I went out to the car park just before the appointed time to see a long, blue Land Rover next to the phone box.
“Going out on the raz?” I heard over my shoulder. It was Slevin, kitted out in riding leathers and standing by his bike.
“I suppose you could call it that.”
“Well enjoy and, as I say, don’t give in to those earthly temptations that beset the best of us.” He bowed low and I walked on, climbing into the back of the Land Rover, where Jackson sat. Stocker and his wife were in the cab.
“Where’s Pasco?”
“Took his boat, just after you went upstairs,” said Jackson. “Had Pengelly on board, with his bike strapped to the front and all.” Jackson’s words conjured up a vision of the canon as Jenny, the ship’s figurehead at the Fo’c’sle Chandlery, lashed next to his bicycle on the bows of Pasco’s dinghy. “The Cassandra is only a few miles down the river, and it’s got a landing stage, so they’ll both be well settled in by now. Promised to save us places by the bar.”
“Good evening, Mrs Stocker,” I shouted through a tightly meshed metal grill that separated us in the back from the cab. “Very nice of you to take us.”
“It is, isn’t it. Maybe a bit too nice, eh Stocker?” David Stocker very wisely neither agreed with his wife nor contradicted her. “Hold tight, and we’ll be off.”
I then felt the clutch lurch us forwards and the Land Rover begin its journey to the Cassandra, bouncing along, almost as if it had no suspension. Mrs Stocker seemed oblivious to the bumps, and sat clenching the wheel, peering ahead through thick glasses.
“My cousin Pete just redid the shocks,” shouted Stocker from the cab. “Smooth as a feather bed, eh?”
“Are they your cousins at the Trafalgar Garage then?”
“Yeah, Pete, Ted and Bob. Best in the business, Sangster.”
“I’m sure,” I said, jolting as Mrs Stocker drove over a particularly harsh pothole, barely acknowledged by the Land Rover’s shock absorbers.
We passed Truro, and then took the main Falmouth road, before negotiating narrow lanes every bit as tortuous as those by King Harry Ferry, the difference tonight being that Mrs Stocker didn’t really care about Cornish Hedges (and neither it seemed, did the Land Rover’s tyres), so that more than once I was thrown sideways as the wheels hit the stone edgings. For all that, we survived, eventually driving down a frighteningly steep slope to see water beyond.
“There’s many an emmet took that hill too fast and ended up in the creek,” Jackson laughed. Mrs Stocker then turned a sharp ninety degrees to the right and the pub came into view, illuminated by strings of lightbulbs that already shone in the twilight, and with music blaring outside (‘Morgan’s Mobile Music Machine’ was painted in psychedelic lettering on the side of a van parked next to the pub doorway).
I stepped out, stretching my joints, which ached from the Land Rover’s constant buffeting, to see what could definitely be called a ‘party’ underway. The pub had a large terrace at the front laid out with wooden picnic tables (on top of which people were dancing) and leading from this was a very solid looking pontoon, perhaps stretching one hundred feet out into the creek, presumably so boats could tie up at any time of the tide.
The music was coming from two enormous speakers on tripods (both had ‘Morgan’ painted on the front), with the DJ (‘that’s Alfie Morgan, Sangster, did my niece Alice Jackson’s wedding’), sitting at a table below, frantically changing discs and shouting into a microphone as he introduced the next record. “This is number three in the charts from Christie and Yellow River.” A tune with a catchy rhythm then struck up, only for the song to be drowned out by the foghorn of the Kernow Belle, which swung alongside the landing stage to disgorge about a hundred people, most of whom ran towards the pub door and the promise of free beer.
“Now come on,” Jackson said, “let’s go and find Pasco inside. Stocker, you with us?”
“In a mo, in a mo,” came the answer, and I looked to see wild gesticulating between Stocker, standing by the open Land Rover door, and (presumably), his wife, still in the cab.
“We’ll see you in there,” Jackson called.
If the terrace had seemed quite crowded, then the inside of the pub was doubly so and could only be described as heaving. The building comprised impossibly low beams, a network of numerous tiny rooms and several (‘narrower than you’d like’ as described by Jackson), passages in between them. The nearest to a usable space, given this night’s throng of people, was the main saloon, which boasted a long, curved bar with a very broad wooden counter on which were lined up numerous glasses of beer, constantly being emptied by the revellers, with full ones replaced just as quickly by the bar staff.
