Careless in Red

  Careless in Red

  A Novel

  Elizabeth George

  To the memory of Stephen Lawrence

  and 22 April 1993, when he was murdered

  in Eltham, Southeast London,

  by five men who have gone unpunished

  by the British judicial system to this day

  If thou art indeed my father,

  then thou hast stained thy sword

  in the lifeblood of thy son.

  And thou didst it of thine own obstinacy.

  For I sought to turn thee into love…

  —from the Shahnameh

  Contents

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  HE FOUND THE BODY ON THE FORTY-THIRD DAY OF HIS…

  Chapter Two

  CADAN ANGARRACK DIDN’T MIND THE RAIN. NOR DID HE mind…

  Chapter Three

  SINCE DAIDRE TRAHAIR LIVED BY HERSELF, SHE WAS USED TO…

  Chapter Four

  “FORMERLY.” DAIDRE CHOSE HER MOMENT WHEN SHE WAS alone with…

  Chapter Five

  CADAN HAD HIGH HOPES THAT THE BACON STREAKIES WOULD do…

  Chapter Six

  “YOU AND I BOTH KNOW THAT YOU CAN ARRANGE THIS…

  Chapter Seven

  THE RAIN STOPPED IN CASVELYN NOT LONG AFTER MIDDAY, and…

  Chapter Eight

  “I KNOW THIS ISN’T A GOOD TIME TO TALK ABOUT…

  Chapter Nine

  BEA HANNAFORD SAW MUCH THAT SEEMED TYPICAL IN SANTO Kerne’s…

  Chapter Ten

  LYNLEY LOOKED THROUGH THE GERTRUDE JEKYLL BOOK, AT the photos…

  Chapter Eleven

  DI BEA HANNAFORD ARRIVED AT THE POLICE STATION LATE, in…

  Chapter Twelve

  SHE EXCELLED AT DARTS. LYNLEY HAD LEARNED THAT QUICKLY enough…

  Chapter Thirteen

  DOWNSTAIRS, BEA FOUND THE NAMED TAMMY PENRULE SITTING in one…

  Chapter Fourteen

  THE IDENTIFICATION OF SANTO’S BODY WAS MERELY PART OF police…

  Chapter Fifteen

  DI BEA HANNAFORD INTERRUPTED HER WORKDAY BECAUSE OF the dogs.

  Chapter Sixteen

  LYNLEY FOUND HIMSELF HUMMING IN THE SHOWER THE NEXT morning.

  Chapter Seventeen

  THE FINAL REMARK TAMMY HAD HURLED AT HIM BEFORE GETTING…

  Chapter Eighteen

  HAD IT NOT BEEN FOR THE RAIN ON THE PREVIOUS…

  Chapter Nineteen

  DAIDRE TRAHAIR NOT BEING AT HOME, THERE WAS NOTHING for…

  Chapter Twenty

  KERRA’S NIGHT HAD BEEN SLEEPLESS AND MUCH OF HER FOLLOWING…

  Chapter Twenty-One

  DESPITE JAGO’S WARNING, CADAN COULDN’T HELP HIMSELF. It was complete…

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “SHE THINKS YOU KILLED SANTO.” ALAN DIDN’T MAKE THE stunned…

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  BEA HAD A NEW CHOCK STONE ON HER DESK WHEN…

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  BEA HANNAFORD DIDN’T LIKE THE FACT THAT DAIDRE TRAHAIR had…

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  THEY GOT CAUGHT BEHIND A LUMBERING TOUR COACH, WHICH made…

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  WHEN KERRA AND HER FATHER WALKED INTO TOES ON THE…

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  ULTIMATELY ON THAT MISERABLE DAY, CADAN FOUND HIMSELF in a…

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  THEY DROVE WEST. THEY TALKED VERY LITTLE. WHAT LYNLEY wanted…

