Blood and Stone (11 page)

All along, once the idea for this trip had crystallized, Mariner had never been naïve enough to think that things wouldn't be different here. His purpose, he'd told himself, was to revisit the places that had been important to him as a young man. But at the back of his mind had lain the possibility that he might also encounter some old friends along the way. Now it all seemed like a big mistake. Never in his life had he allowed himself to wallow in nostalgia or return to the past, so why was he breaking that rule now? He couldn't imagine for a minute why he'd thought that it would help him to deal with the pain of losing Anna.

In all probability the complex would have been bought up many years ago by a couple of ex-London stockbrokers living out their rural idyll, and he'd be about as welcome as Judas at a disciples' reunion.

For the second time that afternoon Mariner was forced to realistically consider his options, the most sensible of which was to cut his losses and continue on through the village to the next climber's hut. It was about five miles away, but he would just about make it before dark, and would be passing through a couple of villages along the way, where, if he felt like it, he could succumb to a cosy B&B instead. He'd half turned and was about to double back the way he'd come, when she appeared from behind the house and Mariner's heart bounced in his chest. Slender and willowy, dressed in a grey Fair Isle sweater, jeans and boots, she exuded the air of casual chic that he remembered so well. Hard to imagine that this vision of femininity could competently handle a twelve-bore and skin a rabbit without flinching. Her thick raven-black hair was cut to her shoulders now and threaded through with grey. But it was her all right. Sensing his presence she looked up suddenly, green eyes framed with dark lashes, and saw him watching her.

‘Hello?' She looked wary.

‘Hello,' Mariner croaked, his voice catching. He cleared his throat. ‘I see that the hostel isn't open any more but wondered if there would be any chance of staying the night. I'm prepared to rough it.'

Straightening, she frowned with suspicion. ‘Why on earth would you want to do that?'

‘Sentimental reasons,' he said, testing her out.

She was studying him curiously. ‘Do I know you?'

‘You did once. How good's your memory?'

For several moments she said nothing, and when she did at last speak, it was with amused incredulity. ‘Tom? Tom Mariner?'

‘Hey, I'm impressed.' Mariner tapped the side of his head. ‘Not much wrong with your little grey cells.'

‘My God,' she looked stunned. ‘How long has it been?'

‘Too long. Twenty-five years?'

‘Nearer thirty,' she corrected him. ‘You took your time coming back.'

Mariner laughed. ‘I can't quite believe you're still here.'

And finally she broke into a wide smile and came towards him. After a brief, awkward hug, they stood for a moment, uncertain of what to do. Too much like strangers after all this time, the past intimacies a distant memory.

‘You've hardly changed,' Mariner said, lamely.

She pushed her hair back off her face, suddenly self-conscious. ‘Me? You're kidding aren't you? I'm falling apart at the seams – hair going white, reading glasses. But y
ou
look exactly the same,' she said. ‘And still carrying your home on your back.'

‘Yeah, although at my age I'm not sure that it's a positive thing.'

‘I might have to agree with you about that. Well you'd better come in.' She tilted her head towards the house. ‘We've got some catching up to do.'

Mariner hesitated. ‘This isn't an intrusion?'

‘Bit late for that, isn't it? What were you planning to do – show up after all these years, say hello and then bugger off again?'

‘Not exactly, no.'

‘Well then, get your backside in here.' She disappeared into the house, so Mariner followed.

‘It looks different,' was his first comment, walking into the light, airy kitchen, with its sleek oak cupboards and stainless-steel appliances, though the farmhouse table and Aga were still there.

Elena went to the sink and filled the kettle. ‘What? You think I wouldn't have altered anything in all this time? We don't live in a time warp out here you know. We even have central heating now, though admittedly that was put in by the last owners.'

Mariner took off his rucksack, stowing it by the door, and pulled out a chair, scraping it over the stone flags. ‘So you haven't always lived here?'

Elena leaned back on the counter, shaking her head. ‘When I got married I moved to the town, and then Dad got to the point where he needed to go into a nursing home and this place was too isolated for him.'

