Catch The Stinger, Before It Stings You! Read online

  Ada reached above the walnut bureau and retrieved her glasses. Her old, wrinkled hands were shaky as she took the paper from her niece and began to read.

  ‘Body washed up on Belgium shores. How sad. It says he stayed in the Penventon Hotel. Actually, the hotel is very nice, dear; I went to a wedding there a few years ago,’ Ada digressed. ‘It says that he drowned. What a shame.’

  ‘Perhaps that was where he was from, Belgium, think there’s a photo of him, Aunty.’

  Ada took a glance at the small photograph beside the article. ‘Oh, goodness gracious!’

  ‘What on earth?’ Olivia coughed, almost choking on a piece of crumble.

  ‘I know this man. I saw him going into Vivienne’s a few months back, he was with two other men.’ Ada was visibly shaken by what she had read. ‘I don’t think he was Cornish. He looked Asian or from the Middle East, something like that. Definitely not Cornish.’

  ‘Might be a different man you saw.’

  ‘No, this is definitely him. They were with that farmer.’

  ‘What farmer?’

  ‘The same man who called there this morning in a Land Rover, soon after Vivienne took poor Marmaduke indoors.’

  ‘How can you tell this man in the paper is the same one that visited Vivienne?’

  ‘Oh, my dear, I fear something rather unpleasant is going on.’

  ‘Please stop upsetting yourself, and eat this wonderful apple crumble. I’m sure you’re worrying over nothing.’

  Ada obeyed, and laid the newspaper down on the tablecloth beside her.

  ‘I’ve made you a batch of saffron buns to take home with you.’

  ‘Thank you, Aunty, but you shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.’

  ‘No trouble, dear, not much else to do with my time.’

  ‘That’s probably it, you have too much time on your hands. You should go to the WI meetings like you used to.’

  ‘I think the farmer’s name is Trembath,’ the old lady said, oblivious to her niece’s comments. ‘Yes it’s Matthew Trembath. Married to that woman who wrote the cookery book.’ Ada was now on a roll. ‘Do you think I should phone the police? What do you think, dear?’

  ‘Aunty, I think you should stop reading those crime novels,’ Olivia scolded light-heartedly.

  ‘The newspaper article suggests that he might have been murdered.’

  ‘Okay I’ll mention it to daddy,’ she acquiesced. ‘I’ll see what he thinks. He’s a friend of the police superintendent of Cornwall, they play golf together.’

  ‘Thank you, dear. It’s been such an upsetting day, what with Marmaduke and now this.’

  ‘I do think you’re worrying over nothing, Aunty. By the way, this crumble is moreish.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Guthrie had overslept that Monday morning. Sleeping soundly as the dustbin men threw the bins along The Warren. He even failed to hear the milkman jingle past his window.

  It was around lunchtime, with eyes half closed, when he dragged himself out of bed and into the kitchen. After lighting up a Marlboro he filled the kettle, and then prepared a mug with milk, sugar and a teabag. Perhaps Typhoo was the only constant in his life, he considered.

  Once the tea was made he headed up the stairs.

  Opening the French doors in the lounge of his new home, Guthrie was immediately deafened by the nose of the gulls threatening to land on the veranda. Rushing out to shoo them away, he was overcome by the salty smells from the ocean.

  He watched as the gulls flew up into the azure sky, tinged with a white haze from the midday sun. It reflected down onto the waters of the bay, and traced the waves across to Hayle Towans and Godrevy lighthouse in the distance.

  The unread post still lay on the table. He opened one of the letters. It contained the results from the specimens he had purloined from the greenhouse at the bee farm. Most of the results he found unintelligible, but three things stood out. Firstly, the violets were contaminated with an insecticide. The report suggested that it might be Malathion, although the results were inconclusive. Secondly, the leaves were coca leaves. Lastly, the saffron crocus contained cocaine. Now he knew for certain that Tehidy bee farm was somehow mixed up with cultivating cocaine. But, for Guthrie, the big question was, what else were they cultivating?

  Suddenly there was a knock on the door.

  ‘Mr Guthrie...’

  ‘Just Guthrie.’

