Jayne buttoned her coat as she looked out over the harbour. It was sunny, but she was right about the wind. It was crueller than back in Highford, sharper and cleaner. Gulls wheeled and cried, and men shouted as plastic crates were stacked up nearby. The aroma of fishing boats was strong, old and cloying and oily, and the saltiness in the air made her lick her lips.
She was staying in the same hotel used by Mark Roberts: Waves, a small red building on the harbour. The drive had been long though, nearly three hours, over the barren moorland of the Pennine ridge before it turned into industrial West Yorkshire, old coal mining towns now centred on out-of-town retail parks. This had given way to wide open countryside, the road twisting and turning, sometimes her car the only one for miles, except for when queues built up behind tractors that spewed mud over the road. She needed a rest.
There wasn’t time to relax though. The investigation had to get moving and she didn’t know how long Dan would tolerate her swanning around seaside hotels at the firm’s expense.
Her room was acceptable, just about, none of the corporate finishes of the chain hotels, but she wasn’t the one footing the bill, which eased the discomfort. A stained kettle sat on a Formica tray, a chipped mug alongside, and her bed covering was nylon and crackled with static every time she touched it. She thought about a shower, but the mould collected at the bottom of the shower curtain put her off.
Instead, she unpacked her bag and headed out.
Her first stop was the hotel owner, an austere woman in her fifties with hair that was swept back but close to her head, the light caramel hue giving away the dye, who’d introduced herself as Glenys and handed over the room key as if she thought Jayne was about to trash the place.
There was no one around the reception desk, so Jayne had to knock on it to attract her attention. Glenys appeared after the second knock, although Jayne was convinced she’d only been through the doorway, well within earshot.
‘Is everything all right with your room?’
Jayne resisted the temptation to present a list and instead brought up a picture of Mark Roberts on her phone, taken from a newspaper report of Nick Connor’s arrest. ‘I’m here looking into an old guest of yours. Do you remember him?’
Glenys took the picture and peered through glasses that had been hanging on a chain. She pulled a face and shook her head. ‘I don’t know him. Why are you asking?’
‘I work for a law firm. It’s connected to a court case.’
Her gaze darkened. ‘Is this an insurance scam? This hotel has a good record of—’
‘No, it’s not connected to the hotel. He’s a murder victim. He stayed here before coming to my town, so we’re working our way backwards, seeing what we can find out.’
‘Murder?’ Glenys’s eyes acquired a new keenness.
‘Yes, in Lancashire. Are you sure you don’t remember him? We’re trying to find out why he was in Brampton late January, early February.’
Glenys’s face showed her excitement, Jayne’s visit turning into something interesting, so she concentrated a little harder but eventually shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, no. Sometimes guests don’t talk to us much, and we don’t have a bar, so there’s nowhere for them to relax with us.’
‘We know he stayed here because we found the bill. Wasn’t it quiet in January?’
‘That doesn’t mean I remember him.’
‘All right, thank you. If anything does come back, you know how to find me.’
Jayne left the hotel and called the number she’d been given by Barbara. It rang out for a while, and she wondered whether the retired detective was going to answer, but eventually a voice said, ‘Hello?’
‘Andrew Porter?’ When he grunted in the affirmative, she introduced herself. He started to bluster his objections, so she interjected, ‘I’ve come to Brampton to speak to you. The quicker you talk, the quicker we’ll leave you alone.’
There was a curse, before he said, ‘I’ll be on the north cliffs walking my dog in fifteen minutes. If you’re serious about this, you’ll be there too,’ and then he hung up.
Jayne smiled. She hadn’t expected progress this quickly. She ducked back into the hotel. ‘How far on foot to the north cliffs?’
‘It’s not far. Easy to find. Just head north and follow the sea.’
She thanked Glenys and set off walking.
There was something about Brampton she liked.
The harbour jutted out into the bay, grey stone piers battered by the sea on both sides, the North Sea slamming hard against the walls and sending spray over the windows of a small hut selling fishing tackle. Trawlers lined one pier, yachts in the middle, with the usual seaside collection of stalls and shops selling burgers and candyfloss and decorated shells lining the other side.
Most of the harbour trade was done for the day and, as she followed the path round, she saw that most of the town looked as if it was closing down. Guest houses with flaking paint, fairground rides covered in tarpaulin, an open promenade home to empty crisp packets and cans blown along by the wind. Amusement arcades blinked and flashed, but there was no one in them.
As she put the harbour behind her, the long sweep of the bay towards a distant headland was impressive, the chalk cliffs high.
The walk was a lot longer than she’d been led to believe, the grassy slope leading to the clifftops some distance away, at the end of the long stretch of seafront tarmac and metal railings painted white.
She picked up the pace, her walk turning into a slow jog, even though she wasn’t dressed for it, in jeans and pumps. The town centre was soon behind her and she was passing bowling greens and rows of houses built in high elegant curves, remnants of the first Victorian seaside boom.
She was panting hard as the tarmac gave way to grass and she rushed up the slope that ended on the clifftops.
As she reached them, she noticed a man with a dog further along. A metal lead swung from one hand, and in the other he was carrying a red plastic stick, one of those things that hurl a ball far, the spaniel with him running in tight circles around his legs.
He launched the ball skywards and Jayne watched as it sailed towards her, the dog bolting for it, not looking where it was going. She had to jump to one side as the ball landed just behind her and the spaniel attacked it on the floor, its tail wagging hard, making small growls as he played with it.
The man didn’t apologise for nearly hitting her with the ball.
As she got closer, she said, ‘Mr Porter?’
‘Aye. I thought it was you.’
