HELL'S HALF ACRE a gripping murder mystery full of twists (Coffin Cove Mysteries Book 2) Read online

  HELL’S

  HALF

  ACRE

  A gripping murder mystery full of twists

  JACKIE ELLIOTT

  Coffin Cove Mysteries Book 2

  Joffe Books, London

  www.joffebooks.com

  First published in Great Britain in 2021

  © Jackie Elliott

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Jackie Elliott to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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  Cover art by Nick Castle

  ISBN: 978-1-78931-793-0

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Epilogue

  ALSO BY JACKIE ELLIOTT

  FREE KINDLE BOOKS

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  GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH USAGE FOR US READERS

  In memory of Terry South and the stories of the real Hell’s Half Acre.

  Chapter One

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  “Shh, shut up, he’ll hear you.”

  The oldest boy crouched down behind a tree and gestured at the other two to do the same.

  They hunkered down as low as they could go and squinted into the sunlight reflecting off the retreating morning tide.

  All three boys were breathing hard, anticipating the morning’s hunt. They could see their breath billowing white in the chill of the spring morning as they waited.

  The trio had gathered early as planned, slipping out of their respective homes and meeting on the boardwalk.

  They had walked together, not speaking much and keeping their heads down. Nobody took any notice of them. It was quiet at the government dock and the marina. The herring boats had left hours before, and now only early morning dog walkers and the occasional wharf rat — ex-fishermen or oddballs who lived on their boats against all the Coffin Cove Marina rules — hung around, waiting for the coffee shop to open.

  If anyone had paid them any attention, they might have wondered where the three boys were going. Their demeanour suggested a purpose. Their furtive glances indicated that purpose might not be entirely innocent.

  The comrades passed by the boat ramp and took the stone steps down onto the pebbled beach below the cliff. The tide was still out, so they opted to jog along the hard sand until they reached the far end of the bay. A rocky outcrop where the cliff had crumbled marked the edge of the public beach. Beyond that point was a smaller secluded bay, surrounded by clusters of pine trees. Narrow trails disappeared into the woods, but the bay was only accessible from the beach when the tide was out. At the nearest end, driftwood piled up, flung by the winter storms and spring tides to the edge of the forest.

  The boys had scrambled over the grey hunks of timber to find a lookout point.

  They could see the length of the beach, and their prey had emerged from the cover of the trees, causing the youngest boy to squeal with excitement, earning him a glare and a reprimand from the oldest.

  The three observed their prey in silence.

  Silence. They knew all about hunting. The oldest boy had been on a hunt. He knew all about tracking an animal. He’d learned how to be quiet, to remain downwind and out of sight. He’d passed on this information with authority to the other two, who had listened in admiration. The oldest boy had automatically assumed the leader’s role. He had planned the hunt and identified their prey. For several days, they had watched and learned.

  Their prey was amusing himself on the beach, squatting down in rock pools, poking at the seaweed with a stick.

  “Where is it? Give it here.”

  The smallest boy dug into his shorts pocket and pulled out a whistle.

  The leader grabbed it. “Ready?”

  The other two nodded, holding their breath.

  He blew the whistle, shrill and piercing, three long blasts, and then collapsed, stifling giggles.

  “Watch him, watch him, what’s he doing?”

  The prey looked up. He seemed to be waiting. He didn’t move, still knelt down in the tidal pool.

  “Blow it again!”

  The leader did as urged, and the three were rewarded as the prey took off running, almost straight towards them.

  “Heads down!”

  The three hit the ground and waited until the prey’s running feet had passed by.

  “Quick, quick, follow him!”

  The three, experienced in the art of hunting small animals and birds with pellet guns and slingshots, moved as silently as they could, pursuing their largest target ever into the dense trees that bordered the beach.

  This was the furthest they had ever been into this part of the forest. All three had been warned.

  “Stay off Whilley’s land. He’ll shoot first and ask questions later.”

  But the boys were even more fascinated by the overgrown property that jutted out on the rocky end of Coffin Cove beach and stretched right up to the gravel pit. And they had made it their business to casually bully the mysterious Whilley boy who appeared from time to time to pluck starfish from the pools or toss rocks aimlessly into the ocean.

  They had called to him once to play on the beach, as they tried to spear fish with sticks they had sharpened themselves or attempted to knock “shit-hawks” out of the sky with well-aimed pebbles.

  The boy always ignored them and dashed back into the bush.

