‘He’s just over six foot.’
It could have been the same man. But why would he be hiding out here if he’d booked a B-and-B? Maybe he didn’t have any money and thought these cabins were empty so decided to use one. Another thought hits me. Could this be the person who attacked me on the night of Ralph’s death?
‘If he was here he was probably just passing through,’ says Samuel. ‘I’ve been so close the odd time over the years but he’s elusive. It’s almost,’ he glances down at his feet and looks slightly ashamed, ‘as if he doesn’t want to be found. I wasn’t the best brother to him, in the end.’
He reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. ‘I also have this. This was taken on the same day and was the last time we saw each other, twenty years ago now. It isn’t such a good photo of him, though.’ He hands it to me. It’s crumpled, and this time the man is sitting alone on an old stone wall, sadness in his eyes. He has a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. I don’t recognize him at all. I’m about to return the photograph when I notice something about the man’s face. I peer more closely.
‘What’s that there?’ I ask, pointing to something dark and puckered on the left cheek. It wasn’t apparent in the first photo because of the way the man was standing.
‘Oh, that. Yes, he got into a fight a few years before. It’s a scar. It was pretty nasty too – he could have lost his eye.’
A scar.
‘What’s your brother’s name?’ I ask. I don’t know how it links together but this could be important.
‘John-Paul,’ he says. ‘His name is John-Paul Molina.’
42
Jenna
I’ve only been back to the cabin for ten minutes when there is a knock at the door. I open it, expecting it to be Samuel again, but Dale is standing there. His hair is tousled and he smiles at me, his warm hazel eyes softening, and my stomach does a strange little dance. Urgh, Jenna, don’t even go there, I tell myself. I know it’s just a reaction to my pride being hurt by Gavin and our conversation last night, the finality in his words. And, anyway, Madame Tovey’s words are still playing on my mind. Everyone is lying.
I resist smiling back. ‘Dale,’ I say crisply. ‘Everything okay?’
Confusion flickers on his face. ‘I wanted to check on you after last night. First the dead birds. And then the mix-up with the man in the cabin.’
‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘But I saw Olivia this morning.’ I recount what she told me. ‘She said you’d found her at the stones. What had you been doing there? And why didn’t you tell me last night that you’d found her in such a state?’
He folds his arms against the cold. The tip of his nose is red. ‘I was just walking past. Following up a lead. I didn’t tell you last night as I was worried about you and wanted to get to the bottom of who was in the other cabin. You called me, remember. I had just accompanied Olivia to Wesley’s when I received your call.’
‘Olivia thinks she might have been drugged.’
His expression hardens. ‘That’s what I was afraid of. Look, can I come in? It’s freezing out here.’
He must notice my hesitation because he puts up his hands, as though he’s overstepped a mark I didn’t even know I’d drawn. ‘That’s fine. Maybe we should meet somewhere instead.’ I’m giving him mixed messages. One minute ringing him up asking him to help me, the next pushing him away. I’m being ridiculous to believe anything Madame Tovey said. She’s a bloody con artist. Dale has been kind to me, I remind myself. I’ve worked with other detectives on past stories and none of them was as forthcoming at sharing information with me as Dale has been.
‘No, sorry, of course, come in.’ I stand aside to let him into the hallway. He smells of cold air and lemon shampoo. I have to trust him. Who else have I got?
He follows me into the kitchen and perches on one of the bar stools while I make us both a coffee. I pass the milk to Dale, who pours it into his mug. ‘There’s a lot that’s been going on,’ he says. He has a little black notebook in front of him and he flips it open. I move a bit closer on the pretence of reaching for the milk to get a better look at his handwriting, thinking of the note, and almost fall into his lap as I do so. He looks taken aback. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Sorry, I slipped. Just need the milk,’ I garble, my cheeks hot when I return to my stool.
He frowns and passes it to me and I pretend to add it to my coffee, even though I always take it black.
‘I know I’ve been a bit cagey,’ he says regretfully, ‘but I’m working in close contact with my colleagues on the Drugs Squad. They’re investigating county-lines stuff. And for a long time now they’ve been watching Stafferbury.’
I sit up, forgetting about trying to read Dale’s notes. ‘What? This little town?’
‘It’s usually little towns like this,’ he says drily. ‘Not always big cities. There’s a drugs ring here, supplying crack cocaine. Ralph was found with a large supply of drugs in his system and the money we found in his caravan means we think his death might have been drug-related.’
‘You mean he died of drugs and not the blow to the head?’
‘No. It was the blow to the head that killed him. I mean he was being used as a dealer. He was a vulnerable man. An easy target. We don’t know all the details yet but we think he was murdered by another member of the gang.’
I remember what Olivia told me this morning about Wesley coming home with a shoebox and a burner phone. I repeat this to Dale. ‘Do you think he could be involved?’
He takes a deep breath. ‘He’s definitely a person of interest.’
My heart goes out to Olivia. She’s been through so much.
‘Another thing,’ he says, looking down at his little black book. I glance at it again. This time it’s easier to see the handwriting. It doesn’t look like the writing on the notes, which makes me think it’s more likely to have been Olivia who tried to dispose of it in the fire. It still doesn’t make sense, though. If she wrote the note for me to find why would she then dispose of it? She must know I would have taken a photo of it. Unless she didn’t write it herself. But she knows who did?
I tune back in to what Dale is saying, realizing I missed the beginning of his sentence. ‘… received a phone call this morning from the man staying in the cabin opposite. His name is Samuel Molina and he’s here looking for his brother.’
‘Why did he phone you?’
‘Because he had my card from last night. He must have thought I’d be able to help him find his brother.’
I recount my conversation with Samuel this morning and tell him about the photograph. ‘He had a scar. He must have been the man who Olivia said was following her before the accident.’
‘Yes. When Samuel described him to me I did some digging.’ He closes his notebook and reaches into his coat pocket for his mobile. He swipes the screen and shows me a photo of what looks like some kind of lease. He stabs at it with his finger. ‘It’s a copy of a lease agreement signed in 1979 by a Miss Anastacia Rutherford and a Mr John-Paul Molina.’