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  THE CRY OF THE GULLS SEEMED TO GROW LOUDER, AND…

  Chapter Thirty

  THEY SPOKE LITTLE ON THE DRIVE BACK FROM ST. AGNES. And…

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Books by Elizabeth George

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  HE FOUND THE BODY ON THE FORTY-THIRD DAY OF HIS WALK. By then, the end of April had arrived, although he had only the vaguest idea of that. Had he been capable of noticing his surroundings, the condition of the flora along the coast might have given him a broad hint as to the time of year. He’d started out when the only sign of life renewed was the promise of yellow buds on the gorse that grew sporadically along the cliff tops, but by April, the gorse was wild with color, and yellow archangel climbed in tight whorls along upright stems in hedgerows on the rare occasions when he wandered into a village. Soon foxglove would be nodding on roadside verges, and lamb’s foot would expose fiery heads from the hedgerows and the drystone walls that defined individual fields in this part of the world. But those bits of burgeoning life were in the future, and he’d been walking these days that had blended into weeks in an effort to avoid both the thought of the future and the memory of the past.

  He carried virtually nothing with him. An ancient sleeping bag. A rucksack with a bit of food that he replenished when the thought occurred to him. A bottle within that rucksack that he filled with water in the morning if water was to be had near the site where he’d slept. Everything else, he wore. One waxed jacket. One hat. One tattersall shirt. One pair of trousers. Boots. Socks. Underclothes. He’d come out for this walk unprepared and uncaring that he was unprepared. He’d known only that he had to walk or he had to remain at home and sleep, and if he remained at home and slept, he’d come to realise that eventually he would will himself not to awaken again.

  So he walked. There had seemed no alternative. Steep ascents to cliff tops, the wind striking his face, the sharp salt air desiccating his skin, scrambling across beaches where reefs erupted from sand and stone when the tide was low, his breath coming short, rain soaking his legs, stones pressing insistently against his soles…These things would remind him that he was alive and that he was intended to remain so.

  He was thus engaged in a wager with fate. If he survived the walk, so be it. If he did not, his ending was in the hands of the gods. In the plural, he decided. He could not think that there might be a single Supreme Being out there, pressing fingers into the keyboard of a divine computer, inserting this or forever deleting that.

  His family had asked him not to go, for they’d seen his state, although like so many families of his class, they’d not made any direct mention of it. Just his mother saying, “Please don’t do this, darling,” and his brother suggesting, with his face gone pale and always the threat of another relapse hanging over him and over them all, “Let me go with you,” and his sister murmuring with her arm round his waist, “You’ll get past it. One does,” but none of them mentioning her name or the word itself, that terrible, eternal, definitive word.

  Nor did he mention it. Nor did he mention anything other than his need to walk.

  The forty-third day of this walk had taken the same shape as the forty-two days that had preceded it. He’d awakened where he’d fallen on the previous night, with absolutely no knowledge where he was aside from somewhere along the South-West Coast Path. He’d climbed out of his sleeping bag, donned his jacket and his boots, drunk the rest of his water, and begun to move. In midafternoon the weather, which had been uneasy most of the day, made up its mind and blew dark clouds across the sky. In the wind, they piled one upon the other, as if an immense shield in the distance were holding them in place and allowing them no further passage, having made the promise of a storm.

  He was struggling in the wind to the top of a cliff, climbing from a V-shaped cove where he’d rested for an hour or so and watched the waves slamming into broad fins of slate that formed the reefs in this place. The tide was just beginning to come in, and he’d noted this. He needed to be well above it. He needed to find some sort of shelter as well.

  Near the top of the cliff, he sat. He
was winded, and he found it odd that no amount of walking these many days had seemed sufficient to build his endurance for the myriad climbs he was making along the coast. So he paused to catch his breath. He felt a twinge that he recognised as hunger, and he used the minutes of his respite to draw from his rucksack the last of a dried sausage he’d purchased when he’d come to a hamlet along his route. He gnawed it down to nothing, realised that he was also thirsty, and stood to see if anything resembling habitation was nearby: hamlet, fishing cottage, holiday home, or farm.

