Twenty-Three Days

By Victoria Landers

A middle aged, middle-class couple
are spending a holiday in Cornwall.
The husband wakes on the beach
after lunch to find his wife has
disappeared. It is totally out of
character and, for a while, he is
puzzled but not too worried. This is
the beginning of twenty-three days
of torment and fear for

• Language: English
• Publisher: Upfront
• Release date: May 3, 2018
• ISBN: 9781784569952

Book preview

Trevor

Chapter One

August 1993 – Trevor

The sun was starting to burn the left-hand side of his face. Trevor shifted slightly and then looked towards the cave’s cool darkness. It was the biggest cave on this part of the beach. Children had been playing around it all morning, spades had been abandoned as they went inside to try out the echoes and splash in the chilled shallow pools. He had heard their chattering as he finally dozed off in the warmth of the August day.

Caves seemed to have a fascination for most people, he reckoned. He had watched a toddler fingering a milky blue mussel shell, overlooked intently by her pipe-smoking grandfather. Lads were prising limpets off the rocks whilst others were busy damming the small stream that meandered down the beach. Lovers whispered out of sight of their families. Everyone had been enjoying themselves that bright sunny morning.

Now it was quiet in the midday sun as Trevor inched his way towards the welcome shade cast by the dark, crusty rocks. He rolled on his back and raised his head to look at the rippling translucent waves so far away across the smooth sands. Later he would surf on the incoming tide.

It had been a near perfect week. He and Jan had spent the second and third week of August here almost every year since they were first married. She had introduced him to this part of Cornwall. As a child his parents had usually spent their holidays on the Gower Peninsula in Wales. Jan had come here at sixteen with her parents and a school friend, and then later, as students, the two girls had cycled down from their respective colleges to enjoy a week’s surfing and sun. It had become a ritual that she had been loath to give up, and he had slipped easily into the same routine even if, in later years, they had often visited exotic resorts that made Cornwall appear very tame by comparison.

Looking back, he could visualise only good, sunny weather; but often, Trevor mused, it must have been squally and dull. He did remember one holiday when the weather had turned wet and windy. He and Jan had led a small posse of visitors from their simple guest house, across the sands, up and over blustery headlands to a windswept inn. Here, they all had a hilarious meal before donning stormproof clothing to make their way back to the warm haven of their cosy rooming house. That had been many years ago. Often it was windy in this part of Cornwall; but usually this was offset by a bright sun that sparkled in one’s eyes, and pure white scudding clouds that raced along – the sort of weather that made it perfect for surfing.

Once, when they were out for one of their long treks, Trevor and Jan had encountered a minor whirlwind in the estuary and had watched in fascinated wonder as it buzzed past them, sounding like a lawnmower. It had hit the sand, twirling it upwards, and had overturned a large boat on the other side of the estuary, smashing all its windows. They were pleased not to have been in its path but, when they mentioned it down at the local pub that night, no one else had seen it and everyone looked sceptical.

At other times they had stood laughing and jeering on the cliffs, looking down at the holidaymakers running the gauntlet of a high tide as it crashed over the harbour wall, before they returned to their hotel for dinner. He could remember standing on the same harbour wall and being bathed in the dark fiery glow of the biggest moon he could ever imagine – it appeared to take up almost half the night sky – and thinking that Cornwall really was a magical place.

Another time, in that selfsame place, and at night, he had watched the lifeboat take to the water to rescue a crass idiot in a dinghy that, through the man’s own fault, had been dismasted. Earlier on in the day they had watched with interest as the would-be sailor had caught against mooring ropes and become entangled with anchors as he negotiated his tiny craft within the safety of the harbour. At that time it had been amusing and they had not guessed at the serious outcome.

Alone that evening, in the dark, he and Jan had watched in total horror as the inshore lifeboat just managed to snatch the man and his small son from the jagged rocks so close to the shore. A fitful moon illuminated the crashing surf that was curling over the small dinghy and sending it ever nearer to disaster. Within minutes it would have been too late, and they both gulped with pride as the lifeboat crew grasped the boat in time.

