‘The Raging Storm’ Chapters 1-6

Ann Cleeves

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Published October 25, 2023

watercolor illustration of three people wearing white helmets and life jackets in an orange rigid inflatable boat in rough waters with headlights on in the dark, heading towards an unmanned rowboat

Illustration by Stan Fellows

Listen to chapters 1-6 narrated by Jack Holden, or scroll down to read the text.

AARP Audio · The Raging Storm Chapters 1 - 6

Next: Chapters 7-12

Chapter One

THE MAN BLEW INTO GREYSTONE at the height of a September gale. That was how the story went, at least. Suddenly he was there, leaning against the bar of the Maiden’s Prayer, face as brown as a nut, white hair so short that it must have been cut that day, laughing at one of the landlord’s jokes. The rain dripped off his waterproofs, and all his worldly belongings were in an oilskin bag at his feet. There was no indication as to how he’d arrived. He hadn’t driven himself. There was no car. But somehow Jem Rosco, adventurer, sailor and legend, had arrived in their midst.

He told them that he’d rented one of the cottages that climbed up the bank behind the pub.

‘But I was desperate for a pint, boys, so I called in here on my way.’ A wink.

Harry Carter, the landlord, couldn’t tell if the wink was meant to indicate that this was a lie, a joke, or to include the other customers standing at the bar in his desire for a drink. They too, the wink seemed to imply, must know how it felt to be so desperate for a pint that they wouldn’t drop a heavy bag off first.

Rosco had two pints of local, cloudy cider, then he slung the bag, which was big enough to hold a child, onto his back and was on his way.

He was in the Maiden’s every night after that. There was never a specific time. He’d appear suddenly, all smiles. Sometimes he’d stay at the bar, chinwagging with Harry. Other nights he’d drift around the room, landing at a table – the playgroup mums on their regular night out, or an elderly couple playing dominoes by the fire – like a piece of flotsam washed up by the tide. He was always friendly, always chatty, but he never really gave anything away. When anyone asked if the move to Greystone was permanent, or if he was there on a holiday, planning another journey perhaps, he’d only touch the side of his nose and grin.

‘I’m here to meet someone. Someone special. I’m expecting them any day.’

He never stayed for more than two pints and then he was off again, sometimes with a little wave to the other customers, sometimes just disappearing, so that suddenly they realized he was no longer there.

They all knew which cottage he’d rented. It was at the end of the terrace, right on the top of the hill, owned by Gwen Gregory, who’d grown up at Ravenscroft Farm, and who cleaned in the Maiden’s. It had the view across the village to the sea. Nobody had any need to walk past it. Beyond the single row of houses, there were only the remains of the quarry, which was the original reason for the village’s existence.

But now people walked past the house anyway, out of curiosity. They were interested to know if Jem Rosco’s mysterious visitor had arrived yet. They’d see the man sometimes looking out of the upstairs window, focused on the horizon, as if he was watching for a boat. Even in this stormy weather, a skilled sailor might float in and tie up at the jetty. There were two curved piers to shelter the narrow bay, built when stone from the quarry was carried out on big, flat barges. People said that one of his madcap adventuring friends would appear. Or the woman he was waiting for. Because most of the villagers had convinced themselves that it would be a woman.

Then one night, a few weeks after his arrival, Jem Rosco didn’t come to the Maiden’s for his usual two pints of rough cider. The regulars immediately noticed his absence. They chatted amongst themselves and speculated that perhaps the expected visitor had finally arrived. Perhaps old Jem would bring the stranger into the bar the following night, and finally they’d know what all the secrecy was about.

But Jem Rosco didn’t appear again. They felt cheated. He might be an outsider but for a while he’d become part of the community. He was a celebrity, who’d been on television, sharing his travels – making his way up the Amazon, sailing single-handedly around the southern oceans – with the world. Part of his glory had rubbed off on them, but now the excitement was over.

Until the following morning, when the coastguard received an emergency call from a fishing boat in difficulty, sheltering from the storm in the lee of Scully Head.

Then, it seemed, the excitement had only just started.

Chapter Two

MARY FORD WAS WOKEN by her pager. She looked at the bedside clock. Five in the morning. She’d marked herself as available on the lifeboat rota because her father was staying, and there’d be someone to look after the kids if she were called out. Time was slipping away for adventures like these. Soon, Arthur would need a full-time carer, and she couldn’t expect her dad always to be there. So, she’d thought, she’d best make the most of it while she could. She was out of bed and dressed almost without thinking. She loved this. The excitement of a shout, the camaraderie and laughter with the guys. And she was helm now. Almost three years of training and she was in charge. In a place like Greystone, a woman in charge didn’t happen very often. Sammy Barton was lifeboat operations manager this morning, and he’d like it even less than the others. But Sammy could stuff it.

She knocked at her father’s door. He’d most likely be awake already. Since Mary’s mother had died, the man slept poorly. Mary often saw his light on in the early hours, and knew that he was scrolling down his phone. Sometimes she heard the buzz of the radio and the measured tones of the BBC World Service throughout the night. Her father stayed over quite regularly now, ostensibly to help with babysitting – Mary had sent her bloke packing soon after Arthur was born – but really because he found it hard being alone in the cottage in the woods just outside Morrisham. It had been easier when her mother had been alive, even after they’d moved her into the hospice. Then her dad had a purpose: planning the visits, and the treats to brighten his wife’s day. Now, he was bereft.

Dad was a real help, though. Since Arthur had become ill with the dreadful Jasper Lineham Disease, her father had become an important part of the household. She’d never heard of JLD until Arthur’s diagnosis and now she could think of little else. The cruel disease ate away at her son, like the tide eroding a sandstone cliff. There was the occasional good day when she had a flicker of hope, but it never lasted. She wouldn’t have trusted anyone other than her father to stay with her boy. She’d never have gone out with the lifeboat, for example, if he hadn’t been there, and that gave her the freedom and the excitement she craved.

Today, Alan Ford was lying on his side and looking at his phone. Checking Facebook or Twitter. Finding the company that her mother would once have provided, in social media friends and old work colleagues.

‘I’ve got to go.’

‘The lifeboat?’

Mary nodded.

‘In this storm?’ Her father was trying to keep the anxiety from his voice, but Mary knew what he was thinking. Bad enough to lose Claire. He couldn’t bear to lose a daughter too. ‘The wind’s dropped. Can’t you hear? It’s not supposed to blow up again for several hours. We wouldn’t be allowed to launch if the forecast was too poor.’ A pause. ‘I have to go. There’s everything Isla needs for school in her bedroom, but I’ll probably be back by then. Artie can go too if he’s feeling up to it.’

‘Sure. Of course. On your way.’ Despite his anxiety, Alan wouldn’t want to deny Mary the adventures that he’d experienced throughout his life.

Outside, it was strangely quiet after the storms of the previous days. A lull between westerly fronts. There’d be a big sea still, but wind shouldn’t be a problem. It would soon be light; there was already a grey sheen to the sky behind the houses to the east. It would be quicker on foot than to drive and Mary hurried down the street to the quay, but she didn’t quite run. The pavement was still slick from rain and the last thing she needed was to break a bone, which would keep her out of the boat for weeks. She loved this – being out when everyone else was in bed; the adrenaline already starting to pump, knowing that she was being useful, that she might save someone’s life.

Sammy Barton was already there when she got to the lifeboat station, and she arrived at almost the same time as a fellow crew member: Ollie Shebbeer, a mechanic in Greystone’s only garage. Paul, the tractor driver was already working on the beast of a machine, which would push the lifeboat onto the shingle beach and drag it into the water. The sea was too shallow here for a conventional slipway, and this tractor had cost more than the boat itself. It could be almost wholly submerged and still work. In the kit room she started getting into the suits which were hanging under her name. An inner all-in-one to keep her warm, and an outer waterproof, which was supposed to keep her dry, but never quite managed it in very bad weather. The other two crew members arrived just as she was ready.

Sammy, the lifeboat operations manager, joined them and started passing on information.

‘Coastguard received a mayday on channel sixteen. A fishing boat out of Ilfracombe called the Anna Louise, sheltering just the other side of Scully Head. Then they lost contact.’

‘Any other vessel nearby?’

Barton shook his head. ‘Nobody else had responded to the call.’

Mary grabbed the first-aid bag with the O2 kit and the pump, and then they were in the boat. Mary was in charge, but she let Ollie sit in the front seat and take the wheel. He was less experienced, but she preferred to sit just behind, where she could see the radar, and be in charge of the navigation.

The Atlantic 85 was a rigid inflatable boat, a RIB, but solid and beautifully proportioned. And bright orange. She was named the Lesley Alexander, after the woman who’d left a legacy to pay for her. The station door was opened, and the tractor nudged the boat and the trailer down onto the shore and over the shingle until they were floating. Then the trailer was pulled away and they were on their way. The waves breaking on the beach were as big as Mary had expected, and the boat pitched and bucked like a fairground ride. She’d never been seasick but she knew some people had thrown up just watching from the shore.

