The Oysters Cave: A murder story set in Pembrokeshire

By Alessia Oliveri

In Tenby, a popular holiday resort in Wales, freelance journalist Sarah Brighton investigates the discovery of the skeleton of a young woman whose death dates back forty years. With the help of Nora Taylor, owner of a nostalgic local hotel, and the fisherman Marcus Davon, the journalist tries to reconstruct the main events of the time, focusing on a mysterious plane crash in which pilot Harry Holton lost his life in the late 1950s.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Youcanprint
• Release date: Jul 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9791221417159

Book preview

PART ONE

The call of a seagull ripped through the silence of the night.

Aunty Lauren! I heard that woman screaming out there again. In Nora’s dream as a child, the green shutters of the bedroom slammed in unison with the waves of the sea.

That nightmare had haunted her since the night of the plane crash in which Harry Holton lost his life.

I

Tenby, May 16th, 1998

I went to the reception with my mother’s surname clearly spelled out. She had taught me this when I was a child, fearing that fate might separate us and inflict on us a punishment far crueler than the one that had come upon us.

A man in his sixties filled out a form with my details before handing me the key and waving me down the hall. He smelled of salt, and his appearance resembled a captain in a commercial. I fixed my backpack on my shoulder, picked up my suitcase, and set off in the direction that he had indicated.

The rooms, complete with small private gardens, were all on the ground floor. On the doors were plaques carved from old wooden boards, on which the names of seabirds had been painted. My key, key number nine, corresponded to the White Cormorant. I opened the door and found myself in a far more welcoming place than the cramped suburban rooms that the editorial office usually reserved for me.

The Seagull Inn, with its large flashing light sign, was located a few metres from the waves breaking on the rocks. It was set in the renowned Carmarthen Bay, a natural shelter for thousands of small boats, and was accessible on foot via a path from the harbour. It was a building typical to the style of Tenby, simple but with attention to every detail, where the pastel colours of the local architecture stood out in direct contrast with the blue of the sea.

That afternoon, after waiting for the boat to finish its docking manoeuvres, I walked down the narrow gangway attached to the pier. A sign carved in wood carried an image of St David and the name of the town in Welsh, Dinbych-y-Pysgod. Ahead of me, the great hill framed the village like a postcard.

During the short crossing, a hoarse voice emitting from a megaphone had informed the passengers that the vegetation of Pembrokeshire had been kept in check for more than a century by the hard work of the mountain ponies, a very hardy breed, descendants of those once used in the coal mines. As the voice narrated the journey, I was almost mesmerized by the flocks of seagulls that escorted the boat. Some hovered, flapping their wings hard, before gliding down. Others slept on the water or dropped clams and molluscs on the rocks to open them and eat their contents. At the bow, sea swallows dived with their long beaks in fast raids.

I arranged the clothes in the cupboard: a black denim jacket, some leggings, an olive-green jacket bought at a flea market, some T-shirts with the symbols of groups that I didn’t even know. Lastly, I took out the box that went with me everywhere, full of hair clips and lip glosses. I removed my heavy boots and lay down on the bed.

I ran through the to-do list in my head. The file that I had found the previous Monday, on the desk they had assigned to me in the editorial office, had immediately seemed rather meagre. As I analysed its content, I noticed the gazes of my colleagues fixed upon me. The forensic police report concerned the discovery, a couple of months ago, of an old skeleton. As it had transpired, the death had in fact occurred more than forty years earlier. It did not take long to realise that it was a cold case, and that the newspapers had not devoted much space to the news. Bones forgotten for so long and, what’s more, in an unknown cave in Pembrokeshire. Obviously that case could only be assigned to me: the latest arrival, the baby doll still to be weaned, nothing compared to their first assignments, blah blah blah. None of this could stop me: the rules of low professional journalism that I had come across stirred in me an incentive to move forward with the case.

I put my backpack on the bed and pulled out the folder on which my name was clearly marked. Amongst other things, it contained several photographs and some technical notes on the state of conservation of the remains attributed to a young woman who died in the late 1950s. The skull fractured in several places left no doubt that it was not death from natural causes: fractures of the nose bone with irradiation towards adjacent structures, mandibular fractures, multiple fractures of the orbit, and fracture of the anterior plate of the skull base.

The report on the macabre discovery underlined the total absence of reports of missing persons or links with crimes that occurred in the area. The only way to deal with it seemed to be to arm myself with holy patience; by visiting the surrounding areas and uncovering some answers by overcoming the barriers of distrust of the locals.

According to a small article cut from an issue of the Daily Post, the discovery had been a completely accidental one: human bones, with some strips of cloth attached, had been found by a group of Irish speleologists engaged in the exploration of a natural well outside the cave. Strange, commented the journalist, that even though the remains were many years old, no one had ever happened across them before. Especially since the place of the discovery was in fact the starting point for various excursions.

From the window the wind carried the call of the birds. I remembered that I hadn’t phoned my mother.

I picked up my cellphone and dialled the number.

Mum?

Sarah, honey, I was worried. Have you already eaten? I looked at my wrist, it was dinner time. I cut it short. Thanks for Elvis, mum. Remember to turn down the phone ringtone otherwise it will get scared when I call you.

Won’t it starve with what little food you give it? It hasn’t grown at all since the last time.

Mum, I already told you it’s a dwarf rabbit. It does not grow. And don’t forget to change the water. Sorry, it’s late now, I’d better go.

I tried not to be rude to her, but every time I left home for work, her anxiety became palpable. I had gone out of my way to earn the contract as a freelance journalist and I had no desire to give it up for the worries of a mother in constant exhaustion. I had been preparing for years without her knowledge, contravening all her prohibitions. As a child, I pretended to be a little detective and tried to discover my classmates’ secrets that even they didn’t know. I continually questioned them, covertly, in the hope that they would let slip details they did not attach value to. Once collected, I would put all the elements in order by proceeding step by step and identifying the missing link in the chain. Later, I spent my adolescence reading novels steeped in violence, revolting scenes and crimes. I had fallen in love with characters moved by morbid motives and extravagant perversions. Every detail became, for me, vital for the solution of a case. In the end, it was inevitable. I let myself be carried away by the passion for crime news and unsolved cases; towards which I felt like a moth attracted to an irresistible source of light.

Around dinner time, I brushed my hair and headed for the reception. A shrill sound accompanied the opening of the saloon-style door that connected the hotel entrance to a small, terraced tavern. Some guests spoke in low voices, whilst gazing out towards the