  There was nothing. But thirst was good, he thought with resignation. Thirst was like the sharp stones pressing into the soles of his shoes, like the wind, like the rain. It reminded him, when reminders were needed.

  He turned back to the sea. He saw that a lone surfer bobbed there, just beyond the breaking waves. At this time of year, the figure was entirely clothed in black neoprene. It was the only way to enjoy the frigid water.

  He knew nothing about surfing, but he knew a fellow cenobite when he saw one. There was no religious meditation involved, but they were both alone in places where they should not have been alone. They were also both alone in conditions that were not suited for what they were attempting. For him, the coming rain—for there could be little doubt that rain was moments away from falling—would make his walk along the coast slippery and dangerous. For the surfer, the exposed reefs onshore demanded an answer to the question that asked why he surfed at all.

  He had no answer and little interest in developing one. His inadequate meal finished, he resumed his walk. The cliffs were friable in this part of the coast, unlike the cliffs where he’d begun his walk. There they were largely granite, igneous intrusions into the landscape, forced upon ancient lava, limestone, and slate. Although worn by time, weather, and the restless sea, they were nonetheless solid underfoot, and a walker could venture near the edge and watch the roiling sea or observe the gulls seeking perches among the crags. Here, however, the cliff edge was culm: slate, shale, and sandstone, and cliff bases were marked by mounds of the stony detritus called clitter that fell regularly to the beach below. Venturing near the edge meant a certain fall. A fall meant broken bones or death.

  At this section of his walk, the cliff top leveled out for some one hundred yards. The path was well marked, moving away from the cliff ’s edge and tracing a line between gorse and thrift on one side and a fenced pasture on the other. Exposed here, he bent into the wind, and moved steadily forward. He became aware that his throat was painfully dry, and his head had begun to fill with a dull ache just behind his eyes. He felt a sudden bout of dizziness as he reached the far end of the cliff top. Lack of water, he thought. He would not be able to go much farther without doing something about it.

  A stile marked the edge of the high pasture he’d been following, and he climbed it and paused, waiting for the landscape to stop swimming in front of him long enough for him to find the descent to what would be yet another cove. He’d lost count of the inlets he’d come upon in his walk along the undulating coast. He had no idea what this one was called, any more than he’d been able to name the others.

  When the vertigo had passed, he saw that a lone cottage stood at the edge of a wide meadow beneath him, perhaps two hundred yards inland from the beach and along the side of a twisting brook. A cottage meant potable water, so he would make for that. It wasn’t a great distance off the path.

  He stepped down from the stile just as the first drops of rain fell. He wasn’t wearing his hat at the moment, so he shrugged his rucksack from his shoulders and dug it out. He was pulling it low onto his forehead—an old baseball cap of his brother’s with “Mariners” scrolled across it—when he caught sight of a flash of red. He looked in the direction from which it had seemed to come, and he found it at the base of the cliff that formed the far side of the inlet beneath him. There, a sprawl of red lay across a broad plate of slate. This slate was itself the landward end of a reef, which crept from the cliff bottom out into the sea.

  He studied the red sprawl. At this distance it could have been anything from rubbish to laundry, but he knew instinctively that it was not. For although all of it was crumpled, part of it seemed to form an arm, and this arm extended outward onto the slate as if supplicating an unseen benefactor who was not nor would ever be there.

  He waited a full minute that he counted off in individual seconds. He waited uselessly to see if the form would move. When it did not, he began his descent.

  A LIGHT RAIN WAS falling when Daidre Trahair made the final turn down the lane that led to Polcare Cove. She switched on the windscreen wipers and created a mental note that they would have to be replaced, sooner rather than later. It wasn’t enough to tell herself that spring led to summer and windscreen wipers wouldn’t actually be necessary at that point. Late April was so far being as notoriously unpredictable as usual and while May was generally pleasant in Cornwall, June could be a weather nightmare. So she decided then and there that she had to get new wipers, and she considered where she might purchase them. She was grateful for this mental diversion. It allowed her to push from her mind all consideration of the fact that, at the end of this journey south, she was feeling nothing. No dismay, confusion, anger, resentment, or compassion, and not an ounce of grief.