The water close to Scully Point was shallow, and Mary had suspected that the Anna Louise might have gone aground on rocks. The spring tides of the equinox were very high and very low, and it had been dead low water at four in the morning.

When they hit thirty-five knots, out on the open water, the swell was rolling and the Lesley A was bouncing. The boat was open to the elements, and spray covered the bow, blowing into her face and making Mary laugh. This was the real buzz. The rest was important, but this was what Mary had joined up for.

It only took fifteen minutes to arrive at the recorded position. They slowed as they rounded the headland. Behind her, Mary heard a muttered incantation. The older crew didn’t like coming into Scully – an old superstition – and mouthed words to ward off bad luck. Not really believing they’d help, but not willing to chance it. Saying the words, just in case. They were a religious lot, the people of Greystone, but that didn’t stop them buying into the old stories of wrecks and drownings.

They had on the headlights, but Mary saw no sign of a trawler, not even one of the smaller boats that went out after crab and lobster. It occurred to her that this might be a hoax – it happened occasionally – but surely not in the early hours of a day like this. Pissed fishermen would be in bed by five. Then Ollie gave a shout and pointed to port. It was just light enough to see a small, dark shadow, moving with the swell. Not a fishing boat, but a small dinghy or tender, closer into the shore. It wasn’t stranded on rocks. Mary knew this part of the coast and could have drawn her own chart. She’d studied it. For months the maps had been her bedtime reading. The dinghy disappeared, the view of it hidden by a rolling wave, and then it was there again. But the wave didn’t carry it towards the headland.

‘Anchored.’ Mary was running scenarios through her head. ‘Why would anyone want to do that?’

The lifeboat slowed again to walking pace and they drifted towards the dinghy. It wasn’t until they were almost onto it that the man in front of her, who had a better view, yelled, suddenly tense.

‘Casualty. Casualty.’

The spotlight from the boat lit up the dinghy and she turned so that the GoPro video camera on her helmet captured the scene. There was a body in the dinghy, curled into the curve of it. She was suddenly reminded of Arthur as a baby, lying in his Moses basket. He always managed to turn onto his side, even as an infant. But Arthur had been wearing a sleep suit, had been covered by a blanket, and this person was naked, the skin white in the bright lights.

Almost immediately, the training kicked in. This was a dash and grab moment. This was what she’d trained for. She was sitting where the side of the inflatable was at its lowest. As Ollie allowed the lifeboat to touch the dinghy, she slid into it, steadying herself as it rocked with the movement, then she lifted the casualty into her arms. He was less heavy than she’d been expecting. She held him low and rolled him over to the remaining crew members, who were waiting in the Lesley A. They laid him across the second seat, just as they’d been taught in exercise, Ollie holding his head. They wrapped him in a foil space blanket and Mary started CPR.

But as she was counting the compressions and the breaths, she knew this was useless. They’d been told this was what should happen. Unless the body’s rotting or it has no head, you try CPR. That was what the trainer had said, a grin on his face, and they’d all chortled along as if it were a joke. It’s not your job to declare life extinct.

This man was cold as ice and lifeless, though, and the limbs were rigid.

Seth was on the radio, organizing another lifeboat to launch in case the Anna Louise was still around somewhere, and in trouble. Calling for the helicopter to be on standby now it would soon be light. ‘I’ll call the ambulance, shall I?’

‘Nah,’ she said. ‘We’ll be back in Greystone well before the ambulance will get there. We need a doctor to declare him dead, and the police.’

Ollie turned the boat for home and the wind was already stronger. Force seven at least now. They’d be lucky to get back before the tide made it tricky on the beach. For the first time, she looked closely at the casualty’s face, and realized that she recognized him. Jem Rosco, national treasure and her one-time hero.

Chapter Three

GREYSTONE BROUGHT BACK memories for Matthew Venn. There was a meeting hall in the village and he’d been brought here by his parents. A visit to the village had always been a treat, and he remembered this odd, isolated place with affection. There’d been a big community of Brethren, with more children than he’d ever encountered in Barnstaple. Outings had been organized: trips to the beach at Morrisham, picnics, social evenings. His parents had been more relaxed and Matthew had been given the chance to shine, to show off his bible knowledge and his faith. He’d basked in the admiration of the older members.

‘What a clever little chap he is!’ they’d say. And Dorothy would glow.

Since losing his faith, and marrying Jonathan, he hadn’t been back. As they approached, he felt a little embarrassed by the boy he’d been, but interested to visit again a place where he’d been so happy.

Greystone wasn’t somewhere that attracted tourists; especially now at the end of September, there was nothing appealing about the place. The beach was rocky, and the gaps between rocks filled with shingle. The rocks were pocked with cockle shells and barnacles, and black with bladderwort. The cove faced north. The cliffs were hard and forbidding, and for much of the day there was no sunlight. The pub served the local cider, but there were no fancy meals. When houses came up for sale, potential second-homers came to look, but never bothered buying. This wasn’t the North Devon of their dreams. The village was still scarred by the enormous quarry on the hill beyond it. It felt industrial, not idyllic. Real. As a precocious adolescent, he’d appreciated that.

Because there was nothing pretty, or appealing, about the place, locals could afford to live in Greystone. Young couples stayed out of necessity, because housing was cheap to rent and to buy. There was broadband, so remote working was possible. A few cottage industries had grown up – cider-making, a pottery – and they employed a handful of people. Just inland there were farmers who needed occasional contract labour. Commuting to Bideford was just about possible. The village had its own primary school, and there was a high school in Morrisham, five miles along the coast, for the older kids. This was a community where many people were related and everyone knew their neighbours; no effort at friendliness was needed, and grudges grew unheeded.

Inspector Matthew Venn had a clear sense of the place. He’d heard his parents talk about Greystone often enough. His mother had wanted to move there at one point, but, for once, his father had stood firm. It was too remote. Too self-contained.

Matthew had always been an inveterate eavesdropper, and as a youngster he’d store away details, running over them later, trying to make sense of them. He didn’t think that much would have changed. Now he drove to the village through wind that made steering tricky, and rain so hard that the wipers on full speed wouldn’t clear the windscreen. The storm had returned big style since they’d left Barnstaple. He passed on his thoughts to Jen Rafferty, his sergeant, who was sitting beside him.

‘It feels different from anywhere else in the county. It’s very remote.’ He paused. ‘A bit bleak, I suppose.’

Jen Rafferty didn’t answer directly. She was a Scouser, passionate and impulsive. She’d left her home city to escape an abusive marriage, but Venn knew she still missed the Liverpool skyline, seen from the west side of the Mersey. She thought everywhere in North Devon was remote. Now, it seemed, she was more interested in the victim than the geography. ‘Who is this Jeremy Rosco?’

‘Haven’t you heard of him? At one time, he was never off the television. He’s a hero. Well, almost. He grew up just round the coast and went to school in Morrisham. The only son of a single mother. He didn’t do well at school; he was only ever interested in being on the water.’

This was the story told in documentaries and interviews. Matthew wondered how true it was, but he continued:

‘Rosco went on to become the youngest person to sail round the world single-handed, and he became a kind of legend. He moved on to other expeditions: he did both Poles with just a small team, and walked up the Amazon. For his subsequent adventures he had a television camera crew in tow, so he became a kind of media celebrity.’ Venn paused. ‘I’ve not heard so much of him in the last few years, though. He must have been in his late fifties. Perhaps he retired.’

‘So, what was he doing in Greystone?’

Venn turned to her. ‘That’s what we’re here to find out. Why he came back here, and why he died close by.’

The journey through the village was precipitous, made even more dangerous by the wet roads, the water forming a stream on each side. The houses were grey: stone from the quarry, the roofs slate. Where the land flattened, they passed the school, a shop and the pub, the Maiden’s Prayer, named after a wrecked ship, but considered a little blasphemous by Matthew’s mother. Behind the pub, a steep row of terraced cottages led to the abandoned quarry. The pub sign, painted with a ship in full sail, swung dangerously in the gale. Venn drove on to the quay.

The rain stopped when they arrived, but the wind seemed to increase. It blew from the north-west, straight into their faces. A uniformed officer, anonymous in navy waterproofs, was sheltering behind the wall formed by the quay and the lifeboat station, looking out for them. Presumably his colleague was inside. The officers had driven their car as near as they could, down the slipway which led to the beach. Venn parked behind it. He struggled to hold on to the car door when he opened it. The wind caught it and seemed about to tug it from his grasp, to rip it from the chassis.

It had taken Venn and Jen an hour to drive from Barnstaple. The officer was young and obviously relieved to see someone senior in charge. He was wet and cold. Venn wondered why he hadn’t waited inside. Perhaps this was his first dead body, and he was of a squeamish disposition.

‘Just show us where he is and then grab a coffee in the pub.’ Venn wasn’t sure that a pub like the Maiden’s would serve coffee, but word about the incident would have spread and the village would be glad to have more news. They’d make an exception for someone in uniform.