The lucky few people who had arrived early occupied bar stools, and the rest jostled for an opportunity to take one of the filled glasses. It was a veritable (and literal as beer was being given away) free for all, and fortunately for Jackson and me, one of the ‘lucky few’ was Pasco, who sat at the end of the bar, having ‘reserved’ several stools by putting basket covered glass flagons upon them.
“Sangster, Jackson,” he shouted. “Come here.” He removed two of the flagons, groaning at the weight, and banged them down on the bar. “Where’s Stocker?”
“Having a word with the missus,” said Jackson. “He’s asking her to hang around so she can drive us all home.”
“Ah, good luck to him then.” Pasco pulled the glasses from mine and Jackson’s hands, then shouted behind the bar. “Jem.”
On the other side of the saloon, I saw a ruddy faced man of about fifty hold his hand up. He was tall and round, sandy haired with a handlebar moustache and full set of side whiskers and sporting a white apron (which seemed to have suffered from several spillages during the evening). He also wore a peaked yachting cap with a stuffed parrot attached to the side.
“Don’t mention the parrot,” Pasco whispered to me.
“Why ever not?”
“Makes old Jem sad. He loved that bird. Over a hundred years old when it croaked.”
“It was,” nodded Jackson.
“You can joke with Jem about most things, but not Nigel.”
“He had her stuffed and the bird’s feet sewn onto that hat,” Jackson added.
“Her?”
“That’s right, Sangster.” Pasco raised his mug. “Here’s to Nigel. Great little talker she was.”
“The parrot?”
“That’s right, Sangster, African Grey,” said Pasco, banging his tankard back down in frustration at my questions. “Ah Jem, let me introduce you to my good friend Jack Sangster. Jack, Jem Treburden, our host and the finest cider maker this side of Saltash.”
“Either side of Saltash,” said Jackson.
“Evening, Jack.”
“Evening, Jem.” I offered my hand, then immediately regretted it as a bone crushing grip almost flattened the palm.
“This’ll be the Cassandra’s last night, so let me give you something to remember the old place by.” He passed me a matchbook with a picture of the pub on the front.
“Oh, er, thanks very much.” I slipped the book into my coat pocket using somewhat numb fingers.
“Weren’t you the chap I saw on TV a bit earlier?” he then asked, squinting sideways at me as I clenched to get some blood back into my fingers. “Talking with a newsreader, Sue Driver?”
“Yes,” I sighed.
“Tidy bit of crackling is that Sue Driver, and you know what, Mr er…”
“Jack Sangster.”
“She’s outside this pub. Tonight.”
“What, here?”
“She is, came with her film crew. Now Pasco, you got everything you need?”
“Need some more mugs, Jem,” said Pasco. “And by the by, we got one more coming.” He pointed to the other stool, still occupied by a flagon.
“Course,” said Jem with a good-natured grin, and produced four stone tankards, before expertly pouring flat, greenish-yellow cloudy liquid from a basket flagon into each, somehow leaning the narrow flagon neck across his forearm in a sort of ‘backhand’ style. This deft trick, Jem said, let him serve with one hand from a vessel weighing thirty pounds or more when full.
“Gents,” said Pasco, raising his mug. “Now down in one, to Jem Treburden.” We drank, and I felt my throat burn and my eyes water, almost gagging before I emptied my tankard.
“Whad’ya think?” asked Jem.
“Oh, very fine,” I said hoarsely while nodding seriously.
“Enough of that and girls’ll be all over you.”
“How much do I need to drink to make it ‘enough’?”
“Not you, them. Get the girls to drink some, open’s ’em up. There’s a baby in every flagon you know.”
“Is there?” I said, coughing over another mouthful.
“Oh yeah, it’ll put lead in your pencil as well, and it gets easier to drink after a few, trust me.” Jem recharged our tankards, then excused himself.
“We’ll take this next one slower, lads,” said Jackson. “Don’t want to overdo it, eh Pasco?” Pasco nodded, just as Stocker arrived.
“Alright, Stocker?” he said laughing. “Escaped from your own sea monster I see. Now, drink this down.”