  Now he had become their plaything, a focus of cruel attention whenever they found him. And the whistle was genius, guaranteed to make him run.

  Trying not to rustle the dry undergrowth, they followed their prey up the hill.

  He was qu
ick, knowing how to navigate around the rotting tree stumps and moss-covered rocks. It was hard for the boys to keep him in sight. They could see by his upright body and lack of hesitation that this was a route that the Whilley boy had run many times before. He didn’t once look down to check his footing.

  They nearly gave up. The three came to a halt at the foot of a steep incline. The Whilley boy was nowhere to be seen. The smallest boy put his hands on his knees and bent his head, taking deep breaths.

  “We lost him!” the leader said. He was mad. “You slowed us down!” he shouted, pointing at the smallest boy, who flushed red. He didn’t want to be left out.

  “Shh!” The middle boy signalled them to be quiet. He pointed upwards, and they saw the Whilley boy running along the top of the ridge above them. He must have circled the incline and doubled back.

  The hunters didn’t have time for that.

  The three scrambled up the bank, the quickest way to get back in the chase. At the top, the trail was flat and open, and the boys could see their prey in the distance. They took off again, eager not to lose him.

  The trail curved to the right and met a gravel road, forming a fork. The boys slowed to a halt. The Whilley boy had disappeared again.

  “Over there!”

  The leader gestured wildly. About a hundred yards in front of them, obscured by tall cedar trees, was the roof of a building.

  This must be where the Whilley boy lived.

  The boys stood stock still. The plan had been to chase their prey. They hadn’t thought what to do if they caught him or got near him. Now they were trespassing.

  “Let’s go back!” the smallest hunter whispered.

  But the leader didn’t want to lose face.

  “Let’s look,” he commanded.

  The three moved along the trail at a slower pace and hid in the undergrowth as much as possible. As they got nearer, they had to scramble over coils of rotting rope, rusty barrels and stacks of wooden pallets half swallowed by brambles.

  The boys followed the trail as it made one last bend to the right, and then they were standing in front of a wooden gate. It had sagged and was half detached from disintegrating wooden posts. From either side of the gate, a badly maintained wooden fence enclosed an overgrown yard. Two old fishing boats sat on blocks, the paint peeling from the hulls, and rusty drums perched precariously on the bows.

  A faded sign attached to the fence read “Whilley’s Net and Twine”.

  “Ma? Ma!”

  The boys, startled at the sound of their prey’s voice, scrambled to get out of view. They could other hear voices. The oldest boy dared to put his head up.

  “Holy shit,” he whispered urgently to the other two, “look at this!”

  A human mountain shuffled out of a run-down cabin behind the boat debris in the yard. The boards of the decayed deck creaked under the weight of this gigantic creature, with matted grey hair hanging over its face.

  “Why are you here?” the Mountain wheezed.

  One boy moved, and a branch creaked.

  The prey looked round, but they were saved by the Mountain, who gestured with a surprisingly bony hand.

  “Go inside.”

  The prey did as he was bid.

  The Mountain shuffled further outside.

  She was covered in a grubby, greying smock that flowed almost to the ground. As she shuffled alarmingly nearer to the boys’ hiding place, they could see swollen ankles and dirty feet.

  She edged nearer the fence.

  Don’t move! The leader looked fiercely at the other two, who crouched as small as they could get in the undergrowth.

  The Mountain stopped just a yard or two away.

  She let out a long rasping sigh, and the boys tensed, expecting to be hauled out of the bushes.

  Instead, she bent down slowly and hitched up the grey smock high enough for the boys to glimpse matching grey hair matted to her crotch.

  Horrified, they watched as she let out a stream of urine that splashed her feet and steamed off the grass.

  This was too much.

  Unable to stand it any longer, the smallest hunter let out a gurgle of revulsion and turned and ran. The other two followed him, not caring how much noise they made. They crashed through the bush, whooping and running until they rounded the corner on the trail and dived into the bush.

  The oldest boy skidded to a halt. The other two bounced into each other and fell to the ground.

  They laughed and rolled in the moss, heady with relief at not being caught.

  “Did you see? She PISSED herself!”

  “And she showed her dirty old ‘C’.”

  Shocked into silence momentarily by the hint of that forbidden word, the three looked at each other and started laughing again.

  The smallest hunter blurted, “Shh . . . stop . . . do you hear that?”

  The oldest boy pulled a face. “I don’t hear noth—” and then he stopped, frozen in fear.