‘God, your dad.' Mariner remembered the hefty farm worker with his great bellow of a voice. ‘He was scary.'

‘Not at the end he wasn't. He got dementia; had to be cared for like a toddler.'

‘I'm sorry. Do you think he ever knew about us?'

‘Of course he did,' she grinned. ‘And he'd have never let you get away with it if he hadn't liked you. As a matter of fact he used to ask after you from time to time. I think he was disappointed you didn't stick around.' She fixed him with a pointed gaze.

Even after all this time Mariner felt bad about it and had to look away, feigning an interest in the rest of the room. ‘I was too young,' he said eventually, aware of how inadequate that sounded. ‘I'd have been no good to you. Hadn't a clue what I was going to do with myself.' It occurred to him that not much had changed on that front either.

‘Don't worry.' Her voice was devoid of rancour. ‘I got over it – you.'

Mariner took the proffered mug of tea from her and watched her pull out the chair opposite him and sit down, resting her elbows on the table, the mug balanced between her fingers. ‘So you're married,' he said, observing that she wore an engagement ring on her right hand.

‘
Was
,' she said, emphatically.

‘Anyone I know?'

She shook her head. ‘He was a waste of space, except I didn't realize it until after the kids were born.' A tabby had wandered into the kitchen and came over to rub itself against her chair; she reached down to stroke it. ‘When he gave me a divorce I wasn't sure what to do, but this place was back on the market and going for a song. Dad was gone and had left me some money, so I bought them out. I'm looking to run it as a B&B eventually, though as you can see, there's a bit of work to do yet.'

‘I was sure the place would have been bought up by townies,' Mariner said.

‘Oh, it was to begin with. When the YHA sold it, back in the late Eighties, it was to a couple who decided after about six months that they couldn't hack it in the country. But we still get our fair share of ex-bankers and city types; plenty of holiday properties round and about. The difference is that they tend to be a bit quicker with their renovations. Rex and I are doing this place up bit by bit and we're pretty strapped most of the time, so we have to rely on local lads moonlighting and doing it as a favour. It's going to take forever.'

‘Rex?'

‘My partner.'

So there was someone. Mariner had always assumed it would be so, but nonetheless he felt an irrational pang of disappointment. He hoped it didn't show. ‘And your kids?' he asked.

‘My son Gethyn went away on a gap year and hasn't come back yet; he's in Australia at the moment, so it's just me and Cerys, my eleven-year-old.' She looked up at him. ‘What about you? Married? Kids?'

‘No on both counts, though I've come close.' It hurt to say it.

She studied him. ‘Hmm, that doesn't really surprise me. You always were pretty contained. So what have you been doing with yourself? You had some nutty idea about joining the police when you were here, though I could never quite see it.'

For the second time that day Mariner half wished he'd brought his warrant card. Instead he gave a mock salute. ‘Detective Inspector Tom Mariner,' he said, ‘at your service.'

‘God, well that's put me in my place, hasn't it? Good thing I never went in for astrology.'

‘No future in it,' Mariner said, unable to resist. ‘And you?'

‘Oh I've never really settled to anything much. Aside from doing up this place I work part time doing a bit of counselling in the town; bereavement, that kind of thing. I got into it after Dad … you know. But whatever else my ex might have been, he's always had a good job and been pretty consistent with the child support, so I've no room for complaint there.'

Tyres rumbled over gravel out in the yard, a car door slammed shut and moments later a young girl came in, with long black hair and wide green eyes. No mistaking her heritage. ‘Hi Mum …' Seeing Mariner, she broke off.

‘Cerys, this is Tom, an old friend of mine.'

‘Hello Cerys.'

‘Hello.' She barely gave him a glance before dropping her school bag and heading straight for the fridge.

‘Not too much now,' warned Elena, in what seemed to be a comfortable routine. ‘You'll be having your tea soon.' The response was a mere grunt and the girl took her snacks and left the kitchen, her departure swiftly followed by the unmistakable burbling of a TV set.

