Out of the Night by Dan Latus Read Free Book Online Page B

thing or two about this coast, and its fish and currents.
    I travelled on to Boulby, where the four hundred foot cliffs are the highest England has to offer. Down below, just above the beach, there had once been an alum works there, too, and later iron-ore mining had taken place. All gone now, but the fish were there still, as they were to the south, in the deep, kelp-filled pools where a man brave enough to risk the tides could get a good catch of big winter cod. Jimmy had told me that, too.
    Just a little further south again you got to my backyard, and then you came to Port Holland. It wasn’t far. I reached it while the light was still good. The village was well-dug into the cliff, snug against the harsh wind and the threat of more sleet.
    I descended a rough path to the beach and poked around for a half hour. There were a few cobles pulled up onto the shingle by the fishermen’s huts. The ruined harbour, I could see, had been partially repaired in order to accommodate the magnificent pleasure craft that bobbed up and down against the repaired jetty. It was a big one. Jimmy had been rightabout all of this, too. Money had been spent here recently to accommodate a rich man’s plaything.
    I didn’t stay long. By the time I had climbed back up the cliff path, the light was fading fast and the weather was even more threatening. I drove home thoughtfully, making a point of going round by Meridion House, a mile or so out of Port Holland. The car I saw entering the ornate gateway reminded me of another car I had seen recently. The same colour, at least. Blue. I didn’t have a chance to read the licence plate before it accelerated up the curving drive and out of sight behind a screen of ancient Scots pine.
     
    Back at Risky Point I took stock. What did I have? Any new insights?
    Nothing concrete, but I did have a few more thoughts and questions.
    First, why would anyone wanting rid of three bodies dump them on the beach at Port Holland? There were so many better places within easy reach, places where they were unlikely to be discovered. Deep, kelp-filled pools would do the job nicely, especially when there were big, fat winter cod around.
    One possibility was that they were put on the beach deliberately – with considerable effort – to serve as a punishment or a warning to local people, or a local person. Perhaps even to one who owned a big, swanky boat?
    Another possibility was that they hadn’t been put there at all. They had simply ended up there.
    As for my nocturnal visitor, I still didn’t know for sure if she was connected to all of that. What I did have was thethought that one of the many fishermen’s huts dotted and clustered around old jetties and derelict harbours wouldn’t be a bad place to hide away if you were on the run. For that matter, there were plenty of cottages in Port Holland itself where she might have found refuge, perhaps with people sympathetic to her plight.
    Then again, Bill Peart might well be right. In fact, he probably was. If so, she had long since departed the area. Somehow she must have. That was the most likely option when you worked through the possibilities. I just didn’t believe it, not for one moment. Instinct, hunch, if you like, but if she was gone now, her presence in the first place would have been too much of a coincidence. I didn’t believe in coincidence.
    I got up to make myself a sandwich to tide me over until I cooked something later on, after I’d been to see Jimmy. But that didn’t work out. I couldn’t find the bread. A new loaf, as well. At least, I thought I’d got one out of the freezer. I must be getting delusional, I decided. Probably from living so close to Jimmy.
    I shook my head, got another loaf out of the freezer and stuffed it in the microwave. What would we do without modern gadgetry? Starve, probably. Or live like Jimmy Mack. Although he seemed to manage pretty well.
    While I waited for the bread to defrost, my mind went back to the car I’d seen