The spaniel ran past her and brushed against her leg, almost knocking her over. Porter patted his leg to bring the dog to heel, and he sat down next to him and wagged his tail, panting hard.
‘You know why I’m here then.’
‘Of course I do. The same as that idiotic reporter.’
‘The idiotic dead one, you mean?’
‘Well, yes, and I’m sorry about that, but seeing as though you represent his murderer, I don’t suppose you’re the one I should be saying sorry to.’
‘Alleged murderer.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, let’s play that game and all pretend.’
‘Look, I get it. You’re a retired cop and don’t like the defence, but the sooner we get this done, the sooner I’m back to civilisation.’
He looked surprised. ‘You don’t like Brampton?’
‘It’s too sleepy and forgotten for me.’
‘Turn around.’
‘What, why?’
‘Just do it.’
She frowned, but then did as she was asked.
‘Look at that town,’ he said. ‘The sun rises over the sea, making everything cold blue, but now the sky has that beautiful orange to it. The harbour juts out but is brave to the North Sea winds. You don’t know how hard it blows in winter, so cold that it cuts your cheeks, so when summer comes it’s like a blessed relief. The people brace themselves to get through winter. Huddle up in coats, don’t go out as much, spend days watching the gales throw sea spray against their windows.’
Jayne turned back. ‘Is there a point to this?’
‘Yes, there is, because the case Mark Roberts was looking into soiled this town.’
‘Tell me about it then. Let me see it your way.’
‘Are you serious that you know nothing about it?’
‘Absolutely.’
He looked as if he was about to walk away, but his tone softened as he said, ‘You have to go back more than twenty years. The worst and best case I was ever involved with.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Worst because two children were murdered. Snatched and killed, just a few weeks apart. The best, because we caught the bastard before he could kill any more, and he’s still rotting away in a cell somewhere. That thought keeps me warm at night, because every time I pour myself a single malt and look out of my window, I imagine him settling in for the night in a bare cell, on a wing with the other perverts, the rest of the prison desperate to get to him.’
‘I haven’t heard about these murders.’
‘Well, no, but you’re too young, I suppose. The first one was William Clegg. A sweet little boy who went missing when they had the annual bonfire here, up on these cliffs. It’s some festival they invented fifty years ago or more, made it out to be an old Viking festival, just to get the visitors in and kick-start the season. It became a big event, with drinking and bonfires and cliff walks. Poor little William, six years old. He’d got away from his father, who’d been more attentive over his drink than his little boy. We all looked for him and found him by the old pillbox down there.’
‘Pillbox?’
‘Follow me.’ He set off walking to the cliff edge.
Jayne followed, getting more nervous as she got closer, the sea filling her view, the grassy edge ragged and uneven.
He pointed. ‘Down there.’
Jayne edged towards it, always keeping an eye on Porter, and leaned over, her breath tight in her chest, ready to jump backwards if he made any move towards her. As she looked down, she saw a large concrete block, broken up into three pieces, dark and brooding against the white pebbles on the beach.
‘Built during the war,’ Porter said. ‘They have them up and down the coast, put there to watch out for an invasion. The sea has broken it up, but twenty years ago it was still mostly complete. William was found in a small gap between the cliff and the pillbox.’
‘He could have fallen.’
Porter raised an eyebrow. ‘The pathologist could tell the difference.’
Jayne stepped back from the edge. ‘You mentioned two.’
‘Yes. A May Day festival on the rugby club fields, just a few weeks later. The same as before, except the body wasn’t found nearby. A seven-year-old girl, Ruby, became separated from her mother, but it was over a week before we found her. It felt like the town was on lockdown, until she was found in a small grave a few miles out of town.’
‘How did she die?’
‘Strangled and bludgeoned. That’s the only way to describe it.’
‘Who did you get for it?’
‘A local man called Rodney Walker. He’d been stopped by a patrol monitoring traffic, everyone looking out for whoever took her, but left to go on his way. Once Ruby was found, we went back to him and traces of her blood were found in his boot. Turned out he lived next to the rugby club, and there were traces of her blood in his garage too, along with Ruby’s belt. That’s where he killed her, after enticing her in there, then drove her out to dump her like she was old rubbish.’
‘What about William?’
‘Blood again. His DNA was found on the rear seat belt and the lock, where Rodney had fastened his kids in.’
‘He’d taken his children with him when he went out killing kids?’
‘We don’t know that. He might have left them somewhere else and picked them up afterwards. But it was enough.’
Jayne blew out. This was serious stuff. ‘Did he deny it?’
‘He didn’t say anything. Not during his interviews or at court. It was almost as if he enjoyed torturing the families even more, by not letting them know what he’d done to them before they died. He went to prison and the town moved on. The bonfire the year after was a strange one, because everyone remembered and there weren’t as many families there. The rugby club cancelled the May Day event and haven’t held it since. People moved on though, until Mark Roberts came to town and started to ask questions, digging it all up.’
‘What kind of questions was he asking?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘He ended up dead, in Highford, so yes, it seems like it does.’
Porter stared out to the sea for a few seconds, before saying, ‘Just because wounds are old doesn’t mean they’re not raw.’ He shouted his dog over, who’d gone sniffing after something in long grass on the other side of the clifftops. ‘Just be careful what you do here.’
‘Where did he live, this Rodney Walker?’
Jayne could tell Porter was thinking about not answering, but then realised that it would be easy for her to find out. ‘Mayfield Crescent, number 15.’
‘And what about the girl’s parents, and the parents of the first child, William.’
Porter shook his head. ‘You don’t go bothering them. They’ve suffered enough.’
And with that, Porter set off walking. As she watched him go, she wondered what wounds she’d be reopening. And if doing that had led to Mark Roberts’s death, how much danger would she be in?