The Ghosts of Blackbottle Rock Page 3

  A hot, sick feeling washed through his insides. It was him. It had to be.

  Who r u?

  Nemesis

  Who is Nemesis?

  Someone who knows

  How do u no who I am?

  I am very clever, Charlie

  How do u no I’m in trouble?

  Charlie hastily deleted that – just stopping himself from sending it in time.

  Problem? Dont no what yr talking abt

  You will

  Sod off. We’ve called the police!!!!!!!!

  To his amazement, that did it. Nemesis vanished from the screen. Charlie was still feeling nauseous with fear, but that hasty retreat lifted his spirits a little. The Creep was rattled! Now, Charlie thought, maybe he was gaining the upper hand, and all he had to do was—

  Beep!

  Nemesis was back.

  Charlie had been in the middle of googling the name. The first result he clicked on said it was from Greek mythology.

  It was a term used to describe one’s worst enemy.

  Swallowing hard, he clicked on the message.

  I’m coming…

  four

  The knock at the door made Charlie jump even though he had been expecting it – and even though he could see the dark uniforms of the police officers through the frosted glass rather than the short, neat outline of the Creep. Dad opened the door and ushered them in. One was a young woman with blonde hair tied in a short ponytail. She was pretty, and had a very friendly face, which Charlie at least found reassuring. The other one was quite short for a policeman, though powerfully built, with broad shoulders and a rugged face like a boxer’s. That one seemed surprisingly old for a policeman. He had taken his hat off on entering the room, revealing short-cropped, thick grey hair and that sort of wrinkling and sagging under the chin and around the neck that older people have. After greeting the officers, Dad invited them upstairs to where Sue was waiting, and they duly followed as Charlie and his dad led the way.

  ‘I’m PC Retallick, and this is my colleague WPC Hill,’ announced the older man as they settled themselves on the settee. ‘I’ve got to say that I’m more than a bit mystified by the call we got. You think a stalker is bothering your son?’

  ‘Not exactly a stalker…’ Dad tried to explain about what Charlie had seen from his window, and the ominous message.

  ‘So your son is the stalker!’

  The policewoman laughed, and PC Retallick obviously thought he was being clever. Charlie fumed inwardly.

  ‘Steve!’ admonished WPC Hill. ‘You saw something that worried you, Charlie?’

  Once again, he went through the story of the Creep ripping a page out of the old book and hiding the rug that looked like it had a body in it.

  ‘Henry Penhale hid a dead body inside his shop?’ asked Retallick incredulously.

  So, he had a proper name. Henry Penhale sounded a lot less dangerous than Nemesis. But it also meant that they knew the Creep. He might have guessed. They were probably best pals in a small place like this. There was no way these two jokers were going to believe his story. ‘Not his shop.’ How hard could this be to understand? ‘A storeroom at the back.’

  ‘And you think seeing him tear a page out of something and carrying a rug – if that’s what you saw…’

  Charlie wanted to yell OF COURSE THAT’S WHAT I SAW! But there was no point.

  ‘…proves that Henry Penhale –’ he exchanged grins with WPC Hill – ‘is some sort of murderer?’

  ‘He knows it doesn’t prove it,’ Sue interjected politely but firmly on Charlie’s behalf.

  ‘As soon as he saw me watching, he gave me a horrible look like someone caught out and came straight here – to this house,’ Charlie explained.

  ‘Did he come inside?’ asked the young woman.

  ‘Well, no…’

  ‘Was there anything suspicious about his behaviour? Did he try to barge in, make any threats?’

  ‘No… But then he contacted me on the internet. He said he was coming to get me!’

  ‘He used his own name?’ asked PC Retallick.

  Charlie hadn’t developed such an intense dislike even for Sue as quickly as he had for this prat. ‘No! No one does. He used a screen name.’

  ‘Then how do you know it was him, love?’ Hill asked sympathetically.

  ‘It had to be. It happened right after he caught me watching him, and he knew all about me and the fact that I was in danger.’

