London didn't sleep in 1986. The city breathed in shifts, its people rotating through day and night like gears of a perpetual machine.
An elderly woman reported loud noises coming from the flat above hers. When officers arrived, they found the door latch broken and the room in disarray. Neighbours said the tenant had left earlier that evening.
Detective Tom Blake stood in the narrow hallway of an apartment, gaze fixed on a broken latch barely anyone else had noticed. Two constables waited behind him, shuffling anxiously while Blake checked the splintered edges with a gloved fingertip.
"Door wasn't forced from outside," Blake murmured. "Kicked from the inside. Someone locked it, panicked, then tried to get out."
One of constable confused. "But the neighbour said—"
Blake raised a hand.
He stepped into the flat. Three steps in, he crouched, picking up a thread from the floor—wool, red, snagged on the corner of an end table. He didn't smile, but there was the quiet satisfaction of a man whose instincts had been proved right yet again.
He moved methodically, eyes scanning not for objects, but for its absence—the missing ashtray, the unusual cleanliness of a single windowsill, the faint chemical tang of cheap bleach layered beneath cigarette smoke.
Every detail spoke. Blake simply listened.
Few minutes later, he stood and dusted off his knees.
"She didn't leave home last night," he said. "Someone took her. Through the back stairwell. The neighbour's lying."
Both constables stared.
"How… how do you know all that, sir?" one asked.
Blake exhaled through his nose, not unkindly.
"It's what isn't here," he said. "People don't erase themselves this neatly. Perpetrators do."
Before he could elaborate, he heard the heavy steps he'd been expecting and dreading.
Division Commander Haldane.
"Blake." His tone was cold enough to frost glass. "Come to my office once your done."
Haldane's Office — 20 Minutes Later
Tom Blake stood before the commander's desk like a soldier in front of a court-marshal, ready to face whatever came next. Rain hammered the window behind Haldane.
"You reopened the Mercer file."
Not a question.
Tom didn't look away. "I found inconsistencies..."
"You found ghosts," Haldane snapped. "Again."
The file lay open on the desk, the faded photograph of a twelve-year-old boy staring up between them.
Daniel Mercer. Missing.
Haldane closed the bloated case file with a force that sent dust drifting off its overworked pages, a thick file of false leads and nothing to show for it.
"You're a good detective, Blake. One of the best. But you're drowning yourself in cases no one can solve. Cold ones. Hopeless ones. You ignore instructions, chain of command, your own health—"
"I close cases."
"You close everyone's cases but your own."
The words hit harder than intended. Blake stiffened.
Haldane sighed. "You need distance. Effective immediately, I'm assigning you to a temporary station duty outside London."
Blake grimaced. "Where?"
"St. Ives, Cornwall. Quiet place, no major trouble — a town that minds its own peace."
Blake's brows tightened. "And you're sending me."
"You need space. Fresh air and a slower pace."
Blake said nothing. They both knew this was exile dressed as therapy.
Train to Cornwall
The train groaned out of Paddington under a low grey sky, cutting through the suburbs before the countryside swallowed everything familiar.
Blake sat alone by a rain-streaked window, coat collar turned up, watching London dissolve into wet fields. His fingers tapping the Mercer file he refused to leave behind.
He didn't want fresh air. He didn't want quiet. He wanted answers. And St. Ives felt like another distraction, another place where people disappeared and he was expected not to ask why.
He lit a cigarette, despite the "No Smoking" sign. No one stopped him.
Penzance Station
When the conductor announced Penzance, Blake stepped out into the wet evening. Fog wrapped the platform, thick and damp like a cold hand on the throat. A police Land Rover idled near the station exit, headlights cutting shallow cones through the haze.
A young man stepped out mid-twenties, lean, raincoat too large for his frame.He approached with a nervous stiffness that told Blake he was not used to receiving Detectives from London.
"Detective Tom Blake?" he asked.
Blake nodded. "You're Inspector Reeves."
"Yes, sir," Reeves said quickly. "Stephen Reeves. St. Ives Police. The station sent me to fetch you."He offered a handshake firm, but slightly trembling. "We're a bit small, sir. Not used to big-city detectives."
Blake shook it. "Relax. I'm not here for an inspection."
Relief flickered across Reeves's face. "Right. Well, it's about a twenty-minute drive up the coast. Fog's thick tonight. Happens often this time of year."
They climbed into the Land Rover. Reeves drove with the caution of a man who'd already had one accident too many on wet roads. Blake watched the coastline roll past—dark cliffs, occasional flickering lamps, the the soft blur of waves moving below.
Reeves cleared his throat. "Inspector Harold Yates wanted me to tell you—we've no major cases at present. Bit of vandalism. The Marsh boy pinched a radio. Nothing dramatic."
Blake nodded, though he wasn't listening to the words. He was listening to the tone; Reeves seemed eager to reassure him that St. Ives was harmless, quiet, uneventful.
Places that felt uneventful always hid something.
Fog thickened as they approached the town, swallowing the headlights whole.
"You grew up here?" Blake asked.
Reeves glanced over. "Yes, sir. Born and raised. First posting. Thought it'd be dull, but this town… well, it has moods."
"Moods," Blake repeated.
"Yes. Stormy ones." Reeves hesitated, then forced a laugh. "Locals say the sea gets angry before winter."
Blake didn't smile. "The sea doesn't get angry. People do."
Reeves fell silent.
St. Ives Police Station
The station was a squat stone building tucked beside the harbour wall, its windows glowing pale in the fog. Inside, a single desk sergeant nodded at their arrival, stamping paperwork with slow precision.
Inspector Harold Yates waited in a cramped office off the main corridor. A stout man with a red face and a moustache. He stood as they entered.
"Detective Blake," Yates said warmly, offering a hand. "Pleasure to have you with us. We don't get specialists down here often."
Blake shook his hand. "I'm here to assist, not take over."
"Good attitude," Yates said, though he looked mildly surprised by it. "We've set up a desk for you. Nothing urgent tonight, so you'll have time to settle. St. Ives is peaceful—mostly fishermen, artists, and gossipers."
Blake simply nodded.
Reeves added, "We've arranged lodging at the Anchor Inn. Heated room, sea view. Keys are ready."
Tom slung his bag over his shoulder. "Thank you."
As they stepped back into the corridor, Reeves cleared his throat.
"If I may, sir… the lighthouse is quite the sight at night. You'll pass it on the walk to the inn. Usually lit bright as day this time of winter."
"Usually?" Blake asked.
Reeves blinked. "Yes. Sometimes old Mr. Calder forgets to check the mechanism. But it'll be on tonight."
Blake gave a noncommittal grunt.
Reeves gestured toward the exit. "Shall I walk you to the inn, sir?"
"Not necessary," Blake said. "I'll find it."
Reeves nodded, slightly disappointed. "Very well, sir. Welcome to St. Ives."
Blake stepped outside.
Cold air hit him first—then the quiet.Not the absence of noise, but a thinking quiet, like the town was holding its breath.
Fog swirled around the harbour lamps, and in the distance, Blake could see the faint silhouette of the lighthouse perched atop the cliff.
Its beacon glowed once… twice…
A steady, dependable pulse.
Blake pulled his coat tighter and walked toward the inn.
He didn't know it yet, but in the dark above him, the lighthouse lamp was flickering—not from age, nor from the weather, but because someone had opened its maintenance hatch that very hour.
By dawn, its light would be out.And a body would be lying beneath it.
Tonight, St. Ives slept.
Tomorrow, its silence would shatter.