Free Palmer-Jones 05 - Sea Fever by Ann Cleeves

abandoned hamlet the lane turned again towards the sea. Like a green scar in the bare hillside, a valley cut through the granite to the coast. Porthkennan was the name of the valley and the scattering of houses which had been built in its shelter. There was no real village, no pub, but a forest of vegetation—trees, shrubs, and large exotic flowers—which seemed to overwhelm the houses. Even in winter the place was lush and green. In the valley the light and heat seemed trapped and intensified. If it had been daytime, Claire Bingham would have seen the whitewashed walls of the houses, dark green leaves, shining blackberries, overblown roses, all with a startling clarity. Even now, in the car, they were aware of the stillness and the trees all around them. It was like driving into the jungle.
    The vegetation was richest near the stream which followed the valley to a small cove. There the water trickled through smooth boulders as big as a child, and across shingle and sand to the waves.
    Louis Rosco’s cottage was almost on the beach, as lifeless from the outside as one of the miners’ cottages on the moor. It had no main electricity, and the water was collected from the roof in a tank. The fishermen in Heanor wondered how he could bear to live there.
    Rose Pengelly’s place was much grander. Myrtle Cottage was near the head of the valley. Once a small farmhouse and two cottages had stood on the site, but the house had been converted by a previous owner. It was long, predominantly single-storeyed. It faced the sea. Behind it the stream flowed through the garden, and by its side was the barn which Rose had turned into hostel accommodation for birdwatchers.
    They waited for the police in the living room in a state of numb exhaustion. Rose made coffee for them, but Rob Earl produced a bottle of whisky, and they drank that instead. When they did speak, it was not about Greg Franks but about the new bird. Molly was unsure whether this burst of excited conversation was a way of avoiding the subject of Greg’s death, or whether they were so obsessed with the petrel that nothing else, not even murder, was so important. Roger wanted to begin investigations into the identification of the petrel immediately. The person to contact was Jauanin in Paris, he said. He’d done all that magnificent work on Leach’s petrel. If there were any stray unconfirmed records of a large red-footed petrel, he’d know about it. They had to persuade Pym that it might be inconsiderate to telephone so late at night, but still he continued with his plans. They’d have to check all the museums, he said. Many of them, he knew, had piles of unidentified skins, collected by Victorian naturalists. It would take a long time, but they would have to check them all. And then, he said, when all the research was done and they were quite sure, they would have to think of a name for the bird.
    When Claire Bingham and Berry arrived at the cottage, it was midnight. There was the sharp smell of elderberry. They could hear the shallow running water of the stream behind the house. There was still no moon. Claire knocked at the door gently, remembering that there was a baby in the house, knowing that there is nothing more annoying than to have coaxed a child to sleep only to have it wakened by a thoughtless visitor. It was opened by the dark woman, the mother of the child.
    “Mrs. Pengelly?” Claire asked, and Rose motioned her into the living room, where they were all sitting. The inspector saw then that her instinct had been wrong, and she would get little out of them that night. The animation that had inspired the discussion about the petrel had faded. They were blank and listless. Some of them had been drinking. There was a bottle of whisky on a small table and empty glasses on windowsills, chair arms, the floor. There was, it seemed, little grief. Rather she felt a communal and overwhelming tiredness. She asked them to introduce themselves, and as they gave their