“Is it all your first pints of cider as well?” Stocker asked, looking at our empty mugs as he appraised his own brim-full tankard.
“No.”
“We’re on our second,” said Jackson. “So easy enough for you to catch up. Just get it down you.”
“Second?” said Pasco. “Speak for yourself.”
*
After two more of the lethal tankards, I felt it best to, at least temporarily, excuse myself as well.
“Just away to the ablutions,” I said to Pasco, before sliding off the bar stool.
“Got your stool covered.” He plonked a flagon on top of it almost before I had stood up.
“Thanks.” I walked through the saloon, pushing past the occupants as best I could, before coming to the passage that I guessed would lead to the toilets. Before I could find out, however, there was a tap on my shoulder, and I turned to see Canon Pengelly.
“Sangster, fancy seeing you here.”
“Pengelly.”
“Like a drink? It’s free, after all.”
“Light beer would be great, but I need the loo. See you back here in a minute?”
“I’ll set ’em up.”
I walked down the passage and found the appropriate door, which suddenly opened, slamming into my face.
“Oh my God, Sangster.” It was Monsignor Slevin. “I’m so sorry, you okay?”
“Okay,” I said, rubbing my nose.
“Sure?” I nodded. “Enjoying the evening?”
“I am, Slevin. Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Why ever not?”
“Well, you a man of the cloth and everything. Although…” I was about to say that he didn’t look like a priest but thought better of it. “Why not?” I said instead.
“Why not indeed. See you later.” He walked back up the passage, and I into the gents, emerging a few minutes later to find Pengelly standing by the passage entrance and holding two glasses of beer. He was staring intently across the room, so didn’t notice me at first, and I followed his gaze to see Slevin standing deep in conversation with a familiar figure, Professor Jos Polkinghorne.
“Hah,” Pengelly eventually said to himself, then turned to see me. “Sangster, I got you a beer. Saw you on TV this evening as well. Not sure anyone else did mind.”
“Oh, everyone else did, rest assured.”
“You sound like you’re carrying a burden. Care to share?”
“Well, no, I…”
“It’s alright, we can talk without me insisting you sign up to attend evensong.”
“I’m not, how shall we say, getting on with my wife,” I then heard myself blurt out. “Thinks I’m going to be unfaithful to her, and I don’t know why. It’s not my fault though, that’s for sure.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Course not, Pengelly. I’d know, I’ve never strayed, I’d—”
“Matthew, Chapter 5, Verse 28,” he almost shouted. “But I say to you that everyone who looks at a woman with lustful intent has already committed adultery with her in his heart.”
“What?”
“Well, have you?”
“Perhaps, but it’s only natural to look, I didn’t do anything.”
“Your wife doesn’t see it that way.”
“Then what do I do? Wear a blindfold in front of other women.”
“Perhaps she has been hurt, in the past maybe?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then find out, and if you love her, keep your head, no matter how she behaves. That’s what she needs from you.”
“Sound advice,” I nodded. “Sound.”
“I do hope so, Sangster, I… ugh.” Across the room, Slevin now had his arm across Polkinghorne’s shoulders, the two engrossed in deep and close conversation. Pengelly banged his glass down and went to walk towards them.
“No Simeon,” I said, holding him back by the shoulder.
“You’re right,” he muttered. “Do as I say, not do as I do. But…” he added, looking with anger at the two men who were now openly embracing. “That’s enough, and I’ll not be made a fool of. I want to see you tomorrow, can you come into Truro?”
“Sure. I’ve a car mechanics appointment at, er… about ten. What do you want to see me about?”
“Never mind for now and meet me at the Three Spires Café.”
“Where?”
“In Cathedral Lane. Just be there and I’ll tell you some things you need to know.”
“But about what?”
“Until tomorrow, eleven sharp?” He left down the passage, and I didn’t see Pengelly again that evening (presumably he went home on his bike). I did see Slevin though, as a moment later he passed me.
“Weak bladder tonight,” he said, winking as he walked in the direction of the gents. “Yet another piss.”
I laughed, then decided some fresh air might be good, and squeezed my way to the outside terrace, where the music had temporarily stopped, making for a relative calm.
“Sangster, well fancy meeting you out here.”
