just going to have a little wander round and see if I can find another view point to make my painting a little different from yours.”

  “Well, mind how you go, now. Don’t go near that steep cliff edge. It’s a long way down.”

  Penny retied her billowing scarf to shorten the ends, and then, her hands thrust in the pockets of her jacket, walked a few paces away. She breathed in the salty tang of the fresh air, listened to the cries of the sea birds, possibly curlews, as they called to one another, and noted the choppy waves breaking against the base of the lighthouse. Its black and white bands appeared sharp-edged, and the whole of the structure was infused with the kind of sparkling radiance much loved by photographers and artists, as if large bodies of moving water had a magical power to disperse light in new ways.

  I’ve got to find exactly the right spot to make this work, she thought. In tune with the gentle shoreline rhythm, she walked a little further, keeping well back from the cliff edge but occasionally hazarding a glance down at the rocky coastline far below.

  And then, on the stretch of pebbly beach where the headland, eroded by centuries of wind and waves, jutted out into the sea, a blur of blue and white caught her attention. Unable to make out what it was from this height and distance, she stepped back a couple of paces, then turned and sprinted back to the spot where she’d left her painting supplies.

  Alwynne, her eyes focused on the lighthouse in front of her, moved her head slightly at the sound of Penny’s return, and then her mouth opened as if to say something when Penny dropped to the ground and began rummaging through her painter’s case. Pulling out the small pair of binoculars that had proved useful on more than one occasion, Penny scrambled to her feet, and aimed them at the beach.

  “There’s something down there. I can’t quite make it out, but it looks like it could be a person,” Penny shouted, pointing with one hand as she handed the binoculars to Alwynne. The wind snatched at her words and carried them away. “I’m going down there. If you can get a mobile signal, ring nine-nine-nine.”

  Penny raced along the top of the promontory. She paused just long enough to take in the yellow and black DANGER sign showing an unfortunate stick figure flying off a cliff and scattering rocks and stones beneath it. Then, deciding she had no choice but to take her chances, she launched herself down the precipitously steep path that led to the beach. Her sturdy boots caught on the uneven stones that protruded out of the packed soil, and she clutched at the tall grass that sprouted along the sides of the rough path, to steady herself as she scrabbled her way down. Just as she reached the bottom, her feet slipped out from under her, and she slid the last few feet on her back. She coasted to a stop and struggled to her feet, brushing the dirt off her stinging palms. Her heart racing from the roughness of her descent, and her throat filled with the dreadful anticipation of what she was about to find, she scrambled over the rocks at the base of the cliff and staggered across the shingle beach.

  The pallor of Jessica Graham’s cold, grey skin confirmed what Penny feared, but nevertheless she dropped to her knees beside her and felt for a pulse. There was none. She rocked back on her heels and looked up to the top of the cliff, where Alwynne stood, binoculars shielding her face.

  Penny turned her attention back to the young woman’s body. From the thighs to the feet, it was immersed in water, and as each wave lapped at it, then receded, it gently rocked and shifted a tiny bit. A thin line of foam, white against the dark browns of the rocks and pebbles on the beach, showed the shifting demarcation between land and sea. The tide’s turned and it’s on its way out, Penny thought. This was followed a moment later by the realization that if she didn’t do something, the tide could take the body with it, carrying it out to open water and handing it over to merciless currents that would bear it away on a watery journey to parts unknown. She rose and stood behind the woman’s head. Then, she bent over, and grasping the body under the arms, she lifted, then pulled as hard as she could. But the body, small as it was and light as it had been in life, didn’t move. With the weight of the water in the woman’s clothes and her feet digging into the wet soil beneath the surface of the water, the task was impossible.

  Penny gently lowered Jessica’s body back onto the wet ground and considered what to do next. She might be able to turn the body so she could roll it higher up on the beach, but a couple of reasons why she shouldn’t do this flashed through her mind. When the authorities arrived, they would prefer the body to be positioned exactly as she’d found it, and more importantly, if the woman’s death were suspicious, turning the body would mean immersing more of it in the water, and that could wash away even more material that might be of forensic interest.

  She decided the best thing—in fact the only thing—she could do would be to leave the body where it was, and hope that help arrived soon. She didn’t envy the police officers and paramedics having to carry the body up the rugged cliff face that she’d just climbed down, but perhaps they knew a better way.

  She pulled her mobile phone from her jacket pocket but in the sheltered bay was unable to get a signal. She moved away from the body and waved at Alwynne, who waved back. Hoping that response meant Alwynne had been able to get a signal from her higher vantage point, and the authorities had been summoned and were on their way, Penny crouched beside the body to wait.

  Until this moment, she had managed to avoid looking at the woman’s face, but now she forced herself to. Lifeless blue eyes gazed unseeingly at a sky that was only a few shades bluer. Her blonde hair, darkened by the water and clumped with sand, hung in wet, matted strands.

  Tears beading in the corners of her eyes, Penny reached for Jessica Graham’s hand and held it. Where last night it had been young and free of blemishes, lightly tanned by long days in the sun, this morning it was discoloured and wrinkled from having been immersed too long in water.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the hum of the engine of an approaching boat. As the sound grew louder, she raised her eyes from the body, hoping that the help she so desperately needed was arriving by water, not land.

  But the small craft rounded the lighthouse and turned away from her, headed in the direction of Puffin Island. It was too far away for her to make out the occupants, and as it ploughed its way through the waves, she wondered if Colin Campbell was on board.

  Chapter Four

  The hotel coffee shop was doing a brisk business in tea and coffee, cakes, and scones as the members of the painting group picked up a little something to see them through the rigours of their first critique session. Having purchased their refreshments, they then carried them into the adjoining lounge to await the arrival of their mentor, Bill Ward. Framed prints of inoffensive, well-known paintings like Gainsborough’s “The B
lue Boy” adorned walls painted a soothing Wedgwood blue, and conversational groupings of deep, button-back sofas and armchairs in burgundy or green faux leather combined to create the comfortable atmosphere of an old-fashioned gentlemen’s club or the shabby chic of a country house that had been in the same family for a very long time.

  Penny placed two steaming cups on the low table in front of Alwynne and then settled herself into the comfy chair opposite her, beside one of the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the car park at the rear of the hotel.

  “Thank you,” said Alwynne. “Goodness knows we earned that.” She picked up her cup and took a small sip. “I wonder what’s going to happen now.”

  “I expect the police will investigate,” said Penny. “To determine the cause of death, and so on.”

  “No, I meant about us. Our painting group. Will we be allowed to stay and paint, do you think, or will we be sent home?”

  “I see no reason why the painting weekend shouldn’t continue.” Penny gestured to the opposite wall, where about half a dozen paintings on easels awaited the arrival of Bill Ward, and the anxious artists who had painted them braced themselves for his commentary. “Everyone else seems prepared to carry on.”

  “It’s too bad you didn’t get a chance to paint today.”

  “Oh well, there’s always tomorrow.”

  “If you’d like to go back to the lighthouse, I’d be happy to go with you. Or maybe, in view of what happened there today, you might prefer that we tried another spot.” Alwynne referred to the schedule they’d been sent when they registered. “There’s Moelfre, the fishing village along the coast. Colourful little boats and so on. That might be nice.”