  The grief part didn’t worry her. Who honestly could have expected her to feel it? But the rest of it…to have been bled of every possible emotion in a situation where at least marginal feeling was called for…That concerned her. In part it reminded her of what she’d heard too many times from too many lovers. In part it indicated a regression to a self she thought she’d put behind her.

  So the nugatory movement of the windscreen wipers and the resulting smear they left in their wake distracted her. She cast about for potential purveyors of auto parts: In Casvelyn? Possibly. Alsperyl? Hardly. Perhaps she’d have to go all the way to Launceton.

  She made a cautious approach to the cottage. The lane was narrow, and while she didn’t expect to meet another car, there was always the possibility that a visitor to the cove and its thin strip of beach might barrel along, departing in a rush and assuming no one else would be out here in this kind of weather.

  To her right rose a hillside where gorse and yellow wort made a tangled coverlet. To her left the Polcare valley spread out, an enormous green thumbprint of meadow bisected by a stream that flowed down from Stowe Wood, on higher ground. This place was different from traditional combes in Cornwall, which was why she’d chosen it. A twist of geology made the valley wide, as if glacially formed—although she knew this could not be the case—instead of canyonlike and constrained by river water wearing away eons of unyielding stone. Thus, she never felt hemmed in in Polcare Cove. Her cottage was small, but the environment was large, and open space was crucial to her peace of mind.

  Her first warning that things were not as they should have been occurred as she pulled off the lane onto the patch of gravel and grass that served as her driveway. The gate was open. It had no lock, but she knew that she’d left it securely closed for that very reason the last time she’d been here. Now it gaped the width of a body.

  Daidre stared at this opening for a moment before she swore at herself for being timid. She got out of the car, swung the gate wide, then drove inside.

  When she parked and went to shut the gate behind her, she saw the footprint. It pressed down the soft earth where she’d planted her primroses along the drive. A man-size print, it looked like something made from a boot. A hiking boot. That put her situation in an entirely new light.

  She looked from the print to the cottage. The blue front door seemed unmolested, but when she quietly circled the building to check for other signs of intrusion, she found a windowpane broken. This was on a window next to the door that led outside to the stream, and the door itself was off the latch. Fresh mud formed a clump on the step.

  Although she knew she should have been frightened, or at least cautious, Daidre was, instead, infuriated by that broken window. Sh
e pushed the door open in a state of high dudgeon and stalked through the kitchen to the sitting room. There she stopped. In the dim light of the tenebrous day outside, a form was coming out of her bedroom. He was tall, he was bearded, and he was so filthy that she could smell him from across the room.

  She said, “I don’t know who the hell you are or what you’re doing here, but you are going to leave directly. If you don’t leave, I shall become violent with you, and I assure you, you do not want that to happen.”

  Then she reached behind her for the switch to the lights in the kitchen. She flipped it and illumination fell broadly across the sitting room to the man’s feet. He took a step towards her, which brought him fully into the light, and she saw his face.

  She said, “My God. You’re injured. I’m a doctor. May I help?”

  He gestured towards the sea. From this distance, she could hear the waves, as always, but they seemed closer now, the sound of them driven inland by the wind. “There’s a body on the beach,” he said. “It’s up on the rocks. At the bottom of the cliff. It’s…he’s dead. I broke in. I’m sorry. I’ll pay for the damage. I was looking for a phone to ring the police. What is this place?”

  “A body? Take me to him.”

  “He’s dead. There’s nothing—”

  “Are you a doctor? No? I am. Take me to him. We’re losing time when we could otherwise be saving a life.”

  The man looked as if he would protest. She wondered if it was disbelief. You? A doctor? Far too young. But he apparently read her determination. He took off the cap he was wearing. He wiped the arm of his jacket along his forehead, inadvertently streaking mud on his face. His light hair, she saw, was overlong, and his colouring was identical to hers. Both trim, both fair, they might have been siblings, even to the eyes. His were brown. So were hers.