‘So how would you feel about me staying here tonight, in the hostel I mean, for old times' sake?' Mariner asked.

‘Well on principle I've no objection, but you should know that the place is as derelict as it looks. We haven't even got round to fixing all the holes in the roof yet, so some of the rooms are uninhabitable, but we can probably find you a bed somewhere that's more or less dry.'

‘I'll pay you,' Mariner said. ‘And of course you'll get your reward in heaven.'

‘Yeah, if only I believed all that crap.'

‘What, you don't go to chapel any more?' Mariner pretended to be shocked. Sunday attendance had, as he remembered, been imperative.

‘Not since I found out the Reverend Aubrey had been making improper advances to several youngsters in the village, no.'

‘You're kidding.'

‘Not the kind of thing I joke about,' she said. ‘That said I'm not sure how true it was; you know how rumours can spread.'

‘Was he charged?'

‘Nah, it never got that far. I think he claimed that there had been some misunderstandings and he was believed. I didn't know that much about it at the time. It was back in the days before the clergy had developed their reputation, so even if there was something in it, it would have been much harder to make a case.'

‘Did he ever try anything with you?' Mariner asked.

She smiled. ‘Luckily, I didn't have the right equipment. I think his preference was for little boys.'

‘So what happened to him?'

‘Nothing much. By the time all this emerged he was pretty close to retirement anyway and he still lives up the valley, away from the village though and pretty isolated. You'll have seen his cottage as you came down off the tops. He lives quietly and doesn't bother anyone.'

Mariner drained his mug and replaced it on the table.

‘What have you done to your hand?' she asked, seeing the gash torn by the bramble.

‘Argument with a thorny branch,' Mariner said. ‘It's fine, though I wish I'd had my ID with me,' Mariner said, obliging her. ‘I might have challenged that re-routing of the footpath next to the estate.'

‘Ah, so you've found the battle line. That thin strand of razor wire is the only thing that's keeping the residents of Abbey Farm and Gwennol Hall from tearing each other to pieces.'

‘And here was me thinking it was all peace and loveliness out here. So what's the difference of opinion?'

‘Not so much a difference of opinion, more an ideological gulf,' said Elena.

‘Ah, the humble farmer taking on the landed gentry.'

‘Not quite; capitalist baron versus liberal leftie is more like it.'

‘Let me guess. The capitalist is the one with the guard dogs. That doesn't seem like batty Lord Milford's style.'

‘Oh, Lord Milford's long gone. The old man passed on about ten years ago and since then the estate's fallen into Russian hands.'

‘Isn't it the tradition normally to hand over to the son and heir?' Mariner queried.

‘Unfortunately in this case the son and heir was a bit of a waster. Long before he died the old man tried to get him to take over the running of the estate, but it didn't really work out.'

‘That sounds like a deliberate understatement.'

‘You could say that. The young Viscount was more concerned with enjoying himself than running the estate. There was a half-hearted attempt to do it up and open it to the public for a while, and he even tried to promote it as a venue for weddings.'

‘It had a certain shabby charm to it, as I remember,' Mariner said.

‘Maybe, but out here there was never going to be enough passing trade to make it work. The next moneymaking venture was to sell off some of the tied cottages in the village to raise some cash.'

‘I bet that went down well,' Mariner said, sardonically.

‘Oh yes. They were sold as holiday lets, so the families living in them at the time had about six months' notice.'

‘That smells of desperation.'

‘I think while the old man was still alive he felt compelled to try and make a go of it for his father's sake, but it was all just for show. As soon as Lord Milford passed away it went up for sale. So now we have our very own Russian oligarch, known locally as the Czar, mainly because his name is pretty much unpronounceable.'

Mariner laughed. ‘That's a bit rich coming from a bunch of people who don't believe in the use of vowels. So what dodgy dealings has he been involved in to make his money?'

‘To be honest, I don't know. Cerys could probably tell you more than I can. Her best friend's mum works for him as a cleaner.'