Chapter 19
When we return to the inn, Elspeth is putting out the sign board for the museum. I tell her what was discovered, expecting her to be shocked and horrified. Instead, she just shakes her head. ‘It’s a bad business, these people traffickers.’
‘I didn’t realise it was such a problem down here.’
‘It’s good money post-Brexit,’ the old woman says. ‘They set people up with false papers and jobs. For a generous fee. There are lots of people in war-torn countries who are willing to pay anything to come to Blighty.’
‘And do you think this friend of Connor’s, this “Med” – could he be one of them?’
‘It’s possible,’ she says. ‘Though, I would have thought he’d have been moved on before now.
Folks say they make landfall at night in a deserted cove.
At dawn, a lorry comes for them. Some of them go to farms, others to the cities where they’re made to do the devil knows what.
They have to work for “room and board” and a debt they can never pay off – treated no better than slaves. ’ She shakes her head in disgust.
Anger churns inside me, along with a fear I don’t want to acknowledge. ‘Do any of them manage to escape?’
‘Well, they say that if anyone tries to jump from the boat, they’re left to drown. That could be what happened to the poor chap on the beach. Beyond that, I don’t know.’
‘But someone could theoretically escape between the time they reach the cove and get on the lorry, right?’
‘Anything’s possible.’ She cocks her head, eyeing me askance. ‘Why?’
Why indeed? The missing food, the nocturnal footsteps, the locked cellar door.
Could Connor’s friend Med be a victim of trafficking?
And if so, could Connor – and all of us – be in danger?
My knowledge may be limited, but even I know that people who are so ruthless as to trade in the lives of other human beings are not to be crossed.
‘Just curious,’ I say. ‘I hate to think about those poor people – though the policeman did say that there hadn’t been any activity in the area in recent years. It could have just been a swimmer who got in trouble.’
‘Hmm.’ She sounds unconvinced.
‘Anyway,’ I say, eager to change the subject. ‘Are you expecting many visitors today?’
‘When there’s a death, it always draws extra folk out of the woodwork.
People come to see where it happened, and such.
And when there’s nothing to see on the beach, some of them will make their way here – they’re likely to be my kind of customer.
So we’d best get the place opened up and ready.
’ She turns to Bridget. ‘You free to help out? The shelves could use a dusting.’
Bridget gives me a pleading look. ‘Do I have to?’
‘Two words,’ I say. ‘Car insurance.’
She lets out a long sigh. ‘Fine, Elspeth,’ she says. ‘But I want two quid an hour extra for cleaning.’
The old woman whistles through her missing teeth. ‘You drive a hard bargain, young lady. And I’ll make you skivvy for it, mark my words.’
Leaving them to it, I return to the house and make myself a cup of tea.
I sit down at the table and stare at the steam rising from the cup, feeling unsettled, scared even.
Someone died – lost their life. Here one moment, and gone the next.
The sheer hopelessness of it fills me with despair.
That poor person. I wish I could do something, but I’ve no idea what—
A noise startles me. Not the usual gusting of the wind or creaking of the house, but…
voices? Abandoning the tea, I go out of the kitchen towards the staircase.
I hear the sound again: definitely voices – faint and indistinct.
I poke my head into the common room to see if someone’s in there, or if the TV might be on, but it’s empty and silent. Could I be hearing things?
I go back to the landing. There’s a distant thud. But it’s not coming from upstairs. It’s coming from the other side of the locked cellar door.
I go to the door and try to open it. It’s still locked. Whoever is behind the wall must either have the missing key or else got in some other way.
I knock hard on the wood, and instantly, the voices stop.
Maybe I should have laid low, but it’s too late – I’ve given myself away.
I go to the kitchen and grab some tools from underneath the kitchen sink.
Returning to the cellar door, I insert a screwdriver in the jamb and give it a good whack with a hammer.
The wood groans, and then cracks. I feel bad for damaging something so old, but needs must.
