Laura Marlin Mysteries 1: Dead Man's Cove eBook Page 6

  ‘Is Tariq their only child?’ prompted Laura before Mrs Crabtree could get started on the virtues of the Mukhtars’ vegetables.

  ‘Well now, that’s just it,’ said Mrs Crabtree, resuming her pruning. ‘He’s not, is he?’

  Laura stared at her. ‘Not what?’

  ‘Not their child.’

  ‘So he’s adopted?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know the ins and outs of that, only that he’s the son of her sister who died. He came all the way from India, must have been nine months ago, looking even more emaciated than he does now, all rough and ready and not speaking English. That’s why Mrs Mukhtar has to take time away from her manicures to teach him at home. But from day one Tariq always had impeccable manners. Such a nice boy.’

  Laura’s mind was whirling. Tariq’s mum was dead and he was alone in the world. He’d been brought to a strange place, to live with strangers. That’s why he looked so lost. That’s why she felt so drawn to him. They were the same.

  ‘There’s one thing I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘If the Mukhtars are so respected in St Ives, why are you telling me I should be worried about Mr Mukhtar? Don’t you trust him?’

  Mrs Crabtree tossed the shears into a nearby bucket and removed her pink gloves. ‘To be truthful, I’m not a fan of either of the Mukhtars even if they do sell the best produce in town. Well, it’s that poor, sad boy, isn’t it? He’s a reflection of the things that aren’t being said. He’s a reflection of what’s going on behind closed doors.’

  Mrs Crabtree had done no more than confirm Laura’s suspicions about Mr Mukhtar, but she thought it wise to avoid antagonising the man unnecessarily. For the remainder of that third week in St Ives she stayed away from the North Star, because each time she ventured anywhere near it, Mr Mukhtar seemed to be in residence. From her sheltered position on the balcony of the holiday flats opposite, Laura could make out his shadowed bulk through the salt-speckled window of the store. The slim frame of Tariq appeared only rarely.

  Once, she’d disturbed two seagulls and Mr Mukhtar had been alerted by their screams. Without warning, he’d pressed his face flat against the window and stared menacingly in her direction. Laura was well-hidden, but her heart had skipped a beat. It was as if he could see through concrete. She glared at the departing birds. She’d been joking when she’d asked Mrs Crabtree if she had seagulls spying for her, but it wasn’t such a far-fetched idea. It was uncanny how much her neighbour seemed to know.

  But, Laura told herself, Mrs Crabtree didn’t know everything. She hadn’t known about ‘J’, for instance, although her ears had pricked up when Laura asked her if she’d ever heard of anyone with the initial ‘J’ living at, or visiting number 28 while Calvin Redfern had been in residence.

  ‘Is there some mystery about this person? Ooh, I do love an intrigue,’ she’d said. Laura had been saved from answering by the arrival of Mrs Crabtree’s sister. She planned to heed her neighbour’s advice and continue to be wary of Mr Mukhtar, but she had no intention of staying away from Tariq. Not now she knew he was alone in the world except for the Mukhtars. Not now she was even more certain he needed a friend.

  But there was to be no repeat of their afternoon at the Island and splashing in the surf of Porthgwidden Beach. As winter gave way to spring in St Ives, Mrs Mukhtar never again offered to mind the store so that Tariq and Laura could enjoy the sunshine. Mostly Laura just hung around in the cool half-light of the North Star as Tariq served customers or stacked shelves.

  If there were people in the store, she’d sit quietly to one side of the counter until they were gone. But the tourists had not yet arrived with their surfboards and broods of children clamouring for Cornish pasties and ice-creams, and much of the time business was slow. Those were the afternoons Laura loved best. She’d tell Tariq stories about Sylvan Meadows, or complain about that Kevin Rutledge. When she read aloud to him from her Matt Walker books, Tariq became completely entranced.