  The two officers swapped glances once more. ‘I’m going to have to be straight with you,’ said Retallick. ‘We can’t go accusing people on that basis. It’s not that I don’t believe the lad, but it’s just not grounds for accusing anyone of anything – especially serious crimes. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do. We’re parked down on the quay, and we’ll pop in and have a chat with Henry. We won’t mention your lad’s name or identify him in any way, obviously.’

  ‘He’ll still know!’ said Charlie.

  ‘Well, do you want us to talk to him or not?’ The policeman’s sharpness betraying his irritation.

  ‘Yes. Please just have a word,’ Charlie’s dad said. He turned to Charlie. ‘At least then he’ll know the police are aware of…the situation, and that might be enough.’

  ‘Spot on!’ said Retallick. He jumped to his feet and snapped his notebook shut seemingly eager to leave.

  Charlie folded his arms disconsolately and didn’t get up to see them off. WPC Hill was the last out of the door, and she paused momentarily after the others had gone.

  ‘You did the right thing, Charlie. If you really believed he might be up to no good, you’re right to speak out. If we were Scotland Yard we’d probably have the facilities and the tech to track down who sent the message, but…’

  Charlie managed a smile. ‘I know. Thanks anyway.’

  As soon as they had gone downstairs, he rushed in the opposite direction – up past his own bedroom and on to the wooden steps leading to the attic. Up there was a window which offered, if you craned your neck a bit, a narrow view of the front of the Beachcomber.

  The Creep – Henry Penhale – was there, rearranging the beachwear, toys and souvenirs in baskets outside the shop. Like watching a film without the sound, Charlie observed as Retallick and Hill approach him. They shook hands, all smiles as if they were old mates, just as he’d imagined. The conversation lasted all of two minutes, with lots of ‘Sorry-but-got-to-look-as-though-we’re-doing-our-job’ body language from the PC Retallick. They obviously didn’t even ask to see the storeroom. The three parted company laughing – no doubt Retallick was cracking a joke about the daft kid in the holiday cottage.

  And for the first time, a wave of doubt did sweep over Charlie. What if he was wrong? He had never seen Penhale laugh before and now he had, he looked, well, normal. Charlie had expected him to react shiftily, defensively. If he was guilty, he was a good actor.

  Charlie heard the sound of an incoming message on his laptop downstairs and he felt his skin tingle coldly. He shot down the steps as fast as he could and checked the screen.

  Nemesis

  But Henry Penhale was still outside his shop – wasn’t he?

  Charlie scrambled up the steps once more. There he was. Sorting, tidying. Not a care in the world. Back to the laptop.

  Nemesis

  Charlie stared at the screen. Nemesis wasn’t the Creep!

  He clicked on the message.

  Sorry about the last message from my friend. He’s a bit of a fruitcake. But he was kind of right. We do know you have a problem, and we can help. Contact me, not Mohan if you’re interested. Wei-Li.

  So Nemesis could still be Penhale – but this person was calling Nemesis ‘Mohan’, which sounded like an Indian name, so Charlie felt sure he had got it wrong. He figured he would be the one who had cause to feel sorry before too long – if he admitted to his dad and Sue that he had at least half the story wrong, that was. And if he had got the Nemesis part wrong, what was to say he wasn’t mistaken about what the
Creep was up to? His thoughts whirled like clothes in a washing machine. Wei-Li sounded Chinese. But how could a Chinese person be the sister of an Indian one? Was Wei-Li a way of signing off, like Bye for now? Maybe, but he figured it was probably a name. Female, probably – and someone who somehow knew about his ‘problem’. Had they seen Penhale up to something too? And if Wei-Li and her friend Mohan were suspicious about the Creep, might it mean there really was something to it?

  How do you know about all this? How did you find me?

  Many locals know the truth, but they refuse to face up to it. Mohan traced you – he’s good at hacking and stuff. (Sorry!)

  How can you help?

  We are members of an organisation that has experience in these matters. Can’t say more here. Need to talk face to face.

  How would I find you?

  Look out of your window.

  What?

