Incident at Peter's Point

Perren Pengelly

Description

Cornwall, UK. Summer of 1982. In a misty morning, a body is found, floating at a popular surf break. This unlocks a chain of unusual and exciting events. Ray Penna, a local surfer, together with his friends of different ages and walks of life, tries to solve the case. Nothing is what it seems. Deception, betrayal, jealousy, revenge. Feelings buried deep by the years, are brought back to life. Everything happens for a reason, everyone gets what they deserve. Or not?

Sujets

• Cornualles
• Cornwall

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 13 février 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781800468931
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Copyright © 2021 Peren Pengelly

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Cover illustration by Johny Vieira

Matador®
9 Priory Business Park,
Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,
Leicestershire. LE8 0RX
Tel: [phone]
Email: [e-mail]
Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador
Twitter: @matadorbooks

ISBN 9781800468931

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

To all the free spirits, adventure and travel addicts out there

I would like to express my special gratitude to Jason for the inspiration, the challenge, the shared knowledge; for the exciting adventures together.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 1
The morning session
Sunday, 18 July 1982
Left almost breathless and trying to avoid the sunny bits of the streets as much as he could, Ray was hurrying up the hill in the direction of his aunt’s house at Crossnan Terrace. Years ago, he had reached the conclusion that, in St Ives, someone can get to their destination much faster if they walk, instead of drive, especially in the summer.
Maybe riding a horse would be even faster, thought Ray, climbing one particularly steep part of Windsor Hill, but those times are long past. Besides, there are no facilities to leave the horse conveniently. He ran up the few stairs leading to a small, wooden garden gate. It was tucked beside a big, white-and-yellow honeysuckle bush, which was richly perfuming the hot summer air. The shutter latch on the inside didn’t function after Aunt Endelyn painted it over in mint green, together with the rest. Ray pushed the gate and entered.
On the other side of the wall, there was a beautiful, south-facing, terraced garden,with a stunning view over the town’s rooftops and across St Ives Bay. The small path paved with shells led from the garden gate to an open space between the trees and the shrubs. The Bath stone walls of the three-storey Victorian house in the middle were in contrast with the vegetation around. On the small patio, which was separated from the rest of the garden by a few ornate stone planters, had been placed rattan chairs and a table. Left on the table was a big, crystal carafe with something resembling water in it, which Ray thought might be anything with a significant amount of gin or vodka. His aunt’s big, Indian scarf was thrown on one of the armchairs, but she was nowhere around.
Ray waited for a bit, then walked farther to the other end of the garden where few big trees were throwing a thick shadow above a small, open space, in the middle of which was a pedestal birdbath covered in verdigris. Coming closer, Ray heard voices. One was his aunt and the other one was the gardener, Mr Lowarth. They were engaged in a discussion next to a plant, suspiciously looking like cannabis. Mr Lowarth was always busy “altering” plants in the garden of Ray’s aunt. He was a heavily built man with a nice, well-groomed beard and dark eyes in which there was always a twinkle.
Aunt Endelyn—a tall and rather skinny lady in her early sixties, with bobbed, grey hair and a tanned face, who was dressed in a light-blue, linen gown and wearing wellies—was wagging her finger at him. ‘I can’t allow you to grow this in my garden!’
Mr Lowarth shifted his gaze from the toe of his left boot to the right one. Agitated and upset, he was kneading his straw hat.
Ray smiled, remembering the story of that hat. Five years ago, Mr Lowarth had noticed it on the head of a scarecrow in a vegetable garden. Convinced that such an incredible piece of headgear shouldn’t be wasted in making a scarecrow look more human, he took the hat and left a small note to the owners where to find him if they wanted it back. So far, no one had contacted him.
Finally, Mr Lowarth collected the courage to meet the eyes of Aunt Endelyn. ‘It’s not what you think, Miss Penna; it’s a scientific experiment. I am trying to cross it with a buddleja, and I am very close to succeeding!’