  ‘Okay, Guthrie. We’ve spoken on the phone, head of CID, Detective Inspector Brian Pendeen,’ the man introduced himself, thrusting his hand forward. He was in his late forties, over 6ft, smartly dressed in a fitted suit and highly polished shoes.

  Guthrie shook his hand and invited him inside. ‘You’ll have to excuse the state of me, but I was working late last night.’

  ‘No need to apologise, I only come over on the off chance you would be in. I got a call this morning from the MOD.’

  ‘So hopefully they filled you in. Go up to the lounge, I’ll bring up some coffee and biscuits, or do you fancy cake, I’ve got some scones?’

  ‘No thanks, a biscuit will be fine.’

  After settling down with their refreshments, Guthrie filled him in on the details of his arrest and subsequent incarceration. Then he showed him the letter that he had received in prison from Tom Smith.

  ‘It’s pretty obvious, Guthrie, that you moved here to be the bait so to speak,’ Brian Pendeen said, as if he had only just realised.

  ‘I knew I’d stick out like a sore thumb. If I wanted to be hidden, I’d have camped at the Lizard or somewhere.’

  ‘I expect you’ve wondered why we’ve done nothing about the shenanigans up at the airbase.’

  ‘It had crossed my mind.’

  ‘Well, as you will appreciate, we aren’t allowed to march up there and make arrests without a nod from the top brass, as it is MOD territory. And of course, most of their history of manufacturing weapons of mass destruction was legal.’

  ‘Yes, I understand,’ Guthrie nodded, lighting up a Marlboro. ‘This is why I can investigate in areas where you can’t. I’m my own boss.’

  ‘Well, if you sign this,’ the officer produced a document and pen. ‘We can say that you’re helping us with our on-going investigations, and in return we can offer you extra protection.’

  ‘Thanks, but I don’t need protection.’

  ‘I know your history and it’s very impressive if I might say. I know you can handle yourself, but, I can’t disobey my boss.’ Brian Pendeen gave Guthrie a friendly pat on the back. ‘With your permission we will put our own security system in place around this house. By the way, your own alarm system needed a battery.’

  ‘I didn’t realise I was helping you. And thanks anyway but...’

  He was suddenly interrupted by someone coming up the stairs.

  ‘Oh, I see your protection has just arrived.’ Brian Pendeen focussed on a middle aged policewoman standing in the doorway. Her uniformed figure gave the impression of being a solid square, rather than feminine curves. She was accompanied by a large, shaggy sheep dog.

  ‘Wow, what amazing views,’ the woman headed for the window.

  ‘I’m not sure if I’m allowed dogs here,’ Guthrie mumbled, suddenly feeling that his life was being taken over.

  Her name was Abigail, a detective with the CID, married to a fisherman in Penzance. He found himself telling her about Katie over a pasty lunch. They were constantly interrupted by the sheepdog, MacKenzie, who barked futilely at the seagulls through the panoramic window.

  ‘She sounds like a sweet girl.’

  ‘Yes she is, but...’ he failed to finish the sentence.

  ‘I hope I won’t be in your way when she comes, you know what I mean. So what is your Katie like?’

  Guthrie just smiled, there was nothing she could get in the way of, Katie was a chastity belt Catholic.

  ‘Um, pretty, slim, Irish.’ He did not know what else to say, that about summed her up.

  ‘My father was of Irish stock,’ sh
e revealed. ‘The grandson of an Irishman to be exact, the family came from County Cork. They were in a boat that set sail for America and got shipwrecked, and ended up in Penzance.’

  ‘So I presume your mother was a local girl?’

  ‘Yes, her family came from Mousehole.’

  ‘But you don’t speak with a Cornish accent, if you don’t mind my saying.’

  ‘No, I went to boarding school as a child, my father was in the forces. Anyhow, where am I to sleep?’

  Guthrie looked at her mystified.

  ‘I have to stay here, they are my orders.’

  ‘Ok. Well, you have the room on the top floor, it’s really nice.’ If Katie stayed over again he would give her the box room with bunk-beds, perhaps it would entice her into his bed.

  ‘I’ll use the lounge when no one else’s here, if that’s okay with you?’

  ‘Course you can. Use it all the time when we are here if you want. I’ll be glad of the company.’ He smiled at Abigail, wondering if he could trust her.