  Sometimes she wondered how much he took in. She found it peculiar that he seemed to understand English but could not speak a word beyond her name or the occasional hello. Not that it bothered her. To her, the most important thing was that, as she read to him or chatted about her day, the tension seemed to melt from his thin shoulders. What’s more, she could feel the same thing happening to her. Their friendship might have been an unconventional one, but it made her smile. She felt a bond with Tariq. For the first time in her life, she had a best friend.

  Often she had the feeling that he was bursting to talk to her. He’d open his mouth and appear to be on the verge of saying something, but he’d always clamp it closed again. The shutters in his amber eyes would descend once more. He’d be standing right in front of her, but she could tell that he’d mentally retreated, like a sea creature withdrawing into its shell.

  If it weren’t for Mr and Mrs Mukhtar, who were constantly checking up on Tariq like two circling guard dogs scenting danger, thereby restricting Laura’s visits to once or twice a week, life would have been close to perfect.

  One afternoon, Laura was helping Tariq unpack some boxes of vegetables and thinking how exhausted he looked, as if he hadn’t slept for days, when his sleeve slipped back and she saw purple bruises on his arm.

  ‘Tariq, what happened?’ she cried. ‘Who did that? Did somebody hit you?’ Instantly she thought of Mr Mukhtar. If he could strike Tariq for helping to stop a dog fight, what else might he be capable of?

  Tariq leapt to his feet and shook his head vigorously. He pointed at the stairs at the back of the shop, which led up to the Mukhtars’ living quarters - an area into which Laura had never been invited - and performed a funny mime of falling down the steps.

  Laura didn’t believe him, but she could hardly call him a liar. She was trying to decide what to say or do next when Mrs Mukhtar wafted in on a cloud of perfume. Judging by the shopping bags, she’d been on a spree. Her gold bangles jingled as she pointed at the vegetables on the store floor and said: ‘Tariq, my boy, you are not on holiday now. Your father is on his way. I suggest you say goodbye to your friend and get this mess cleaned up before he arrives.’

  She gave Laura one of her special white smiles that never quite reached her eyes. ‘So nice to see you again, Laura,’ she cooed. ‘I hope it’s not too long before you can visit us again. Our best to Mrs Webb. Safe trip home.’

  9

  LAURA STEWED ABOUT the incident all evening and the whole of the next day. She was convinced it was Mr Mukhtar who’d inflicted the terrible bruises on Tariq. Probably beaten him for not making enough progress in his English lessons. ‘Lazy and obstinate,’ he’d called his son.

  The son who wasn’t really his son.

  She was tempted to tell her uncle what had happened, but without proof what was the point? Added to which, if she was wrong, if Tariq had fallen down the stairs the way he’d tumbled from the ladder, the consequences of accusing his father of beating him could be catastrophic. Besides, Calvin Redfern barely knew the Mukhtars. When Laura had mentioned she’d become friends with the boy whose parents ran the North Star, he’d looked blank until she explained it was the corner store on Back Road West. At that point, he’d ruffled her hair and said: ‘I’m proud of how quickly you’ve settled in here,’ and Laura had felt a warm glow spread through her because she’d never had anyone tell her they were proud of her before.

  That warm glow had now gone. It had been replaced by a slightly sick feeling that came over Laura whenever she thought about the bruises on Tariq’s arm. Had Mrs Mukhtar spotted them? ‘Safe trip home,’ she’d said in a way that made it sound like a threat. ‘Give our best to Mrs Webb.’ Laura had no intention of doing anything of the kind.

  What a glamorous woman like Mrs Mukhtar could possibly have in common with the sullen, pug-like Mrs Webb mystified her. She supposed the shopkeeper and his wife made it a practice to speak glowingly of every customer who spent large sums of money in their store.

  On Friday morning, midway through a maths lesson, La
ura made a decision. If Tariq’s adoptive parents were hurting him, she would report it to the police or social services, or call a child helpline or something. But first, she would go to the North Star and attempt to get the truth out of Tariq. The previous evening, she’d searched her Matt Walker books for tips on the art of interviewing people who refused to talk - usually because they were afraid of the consequences. The trick, it seemed, was to be kind, casual and a bit vague and to start off by asking questions the person would be comfortable answering, such as: ‘What colour is your cat?’ Only when they’d dropped their guard could you move on to the real interrogation.

