“‘Common thought at first’?”
“The body was well banged up from the cave, see-being slung round for six hours while the tide came in and went out-but pathologist pointed out marks that couldn’t be accounted for and these happened to be round the wrists and ankles.”
“Tied up, then. But no other evidence?”
“Faeces in the ears and wasn’t that a bit peculiar, eh? But that was it. And there wasn’t a witness to anything. Start to finish, it was a case of he said, she said, we said, they said. Finger-pointing, gossiping, and that was that. Without hard evidence, without a witness to a thing, without even a scrap of circumstantial evidence…All we could hope for was someone to break and that might’ve happened had the Parsons kid not been the Parsons kid.”
“Which means?”
“Bit of a wanker, sad to say. Family had money, so he thought he was better’n the rest of ’em and he liked to show it. Not the sort of thing going to make him popular with the local youngsters, you know what I mean.”
“But they went to his party?”
“Free booze, free dope, no parents at home, a chance to snog with the girl of your choice. Not a lot to do in Pengelly Cove at the best of times. They wouldn’t’ve turned down a chance for some fun.”
“What happened to them, then?”
“The other boys? The Kerne boy’s mates? They’re still round Pengelly Cove, for all I know.”
“And the Parsons family?”
“Never went back to Pengelly Cove as such. They were from Exeter, and they went back there and there they stayed. Dad had a property-management business in town. Called Parsons and…someone else. Can’t recall. He himself went back to Pengelly regular for a bit, weekends and holidays, trying to get some full stop put to the case, but it never happened. He hired more ’n one investigator to take up the pieces as well. Spent a fortune on the whole situation. But if Benesek Kerne and those boys were behind what happened to Jamie Parsons, they’d learned from the first investigation into his death: If there’s no hard evidence, and no witness to anything, keep the mug plugged and no one can touch you.”
“I understand he built something of a monument to him,” Lynley noted.
“Who? Parsons?” And when Lynley nodded, “Well, the family had the funds to do it, and if it gave them some peace, more power to the whole idea.” Wilkie had been working his way along the pews, and now he straightened and stretched his back. Lynley did likewise. For a moment, they stood there in silence in the centre of the church, studying the stained-glass window above the altar. Wilkie sounded thoughtful when he next spoke, as if he’d given the matter considerable thought over the years that had passed. “I didn’t like to leave things unsettled,” he said. “I had a feeling that the dead boy’s dad wouldn’t be able to get a moment’s peace if we didn’t have someone called to account for what happened. But I think…” He paused and scratched the back of his neck. His expression said that his body was present but his mind had gone to another time and place. “I think those boys-if they were involved-didn’t mean the Parsons lad to die. They weren’t that sort. Not a one of them.”
“If they didn’t intend him to die, what did they intend?”
He rubbed his face. The sound of rough skin on rough whiskers sandpapered the air. “Sort him out. Give him a bit of a scare. Like I said before, from what I learned, the boy was full of himself and he didn’t mind making clear what he did and what he had that they didn’t and hadn’t.”
“But to tie him up. To leave him…”
“Drunk, the lot of them. Doped up as well. They get him down there to the cave-p’rhaps they tell him they’ve more dope to sell-and they jump him. They tie him at the wrists and ankles and give him some discipline. A talking to. A bit of a roughing up. Smear some poo on him for good measure. Then they untie him and leave him there and they think he’ll make his own way home. Only they don’t account for how drunk he is and how doped up he is and he passes out and…that’s the end of it. See, thing is, like I said, there really wasn’t a truly bad one ’mongst those boys. Not one of ’em ever been in a spot of trouble. And I told the parents that. But it wasn’t something they wanted to hear.”
“Who found the body?”
“That was the worst bit,” Wilkie said. “Parsons phoned up the cops morning after that party to say his boy’d gone missing. Cops said the usuaclass="underline" He probably got into a local girl’s knickers and he’s sleeping off the aftermath in her bed or under it, so phone us again if he doesn’t turn up in a day or two because otherwise we can’t be bothered. Meantime, one of his own girls-this is one of the boy’s sisters-tells him about the scuffle Jamie’d had with the Kerne lad, and Parsons thinks there’s more here than meets the eye. So he sets off to have a look round for the boy. And he’s the one who finds him.” Wilkie shook his head. “Can’t imagine what that would be like, but I expect it could drive a man to madness. Favourite child. Only son. No one ever called to answer for what happened. And the one name associated with the hours leading up to the death: Benesek Kerne. You can see how he fixed on him.”
“D’you know Benesek Kerne’s own son has died?” Lynley asked. “He was killed in a fall from one of the sea cliffs. His equipment had been tampered with. It’s a murder.”
Wilkie shook his head. “Didn’t know,” he said. “That’s bloody unfortunate. How old’s the boy?”
“Eighteen.”
“Same as the Parsons lad. Now, that’s a bloody shame.”
DAIDRE WAS SHAKEN. WHAT she wanted was the peace she’d had a week earlier, when all that her life had asked of her was that she look after herself and meet the obligations of her career. She might have been alone as a result of this, but that was her preference. Her small existence was safer that way, and safety was paramount. That had been the case for years.
Now, however, the smooth-moving vehicle that had been her life had developed serious engine troubles. What to do about them was the issue that intruded upon her serenity.
So on her return to Polcare Cove, she’d left her car at the cottage and walked the remainder of the distance down the lane to the sea. There, she’d made for the path and picked her way along its stony ascent.
It was windy on the path and windier still on the cliff top. Daidre’s hair whipped round her face and flicked its ends into her eyes, which smarted. When going out onto the cliffs, she usually removed her contact lenses and wore her glasses instead. But she hadn’t taken her glasses when she’d set out in the morning, which had been a matter of vanity. She should have stopped into the cottage to get her glasses, but at the end of her day’s journey, it had seemed that only a vigorous climb to the cliff top could keep her fixed in present time.
Some situations one came across required a person’s intervention, she thought. But surely this wasn’t one of them. She didn’t want to do what was being asked of her, but she was wise enough to know that wanting was not what this was about.
The sound of an unmuffled engine came to her not long after she reached the top of the cliff. She’d been sitting upon an outcrop of limestone, watching the kittiwakes, and following the majestic arcs the birds made in the air as they sought shelter in niches in the cliff. But now she stood and walked back to the path. A motorcycle, she saw, was coming down the lane. It reached her cottage and veered into the pebbly driveway, where it stopped. The rider removed his helmet and approached the front door.
Daidre thought of couriers and messengers when she saw him: someone carrying a package for her, perhaps a message from Bristol? But she was expecting nothing, and from what she could tell, the rider had nothing with him. He went round her cottage to seek another door or to look into a window. Or worse, she thought.
She made for the path and began to descend. There was no point to shouting because she couldn’t have been heard from this distance. Indeed, there was also little point in hurrying. The cottage was some way from the sea and she was some way above the lane. Likely by the time she got back, the rider would have left.