Aleksey had been up close and personal with drainage channels many times in his previous existence. They never improved upon acquaintance, and the resurfacing of those memories now unsettled him.
It was very cold in this little warehouse shed. Huge blocks of ice were stacked along the back wall. A lad was hacking at one with a pickaxe and collecting the shards he made in a bucket, presumably for packing the boxes. Large fans were blowing cold air from the ice stack towards the work bench.
Aleksey was trying to spot anyone who could be Penrose. He must have been at least sixteen in 1964, or he would not have been employed by Trinity House. More likely eighteen. So he’d now be in his seventies. It was hard to tell the age of some of those present as they were all wearing matching coveralls, hair nets and hats. They all appeared small and prematurely wizened to him, something he had once noted about Plymothians, but found even truer when now confronted by these Cornish fisher folk.
The large door, which was on rollers, suddenly slammed shut behind him, and he heard a click from the other side which sounded like a lock being secured. He whirled around. Ben stepped in front of him. The woman clicked off the phone and shouted something in Cornish over the sound of the fans. The workers broke off from their gutting and began to form a semi-circle, confronting them. They had not put down their knives. The boy with the pickaxe narrowed his eyes thoughtfully as he used his foot to pull the sharp end out of the ice.
Aleksey put a hand on Ben’s shoulder to prevent something untoward occurring, and stood beside him. ‘I’m looking for a man called Oily Penrose. I just want to talk to him.’
The master of the Glaswyn Mor who’d brought them there was selecting from an array of cleavers. ‘Aye. You said. And I asked you what you want ‘im for, and you didn’t have the courtesy to give me a reply. But that’s your style, seems. You picked the wrong ‘un to ask today. Your luck’s just run out, my lover.’
‘I do not know any of you people. I have never seen any of you before. I just want to ask the old man some questions. I am looking for someone called Billy. I want to thank him for a service he did for me, and I think he might need my help now. I believe Oily might be able to tell me more of Billy’s history. That is all.’
‘Oh, aye? Different story each time you ask, ain’t it?’
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘Ah, that’s more like it. All your politeness gone now.’ He ran his thumb along the edge of the weapon he’d selected and nodded approvingly. The arc of boning knives was slowly edging forwards towards them. Ten versus two, good odds, and Ben was sparking, tense, ready. But Aleksey didn’t want this. There seemed no need for any of it. He held up his hands, placating, a universal gesture to calm things down, but one possibly confused by the teddy bear in his hand, and one of the younger men mistook the meaning—or was like Ben, on fire and ready for a fight—for he lunged forwards. Ben moved so fast it was like the acceleration in the Bentley. He wasn’t two and a half tons, but he dwarfed these Scilly fishermen, and would have probably taken out all ten without Aleksey having to lift a finger—if not for the slimy entrails. The floor was like an ice rink. The workers were in rubber slaughterhouse boots. Ben wasn’t, and as soon as he lunged forwards his feet shot out from under him. He went down, felled hard. He almost bounced up, he was India rubber and indomitable, but the lad who’d gone for him took his opportunity and kicked him in the obvious place, and the killing boots were steel-capped.
He was about to kick him again, but something pressed against his throat and his eyes widened.
Aleksey had switched toy for sword. It spoke an entirely different message, and one that was not confusing at all.
Its lethality winked under the florescent lights, its metal edge humming with desire.
Everyone took a step back, then another. Aleksey pressed the tip against the boy’s Adam’s apple. The young man instinctively swallowed and the bob drew a trickle of blood which dribbled down his throat. The sword, as Phillipa had claimed, was razor edged.
Ben was curled up on the floor groaning audibly. Aleksey toed him, never taking his eyes off his captive. One move and he would swing, and the boy read this in his eyes. He had never beheaded anyone before, although he had seen it done many times, and that knowledge was shared between them.
Ben grunted he was okay, but he wasn’t attempting to rise yet.
‘Drop the knives.’
They all did, including this young man who had the widest eyes Aleksey had ever stared into.
‘What the fucking hell are you doing? Put that down! Now!’
He didn’t. He kept his gaze riveted on the terrified face and ignored the woman who had slammed open a pedestrian door at the rear. Morwenna Eames. Why wasn’t he surprised at her involvement?
Because Ben was curled on the floor in fish guts, and because once more one of his favourite Ben-parts had been targeted, and just because he could, Aleksey swung the sword with all his might—not at his captive’s throat, but at one of the ropes holding a shark, and the blade sliced through the hemp like a proverbial hot knife through butter. The hook fell with a deafening clang to the concrete floor; the shark dislodged and slithered away as if alive and glad to be free. The point of the steel was back at the pale, bobbing throat before the boy could take advantage of the respite and retreat.
‘I want to know what the fuck this is about. All I want to do is find a man called Billy. What is he to you? Why are you all protecting him?’
Morwenna came forwards. She put her hands onto two of the arms of the milling workers, calming them, stilling them. ‘We’ve all told you. We don’t know any Billy. Stop the pretence. We know what you really want.’
Aleksey frowned. ‘I just want the location of a man called Oily who used to work the lighthouse on La Luz so he can tell me more about Billy’s history and possibly his current whereabouts. Why is this such a problem for you?’
‘You’re a liar! We know you’re lying. We know who you are! You killed Spanner’s dad! Put the sword down. There’s no need for any more killing.’
‘No.’ To emphasis his point, he nicked the boy’s ear, and it began to drip. The lad closed his eyes, swallowing rapidly, tears forming and beginning to spill.
Morwenna came a little more forwards, glancing at Ben who was pulling himself to his feet. His face was ashen. He suddenly turned and vomited.
Aleksey didn’t take his eyes from the boy but shouted, ‘You fuckers!’ and slashed the sword over another rope and another hook crashed down. ‘I haven’t killedanyone! That you would know.’
‘You liar! You’ve been here for months since you bought our island! Pretending to be this one day and that another day! Off a foreign trawler, my fricking arse you are! Writing a bloody book? Do you think we’re all dumb?—oh, you know the bloody Cornish, all thick as pasties. We knew who you were the first day you arrived. You and your thugs and those savage hounds with you. We know what you’re doing and we’re going to stop you! These are our islands, not yours!’
‘What the fucking hell are you talking about you stupid woman?’