That was the night Jan lost her temper and told the wretched holidaymaker just what she thought of him. He was stressing to the crowd that had raced down to the harbour as soon as the maroon had been fired, and was now gathered round him, that he felt certain they were in no danger. Jan raced up and pushed through the throng to tell him to his face exactly what she thought of him.

Trevor smiled grimly in remembrance of her hot words in defence of the local men who had so promptly risked their own lives in saving his. The man lapsed into sullen silence as she berated him in the most scathing terms possible. That was his Jan; always ready to come to the defence of another. Oddly, she rarely got annoyed on her own behalf. She was the most laid-back, serene person he knew. Always easy-going, he sometimes became annoyed for her sake when people took advantage of her.

A wet toe poked him in the back and he grunted and rolled over.

‘Cheese, French stick and a bottle of plonk, plus some rather squashy peaches that were going cheap,’ a laughing voice informed him. ‘Nectar from the gods!’

He smiled lazily and reached up toward her.

They set to and demolished the spread with a hearty appetite. Sated, Trevor leaned back against a rock and, with his arm lightly around Jan, drifted slowly back to sleep. Later, he decided, they would enjoy the waves, catch the surf on their warm bodyboards; but for now it was time to rest. His breathing lengthened and he remembered nothing more...

When he finally awoke it felt cold. The sun had moved away from the mouth of the cave and a cool breeze was rippling across the miles of smooth sand. He peered towards the surf, which was a lot closer now. Had Jan gone into the sea without him? He noticed her bodyboard had gone from the cave entrance. Although she loved surfing, and often stayed in longer than him, usually she would have hustled him awake before running lightly down to the shoreline.

He lazily pushed their clothes together, placed the huge beach towels on top and perched his sandals on the apex of the pile. He pulled the mats, with their precious cargo, toward the rocks knowing everything would be sheltered here and would not blow away in the sharp breeze. They never left anything of value, like a large amount of money or jewellery, with their discarded clothes and, so far, nothing had ever been touched.

He strolled with his board to the edge of the sea, shading his eyes from the sparkling sun. A dozen people were racing in on the waves and plodding out back to the surf, trailing boards of every description. Other bays spread out on either side of him and he wondered if Jan had moved across into one of them.

Where on earth was she? He searched with his eyes in both directions, but the kaleidoscope of colours coupled with the spindrift tearing off the rollers defeated him.

Half-heartedly, he joined some youngsters crashing in with the strong waves but still kept watching for some sign of her. The undertow was fairly strong and it unsettled him. He kept a wary eye on the small children around him.

Another half an hour and he began to grow cold. She could stay out so much longer than he, scoffing when he sometimes insisted on wearing a wet-suit, but worry was gnawing at him and he decided to call it a day. He shouldered his board and walked across the expanse of sand that was looking far narrower than when he had left it.

As he ambled towards the cave he expected to see her leaning back on their mats, deep in the mussel-encrusted rocks, toasting her lovely brown skin.

Their clothes were exactly as he had left them. He dressed quickly, not bothering to comb his hair or dry his feet. Thrusting his feet into his sandals, he picked up the rest of their belongings, rolled the mats loosely (she, always meticulous, would have scolded him for this) and walked up the slope towards the café to ask the time and search for her.

He stopped by the warning flags to ask the usual South African lifeguard on duty if anyone had suffered an accident, sprained an ankle, cut a foot, maybe. His wife may have offered to help.

‘No, man,’ came the answer, with a bright smile and a flash of white teeth. ‘Everything’s fine.’ He turned back to his lounger and the attentions of two skimpily clad, nubile girls of the kind that most lifeguards seemed to gather about them as summer baggage.

Trevor sank a welcome cup of tea and munched a pack of biscuits, whilst sitting on the concrete seats overlooking the bay, and began scanning the shoreline.

There she was! No, a woman wearing a similar lavender and pink bikini like hers turned around and he realised his mistake. He kept staring into the distance – almost willing her to appear and stroll up the beach.