  That afternoon the workmen arrived to secure the house. By the time they left his head was throbbing from all the banging. Then his mother phoned, followed by a call from the insurance company who insured the house, asking him to pop in at his convenience to sign a few forms due to the nature of his business.

  He had only just put the phone down when it rang again.

  ‘Hi, Guthrie, Brian Pendeen here. I thought I should let you know they’ve agreed to exhume the bodies of Colin Brodie and Stella Johnson.’

  ‘Well, we know what they’re gonna find, but thanks for letting me know,’ his voice was choked, trying to hold back the tears.

  He was just about to take a sip of coffee when the phone rang for the umpteenth time.

  ‘Guthrie here,’ he almost groaned.

  ‘Hi, Gut,’ the Irish voice greeted him. ‘Just phoning to see how you are as oi hadn’t heard from you. Oi wondered if oi could come over and stay for a few days.’

  ‘I’ll come and pick you up.’

  ‘No, it’s fine. My friend Demelza is dropping me off at St. Ives train station. She lives in Hayle.’

  After they had said their goodbyes he put the mug of coffee to his lips.

  ‘Did you say you wanted to watch some cricket?’ Abigail asked, turning up the sound on the TV.

  ‘No point, but thanks anyway. Katie’s on her way here.’

  ‘Oh, that will be nice for you. By the way, have you checked how to use the alarms and CCTV?’

  ‘No,’ he sighed, ‘I’d best do that now.’

  Soon after Abigail had left the house to take MacKenzie for a walk, Guthrie took the opportunity to go to her room.

  On the bed was a holdall. He carefully removed the clothes and toiletries. It all looked pretty normal, although the waist length knickers were not to his taste.

  Then suddenly he saw it. Wrapped in a striped towel was an automatic pistol - L47A1 7.65 mm, it was only issued by the RAF.

  Through the bedroom window he could see Katie, she was descending the stone steps that led from the train station down into The Warren. She looked beautiful, wearing a pink dress and fluffy white mohair bolero. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail.

  ‘Gut’rie! Gut’rie!’ she called out, waving her slim arm trying to get his attention. As he ran out to help her with her bags she flung her arms about his neck.

  Guthrie pulled her tight against his chest and stroked her hair, wondering if this was the woman who could help him forget Stella.

  Early that following morning they visited Tintagel, North Cornwall’s tourist attraction. It was Arthurian territory, or so the rumours had it, Camelot. The castle was in ruins, but beautiful nonetheless. It stood in two halves, one on the mainland, and the other on the island, accessed only by a wooden bridge that hung precariously over the ocean.

  Abigail had insisted on accompanying them as bodyguard, no matter how Guthrie had argued against it.

  It had been a hard climb to the top of the steep staircases built into the cliffside, resembling giant cobwebs stretching up to the summit. From there they had scanned the turquoise blue seas of the Atlantic, and the white sands below, in search of Merlin’s cave and the Lady of Shalott.

  By midday they found themselves on a pony trek; sitting on the backs of what had been advertised as Bodmin Moor ponies, yet large enough to be termed horses.

  Galloping across the rough terrain, on the back of a 19+ hand dapple grey filly, Guthrie’s strong thighs gripped tight against the animal’s sides.

  Katie galloped beside him on a smaller brown mare, looking divine in only a pair a white shorts and a pink top.

  Guthrie slyly gazed at her slim figure sitting tall like a professional show jumper, her long flowing hair catching the rays of sunshine and turning them into pure gold.

  ‘We’re heading to Jamaica Inn!’ the guide, a man of around 50 who constantly chewed gum, called out to the stragglers at the back of the dozen or so riders. ‘Daphne du Maurier territory.’

  ‘Thank God,’ Guthrie mumbled, he needed a pint.

  ‘Isn’t that book popular with your people?’ Katie asked, as they slowed down to a trot. ‘It must make them homesick.’

  ‘What book?’

  ‘Jamaica Inn.’

  He wondered if she was purposely acting the fool, even joking. Could she really be this naïve - ignorant?