Pulling the door all the way open, I go down the rickety stairs, using my phone torch for light.
In the first of the cellar rooms, I leave Bridget’s laundry mouldering in the machine and proceed into the room with the hole in the wall that leads to the pirate cave.
There are muddy footprints on the kegs that are stacked, stair-like, beneath it.
Someone has been coming in and out of my cellar through the cave!
I climb up onto the kegs and peer through the hole, bracing myself for the leering pirate I know is on the other side.
But the pirate isn’t leering – the body has been knocked to the side and the head is nowhere to be seen.
Where the figure was placed there’s now a wooden ladder leading down into the cave.
Every muscle in my body protests at the idea of going through there.
I should call for backup – Cliff or Elspeth – maybe even Bridget.
But if I go back up the stairs, or wait for someone, I might never have the courage to come back down and find out who has been in my cellar, and why.
Instead, I go back to the laundry area where Victoria kept a rack of gardening tools.
There’s a crowbar hanging there, and I grab it, hefting it in front of me.
Friend or foe… I’m not taking any chances.
I go through the hole and down the ladder, grimacing.
I’m in a little stone room that must go off the main pirate cave.
I practically trip over the leering pirate’s head – there’s a trainer print on his forehead like someone used him to play ‘keepy-uppy’.
Skirting around the head, I make my way into the main cave.
It’s illuminated only by a single security light with a bad transformer, flickering from one end of the cave.
Even though I know what to expect, the pirate tableaux shocks me all over again.
The grinning faces, the murdered girl, the dog licking at the pool of blood.
The wreckers in the final scene, with their cellophane signal fire that crackles as I walk past. This time, there’s no live pirate to shoot at me, but I’d almost welcome the company.
Past the tableaux, there’s a sharp bend in the cave, beyond which is near complete darkness.
My phone torch only shines a few feet in front of me, so I practically run into the steel grate that’s blocking the tunnel like a prison door.
There’s a large padlock to keep the grate shut, but it’s hanging off the hasp – either it’s been opened with a key or else it’s been cut.
The grate opens with a screech when I press on it.
Beyond on one side of the passage is a stack of crates and barrels; one of the crates is open and I see unlabelled bottles of a foul, brown liquid.
I recall Ollie telling me about Cliff and his ‘special tour’ ending with a tasting of bootleg spirits.
It seems he’s using my cave to store his merchandise.
Though I hate the taste and smell of whisky, I pick up a bottle, half-tempted to open it and take a quick swig for some Dutch courage. But the cave is rough and treacherous and I need to keep my wits about me. I replace the bottle and continue onwards into the darkness.
After a few minutes treading over the uneven terrain, the passage descends steeply downward.
The way is increasingly damp and close, the walls slimy with wet algae.
Carefully, I make my way along, holding the crowbar with one hand and my phone torch with the other.
Twice, I trip, managing to keep my footing.
The third time, however, I slip at the top of what turns out to be a set of rough-hewn stone steps.
I fall hard on my backside and the crowbar goes clattering away.
If anyone is down here, I won’t be taking them by surprise.
I don’t get up immediately; I sit there feeling sorry for myself and worrying about my dwindling phone battery.
I should abandon this silly quest and go back – if I get the wall fixed, then no one will be able to get into my cellar.
But the tunnel must lead somewhere, which means it must have another entrance.
Since the cave is on my land, am I responsible if a trespasser gets hurt?
Surely, I should at least find out where the passage leads.
I get to my feet and look around for the crowbar, but I can’t find it.
Before continuing on, I stop and listen; in the distance, I can hear the faint sound of breaking waves.
The passage grows lower and narrower, but I start moving again towards what must be an exit.
I pass several tunnels that fork from the main passage, and when my light shines on the walls, I see tool marks – if the cave system is natural, it’s been widened by human endeavour.
The tunnels might even be old mine shafts – there are lots of those in the area, running all the way to Polgothley, if the rumours are true.