The constable was local. ‘There’s a doctor in the village and the crew had him waiting for them. Usual procedure if there’s a death.’ He paused. ‘They had to lift the body into the lifeboat to bring him back. That’s standard apparently, unless it’s so far gone that you know for certain there’s nothing you can do. They left the dinghy where it was. Appledore lifeboat will tow it in. They know not to touch it more than they need to tie a line to it. Jimmy Rainston will have made sure of that. They’ll take it back to their station. In this wind, it’s too dangerous to try and get it in here. Their operations manager wasn’t even sure he wanted them to go out to fetch it, but they decided to give it a go.’

Venn nodded his approval. ‘Rainston’s your colleague?’

‘Yes, sir. We were here waiting when the lifeboat came in and one of us has stayed with the body all through.’

‘Good. Doctor Pengelly is on her way.’ Matthew was speaking almost to himself.

Jen was out of the car, red hair flying in the gusts of wind, a bright banner against all the grey. ‘A bit odd, isn’t it? Was Rosco killed in the dinghy?’

‘The doctor says not. There was not enough blood apparently. The crew said the dinghy was clean. He reckons the man was stabbed elsewhere.’

‘Then put in a dinghy and floated out to sea?’ Matthew frowned.

‘Towed most likely. Because of the anchor. Or rowed.’

‘Of course,’ Matthew said. ‘It’d be impossible to do that remotely.’

‘Like I said.’ Jen pulled her coat tight around her. ‘A bit odd.’

There were lights on inside the lifeboat station, very bright, casting hard shadows. The police officer had shown them in through a small side door and, for a moment, nobody noticed them because of the sound of the weather outside. Four men and a woman in RNLI jerseys stood in the kit room, clutching mugs of coffee. Matthew could smell it and was jealous.

A man of around Matthew’s age, in jeans and a Barbour jacket, stood a little apart and was drinking coffee too. The doctor, Venn decided, but he could wait. There was a constable in uniform waterproofs, who must be Jimmy Rainston.

Venn introduced himself to the crew.

‘You brought back the body.’

‘He was dead when we arrived.’ The woman spoke. She had long dark hair tied away from her face, thick dark eyebrows, and eyes which were almost black. ‘I tried CPR, but really it was clear there was nothing we could do.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘Still in the lifeboat.’ It was the oldest man in the room. Short and powerful, with a thick neck and a head like a fighting dog. He’d described himself as the lifeboat operations manager, Sammy Barton. ‘We wanted to put him in a body bag. For a bit of dignity. But Jimmy here said to leave him be.’

‘Quite right,’ Matthew said, but he thought the dead man had been grabbed out of the dinghy and been exposed to the weather on the trip back. Any evidence might well have been washed away by now. ‘The forensic pathologist is on her way. We’ll move him as soon as we possibly can.’

‘No rush.’ Barton’s voice was deep and rough. ‘Even if we got a shout, I wouldn’t allow a launch in this gale anyway. Must be near force nine out there now.’

‘You all recognized him?’

‘Oh yes,’ Mary Ford said. ‘It was definitely Jem Rosco.’ A pause. ‘He’d been staying in the village for a while. And, of course, we all knew him by sight.’

Venn turned to Rainston. ‘Let’s go and see him then.’

The constable led him through into the main body of the lifeboat station. The boat was on a trailer, attached to a huge tractor. It glowed orange. Rosco seemed very small. He was laid across the widest seat of the RIB, his head resting on a folded tarpaulin on the side of the boat. He was quite naked, his hair short and white but there was a strength to him in the shoulders and the arms. No spare flesh, and muscles a younger man would be proud of. Venn could see why Barton had wanted him covered. He’d been a proud man and this was a sad end for him.

He turned to Rainston. ‘Thanks for this. You’ve done all the right things. I’ve told your mate to go up to the Maiden’s to warm through. Why don’t you join him? One of us will head up and chat to you when we’ve finished here.’

‘Sir.’ Rainston was a big man but he scuttled quickly away, giving just a brief last glance at the body before making his exit through the door into the kit room again.

Venn stood for a moment looking down at Rosco. The silence was broken by a squall, the rain battering against the big doors. The walls were covered by photos of other rescues, a roll call of lives saved. But not this one. There’d be nothing to do for a man who was already dead.

Back in the kit room, Venn approached the man in the Barbour jacket. He was dark-haired, slight.

‘You must be the doctor. Thanks for turning out. You live in the village?’

‘For my sins.’

‘Pete grew up here,’ one of the crew said. ‘He ran off to do his training, but we couldn’t keep him away.’

‘My wife had a romantic notion about a practice by the sea.’ The man smiled at Venn. ‘Peter Smale. I’m a GP. I work mostly out of the health centre in Morrisham, but I hold a surgery here two mornings a week.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I should go back there. They’ll be queuing into the road.’

‘Of course. Perhaps we can catch up later.’

‘I’ve taken over an empty shop in the main street. It used to be a greengrocer’s but we’ve done it out. Not the slightest smell of cabbage left.’

The crew grinned politely. Perhaps it was an old joke.

‘I know it,’ Matthew said.

And I know you too. We sat together through the Brethren meetings as young adolescents, as pompous as each other. Our parents were friends of a kind. And so were we.

Smale looked at him as if he, too, had a moment of recognition, but said, ‘I’ll be there all day and I’m usually patient-free for a couple of hours in the afternoon.’ He paused for a moment and then went out through the narrow door onto the quay, letting in a blast of cold air.

Matthew turned to the people who remained. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to talk us through it right from the beginning, while we wait for the rest of my team to arrive.’ He looked at Barton. ‘So, tell me what happened.’

‘We got the shout from the coastguard. They’d had a mayday by radio, channel sixteen, a vessel in trouble. No details apart from the position. The call was cut short.’

‘But you went to investigate?’ It was hardly a question. Matthew knew they would investigate. A mayday was the equivalent of a 999 call.

‘Of course.’

‘What time was that?’

‘I got the call from the coastguard at four fifty-five. Our boat was in the water by five twenty.’ Matthew was taking that in. He looked at the remaining three men and the woman. ‘You’re all local?’

‘They are.’ Sammy spoke for them. ‘All Greystone born and bred, apart from Mary here. She’s the helm.’ His voice was flat, but Venn could pick up the edge in it. He’d developed a nose for bias of any kind. Being gay in the police service gave you that. What did Sammy disapprove of in Mary? Matthew wondered. The fact that she was an outsider or that she was a woman?

‘How long did it take you to get to the headland?’

This time Mary answered. ‘Less than twenty minutes. The wind and the tide were behind us.’

‘And you were expecting a bigger boat?’

Sammy Barton jumped in. ‘The coastguard had said a fishing vessel called the Anna Louise.’

‘At first, I thought the dinghy was a tender,’ Mary said, ‘and that the bigger boat must be lost. Then we saw what was inside. And anyway, with the anchor—’

Barton interrupted her again. ‘The coastguard has been back to us, and said there’s no boat with that name registered anywhere along the North Devon coast.’

‘So, it was a hoax call,’ Venn said. ‘But they wanted you to find him.’ He thought that was the strangest part of an already bizarre murder. Why not just make a hole in the dinghy and let it sink? Rosco’s body might not be washed up for weeks. Perhaps it would never appear.

He looked at Barton. ‘What’s happening to the dinghy?’

‘Appledore coastguard has towed it in. They’re holding it there.’

Venn nodded. Another complication to a case that was already the strangest he’d ever investigated.

Chapter Four

VENN LEFT JEN in the lifeboat shed to talk to the crew and wait for the pathologist and crime scene manager. Sally Pengelly and Brian Branscombe were regulars, part of the team. He thought that perhaps Brian would have been better heading straight to the lifeboat station in Appledore to check out the dinghy. Sometimes, though, the CSI said, the body itself was a crime scene. Branscombe was already taking his video, photos from every possible angle. The wounds looked like stabbings to Venn, but the death would remain unexplained until Sally Pengelly had seen the man. In the meantime, he would treat it as murder. It could be nothing else.

Venn stood in the porch of the Maiden’s Prayer. He’d never been inside, and he smiled, wondering what his mother would say. The thought came less often these days, but still her voice was at the back of his head at times of crisis. Jonathan always said he shouldn’t blame his mother for his self-doubt.

She’s a lonely old woman. You’re an adult, and you should be content in your own skin. Own your own shit and give her a break!

For Matthew, it wasn’t that easy. Dorothy was his mother, and, when he’d lost his faith, she’d chosen the Brethren over him.

He walked inside. It was too early for lunchtime opening and the two constables were alone with the landlord. The pub was less gloomy than he’d imagined. There were pale wood tables and the walls were white, recently painted. The old traditions had been kept, though. Above the bar were curling pictures of bearded men, former lifeboat helms, and newspaper clippings describing apparently heroic rescues. A photograph of the darts team holding a trophy. The funeral service sheet for an elderly regular. Venn introduced himself to the man behind the bar.

‘Harry Carter. I own this place. For my sins.’

It was the second time the phrase had been used that morning. For someone with Venn’s upbringing, the words resonated.

‘Any chance of a coffee?’ He saw the policemen had mugs on the table in front of them.

‘Sure.’ Carter disappeared into a room behind the bar.

