Bea thought about this. She didn’t like to dismiss anything out of hand, but McNulty appeared to be reaching, his own enthusiasm for surfing taking him into an area that bore no relevance to the case in hand. She said, “All right. So. The poster at LiquidEarth was misidentified by Jago Reeth. Where do we go with that?”
“To the fact that he doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” McNulty proclaimed.
“Just because he’s misidentified a poster he likely didn’t mount on the wall in the first place?”
“He’s blowing smoke,” McNulty said. “Mark Foo’s last ride is part of surfing history. Jay Moriarty’s wipeout is the same. Someone green to the sport might not know who he was and what happened to him. But a longtime surfer…? Someone who says he’s hung round the scene for decades…? Someone who says he’s been all over the world following waves…? He’s going to know. And this bloke Reeth didn’t. And now we’ve got his car near the spot where Santo Kerne fell. I say he’s our man.”
Bea thought about this. McNulty was borderline incompetent as a detective, it was true. He would spend his life at the Casvelyn police station, never rising above the level of sergeant and even that advancement would come only if he was extremely lucky and Collins died with his boots on. But there were times when out of the mouths of babes and just as much out of the mouths of the bungling dribbled the truth. She didn’t want to overlook that possibility just because most of the time she wanted to smack the constable on the side of his head.
She said to Sergeant Collins, “What’ve we got on the prints from the Kerne boy’s car? Are Jago Reeth’s among them?”
Collins consulted a document, which he unearthed from a pile on Bea’s desk. The boy’s prints were everywhere on the car, as one would expect, he said. William Mendick’s were on the exterior: on the driver’s side. Madlyn Angarrack’s were nearly everywhere Santo’s were: interior, exterior, inside the glove compartment, on the CDs. Others belonged to Dellen and Ben Kerne, and still others remained to be identified: from the CD and the boot of the car.
“On the climbing equipment?”
Collins shook his head. “Most of those aren’t any good. Smears, largely. We’ve got a clear one of Santo’s and a partial that hasn’t been identified. But that’s the limit.”
“Mush,” she said. “Cold porridge. Nothing.” They were back to those cars from the vicinity of the fall. She spoke more meditatively than directly to anyone present, saying, “We know the boy met Madlyn Angarrack for sex at Sea Dreams, so that takes care of Jago Reeth’s access to his car, prints or not. I’ll give you that, Constable. We know the boy got his surfboard from LiquidEarth, so there you’ve got Lewis Angarrack. For that matter, as he was dating Madlyn Angarrack, he would’ve been at her home one time or another. So Dad could’ve picked up the knowledge of the climbing kit there as well.”
“There’d be others, though, wouldn’t there?” Havers asked. She was looking at the china board where DS Collins was working on activities. “Anyone who knew the kid-his mates and even his own family, yes?-probably knew where he kept his kit. And wouldn’t they have easier access?”
“Easier access but perhaps less motive.”
“No one stands to gain from his death? The sister? Her boyfriend?” Havers turned from the china board and seemed to read something on Bea’s face because she added deferentially, “Devil’s advocate, Guv. Seems like we don’t want to slam any doors.”
“There’s Adventures Unlimited,” Bea noted.
“Family business,” Havers pointed out. “Always a nice motive.”
“Except they haven’t opened yet.”
“Someone wanting to throw a spanner in, then? Stop them from opening? A rival?”
Bea shook her head. “Nothing’s as strong as the sex angle, Barbara.”
“So far,” Havers noted.
THE VILLAGE OF ZENNOR was bleak at the best of times, a situation arising from its location-tucked into a protective fold of otherwise windswept land perhaps one half mile from the sea-and from its monochromatic appearance, which was unadorned granite occasionally graced by the oddity of a desiccated palm tree. At the worst of times, defined by foul weather, gloom, or the dead of night, it was sinister, surrounded by fields from which boulders erupted like curses rained down by an angry god. It hadn’t changed in one hundred years and likely wouldn’t change in another one hundred. Its past sprang from mining and its present relied on tourism, but there was little enough of that even at the height of summer, as no beach close by was easy to get to and the only attraction even remotely likely to draw the curious into the village was the church. Unless one counted the Tinner’s Arms, of course, and what that pub could provide in the way of food and drink.
The size of the car park of this establishment did suggest that, in the summer at least, a fair amount of business occurred. Lynley parked there and went inside to enquire about the mermaid’s chair. When he approached the publican, Lynley found him working a sudoku puzzle. He held up a hand in that universal give-me-a-moment gesture, jotted a number in one of the puzzle’s boxes, frowned, and rubbed it out. When he finally allowed himself to be questioned, he removed the possessive from the chair Lynley was seeking.
“Mermaids not being much inclined to sit, if you think about it,” the publican said.
Thus Lynley learned it was the Mermaid Chair he was looking for, and he would find it in Zennor Church. This structure sat not far from the pub, as indeed, nothing in Zennor sat far from the pub since the village consisted of two streets, a lane, and a path winding past an odoriferous dairy farm and leading to the cliffs above the sea. The church had been built some centuries earlier on a modest hillock overlooking most of this.
It was unlocked, as most churches tended to be in the Cornish countryside. Within, silence defined the place, as did the scent of musty stones. Colour came from the kneeling cushions, which lined up precisely at the base of the pews, and from the stained-glass window of the crucifixion above the altar.
The Mermaid Chair was apparently the church’s main feature, for it had been established in a special spot in the side chapel, and above it hung a sign of explanation, which gave an account of how a symbol of Aphrodite had been appropriated by the Christians of the Middle Ages to symbolise the two natures of Christ, as man and as God. It was a reach as far as Lynley was concerned, but he reckoned the Christians of the Middle Ages had had their work cut out for them in this part of the world.
The chair was simple and looked more like a one-person pew than an actual chair. It was formed from ancient oak and it featured carvings of the eponymous sea creature holding a quince in one hand and a comb in the other. No one, however, was sitting upon it waiting for Lynley.
There was nothing for it but to wait himself, so Lynley took a place in the pew closest to the chair. It was frigid in the building and completely silent.
At this point in his life, Lynley didn’t like churches. He didn’t like the intimations of mortality suggested by their graveyards, and he desired more than anything not to be reminded of mortality at all. Beyond that, he didn’t count himself a believer in anything other than chance and man’s regular inhumanity to man. To him, both churches and the religions they represented made promises they failed to keep: It was easy to guarantee eternal bliss after death since no one came back to report on the outcome of life lived in rigorous acceptance not only of the moral strictures devised by man but also of the horrors man wrought upon his fellows.
He hadn’t been waiting long when he heard the clank of the church door opening and slamming shut with a disregard for things prayerful. He rose at this and left the pew. A tall figure was striding purposefully forward in the dim light. He walked with vigor, and only when he came into the side chapel did Lynley see him clearly, in a broad shaft of illumination that fell from one of the church’s windows.