My immediate instinct on hearing this was that Pasco had come to find me, but I turned round to see Jos Polkinghorne, smiling, pint in hand.
“Professor.”
“Do I still look like one?”
“Oh, entirely.”
“Good, because I’ve news for you. Was going to call you tomorrow but seeing as we’re here.”
“Yes?”
“That dagger. Your girl’s going to be disappointed.”
“If we ever find her.”
“Of course, Sangster, I didn’t mean it to come out that way. Point is though, dagger’s a modern replica.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” said Polkinghorne. “Miss Trimble chased up Imperial College this afternoon and it seems they hadn’t understood the urgency. Did all the tests a while ago and were going to send us a full written report.” He sipped his beer then put the glass down and held up his hands. “And to be honest, I never actually said to the guys at Imperial it was urgent either.”
“And what did they tell you? On the phone that is.”
“That the copper comes from America. Great Lakes region. Unmistakable.”
“I thought you claimed, well…”
“Well, what?”
“Well… that you could identify any kind of copper.”
“Any kind we use today. This stuff was mined by Indians, thousands of years ago.”
“But you… you…,” I stumbled in my words, the cider beginning to catch up with me. “Think the knife is modern.”
“It is,” he said with the kind of sigh that said he was having to explain as he would to a child. “Look, you often get stuff made in America using existing bronze melted down from old Indian statues and so on, which were made of a simple alloy of just copper and tin. And I believe that’s what we have here.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty much. I mean, this Great Lakes copper source was mined out more than a thousand years before Columbus discovered America, so it can’t have been fresh copper, can it. Ergo…”
“Ergo…” I copied.
“Dagger’s modern. Might be a hundred or more years old, but still pretty new compared with the Phoenicians.”
“What about all that old writing on it?”
“Like I say, a modern replica, perhaps a fake antique, but made by who I couldn’t say. Not my department.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll post you a copy of the report when I get it, but for now, I’ll leave you if I may.”
“Thanks Jos, that’s useful stuff, even if I feel I’ve gone one step backwards now.”
“Good evening, Jack.”
*
I went back into the saloon, not sure if I felt better or worse for my talks with Pengelly and Polkinghorne, but definitely feeling pain for Pengelly, and Angel still never far from my thoughts. I was also still off balance from my spat with Sarah, and I had to admit, the thought of Sue Driver disturbed that balance further.
Pasco was still holding court at the corner of the bar, so I returned to my stool, and took another tankard of cider. The conversation was disjointed, with Stocker and Jackson now well on the way to catching up Pasco.
After about twenty minutes of this I began to lose concentration. Looking vacantly around the room, I noticed a collection of framed photographs on the adjacent wall, clearly very old by their sepia hue and the dress style of the subjects, which were either miners or fishermen. One photo particularly caught my eye, as the title underneath was ‘The closing of Bethadew mine, AD 1859’. A line of men, dressed in mining helmets and smocks, posed in front of the pump house building, and beside them were several figures dressed in frock coats and stove-pipe hats, presumably the mine owners. But what struck me most of all was a figure to the right of the main crowd. He stood watching the proceedings, and I had to shake myself when I realised the man looked exactly like the tramp, even down to the staff and the long, buttoned-up coat. The picture was faded though, and as with most very early photos it was hard to tell detail, so I squinted for a moment then looked away, to see someone I recognised on the far side of the saloon (at least semi-recognised). It was Ana Woon, standing amongst a large group and now dressed in jeans, sneakers and a blue and white striped jumper, hair in a ponytail and looking (to me), years younger than she did in a police uniform.
“That’s someone I know, Pasco. Save my chair please.”
“Guard it with my life, Jack,” he yelled as I walked across to the group.
“Jack,” said Ana, waving. “How lovely to see you.”
“And you, Ana. A bit crazy in here, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, but all legal, at least for now.”
“Landlord found a rather nice loophole in his contract I hear.”
“This is Richard,” she said, thrusting a slim, blond-haired young man towards me. “And Richard, this is the man I was telling you about.”
“Commander Sangster,” he said, holding out his hand. “It’s a pleasure.”
“All mine,” I answered. “And if your young lady here tells you anything other than she’s destined for great things in the force, then don’t believe her.” He said nothing, and I wondered if I (or Treburden’s cider), had said too much. Luckily, the awkward silence was broken by none other than Sergeant Nick Bolitho.