  By now they had joined the route known as Smugglers Way. Although the whole of the moor only covered 10 miles, it seemed more like a hundred to the three riders. The terrain looked bare, with few trees. Just a vast, empty plain overshadowed by several high granite tors. The occasional plant or bush would pop up here and there, mostly yellow gorse or purple heather, and white puffs of cotton grass resembling dandelions. There were so many smells, fresh smells like new mown grass, and as they neared the marshland there were earthier, more pungent smells, reminding him of the White Musk perfume that Stella had occasionally used.

  ‘Get off!’ Katie shouted at the swarm of flying ants that bombarded her as she galloped through the bog, with Guthrie following close behind.

  ‘Where did you learn to ride so well?’ he shouted over to her.

  ‘A children’s home back in Ireland. Where did you learn?’

  ‘Jamaica.’

  A flock of lapwings and a few warblers flew about the marshland, a couple of them landed amongst the shrubs.

  Grabbing the reins of Katie’s pony, he brought both horses to a halt beside a stream.

  ‘Wonder how Abigail is doing?’

  ‘Think she’s walking it from what I can see,’ Katie laughed, looking through binoculars at the other riders on the trek who were about a quarter of a mile behind.

  They sat on a rough stone bridge, as the horses drank from the soft clear waters of the stream. The birds were more abundant here, as were the brightly coloured butterflies winging their way down the stream.

  There were flowers near the stream amongst the ferns and rushes, brightly coloured petals flourishing under the blazing heat. They reminded him of his student days, when he and his fellow philosophers had discussed the refraction of light, prisms and colour. Like the masters, trying to differentiate reality from illusion. They had concluded that everything was an illusion, apart from God.

  Lighting up a Marlboro, he watched Katie feed a finger of Kit-Kat to a couple of skylarks and a goldfinch. The colour of the goldfinch was more yellow than gold. It was only Katie’s hair that shone gold.

  ‘It’s too hot to ride,’ he said, removing his damp shirt, leaving his chest bare.

  ‘I’ll rub some sun protector onto your back if you like,’ she offered, removing a tube of cream from her bum-bag.

  He was not going to refuse a massage.

  ‘Thanks, much appreciated.’ He stubbed out his cigarette.

  How soft her hands were, smoothing the white cream over his back. The cream felt cold, erotic, soothing his skin, burning his loins.

  By the time she had finished, the rest of
the party had joined them.

  Abigail looked the worse for wear, limping along in bare feet, as were a few of the other riders. They were leading their ponies by the reins.

  ‘Are you both okay?’ Abigail wheezed, perching on the bridge.

  A herd of wild ponies suddenly appeared downstream.

  ‘Most of the moor ponies live wild,’ the guide said, noticing the object of their gaze. ‘They have to fend for themselves, and around September they are taken to be sold at Hallworthy Livestock Market.’

  ‘What, for cat meat?’ someone asked.

  ‘Talking about cats,’ one of the men interrupted. ‘What about this big cat, it’s been in all the papers? There have been numerous sightings, they call it the Beast of Bodmin Moor. Some say it’s a panther.’

  ‘It won’t attack us, will it?’ a woman looked fearful.

  ‘No, it doesn’t come out during the day, that is, if it exists at all,’ the guide replied.

  After riding a few more miles, the guide stopped, and pointed across the moor to a granite hill rising up in the distance.

  ‘The Tor you see now is the highest point in Cornwall, 1,378 ft. It’s called Brown Willy.’

  All eyes looked to the hill.

  ‘You got one of them, mate?’ a man joked to Guthrie.

  ‘Mine’s much bigger than that,’ he laughed back.

  ‘In the Cornish language,’ the guide explained, ‘Bronn Wennili means, the hill of swallows.’

  Half hour and just over three miles later the guide reined in his pony.

  ‘Right folks, we’re here at Jamaica Inn. You have about forty minutes to get something to eat and have a rest.’

  The signpost above them showed a pirate with a parrot on his shoulder. Yet, it was not an olde worlde inn as Guthrie had anticipated, nothing like the original inn built in 1750. From the outside it looked like any other country pub or grey manor house. Just beside the building was the A30.

  The riders climbed down from their mounts, stretching their aching legs.

  Guthrie removed his feet from the stirrups. His back was throbbing, his bum was bruised and his legs were cramping.