“Has anyone mentioned your . . . mentioned Peter at uni?”
“Not really. I’ve told my mates, and they’ve been okay. It’s all right, Mum. I’m happy. Really happy. I just want to tell you everything. How are things with you? How’s the case going?”
Kate told him that she had to go over and meet Joanna’s childhood friend, Marnie, but she felt no closer to understanding the case.
“Just think. The longer it takes you to solve it, the longer they pay you!”
“That’s what Tristan’s sister said.”
“She’s not happy he’s gone part time at the uni?”
“No. And she’s having trouble with the whole caravan-site thing. She didn’t love the fact that me and Tris repainted the toilet block ourselves a couple of weeks back.”
“That reminds me. I’ve hired three local women to come and do the weekly changeovers, starting this weekend. If they’re good, I’m hoping they’ll do the season,” said Jake.
“Well done,” said Kate. She’d put the running of the caravan site to the back of her head now that Jake was home. The changeovers happened each week on Saturday between ten a.m. and two p.m., when one lot of guests left and the caravans were cleaned and the beds changed before the next group arrived. They’d taken a lot of bookings over the last week, which was good news, and the summer season would be starting the week after next.
“They’re nice ladies. Local. A mother and daughter and their friend. They live in Ashdean and can all drive over together,” said Jake. “It’ll give me time to do more diving trips at the weekends.”
It took a little of the pressure off Kate’s shoulders, knowing that the site would be up and running and money would be coming in.
“Brrr. I’m starting to get cold. I’ll race you back.” Jake lurched forward and started swimming back to shore.
“Hey, you got a head start!” said Kate.
“You better start swimming, then!” he shouted back with a grin. “Last one home makes breakfast!”
Kate thought of all the years when Jake had lived with her parents and she couldn’t make him breakfast. She hung back a little and then started swimming after him to shore.
21
Bella Jones was woken just after eight by her dog, Callie, licking her hand, and the thump of her tail on the bedclothes. Bella lived near the village of Buckfastleigh, in a tumbledown mauve-colored cottage.
They followed the same routine every morning. Bella rolled out of bed, dressed, and took Callie out before either of them had any breakfast. Bella’s small cottage backed onto the eastern side of the Dartmoor National Park, and this was her route onto the moor each morning. As soon as the gate was open, Callie ran out, sniffing the air after the storm.
It had rained heavily, and the soggy moorland had almost made Bella turn back, but Callie had the new scents kicked up by the storm in her nose, and she ran off toward the colossal fallen tree on the Roman road.
Bella had lived in this part of Devon all her life, and the ancient hornbeam tree had remained a constant on the landscape for the past sixty years. Today, however, it looked like a giant who’d keeled over and died.
“Oh, bloody hell,” said Bella, shocked and saddened to see the tree had fallen.
Callie ran ahead barking and stopped beside the wide hole left by the ripped-up roots. It was her angry, scared bark, which came out at a loud, yippy register.
It took a minute for Bella to reach Callie. The hole left by the tree roots was more than three meters across, very deep, and half-filled with rainwater. The root structure poked out from a muddy wall on the other side, stretching as many meters high and blocking out the light. Callie barked and shifted on her paws at the edge of the hole, causing large chunks of wet earth and grass to fall away and land with a splash in the muddy water.
“Heel; back!” said Bella, stepping away from the crumbling edge and seeing that Callie was dislodging the earth underneath her paws.
Bella managed to hook the end of her walking stick under Callie’s collar, but Callie kept snarling and barking into the hole, and the hackles were up on the buttery-yellow fur on her back.
“It’s just a tree,” said Bella, understanding that seeing it from this bizarre new perspective might be a first for her beloved dog. The wall of wet earth and twisted roots looked alien to Bella too. There had been many times on their regular walks where Callie had seen something out of the ordinary and barked; most recently, a black bin liner caught on the edge of a barbed wire gate had floated, billowing full of air, in the breeze, like a mysterious hunched-over figure in a black cape.