As I continue down the main tunnel, I see more evidence of human activity – old wooden slats and metal bands that might have once come from barrels. A real smugglers’ hideout? Quite likely. Towards the end of the tunnel, before the way descends again, I find a side room with a stone floor.
I shine my light inside and see a dirty bedroll in one corner, and an oil lamp that looks like one of Cliff’s.
Empty crisp wrappers litter the floor – along with an empty bag of sugar and a packet of biscuits that must be from my kitchen.
Someone is sleeping down here – they’re living in the tunnels below my inn.
My mind rewinds itself to a conversation I had with Connor.
What had he said when I’d asked him about his friend Med?
Something along the lines of, ‘He doesn’t live in the tunnels, or anything.
’ It had seemed an odd comment and I’d disregarded it accordingly.
Now, however, I’m wondering if it was actually a misdirection to make me stop asking questions.
Is Med – a boy about Connor’s age – living in the tunnels?
The possibilities of why that might be make me feel positively sick.
As I leave the little room and return to the main passage, I hear voices again. This time, they’re louder, and definitely men, not boys.
‘…see our faces?’
‘…need some insurance. Make sure he doesn’t squeal.’
The voices are coming from behind me. I didn’t see anyone on the way down, so they must have come from one of the other tunnels.
‘…and what about that crowbar? Did someone else come down here?’
‘…find them too and take care of it.’
My pulse jolts – I could be in danger. For a moment, I consider hiding out in the cave with the bedroll, but what if they’re the ones living down here and that’s where they’re headed?
I can’t risk it. Instead, I rush headlong further down the passage to where the ground descends sharply and I can hear the roiling of waves.
It takes me a few minutes to realise that actually, there’s light ahead of me, and I don’t need the torch.
I emerge into a cave that’s open to the sea except for a few huge rocks that serve as a breakwater of sorts.
Light streams in through a hole in the rock above, casting the walls and roof of the cave with a restless, eerie blue.
There’s a shallow pool of sea water on the floor, with rocks placed like makeshift stepping stones towards the mouth.
An iron ring with a rope attached is set into one of the rocks – a mooring for a boat, perhaps?
It must have been a perfect place for smugglers to bring their goods through the tunnels to the inn at high tide.
In olden times, that would have been things like tobacco and rum.
I don’t want to contemplate that the place might still be in use, and for what sort of cargo.
I notice a piece of paper on one of the rocks near the entrance to the cave.
I would have thought it was just rubbish, but it’s weighted down with a rock.
Wrapped around the rocks is a strand of onyx prayer beads.
Clearly, the things were left there deliberately.
I glance at the paper – it’s a tide table, now dampened by the spray. The dates are for this week!
As I’m standing there, a wave crashes over the rocks and water rushes in. The tide is rising, but the men could be coming for me. I decide it’s best to leave the cave and try to find a way back up to dry land. I leave the tide table and beads where I found them and exit the cave.
Outside the entrance, barnacle-covered boulders bask in the shingle like giant sea creatures.
There’s no way I can climb over – I’ll have to risk going around them on the seaside.
I squelch through the wet sand and shingle; a wave breaks and icy cold water closes around me up to my thighs.
The water sucks at the rocks, and when the wave recedes, the current is so strong that I lose my footing and get soaked from head to toe.
By the time I’m able to cut back in towards the shore, I’m almost to the next cove.
I scramble up the rocks but the cliff overhangs and I can’t find a path upwards.
The waves are crashing and my panic rises.
But then I see a small indentation near the top of the large rocks.
Another small cave. It’s just above the tideline and goes back far enough for me to shelter inside.
My body is wet and jelly-like as I crawl into the cave and slump down on the cold stones.
Somewhere nearby, a body is being unloaded at the morgue, pathologists at the ready to discover the cause of death.
Or, perhaps they won’t even bother with a post-mortem.
The person died alone and will be buried unclaimed. Could that really happen?
The waves crash below me, wild and fierce. The sea is unfeeling and relentless – and I fear that it could happen all too easily.