  Unfortunately, Matt Walker had never had to interview an eleven-year-old boy who couldn’t speak English and, if he had, would have used a translator. Laura was going to have to manage on her own.

  That afternoon, shortly after she’d watched Mr Mukhtar set off down Fish Street, this time without his parcel, Laura walked into the North Star. To her surprise, there was no one behind the counter. She stood for a moment allowing her eyes to adjust to the dim light and breathing in the now familiar smell of spices, citrus, vegetables and bread. Mr Mukhtar’s aftershave lingered in the air.

  ‘Tariq?’ When there was no response, Laura raised her voice: ‘Tariq, are you there?’

  There was a creaking of bones and Mr Mukhtar rose from behind the counter like some sea monster from the deep. Laura realised with a shock that he’d been waiting for her. That he must have gone down Fish Street, circled the block and come in through the back entrance of the North Star with the sole intention of trapping her.

  ‘Regrettably, my son is not here,’ he informed her pleasantly. ‘What is it you want with him?’

  ‘I, umm . . . I wanted to talk to him,’ stammered Laura.

  Mr Mukhtar put his plump hands side by side on the counter and affected a mournful expression. ‘I’m afraid, Laura, I have a message for you from my son. He doesn’t want to talk to you. Not today. Not at any time in the future.’

  Laura was stunned. ‘I don’t believe you. Where is Tariq? What have you done with him? I want to speak to him.’

  Mr Mukhtar gave a theatrical sigh. ‘I wish I were lying, my dear. It pains me to have to tell you that Tariq has been most insistent in this matter. He simply doesn’t wish to see you any more.’

  ‘Why?’ demanded Laura.

  ‘Why?’ Mr Mukhtar clapped his forehead. ‘Because he finds you boring. Very boring. He tells me that day after day he has had to listen to you going on and on and on about your background and your school and he can’t stand it any more. He has tried to be polite - he’s such a courteous boy, my son - but enough is enough.’

  Laura felt as if it the blood was being drained from her limbs by a giant suction pump. She had no idea how she was still standing. Still listening. Every word was like a thousand paper cuts.

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ she said again, trying her hardest to keep her voice steady. ‘You can’t stand the thought of him having a friend, of having fun. You want him to spend every afternoon slaving away in your stupid store. Free labour is what he is,’ she added, remembering Mrs Crabtree’s phrase.

  Mr Mukhtar’s hands clenched on the counter. The veins on his neck writhed like earthworms. If a man hadn’t come in to buy a lottery ticket right at that second, Laura was sure the storekeeper would have strangled her without a qualm.

  By the time the customer left the shop, throwing them a puzzled glance as he went, the shopkeeper had recovered his composure. ‘You’re a very persistent girl, Laura Marlin, with a very interesting name,’ he said smoothly. ‘Do you know that in my younger days, I used to hunt blue marlin off the coast of Madagascar in deep-sea fishing boats? Quite a fight those great fish put up, but we always killed them in the end.’

  He barked an order in the direction of the stairs and there were footsteps on the wooden floorboards overhead. There was a short delay and then Tariq came into the store. Laura swallowed. Her friend had been transformed. Gone were the faded cast-offs. In their place was a fine, steel-grey Nehru suit, with a crisp white shirt underneath. His hair had been beautifully cut and he wore an exotic silver ring on one finger. He gave Laura a cool, confident stare.

  ‘Tariq, my son, I have done my best but Laura is refusing to take no for an answer,’ said Mr Mukhtar. ‘I was just telling her that you’ve been bored to tears by her stories and have no wish to ever see her again. Is this true?’