Venn turned to the officers. ‘Where are you based?’

Rainston spoke. ‘Morrisham, but it’s a bloody big patch.’

‘Of course. Get much bother out this way?’

They shook their heads. ‘Never been here before,’ Rainston said. ‘I get the impression that they sort out their own problems. You saw the lifeboat guys. Any bother here in the pub, they’d soon calm things down. You wouldn’t want to take on that Sammy Barton.’ There was a pause. ‘I’m not saying there’s no crime. Bound to be. Underage drinking. Drugs. Drugs everywhere, isn’t there? But nothing anyone would feel the need to call us out for.’

Venn wasn’t sure what he made of that. A community that policed itself sounded dangerous to him, with an undercurrent of control, bullying. The Brethren had never liked outsiders looking into their business, and perhaps he was wary because of his experience with them. He wondered how many of the younger villagers were still members.

‘Anything else you think I should know? Did anything about the crew’s story strike you as odd? You were first on the scene when the boat got back.’

‘It’s all bloody peculiar, isn’t it, sir?’

‘It is.’ Venn thought that summed up the case in one sentence. ‘Write it up as soon as you get back, and get the statements across to me. You can go now, if you’ve warmed through.’

They’d left by the time Carter came back with the coffee. The man set the mug on the bar, and Venn took a stool there and wrapped his hands around it.

‘Poor Jem,’ Carter said. ‘We thought he’d just left. It seemed a bit weird that he hadn’t said goodbye, but he’d turned up out of the blue and it was in character for him to leave in just the same way. We wondered if maybe his mysterious visitor had finally turned up.’

There was too much here to unpick all at once, so Venn started with the basics. The facts.

‘When did he arrive?’

‘The first storm of the autumn.’ There was a calendar hanging behind the bar and Carter consulted it. ‘September the second. It was a Thursday night because a couple of the oldies were in playing crib. Always cribbage on a Thursday.’

‘That was the day he appeared in Greystone? Not the first time he came into the pub?’

‘Both,’ the landlord said. ‘He’d been travelling all day, he said, and he was desperate for a pint.’

‘You must have been surprised to see him.’

‘I recognized him as soon as he walked through the door. There was something about him. Not just because he’d been on the telly, but because he had a presence. You knew there was something special about him, even if you didn’t know who he was.’ Carter shrugged apologetically. ‘That must sound a bit daft.’

‘There are some people like that.’

The man who’d run the Brethren in Barnstaple had been one such. He could light up a room. And persuade people to do just what he wanted.

‘Charisma,’ Carter went on. ‘Isn’t that what they call it?’

Venn didn’t answer. One of his annual appraisals had said that he lacked charisma. He’d seen that as a compliment, almost a badge of honour. He was drawn to Jonathan’s charisma like a moth to a flame, but it wasn’t a trait he desired for himself. He thought that policing was about intellectual rigour and honesty, not personality.

‘You didn’t know Mr Rosco? He grew up locally, went to school in Morrisham.’

Carter shook his head. ‘He was fifteen years older than me. He was already famous by the time I was there. He came once for prize-giving.’ His voice tailed off. ‘He said in his speech that he was an example of how anything was possible. You just had to know what you wanted and follow your dreams.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘It didn’t work for me. I’m back running the pub where I grew up.’

Venn wanted to ask what dreams the man had when he was growing up, but he couldn’t see how that could be relevant.

Curiosity was part of his make-up, and he’d learned to live with it.

‘How did Mr Rosco get here? I presume he had a car.’

Carter shook his head again. ‘He must have got a lift. Or a taxi from Tiverton Parkway or Barnstaple if he came by train.’ A pause. ‘He never said. I think he enjoyed being mysterious; he liked people wondering about him.’

‘He grew up along the coast. He hadn’t kept a base locally?’

‘I wouldn’t have thought so. Why would he come and stay here if he had his own place a few miles away?’

Because he needed to be in Greystone specifically? But Jonathan always said people created narratives of their own lives. Perhaps Rosco had wanted to feature in his story: a stranger landing up at a village on the coast, attracting speculation in a community where nothing much happened. Perhaps he needed the envy that Venn had sensed in Carter’s response to the man’s life. It would make him the centre of attention again, if his celebrity had been waning.

‘Where did Mr Rosco stay when he was here?’

‘Quarry Bank. He was renting the top cottage. Just out of the pub and up the hill.’

‘Who owns it?’ The CSIs would need to go in, of course. It could be their murder scene, but Venn hoped he could get an hour on his own there first, suitably suited and gloved. He needed a sense of the man, and if Rosco’s belongings were still there, that would give him a start. He knew it was easy to be misled by a public persona. Charisma could be added as part of a performance.

‘Colin Gregory. But he’s just gone into a care home. I assume it was his daughter Gwen who leased it out.’

‘And she’d have a key?’

‘Bound to have.’

‘Where will I find her?’ Venn just about managed to control his impatience.

‘In the back. She cleans for us five days a week.’

+++

Gwen Gregory was small and round-bodied, of indeterminate age. She had tight grey curls and a sharp little face, which gave her the appearance of an amiable sheep. She was still wearing an apron over jeans and a sweatshirt, and she seemed in a state of excitement. Perhaps she hadn’t known Rosco well enough to be sad about his death, and she was enjoying the drama.

‘Harry says you think he might have been killed in Dad’s cottage.’

‘I don’t think anything at this point.’ Venn’s voice was mild, but he shot Harry a glance. He wondered if the constables had been indiscreet while they were drinking their coffee. It was more likely, though, that the lifeboat crew had been spreading the word about the circumstances of Jem Rosco’s death. There’d probably be a Greystone village WhatsApp group, full of gossip, as well as the usual offer of free, unwanted furniture and outgrown kiddies’ clothes. ‘I’d like to see inside, though. Harry said you’d have a key?’

‘I do!’ Her excitement now seemed to have reached fever pitch. ‘It’s in my bag. I’ll just get my coat and then I can let you in.’ She was already reaching behind her back to untie the pinafore.

‘No need for that,’ Venn said. ‘Just let me have the key and I’ll let myself in. We try to limit the number of people in potential crime scenes. You probably know that yourself.’ He already had her down as an ardent viewer of true crime documentaries.

‘Of course!’ The sting of disappointment appeared tempered by his acknowledgement that she would understand how the system worked. ‘You’ll probably have to wear one of those white suits.’

‘Indeed,’ he said, his voice serious. ‘And a mask.’

She nodded and disappeared into the kitchen, returning with two large keys. ‘This is the one to the front door, leading straight into the house from the pavement, and this is for the kitchen door into the yard.’

‘It would be good to talk to you later. You must have taken the booking from Mr Rosco, and, if you don’t mind, we’ll need a statement. How long will you be here?’

‘Only until one o’clock,’ she said. ‘And I don’t mind at all. I’ll be glad to help. This is such a terrible thing to have happened in the village. He was a lovely man.’ A pause. ‘You can find me anytime, though. I only live next door to where he was staying.’

‘You’ve been very helpful,’ Venn said. ‘We’ll definitely need to talk to you then. You’ll be a valuable witness. I’ll be in touch.’

She flushed and scurried away behind the bar and out of sight.

Outside, the rain was keeping off but it was as windy as before. He walked back down the hill to see what was happening in the lifeboat station, and to collect the scene suits from the car. He recognized Sally Pengelly’s vehicle, and when he went into the building, she was there, just arrived, standing by the lifeboat and peering inside. She heard Venn approaching and turned to face him.

‘He was a hero,’ she said. ‘When I was a youngster, I wanted to be a female Jem Rosco. I thought he might end his life on one of his crazy expeditions. I thought he might even be lost at sea. Not like this, though.’

‘We don’t think he did die at sea, do we?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘He was dead when he was placed in the boat.’ A pause. ‘Perhaps someone thought it was fitting to tow him out onto the water. It would be where he’d want to end his days.’

Venn shook his head. ‘It doesn’t feel like a gesture of respect to me. More an act of mockery.’

She smiled. ‘Luckily that’s not for me to decide. I’ll do as much as I can here, and then I’ll get him to the hospital for the post-mortem.’ She looked up. ‘Have you seen the forecast? I’m worried we won’t get back if we don’t leave soon. They’re predicting hurricane force winds for later today. Brian’s heading to Appledore to look at the dinghy.’

‘I’ll leave you to it. Let me know when you have a time for the post-mortem.’ Venn was aware of the remorseless routines of an investigation rolling out, although this case felt anything but routine.

+++

Jen came with him to the small house where Jeremy Rosco had been living for the previous month. They didn’t need Gwen Gregory’s key to get in through the front door; it was already unlocked.

‘Standard practice in a village like this?’ Venn wasn’t asking this as a serious question to his sergeant. Jen didn’t know anything about small villages and her opinion wouldn’t help much. He was muttering to himself. His ideas seemed more concrete when he spoke them out loud. ‘Or did he invite someone in? Then the killer didn’t bother locking the door behind him. Hard to carry a grown man down to the quay without anyone seeing, though.