  We can see you

  Charlie felt a tingle on the back of his neck and became suspicious again. They were watching him the way he had been watching Henry Penhale? He didn’t like the sound of this. Could it be a trap – Henry Penhale had an accomplice? It seemed unlikely. In all the TV shows and films, serial killers and other crazy creeps were always loners. Another message from Wei-Li came through.

  Get your bins and look towards Fowey for a light going off and on

  Bins? Ah! Binoculars. Bloody hell, they could see right into his room! Charlie instinctively looked around for some kind of hidden camera.

  HOW DO YOU KNOW ABOUT MY BINS??!!

  We have a powerful telescope and we’ve seen you using them. Look near the church for the light in the window

  Charlie had noticed the church. It was one of the most prominent things on the Fowey side, and actually seemed like a peculiar cross between a church and a castle – an ordinary church tower surrounded by what looked like battlements.

  Once he had trained his binoculars on the area around the church, he did indeed see a light flashing off and on inside one of the rooms of the ‘castle’ part of the church.

  You are in the castle?

  Not a castle! Treffry House. Can you come?

  Now?

  Yes. You can’t tackle this alone, and every minute that passes places you in greater danger.

  Charlie wished they hadn’t said that. It brought back the shivers, and the evil expression on Penhale’s face when he had realised Charlie was spying on him. And if Nemesis and Wei-Li really were part of some sort of major crime organisation, like maybe MI5 or Special Branch or something (and didn’t they have to be to own a massive place like that?) then that was just what he needed. He’d like to see the local country bumpkin cops’ faces when his new friends arrived flashing their MI5 badges.

  It could be some sort of ambush, but it didn’t feel like it and Charlie needed answers.

  I’ll get the next ferry.

  five

  It was early evening, and Charlie had an hour before dinner to make the five-minute trip across the river, meet the mysterious people who had been watching him and Penhale, and get back. He surprised by how quickly Polruan had become almost deserted now the shops had closed. His footsteps echoed off the walls of the cottages as he made his way along narrow East Street, and it seemed he had the village to himself.

  But not quite.

  He saw a little, wiry man opening the door of a house in the distance. Charlie instantly recognised the figure and the furtive way he seemed to do everything, including the anxious glance up the street before entering. Charlie instinctively froze – but he didn’t sense he’d been spotted.

  So now he knew where Henry Penhale lived. Charlie slowed his pace right down as he got closer to the old house. It was not painted white or some pastel colour like its neighbours. It was a shabby, grey stone building, and looked as though it had been there forever. Above the door was a weather-beaten wooden nameplate with faded lettering: Rosebud.

  There was no still one about, so Charlie risked loitering there for a moment. The narrowness of the street meant that the houses were in almost perpetual darkness on the ground floor – but no light had come on in the living room, so maybe he had gone into the back or upstairs. And now, as he peered inside, it seemed that this perhaps wasn’t the Creep’s house after all. Apart from the furniture, there were no personal belongings inside or any other signs of habitation. And now he saw that there was a card in the window – something about holiday cottages and who to contact to rent it out. What was Penhale doing in an empty holiday home? And why hadn’t he turned any lights on?

  Then, Charlie did see a light – but it wasn’t an ordinary room light. What had caught his eye was a yellow flickering and flitting against the glass of an attic window jutting out of the grey slate roof above. Penhale was lurking about with a torch in there.

  Charlie sank back into the shadows of a gap between two houses. He had no way of knowing whether Penhale was looking out into the street. It was so quiet that Charlie could now actually hear the man moving about the attic room – the faint clump of footsteps on bare wooden floorboards. It was all very strange, but frustrating. He wasn’t likely to discover anything by standing outside, and didn’t want to get caught when Penhale emerged. And he had an appointment with Wei-Li. Reluctantly, he turned his back on Rosebud to resume his short walk to the ferry.

  And that was when it all kicked off.

  The scream was the most obvious thing, but then came the face.

  The way it happened was first, a strangled cry: a mixture of shock and fear, barely human – but Charlie knew it belonged to Penhale. The thin beam of a torchlight arced wildly, followed by a clatter as if it had been dropped to the floor. Then running footsteps on echoing floorboards. Then a face at the window. A face that did not belong to Henry Penhale. A face that seemed barely human.