“Hello Serana, Richard. I’ve brought you a couple of drinks. Pint of Saxon for you isn’t it Richard, and Serana, you’re on rum and coke?”
“Well, er…” Ana stuttered. “Yes, that is what we’re drinking. Thanks a lot.”
“Just wanted to pop over,” he said, handing over the glasses. “By the way,” he winked. “Make yourselves scarce by about half eleven.”
“Why’s that?” Richard asked.
“Dot of midnight there’s going to be a raid. Brewery have enlisted the police to help reclaim the property. Anticipating trouble, that’s the rumour, so they’ll come ready for it, armed and dangerous.”
“Thanks, Nick,” said Ana.
“And Commander Sangster, nice to see you, sir.” I nodded, and Bolitho left.
“He didn’t bring you a drink, Jack,” said Ana.
“Good thing. I’ve been drinking Jem’s cider.”
“Heard of that,” she laughed. “But let me at least get you a beer.” I acquiesced with a nod, and she reached out to the bar and grabbed me a glass. “There we are, Jack, a half of Saxon. Now cheers.” We raised our glasses, and I watched as Richard, clearly devoted to this lovely young woman by the look in his eyes, stood guard as she sipped her drink. I asked him about his job, and he explained he worked with computers, which meant little to me.
“Richard’s working for Carrick District Council at the moment,” said Ana. “Biggest computer in Cornwall.”
“Computers are the only thing I’m good at,” Richard added. “But I don’t know if computers’ll really catch on enough for me to make a career of it. Probably have to live off Ana when we marry.”
“And that’ll be just fine,” Ana said, placing her arm tightly around Richard’s waist.
“Ahem… you never know, computers just might catch on,” I said, finding the cuddle a little embarrassing. We stood and made more small talk for a few minutes, then Ana jerked her head towards Richard, who muttered something about going to the gents.
“Jack, can we go outside, we need to talk.”
“Sure,” I said, and took her by the arm, weaving through the throng in the bar, eventually getting out into the fresh air to find the terrace leading down to the pontoon similarly packed with people, and it seemed even more revellers had arrived in the short time since I’d left Polkinghorne on the terrace.
“And now, for all you lovers out there,” said Alfie Morgan in hushed tones down the microphone. “And as a thank you to Jem Treburden for putting this night on.” An enormous shout went up. “And for the ever-thoughtful Devenish brewery, along with the ever-generous Launceston County Courts, for paying for our beer and not being able to do anything about it.” An even bigger shout went up. “It’s Elvis, and ‘Can’t Help Falling In Love’.”
“Tell me over a dance,” I said to Ana, the cider behaving exactly as Jem had foretold.
“How could I refuse, Commander.”
The rich tones of the ‘King’ then echoed through the evening air, as we held each other and turned around the waterfront, in a close-but-not-too-close manner appropriate (I felt) to the nature of our relationship.
“So Jack, I spoke to my mum…”
“I can’t hear you, Ana.”
“Then let’s move.” We twirled across the terrace, away from Morgan’s PA and towards the edge of the water. “So, I spoke to my mum this afternoon, just on the off chance, and I think I struck lucky.”
“How?”
“Angel’s been sending telegrams from her post office.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, Mum recognised her picture. I’ll give the details to the chief super first thing tomorrow.”
“Did you learn anything?”
“Angel was communicating with someone in London, that’s all I can tell. Very careful what she said. Reckon it was in some sort of code.”
“What, odd symbols?” I asked, thinking of Angel’s notebook, and wondering how these could be sent via a wire.
“No, just weird sentences. Mumbo jumbo, so I think it can only have been code, like I say. That’s what I’d do if I was her.”
“You’re a bright lass.” We returned to dancing. “And I mean it. You’ve been thinking out of that box, just as I suggested you should.” She said nothing, we continued dancing until the track stopped, and then said our goodbyes. I went to walk back to the bar, but she caught my arm.
“Come on, Jack, one more dance for me.”
“Alright, one more. Let’s see what they…”
“This is Fleetwood Mac, girls and boys,” crooned the DJ, “and ‘Need Your Love So Bad’. If you can’t feel your love in this song, you don’t have a heart.”