‘He was expecting a visitor.’ They were standing now in a neat front room. An old man’s room. A two-seater sofa under the window and a high-backed chair, easy to get out of for someone with limited mobility, facing the electric fire. An old, bulky television on a stand. On the mantelpiece a pile of books. Rosco’s books. No sign of a struggle. No immediate sign of blood.

‘How do you know?’ Jen asked.

‘The whole village knew, apparently. Rosco told everyone who asked that he’d be here for as long as it took his mysterious visitor to arrive. No time scale and no explanation. No real opinion about whether he was waiting for a man or a woman, but the consensus was a woman. They liked the idea of a romance.’

Venn walked through into the kitchen, which was at the back of the house, looking out into a yard surrounded by a high wall. There was no gate in the wall. Venn had noticed, walking up the hill, that dustbins were left in the tiny front gardens. The search teams were on their way. Jen stood in the doorway, watching.

In the kitchen there was a stained enamel sink under the window. Cupboards and appliances which could well date back to the seventies. Everything immaculate. No used plates or mugs, the draining board wiped and shining. Venn thought he should have asked Gwen Gregory if she cleaned for Rosco. Or perhaps he’d been a naturally fastidious man.

Jen followed him in now and was opening the cupboards. Again, they were ordered. Tins in rows. Cannisters for tea and instant coffee. Some of the goods, Matthew thought, would be more to Rosco’s taste than Colin Gregory’s. There was a packet of real coffee, and a small AeroPress with filters. In the narrow fridge, a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. Was that chilling, waiting for the mysterious stranger? If so, that probably did imply that the anticipated guest was a woman. Immediately Venn thought he was jumping to conclusions. Jonathan would mock him for that. He had no knowledge of Rosco’s sexuality. If the sailor did have a lover, it could be a man.

Narrow stairs led up to two bedrooms and a tiny bathroom, one bedroom looking out at the yard to the quarry beyond, one at the front. The back room had a single bed and a chest of drawers, empty and lined with newspaper that dated back twenty years. No space in the room for anything else. The bed had been stripped and blankets were folded at one end, two thin pillows on top of the pile. The place felt damp and chill. There was no double glazing.

The front bedroom was even more draughty; the sash window was streaked with salt spray and rattled in the wind, despite a folded piece of paper intended to keep it in place. Venn remembered a Golden Age detective novel – one of Dorothy Sayers’, perhaps – where the plot hinged on a piece of paper wedged into a sash window to stop it rattling. He’d read through the canon of the Golden Age when he’d first left home and life had been chaotic, unanchored. The stories had been an escape and had seen him through. He pulled it out. Card, not paper, with orange edges. A train ticket. Liverpool to Tiverton Parkway. One way. Dated the month before. That might be useful.

This room was a little larger, with a double bed and a wardrobe, a bedside cabinet. The bed was made up with sheets, blankets and a candlewick quilt. No duvet here. Venn was reminded of his mother, who still rejected the duvet as a foreign invention, to be regarded with suspicion. He stood for a moment at the window, looking down at the village and on to the quay. From here everything was visible: the school, the hall where the Brethren had held their meetings, the pub and the lifeboat station. If Rosco had been as curious as Venn, there’d have been no secrets kept from him.

Jen opened the wardrobe door, then stood aside so Matthew could see in. On one side there was space for clothes to hang. A tweed jacket, a couple of shirts, a pair of trousers, a fleece and an expensive waterproof. On the other a row of narrow shelves, which held underwear, jeans, T-shirts and jerseys. This must have been all the clothes the dead man had brought with him. Matthew didn’t touch anything. He’d leave that to Brian and his team, though there was nothing here to indicate that the room was a crime scene.

‘Where’s the suitcase?’ Jen’s words broke into his thoughts. He’d been speculating about what Rosco had been doing here. Making up a story of his own to explain the man’s behaviour.

‘Sorry?’

‘Well, this stuff. And the books. The food downstairs. I doubt the local shop sells champagne and fancy coffee. Rosco must have carried it somehow.’

‘I don’t know.’ Matthew tried to focus. He supposed this was important but he was still preoccupied with his own thoughts. ‘Is there an attic? A cupboard under the stairs?’

‘Or maybe some storage in the bathroom?’ Jen pushed open the third door, and stopped. Matthew almost walked into her, was so close to her that he could smell her shampoo. Citrus. He looked over her shoulder.

There was blood. A lot of blood. In the bath and spattered onto the tile walls. So, he thought, aware of a trace of irony: this was certainly murder, and they could stop looking for their crime scene.

Chapter Five

JEN RAFFERTY THOUGHT this looked like something from a cheap horror movie made years ago. The blood in the bath and on the walls had dried and darkened, so it could almost have been filmed in black and white. It seemed to her that the whole of Greystone had a strange, unreal, almost other-worldly quality: the village that time had forgotten. She’d never before been anywhere that felt so cut off from the rest of the world, and the sense of isolation sapped her confidence. She wasn’t sure how to work here, how to conduct interviews, or make people talk. The constant noise of the wind outside, howling like an animal in pain, added to her unease.

She longed suddenly for the comforts of home. When she got back to her little house in Barnstaple, she’d switch the heating full on, pour a large glass of pinot, and curl up in front of something trashy on Netflix. Have the sound on loud enough not to hear the gale outside. But that would have to wait. Matthew Venn seemed lost in his thoughts for the moment; soon he’d start to issue instructions again.

‘There’s no shower curtain,’ he said. ‘Look, there’s a shower over the bath and a rail, but no curtain.’

‘You think the body was wrapped in it?’

He turned and smiled at her, glad that she was following his reasoning. ‘It’s possible, isn’t it?’

Then he was focused again on the immediate situation. ‘Let’s get Ross here. I’ll tell him to bring enough stuff for a couple of days. You can’t stay overnight because of your children, but he and I can book rooms at the pub. It will save the trek each day and we’ll be on site.’

She nodded her agreement. She hated missing out on anything work-related, but Venn had got this one right. The kids were teenagers now and they’d had to learn to be independent. She’d come to North Devon as a single mother with no friends or family on hand, and a demanding job. But she didn’t know how long this investigation would last. She didn’t mind leaving Ella and Ben overnight at the weekend – she’d been doing that for a while, because she occasionally needed to let her hair down – but not when they had to be up for school the next day. Besides, she’d rather do the daily drive than stay overnight in this strange village.

Venn was still speaking. ‘I’d like you to talk to Gwen Gregory. Her father owns this house and she looks after the letting. She lives next door and cleans at the pub.’ He looked at his watch. ‘She should just be home from work. Let her talk. She’ll be keen to be involved. The killer might be Rosco’s mysterious stranger, but it could be one of the locals and she’ll know the background to everyone here. I’ll get hold of Brian and let him know that we’ve found our crime scene. Then I’ll talk to the doctor. He grew up here. He’s someone else who’ll understand the place and its secrets.’

Outside on the pavement, the wind almost took her legs from under her, and tore at her scene suit as she tried to take it off. The storm seemed to be getting fiercer, rather than abating. The neighbour’s door opened before Jen could knock. Gwen Gregory must have been looking out for a detective to call. Jen could feel the heat before she stepped inside. The layout of this house was identical to the one next door but this felt very different, more personal, with photographs on the mantelpiece and a women’s magazine on the arm of the sofa. The furniture wasn’t to Jen’s taste – chain store contemporary and too big for the room – but it was comfortable. A large flat-screen television in the corner showed a lunchtime show, where a chef was filleting a mackerel. Gwen left the television on but switched off the sound. The warmth came from a solid fuel boiler, which must run the central heating.

‘You’re here about poor Mr Rosco,’ Gwen said. ‘Inspector Venn said someone would call.’ A pause. ‘I thought he might come himself.’ She sounded disappointed.

‘He’s very busy.’

‘Of course, he will be.’ Gwen seemed to think she’d been rude and hurried to make amends. ‘You’ll be freezing if you’ve been next door. My dad kept it like an ice bucket. We offered to put in central heating, but he couldn’t stand the thought of the mess. I’ll put the kettle on. I’ve not long got in. Just make yourself comfy and I’ll be back soon.’ She disappeared into the kitchen, leaving the door open so Jen could hear the sound of a tap and the clink of crockery. The heat was making Jen drowsy and she was almost asleep when Gwen returned with a tray. She set it on a glass-topped coffee table. ‘I’m guessing milk and no sugar.’

‘Yeah, that’s right.’

It was strong as Jen liked it, and there was homemade flapjack on a plate. Jen thought a rush of sugar was just what she needed. She supposed she should stay impartial, but she was starting to warm to the woman.

‘How did Mr Rosco come to be living next door?’

‘He wasn’t living there, not permanent like. More paying guest. Our dad went into a home at the beginning of the summer. We kept him in his own place as long as we could, but, in the end, we couldn’t manage even with carers coming in twice a day. It was my brother Davy who suggested we put the house on one of those websites, for people wanting somewhere to stay.’ Gwen looked up at Jen. ‘Those nursing homes are so pricy, and Dad’s savings were being eaten away, but he wouldn’t think of selling up. He always believed he’d get back there one day. We thought it might bring in something towards the care costs.’