  Tariq stared at Laura as though she was a stranger he would cross the street to avoid. He said something to Mr Mukhtar in Hindi. They both laughed. Mr Mukhtar put an arm around his adopted son’s shoulders. ‘You’re certain?’

  Tariq rolled his eyes.

  ‘Boys will be boys,’ Mr Mukhtar said indulgently. ‘Goodbye, my dear Miss Marlin. I am most apologetic you’ve had a wasted journey. Please to give my very best to Mrs Webb.’

  Laura walked from the store with her head held high, but as soon as she rounded the corner tears started to stream down her face. She couldn’t stop shaking. She took the long way home, via Fore Street, the cobbled lane that cut through the heart of St Ives, because she didn’t want Mrs Webb to see her crying. If she stayed out long enough, the housekeeper would have gone home. Half way along the street, she stopped to buy some pink coconut fudge. She needed the sugar rush. Without it, she was afraid she’d never make it up the steep hill home. She’d simply dissolve on the cobbles and all that would be left of her was a puddle.

  The woman in the fudge shop insisted on giving her six squares of coconut ice for free. ‘You look as if you need it, love,’ she said, handing Laura a tissue. ‘Whatever’s making you feel like the world has ended, it’ll pass. You won’t believe me now but some time soon you’ll feel happy again.’

  She was right. Laura didn’t believe her.

  Out on the street, people stared at Laura in a concerned, tut-tutting way, and one or two tried to ask if she was all right. She stumbled past them without a word, forcing down fudge. She was blind to the bakeries piled high with saffron buns and Cornish pasties, the garish surfwear, and the galleries hung with paintings of the sea and town. Deaf to the rush and the noise.

  Already a numb resignation was stealing through her limbs. The boy she’d come to care for enormously in the month she’d known him thought her a bore. All those afternoons when she’d read to him and chatted to him, overjoyed to have made a friend, he’d been wishing she would go away and leave him in peace. But that wasn’t what hurt the most. The most wounding thing was that he hadn’t had the decency to tell her himself. He’d sent Mr Mukhtar.

  If she hadn’t known better, she’d have thought her silent friend, the magical boy in raggedy clothes whose touch had soothed the savage dogs, had been replaced by an evil twin. A twin in designer clothes.

  She felt lost, empty and like the world’s biggest fool.

  Where the street divided, she took the right hand fork up the hill towards the Barbara Hepworth museum. She was passing a clothes shop when she suddenly had the uneasy feeling she was being watched, and not because she was upset. She turned around quickly. It was starting to rain and there was no one on the side road, so Laura dismissed it as her imagination. Then a flicker of movement caught her eye.

  In the shadows of the clothing store doorway was a wolf. That was Laura’s first thought, that a wolf was watching her. He had intense, hypnotic eyes of the palest, Arctic ocean hue. Their navy blue pupils were ringed with black. Taped to the glass door beside him was a poster that read: HOME DESPERATELY WANTED FOR TWO-YEAR-OLD SIBERIAN HUSKY.

  Far from being dejected at his plight, the husky was surveying the street with eyes that blazed with a proud fire. Laura couldn’t decide whether he looked regal or wild or both. In spite of her misery, she felt compelled to go over to him. He watched her approach with a focus that was disturbing. Nervously, she put a hand out to stroke him, first allowing him to sniff her.

  ‘Go ahead. He won’t bite,’ called the shopkeeper, who was dealing with a customer.
‘His name is Skye.’

  Laura’s hand sank into the deep, soft fur of the husky. His small pointed ears were thick with it. He was a wolf-grey darkening to black around his head, shoulders and back, and white around his eyes, nose and belly. His mouth curved upwards at the corners, as if he were smiling. He stood up. It was only then that Laura saw he was missing his right front leg. A wiggly line of silver fur showed the scar of where it had once been. She wondered if the reason his owner wanted to get rid of him was because he was no longer perfect.

  ‘You’d be perfect to me,’ she told Skye. ‘With a dog like you, I wouldn’t need a human friend. With a dog like you I could do anything.’