He stayed there until six o’clock, undecided what to do. The lifeguard locked up his hut, gathered all his gear, packed it into his battered Land Rover and drove off the beach. Before the tide rose too high, Trevor left his belongings with the café proprietor and took a swift walk right round the beach. By now the other bays were cut off, the white spume was a backdrop with the huge rocks, and the surf was really boiling. The hard core of the surfing fraternity, plus a few schoolboys, and some waiters who would have to hurry or risk being late serving meals at nearby hotels, were taking advantage of the near perfect conditions. There were even some old stagers who would come down in the evenings if the surf was exceptional. Their laughs and shouts reverberated off the sides of the cove, but the sound only served to perturb him.

Where was she? Trevor waded right to the back of ‘their’ cave and turned back to watch seawater sweep into the sunlit entrance. Not here. He strode round the ever narrowing beach, looking over gaily striped windbreaks and behind low rocks. Had she met someone she knew?

As the years passed she knew fewer locals, it seemed. The lady whom they had lodged with for many years had died shortly after her husband. This had happened a few years back, and their large family had sold the property and returned to their rambling farm a few miles inland.

The grandchildren, who over the years had all visited in their school holidays, and with whom they had become great friends, were rarely in town now; in fact Jan had visited them, and their children, only two days before, while he had explored the backstreets of Truro. The only other people she would know, since Mrs Hendra died, would be regular visitors to the hotel, and there were even fewer of those this year. Mrs Lesley, the hotel owner and a good friend, would be overseeing dinner at this very moment, and he felt certain it would be highly unlikely she would have been wandering around the beach during the afternoon, chatting to all and sundry. Most fellow guests would by now be showering and preparing for their evening meal – so where was she?

Very seldom did Jan visit the town during the day. She would make a rapid visit to buy something necessary, like a lunchtime snack; but wandering around the shops, when she could be near her beloved sea, was not her style at all.

Obviously she had left the beach for some reason. Maybe to purchase a bottle of wine to share on their balcony after their meal tonight? Possibly she suddenly fancied some chocolate, which she could become greedy for sometimes; or maybe she had gone to change her library books. She loved exchanging the scruffy paperbacks in the tiny library overlooking the beach; it gave her a sense of belonging. This was one of the few times she would surround herself with the most banal novels and thoroughly enjoy them. At home there was always an eagle-eyed student looking over her shoulder, she would say.

Trevor made his way back to the hard seat and forced himself to drink another cup of tea slowly while he tried hard not to panic.

At seven o’clock the beach was deserted. One lean, brown lad, on half a surfboard, was negligently slipping backwards and forwards on the swell as it pulsed against the sea wall. The tide was now almost full, the waves had dropped back and now even the hardiest holidaymakers would be making their way back to their hotels and guest houses to wash off the sand, soothe their sunburnt bodies with cream, and sit down to a well-deserved meal.

Trevor took a deep breath, gathered up the stuff he had left at the café, and made his way to the top of the cliff looking over his shoulder at every few steps.

He walked through the town, peering into shops they had visited many times before, expecting at any minute to feel a cool hand on his shoulder, and Jan laughing and saying ‘I’ve been looking for you, everywhere!’

Down by the harbour he turned right towards the small hotel that had become their summer holiday home for the past few years. It looked sturdy and good in the evening sun. Set low on the cliffs, and constructed at the end of the nineteenth century of the usual Cornish granite, it did not obscure the view of the attractive harbour or the majestic sweep of the bays beyond.

Mrs Lesley, the hotelier, came bustling towards him as he walked in past the glass doors.

‘I’ve lost Jan,’ he said, sounding pathetic even to his own ears.

‘Oh, I expect she will be along directly, my dear,’ she called up to him as he made his way up the stairs to their favourite room.

He pushed open the door and stared around. The blue and white, slightly shabby chintz curtains and the carpets complemented the crisply starched net curtains gently moving in the breeze. Everything was as they had left it that morning – neat and calm. The room was empty and still, and there was nothing to show if Jan had returned there during the afternoon.

