5. The Graveyard Shift #2
“Have there ever been any names left in the ghosts’ mirror communications?” I ask.
“Nope, only . . . willies,” she replies.
“I have another question.” I hobble down a long corridor in Helga’s wake. The air smells of cooking. Roasting meats, sautéing onions, something cabbagey. “Have you heard of a group of people who call themselves The Youngscares?”
We arrive at the end of the hall. Helga types in yet another code and pushes open a door next to a plaque that reads TROPHY ROOM.
“The Youngscares . . . The Youngscares . . . Can’t say that I have.” She steps inside the trophy room and flicks the light on. It’s not on an automatic switch like most of the other communal hotel spaces. “Why? Who are they, some sort of band?”
That would make a banging band name actually.
“I dunno. I heard the name, and I’m trying to place it.” I don’t tell Helga The Youngscares were the group who essentially summoned me here.
I’m sure if Helga knew anything about them, she’d be forthcoming, since her goals and their goals are pretty much aligned.
But something stops me from telling the full truth.
I don’t believe Helga wrote that letter to me, so somebody else has information they want me to have, outside of Helga’s interference.
Rows and rows of display cabinets line the trophy room, like gleaming supermarket aisles.
From behind the shiny glass, placards, trophies, and medals glisten.
There are framed, signed sports jerseys, and signed sports balls, and signed photographs.
Newspaper clippings and magazine articles create a colourful backdrop to the shelves.
The whole place has the forbidden, echoey stillness you find in museum galleries.
But unlike curated museum spaces, there are random pieces of antique furniture pushed against the far wall.
Storage, I suspect, rather than exhibition.
As though each item is waiting for its forever home.
There’s a large mahogany bureau, an armoire, a couple of chaise longues, and a beautiful, elaborate Chinese cabinet.
“This is where Trystan’s body was discovered,” Helga says quietly. Respectfully.
A surfboard’s propped against the wall. It’s one of the few things in the room besides the furniture not hidden behind glass.
Beside it, there’s a signed cover of Amped, presumably a surfing magazine.
The artful photo on the front shows a very handsome blonde?haired man smiling and looking off to the right of the frame.
He’s wearing a pink and red Hawaiian shirt, board shorts, a shark’s tooth on a string around his neck, and I cannot take my eyes off him.
“That’s Trystan Retallack,” Helga says, watching me carefully.
I’m unable to shift my gaze. He’s all tanned skin and blinding white smile, and there’s a weird, dull ache forming in the pit of my stomach.
The issue’s heading reads “Making Waves.” And then under that, “Can our local legend take the international title for a fifth year?” The date is April 1998.
“He’s dead.” It’s not a question. I read the list Helga gave me. I did a little research beforehand. It’s more a reminder to myself that I shouldn’t, even for a second, entertain the notion of developing a crush on him.
He’s dead. Dead, dead, dead. Beautiful, but D E A D, dead.
Anyway, even if he were alive, he’d still be a million miles out of my league. So far out of my league that his league would seem like a speck on the horizon to mine.
Helga answers as though it had been a question.
“Yeah, such a tragedy. He grew up in this very town. I . . . remember him as a youngster. Drowned while surfing. Then his body was brought here to this room.” Her speech is stilted and unnatural.
She’s holding herself back, stopping herself from embellishing, and I think I know why.
How does a four-time international surf champion, who is no doubt a highly competent swimmer and also no doubt an expert in ocean currents and whatnot, drown in waters he presumably learned to surf in? Something doesn’t quite add up.
“Who brought his body here?” I ask. “And why here? Why the trophy room?”
Helga simply shrugs. “Franny found him one morning.”
“And Franny is?”
“Head housekeeper. Has been working at The Paragon since . . .” Helga puffs out a breath while she thinks. “Eighty-three, maybe.”
“Nineteen eighty-three?” One year before Peter died. “What’s Franny’s surname? And is it possible to arrange a chat with her . . . you know, so I can learn more about the ghost activity?”
“It’s Driscoll, and yes, that shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Excellent.” I spare the magazine one last glance and turn towards the door. “Where might I find her?”
“Oh, she won’t be on shift until the morning. I’ll set up a meeting with her tomorrow for you,” Helga says.
I do a terrible job of hiding my disappointment, but I’m very aware of the clock ticking down to my final episode. I still don’t have any decent leads, or any groundbreaking new angles to pitch my case from yet.
“So, Trystan drowned, but somebody had dragged his body from the beach to this room and left him here?” I ask. Helga nods. “What did the police have to say about that? Did it not seem odd to them? Bodies don’t just magically pull themselves out of the ocean and into a trophy room.”
“It wasn’t a trophy room back then,” Helga says. “It was . . . partly my office. And Sergeant Davies attended the scene, dismissed Trystan’s death as an accident, and stated that the body had undoubtedly been brought here so as not to distress the other guests.”
“Davies?” Alarm bells are ringing again, not only because of the caginess around a corpse being found in her office, but also, “The same officer who attended Peter’s death?”
“Helzephron police station is very small. A handful of officers at most. Davies is on the cusp of retiring now. I wish I could say his lackadaisical attitude stems from the fact he has few remaining days left on the force, but the man has always been operating as though his last day is tomorrow. I expect he thought a tiny parish by the sea wouldn’t garner much trouble and that he’d have a cushy life here.
But that’s not Helzephron. Never has been. ”
“Davies with an I S or I E S?”
“I E S,” Helga confirms.
On my piece of paper under the scribbled “Angel,” I also write “Franny Driscoll” and “Sergeant Dave Davies.”
Four potential suspects and only an hour or so into the investigation. Nice.
I steal another peek at the smiling Trystan Retallack. God, he was unfairly beautiful. If it just so happens that Imogen’s disappearance and the surfer’s death aren’t connected, nothing’s stopping me from figuring out Trystan’s riddle too.
Maybe I’ll extend my visit a little longer.
“So, you think Trystan’s ghost wanders these halls too?” I ask.
“I don’t know for certain. I don’t know what turns a soul into a spectre and what makes a soul .
. . move on. I don’t know where they move on to.
I don’t know how long they remain spirits or in what form.
I just . . .” Helga pauses, catches my eye, and I see for the first time, undiluted emotion.
Tears rim her eyes, a crease mars her brow, her lip wobbles.
“I guess I simply hope that he’s still here . . . with me.”
I nod. I know she’s no longer talking about Trystan.
“Can you show me where the other bodies were discovered? And, random question . . .” I try to throw as much nonchalance into my tone as possible. “Are there any other members of staff or community figures who’ve been around since . . . the activity started?”
“Sure.” Helga leads me out of the room. “Franny’s the longest serving member of Paragon staff. Next is probably me, and then after me there’s Saul.”
“Saul, as in Saul Rainer, the missing, presumed dead person?” I reply, glancing at Helga’s list again.
“Yep, that’s him. Head gardener here for almost twenty years, lived in the cottage at the edge of the cliff.
Then one day he just never showed up for work.
It’s the same day the lighthouse keeper also vanished.
Jason Barlby. But other than those two, it’s mostly seasonal work here.
A lot of students who’re back in Cornwall for the summer will pick up jobs in room attending or serving food until term starts again in September. ”