  It shimmered in the glass like a projection or reflection for a moment, and then was gone – but the image stayed burned in Charlie’s mind. A bearded man wearing a peaked cap that cast a shadow over his eyes but didn’t hide them completely. They smouldered like the embers of a fire and Charlie caught, just for an instant, the glowering malevolence behind them.

  It felt as if his skin was crawling with insects, and he wanted to run but was fixed to the spot. Even when he knew the face had gone, even when he heard the Creep running down the stairs and making for the front door, Charlie couldn’t move, couldn’t even think.

  Henry Penhale came tumbling out of the house, slamming the door behind him. He lurched up East Street with the stiff gait of someone not used to running. Charlie heard him utter a little whimper as he went. The only good thing was that the Creep had been in far too much of a state to notice him.

  His heart was still racing, but seeing Penhale disappear somehow broke the spell. Charlie took a last look at the attic window. Dark, plain, ordinary. As if nothing had ever happened.

  But it had.

  A face from a TV screen inside the room? A reflection from the opposite side of the street? It had looked somehow distorted: not just with rage, but physically rippling. It was an old house – maybe the small panes of glass were uneven like ones he’d seen in ancient stately homes. Maybe there was another explanation…

  Then, something brushed against the back his leg. Charlie spun round and his involuntary cry reverberated along the street. A black cat slunk away, pausing to glance back at him through disdainful green eyes before disappearing down an alleyway. Charlie cursed it under his breath and hurried to the ferry.

  As the boat backed away from quay, the sun was merging with the hills that surrounded the estuary. Soft low rays illuminated the river, and the glooping and slopping sounds the water made against the sides of the little orange ferry were strangely comforting. It was another world entirely to the dark and bizarre one Charlie had just left behind on East Street.

  After that performance, he couldn’t wait to see what these two strangers had to say about Henry Penhale. For all he knew, he might even be safely under the protective
wing of two MI5 officers. He just hoped it was Wei-Li he would have to deal with, rather than Nemesis. Okay, his name was really Mohan. Charlie knew a Mohan, an Indian lad at school who was nice and quiet. But there was something about the whole Nemesis thing that had left him harbouring a deep distrust and suspicion of this man, whoever he was.

  The ferry picked a path between moored boats – mostly little ones, but a few impressive larger yachts swung at anchor here and there. They passed a cormorant perched on a huge buoy, spreading its wings out to dry in the last rays of the sun, and the man sitting next to him – the only other passenger – whipped out his phone to snap it. On Charlie’s left, the river mouth opened out to the sea: a flat, dark expanse today blending into the darkening blue of the far horizon. It almost invited you to head out and explore it, and Charlie could understand why sailors in the old days couldn’t resist the temptation to do just that. He already knew this was a trip the older Polruan kids made every day to a school in Fowey, and he thought of his own dreary bus-ride and wondered if they realised how lucky they were.

  Within a few minutes, they had reached the Fowey landing. The old ferryman skilfully guided the boat until it gently bumped against the stone steps, then slipped from his seat at the steering wheel and deftly threaded the thick mooring rope through a metal ring on the harbour. He hauled on it with all his might to bring the vessel tight against the steps.

  Charlie stood up early to be first off. Copying some of the locals he had noticed on previous trips, he nipped up the steps inside the boat and hopped across to dry land even while the ferryman was finishing securing the boat. He emerged at the top of the steps on the Town Quay. Fowey was quite a bit bigger than Polruan, and was still peppered with tourists and noisy seagulls looking for opportunities to steal chips and ice cream cones. Charlie had walked past the churchyard before, so he knew the direction to take from here. Within seconds, he had emerged into the tight and twisty main road, which ran through Fowey.

  When the shops were open there usually seemed to be a throng like a crowd leaving a football match, spilling off the tiny pavements and into the road. Cars and delivery vans had to nose their way carefully through the ambling tourists with their cameras, babies in pushchairs, and carrier bags full of purchases. But now in the twilight it was much quieter, and Charlie was soon outside the church. The problem was where to go from here.