He busied himself getting ready in the shower, rinsing golden sand off his body whilst straining to hear the door at the end of the corridor banging, and her light footsteps coming along the passage. He spent ages briskly towelling himself dry, dressed, and finally he slipped on some loafers. He went out onto the balcony and stared intently across the bay as if willing himself to see her in the distance. The beaches were empty now because the tide was fully high and lapping against the sea walls and cliffs.

At 8.15p.m. he went down for the evening meal, knowing by now that something was definitely wrong, and yet feeling he had to carry on this charade to prove to everyone, himself included, that he was not panicking unnecessarily.

Mrs Lesley watched the waiter serve him his first course and then came up to their table with a wrinkled forehead. The other guests heard their muttered conversation; necks stretching round to hear what was said.

Mrs Lesley, who always had a sense of humour, commented, ‘What have you done with the maid, drowned her?’

Trevor started to explain and realised how lame it sounded. Mrs Lesley stared at him, puzzled. Nothing like this had ever happened to her hotel guests before, and certainly not to people as eminently sensible and down-to-earth as the Sinclairs.

He got up slowly with a muttered apology. This was the time he would have to inform someone in authority and get some help. He left his abandoned soup plate brimming as he strode to the door. Hastily, he made his way back through the town, this time ignoring any shops as he quickly stepped on and off the pavement, sidestepping children and parents alike. He turned down by the now deserted railway station, the lines still throwing off a hazy heat, and ran quickly up the front steps of the Police Station.

Neither Jan nor Trevor had ever had occasion to walk through the doors before, and he was amazed at the size of the place. He pushed open a blue door, marked ‘Enquiries’ and faced a burly policeman across a high desk. The man ponderously raised his head.

‘I know this may sound melodramatic, officer, but I have lost my wife.’

‘Oh yes, sir.’ It was said with a slight smile. ‘And when was that?’

‘Well, I am not too sure, but it was around lunchtime.’

‘Mmm,’ The policeman seemed unimpressed, ‘Did you have a quarrel or something, sir?’

Trevor tried, as simply and briefly as possible, to describe exactly what had happened, but even to his own ears it all sounded like a highly coloured account of a play on Woman’s Hour. It was all so vague, and he could give no hard and fast reasons as to why his wife should just disappear off a beach and apparently off the face of the earth.

The policeman looked rather sceptical and murmured reassuringly, ‘Well, maybe by this time tomorrow you will call in to say everything is alright, sir.’

Trevor nodded dumbly and turned away. What had he expected them to say when an adult had gone missing for less than nine hours? It did not sound like a major tragedy, and obviously stories often told in this place were a lot more stimulating than his.

This would be exactly how he would react if some fool came to him with an equally stupid tale. By now he was certain that something serious had happened to Jan, but as the police did not know his wife, there would be no way to persuade them of his conviction. He nodded, turned on his heel and departed.

He returned to the hotel slowly, trying to remember everything that had happened since they had woken up that morning. On passing the dining room, he heard murmuring voices and knew the meal was still in progress. He was not in the least hungry and he could not face the stares and comments of the other guests and staff; so he took the stairs two at a time and flung himself on the bed. As he opened the door he had hoped that Jan would be lying back among the pillows but the room felt empty and cold. He did not bother to switch on the light as he forced himself to remember and examine everything that had happened from when their clock radio had roused them that morning.

Had she been quiet? No, quite the opposite. Had he upset her with some comment? Not that he could remember. They had eaten a really sustaining breakfast of fruit juice, bacon and eggs with all the trimmings, toast and coffee, as they did most mornings. He had walked up to the newsagents to collect the morning papers whilst she had gathered together their beach paraphernalia. They had strolled to their favourite beach further down the bay by walking across the sands and striding around the headlands as the tide was just low enough. It had meant wading through some waves, and around some rocks, but it had saved them an endless trek through the town. They usually chose to come here because it was not as popular as the main town beach, and they appreciated the relative quietness and the fact that surfing was not restricted by guards constantly telling them to watch out for swimmers.

He had dozed, while Jan had read the lastest news in the papers he had bought, and then finally he slept. But she had woken him up for lunch. Did she seem annoyed when she roused him? Often, at home, she would become testy if he spent too long catnapping when the TV was on but, on looking back, she had appeared to be her normal sunny self, and she’d certainly enjoyed her lunch. She never drank more than one glass of red wine and he had finished the rest, so there was no question of her being drunk and incapable.