I sensed my mind falling, the antiquity of this waterside pub, the perfume of this young woman dancing with me, my separation from Sarah, the racing mystery of Angel Blackwood that surrounded everything I did, and even the wildness of the revellers as they caroused at the brewery’s expense, the voices, the lights, the water, the music, all merging into one spinning dream. And as I dreamed, the music played, and I swayed with Ana.
“What does your name mean?” I asked her.
“Well,” she said, looking up at me. “Serana was a saint, who gave her name to Zennor.”
“Who’s Zennor.”
“Not who, Jack, where. It’s a Cornish village. Serana was a Breton princess, maybe even a mermaid.”
“That’s nice.”
“At least I think she was, but Jack…”
“Yes.”
“Nick Bolitho’s been strangely nice to me.”
“What do you mean,” I said, pulling away from her, ready to go back into the pub and face the sergeant.
“No, ‘nice’ nice. He brought me a cup of tea this afternoon, took me into a corner and said if I needed his help, anything at all, to just let him know. And you saw this evening in the bar, he brought us drinks over.”
“Clearly begun to appreciate your qualities.”
We then danced in silence, serenaded by a mournful guitar solo.
“I don’t think he has, Jack,” Ana said as the solo finished, and the verse recommenced. “I think somebody said something.” I remained silent, and we danced on until the music stopped. “You didn’t need to do that,” she then whispered. “Frighten Nick on my account, I mean.”
“I’m sorry, Ana.”
“Why are you sorry?”
“I shouldn’t have got involved, it just incensed me, the arrogance of the man, what he thought he could get away with, and after all the work you’d done, I—”
“No, you have me wrong. I couldn’t be more grateful, and I can’t imagine anyone but you being able to, oh I don’t know…” she went silent, and then threw her arms around me. “Thank you.”
I said nothing.
“You don’t have any kids yourself, do you, Jack?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“You’d have liked a daughter, wouldn’t you?”
“Go and find Richard,” I said. “And I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I returned to the bar, only to find Pasco, Stocker and Jackson deep in a political argument (about what I couldn’t quite tell). I picked up a mug and one of the cider flagons then went back outside, sitting down at one end of a picnic table, where the occupants began to eye my flagon jealously. I imagined people felt any booze was fair game this evening and cradled the basket tight with both arms.
“Well, you are a dark horse.” I recognised the baritone of Sue Driver over my shoulder.
“Er, am I?” I answered, quickly releasing the flagon.
“Dancing the night away with that young thing.”
“She’s a policewoman I’m working with I’ll have you know, Sue, and anyway, the night’s not ‘away’ yet.”
“Well, it will be away if you keep drinking that rough cider,” she laughed, picking up the basket flagon. “You’ll be no good to anybody, so I’ll take that.”
“I think my liver owes you an everlasting debt of gratitude.”
“Ha. Now come on, let’s walk up to the landing stage at the end of the pontoon and look at the moon in the water. On the way you can tell me about all of your innermost torments.”
“No pontoon’s long enough for that, Sue, but lead on anyway.”
And on we went, she stepping carefully, the gaps between the pontoon planks making for a high-heel trap, and the weight of the cider flagon affecting her balance as the floating pier rocked to the tread of our feet.
“Oh, that cider really is rough,” she said, eyes watering when she took a swig from the flagon as we reached the landing stage.
“Ciggy?” she then asked, pulling out a pack from her handbag.
“Gave up.”
“I don’t suppose you could light me?” She placed the cigarette between her lips.
“You’re in luck.” I pulled out the matchbook Jem Treburden gave me and, using a trick I’d been taught by a petty officer during the course of one very long and uneventful voyage, with one hand, bent a match, struck it still attached with my thumb and held the book open, the flap cradling the flame from any wind.
“Jack, you have hidden talents,” Sue said, smoke curling from her mouth, as I suddenly staggered, somewhat spoiling the suave effect of the matchbook trick as well as making the landing stage rock back and forth.
“Not sure if it’s the water or the cider, or perhaps you’ve made the earth move for me, but this decking’s quite the rollercoaster.”
“How like life,” I added, immediately realising that even with the ‘Jem’s cider’ excuse, this wasn’t exactly sparkling wit and repartee. “Sorry, talking gibberish.”