Aunt Endelyn was about to say something to Mr Lowarth when she noticed Ray standing on the path. She shook her head, then walked towards him and without stopping, pointed at the chairs. ‘Hello Raymond; come and sit down. Do you want a cup of tea? I mean, a glass of gin and tonic? It’s late already, so it’s officially allowed.’ Before hearing Ray’s answer, she shoved a tall, crystal glass in his hand and poured from the mix in the carafe.
‘I don’t know what to do with Mr Lowarth! He grows cannabis, and my garden smells like a shisha cafe. Even the roses have that typical smell. Every time I hear the doorbell, I expect the police. At my age and with my reputation, this will ruin me!’ she complained.
‘Nonsense, Auntie! At your age and with your reputation, you can get away with murder, let alone with a gardener growing cannabis.’ Ray paused, then said hesitatingly, ‘Speaking of murder, I found someone dead this morning while surfing at Gwithian, near Peter’s Point.’
His aunt, who was just pouring a drink to herself, froze for a moment, then put the carafe carefully on the table and looked at him. ‘Good God! What happened exactly? Did he drown or was he murdered?’ asked his aunt.
Ray gave her a tired smile and reached for the carafe.
***
Earlier that day…
The morning was grey and rainy. The rain was knocking on the window of Ray’s small studio at Teetotal Street in St Ives, and it seemed it would go on like that all day. For a moment, Ray hesitated. Should he go surfing? He didn’t have any appointments, and the weather was not good enough to work on the rain pipe at his aunt’s house. Ray decided to go and check the waves somewhere close. His first option was Gwithian—which was just a short ride up. If the waves were too small there, he could always move next to it, to Godrevy.
Ray opened the big, old chest against his bed, where he was keeping his wetsuits. He was looking for his neoprene top, in which he felt like James Bond in Thunderball . Instead of it, after some rummaging, he pulled out an old, bleached-from-the-sun Rip Curl wetsuit. Grey and yellow, with a bright lightning bolt on the front, it had its best days behind it and was close to falling apart.
Ray almost heard the familiar voice with the Australian accent: ‘I will leave that wetsuit here,’ Jack Quoll had said while trying to stuff as much luggage as he could in his trekking backpack. ‘I left you my board, so I don’t think I will surf before I am home.’ He had been going back to Australia after spending almost two years in Cornwall. That afternoon, he had to take the train to London. His small attic room, not far from where Ray was living, had looked already empty and deserted. Jack had taken a last look around, remaining pensive for a moment. ‘Who knows, I might need it when I come back here,’ he said, smiling.
This had been about three years ago. By now, Ray didn’t hear anything from Jack anymore. It was as if he had vanished into thin air.
Ray put the wetsuit carefully back in the chest. The memories of adventures and fun were so many, that time was not able to dispel them.
A couple of coffees later, Ray was in his van, driving to Gwithian. The sky was grey, but the rain had stopped. The otherwise busy streets of St Ives were empty. A couple of people were hurrying to work. It was very early, before five o’clock in the morning, and the town looked uninhabited. Seagulls were looking for food in the bins next to one restaurant. A cat stared at him while it walked on a zebra crossing. There were almost no cars on the road. Ray speeded up, getting on the way to Hayne. At Gwibessa Bay, he nearly crashed into a motorhome with a French registration that was driving on the right-hand side of the road. While driving past each other, the French driver waved to him with an apologetic smile. Ray thought he should be more alert himself. He had spent the last few days sleeping and relaxing on the beach or in his aunt’s garden, reading books and visiting the exhibition of a friend. A construction project had been postponed at the last moment, so Ray didn’t have time to arrange anything else and had to save money for his next exotic trip anyway. Hence, he decided to spend the time between jobs at home.
When he was almost at the end of Hayne, Ray turned left off the main road and, just a couple of kilometres farther, he drove to a narrow lane between grass fields and shrubs, heading in the direction of the ocean. The thick mist was covering everything like a veil, and it was making the surroundings look spooky and unreal. Ray couldn’t see the beach and the waves well. Were there waves at all?
He parked the van at the edge of the empty, small car park. He got out of the van, and took out Jack’s 6ft, light-blue fish surfboard, which he put carefully on the grass. While worming himself into his wetsuit, he t