Jen nodded to show she understood.

‘We had a few takers. People walking the coastal path. But most visitors are looking for something with a few more facilities, and families want a sandy beach, don’t they?’

‘But that’s how Mr Rosco got hold of you? Through the website? Did you recognize the name?’

‘Not when he booked. It’s not such an unusual name down here in the south-west. Of course, we all recognized him from the telly when he showed up. I was worried he’d turn up his nose at the house when he saw the place, but he said it would suit him perfectly.’ Gwen looked at Jen again. ‘Those were his exact words.’ There was a pause before she added, ‘He was such a nice man.’

‘How long did he book it for?’

‘He told us he wasn’t sure how long he’d need it. He asked if he could pay for a fortnight and renew weekly after that. We were delighted. Nobody had stayed more than a couple of nights before and we weren’t really expecting any new bookings now the season’s over.’

‘And how long had he been there?’

‘For nearly a month, then he came in two nights ago and paid for another week.’ Gwen looked awkward. ‘I suppose we’ll have to pay some of it back, though I’m sure I wouldn’t know who to send it to.’

Jen thought that was something that the police would have to follow up on too: tracing the victim’s family. They still hadn’t tracked down any next of kin, and Matthew hated news of a suspicious death getting into the press before the relatives had been informed. Jeremy Rosco had been a celebrity, though, and she’d bet that news of his murder was already all over social media. Greystone wasn’t so isolated that its residents weren’t on Facebook and Instagram.

‘Mr Rosco didn’t mention any family to you?’

Gwen shook her head sadly. ‘We didn’t speak about anything personal at all.’

‘You didn’t know him? You must have been at the same school if you grew up here.’

‘We were at school at the same time,’ she said, ‘but he was a bit younger and he moved with a very different crowd. More adventurous. I was a timid little thing in those days.’

Jen remembered Matthew’s instructions to prize information from Gwen about the locals. ‘So, you’ve lived here all your life?’

‘Oh, we’ve been in Greystone for generations. You just have to look in the churchyard to see that. It’s full of Gregory graves. Always farmers too. Never fishermen, like most of the village.’

‘Your dad was a farmer?’

‘Until he had to sell up.’ Her voice was suddenly hard, bitter. ‘What happened?’ Jen couldn’t see how any of this was relevant, but it was better being in here, chatting in the warm, the relentless sound of the wind dulled by efficient double glazing, than being out in the storm. Besides, Venn would love these snippets of background.

Gwen shrugged. ‘It never made much of a living. Poor soil and it was hard work keeping the place going. My dad was never one for new ideas and though Davy had plenty, Dad’s as stubborn as a mule. He wouldn’t change a thing. So, when the quarry wanted to expand and made an offer on the land, he sold up. He bought these two cottages as a sort of investment, and after a year or so he moved into number one, and Davy kept the old farmhouse. The quarry didn’t need it, and at least Dad had kept hold of that.’

‘When was that?’

‘Years ago. My mum had just died. Cancer. I’m not sure Dad would have sold if she’d been alive. He was still grieving. He told himself and everyone else who would listen that he was doing the village a favour. A bigger quarry would bring new jobs. That never happened, and later the whole place closed down. The workers who did remain were made redundant.’

‘What does Davy do now?’

‘He runs a taxi business.’ She sniffed as if she disapproved. ‘He’s got a couple of cars. His wife’s younger and teaches in the school here. They never had kids. There’s no mortgage on the house, and I think her family had money. They do all right.’ A pause. ‘More than all right.’

‘How did Mr Rosco get to the village? We haven’t found a car.’

‘No,’ Gwen said. ‘He didn’t have a car.’

‘Perhaps Davy gave him a lift from the station?’

‘Perhaps he did. That would have been a good fare. Tiverton’s probably the nearest and that’s a good hour away.’

Jen wondered why the woman didn’t know for certain. Wouldn’t Davy have bragged about bringing the great Jeremy Rosco into the village? Perhaps the siblings weren’t very close.

‘You must have met Jeremy that first night,’ she said. ‘To let him into the house. Did you see how he got here?’

Gwen shook her head.

‘He told me when he booked that he wasn’t certain when he’d arrive. I left keys for him under a flowerpot by the side of the front step. That was what we arranged.’

‘You live next door. Did you hear him come in?’

Gwen nodded. ‘I was getting ready for bed. I was just shutting the curtains upstairs when I saw him. There’s only one street light at the bottom of the hill and I saw him walking up. He had a great bag on his back, and I thought how strong he was for such a short man. Striding up the bank, even with that weight on his shoulder. I would have gone down to greet him – I like to welcome the guests – but I was already in my night things and I knew by the time I’d changed again he’d be inside. So, I just watched him find the keys and let himself in. I waited until he’d switched on a light and then I went to bed. By next morning, it was all over the village that Jeremy Rosco was staying here. I heard all about it when I started my shift at the Maiden’s. Everyone wanted to know about him, but I had nothing to tell them.’

‘Last night,’ Jen said, ‘were you in?’

Gwen nodded.

‘On your own?’

Another nod. Jen didn’t say anything and Gwen felt the need to fill the gap. ‘I’ve never married. Had a long-term partner, but he worked at the quarry and buggered off when it closed. He asked me to go with him, but he was from the North, and a city boy at heart. I knew I wouldn’t settle. Besides, I had Dad to think about …’ Her voice tailed off and Jen thought Gwen was dreaming of her man, and what might have been if she’d had the courage to go away with him.

‘Did you hear anything?’

‘You think that’s where he was killed? Last night?’ Gwen’s voice held a mixture of horror and fascination.

‘We don’t know anything for certain yet, but we need to explore all possibilities.’ Jen paused. ‘Did you hear anything? We know Jeremy didn’t go to the pub last night. Perhaps he had a visitor?’

Gwen shook her head. ‘The walls are thick and I always have the telly on. I wouldn’t hear a thing.’

‘You didn’t see anything? Perhaps as you were closing the curtains when you were on your way to bed, like you did the night he arrived?’

‘I didn’t.’ The woman sounded disappointed that she couldn’t be more helpful.

‘What about early this morning?’

‘I sleep like the dead,’ Gwen said. ‘I never wake until my alarm goes off.’

‘What time is that?’

‘Seven. I start my shift at the Maiden’s at eight.’

Jen thought that wasn’t helpful. Rosco’s body would have been removed long before then.

She knew she’d have to move. The heat was making her lethargic, too settled. Venn would be needing her. She got to her feet and looked at the window, the rain so heavy against it that all she could see was a shroud of grey.

‘When did you last see Mr Rosco?’

‘The night before last. I’d met Davy and his wife in the Maiden’s. It was darts night and Davy plays. They were up against one of the Morrisham teams. Jeremy was there.’

‘He went to school in Morrisham, didn’t he? Who did he cheer for?’

It was a throwaway line but Jen came from Liverpool. She understood partisan support. She was expecting an immediate response, something light, almost playful to end the interview, but it took Gwen a moment to reply.

‘You know, my love, I think he found it a bit awkward. Usually, he’d always cheer on our boys, but that day, he just stood at the bar, chatting to Harry, and he left before the end of play.’

‘Could he have seen someone he recognized in the Morrisham team?’

‘Perhaps he did, but if so, it wasn’t anyone he wanted to meet again. He kept his distance, and he ran away after one pint. And that wasn’t like Jem Rosco at all.’

+++

Leaving Gwen Gregory’s house, Jen almost bumped into Matthew Venn on the pavement. He was talking to Brian Branscombe, the wind snatching at his words so he had to shout. The crime scene manager nodded and went into the house where Rosco had stayed.

‘What now, boss?’

‘Lunch. Ross is on his way and I’ve said we’ll meet him there.’

They fought against the storm and by the time they reached the pub they were both drenched.

Chapter Six

IT SEEMED THAT MOST of the lifeboat crew were in the public bar when they arrived. Their oilskins hung from hooks along the counter and they were gathered around a table in the window, pints in front of them along with plates covered with crumbs. There was no sign of Mary Ford, the helm. Perhaps she hadn’t been invited. Or perhaps she had better things to do with her time.

The LOM, Sammy Barton, watched them come in. ‘They’ve taken him away,’ he called over to Venn. ‘That pathologist of yours has gone too.’

Venn nodded. He had nothing to say at this point.

There was a small room at the back of the pub, labelled THE SNUG on a faded gold sign over the door, and Venn pushed his way into that. In contrast to the public bar, the room hadn’t changed for decades. There was nothing snug about it. A fire had been laid in the grate but it hadn’t been lit. The furniture was scratched, the tables covered in a sticky varnish. It was private, though. There was a hatch into the bar and Harry Carter stuck his head through, looking suddenly comic, like a puppet in a Punch and Judy show.

‘What can I get you?’

Venn took a box of matches from the mantelpiece, struck one and threw it onto the fire, before turning back to the landlord.

‘Coffee, please. What do you do in the way of food?’