  An eerie cackle, high-pitched, got louder and louder.

  The boys stood up and turned around, wildly looking to see where the noise was coming from.

  “What’s that?” the smallest one asked, near to tears. “Where are we?”

  In their excitement, the three hunters hadn’t noticed where they were. They were in a clearing. Tall fir trees rustled above them. The ground was spongy with moss, and they were surrounded with mounds of old stones, half-covered with brambles, circling them like forest monsters guarding their lair.

  “Where are we?” the smallest boy repeated, his voice rising in panic. “I don’t know this place.”

  The cackling stopped.

  “There . . . it’s nothing,” the oldest boy said, taking charge again. “We just took a wrong turn. The beach must be down there.” He pointed to a trail leading out of the clearing.

  “Come on, don’t be scared. She can’t have followed us. She was too fat.”

  That made them all giggle, the tension broken.

  Then they heard a different noise. Starting softly at first, then louder, a baby was crying.

  Without another word, the three took off running down the trail and further away from the hunt.

  Chapter Two

  Weak sunlight streamed in from the doorway. Walter propped the heavy wooden door open with an empty beer crate.

  “Sunlight is the best disinfectant,” he muttered out loud.

  Even after decades of running the Fat Chicken pub, Walter had never got used to the morning-after yeasty stench of beer splashes on the floor and drips on every table. As the morning sun illuminated the inside, a wall of dust hanging in the stale air became visible, as well as the sticky rings and smudges on the bar top. The light refracted off the glass optics above the bar, making Walter squint as he walked back to his stool and attempted to focus on his laptop screen. He swore softly to himself, moving the screen back and forth. Not that he wanted to see the numbers.

  He wanted a drink.

  Putting off his bookkeeping for another day was a bad move. But the idea of pouring a couple of inches of amber liquid over a few ice cubes and allowing the pleasant buzz to push away any nagging thoughts of bills and debt — well, that was indeed an inviting idea.

  He sighed, adjusted his seat again so the sunshine was no longer obstructing his view and continued to input the totals from the pile of stained paperwork he had pulled out from behind the cash register.

  How long had it been since he last did this? Can’t have been three months, surely?

  But the invoices went back to April. Walter checked the date and saw it was 7 June. That would explain the increased number of calls to his cell phone from 1-800 numbers. Collection agencies. And the rent was due. Past due.

  Walter sighed again.

  Sales were down. Costs were up. Profits had been dwindling for the past five years — now they were non-existent. Walter had no savings left. He gazed around the pub. It hadn’t changed in years. The walls and ceiling were still yellow, even though smoking was bann
ed these days. The booth seats were faded and torn in places. There was no money in the budget for renovations, not even a flat-screen TV to attract a crowd for Sunday afternoon football or the Stanley Cup play-offs.

  Walter had been attending the recent planning meetings. As much as he welcomed a new waterfront development and investments in tourist attractions, he wondered how the Fat Chicken would fare against a smart new bistro or wine bar. Cheryl was an excellent cook and their pub food was popular, but they’d had no competition except the tiny pizza place, and they still couldn’t make it work. He’d voiced his concerns to Cheryl. Naturally optimistic, she’d pointed out that if there were more visitors to Coffin Cove, business was bound to improve.

  “A rising tide lifts all ships,” she’d said and kissed him.

  “I hope we can last until then,” Walter muttered under his breath as he added up the last of the receipts and stared down at the total. In the red again. As he wondered how he was going to break it to Cheryl, he heard her footsteps clicking down the hallway from the kitchen. Bruno, their dog, stirred from his sleep and struggled to his feet. He whined and wagged his tail as she bent down to scratch his ears.

  “How’s the bean-counting going?” she inquired. Cheryl always smiled. She had one of those upturned mouths that lent itself to smiling and a sunny disposition that usually lightened Walter’s naturally dour manner.

  “Oh, fine,” he said, snapping the laptop shut. I’ll tell her later, he promised himself, when she’s not busy. Once again, he rationalized away the opportunity to confess to his wife that his dream, the business he had convinced her would make up for not having the family they had both wanted, was just about over.

  “Just about,” he muttered. “But not today.”

  “Remember that Nadine is coming with the dance troop this evening for a rehearsal.” Cheryl hadn’t heard his last remark, and she stood in front of him, hand on hip, looking amused at the pained expression on Walter’s face. “Come on, how can it hurt? Maybe we’ll get a few new customers, something different!”