“S’okay, Jack, gibberish permitted at this time of night, and I heard all about the missing girl by the way. Didn’t like to say when we were at the hotel.” She was quiet for a moment. “I’m staying there tonight by the way. At the Watersmeet.”
“Mmmm…” I nodded.
“I guess it’s been a long week for you.”
“Yeah Sue, and it’s not over.” She looked back towards the pub.
“Do you ever get gut feelings, Jack?”
“Sure, all the time.”
“Well so do I, and right now they’re about this Morgawr. All my life I’ve wanted to find some animal, some creature nobody else knew existed. This is my chance, I feel it.”
“So how come you became a newsreader?”
“Gotta pay the bills, Jack.”
We both stared into the darkness.
“I just might have something for you,” I blurted out after some minutes, fairly sure I wanted to tell her about the submarine, and that it wasn’t just the cider speaking.
“Really?”
“Yes, and your monster’s probably not what you think it is.”
“Oh Jack, don’t keep me guessing…”
“Tomorrow, I think, or maybe the next day…”
“You’re a truly sadistic man, Jack Sangster,” she said, flicking her cigarette butt into the water then kissing me on the cheek. “Making me wait like that, but for you I’ll do it.”
“As soon as I know, I’ll leave a message at the hotel with Morwenna.”
“Alright, now don’t go away, I just need to powder my nose.”
“Be my guest, Sue, but nobody’ll mind if you get your compact out right now.”
“Oh, you know what I mean you naughty boy, and you keep this as well.” She plonked the cider flagon on the ground by my feet. “Back in a sec, Jack.”
I sat down on the edge of the pontoon and looked across the creek. Ahead all was still, with the light of the half-moon looking as if it was indeed ‘in the water’, as Sue had said. Other than that, the flat, black surface reflected the few house lights on the far bank, with the distant night silent bar an echo from the occasional bird call, while the lights and din of the Cassandra’s last night went on. Two different worlds, one behind me and one in front, I thought to myself. Taking out the picture of Sarah from my wallet I stared. What would she think of everything that was happening? She always had a different view, and I missed her voice, her warmth. And my goodness, I thought as I looked at the photo, Sarah really was very pretty. Did I deserve her?
I swigged from the flagon and remembered Pengelly’s advice. Perhaps I could speak with Sarah’s sister and ask if there was a reason for her distrust that I didn’t understand.
Or was that reason me, and that was what I didn’t understand?
I’ll call Rachel tomorrow morning first thing, and then call Sarah and tell her I love her, I said to myself as the music droned on, now playing some sort of Cornish anthem that, judging by the singing, all the revellers knew. At first, I thought they sang, ‘Little Eyes’, but then as I listened to the chorus, I realised they were singing about ‘Little Lies’.
I tried hard but in vain to follow as the lyrics became more and more incomprehensible, my thoughts wandering back to Sarah until interrupted by a voice from behind.
“You like movies, Jack?”
I looked up to see Sue, returned from ‘powdering her nose’.
“Come and sit here,” I said, patting the side of the pontoon next to me. Pulling off her shoes, Sue then gracefully lowered herself and slid along the planks until she was sitting next to me, feet dangling over the end of the jetty.
“Got to mind the splinters,” she laughed, wriggling so that her short skirt covered the backs of her legs.
“Oh yes, Sue. Splinters. Got to mind those.”
“So, you like the old movie stars?”
“Ner, I’m not a great film buff.”
“Why do you keep that picture then?”
“What picture?” Jem Treburden’s cider was now really baffling my senses.
“That one in your hand. Hedy Lamarr?”
“Ah no, that’s Sarah.”
“Who?”
“My wife.”
“You don’t wear a ring?”
“None of the men in my family did.”
“Taken when she was younger?”
“A few days ago.”
I felt Sue’s hand heavy on my shoulder as she pulled herself up and put her shoes back on.
“She’s a lucky girl. What’s her name again?”
“Sarah.”
“Goodnight, Jack.” She bent down and kissed me on the top of the head, then walked back along the pontoon.
I sat for a few more minutes watching the dark creek, then went to find Stocker, whose wife had (somewhat implausibly), waited for us in the Land Rover after all.