‘I could make a plate of sandwiches.’ As if he’d be doing them a huge favour. ‘Or there’s pasties. We get them in from the butcher in Morrisham. Proper job.’

Venn looked at Jen, who nodded. ‘Two pasties then. And I’d like to book a couple of rooms.’ He didn’t ask if there were any vacancies. This was hardly peak visitor season.

All the same, Carter made a show of coming into the snug with a big diary to check availability. ‘How long would you be staying?’

‘Until the weekend at least.’ Because how could they know how long this would take?

‘No worries.’

‘We’d want bed, breakfast and dinner. You could manage a proper meal for us in the evenings?’ Venn’s mother had believed junk food to be a sin against God’s creation, and despite himself, the notion still lingered.

‘Of course!’ Carter feigned offence. ‘Gwen Gregory comes in to cook for us when needed. She’s a proper home cook. Nothing fancy, like, but everything fresh.’

‘Perfect.’ Venn paused. ‘Could I have a double room? Just in case my husband decides to join me at some point.’ He knew it was ridiculous, but a statement like this still seemed brave. Or provocative.

There was a pause. Venn couldn’t tell whether the hesitation was caused by surprise or distaste. Eventually Carter rearranged his face into an accommodating smile.

‘Of course. There’s a lovely double at the front. With its own bathroom. You’ll both be very happy there.’ Another pause. ‘So, it’ll be a double for you and a single for the lady. I’ll need your details, miss.’

‘No,’ Venn said. ‘Sergeant Rafferty won’t be staying overnight. She has commitments at home. The second room is for another officer. His name’s May. Ross May.’

And at that point, as if the name had conjured him out of the storm, Ross May opened the door and stood looking in at them. His usually gelled hair was wind-swept, and it seemed he’d stepped in a puddle on his way from the car: there were splashes of mud on his trousers. Venn thought that Ross, too, was out of his comfort zone here. He might have been born and brought up in North Devon, but he wasn’t a country boy at heart, and he and his wife Mel had aspirations. They might never move away from Barnstaple, but they’d like to climb the social ladder within the town, and Ross would never haunt a pub like the Maiden’s Prayer through choice.

‘And here he is,’ Venn said easily. ‘So, another coffee and pasty, please, Harry. And I wonder if you could put some more coal on the fire before you go?’

Harry gave another awkward smile and did as he was told.

‘I nearly didn’t make it. A tree had blown down across the road and I had to shift it to get past.’ Ross was excited, full of his adventures. There was nothing he liked better than a drama, as long as he was the hero of the story. Venn and Jen looked at each other, suspecting exaggeration. After all, it couldn’t have been a very big tree if Ross had moved it on his own. But they said nothing. Let him have his moment of glory.

Venn quickly brought him up to speed.

‘It’s all a bit elaborate, isn’t it, boss? Why not just leave the body where it was? Or put a hole in the dinghy and he might never be found? Someone playing silly buggers, do we think?’

‘Perhaps,’ Venn said. He thought it was too early yet to come to any sort of decision. Ross was right, though, and if they could answer those particular questions, they might know why Rosco had died.

‘So,’ Venn continued. ‘Actions for the rest of the afternoon … I’m going to visit the doctor – Peter Smale – in his surgery. If Jeremy Rosco had any connection with the place, he’ll know about it. He grew up here. Jen, can you canvas Gwen Gregory’s neighbours, and then the street which leads down to the quay? Or make a start at least. I’ve been promised a team to help, but you know what resourcing’s like. They might arrive just before it gets dark, then disappear again, especially in this weather. Someone killed Rosco in that house, carried him through the village, put him in a dinghy and towed it out to the headland. That would have taken a boat too. Something with a motor. So, Ross, talk to Barton, and if you don’t get any sense from him, speak to the coastguard. Who would have had access to a boat like that? There can’t be that many people living in Greystone and Barton would know them all.’

Harry Carter’s head appeared once more at the hole in the wall. He passed through the coffees. ‘Pasties won’t be long!’

They waited for him to move away before continuing the conversation, though the wind had increased even further, and seemed to have blown down a fence that banged in the yard at the back. It would be hard to overhear anything. All the same, Venn shifted his chair so he could see through the hatch into the other bar. Carter was back chatting to the lifeboat crew, gathering as much gossip as he could from them. It was impossible to see through the windows at the front of the pub now. Waves of grey rain broke across them.

‘It wouldn’t have to be a Greystone man, would it?’ Ross said. ‘The killer could have come from outside, driven in. Then you’d just have to carry the body to the car or the van.’

‘You’re right. And the bigger boat could have come from further along the coast. It would take a good sailor to moor at the quay in last night’s gale, though.’

‘I’ve checked that out.’ Ross was ridiculously proud of himself. ‘The wind dropped in the early hours as a depression moved through. It was pretty calm between three and six.’

‘Really? That makes a difference then, though I imagine the sea would still be pretty wild. Good work then, Ross.’ Venn saw Carter emerge from the kitchen, steaming pasties in hand, and gestured for them to be quiet until the landlord had disappeared again. ‘So, explain all that to the lifeboat operations manager, Sammy Barton, and definitely explore possibilities with the coastguard.’

Ross seemed to glow in response to the praise. Jen rolled her eyes. That, Venn thought, summed up the relationship between the two. Everything was a competition.

Venn wanted to phone Jonathan, but as he got to his feet to go to his room, all the lights went out. The snug grew even gloomier. There was a mutter of disapproval from the public bar. A little while later, Carter stuck his head through the hatch.

‘I’ve just been on to the power grid. The whole village is off. Line’s down at Sandyfoot Farm at the top of the bank. They don’t know when it’ll be fixed. The gale’s caused damage all along the coast.’

‘Perhaps we should go back to Barnstaple then.’ Venn thought the investigation would be impossible without power to run laptops and phones.

‘No chance of getting out now.’ Harry grinned. He seemed to be enjoying the thought of their discomfort. Or he was someone else who liked a drama. ‘The lines were brought down by an oak, which is blocking the road. Huge beast it is. No way out unless you want to walk most of the way to Morrisham. You’d get as far as Ravenscroft in the car, but the road’s blocked again beyond that.’ He looked across at Jen. ‘I’d best make a bedroom up for the young lady too.’

Venn went to his room to check the situation for himself. He couldn’t imagine that they were really trapped here. Not in this day and age. He had reasonable signal on his mobile and dialled the police station. It took a long time to get through and Vicki Robb sounded harassed, overwhelmed. ‘There are power cuts all over the county. And roads blocked so the engineers can’t get through. Most places will be off at least until tomorrow. It’s already getting dark.’

Matthew had never been good in enclosed spaces and sensed the steep sides of the valley closing in. He dialled Jonathan’s number. His husband ran a community arts centre in Barnstaple, which was his passion and his joy, and when he answered, Venn heard conversation in the background, and preschool children singing a nursery rhyme. Normal life, it seemed, was continuing in the town.

Jonathan must have moved somewhere quieter, because when he spoke his voice was clear and full of affection. He had a lovely voice.

‘Hello, you.’

‘I’m not going to make it home. I’m sorry.’

‘But I was going to cook for you. Don’t you remember? A night in. Neither of us working. And both with a day off tomorrow.’

‘Of course, I was looking forward to it.’

‘So, you are working?’ The tone was teasing, not resentful. Matthew loved that about Jonathan. His inability to be hurt when Matthew had to put work first. At the beginning, he’d taken it as a sign that Jonathan didn’t care. Now, he valued it as a gesture of support, an understanding that Matthew was as passionate about his work as he was.

‘A murder. Miles from anywhere in Greystone.’ A pause. ‘I’ve got to stay over. The storm’s blocked the road and the power lines are down.’

‘In Greystone? I don’t envy you that. I took a kids’ theatre group there once to the community hall. I’ve never been anywhere quite so bleak.’

The community hall was where the Brethren had met. Perhaps where they still did. ‘Did you get much of an audience?’

‘Nah, it was the worst gig of the tour.’ There was a brief pause. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. We’re closing the Woodyard early too because of the weather.’ Another pause. ‘Stay safe.’

Venn had expected the doctor’s surgery to be closed, but the door was unlocked, and there was even a light inside. He’d been blown along the only shopping street in the village, and found the doctor’s surgery easily enough. It stood between the post office and a general store. The greengrocer’s shop window had been replaced by frosted glass, and there was a sign above the door. Greystone Health Centre. When he pushed open the door, he saw a small waiting room and a desk with a woman sitting behind it. Health centre seemed rather a grand term for the premises. Two doors led off the waiting room. Nobody was waiting.

One wall was covered with shelves, but instead of books they contained hand-knitted toys; they seemed to be staring down at him from googly plastic eyes. There were teddy bears and animals: cats, dogs, penguins and an enormous giraffe. All brightly coloured and a little grotesque. On the lower shelves, there were hats and mittens and children’s jerseys, and jackets hung from clothes hangers. One little mannequin with a blank white face was modelling a child’s stripy dress. A printed, laminated sign said: Knitting for Artie. All for Sale. All proceeds to the fund. There was a photograph of a little boy with curly hair and big eyes.