Had she met someone while he had drifted off to sleep? Possibly, and suddenly he sat up, alert and worried. Had someone made her go off against her will? Had he, or she, frightened her, and if so, why hadn’t she called out to him or to someone else if they had forced her off the beach? Had she gone into the cave and been attacked? Still, they would have had to drag her out and, knowing Jan, it would be kicking and screaming. Nothing made any sense.

He made himself drink a cup of coffee from the bedside machine and lay down again, fully clothed, on the bed. From her pillow he could smell the subtle scent of her perfume. She adored ‘Coco’ by Chanel. He buried his head against her pillow and, inhaled deeply, and it was like this he finally fell asleep.

At 4a.m. Trevor awoke with a start. Still on the top of the bed with his shoes on, his neck cricked up against the headboard, he’d grown cold waiting for her. He felt dry and shivery, so he stretched out his arm to turn on the light and get a drink. The pillow next to him was crushed and twisted as he had clutched it to him in his sleep. He poured some water into a tooth mug and stared dumbly at the bed. Wearily he pulled back the covers, took off his shoes, and lay back down to await the dawn. At length he fell into an uneasy doze.

The next morning he awoke with a stiff neck, and immediately realisation set in that Jan had not returned. The clock radio showed 6.10a.m. as he pushed back the bedclothes and went to stand at the balcony window overlooking the harbour. Another glorious, sunny morning. He showered and dressed rapidly, forcing himself to choose clean clothes from the drawers where Jan had neatly stored them. Her knickers, laid in an ice cream coloured pile, reproached him as he picked out some socks. He slammed the drawer to smartly.

Suddenly, as he reached for his jacket, he remembered a scene in France when they were on holiday some years back. They had been sitting alone on a deserted beach when a man had attacked her. Trevor had left her sitting alone while he had gone to explore some nearby rock pools. She had been lying back, enjoying the sun. The man had walked past her down some steps and, as she passed the time of day with him, had turned around and asked her some odd questions. She had answered in her simple schoolgirl French, and he had casually crouched down in front of her.

Trevor was turning over some oyster shells when he caught sight of her sitting tense and still with her hand stretched out towards her beach bag. Slowly he made his way up the beach and sat beside her. Just as he sat down, the thickset Frenchman had suddenly lunged at her and Trevor had flung himself upright and roared at him. The burly man had stood his ground for a few seconds and then, seeing Trevor would indeed hit him, had run lightly up the cliff steps and disappeared.

Jan had laughed lightly and said, ‘Golly, I thought I was too old for that sort of thing!’

But Trevor, his heart beating rapidly, had thought, What if she had been alone? These were the type of patients he sometimes had to treat. Men who felt a compulsion to do these things. They could not help themselves – and at times went on to become rapists or worse, murderers.

They had left the beach and walked back towards their car. Sometime later they had seen the same man standing on some rocks, in the middle of a cove, gazing curiously at some scantily clad young French girls. He had waved derisively at them. They were shocked, and telephoned the police from the nearest hotel, but the man was never found. Somehow, it had curiously affected the last few days of their holiday, although they did not dwell on it.

He thought, suppose a similar thing had happened yesterday on an English beach. Surely no one could have forced her to go with them? But suppose they had told her some sob story and asked her to help them? Jan always had a soft spot for someone needing help and would have offered her services immediately; but surely she would have awoken him before leaving the seashore? She would never wander off without telling him – would she?

There was no way he could wait for breakfast before returning to the search, and by 7.15a.m. he had swiftly made his way back to the Police Station. This time they would listen, and no amount of sympathy or scepticism would deter him from finding her.

Today, he would not be put off by some smug PC Plod reciting comforting platitudes. He had a good, stable marriage. His wife would never disappear at the drop of a hat. She was a strong, sensible woman who held down a responsible job; not a silly young girl having her head turned by some sweet-talking con man. They had had no disagreements, she had never done this before, and it certainly was