The Smuggler’s Daughter. Kerry Barrett

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СКАЧАТЬ days went by. Three awful days. The inn was quiet. Mam was silent. Tully sat by the window, his front paws on the sill, watching for Da. And try as I might – and believe me, I tried – I couldn’t get the words out to tell Mam what had happened. I tried to mime it, clutching my stomach and falling to the floor. Pointing at the spot in the courtyard where the blood had splattered. I tried to show her the drawings of Petroc and Morgan, but she pushed me away. I wanted to scream in frustration and fear and grief. But I couldn’t do that, either.

      On the morning of the fourth day, I was awakened by my mother’s wails. I was on my feet and downstairs before I’d even properly realised what I was doing, so scared was I that Morgan had returned. But Mam was in the inn, sitting at a table with the parish constable, Mr Trewin. His three-cornered hat was on the table, making me shudder as I remembered Morgan wearing a similar one. I flew to my mother’s side and she gathered me into her arms – an unfamiliar state of affairs as usually I shunned physical contact. Her face was blotchy with tears. Had they found Da? I wondered. Was this it?

      ‘Emily,’ Mam said softly. ‘Your father is gone.’

      Mr Trewin nodded. ‘Your mother is afraid he has fallen from the cliff.’

      I shook my head. That wasn’t what had happened. Again, I opened my mouth to speak, to tell them about the man with the white streak in his hair, and the blood on the cobbles, but again I couldn’t make a sound.

      ‘Emily,’ Mr Trewin said. He was using the tone people often used when they spoke to me. Many of the people from Kirrinporth believed me to be simple because I didn’t talk much and because I was much happier observing from the edge of life than being in it. ‘Emily,’ he said again. ‘Your mother says your father has been gone these last three nights. But the tide has turned so if he had fallen he would have washed up at Barnmouth.’

      Desperately, Mam reached across the table and clutched the front of Mr Trewin’s coat.

      ‘We argued,’ she said. ‘We argued and he went off in anger. He wasn’t thinking straight. He could have fallen.’

      Mr Trewin gave a small shake of his head. ‘But there is no sign of him,’ he said. ‘And if you argued, then perhaps he has just gone for some peace.’

      Mam pulled Mr Trewin closer to her. He pulled back but her grip was strong. ‘You want to speak to Cal Morgan,’ she hissed. I stiffened at the mention of the name. ‘Because it was him we argued about.’

      Mr Trewin stood up, forcing Mam to release his coat. ‘I’d be very careful what you say, Janey Moon,’ he said. ‘Spreading rumours like that.’

      I stood in between Mam and Mr Trewin, looking at the man and trying my hardest to speak. But the only sound that came from my treacherous mouth was a kind of desperate croak.

      Mr Trewin looked at me in sympathy. ‘Your da is alive,’ he said, speaking slowly and carefully as though it was my ears that didn’t work, not my mouth. ‘He has gone off somewhere.’ He gave my mother a sideways glance. ‘With another woman, no doubt. Who doesn’t argue.’

      My mother began to wail again and Mr Trewin patted her kindly on the hand. ‘Janey, we men are simple folk,’ he said. ‘We are often not worthy of the love our women give us. Your Amos has let everyone down.’

      There was a scratching at the inn door and with a disgusted glance at Mr Trewin, I went to let Tully in. He bounded inside, his claws clattering on the stone floor, and nosed his way around the inn.

      ‘He’s looking for Amos,’ my mother said, watching him through swollen eyes. ‘Amos would never have left without Tully.’

      ‘I’m sorry,’ said Mr Trewin, picking up his hat and putting it on his head. ‘But it seems he has.’

      As though he’d understood every word, Tully sat back on his haunches, lifted his head up and howled mournfully. My mother followed, her sobs echoing round the empty inn. I tugged desperately at Mr Trewin’s sleeve, trying to get him to wait so I could get the pictures I’d drawn and perhaps make him understand what had happened. But he picked my fingers off one by one, as though I was dirty, and then brushed some invisible muck from his coat where I’d been clutching him.

      ‘I have to go,’ he said in that tone again. ‘Good day.’

       Chapter 2

       Phoebe

      London, February 2019

      I yawned and stretched at my desk, glad to be clocking off and not working the night shift. Saturdays were always challenging and I was pleased I wasn’t back in the police station until Monday morning now.

      ‘I’m heading off,’ I said to no one in particular, just as my colleague and friend Stacey – DC Maxwell – who sat next to me in the CID office, put the phone down and made a face.

      ‘Do you have to go now?’

      ‘What have you got?’

      ‘Missing teenage girl. Probably nothing, but uniform are all tied up with that brawl after the football.’

      ‘Where?’

      ‘Hanson Grove.’

      I pulled my coat from the rack and put it on. ‘I’ll go on my way home,’ I said. ‘Who called it in?’

      ‘Her mum. But according to PC Malone, she sounded a bit funny.’

      ‘Funny how?’

      Stacey shrugged and I groaned. ‘Give me all the details, and I’ll check it out.’

      ‘Will you be all right on your own?’

      ‘I’ll be fine.’

      As I walked to my car, I read the paperwork Stacey had given me. The missing girl was called Ciara James, and she was sixteen years old. I frowned. She’d probably just gone off with her boyfriend somewhere. This was a job for the neighbourhood PCSO, not CID. Still, it was on my way and it would only take five minutes.

      My car was iced up when I got to it. I had no scraper, obviously, so I had to improvise with my Tesco Clubcard and when I finally got inside, I had to peel off my wet gloves, and use them to demist the windscreen so all in all it took me ages to get to Ciara James’s house. It was gone 10 p.m. when I finally pulled up outside. There was a light on in the front room, though, so I knocked on the door.

      A man looked out of the window, frowning. He was wearing a thick jumper and he had reading glasses on his nose.

      ‘Mr James?’ I said through the glass, showing him my warrant card. ‘DS Bellingham.’

      He looked worried as he dropped the curtain and a few seconds later, the front door opened.

      ‘Is everything okay?’ he said. ‘What’s wrong?’

      That was strange. ‘We had a call from your wife? She said your daughter Ciara is missing.’

      A shadow crossed his face, but СКАЧАТЬ