The receptionist was knitting too, something complex with different coloured yarn. She set down the needles and looked up. ‘Can I help you?’ Then before he could reply, ‘Oh, sorry. You must be the detective. The doctor’s expecting you.’

‘You still have power?’

The place seemed ridiculously normal after the chaos outside.

‘Oh yeah. The last couple of years the lines have been going down quite regularly. Peter invested in a little generator.’ She looked up. ‘The whole village will be in soon to charge their phones and boil a kettle.’

She moved round from the desk and Venn saw that she must be in the last stages of pregnancy. Her body was enormous, but her legs, in thick black tights, were so skinny that it seemed they must buckle under the weight. She knocked at one of the internal doors and stuck her head in. ‘Pete. The inspector’s here.’ She left the door open for Venn and walked back to her desk.

The office was more comfortable and professional than Venn had been expecting. No strange woollen creations in sight. Besides the desk, with a computer, and the examination couch, there was a coffee table with a couple of easy chairs. Smale moved away from the desk and the men stood for a moment, looking at each other, before taking the seats.

‘I recognized you,’ Smale said, ‘from the meetings. You came with your parents.’ A pause. ‘You were Dennis’s golden boy.’

‘Until I lost my faith and got cast away.’ Venn kept his voice light. He thought this was an odd way to start an interview about a murder. ‘Are you still a member?’ Venn thought it unlikely. How could a doctor, a scientist, believe in the Rapture and the end of days? When the chosen few would be saved and the rest would be cast out.

‘I still go to meetings,’ Smale said, and then, almost to explain the statement, ‘I married into the Brethren. We moved away for me to train, but my wife missed the place, the sense of community, and we have children now. We want them to have the same supported childhood that we enjoyed.’ He smiled. ‘We did have such good times, and there are Barum Brethren nowhere else in the country, after all. It’s a unique experience for our kids.’

So, nothing to do with faith? Everything to do with feeling special, entitled.

‘They see us caring for their grandparents,’ Smale went on, ‘for all our elderly. The girls might make their own choices later, but they’ve grown up with the right values.’

Venn nodded. He too had enjoyed good times in Greystone and he wasn’t here to discuss matters of theology. But he was curious. ‘You live in the village?’

‘Just outside. We’ve got the old rectory at Willington on the way to Morrisham. The girls come to school here and Ruth can see her parents every day.’

‘Greystone is still a stronghold then?’ Venn tried to keep any trace of judgement out of his voice, but he wasn’t sure that he’d succeeded. ‘There are fewer and fewer young people where my mother worships in Barnstaple.’

‘The group is flourishing, actually,’ Smale said. ‘Perhaps there are fewer distractions here than in town. We’re a very close community, very supportive.’

‘It must be hard for outsiders to fit in.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so.’

But Venn thought he heard some doubt in the man’s voice.

Perhaps it wasn’t just the village’s isolation that prevented strangers from choosing to live here, but the locals’ hostility.

There was a moment of silence within the room, which made the noise outside seem even more threatening.

A thought occurred to Venn. ‘Jeremy Rosco, was he a brother?’ It might be one explanation for the man’s choice of Greystone as a place to wait for his visitor.

Smale shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. He never attended meetings while he was here.’

‘Any other connection to the place?’

‘I never had a conversation with him. I’m not a regular in the pub and that was the place where most people got to speak to him.’

‘But you might hear the gossip going around. A doctor’s waiting room, people chat.’

Smale smiled. ‘Not to me, Inspector. When they get in here, they’re only interested in their ailments and what I can do to make them better. You’d be better talking to Rebecca. She’s the person on the front line.’

‘Rebecca’s your receptionist?’

He nodded. ‘That’s right.’

‘And a knitter … ’

He smiled. ‘There’s a child in the village with a serious illness. Some of the community believe he has a better chance of a cure if they can get him to the States. The village is fundraising.’

‘You’re not convinced?’

He shrugged. ‘The boy has a rare genetic condition. Jasper Lineham’s Disease. His mother understands that her son is most likely to die in his teens, but the family is still hoping for a miracle. I suppose we believe what we have to believe to survive.’ A pause. Venn wondered if the last statement was as much about the man’s own faith as the boy’s family. ‘There’s a doctor in Illinois who’s researching a form of gene therapy, and claims he might have a cure. There’s been no peer review, and he’s charging a fortune for the treatment. I think the mother knows in her heart that it’s probably a con, but she’s clinging to that glimmer of hope. The grandfather certainly is. He’s the leading force behind the fundraising.’ He looked at Venn. ‘I don’t feel I can disillusion them.’

Venn wanted to suggest that honesty might be more helpful, but he remained silent. He got to his feet. He’d expected more from the interview, perhaps because of their previous connection, and he was disappointed. ‘I’ll have a quick word with Rebecca then?’

‘Sure,’ Smale said. ‘Then I’m going to shut up shop while I can still get home.’

There was an awkward moment before they parted, as if some gesture might be required, a brief hug perhaps, because they had been friends, but there was a divide between them.

They’d made different choices. Matthew straightened, and moved to the door. He didn’t regret his choice at all.

In the empty waiting room, Rebecca was sitting back in her chair and stretching her legs out in front of her. She was still knitting.

‘Shouldn’t you be on maternity leave?’

‘Nah,’ she said. ‘Not for another three weeks. I’m just enormous. I see pregnancy as a licence to eat cake.’

‘I’m here about Jeremy Rosco.’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘It’s all that anybody’s talking about.’

‘And what are they saying?’

‘That his mysterious visitor finally turned up and killed him.’

She had brown eyes and a smattering of freckles over her nose and cheeks. Straight brown hair cut in a long fringe.

‘I don’t suppose anyone saw the mysterious stranger?’

She gave a little giggle. ‘Not that I’ve heard.’

‘And surely you would have heard?’

‘Probably. I hear all sorts in here. People don’t really notice me. I’m a part of the place, like the public health posters and the no smoking signs.’

‘What were they saying about Rosco before he died?’

She sat up and leaned forward across the desk, as far forward as the belly allowed. ‘That he was a lovely chap. Friendly. He stood his round in the Maiden’s and that went down well with the old boys. Lots of speculation about what he was doing here.’

‘What conclusion did people come to?’

She giggled again. There was something of the schoolgirl about her. ‘Everything from the possibility that he was planning to set up a business here – a hotel or a fish restaurant or a sailing school – to the fact that he was tracing long-lost family in the area. I don’t think there was anything concrete behind any of the theories.’

‘And the mysterious stranger?’

‘Oh, even more ideas about that. Some said it would be a wealthy business partner, others a childhood sweetheart, previously lost to him. Dead romantic, that one.’

‘And you?’ Venn asked. ‘What did you think was more likely?’

She shrugged. ‘I didn’t believe any of them. They were just stories. And the wind makes people a bit crazy this time of the year. You’ve only got to look in the school playground, the kids tearing around like mad things. They were just wild imaginings.’

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Some provider offers are subject to change and may have restrictions.\u003c/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e*Terms and conditions:\u0026nbsp;\u003c/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTo qualify, you must book a “Flight Package Trip” (meaning, a trip which includes a flight and at least one of a hotel stay or rental car booked together) through the package booking option of the AARP Travel Center powered by Expedia (\u003cu\u003e\u003ca href\u003d\"http://www.expedia-aarp.com/\" title\u003d\"AARP Travel Center powered by Expedia\" data-overlay-msg\u003d\"AARP.Everywhere.LeavingModal.drawOverlay(this,\u0027\u0027,/content/dam/content-fragments/aarp-org/en/dbr/offers/Travel/Flights-Vacation-Packages/aarp-travel-center-powered-by-expedia-vacation-packages/aarp-travel-center-powered-by-expedia-vacation-packages-disclosure.html,\u0027\u0027,\u0027You are now leaving AARP.org and going to a website that is not operated by AARP. 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Come back again to check out all of the AARP Member Benefits and unlock the full power of membership.","howto_redeem_label":"How to Access","ty_interstitialDesc":"Come back again to check out all of the AARP Member Benefits and unlock the full power of membership.","ty_cancelText":"Cancel","ty_interstitialTitle":"Thanks for visiting aarp.org!","lto_daysleft":"Days Left","provider_logo_title":"AARP Travel Center Powered by Expedia logo","geoloc_hide_see_more_button":"false","geoloc_provider_link_cta":"","offer_page_path":"/benefits-discounts/all/aarp-travel-center-powered-by-expedia-vacation-packages/","redemption_content":"","show_phone_number_above_cta":"","restrictions_label":"Disclosures","show_state_availability":"","state_availability_text":"SEE AVAILABILITY IN YOUR STATE","hideRestrictionsTab":"","ltos":[]},"parentOfferJson":{}}]}
MEMBERS ONLY

Shopping & Groceries

Walmart+

$20 off a Walmart+ annual membership

Learn More

See more Shopping & Groceries offers >

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Health & Wellness

AARP® Staying Sharp®

Activities, recipes, challenges and more with full access to AARP Staying Sharp®

Learn More

See more Health & Wellness offers >

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